Page 95 of All That Glitters
And he might have just lost her forever.
He checked his phone — 12:47 AM. Still no call from Debbie. He pulled up his text messages and typed out ‘I’m so sorry about tonight. Please call me. I need to talk to you.’ His thumb hovered over the send button for a full minute before he deleted it all. This wasn’t something he could fix with a text. He needed to hear her voice, to look into her eyes when he finally said what he should have said in that wine cellar.
The TV droned on, a car commercial giving way to a late-night talk show. Tony stared unseeing at the screen, rehearsing what he would say to Debbie when he finally got her on the phone. But every opening line he came up with sounded hollow orrehearsed. How do you tell your best friend you’ve been in love with her all along? That you were just too stupid to see it?
He tried her again at 2:18 AM. Still voicemail.
At 3:45 AM, he got up and paced the room, ten steps one way, ten steps back, like a caged animal. He tried her again. Straight to voicemail.
At 4:30 AM, he gave up on sleep entirely and took a shower, hoping the hot water might wash away some of the regret and self-loathing. It didn’t.
Tony had gotten exactly zero hours of sleep by the time the sun peeked through the curtains of his motel window the next morning. He looked like he felt, like something that had been run over, backed up on, then run over again. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair a mess from running his hands through it all night.
Tony walked over to the small kitchen and found some leftover pizza in the small refrigerator. He couldn’t remember how long it had been there, but giving it a quick sniff, it didn’t smell too bad. He heated it in the microwave then took it back to the bed and ate it while watching some TV news show. It was just after 5 AM, so he had a couple hours to kill before he could resume calling her without seeming completely unhinged.
The news show gave way to a morning talk show, where a perky host was interviewing someone about their new cookbook. Tony watched without seeing, checking his phone every few minutes as if he might have somehow missed her call despite having the volume cranked to maximum.
By 7:30 AM, he’d reached a decision. If he couldn’t get her on the phone by 10, he was driving to San Diego. This wasn’t something that could wait. Every minute that passed felt like another opportunity for her to slip away, to decide she was better off without him, to accept that study abroad program and leave for Europe without ever knowing how he felt.
At 8:05 AM, he tried again.
“Hey, Deb,” Tony said into his phone as her voicemail picked up, “it’s your stalker buddy. Look, I have something I really want to say, but I’d rather say it to you personally than your voicemail. Call me when you get this.” He hung up and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was just after eight. He would give it another hour, and if he didn’t hear from her by then, he would try again.
He used the time to pack his things. There was a good chance he’d need to head to San Diego, and he wanted to be ready. He folded his clothes — actually folded them, rather than stuffing them into his bag — and arranged his toiletries neatly in their travel case. It was the most careful packing job he’d done in his life, each small act of order an attempt to control the chaos swirling inside him.
At 9:20 AM, he tried once more.
“Hey, Campbell,” Tony said to Debbie’s voicemail, pacing the small motel room that was increasingly feeling like a cage. He tried to keep his voice as cheery as possible despite the basketball-sized knot in his stomach. “Wake up already, you bum. The sun’s up. It’s been up. And I have something really important I want to talk to you about. So call me.” He hung up and took a deep breath, looking over at the clock.
That was it. He was going to San Diego. He zipped his bag closed and grabbed his car keys from the nightstand. Just as his hand touched the doorknob, his cell phone rang. He lunged for the phone, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.
“Deb?” he answered, not even checking the caller ID, his voice breathless with hope.
“No, it’s Eli, you lovesick puppy,” came Eli’s amused voice. “Apparently, you were expecting someone else.”
“Hoping for someone else,” Tony clarified.
“You still haven’t talked to her?”
“Nope.”
“Listen. I know your heart might not be in it at the moment, but I’ve got some big news for you and Carrie version two-point-o.”
“What is it?” Tony said, still staring at his packed bag by the door. His mind was in San Diego already, rehearsing what he would say to Debbie when he finally saw her.
“Morgan Fisher wants to meet with the two of you today for lunch.”
That got Tony’s attention. “Morgan Fisher? The producer? The guy who tasered me?”
“The very same,” Eli said. “I told him the two of you were developing some scripts, and he’s interested in meeting with you guys and hearing your pitches.”
“Holy crap!” Tony said, dropping down onto the bed. “That’s awesome Eli, but the timing sucks. I was about to head to San Diego to see if can avert a crisis. Mine.”
There was a slight pause on the other end of the line. “Tony,” Eli said, his voice taking on the tone of a parent explaining something obvious to a child, “this is Morgan Fisher we’re talking about. The man who produced ‘Blood Tide’ and ‘The Last Sunset.’ He doesn’t just meet with anyone. This could be huge for both of your careers.”
“I know, I know,” Tony said, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “It’s just really, really, really bad timing.”
“In this business, there’s no such thing as bad timing when a major producer wants to meet with you,” Eli said. “Whatever’s going on with your friend can wait a couple of hours. This is your future we’re talking about.”
