Sixteen
“Helen has a daaaaaaate,” Owen announces triumphantly as he sits down.
“Let’s not do this,” Helen says, settling into her chair and getting out her laptop.
“But it’s such good gossip,” Owen says.
It’s really not but Owen likes to overstate things.
They’ve been back in the writers room for three, going on four days now and there’s still an uncomfortable churning sensation in her stomach every time she accidentally meets Grant’s eyes from across the table.
She flew back on January 1 and soon learned (from a close reading of the comments on Grant’s last Instagram post) he was staying in Dunollie for another week to help clear out his mom’s house. He didn’t call her, text her, or respond in any direct way to her messages in the writers room group chat wishing everyone a happy New Year. After a minor sulk and soak in her bathtub about it, she concluded he was leaving the ball in her court.
And she would let it bounce there until leaves collected and rains came and everyone abandoned the game. There are nine weeks until the close of the writers room—surely that’s enough time for things to get back to normal between them, and just short enough that she can endure it.
Because the truth is, she knows it would be a mistake to take this—thing—between them any further. She’s never been very good at casual hookups and she suspects she already likes him too much to throw up the barriers completely against any traitorously soft, warm feelings that threaten to come up every time they’re in close proximity.
Like a useless sixth sense, she always knows immediately when he’s in the room. The air feels different and her eyes seek out the safe areas to look (anywhere he isn’t) like a reverse heat map. She also knows when he’s staring at her, though she can count on one hand all the times she’s looked at him directly this week.
Right now, for instance, she knows he’s playing with a rubber band ball and watching her intently.
“What’s the gossip?” Eve asks.
The gossip is that Greg, their casting director, has apparently been carrying the slightest torch—matchstick, really—for Helen over the past few weeks and very chivalrously waited until principal casting on the show was completed to shoot her a very sweet email with a link to a Google Forms survey asking her out on a date, along with multiple-choice options of the possible dates they could go on.
“Well, obviously we have to help you fill out the survey,” Suraya says.
Helen reluctantly texts the link to the writers room group chat.
“Be still my heart, modern romance isn’t dead.” Eve grins as she scrolls through the Google Forms survey.
“‘Level of Fancy: athleisure, casual, business attire, semiformal, full tux/ball gown,’” reads Nicole. “I vote you say ‘full tux’ and show up in athleisure. Or vote ‘casual’ and show up in a ball gown.”
“I like that he has venue options but also leaves a space for suggestions of your own,” Saskia says. “I don’t know about ‘Malibu beach date,’ though. That’s kind of an all-day affair—it’s a lot for a first date.”
“I’m putting all my chips on bowling,” Tom says. “If he’s good, then you know he wants to show off and that his most impressive skill is bowling, and if he’s bad, you see how he reacts to stressful situations.”
“Interesting thought,” Eve says. “I would have voted for the home-cooked meal for similar reasons.”
“Yeah, but what if he makes the wrong choice of menu and that ruins an otherwise potential-filled date?” Owen says. “Controversial opinion: eating is too personal a thing to do on a first date. Like, gross, I’m gonna show you how I sustain and nourish my body?”
“I think the important thing here is what will make Helen feel like she’s in her comfort zone,” Suraya says. “Then she can assess accordingly if Greg’s being additive or not to her general mental and emotional state.”
“My comfort zone is at home with my laptop, at a seat with a nearby outlet and no windows or doors behind me,” Helen says.
Grant makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like of course. She looks up at him then, but he’s scrolling on his phone with a slightly bored expression.
“Grant, would you like to share with the class?” Suraya asks patiently.
He lets out a quiet “huh” that she’s pretty sure no one else hears, and his eyes flicker up to her face before he returns his attention to his phone screen.
“My vote goes to full tux/ball gown, so you can find out if he owns a tux, bowling because Tom’s right, and tacos because you can leave early if it’s a bad date or prolong the night if it’s a good one.”
He sets down his phone and smiles placidly at Helen. She senses that he’s issued her a challenge of some sort, and feels a sudden itch to rise to the occasion.
“By George, I think he’s got it,” Owen says. “That’s perfect, no notes.”
They finish breaking the story for the second episode of the season that afternoon and Suraya sends Grant off to outline and script. Helen doesn’t think much of this, until he doesn’t show up in the room the next morning.
“Where’s Grant?” she asks, trying to sound casual.
“Writing,” Suraya says. “We send writers out of the room when they’re on script.”
“Oh,” Helen says, feeling silly. Of course. Why had she imagined they’d all sit and type scripts shoulder to shoulder, in the same room till the bitter end, like they were studying for finals?
She finds herself walking by his office on her way out that day before she can stop herself. The writers’ individual offices are a line of glorified walk-in closets along the back wall of the bullpen. She’s never seen Grant in his room before and she’s surprised to catch sight of him through the open door. He’s frowning at his laptop, leaning back in an ergonomic swivel chair.
“Knock knock,” she says, and is immediately embarrassed.
His eyes flit over to her, then return to his laptop screen.
“I just wanted to check in and see how it’s going.”
He looks up and she feels the full intensity of his stare for the first time today. She thinks suddenly of a time when she was young and running inside from the winter weather: a rush of warmth, followed immediately by the unpleasant jolt of falling against a cold, hard floor.
“Not great. I’ve been distracted.”
“Oh,” Helen says.
She lingers in the doorway, uncertain. The corner of Grant’s mouth kicks up as he watches her.
“Shut the door,” he says.
Helen hesitates, then pulls the door shut behind her. Grant taps a pen idly on his desk, still watching her silently. She leans back, holding on to the handle of the doorknob a little anxiously.
It occurs to her then that he might have meant for her to shut the door on her way out. Shit.
“I, um, I should let you—”
“Come here.”
Her legs obey the command before her brain has time to argue, and suddenly she’s standing in front of him, her knees a few centimeters away from his, the fabric of her wrap dress flirting with the denim of his jeans.
Grant looks up at her, a lazy tension in the way he leans back into his chair.
“When’s your date?” he asks.
“Six thirty.”
He glances at a clock on the wall, where it reads a quarter past five p.m.
“So I have a little time,” he murmurs, and stands as he pulls her into him.
Helen suddenly finds herself pressed against his chest, which rises and falls as he buries his face in her hair and inhales deeply. His fingers spread into her back; they rub up and down in a soothing, stroking motion that pulls her steadily closer, closer into the frame of his body, as if the goal is to eliminate all space between them. It’s so much and not at all enough. Her body faintly hums at the contact—we missed this, her limbs seem to be singing, and her skin prickles with awareness.
“I’m sorry,” she says, though she’s not sure what she’s apologizing for.
He laughs into her hair and she feels him press a kiss to her temple.
It’s soft, a peck. She could still extract herself from his arms now and leave, she thinks, and that would be that. They could move forward without too much awkwardness, a hug and a kiss on the forehead saying what words can’t seem to.
Start walking, she tells her limbs, but they don’t seem to want to listen.
“Poor Helen,” Grant murmurs, and presses another kiss, this time to her brow, then another over the corner of her left eye. “So conflicted.”
His thumb draws slow circles against her arm, and he brushes his lips to her cheek.
“I don’t know why . . .”—she trails off as he moves to kiss her other cheek—“I keep ending up here.”
Grant drags a knuckle slowly across her lips, staring at her mouth with naked want in his eyes. He swallows, hard. Then he bends his head and kisses her on the jawline instead, moving up toward her ear.
“Maybe you missed me,” he says, and she exhales sharply as he catches one of her earlobes between his lips.
She shakes her head slightly—or maybe she’s just shaking, full stop. “I’ve seen you every day this week,” she says.
“Hm.” His fingers run up her arms, leaving pale marks against her flushed skin. “I remember it differently.”
He presses a soft, lingering kiss to her pulse point and her hand flies up involuntarily to bury in his hair.
“I’ve seen you,” he says into her neck. “I can’t seem to stop, in fact.”
He pulls away from her abruptly and she wants to cry from the loss of contact. Her hands lean back and grip the edge of his desk, so they don’t reach out for him.
He drops down into his chair then, and she thinks maybe she’s about to be dismissed. Instead, he studies a bit of yellow floral fabric in his hand and she realizes he’s holding on to the edge of the tie string to her wrap dress. Suddenly there doesn’t seem to be enough air in the room.
“How much am I allowed to see, Helen?” he asks softly.
Slowly, so slowly, she lifts a palm off the desk and pulls at the other dangling piece of the wrap dress tie front. It loosens the bow and she feels the dress slacken against her body, held loosely in place by gravity and a sorry excuse for a knot.
Grant’s eyes seem to flare with something hot and cold and dangerous and he tugs at the fabric in his hand until the loose knot disintegrates. He releases it and she whispers a silent thanks to the gods of wardrobe that she put on matching underwear today as her dress falls open and exposes a straight column of skin and black lace to him.
He swallows hard.
“You’re my favorite thing to look at in that room,” he says suddenly, and drops to his knees in front of her.
He presses a trail of kisses from her stomach to the elastic lace band of her underwear.
“And no matter how hard I try”—he presses more kisses against the lace triangle front now, insistent, hot, seeking, and she gasps—“you never look back at me.”
“That’s not true,” she mumbles, her fingers tangling in his hair as he licks her boldly through the fabric. “I—I look at you.”
He lets out a short, hot breath that seems to go straight to her clit. Fuck.
“Are you looking at me now?” he murmurs, and she bites her lip to stop from groaning at the delicious friction of his tongue and lace.
Grant looks up at her as he builds a steady rhythm that has her panting. There’s a blaze of heat in his eyes and the lightest sheen of sweat on his forehead. She feels worshipped.
She’s so wet, she’s certain she’s soaked through the fabric, and he practically growls into her.
“You taste so fucking good,” he says, and the wet heat of his mouth sucks against her. “I could dine on this pussy every night and come back for dessert.”
A strangled whimper comes out of her, and she thinks that if anyone were to walk in, she’d be completely incapable of doing anything but pressing his glorious mouth closer.
“Grant,” she whispers.
“I’m right here, sweetheart.”
“I want . . .” She bites her lip as the thin ridge of his tongue presses against her clit through the fabric. “I want to come on your tongue. Please.”
In a fluid motion, he pushes the lace of her underwear aside and presses his tongue against the folds of her tortured skin. Her hand reaches out blindly and lands on his jawline, feeling his stubble and the tension of his jaw as he works his mouth against her.
She lets out a shuddering gasp and feels a wave of oblivion rock through her, as all the world disappears beyond a single spot on Grant Shepard’s miraculous tongue. Yes, yes, yes, yes.
She comes back into her body gradually, and when she looks down at him, he’s watching her with hungry eyes as he brushes the back of his hand against his mouth.
He drops a swift kiss to the inside of her thigh and she shivers.
He stands then and she feels herself arching under his leaning body as he reaches past her. She can’t help but notice a dark spot of pre-come on his jeans and the muscles working on his neck, begging to be kissed. He grabs a thin blue dry-erase marker from a cup of pens and uncaps it.
“What are you doing?” she murmurs, as he drops back into his swivel chair lazily.
He presses the felt tip of the marker to her inner right thigh and starts writing.
“Giving you my address,” he says. “In case Santa Monica is too far to drive after your date.”
He looks up at her then and she catches a glint of humor in his eyes as his hand lightly squeezes her thigh.
“It’s washable marker,” he says, and her heart does a funny kind of flip. “If you’re worried about it.”
She is worried about it, though not about the washable blue ink. She’s worried that even after she washes it off, her skin will refuse to forget the feel of him. She’s worried they’re careening toward something inevitable.
Greg the casting director meets her at a bowling alley in Burbank, near the studio lot.
“There’s an ice-skating rink and an equestrian center nearby, if we need ideas for a second date,” he says.
Helen smiles, and picks out a marbled purple bowling ball that suddenly reminds her of the bath bomb she used to sulk over Grant’s radio silence last week. She forcefully redirects her thoughts to the charming, perfectly fine man in front of her.
“Do you bowl often?” she asks.
“No,” Greg says, and rolls an impressive spare anyway. “Damn, that was just dumb luck.”
“So what was the thought process behind the survey form options?” she asks. “I’d love to know.”
“Well, the thing about dating is that it should be fun,” he says. “I came up with the form a while back as a way to make it fun for myself. I tried to come up with options of things my friends and I are always saying we’ve been meaning to do, but never get around to.”
“It’s novel,” she says, and rolls a gutter ball.
“There’s an optional exit survey,” Greg says. “I have the email on auto-send so I don’t chicken out.”
“Sounds like you’re collecting a lot of data,” Helen says.
“Not as much as you’re thinking,” Greg laughs. “I’m not that kind of fella, Helen.”
She laughs and thinks to herself that Greg would probably make someone a good boyfriend. He’s funny and easy to talk to, always ready to fill a pause in the conversation with an anecdote from work or a thoughtful question. She learns that he has two older brothers, one who also works in the industry and another who works in information systems in Vegas. She tells him about how she’s been thinking of other possible book series ideas to pitch to her agent.
“Maybe something with a league of teen bowlers,” she says, and manages to knock a paltry few pins down.
“Do you want some pointers?” he asks, because he really is better than her.
“Sure,” she says, and suddenly he’s next to her, adjusting her stance and touching her arm. She tries not to think about the blue ink that seems to be burning an address-shaped hole into her inner right thigh.
“Just pull your hand back and . . . release,” he says, stepping back an appropriate distance to watch her go. He’s so appropriate, Helen thinks.
They watch her ball roll into the gutter, and they both laugh.
“I told you I didn’t actually know what I was doing,” Greg says.
1847 Rotary Drive.
It’s dark by the time Helen drives past the Silver Lake Reservoir and turns onto one of the winding streets nearby. The streets are cramped, and she tells herself that if she can’t find parking, she’ll make a U-turn at the top of the hill and drive straight home and never mention this part of the night to anyone.
But there’s a spot right out front next to the driveway, and she pulls into it easily, her heart pounding.
1847 Rotary Drive is a light yellow, Spanish-style bungalow covered with bougainvillea, and a warmly colored porch light is on when she walks up and rings the doorbell.