Page 46 of All That Glitters

Chapter thirty-four

Things Not Said

Tony arrived back at his motel shortly after midnight that night, fumbling with his key card at the door. The green light blinked three times before finally turning red. He tried again, more slowly this time, and the door clicked open.

His room looked exactly as he’d left it that morning, unmade bed, screenplay pages scattered across the small table, half-empty coffee cups on every available surface.

The glamor of the Beverly Hilton seemed like a distant dream compared to the reality of the Sundown Motel’s worn carpeting and flickering fluorescent lighting.

He had already called Debbie once from the party, but it went straight to her voicemail.

He decided to give it one more try before going to bed, though ‘bed’ felt like a formality at this point.

Sleep seemed as impossible as time travel; which was something he was also wishing he could do, to redo his moment of brain-freeze in the wine cellar.

He kicked off his shoes and loosened his tie, then flopped into the faded armchair by the window.

He pulled out his phone, stared at Debbie’s contact photo for a moment, a ridiculous shot of her with cotton candy all over her face at the county fair during their senior year of high school, and hit the call button.

One ring. Two rings. Three. Then her cheerful voice: “Hey, it’s Debbie! Leave a message and I’ll call you back. Unless you’re selling something, in which case... nice try!”

“Hey, Deb,” he said into his phone, trying to sound casual despite the hammering in his chest, “it’s me. Your idiot friend. I left a message earlier, but I hoped I might catch you on your drive home. Anyway, I’ll probably be up for a while, so call me when you get this.”

He hung up, then walked over to his motel bed and collapsed on it, still fully clothed in his rumpled suit from the premiere. The ceiling had a water stain that vaguely resembled Abraham Lincoln if you squinted just right.

‘I love you, Tony.’

She had said that, and he had just stared like an idiot. And then he left to go talk to a news crew. Of all the stupid, thoughtless, completely Tony-like things he could have done, that had to top the list.

“Idiot,” he muttered to the Lincoln stain. “Complete and total moron.”

He rolled over on the bed and clicked on the TV, anything to take his mind off the growing knot in his stomach. A rerun of some sitcom flickered on the screen, canned laughter echoing in the empty room. For someone who had made screwing up an art form, he had really exceeded himself tonight.

For a moment, he thought about calling her one more time, or even driving down to San Diego that night to catch her at her apartment, but that would be a really dumb idea given the late hour.

And that was saying a lot, given how prone he was to acting on his dumb ideas.

He would try calling her again tomorrow; and then keep calling until she picked up.

His phone buzzed. He lunged for it with embarrassing eagerness, but it was just a text from Craig: ‘Good party! Had a blast with Carrie’s parents! We’ll bring them back for the next one.’

With a groan, he climbed from bed and clicked off the lights then lay back in bed, still in his suit pants and dress shirt.

He tried closing his eyes, but it was useless.

Those four words she said were going to torture him until he had a chance to tell her what he should have said in the wine cellar if his brain hadn’t short-circuited.

That he was crazy, madly, insanely in love with her too.

It wasn’t some big, dramatic revelation, more like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place.

Of course he loved Debbie. He always had.

She was the constant in his chaotic life, the person who believed in him when he couldn’t believe in himself, who called him on his crap and still stuck around.

What had Carrie called it? Glitter versus gold.

Debbie was gold — real, valuable, and enduring.

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 or rehearsed.

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.”

Tony looked at the door, then at his phone, torn between his career and his heart.

Debbie was his gold, to quote Carrie, and had it just been him, he would’ve been out the door on his way to San Diego.

But it wasn’t just him he had to consider; Carrie had also become his gold, and this opportunity was too big to let her down.

It would require some crazy-fast driving in a truck that seemed ready to kick the bucket at any moment, but he would make this work.

“Where and when?” he asked, a plan already forming in his mind. Maybe he could do both, meet with Fisher, then drive straight to San Diego afterward. It wasn’t ideal, but it might work.

“The Ivy, 1 PM,” Eli said, relief evident in his voice. “Wear something nice. And try to get some sleep before then. You sound like you’ve been on a three-day bender.”

“You should see how I look,” Tony said, running his hand through his hair again. “We’ll be there,” Tony promised. “And Eli? Thanks.”

“Just doing my job,” Eli replied. “And Tony? Whatever’s going on with Debbie... I hope it works out. You two seem good together.”

After they hung up, Tony stared at his phone for a moment, surprised by Eli’s unexpected perceptiveness. Then he tried Debbie one more time.

It went straight to voicemail.