Page 7 of Hello Darling

When he returns to my desk, he places the iPad in front of me and waits for me to look over the filled-out form. I keep hearing his phone vibrate but he hasn’t checked it the entire time he’s been here, which is yet another unusual thing for a modern human. He pulls out a wallet while he watches me read. “I put the number for the hotel where I’m staying and the name that I’m registered under. I’ll be moving to a house soon, but—”

“Richard Diver…Wait…Dick Diver? Interesting choice of alias. You a fan of early Twentieth Century American Literature?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Why do you look so surprised?”

“I…I didn’t mean to…”

“What, you think I’m all brawn and no brain?”

“I certainly didn’t—”

“You think I just watch reality shows while I run on the treadmill?”

“Not at all.”

“Yeah, well I do. I readTender is the Nightback in high school. I re-read parts of it every now and then. For years I fantasized about going to a glamorous resort in the French Riviera because of that book. I read all of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s work after devouringThe Great Gatsbyfor English. So why do you identify with that character? Are you married to a wealthy woman with mental health issues?”

“Not married, no.”

“Dating a wealthy woman with mental health issues?”

“Not currently.”

“Beginning a descent into alcoholism?”

“Well, I have felt the need of a stiff drink ever since you and I began talking, to be honest.”

“Ohhhh, I know. It’s the pretty young starlet thing.”

“Sorry, the what?”

“I bet you can relate to Dick Diver because of the pretty young starlet who adores him.”

He furrows his brow, clears his throat and looks down at the large bills he’s pulling out of his wallet.

I do realize there’s a fine line between sassy and assy and that I have just charged across it.

“And did you ever make it to a glamorous resort in the French Riviera?” he asks, without making eye contact.

“What?...Oh. No. I did not. I resorted to a life of glamour in the Pacific Northwest instead. As you can see.”

“Icansee.” The eye contact is back, the smirk is gone, but in its place is a serious contemplation of me that makes me even more uncomfortable. Finally, he takes a deep breath and says: “Well, I should do some strength training. I’m trying to get a good workout in before I crash. Jet lag, you know.”

“Right. The worst.” I don’t want to tell him how little I’ve experienced jet lag in my life, but I have a feeling he can tell. “My brother can give you a quick tour of the facilities.” I try to get Billy’s attention by waving. He’s facing the back mirror but he’s looking at his phone. “Let me just—wait here. I’ll get him. Oh, and we have Wi-Fi. If you want to check your emails. The guest password is ‘glutes123.’”

“Is it really?”

“It is this week. Be right back.”

“I’m in no rush.”

“Cool.”

As I step out from behind the front desk, I try to walk like someone who isn’t at all self-conscious about the fact that a movie star is checking out her backside, and I really think I’m nailing it until Billy looks over at me and says: “What is wrong with you?”

“What?”