"Fine," he says. And he thinks to himself and smiles. "Okay . . . here's one. Heaven and I used to practically live together. I mean . . . we were together all the time. And I went home for Christmas vacation, you know-to see the folks."

"Isn't Rosenthal Jewish?"

"Yeah," he says. "So? Whatever, winter break-"

"Fine. Go on."

"So I'm gone for like two weeks . . . and the day I get back, I leave the airport and head straight to Heaven's place-where she's waiting for me."

"Uh-huh . . ."

"So I ring her bell . . ." he says, raising his hands in front of him like he's ringing her bell, "and she answers the door, naked. Completely butt naked . . . but with one red rose stuck in between her ass cheeks. I mean . . . how do you not love a girl who does that?"

And just then Heaven opens her door, looking of course like a twelve on a scale of one to ten.

"I thought I heard voices," she says. "Hey," she says to Darren. "You two know each other, right?"

I walk back into my apartment, and the blinking light on my answering machine is taunting me, giving me its little red evil eye. I resign myself to hearing another humiliating Sarah screed.

I press the Play button.

"Hi, this is Brady Gilbert. I missed your call, but you missed a scintillating moment with me. If you'd like to try to recapture that moment . . . leave a message, and I'll call you back." Beep.

"Brady . . . this is Sam . . . from Superhero. Sam. Hey . . . we wanted to let you know that we're really sorry and everything, but we're going to go with Darren Rosenthal. It's not anything with you guys or the contracts, but Darren's thing is just probably better for us now. At this point. And . . . so, anyway . . . sorry. And . . . I guess we'll see you around."

" If somebody doesn't believe in me, I can't believe in them."

-Andie, Pretty in Pink.

" She's gone. She gave me a pen. I gave her my heart . . . she gave me a pen."

-Lloyd, Say Anything.

Heaven.

Darren and I are seated at a table in the back of Aqua Grill. A couple minutes after we're seated, this big party gets put next to us at the prime table, which was no doubt reserved for them. Sean Puffy Combs, or P. Diddy, or Ditty-or whatever we're supposed to call him this week-is in the group. So is Russell Simmons, who goes by Russell Simmons. I don't recognize the other people, but they make a hell of a scene when they walk in. Russell gets seated closest to me.

"How's it goin'?" Russell says to us.

"Good, thanks," we both say.

"Do you know those guys?" I ask Darren, thinking he might since he's in the same business.

"No," he says. "I've seen him out at functions, but I don't really know him."

"Guess he's just really friendly," I say.

We order some appetizers from the raw bar, and they bring us the complimentary salmon tartare on those waffle potato chips that I always end up dreaming about after I've been here. Yes, they're that good.

"So this lady dies," Darren says. "And this is a true story-"

"Someone you knew?"

"No," he says. "A friend of a friend. And her family goes to the funeral home and is making arrangements for the woman. The funeral director is asking questions about her, what kind of casket would she like, what kind of flowers did she like, what kind of music did she like?"

"Uh-huh," I say. I'm not sure if I should be eating the tartare or if I'm supposed to hold off because this is a serious story that requires a moratorium on the waffle chips.

"So the daughter picks out a mahogany wood casket, tells the guy her mother liked white roses, and that she really liked Elvis. So when they come to the wake a day or so later they find their mother, lying in a casket in a white studded Elvis jumpsuit, with muttonchop sideburns glued onto her face and her rigor mortis lips curled into the trademark Elvis snarl."

"No! This has to be a joke."

"No, I'm telling you," he says. "So the daughter pulls a different funeral director aside and asks him where the guy she spoke with is, and wants to know what the hell happened to her mother. The guy she first spoke to isn't there, so this funeral director takes her to the office, and together they look at the work order and they see that the first guy wrote 'Like Elvis' instead of 'Liked Elvis.'"

"That's insane," I laugh.

"It's supposedly true."

"Oh my God."

Darren rips off a piece of bread and dunks it in some olive oil. "So, uh . . . what's up with you and Brandon?"

"Brady?" I ask, knowing full well that Darren probably knows his name, but he's pulling that dick move guys do when they're jealous.

"Yeah, Brady."

"Nothing's up," I say, playing dumb. "Why?"

"You guys more than friends?"

"Nope," I say.

"You just travel together?"

"Yup."

"That's kinda weird, don't you think?"

"We're just friends," I say as a couple of people walk over to the hip-hop table and say hi to Russell. They sort of seem to reintroduce themselves, and Russell is totally cordial. He nods and says "Good to see you," and then as soon as they leave the table he says, "Never seen that motherfucker in my life," and his whole table laughs.

Our appetizers come, and Darren orders a bottle of wine. He knows I get drunk on wine, but I don't object. When the waiter comes back to do the wine service I almost cringe. This is the first time this is being done for me since I got fired, and it brings back all kinds of bad memories. I'm overly friendly to the waiter. I've always been nice to waiters, but now I feel like I'm in the club, so there's a different bond.

Darren holds his glass up, so I raise mine as well.

"To us finding each other again," he says. I give him a look as I think, Well, I've been right here. We clink our glasses and drink.

"So you didn't tell me what you're doing here," I say.

"I'm here a lot. I'm working out of our New York office. I'm thinking about getting a place here again."

"Wow," I say. A flat wow.

And then another group of fans, or friends, goes to say hi to the Puffy/Simmons table. This is the third or fourth time people have interrupted them in seven minutes. Must be annoying to be them, I think. But they don't seem to mind. They're having a great time. They're laughing and telling stories, and they're loud. They are really loud.

"Do you think I'm losing my hair?" Darren asks.

"No!" I say. When Darren and I were together he used Rogaine regularly, and he wasn't even close to balding. I think he was using it as a preventive thing, but he was always paranoid about his hair, and it looks like he still is. "You have as much hair as you had the last time I saw you."

"The last time in L.A.," he says, "or the last time a few years ago?"

"Both. Relax." I sip my wine.

"So what did Sydney say when you told her that you were having dinner with me?"

"She said what she always says about you."

"Which is?" he asks.

"'He sucks.'"

"Yeah," he says, chomping on a piece of bread, "she never liked me. What does she know?"

"She knows how you treated me."

"I wasn't that bad," he says. And then he gives me this innocent look and bats his eyelashes.

Right then someone at Russell's table points to someone sitting at another table. "See that guy over there?" Russell's friend says, and his whole table looks-and so do I. The guy looks like some self-important dude in an Armani suit, which he probably has in every color. He's got his nose stuck in the air, and you can just tell he's a jerk. "Back in the eighties," the guy goes on, "I was in a club chillin' one night . . . and when I went to the bathroom . . . that guy's girlfriend came in after me. I busted a nut in her mouth . . . and then she walked out there right after and kissed that nigga on the lips!" The whole table erupts with laughter and high fives.

"Plus, I've grown up since then," Darren continues.

"Oh yeah?" I say, trying to keep a straight face-not because of Darren, but because of what I just overheard. Because that was really fucking funny. Gross . . . but funny.

"Yeah," Darren says. "I'm ready to settle down."

"Really . . ." I put some disbelief in my tone for good measure.

"It's true," he says. "With the right girl. I just think I may have blown it with her a long time ago, and I don't know if she'll give me another shot . . ."

Oh God. If it wasn't obvious before, now it is-he's talking about me. And he's trying to be romantic and sincere, but some guy is in my right ear, still talking about that time he busted a nut in that guy's girlfriend's mouth, and I'm finding it a little hard to focus.

There was a time when I was crazy about Darren, but that was years ago. When we hooked up in L.A., I thought it was just going to be one night of really good sex. I didn't even entertain the idea that we'd ever get back together, so this is all a bit of a surprise. That said, the sex was really good. This is so confusing. Then again I don't have anyone else in my life, right? Do I? What's to be so confused about? Why do I feel so goddamned confused?

When we ask for the bill our waiter tells us that it's already been taken care of.

"By who?" Darren asks, clearly feeling aced out.

"Mr. Simmons, the gentleman at the next table. He knew they were going to be loud, so when he came in he told us he was going to pick up the tab for the tables on either side of him."

Now that is one cool dude. We thank him, he shakes our hands, and we walk outside and pour ourselves into a taxi.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm on my couch with Darren. He's kissing me, and clothes are starting to come off. And all I can think about is Brady. Brady! What the hell is this? This is not supposed to be happening. I try to put him out of my mind but I can't. It's like he's here in the room with us. I push Darren off me and get up.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"I'm thirsty," I say. And I walk to the kitchen and get some water. I sit on this bar stool just outside the kitchen and slowly drink the whole glass of water.

I don't want to go back to the couch with Darren, so as soon as I finish, I refill my glass and sit back down. Not only do I not want to go back there with Darren, I don't want to go back there with Darren. Back to eighteen. Back to nothing mattering but this guy who was going to be a big record producer because of someone his dad knew. Back to relying on anyone or anything else to make me feel like I matter, like I'm going somewhere, like I need anything but my own intelligence and hard work and attitude to make it. Darren is who I was. Crazy, half-assed, sometimes brilliant, never-surrender Brady reminds me more of who I want to be.

Darren finally walks over a couple minutes later.

"You all right?"

"Yeah, just . . . thirsty," I say. And out of nervousness, I get up and refill my glass again.

"I see that," he says.

"Want some water?"

"Is there any left?" he asks, and I laugh. "What's going on, babe?"

"I don't know."

"I think I do. It's fuckin' Brady, right?" He remembered his name this time.

"Kind of."

"I thought you said there's nothing going on," he says.

"There isn't . . . we haven't. But being here with you . . . I feel like I'm cheating on him."

"Hmmm . . ." he says.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"It's okay. I was an idiot to let you get away in the first place. But I did. So I can't blame anyone but myself if your heart's with someone else now."

"I didn't know it was."

I get up off the bar stool and give Darren a hug. Then he buttons his shirt back up, puts on his shoes, and I walk him to the door.

"No chance at breakup sex, huh?" Darren says with a mock pout. I laugh and shake my head at him. He kisses me on my forehead. "I have changed," he says. "And it probably wouldn't have been fair anyway . . . me getting you and the band." He turns.

"What?" I say.