I’ve got to run, the time slots for the editing suite are like gold dust, and Ryan will kill me if I miss our spot. Don’t worry!
xEmx
22
After spending three days locked in the editing suite with Ryan, I break. Squinting at a screen all day making minute changes to scene length and order may be the way to earn an amazing mark on our final project, but it’s not the route to mental health, happiness, and that sense of carefree California well-being I’m determined to maintain. I insisted on taking Thursday off, to have one whole day of “me time.” One blissful, glorious, stress-free —
There’s a light tap at the front door. I roll out of bed, pull on my fluffy robe, and cautiously crack it open.
“Ryan?” I step backward, surprised.
“Umm, hey.” He takes in my clothing. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Oh, no.” I pull the robe tighter. “Come in.” He slowly edges into the apartment. “Morgan’s out,” I reassure him, and watch his whole body uncoil.
“Cool.” He nods, jamming his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans.
“So . . .” I perch on the edge of the sofa and wait.
“Oh, right.” Ryan smiles sheepishly at me. “You weren’t answering your cell. I was thinking of heading down to L.A., just taking some time to drive and hang out. Do you want to come along?”
“I thought we were having a little time-out.”
“Right, from editing.” Ryan slowly frowns. “Did you mean —?”
“No!” I jump up. I’d planned out my whole day, but I need to be more spontaneous. Scheduling my spare time is just another manifestation of those control-freak tendencies I’m trying so hard to shake. “L.A. sounds great. Just give me a minute to get dressed.”
“I’ll be in the car.”
Ryan is horrified to discover I’ve yet to experience a road trip.
“But you’ve been here more than two months already. They’re like a mandatory national experience!” he exclaims as we speed down the freeway. It’s another clear, sunny day, and he’s rolled all the windows down, the breeze whipping my hair into a terrible tangle. I don’t care. There’s something exhilarating about the speed, the movement, the fast song currently blasting from the stereo — as if this is really a part of my life, instead of just a vacation moment.
“I haven’t had any reason to go anywhere,” I shout as the drum kicks up a notch for the pulsing rock chorus. “And back in England, well, we just take the train if something’s more than a couple of hours away.”
Ryan shakes his head. “I guess it’s up to me to educate you. Oh wait.” Wrenching the wheel violently, he suddenly spins us into another lane. I squeal and grip the seat as we speed down an exit ramp. “Sorry!” he says breathlessly. “But I figured you needed an authentic diner stop as part of your American visit.”
“I also need to stay alive!”
“C’mon.” Ryan laughs. “You’ll forgive me when you taste their cheeseburgers.”
He’s in a better mood. Whatever weight has been dragging him down these past weeks seems to have lifted.
We only drive another few miles before pulling into a car park in front of an old-style diner, like the ones I’ve seen on postcards. It’s long and low, with a flashing neon sign announcing “Angie’s” and peeling paintwork. I hop out of the car.
“Oh, I wish I had my camera. I keep missing all the best things.”
“Got it covered.” Ryan waves his mobile phone at me and pushes me over to the sign. I stand self-consciously. “You can do better than that!” he urges. I begin to pose, awkwardly at first, but soon I manage to fight my way out of my own head and find myself mugging for the camera — blowing kisses and jumping around.
“I look ridiculous.” I giggle, leaning over to see the snaps.
“That’s the point.” Ryan grins, pushing open the heavy diner double doors. Immediately, I’m transported into a 1950s tableau, complete with long counter and faded-looking waitress in a pink uniform.
“Wow!” I grin. “It’s so . . .”
“Touristy and kitschy,” Ryan finishes, leading me to a corner booth upholstered in red leather. “But they do awesome disco fries.”
“What are they?” I slide into my seat and look around, enrapt.
“You’ll see.” Ryan rummages in his battered gray wallet for quarters. “Now, if this is the Americana scene, we need the right soundtrack. . . .” He punches a few numbers on the mini-jukebox next to us, and after a moment, familiar chords begin to play.
“‘Dancing in the Dark.’” I smile slowly. “I love this song.”
“The English rose likes Springsteen?” Ryan looks surprised. “Hmm. I didn’t see that coming.”
“What, it wasn’t in your character outline?” I tease, only half kidding, as the waitress comes to take our orders, dark roots showing through her platinum perm. “I’ll have one of the famous cheeseburgers. And a chocolate malt whip shake.” To hell with healthy.
After Ryan orders, he takes a sugar packet, thwacking it against the edge of the table in time with the song.
“You do that a lot,” I note. His restless energy doesn’t drive me insane the way it did a month ago, but it’s interesting the way he can never simply sit still. “And that scene thing . . .”
“Huh?” Ryan pauses.
I slouch down in the booth, regarding him thoughtfully. The knowledge that I only have two more weeks here makes me feel a little reckless. “Just the way you said we needed a soundtrack. Do you do that too — see things as scenes, like they’re on film? I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” I add. “I’m just curious.”
“What is this, Analyze Ryan Day?” He laughs, but I can see his eyes get hard. I shake my head.
“Relax. It’s not as if I’m any better, with my penchant for schedules and order,” I joke, trying to relieve the tension. He sits back, making room for the vast plate of chips that is placed between us, smothered in gravy and cheese. “So these are the disco fries,” I say lightly. “My sister would be lecturing me about cholesterol by now.”
Ryan takes a fry and eats it slowly. “I don’t mean to see the world like that. I guess I just get too deep in film, in narrative, you know?” He looks at me for a second before continuing, “Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped in director mode, always looking for the right angle or line, even when it’s real life and not a movie.”