Rewind (A Perfect Forever Novella) Read online

  Rewind

  A Perfect Forever Novella

  Susan Ward

  Copyright © 2014 Susan Ward

  Cover Design by Laura Shinn Designs

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1500745820

  ISBN-13: 978-1500745820

  DEDICATION

  For my beautiful daughter Tracy, aka Princess Bug. You are always in my thoughts and heart.

  My SIL and my Granddogs:

  Tiki, Donovan and Georgia Peaches

  ONE

  It started as a joke. Just something I worked on one night after learning the last girl from my sorority clique was getting married. I really didn’t do it out of spite or resentment. I didn’t even do it because I polished off a full bottle of Zinfandel that night. It’s just how I fill my evenings when there is nothing better to do: design a blog page, give it a name—How to Train Your Fembot—and start to post.

  Who would have ever thought this page would take off the way it has in the past six months and who would have thought there were so many vain guys out there looking to bag a Fembot?

  I don’t really think of my sorority sisters as fembots, any more than I think of myself as the token brunette. Sure, I was the only brunette in the clique inside my sorority of rich hotties at USC, but that was totally random and had nothing to do with this being California.

  I don’t really resent them all landing their super-duper great guys, marching down the aisle into their oh-so-perfect lives. I had a super-duper great guy. I just didn’t marry him. Oh well, that’s another story for another day and a different blog. Tonight, I haven’t finished teaching overachieving men how to achieve their fembot-perfect wife.

  Rule #477: If you want to make the Fembot crawl to you, figure out who her best friend is, and then flirt her up. As much as they pride themselves on ‘the sisterhood’ the second the BFF’s back is turned, she’ll make her move.

  My fingers pause and I stare at the screen.

  You ought to know rule #477 in spades, Kaley Stanton.

  It’s what got me into my current mess. I’m so stupid to have fallen for that one, and definitely over a player like Graham Carson. Graham could write this blog probably better than I do. He made his way through my sorority sisters with a slick talking velvet encased machete.

  Damn. It was a mistake, misplaced female competitiveness, and it cost me Bobby Rowan. I wonder where Bobby is these days. Two years. I never expected not to hear from him for two years, despite the fact that he was very emphatic, in an oh-so-not Bobby way, that we were over after I foolishly confessed to a pointless, drunken one night stand with Graham Carson, thinking that truth would make it all something I could fix.

  I take a hearty sip of my wine. I called that one wrong. I definitely have no one to blame but myself. And I definitely deserve to be home alone on a Saturday night writing my pitiful blog post.

  I open the drawer in the bedside table and pull out my secret scrapbook. God, I’ve become like one of those lonely cat-ladies, one of those girls with secret scrapbooks, bitchy blogs, and dateless weekend nights.

  I start flipping through the pages. As sad as I feel, the pictures make me smile. There is just something so right about how Bobby and I look together. I felt it the first day I met him. We were meant to be, a perfectly imperfect forever kind of couple.

  I’ve never been able to imagine myself with someone else. I’ve loved Bobby Rowen since I was seventeen and, up until two years ago, he was also my best friend.

  I refill my wineglass, put away the scrapbook and turn on the TV. I’m restless tonight. I should sleep, but there is something frantic and twitchy running through me. A feeling of lack of completion, of loss, and of need.

  How long does it take to get over a guy? Maybe it would happen faster if I could find someone interesting and occasionally enjoy that sex thing again. How long has it been since I’ve gotten laid? I try to remember. I can’t. That’s how long it’s been.

  God, I always miss Bobby the most on nights like these: alone, blogging, thinking, and drinking.

  Ding. I look at my laptop screen. Shit. I forgot to log off, but then again, I never get any chats or comments on this blog except from my one virtual fan who randomly has been dropping in the last six weeks. A lot of people read it, the traffic numbers are very good, but no one wants to admit it by commenting that they visit the site. It’s that kind of thing.

  I click open the chat box. OK, what does my cyber groupie have to say to me tonight?

  Love-struck Trainer: Instead of posing as a somewhat humorous, sarcastic, devil-may-care princess to hide your bitterness, why don’t you tell guys something useful? How do you get over losing the perfect girl?

  My entire body goes cold from head to toe. Is that how I come off? A somewhat humorous, sarcastic, devil-may-care princess to hide my bitterness. If that’s true, I’ve sunk so low. My hands rise and hover over the keys.

  Rapidly I type: I’ve been told that my comments are witty and funny.

  I hit send and wait.

  Ding: A non-denial denial. Why won’t you answer the question? Or can you only dish out and not be helpful?

  I really shouldn’t respond. I’ve had too much to drink, but fuck, there is something in his first question really hitting home right now. How does this stranger in cyber land know exactly what I’m feeling today? Maybe, it is obvious.

  Click, click, two words: You don’t.

  Crap. What made me say that? An honest answer. Exactly what I had just been thinking.

  For some reason, I am suddenly fully alert, plugged in and engaged in this random moment with a virtual stranger. I stare at the screen. Waiting. Waiting.

  Ding: Is that why you’re bitter? You lost the perfect guy?

  I rapidly respond: Nope. I lost the perfect imperfect guy.

  Love-Struck Trainer: You are witty and funny.

  I bite my lip, feeling a smile trying to take shape, and then the chat box announces he’s left the chat. That’s it? Gone. Love-struck is usually good for at least an hour of diversion.

  I log off of my blog, switch off the light, and go to sleep.

  I’m late. Sunday hangover always equals Monday late. I really need to stop that Saturday night drinking and blogging shit. It’s no way for a twenty-five year old girl to live. Isn’t that what everyone keeps telling me?

  I hit the button for the garage door to open and wait impatiently for it to lift. Why does everything near the ocean move at a snail’s pace, even the garage door? I put the car into reverse, back into the driveway, hit the button and wait for the door to fully close in case Muffin the cat is lurking and decides to slip in. If the garage sensor pops the door open again, there is no telling what I’ll find within, leaving a house open all day in Malibu.

  OK, you can close anytime.

  While I wait, I study the stunning beach front concrete and glass structure. It really makes me feel like a fraud to live here. Struggling independent filmmakers should live struggling lives if they want their art to be good. But then, the house was vacant since Dad finally married Mom shortly after my eighteenth birthday, and finding livable conditions for manageable rent in Southern California is just a bitch.

  The house may cost me nothing, but there is rent. It may not cost US dollars to live here, but I do have to live with the memories, the memorabilia, and history contained within the walls of the Malibu house. I’m not talking about the photos of my parents, but the legacy of lovers that is always present within the rooms. Dad loved Mom here. Mom left Dad from here. And I live alone without Bobby here.

  The door closes and I start to ease carefully from the driveway. Second battle of the day: getting onto Pacific Coast Highway du
ring the commuter rush without getting hit. I merge into traffic and again everything is moving at a snail’s pace.

  I pull into the drive-thru Starbucks to grab a morning tray of coffee for my creative team. I hit the notes icon on my iPhone, where I artfully conceal the list of everyone’s preferred drink. It’s a nice touch to always get it right, and it’s the little things that seem to keep the team humming happily. It sure isn’t the money I pay them since, according to my business checking account balance, I really am a struggling independent filmmaker.

  If not for capital injections from Dad, my start-up film company would have folded long ago. I pull up to the window to pay.

  “Thirty-seven-dollars, twenty-eight cents,” the barista announces.

  “Really? I only ordered six drinks. I’m not buying Starbucks.”

  The girl doesn’t laugh. OK, so this isn’t one of my wittier and funnier moments, but heck I’m in a rush and I’ve got a headache today. I rummage through my purse for a credit card.

  I smile as I hand it to her. “Thank you.”

  No response. Monday, Monday, Monday: they seem to bring out the worst in everyone. I wonder if the barista would notice if I started to secretly film her. There’s got to be a story in this and that’s what I do, film little bits of this and that all through the day until the next great documentary inspiration strikes. I peek at her out of the corner of my eye. Nope, better not try it. This girl looks pissed.

  My credit card is shoved back at me and I have only a moment to drop it on my dash before I have to grab the tray closing in on me.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Nothing. Not even a smile. Maybe I should start another blog: How to Train Your Barista. I put my car into gear and pull out of the drive-thru lane. That’s one of the things I miss about Bobby; he’s the only person I’ve ever known who always thought my quirky sense of humor was funny. I admit, I’m an acquired taste.

  Thirty minutes later, I pull into the parking lot in front of the shabby industrial space that houses my fledgling company: KKK Productions. Another mistake of my quirky sense of humor, the KKK thing that started back in high school when I started to sell my hand-painted Vans on the internet: Kaley’s Kustom Kicks. I thought it was memorable—KKK— but I guess it wasn’t one of my smarter branding moves because sometimes I get the most interesting mail from viewers who’ve seen one of our documentaries. And the KKK thing is definitely misinterpreted.

  I pull my cross body purse over my neck and scoop up the drink tray. Note to self: learn to contain quirky sense of humor when making business decisions.

  I push with my hip through the double glass doors and pause at the reception desk.

  “Morning, Veronica. Is everyone here?” I ask, setting the tray down and searching for the soy latte.

  “They’re in the conference room,” she informs, smiling as I hand her the coffee. “You’re late. Rough weekend?”

  I force my expression into something I hope looks saucy. “The roughest kind.”

  Veronica laughs. “I’m free for lunch if you want to tell me about it. Mine was totally dull.”

  “I never kiss and tell,” I counter with heavy meaning.

  I grab the tray and continue down the short hallway to the back office we’ve converted into a conference-screening room. Struggling to balance the tray in one arm, I open the door and the room quiets.

  “Sorry to keep everyone waiting,” I say in a rush, moving quickly toward my seat. “Traffic,” I add lamely, wondering why I felt it necessary.

  Maybe it’s because I’m the youngest person in the room and it still feels kind of strange to sign paychecks. Or maybe because someday they are going to figure out that I haven’t a clue what I’m doing and haven’t since the first moment I took over this defunct production company and inherited this team.

  The business acquisition was a mistake, it was too burdened with debt and I should have listened to my dad about that, but I was excited about starting my career after graduation and the team is definitely a winner. I may not like each and every one of them, but I respect them, they are enormously talented and I’m getting great on the job CEO-documentary-filmmaker training here.

  I smile and start to hand out the coffee drinks. I pull out a notepad from my bag and it gets a few funny stares. All around the table are laptops and tablets. I like paper, so shoot me. I grab a pen and start to tap it on the scarred wood table.

  A sheet of paper is shoved across the table at me. “Should we start at the top of the agenda?” Justin asks.

  I quickly scan the list. Jeez, there are a dozen bullet points here. Who has time for that much meeting? Too much discussion with every gathering of the creative team. No wonder this company released too few projects and went bankrupt.

  I stop tapping the pen. “I would prefer just to view the latest cut and go straight into the postmortem.”

  A flash of irritation shows in Justin’s eyes, but he doesn’t argue and the lights are quickly turned off and the latest version of our documentary begins to play. I lean forward in my chair, elbows on the table, chin in my hands, carefully dissecting it frame by frame almost as if I can slow it down to edit speed and view it piece by piece. It still doesn’t feel right. Not even after the latest cut. It’s close, but not quite there. Damn, this should be finished by now. We need finished projects to start pulling in dollars.

  The documentary ends and the room is silent. It’s not right. I try to digest what I’m feeling into words that won’t offend. I run my fingers over the top of my head and fill them with a tight scrunching of black curls.

  “I don’t like the title,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “And it’s not right. How we’ve cut this. It just feels out of sequence, almost like we’re manipulating the images and injecting opinion rather than just showing the story.” I close my notepad. “It needs to go back to editing and we really need to think of a new title. Ghosts of Stockton Boulevard just doesn’t do it for me.”

  Silence. I hate it when everyone holds back speaking their mind. Or worse, when they do it without including me. We’re a team, an equal voting team. Someone just say I’m wrong and get it over with. I shift my eyes to fix on Justin.

  “I think it’s an excellent piece of finished work, as is,” he says. “What don’t you like about the title?”

  “We’re making a film about sex trafficking in urban California and we’re calling these women ghosts. It’s demeaning, like they are somehow invisible and valueless. I don’t want them to be ghosts. I want them to be seen.”

  He pauses to consider my comment. He leans forward into the desk, toward me.

  “Then we’ll come up with something new,” Justin agrees. “And the latest cut?”

  “Let’s go back to editing this afternoon. I’ll have an outline of changes I want to make by then.”

  The meeting quickly ends after that. I’m relieved that it didn’t turn into a three hour argument session. Maybe I’m getting better at leading the team. That was almost too easy.

  I stare up at Allie, my assistant, as she begins to clean up the room.

  “Am I wrong? Just tell me if I’m wrong, Allie. I trust you the most here.”

  Allie smiles, pauses in her task, and looks flattered over my confession. “You’re not wrong, Kaley. You’ve got a vision. Follow your gut. At the end of the day it’s your name and reputation that walks out the door with every documentary.”

  “Follow my gut, huh? My gut says that it’s not right.”

  “Then it’s not right and we go back to editing.”

  I nod. It was what I was going to do anyway, but it’s nice to have a little support. I lean back into my chair, shaking my head. “You’ve known Justin a long time. Why does he dislike me so much? I’m just trying to produce quality work and keep the company out of bankruptcy.”

  “Ah, maybe because you’re drop-dead gorgeous. Justin thinks he’s God’s gift to women, and you’re not interested. That could have something do with his attitude.” r />
  I blush. “Is that all you ever think of? The relationship thing?”

  Allie laughs. “Pretty much. Once you’re married that only leaves meddling in other women’s love lives.”

  I gather my things from the table. “Well, stop meddling in mine. I’m spoken for.”

  Allie’s face snaps up. “Really? Glad to hear it. When did you start seeing someone?”

  My insides go cold as all the heat in my body rises to my cheeks. Shit, what had made me say that? I’m not dating anyone.

  “Just recently.”

  “Maybe all the twelve hour days you’ve been putting yourself through will stop. You work too hard. You’ve got to remember to take a little down time or you’ll burn out quickly.”

  I rush from the conference room since I’ve never been comfortable with lying and disappear into my office. I dump my things on my desk and flip on my computer.

  As I wait for the programs to load, I start listening to the messages in my phone. Without thinking, I click open the link to my Fembot blog. I start to scribble names and numbers on my desk calendar, calls that I need to return before lunch. Bank. Dad. The distributor I hope to wow with the documentary pitch. Zoe I’ll call during lunch. Best friend chatter over tofu is exactly what I need today. Maybe she can make sense of what’s up with me.

  I start to rummage through the mail that Veronica left on my desk. Ding. I freeze. I stare at the computer. The chat box for my blog is obediently waiting to be opened. I click it full screen.

  Love-struck Trainer: Are you free for lunch?

  Oh no, what’s up with that? Is he playing with me, pursuing me, or some kind of weird stalker? Does he somehow know who I am? OK, stop being paranoid, Kaley. It’s not possible for him to know who you are. No one knows this blog is mine. I was certain that I was very careful that there was nothing to link this blog to me.

  I hold my fingers above the keys, searching for something safe to respond.

  Response: I’m sorry. I don’t date anonymous virtual fans and I have a boyfriend.