Sweet Talk by Cara Bastone
Chapter Fourteen
“Hey! JD!”
“Hey, dude.”
“How are you? How have you been? I didn’t hear from you for a couple nights. I was starting to wonder if everything was all right.”
“If you were worried, then why didn’t you call me instead?”
“Well, I wondered if I’d pushed it too far with the club thing. I know that I can be kind of, I don’t know, intense. And I wanted to give you some space. To make sure you didn’t feel too pressed.”
“Ah. No. That was fun. I didn’t call the last couple nights because . . . I was busy with something else.”
“. . . You’re just gonna let that dangle out there like that? You’re not going to tell me what you were busy with?”
“I promised you I wouldn’t mention it.”
“Huh?”
“I’m saving you a panic attack.”
“What? Oh! Oh, my God. You didn’t call me the last few nights because you were busy reading my webcomic?”
“Bingo.”
“Jeez. You mean to tell me I was getting cockblocked by my own artwork?”
“I—”
“Never mind. Strike that from the record. I didn’t say that. I don’t say things like that. Just forget it. God. Okay, well, what’d you think about the comic?”
“It’s good.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“I like it.”
“JD. I like you, but you’re the absolute worst.”
“What? What do you want me to say?”
“You’re literally the only person in my life who knows I do this. Come on! Gas me up a little bit!”
“Okay. Um. You’re good at making webcomics, Eliot.”
“Wow. I’ve never felt so proud of myself before.”
“If you want compliments, just read the comments section! People there can’t wait to tell you you’re a genius. What do you need me for?”
“Obviously your opinion matters to me more than anonymous internet readers.”
“Well, I like the comic. What more do you want from me?”
“Nothing, nothing. I know you’re not the most effusive person in the world. I’ll just pretend you gave it a glowing review.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“So, like, what happens with Shaker after that cliffhanger? Does she make it back to her own world or . . .?”
“Oh. MY. GAWD.”
“What?”
“You little scamp! You’re not calling to check in with me about my life. You’re calling to try and squeeze some spoilers out of me!”
“What? No way.”
“So, I was wrong? You just happened to bring up that cliffhanger in casual conversation? You couldn’t care less what happens to Shaker?”
“I . . . okay, FINE. I’m totally obsessed with your stupid addictive webcomic and I’m freaking DYING to know what happens next and if you strand Shaker in that dumbass reverse universe I swear to God I’ll strangle you myself.”
“HAHAHAHAAAAAA YESSSSSSSSS. This is officially the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“Spill your secrets!”
“No way! You think I’d just tell you?”
“Eliot! Come on! I’ve done basically nothing but read this webcomic for eighty hours straight and I get to the last page and my favorite character might end up trapped in an alternate universe for all eternity? Which would be fine, if Hertzog were there with her and then they could just start their life afresh in a new place and I wouldn’t care. But Hertzog is off doing that stupid boot camp for psychics thing—”
“Wait, does that mean that you’re shipping Shaker and Hertzog together?”
“Of course! I am definitely not shipping Shaker and Rowan.”
“That’s who most of the readers ship.”
“Rowan is such a little shit. He’s too smooth for his own good, and besides, he had his shot when they were stuck in the time warp, but he blew it. Next. Move on. It’s Hertzog’s turn.”
“I seriously cannot tell you how much joy this is bringing me. Whatever the opposite of a panic attack is, I’m currently having it. This is a euphoria attack. There’s too much oxytocin in my bloodstream right now. I’m gonna pass out.”
“You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?”
“Do you really want me to? You actually want me to spoil it for you? Whatever happens next, you don’t want to see it in living color? You just want me to explain it in my regular old voice? If that’s what you really want, I can spoil the whole rest of the series for you.”
“Ugh. No. Fine. You’re right, you butthead. I don’t want you to spoil it. But I do want you to finish it and publish it immediately!”
“I was just working on it earlier today. Trust me, I’m putting as much time in as I possibly can.”
“Remember how you said you’d have to quit your job in order to have enough time to post regularly?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I think that’s a good idea. I think you should quit your job. In fact, I’ll just go ahead and draft your letter of resignation for you right now. That’ll make it easier.”
“This is incredible. I could never have predicted this in a hundred million years. I can’t believe you’re my fangirl. I must have done something right in a past life.”
“Can you get me a discount code on some of this merch? Friends and family or something? I want one of the T-shirts.”
“Don’t pay for the merch! I’ll get it for you for free.”
“Obviously I’ve blown my cover on how cool I think this all is. But really, I can’t believe you do all of it on your own.”
“Well, I don’t do it completely on my own. There’s a team that works on the color-blocking for me. Art and design students, mostly. Especially when I’m up against a deadline. And I have a story editor and two proofreaders who help me with the writing.”
“Right. I wondered if your learning disorder stuff made that part difficult.”
“I can voice-to-text most of it, but of course, that always ends up making all sorts of stupid mistakes. And anything I input myself is always spelled embarrassingly wrong. The proofreaders have their work cut out for them.”
“The Spider-Man side of you is the coolest thing ever. And now I can definitely never tell you who I am.”
“What?! Why?”
“Because there’s nothing awesome like this hidden in my closets. My Spider-Man parts are just sad little family skeletons.”
“I’ll let you see the panels for the next five chapters early if you tell me who you are.”
“Ugh . . . that’s so not fair. You’re cheating.”
“I’m just playing all my cards. That’s different than cheating.”
“Eliot?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not dreaming that I’m secretly Gigi Hadid or something, right?”
“Gigi who?”
“She’s a supermodel.”
“You’re asking if I’m assuming that you’re secretly rich and famous?”
“I don’t know. It’s just this whole thing with us kind of lives in a fantasyland, and I’m wondering if somewhere in your mind you’re also thinking of me as, you know, a fantasy.”
“JD, considering I’ve never met any famous supermodels, I’ve definitely crossed that possibility off my list.”
“Okay.”
“. . . I mean, are you asking what I picture when I imagine you?”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“I guess so.”
“I picture a she-blob.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Well, I don’t know what you look like. So I just picture this, like, shadow person. Average height, average size. And sometimes when I’m bored, I add Marge Simpson hair.”
“You’re being serious right now?”
“Completely! And every morning before work I put you in a Camaro in my brain and send you off into the sunset so I don’t spend the whole day trying to solve the mystery of who you are.”
“If that webcomic weren’t proof of how vivid your imagination was, I probably wouldn’t believe this.”
“Hey! That’s a good idea. Hold on.”
“What am I waiting for?”
“I’m going to draw what you look like in my head. And then I’ll take a picture and send it to you.”
“Didn’t you just say that you picture me as a she-blob?”
“Kinda, yeah.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I can picture that already, but sure, knock yourself out.”
“Keep talking to me while I draw.”
“Okay.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“JD?”
“Yeah?”
“The important part of the sentence ‘Keep talking to me while I draw’ was the ‘talking’ part.”
“Oh. Right. Um . . . what have you been up to over the past few days?”
“Well, tons of work. I just finished this big design project for my main client.”
“Do you like being a freelancer?”
“I love it. I have to be my own boss. I liked the whole job security thing when I was on staff at my old company, but having to follow a bunch of someone else’s—seemingly arbitrary—rules made the job about a gazillion times harder for me.”
“I get that. I used to work in an office and I definitely felt like a lot of the company-wide policies were pretty infantilizing. It was like we couldn’t be trusted not to burn the place down if we didn’t sign the HR handbook when we got hired.”
“Exactly.”
“So, you worked over the last few days. And I’m assuming you put in many hours on your webcomic, otherwise I’m going to have a stroke.”
“Yes. Deep breaths. I finished almost an entire chapter.”
“Excellent. Did you do anything else?”
“I hung out with my sister yesterday after work.”
“Vera, right?”
“Yeah . . . it was unplanned. I just happened to run into her at a restaurant we both like.”
“How’d it go? You sound a little weird about it.”
“Well, she said something that’s been bothering me, actually. Where do I start? Okay. Well, she’s got this big expo thing coming up in a few weeks, and I’ve been helping her plan parts of it out.”
“She’s running the expo?”
“No, no. She’s a participating vendor for her care package subscription service. It’s really cool. And her business is just starting to take off. I’m really proud of her. But last night it seemed like she was really struggling with some of the organizational parts of it, and I offered to help her.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, she was, like, mortally offended that I’d offered to help, and then she called me Mr. Perfect and herself Ms. Cut-Up. And then I literally choked on my drink.”
“Because you don’t think those labels are accurate?”
“Are you kidding? Do I need to tell you the Vegas story again? I’m the biggest cut-up there is. I could win the Cut-Up Olympics.”
“Yeah, well, Vera doesn’t know that story, does she?”
“. . . No. I kept it from everybody.”
“So, all she knows is that you’re this successful, well-oiled machine, right?”
“I mean . . . I guess that’s true. But I always considered myself to be so transparent, so clumsy, that I guess I just figured she knew how hard it was for me to get where I am today.”
“You know, this might sound obvious, but one of the downsides to making it look easy is that no one ever knows how hard it was.”
“Ha. Yeah. Wow. I always wanted it to look easy. But maybe an unintended side effect was that when things got hard for Vera, she figured she was doing something wrong, because it all seemed so easy for me. I . . . never thought about it that way.”
“Would you ever tell her about Vegas?”
“Oh, God. Maybe. I don’t know. The idea of doing that is nails on a chalkboard. But . . . it bugs me though. I don’t think she really gets how kickass she is. It’s like she’s always waiting for somebody to tell her why her idea is stupid and will never work. I just want her to see herself the way I see her.”
“. . .”
“JD? You still there?”
“Yeah. I know you guys have got your stuff, but you sound like a really good brother, Eliot.”
“You said you have a brother, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your relationship like?”
“Well, a few days ago I literally peeled him off a floor and then had to enlist my ex-boyfriend’s help to drag him from the car into his house.”
“Ouch. Shit. That’s awful, JD. I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“I wish I could say it was an anomaly.”
“Is he an alcoholic?”
“I mean, he’s never been diagnosed or anything like that, but he definitely doesn’t have a good relationship with drinking. He’s been to AA a few times, here and there. But it never stuck. The bingeing thing is mostly just on the weekends. He holds down his job well enough.”
“What’s his job?”
“He works for an electric company.”
“That’s good work.”
“Really good. Union job. And thank God for that. He needs job security.”
“Sounds like you take care of him in a lot of ways?”
“Oh. Yes and no. In case you can’t tell, I’m not exactly the most nurturing person on the planet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on. I think my personality is pretty clear.”
“Flaccid webcomic praise aside, I think you’re actually really nurturing! You make me feel better all the time! You might not be the most . . . cuddly person I’ve ever met, but this way, when you’re supportive, it actually means something. I know it’s because I deserve it. Not just because that’s who you are anyway. It’s nice.”
“Ironically, I’m probably one of the cuddliest people in real life you’ll ever meet. Maybe not with my words. But physically.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t look like I would be, but I am. I’m a blanket hog, too.”
“Interesting . . . So, you’re a physically intimidating person who knows of my sister but isn’t close friends with her. You’ve just helped me to cross about fifty prospective JDs off my list.”
“Oh.”
“Are you Rachel Ziegler?”
“Minus ten.”
“Maxi Winters?”
“Minus ten.”
“Sarah McCoy?”
“Minus ten.”
“Oy. That was a bloodbath. What’s my point count at now?”
“I don’t know. Approximately negative a million?”
“Brutal. Okay, I finished the drawing. Let me just snap a pic and . . .”
“Wow. That’s how you picture me, huh?”
“She-blob.”
“This is actually significantly more flattering than I thought it would be.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, there’re boobs.”
“That’s how you know it’s a she-blob.”
“Right. Of course. I should have realized.”
“I gave you a cool car, too. A Camaro. You can’t tell because it’s pencil but it’s candy apple red in my head.”
“Badass. You know, this is technically my first-ever portrait.”
“I’ll send you the original! You can frame it and put it up on the wall!”
“You angling for my address?”
“Huh? Oh. Right. Never mind. You know, if you told me who you are, we could just be friends already and it wouldn’t be weird for me to mail you this picture.”
“I’m pretty sure it would always be weird for you to mail me a portrait you drew of me as a blob driving a Camaro into the sky.”
“Touché.”
“I’m actually starting to get a little sleepy without the baking show. It’s a miracle.”
“Wait! I forgot I was supposed to be getting ready for bed. I’m way behind. I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet. Wait!”
“Don’t panic, I’m not going anywhere.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Did you brush your teeth yet? I didn’t hear you.”
“I did before we got on the line.”
“And pajamas?”
“Are you really asking me what I’m wearing right now?”
“I mean . . . yes. But, like, in a non-creepy way?”
“Is there a non-creepy way to ask someone what they’re wearing over the phone?”
“Hmmm. Let me try. How about: ‘Hey, girl, tell me about your flannel PJ pants.’”
“That is officially the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Boooooooo.”
“Okay, then, you try!”
“I don’t have to try. I can already guess what you wear for pajamas.”
“What? How?”
“Your personality makes it super obvious. You clearly wear matching plaid pajama sets with one of those button-up shirts with the floppy collar. You know, Christmas morning pajamas. Oh! And a long skinny cap with a ball on the end. With your slippers lined up perfectly beside the bed. And a glass of warm milk on the bedside table.”
“Wow. So, basically you think of me as a total square.”
“You’re a good little boy, Eliot. Face it.”
“No! I refuse! You’re calling me a loser in so many words. I’m not a good little boy! I’m an M-A-N. My pajamas are, you know, made of steel wool. I eat chicken off the bone and throw the bones into the roaring campfire I stoke throughout the night. I sleep with a machete under my pillow.”
“Of course. How could I have ever confused you for a sweet little softboy cinnamon roll? I’m sorry, that’s my mistake.”
“If you keep making that face, someday it’s going to stick that way.”
“How do you know what face I’m making?”
“How do you know what pajamas I’m wearing? Let’s face it, JD—we know each other at this point.”
“Hold on. Hold the phone. Stop everything. Back up. I . . . was right? You’re actually wearing matching plaid pajamas with slippers and a cap?”
“No to the cap because I’m not living in a Charles Dickens novel. But I might be wearing plaid pajama pants that have a matching shirt somewhere in my closet, and I might have lined up some slippers beside the bed.”
“Oh. My. God.”
“Who doesn’t have slippers?”
“I don’t wear slippers.”
“You just let your feet touch the cold floor in the morning like an animal?”
“I guess I’m not as civilized as you are, Hoffman.”
“Someday, when this anonymity thing is far behind us and we really know each other, I’m going to mail you that portrait and a pair of slippers. They’re gonna blow your mind. Once you go slippers, you never go back. You’ll never be the same. They’ll change you for life.”
“See, this is why the anonymity thing is important. A strange man just told me he’s going to mail me a pair of slippers and a picture of me that he drew. If that’s not the beginning to a movie about a serial killer I don’t know what is.”
“Crap! You’re right. Dang. Don’t you ever wish that you could just, like, unzip your head and show somebody everything that’s in there?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m not dangerous. I’m nice. I’m like the least threatening guy on the planet. I wear matching pajamas, for Christ’s sake. I wish you could get an x-ray view of my thoughts and then you could see that you have absolutely nothing to fear from me.”
“You know I’m not scared of you, Eliot. We’ve been through this. I know you well enough to know that you’re not dangerous. And besides. I’ve seen you in person. I could definitely beat you in hand-to-hand combat.”
“Is that an insult to me or a compliment to yourself?”
“Compliment to myself.”
“Are you an athlete? A fighter or boxer or something?”
“I know my way around a gym.”
“See, I should be taking notes right now. Instead of just saying ‘yes,’ you say, ‘I know my way around a gym.’ It’s, like, so much cooler.”
“Well, I do know my way around a gym.”
“Do you lift or do classes or what?”
“I lift. Jump rope. Box a little. Sometimes I run.”
“That is so badass. I didn’t even know there were still gyms that offered that kind of stuff. I just got a fancy new gym membership and I’m thinking it was a total waste of money.”
“Why?”
“Well, in the past, whenever I wanted to work out, I would just go for a run or play pickup basketball, or maybe join a soccer league if I was really feeling frisky.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve never done the whole . . . designer gym thing before.”
“Let me guess, is everybody really hot at your gym?”
“Oh, my God. It’s ridiculous. I swear people are oiling themselves up before they work out. Everyone has perfect hair. And everyone already looks like they’ve been coming to the gym for years. There are literally zero beginners like me. So, the one and only time I went since I signed up, I just stood there in my stupid T-shirt with my, you know, normal body, and I just felt like such a loser. I don’t even know how to use the machines.”
“Can you hire a trainer for a session or two? They’ll teach you how to use everything.”
“I think I just signed up at the wrong place. It’s not my scene. I just want to go somewhere that I can get a little stronger without being judged for my general incompetence. I need a confidence boost.”
“Ugh. Dammit.”
“What?”
“UGH!”
“JD? Everything all right?”
“Yes, everything is fine. I’m just about to do something really stupid because I like you and I want you to be happy.”
“I . . . okay?”
“First of all, did you sign a contract at the designer gym?”
“Just a one-month.”
“Great. Next month, when your contract is up, don’t renew. Instead, go to this place called Geddy’s. It’s a little hole-in-the-wall boxer’s gym.”
“Oh! I’ve seen that place. The whole front of the gym is just a garage door?”
“Yeah. You have to drag it up and down to get inside. It makes it cold as hell during the winter, but the guy who runs it puts on space heaters. It’s nothing fancy. Seriously nothing fancy. But they treat everybody with respect and they really don’t care about aesthetics there. It’s all about getting stronger within your own limits.”
“Wow! That’s so perfect! I . . . Thanks, JD.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Why do you sound so disgruntled?”
“Because I’m ceding my territory to you.”
“Ah. Well . . . how about this. If I sign up there, I’ll let you know before I go. That way I won’t ambush you or accidentally run into you. Cool?”
“Oh. Yeah. Actually that works.”
“All right. So. Baking show and hopefully sweet, sweet oblivion?”
“You’re all scrubbed up and ready for bed?”
“I even washed behind my ears.”
“You really do live in a Dickens novel.”
“I’m old-school like that.”
“I think that’s just called old.”
“Well, considering I’m preparing myself to fall asleep in front of my favorite television program, I guess I won’t argue with that.”
“All we need are the reclining chairs and old, musty afghans over our legs.”
“And the beer bellies.”
“And the TV trays.”
“Hey, JD?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever think about what a miracle it is that we started talking to one another? I mean, it’s such a huge coincidence that the random letters I assigned to your contact happened to be next to my sister’s in my phone. And that I never got around to changing it to your real name. And that when I messaged, you had nothing else to do but answer me. And that we both don’t sleep well. And we both like reality television. And we’re both willing to talk to one another for hours until we fall asleep almost every night. Do you ever think about that? What a miracle it is?”
“Eliot?”
“Yeah?”
“I think about it all the time.”