"The hell I do. Do you think I don't get it?" He caught Lyle on a pass and held him still, getting right in his face. "I was there, remember? I know what your life was like. What you and Jenny ran from."
Riley backed away, pain written on his face as he continued. "You think I don't have my own ghosts to deal with? But you can't screw call girls and think that's a substitute for a relationship.
Lyle winced, but Riley just kept on talking.
"And you can't toss money at them and think you're saving them. You're not. You can't save them any more than you could save Jenny."
"Is that your great wisdom talking?" Lyle snapped, because Riley's words were hitting just a little too close to home. "Because you're so damn good with relationships?"
"Watch yourself, buddy."
Lyle deflated, feeling like a total prick. "Sorry. Shit, you're right. I know you're right, and I don't much care for having reality thrown in my face, especially when it's a mirror for all my fuck ups."
"Lyle--"
"No." He held up a hand. "I don't need to be psychoanalyzed right now."
"Fair enough. What do you need?"
Lyle drew in a breath as he lifted a shoulder. "Haven't you been paying attention? Apparently, I need to get myself a date."
7
By mid-afternoon, I've finished my shift at Maudie's and have scoured Mrs. Donahue's kitchen from top to bottom. I feel sticky and gross and I'm pretty sure I smell like grease. And that's really not the way I want to smell during a business meeting.
Not that I expected to even be in a business meeting. I'd come to Greg's house anticipating an afternoon of bathroom renovation followed by two hours of eating popcorn and watching a movie.
But here I am, in all my greasy, stinky glory, sitting at Greg's kitchen table, my T-shirt splattered with paint and my manicure ruined, while Anderson Morton-Gray sits across from us, looking positively dapper in a dark blue suit.
I've met Anderson before, of course. His husband, Steve, is a working screenwriter and a friend of Greg's. So we've met over drinks a couple of times, and I know that he's a real estate broker who lives in West Hollywood. What I didn't know was that he'd asked Greg if he could come over today.
I also didn't know that his company owns the house Greg lives in.
And I definitely didn't know that he's seen pictures of the work I did on my own house, a lot of which was with Greg's help.
I know all of that now, though. And, in fact, my head is spinning a little bit as Anderson wraps up his proposal. "So that's the id
ea," he says, glancing at Greg and me in turn. "What do you think?"
What I think is that it sounds amazing, and tell him so. He has a client who's buying a rundown bungalow in Santa Monica as a flip. But the client's not interested in doing the work. As for Anderson, he's not only a real estate broker, but like Greg, he grew up in his family's construction business, so he's offered to act as the general contractor for the work. Work that Greg and I will do, with the exception of stuff like plumbing and electrical, which we'll subcontract out. Then, after the sale of the house, we all take an agreed-upon share of the profit.
"And having a buyer as part of the mix is just for this initial job," Anderson says. "Assuming it all goes well, in the future I'll buy the properties through my company. That means more profit for us, because we'll be splitting it with one less party."
I glance at Greg, who looks as giddy as I feel. Anderson has just put on the table the very business that Greg and I have been dreaming of--and with the added value of not having to come up with the money and the credit to buy that first property.
Greg's eyes widen just slightly, but I know him well enough to understand the question. I nod, knowing that he'll understand my answer.
"Yeah," he says to Anderson as I grin. "We're in."
"Excellent." He pushes back from the table. "Well, all right, then. I'll get some pictures and floor plans of the property for you, and arrange a walk through. The buyers close on Tuesday, so we can jump right in next week. He smiles, wide and charming. "I think this is going to be great. Fun and lucrative."
"Can't beat that," I say, and both men laugh.
We walk Anderson to the door. "Tell Steve I'll see him tomorrow morning at the group brunch," Greg says, referring to his screenwriting critique group.
"Will do," Anderson says as he shakes my hand. Then he's out the door, and Greg surprises me by grabbing my waist and swinging me around until I'm laughing and begging him to stop.
He puts me down, and we're both breathing hard.