Part Two: Love's Not a Game (Second Reprise)
April 18, 2020
Home Base hums with activity on the evening of Rebecca's birthday party. When Nathaniel opens the door, he feels like he's stepped right into a hive of buzzing worker bees. Heather is polishing wine glasses and placing them in a meticulous row on the bar. Valencia pins up a Happy Birthday banner above a door frame while Beth holds a ladder steady for her. Josh is set up in a corner, flanked on either side by speakers, fiddling with his laptop while testing a microphone. Greg is placing a tray of food on a fold-out catering table. The only person missing is the birthday girl herself.
Nathaniel's nerves are shot to hell. Not only is he showing up without an invitation - making him feel more like a party crasher than a wanted guest - but he also hasn't exactly been welcomed with open arms since his return from Guatemala. He's self-aware enough to know he was never an integral cog in the West Covina machine, but he had hoped White Josh, or, hell, even Greg, would make more of an effort to reconnect with him. Despite the ill-fated, three-date scheme that pitted the two against one another, he always liked Greg as a person and thought the feeling was mutual. But maybe he was wrong.
At this juncture, Rebecca is his only saving grace in this tangled web of a social network. Everyone in town loves her with such an unrivaled fierceness, he hopes his friendship with her can ingratiate him back into the group. She's his human credential. She's the one concrete thing he can point to as evidence he must be doing something right. That he's changed for the better. If she can see that spark within him, after all they've been through and everything he's done, then hopefully everyone else can see it too.
After Valencia dismounts safely from the ladder, she spots Nathaniel from across the room. Her expression turns surprised, then curious, but she shifts back to cool detachment mode quickly and approaches him with a forced smile.
"Hi there. Welcome to the party," she greets, in an uncharacteristically high voice, feigning cordiality.
"Rebecca invited me," he blurts out, anxious under her razor-sharp scrutiny.
"Of course she did. And what is that?" she asks, her eyes dropping to the bouquet of pale yellow roses wrapped in burlap in his hands.
"My gift."
"We said no gifts. On the invitation," she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
Thankfully for Nathaniel, Beth comes to his rescue just in time, placing both her hands on Valencia's shoulders and squeezing. "Let's go easy on this one. He spent a year shoveling monkey poop. He's done enough penance, don't you think?"
"I guess," Valencia concedes with a sigh, rolling her shoulders. She raises an eyebrow at him, wheels turning in her head. "Since you're here, make yourself useful. Why don't you go help Greg put out the rest of the food?"
Not waiting for a response, she brusquely walks past him, her sky-high black heels clicking menacingly against the tile. Beth gives Nathaniel a half-shrug and follows Valencia over to Josh's table. Moments later, upbeat pop music fills the air and the volume skips up and down as he finds the right balance to appease Valencia.
Nathaniel sets his flowers and accompanying card down at a booth and walks over to Greg, as instructed, not wanting to earn any further ire from Valencia or anyone else in the room. Greg's busy arranging a spread with a variety of hors d'oeuvres - grilled tomato crostinis, a heaping platter of antipasto, and fried ricotta balls.
"Hey Greg. Wow, this is impressive. All from Serrano's?"
He looks up and says, "Oh hey, thanks. Yep, all from the restaurant."
A good start. Greg seems neither pleased or displeased to see him. Perhaps he's simply too busy to care, but, either way, he'll take it.
"Need any help?" he offers.
"Actually, if you could grab the salad from the fridge in the back, that would be great. Thanks."
"Sure," he replies, relieved he can keep busy until Rebecca arrives at the party.
The sight of the back room at Home Base is all too familiar, a small corner of the restaurant that's frozen in time, spared from Heather's numerous redesigns. It unwittingly transports him back to all the times he and Rebecca discreetly met in this very spot. He's reminded of all the times he kissed her here. Made love to her. All the times he cheated here, making mistake after deliberate mistake. In the corner, there's the same old desk that creaks under the weight of two people. To the right, the same old metal shelving that wobbles under the slightest provocation.
(In the heat of a moment, Rebecca once pushed him forcefully up against the shelves, causing a corner to jut painfully into his back. The whole structure rocked from their sexual inertia and a dart board fell down from a high shelf, just barely missing their heads. Rebecca's face was plastered dead center over the bullseye, her image freckled with a million tiny pinpoints. Her hurried explanation as she kicked it away did nothing but confuse him. But there was never any time for talking anyway, and his notion of Greg then was only some faraway, abstract concept of a person.)
The memories of the affair are bittersweet and stir up a confusing cocktail of emotion. Guilt is always at the forefront these days when he remembers that time. Shame. Even some embarrassment. Yet, he can't find it in his heart to completely regret it. No matter how many times they hurt each other, she shaped his life in ways that will never allow him to regret knowing her. Loving her.
He blinks hard, pushing those memories as far back as he can, and beelines for the industrial-size fridge against the far wall. On the middle shelf he finds the chilled salad, which is jam-packed with radicchio, onions, tomatoes, pepperoncinis . . . and olives.
A fuckton of olives.
He wrestles with whether or not to tell Greg about her new-found distaste for them. The last thing he wants is Greg to think he's criticizing his food, which he knows is Greg's life blood. (And it certainly won't help his mission to rekindle their friendship.) On the other hand, Rebecca will no doubt loudly voice her opinion, which would likely ruffle Greg's feathers even more. It would be easy enough to pick out the olives before serving now, as they're all grouped in one quadrant of the bowl.
Good lord, he thinks, it's a salad not a nuclear missile crisis.
Shaking his head at his own ridiculous overanalysis, he emerges from the back room and sets the large bowl down in the only open spot left on the table.
"Thanks," Greg says, off-hand, while he places tented title cards in front of each dish.
"Yeah. Um . . ." Nathaniel says, scratching at the back of his neck and mustering his most casual, not-a-big-deal voice, "Rebecca doesn't like olives. Just thought you may want to know."
Greg stops what he's doing. "What are you talking about? Yes she does."
Nathaniel shifts uncomfortably, instantly regretting his decision to say something. "It's recent, I think. Her dislike."
Greg crosses his arms in front of his chest, defensive. "Listen, I know what you're doing. I know you've been hanging out with Rebecca, OK? I heard. You don't have to try to assert your dominance or whatever you're doing. And I know she likes olives."
Nathaniel holds up his hands in surrender and mutters, "Sorry," and backs away, wondering how he managed to completely blow it in under five minutes.
At that moment, Rebecca and Paula arrive and all the guests clap and wooo at her arrival. Rebecca floats around the room, upbeat and animated, gorgeous in an emerald green floral-print dress, thanking people for coming and blessing them with crushing hugs.
In all the hubbub, Nathaniel spots White Josh at the bar nursing a beer. Given Josh's hot-and-cold (though mostly cold) relationship with Rebecca, Nathaniel wasn't sure if he would be in attendance. He's relieved he'll have at least one friend at the party aside from Rebecca, who will likely be preoccupied all night.
"Hey," Nathaniel says. He waves at the bartender and points to White Josh's beer to indicate he wants the same.
"Heeey," White Josh replies. Nathaniel senses he's not as happy to see him as he had hoped.
"Wasn't sure if you'd be here."
"Since I'm friends with Greg and Valencia, I usually get a de facto invite. I didn't think you'd be here either, honestly."
"Rebecca invited me."
"Ah."
The bartender slides Nathaniel a beer and he takes a nervous sip.
After a tense beat, White Josh asks, "So what's up with you two?"
"Me and Rebecca?"
"I heard you've been spending a lot of time together. Watching The Bachelor? What's that about?"
"Rebecca and I are just friends."
"With benefits?"
"No benefits."
White Josh takes a swig from his beer, contemplating this. "Yeah, I'm not buying it."
"Believe it or don't. It's the truth."
"So this is your new angle then?"
"No, no angle."
"Come on, dude."
"Is it so hard to believe I want to be friends with her? That I've changed? And it's not like I have many friends these days. I've tried reaching out to you and Greg, but neither of you seem eager to hang out."
White Josh's eyes drop to his beer, guilty.
"What?"
"OK, I'll level with you," White Josh begins, and Nathaniel braces himself for the inevitable judgement to follow. "Greg still has feelings for Rebecca. Somehow. I swear to god, I'll never understand all of you," he jokes. "But we - all the people at this party - are Team Greg. Everyone wants them to finally figure out their shit and get back together. Which puts me in an awkward position since Greg thinks you're trying to make a move or something. And you know I've been friends with him forever, so I gotta back him up."
Nathaniel's disappointed by the admission, but it certainly explains a lot. He clears his throat. "Oh. Well, like I said, we're just friends. She's free to date whoever she wants. Greg or anyone else. Even if I was interested, I'm not competing anymore. I'm done with that. And anyway, I've been going on dates myself. Non-Rebecca dates."
"Really?" White Josh asks with genuine surprise.
"Yeah, so everyone can stop worrying. I'm not making a move. Please spread the word."
White Josh nods. "Alright then," he says, satisfied, like he finally believes what he's hearing, "Cheers to that."
The two touch the necks of their beer bottles together in solidarity.
Moments later, Nathaniel notices Greg chatting up Rebecca nearby. He steers her to the catering table, a hand on the small of her back, and gives her a rousing tour of all the food he's prepared. She clasps her hands together in delight and makes a big show of oohing and awwing as he presents each dish. When he's finished, she thanks him profusely, clutching his bicep with both hands. Greg beams at her reaction. The only time he seems to have any genuine, unironic enthusiasm about anything is when it comes to his restaurant, so Nathaniel can only imagine how it must feel to have Rebecca fawn all over his food. It makes him feel weirdly happy on his behalf.
That is, until Greg fixes her a plate, piling it high, and she stops him just before the salad, exclaiming, "Wait! I'm off olives. They're just - blergh - gross to me right now."
As Rebecca launches into her pet theory about her new medication altering her fickle taste buds, Greg's eyes go wide and he glances up in Nathaniel's direction. Before they can make eye contact, Nathaniel pretends there's something fascinating to see at the bottom of his beer bottle.
With the tension relieved between White Josh and Nathaniel vis-à-vis the Greg situation, the two spend the next hour shooting the shit and people watching. Partygoers come and go, taking advantage of Heather's generous donation of an open bar for the night. (Rebecca, in particular, seems to pop up with ever-increasing frequency.) And there's plenty to watch on the impromptu dance floor that has been forged in front of Josh's DJ station.
Paula, in stark contrast to the rest of the crowd, remains stone cold sober. When she approaches Nathaniel on his barstool perch, he can tell her visit is for business, not pleasure.
"Hey, can I interrupt for a sec? It's about Melissa's case."
"Of course," he says and excuses himself from his conversation with White Josh. He leads Paula over to the booth where he previously stashed his gift.
"Those are nice," she comments, as an aside, but is too focused on the case to dwell on it. "I have good news. No, great news." She smiles slyly, reveling in the build up.
"What is it?"
"We're getting the closed circuit TV footage from the jewelry store! Finally," she says, her entire demeanor completely transforming into excitement.
"We've been trying to get those files since before I left for my sabbatical," he replies, shocked.
"I know!" she exclaims, "Melissa has always maintained her innocence and this footage will exonerate her. I'm sure of it. Justice, at last, will prevail."
"That's incredible news."
"What's incredible news?" Rebecca asks, appearing at the table, swaying slightly from the amount of alcohol she's imbibed.
Rebecca hops into Nathaniel's side of the booth, forcing him to scoot over to make room. Paula gives her the update and Rebecca reacts with similar fervor, "Yes! Let's get her out of the slammer! That sentencing was hot baloney anyway, regardless of whether she was guilty or not."
"Hot baloney?" Nathaniel echos.
"But, more importantly, I have a very pressing question for both of you," Rebecca says, leaning over the table conspiratorially, putting both her hands flat on the surface.
"What?" Paula prompts.
"Will it be Jenna or Brooke? Brooke or Jenna? Who will get the final rose? Two weeks until we find out."
Nathaniel expects Paula to be confused or laugh off the frivolity of the question, but she responds with a surprising amount of seriousness. "Brooke, obviously."
"Interesting," Rebecca says, stroking her chin, acting as if this is a topic of utmost solemnity, "Why?"
"She's the underdog," Paula says, in a duh tone of voice. "Have you never seen a rom-com?!"
Nathaniel and Rebecca glance at each other and Nathaniel shrugs, "I've dabbled."
Paula continues, "Jenna is the blonde, hot, rich, popular girl in school and Brooke is the quiet, humble, brunette nerd who, well, also looks pretty hot after a makeover. But, in the end, the underdog always overcomes and gets the guy. Or girl. Sure, Kyle and Jenna have chemistry, like off-the-charts chemistry, but that's all superficial. Brooke is the one who can go the distance."
For reasons he can't articulate, her assessment makes his chest feel tight.
"Proctor out," Paula says, stands from the booth, and opens her hand like she's dropping a microphone before she walks away.
"She's probably right," Rebecca mutters.
"You think so?"
"Are those for me?" Rebecca asks, suddenly changing topics and reaching for the bouquet.
He slides them across the table into her hands and says, "Yeah. I missed the memo on the no-gifts rule. They're from my mom's garden."
"Wow, these are beautiful," she coos, bringing the flowers to her nose and inhaling.
"Will you accept this rose? Or roses, plural? That was going to be my joke."
She chuckles. "I will accept these roses. Thank you. I love them."
"I also got you this," he says, placing a white envelope into her hands. "I hope this redeems me for the Marty Macaroon mix-up."
She tears open the card with vigor to reveal two tickets to Dear Evan Hansen. Orchestra center section at the Ahmanson Theatre.
"Oh my god, Nathaniel!" she squeals, pressing the tickets to her chest, her mouth gaping open. "This is so amazing. And thoughtful. Screw the no-gifts rule," she gushes.
She throws her arms around his neck, pulling him close. He hugs her back and his senses are pleasantly assaulted by the downy softness of her hair against his face, the hint of floral perfume splashed on her skin. Her fingers slide through the short hairs on the back of his neck, sending tiny jolts up his scalp.
When he opens his eyes, most of the restaurant is looking in their direction, probably from Rebecca's boisterous, high-pitched reaction, so he quickly pulls away.
"Aren't you excited?" she asks.
"Oh, this is a gift, so you can take whoever you want."
"Don't you want to go? You love the sad teenager music," she says, with a teasing sparkle in her eyes.
He laughs, "Maybe."
"So you'll come with me then?"
"If that's what you want."
"Alright you party animals," Josh says in a booming voice over the speakers, interrupting their conversation, "it's time for the birthday girl to have her cake and eat it too!"
The lights dim and Heather emerges from the back room with a sheet cake full of candles, presumably thirty-one in total, in her arms. The cake has white frosting with Happy Birthday, Rebecca scripted in red cursive and a microphone in black icing in one corner with little music notes around it.
Rebecca leaps up from the booth and mouths thank you to Nathaniel before she skips to the other side of the room. He follows a few paces behind.
In the middle of the restaurant, Heather holds out the cake to Rebecca and everyone surrounds the two, singing Happy Birthday with much gusto, equal parts festive joviality and alcohol. For a brief moment during the song, Rebecca's brow furrows as if she's spotted something that troubles her. But she recovers quickly, shaking it off, and smiles broadly for the rest of the song. She blows out the candles in one long whoosh and the room goes dark until Valencia flips the light switch back on and everyone applauds.
Paula and Heather make quick work of slicing up and distributing the cake, which is chocolate with strawberry filling. Nathaniel decides to skip the inevitable back-and-forth between he and Rebecca about eating a slice and takes a piece for himself. When she looks in his direction from a few feet away, he holds up his plate to show her he's eating it and she shoots him a cheshire grin in return.
With everyone eating and the music turned down, the room quiets noticeably, and Nathaniel can't help but overhear Rebecca asking Greg nearby, "What's with you not singing Happy Birthday?"
"Oh, you know, the whole singing-happy-birthday thing is so cringey and awkward."
Rebecca rolls her eyes and takes a huge bite of cake.
"Rebecca, come on, you know I hate stuff like that. It's so performative and perfunctory. Nobody wants to be doing it."
She swallows. "You're right. No one does. But you do it for the person whose birthday it is. It's not for you."
Greg sighs. "I'm sorry, OK? It's not personal to you. I don't sing for anyone."
She shakes her head, dismayed, and thrusts her empty plate at him to discard. She stomps to the bar, leaving Greg behind, and demands a double shot of tequila. The bartender obeys, placing an elongated shot glass with a lime wedge in front of her. She slams the shot, throwing her head back dramatically, then sucks on the lime, squinting from the sourness of it.
Straightening up and pitching her shoulders back, she marches up to Josh's booth and grabs the microphone out of his hands. She says something into Josh's ear and he nods in acknowledgement and clicks around on his laptop.
"Hi errveryone," Rebecca slurs into the mic, "Thank you all for coming to this very special occasion. My birthday party." A few people whoop in response. She grips the mic hard in both hands. "Thank you. And, for my birrrthday, what I need right now is my three main bitches up here with me to sing a song."
Paula is already shaking her head no, decidedly too sober for whatever Rebecca has planned. Valencia and Heather exchange nervous glances.
Suddenly the intro of Hold On by Wilson Phillips starts streaming out of the speakers and Josh gives Rebecca a thumbs up. Her eyes light up at the sound of the music and she starts waving wildly for the women to join her.
"Come on!" she stage whispers, as if the microphone isn't projecting her voice, bouncing it off of every wall.
Heather is the first to acquiesce with a blasé shrug, tugging on Valencia's forearm to drag her along. They take a spot on either side of Rebecca and lean in, hesitant, toward the mic. The three sing the first verse together - of course they all know all the lyrics - and Rebecca's eyes keep darting to Paula, beckoning her. As the song progresses, Heather and Valencia get more and more into it, becoming more confident in their singing.
Just before the chorus, Paula rushes up to the front and says, "OK. Fine. Only because this is a kick ass song."
Then, the signature drumbeat kicks in and all four of them yell-sing the chorus enthusiastically into the mic, not one of them on-pitch, completely giving themselves over to the moment, "Some day somebody's gonna make you want to turn around and say goodbye! Until then, baby, are you gonna let them hold you down and make you cry?!" All four of them look at each other with huge smiles and Rebecca's giggling so much she can barely get out the lyrics.
The rest of the guests laugh and clap and sing along themselves, the joy emanating from the four of them completely contagious. Nathaniel even catches Greg smiling down at his beer, though his face is also slightly pained at the cacophony of their voices.
When the song ends, everyone hoots and hollers and Rebecca throws her arms into the air in triumph. It reminds Nathaniel of every rehearsal for the Ellison revue they shared, how she exuded pure happiness every time she sang, and how it made him realize he needed to pursue his own passions as well.
The song is the apex of the party - nothing can top it - and the celebration slowly dies down over the next hour. Heather eventually shoos everyone out with, "Free ride is officially over. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. Unless you want to help clean, then you can stay here."
The party consequently spills out into the parking lot, which is illuminated with sparse stadium-style lighting that's hazy with age. Valencia, Beth, Paula, Rebecca, Greg, and Nathaniel all stroll to their cars together at a leisurely pace, not quite ready for the night to end.
"All I have to say," Valencia says to the group, "is no karaoke or any other spontaneous singing at my wedding."
Rebecca smirks at that as she walks alongside Paula, unsteady in her heeled boots, cradling her yellow roses in one arm like a newborn baby.
"You listening, Rebecca? I'm going to need a verbal confirmation," Valencia prods.
"No singing. Got it," she replies. She gives a little scowl at her insistence.
"Who's driving Rebecca home?" Greg asks, eyeing her gait.
Paula fishes her keys out of her purse. "That would be me," she says.
"Good. Well, this is me," Greg says, stopping in front of his car. Rebecca slows down with him while the rest of the group continues walking.
Greg moves his arms an infinitesimal amount, like he wants to hug her, but stops when his eyes drop to the roses in her arms. Nathaniel's not sure if it's the logistical challenge of hugging with the flowers between them or if it's the gift itself that's causing him to hesitate. (He's kicking himself now for unintentionally disobeying the no-gift rule.) Instead, Greg simply says, "Happy Birthday, Rebecca. Hope you had a good night," and gets into his car.
Just before they reach Paula and Nathaniel's cars in the last row of the parking lot, Valencia and Beth break off from the group as well. Valencia graces Rebecca with a very European double air kiss goodbye.
"Melissa's case," Paula says to Nathaniel, unlocking her car with her key fob a few feet away, "Talk more this week? Wednesday lunch?"
"Sure," Nathaniel agrees, pointing at her.
Paula opens the driver's side door and settles into the driver's seat and Nathaniel, in a moment of chivalry, opens the passenger side for Rebecca.
But she doesn't get in.
"Nathaniel," she loudly whispers, as if Paula isn't going to hear her through the open door.
"You are so drunk," he says, laughing.
"Nathaniel, I want you to come with me," she says, still whispering.
"Where?"
"To Valencia's wedding. I get a plus one," she says, holding up her pointer finger, "and you are a one." She pokes the finger into his chest.
"Oh," he says, his eyebrows raising, completely taken off-guard by the request. "Um," he stalls, his mind racing, trying to do a quick mental calculation as to whether it's a wise idea.
Rebecca grabs his hand. "Come on," she whines, "Be my prince charming for a night. I know for a fact you like to dance, drink champagne, and wear a tux. So basically you're the perfect date."
He looks over at Valencia and Beth getting into their car. Valencia, sensing his eyes on her, squints back at him with skepticism. He wonders if she overheard any of their back-and-forth.
"I don't think Valencia is my biggest fan," he replies, wary.
"Hey," she says, squeezing his hand to snap his attention back to her, "I'm your biggest fan so she'll be your biggest fan because I'm her fan and she's my fan. And we're all fans of each other. And that's show biz, kid."
"Huh?"
"Just say yes! It'll be fun," she insists, pouting her lips.
He sighs. She gazes up at him with so much hope, her whole body humming with alcohol-fueled giddiness, and he's lost. "Yes. If Valencia says it's OK."
She grins, satisfied by his answer.
She's still firmly holding his hand, her eyes wild and beautiful in the glow of the overhead lights. For a brief moment he imagines her grabbing his neck and kissing him how she always used to, in that intense, all-encompassing way.
Sometimes these moments still happen, when the air is electric between them, and he has a stray intrusive thought about how things might go if they weren't just friends. He suspects she feels it too, because he catches how her eyes flit down to his mouth only to quickly return back up to his eyes.
A refrain of off-the-charts chemistry reverberates in his mind.
He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing with effort, and her eyes track the movement.
"Well, happy birthday," he murmurs and leans down to drop a kiss to her cheek. As he gets close, her hand trails up to caress his forearm, the pads of her fingers gently dancing over his skin. She hikes herself up on her tiptoes so the kiss lingers for a prolonged moment while they're cheek-to-cheek, her breath puffing warm against his ear.
"Let's go," Paula says from inside the car, jolting the moment loose. They break away from each other as if they were caught engaging in some illicit activity, not a chaste cheek kiss goodbye.
Rebecca flops down in her car seat and Nathaniel helps her click the seatbelt into place.
"Thanks. She's harder to wrangle when she's drunk," Paula jokes.
He shuts the door and backs away from the car so Paula can pull out of the spot. As she drives away, Rebecca gives him a little wave through the window and he raises a farewell hand back. He's already worried about the consequences of accepting the invitation, replaying his talk with White Josh in his head, wondering whether he's inadvertently doused accelerant on the fire of the situation.
When will he learn?