Party Girl: A Novel by Anna David Page B

back onto the seat and sit up straight. “Well, this damsel formerly in distress is quite grateful for your help in the matter.”
    When we pull up in front of my building, he immediately starts looking around for a space. “Do you need a permit to park here at night?” he asks.
    I hadn’t had any intention of actually bringing him inside my apartment. Call me a tease—and believe me, many have—but if I like a guy and think we have a chance of actually having a relationship, I won’t do anything more than kiss him, unless I’m severely impaired to the point of near blackout.
    “You don’t need to park,” I say. He looks annoyed.
    “Should I leave the car running?” he asks, and I reach over and turn the ignition off as an answer before leaning in for another of those fantastic kisses. Fairly quickly, we’re making out passionately and, as I alternate between breathing into his ear and kissing his neck, it occurs to me that Rick could be the answer to all my dreams.
    Pulling away, I ask in a low, sexy voice, “Are you seeing anybody?”
    He looks so horrified, you’d think I’d just asked him if he masturbates about family members. “Whoa—mood killer,” he says, leaning back and immediately pushing the cigarette lighter in.
    “I wasn’t trying to kill the mood,” I say, kicking myself for my timing, and yet snuggling up next to him and grabbing another Marlboro Red from his pack. “I was just curious because I think you’re cool.” As soon as it’s out of my mouth and surrounded by nothing but silence, I realize how lame this sounds.
    Rick lights his smoke, takes a drag, and exhales. “I don’t have a girlfriend, if that’s what you’re asking.”
    I smile and drag on my cigarette, as Rick unleashes a torrent of non sequiturs about a girl he was seeing who was always ruining what they had by trying to make the relationship more serious. He says the word “serious” the way a vegetarian might say the word “steak.” I’m sitting there and smoking and regretting having launched him on this entire line of thinking, when I hear him muse, “Don’t you think it’s interesting that the word for someone being sent to an insane asylum—‘committed’—is the same as the word for being in a serious relationship?”
    I nod, for the first time wondering about the decision-making ability I’ve displayed in the past few hours. Though this anti-relationship rant has helped to make his feelings on the matter abundantly clear, I wonder if he still likes me, if we’re going to date, or if my Rick Wilson experience is going to prove to be as ephemeral as his successful Hollywood career. Glancing at my watch and discovering that it’s one thirty in the morning, I decide it’s time to cut my losses.
    I lean in quickly for a kiss and then I retreat, saying, “Ask Bill for my number if you want to reach me.” I open the passenger side door, get out, and steady myself on my Miu Miu pumps, just as Rick is saying—mostly, it seems, to himself—“Jesus, you’re just about the most abrupt chick I’ve ever met!” I smile as I slam the door shut. I like being called “the most” anything, even if it is something as unexciting as abrupt.
     
    The next morning, I wake up at about six and can’t fall back to sleep. I’m utterly useless on days like this. I know some people get tired but I get literally insane. My IQ probably drops a hundred points, I have trouble seeing clearly, and the only thing that gets me through the day is the thought that at some point all this torture will be over and I’ll be able to get in bed and sleep.
    Since I’m up and have a good two hours before I’d even think about leaving for work, I decide to hit the gym. Maybe I’ll sweat the exhaustion out of me—ridiculous logic, I know, but I told you I can’t think straight when I’m in this state.
    At the gym, I force myself onto the treadmill. The place is completely empty, which doesn’t ever happen to gyms in L.A.,