The Trail

Bradley was waiting for her at the Griffith Park trailhead. Though it was early, the park was packed with people who could be movie stars walking their dogs, and parents attempting to exhaust their children before brunch.

He had his head down, scrolling through his phone, but he was hard to miss. She fiddled nervously with her keys as she got closer. He was more famous now than when they’d last seen each other.

“That must be an engrossing read,” she said, as he quickly closed the app, not before Jane noticed the photos of him leaving a Hollywood bar.

“Well, if it isn’t Jane, no last name.” He grinned at her.

“One of us has to have a little mystery in this…” She was going to say relationship, but it never had been.

He handed her a coffee and cocked his head to the side. “Shall we embrace the stereotype and hike a mountain littered with a heady mix of rattlesnakes and models all before 9 am?”

To be fair, Bradley had actually been quite a mystery to her when they met.

She had been curled up on a vinyl bucket chair in the American Airlines first-class lounge at LAX. Barely awake, drinking burnt coffee, and lost in a stream of incoherent thoughts about a meeting in New York the next day.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but can we take a selfie?”

Jane didn’t look up to see who was asking or being asked, a ploy she had proudly honed after living in Los Angeles for 10 years. She saw it as a public service that would keep everyone grounded and out of rehab.

Pretending to gaze blankly out the window onto the dark tarmac, she attempted to decipher the reflection. The man was tall with the hint of a tattoo under his shirt. It took her fuzzy, morning mind a few minutes to place Bradley Coleman. Coldman? Colhand? One of his music videos was on constant rotation at the gym she tried to avoid. It featured him dancing up to some semi-naked, super young girls who happened to be doing some casual late-night grocery shopping, desperately looking for assistance which he was happy to provide. Quite frankly, it left Jane with far more questions than answers.

She had become increasingly blasé about seeing celebrities on the LA to NY route. She traveled to the east coast for work every month - the sole reason for the miles and upgrades. The most uncomfortable part of celebrity interaction was on the red eyes as the older planes had almost no separation between the seats. When she reclined for the evening, it felt like getting into bed with a famous stranger. It wasn’t as fun as it sounded. She’d often wake up eye-to-eye, treating them to some of her sweet morning breath.

The first-class cabin was half empty that morning. Jane had the two front middle seats to herself and when Bradley boarded he had the two to her right. He smiled at her as she looked away, feigning indifference. If her mother was here, she would be getting a lecture about making a bit more effort when traveling on flights containing a high probability of potential second husbands.

Jane had accidentally made some effort that day when her favorite '80s vintage white blazer wouldn’t fit in her carry-on, forcing her to wear it over her sweatpants. It had the words “WAITER, THERE’S A FLY IN MY SUIT” embroidered in gold on the pocket. A therapist once suggested that she liked to wear mildly provocative outfits so that others would strike up a conversation, something she was incapable of doing herself.

“I have a swatter”, Bradley said, pointing at her jacket. “It’s actually the New York Times, but it’s worked for me in your predicament.” He passed her the real estate section.

“Only if you’ve decided on your next multi-million dollar home.”

“Figured I’d just get them all.”

Jane glanced around the cabin to see if anyone was interested in their repartee. They weren’t. She returned to reading her book, feeling his eyes on her. When she looked up, he took out a small black notebook and started writing.

The hiking set seemed far more invested in their dynamic this morning. She counted three double-takes before she’d started gasping for dusty air on the initial incline.

“You look well,” he said.

“Thank you”, she replied, ignoring the instinct to deflect the compliment. Ever since she’d turned 40, people would say things to her like, “Did you used to model, like, a long time ago?”. As if there was a glimmer of former beauty there if they squinted and concentrated really hard.

“How do I look?”

She sized him up. “Actually, pretty good. Eased off the barbiturates and had some work done?”

“I changed moisturizers.” He wasn’t especially funny, but he somehow got away with his attempts at humor. She found it equally frustrating and fascinating.

They walked for another few minutes in silence before he said, “You’re probably wondering why I got in touch.”

“Well, technically your assistant got in touch.”

“Do you want to sit?” he motioned towards a bench.

She shrugged, trying to conceal how grateful she felt for the reprieve.

He retrieved an envelope from his pocket, smoothing out the creases. “That night,” he began, lowering his voice as a woman jogged past them up the hill. “Well, actually the next morning. I wrote a song and you deserve some of the credit.”

He handed her the envelope and watched her face as she saw the $20,000 check.

“It’s doing really well, the song. It just played over the last 4 minutes of Grey’s Anatomy.” When she didn’t say anything, he added, “That’s kind of a big deal.”

“I guess I just don’t understand what that has to do with me.”

“People are looking at us like I’m paying you off for something,” he laughed a little too loudly, taking the check and stuffing it back into the envelope.

Jane wasn’t entirely sure how she had ended up in his hotel room after the flight. To be clear, she had gone there of her own free will, but it wasn’t like her to drink that much. At the airport, he had walked past her in the clearly hours-long taxi line and offered her a ride. She had been surprised that he was taking any interest given her dismissive demeanor, but then again that was probably the very reason. Men do seem to like a challenge.

“How long today?” he asked the driver.

“There’s an accident on the LIE. It’s going to take a minute. Or 82.”

“Theo, this is...”

“Jane.”

“Jane, no last name. We’re going to drop her off first. She’s staying at -”

“The Ace.”

“That’s close. I’m at The Nomad.”

“So, Jane. We have 82 minutes for you to tell me your life story.”

“Well, first you’d better give me your name.” She caught the driver’s eye in the mirror and tried to deduce if he had seen this before.

She told Bradley about her son William and giving up her corporate job to work for a non-profit for autistic kids after he had been diagnosed. They talked about the music industry and he told her how unhappy he’d been since the controversy over that video. She told him she hadn’t seen it.

Bradley said he sensed that she was a caring, nurturing person on the plane. She felt this was untrue based on their interactions, and if it was a line, it wasn’t the one she wanted to hear. She was tired of only being praised for her caretaking qualities.

As they pulled up to The Nomad, the driver said, “Oh, I’m sorry. Force of habit. I will take you to The Ace next, Miss.”

Bradley turned to her. “I haven’t talked to someone like this in a long time. Would you want to keep chatting in the library? They make a mean negroni.”

It wasn’t until the third cocktail, that he put his hand on her knee. “I’m not going to sleep with you,” she blurted out loudly enough for those around them to hear.

He froze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...”

She immediately wondered if she’d misread the situation. “Oh no, it’s just, I haven’t shaved my legs in, well let’s be honest, years.”

They had “one more for the road” which led to their arrival at his hotel room door.

“Aren’t you married?” she said as he fumbled with the key.

“I didn’t think you knew who I was.”

Jane hadn’t had this much to drink since the night her divorce was finalized. She made a beeline for the king-sized bed.

“There’s a clawfoot in here,” Bradley yelled as he came out of the bathroom. “Ah, so you’re a belly sleeper. I read an article about how belly sleepers are free-spirited and up for anything.”

Jane had started to drool on the pillow. “I’m not going to sleep with you.”

Bradley touched her hair. “I’m definitely beginning to believe you.” He lay down on top of the covers and held her hand.

When Jane awoke, Bradley was sitting by the window, watching her as he wrote in his black book. “Morning, Sunshine.” He threw the book in his bag, and emptied his pockets, leaving the coins on the desk.

“Well, that makes me feel like a cheap hooker.” She wiped the dried saliva from her cheek.

“That was for the hand holding. It’s got to be worth at least…,” he gave the change a cursory glance, “$1.27”.

“I want to be offended, but that does seem like market value.”

They were reaching the top of the trail overlooking the city. “Every time I see you, you’re leaving me with cash,” Jane said. “But this time I seem to be making high-end escort rates.”

“The day after we met I wrote more than I had in the last year.”

“That’s brilliant. Seriously. But it doesn’t require payment. It was just one of those very random New York nights.”

“This success is as much yours as mine. Promise me you’ll cash that check.”

She wondered if muse money was a thing. It suddenly occurred to her to worry about what the song was actually about. Her niece had told her about that whole Taylor/Kanye debacle.

Two middle-aged women and a basset hound overtook them. “That was Bradley Coleman and his mom!” one of the women joyously reported.

Jane wanted to hiss that she was only 5 years older than Bradley.

“Have you ever thought of it since? That night, I mean?” he said.

Right after it happened, it popped into her head when she least expected it, like a dirty little secret. And though her memory was somewhat fuzzy, nothing had happened between them.

After 6 months had passed, it felt like maybe the night had never occurred at all. Until the rumors brought it rushing back. Then the rumors became formal accusations. You’d have to have been 97% dead not to have been aware of those.

As they approached the summit, it was Bradley who noticed the long lens of a photographer first.

“Oh, ace.” He turned his back, shielding her from the camera. “I’ve ruined a lot of lives being photographed by assholes who invent stories about people I care about. You should probably go.”

As she walked down the mountain, she turned to see a group forming around him. She put her hand in her pocket and felt the check inside. Once in her car, she googled “Bradley Coleman + Grey’s Anatomy”. The song was called ‘Seminary Blues’. She listened to it twice. There was nothing discernable in the lyrics that associated it with what she remembered of that night, but there had to be something encoded there. Why else was he giving her $20,000? She exhaled, anxiety creeping over her as she pressed play again and retreated from the trail.