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"My god, you look older," she said as I opened the door.
"That's what the movies do" I hugged her and smelled the familiar vanilla cream on her.
"Happy Christmas Eve, let me get your jacket," she said.
She grabbed my leather jacket, she smiled, "You bringing your girlfriend over?"
"Ha, no I have no girlfriend."
We went up the stairs, and my footsteps were much louder than hers.
"That whole Twitter thing and the news is so bogus. I think I read somewhere you had a child, I almost phoned you. Why are they so rude to you?"
"I don't know. But there's a lot of love out there too."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I just had coffee with Genesis who runs one of the bigger accounts. It's quite bizarre." I was kind of out of breath.
I needed to work out more.
"Oh, that's nice. I was about to say there some coffee in the pot if you want some."
"I will be up all night, got to do some stuff." I turned to face her; the floor was cold.
"Okay, I will be here watching Downton Abbey."
I grabbed a snack from the pantry and went back downstairs to the basement near the laundry room where there was a loud hum.
"Rick! I'm back and I am a shitty son."
"You shit yourself?" he said.
"No. Not yet. I forgot to get some presents, do you want to go to the Outlets?"
"Sure. Want me to pick you up?"
I wrote down things Tessa and Bob would want: for Tessa, a silk scarf from the Ralph Lauren store plus a new Dutch oven that she kept talking about; and for Bob, something golf-related that I could get at Brooks Brothers.
Twenty minutes later, Rick came in with a new red Jeep Wrangler.
"Wow," I whistled, "New car."
"You're not the only person moving up. And there was no casting couch involved." He winked at me and I laughed. The car had that new-car smell and the heat blasted against my red face.
"It's fucking freezing," I said.
"I got a promotion," Rick grinned. "So keep your cold, Hollywood hands off everything. Who knows, Twitter might leak this car's license plate."
"Shut up and drive. I get you something too." I smiled and felt completely relaxed.
"You're too kind, Mr. Hollywood."
The drive down Route 17 toward Woodbury Common was brutal—sheer suburban holiday desperation. Rick kept drumming his thumbs on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, glancing sideways at me every couple of miles.
"So," Rick said. "You have a girlfriend? I think I read somewhere it was Jennifer Lawrence?"
"What the fuck? Where are you finding this?" I looked into his eyes.
"Oh, I just made that up. I was just thinking of the most popular actress. Don't tell–"
"Green light!"
"Okay."
I could see the exit sign in the distance. I looked toward Rick, "How about you? I never ask."
"You know, I feel like it's so hard finding a relationship when I'm working this many hours."
"Yeah."
"Did I tell you? It's a good story. I was on this date, you know at the Empire Diner?"
"Of course," I laughed, "I used to smoke weed near the parking lot."
"Well, everything was going great. And I didn't know we were talking about new movies and brought up that I knew Ryan Stone."
I leaned in, his breathing slowed down, "Well, she kinda freaked out and asked to prove it."
"I was so surprised at her reaction as if she was possessed."
I looked in the rearview mirror and didn't know what to say. He continued, "So, yeah, safe to say no second date."
We hit the exit ramp for Woodbury Common and the complex looked like a fortress. Hundreds of frantic Christmas Eve shoppers hauled oversized shopping bags through the freezing walkways, running between the storefronts.
"We've got maybe forty minutes before every register in this valley locks down," Rick said, scanning the packed aisles of the outer lot before finally throwing the Wrangler over an icy curb near the far perimeter fence. "We have one mission, Mr. Hollywood, and put your hoodie up."
"If they kill me, sue the Outlets," I said, tugging the drawstrings of my heather-grey hoodie tight until only my nose and eyes were exposed, then pulling my dark knit beanie down over the rim.
The wind hit us like a bucket of ice water the second we jumped down from the Jeep. We speed-walked along the path.
We beelined straight for the sprawling Ralph Lauren outlet. A frantic line of at least forty people wrapped around the central cash wrap. He whispered to me, "Rick and Ryan are going to the Ralph Lauren store to get presents for Tessa and Bob. We sound so white."
I laughed, "I know."
His face turned serious. "You hit the women's side," Rick instructed under his breath, eyes scanning the perimeter like he was at war. I couldn't help but laugh. "Pretend we are in Saving Private Ryan, I get Bob. He's like the whitest person alive."
"No, stick close," I whispered back. I smiled, "I'm not trying to get cornered alone."
For Tessa: I spotted an ivory cable-knit cashmere throw blanket neatly folded on a high shelf, alongside a deep navy-and-gold silk scarf that looked exactly like the ones she kept draped over the banister at home. I pulled both down.
Two aisles over, near the men's tailored section, I located Bob's lane: a heavyweight olive-green quilted barn jacket with a brown corduroy collar. I checked the tag—Extra Large—and slung it over my shoulder.
Rick was lingering near a glass case of leather goods, but he was looking at something else. He grabbed an old saddle-leather mechanic bag that sat on the display pedestal. He flipped the small paper tag over and put it right back. While his back was turned to check out a rack of heavy fleece vests, I snatched the bag and buried it straight beneath Bob's coat. Merry Christmas, you fucker.
"Excuse me."
The voice came from my left; it was sharp.
I kept my eyes glued to a rack of polo shirts, pretending not to hear, but the person took a deliberate step into my peripheral vision. It was a girl in her late teens, bundled in an oversized puffer jacket with a pair of bright red earmuffs. Her phone was clutched in her right hand, screen glowing.
She leaned down slightly, trying to peer beneath the rim of my beanie. "Are you Ryan Stone?"
"No, sorry," I muttered, trying to make my voice lighter. "Get that a lot."
"No, it is you," she gasped, her voice jumping in volume and slicing cleanly through the background murmur of the store. "Oh my god. Sarah, look! Look at his eyes! It's Elio!"
A blonde girl two racks over whipped her head around, dropping a stack of socks onto the carpet. "Shut up. No it's not."
"It is! Look at him!"
The teenage girl raised her iPhone with that damn flash snapping directly in my face before I could turn away. Since we were causing a scene, a worker came by and looked straight at me.
Rick turned to the worker and asked, "Where can I find the scarves?"
She did not turn toward him. "Is that the guy from the movie with Andrew Garfield?"
"Wait, he was in Looper too!"
"Can I get a photo? Just one, please, it's for my sister's birthday!"
Within moments, a tight, claustrophobic knot of seven or eight people had formed around the rack of flannel shirts. Out in the breezeway through the plate-glass windows, two mall security officers noticed the commotion inside and began power-walking toward the entrance.
"Rick," I said through clenched teeth, not looking at him. "Registers."
"Holy shit," Rick muttered, his eyes wide as he realized what was happening.
Instead of freezing, Rick used his frame to block the narrow aisle, shouldering between the teenage girls and me like he was setting a screen on a basketball court. "Excuse us, folks, just trying to pay and get out, holiday rush, sorry."
I ducked low and broke through to a register lane near the exit that had just opened up to clear the backlog. The clerk—a college kid who looked dead inside from eight hours of Christmas Eve retail—blinked at the sudden rush.
Before the huddle behind us could close the gap, I slapped a heavy matte-black corporate card onto the laminate counter and dumped the pile of merchandise down.
"Hello. Wrap all of it, please, keep the receipts inside the bags, don't worry about gift boxes," I whispered rapidly, keeping my head pointed down at the card terminal.
The kid blinked, looked at the black card, looked up at my face, and his jaw slackened slightly. "Wait, are you—"
"Please just scan it," I urged, my voice tight. "Fast as you can, man." I felt like an asshole.
To his immense credit, the retail worker's muscle memory took over. The barcode scanner chimed in a frantic, rhythmic drumbeat: beep, beep, beep, beep. I tapped the pen to the electronic signature pad before the prompt even finished loading, scribbling a jagged line that bore zero resemblance to my actual name.
Behind me, the automatic front doors slid open with a chime. The two security guards marched in, their utility belts clinking, radios squawking static.
"Alright, let's clear the walkway, folks, keep moving, do not block the registers—" the lead guard boomed, his hand resting on his hip.
The cashier shoved the cashmere throw, the silk scarf, Bob's coat, and Rick's mechanic bag into two massive navy paper bags with thick cord handles. "You're good to go."
"You're a legend," I breathed.
I grabbed both bags, shoved one into Rick's chest, and hooked my arm through his elbow.
"Hey, Ryan!" a voice yelled from the huddle as someone held up an iPad to film.
"Merry Christmas!" I called out to the room, pivoting on my heel.
We went outside, and the freezing night air hit our lungs.
"Run!" Rick barked, clutching the Ralph Lauren bag against his chest.
We sprinted down the slushy back lane, our boots slipping and kicking up dirty ice. I thought some people who tried following us had tripped on the ice behind us.
We climbed into the car and laughed for ten minutes straight.