“Well, it’s not all bad—some of the moms are smokin’ hot,” he says with a cheeky smile. “Anyway, I’m done with the parenting stuff for the next month or so. I’m probably going to be going on the 100-pound-tumor man shoot in the Amazon pretty soon.”
“Ah, more Emmy-caliber stuff,” I chide.
“You’re just jealous,” he says, flashing a hot grin.
“I am,” I tell him solemnly, and from the electric flash of his eyes, he seems to understand.
We chitchat more about the “Mega-Multiple” show, and he asks if I liked the way it turned out; I let him know that in all honesty, I did. I tell him more about my job at Paddy Cakes, revealing a bit about Cynthia and Alix. It’s nice to be able to talk shop to someone fresh about all this media stuff. From the slight bags under his blue eyes, and shaggy brown hair two weeks overdue for a cut, I can tell he seems to understand where I’m coming from. After we’ve made our way through our first drinks, our guards start to drop a bit. Should I see if we want another drink? “Seamus, another drink, please?” he says, drumming the bar with his fingers.
Seamus comes over to us. “Yer usual, mate?”
“You got it. It’s a perfect night for it.”
“What?” I ask.
“Rusty nail. Seamus makes some of the best in the city. Or are you a lavender martini type of girl?” He looks at the back of the bar, and for a second his focus seems elsewhere.
“Um, no, I will have you know that I’ve had my fair share of rusty nails over the years.” When I speak the words, he turns back to me with a smirk.
“Well, I’m glad, or I’d have to kick you out of the bar,” he says, signaling the bartender to make it two. “And you know,” he says, “I only associate with total boozehounds.”
“Ha. But it’s been a while. Can you remind me what’s in them again?”
“Equal parts whiskey and Drambuie with an orange twist.”
“Interesting. How’d you get into them?”
He pauses. “It was my dad’s drink and I guess I picked it up from him.”
Seamus hands us two yellowish-brown cocktails. The taste burns a bit, but it’s sweet. “Mmm,” I say. “I could get used to this.” I look down.
“That’s the plan,” says Ryan, catching my eye.
As we’re rounding out drink number two, we fall into a flirtatious rhythm, but his jokes are all tinged with trepidation, like he’s being careful not to cross the professional line. The topics fall into the safe categories: sports teams (he’s Phillies, I’m Mets) and my affinity for the geeky History Channel shows about Nostradamus, his for geeky man shows like Top Gear, though he does keep high-fiving me when we share a common viewpoint. I notice how easy it is to talk with Ryan.
“Sure you can handle it, Buckley?” he says, placing a hand on my back jokingly as Seamus puts the third rusty nail down on the counter for us.
“Oh, I can handle it,” I reply, gaining a little more confidence.
“All right, I’ll give you the third one, but only if you’ll tell me a secret,” he says, pretending to hold the tumbler from me.
Maybe it’s the alcohol, because all of a sudden, I feel myself getting a little brazen. I lower my head flirtatiously and look him directly in the eye, giving him the too-long stare, a move I’d perfected in my early twenties. “Like what?”
“Well, it doesn’t exactly seem like Paddy Cakes is your end-all-be-all career choice. Say the magazine folded tomorrow, and you could do anything you wanted—a secret dream—what would it be?”
I immediately blush thinking, if you only knew.
“Waiting, Buckley.”
I take another second. Up until this point, with everything meternity-related, I hadn’t actually taken much time to ponder what I really want, only what would keep me from getting fired. But to my surprise, the answer comes to me quickly. “Easy. Quit my job. Travel the world and write about it.” My shoulders drop in relief.
He immediately smiles and softens his eyes. “So underneath that gorgeous magazine editor exterior, you’re really just a frustrated travel writer. I knew it.” His compliment makes my cheeks warm, and I look away. When I return, I notice he’s looking at me, staring.
“It would be amazing if one day my blog MoveableFeast would somehow get picked up and turned into a book like one of Bill Bryson’s travelogues or Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London.” I’m not sure what makes me reveal this, but for some reason I feel like it will intrigue him. “But, I haven’t really been keeping it up. I’ve been so busy. And it’s not really that good.”
“You really know how to sell yourself, Buckley.”
“Huh,” I say, only now recognizing he’s right.
“I can tell you’ve got a book in you. You know, a secret adventurous side.” He winks, and his compliment makes me blush outwardly and gulp inwardly. This time I smile, feeling a little more courage.
“Okay, I’ll send you my next travel story tomorrow and you can tell me what you think,” I tell him.
“I’d love to read anything you’ve written,” he says, returning a more earnest expression, then smiling, as if he’s thinking about something.
“Okay, so what’s yours, Mr. Rising Star? Take over the network by bringing all of Paddy Cakes’ best stories to life?”
He scrunches his nose, as if to say “not even close.” He looks down for a few seconds. “Okay, don’t make fun of me, Buckley, but I’ve got a secret plan, too. After a few things fall into place, I’m going to quit Discovery,” he says, clearing his throat, “then once I raise funding, I’m going to produce and direct my own environmental documentary.” He pauses, interested in my reaction.
I can’t help but smile widely and there’s a look in his eye—one of hopefulness.
Then he gets suddenly quiet. “Did you know that there are actually about thirty-one forms of electromagnetic energy that are self-reproducing and completely sustainable? Companies are doing this right now, and if we were to switch over from petroleum and natural gas, we could power the world’s energy three times over.”
This sudden revelation of a geeky side makes my heart warm. “I thought it was just wind power and solar power.”
“Yes, there’s that, but there’s also this type of magnetic force field called a toroidal field. There’s a company out in Palo Alto working on it. I saw them give a TED talk last year and have been in touch with them since.”
“Really?”
“I pitched it to Discovery, but they turned me down. The huge oil companies are some of our biggest advertisers,” he says with a letdown look in his eye. “But don’t worry, I’ll get it out there—one of my buddies is a lawyer and is looking into coproducing with me, and our friend in finance is already helping us set up meetings with angel
