Free Love Me by Rachel Shukert

bigwigs, Harry appeared to be as careless and rumpled as ever, althoughcloser inspection revealed a number of small but significant changes. The sloppy sweater was now of the softest cashmere, the scuffed shoes molded perfectly to his feet, the cheap glasses replaced with genuine tortoiseshell frames.
    Like he’s been turned into a Central Casting version of Harry Gordon
, Margo thought.
    Amanda stared at him, her face white, looking as beautiful and terrified as Margo had ever seen anyone. Harry stared back, unmoving but trembling slightly, as though every muscle in his body was clenched. An electric hush fell over the room as every diner at the Brown Derby leaned forward in his or her chair, not wanting to miss what happened next.
    Amanda’s lips parted. Her eyes glowed. Harry’s body lurched forward; for a moment it seemed as though he was going to run across the room and into her arms.
    Then he turned on his heel and went straight out the door.
    “Oh,” Jimmy breathed. “Oh no.”
    Amanda’s eyes were unnaturally bright. Two dark red spots blossomed on her pale cheeks as she shakily murmured some excuse—clearly inadequate, from the look on her lunch companion’s face—and dashed toward the comforting oblivion of the ladies’ room.
    Margo, to her surprise, found herself reflexively scooping up her purse. “I’m going to talk to her.”
    “No, Margo.” Jimmy reached out to stop her. “Leave her alone.”
    “But she’s upset,” Margo protested. “I can’t just leave her. Remember how she helped us at the Cocoanut Grove that night Gabby was sick? It’s the least I can do to return the favor.”
    “And I’m telling you, let her be. This isn’t some drunk littlegirl throwing up in the bathroom, Margo.” Jimmy seized her hand, looking gravely into her eyes. “This is a real broken heart.”
    A real broken heart
. And there, in the corner, was the real Louella Parsons, gleefully writing every bit of it down.

H e cares
.
    The words thrummed through Amanda over and over again, like a heartbeat.
Harry still cares
.
    Sure, maybe storming out of one of the most famous restaurants in town in front of a veritable title sequence of Hollywood’s Who’s Who was not the usual way of showing it. But Harry had never been the sort to do things the usual way. Truth be told, if he had done anything else, she would have been worried. A “civilized” man, a suave Dane Forrest type—someone like that might have handled things differently. That man might have been able to nod a greeting from across the room, even pop by her table for a cordial, if impersonal, chat.
    But Harry Gordon was not that man. Harry Gordon was no Dane Forrest.
And thank God for that
.
    Harry could never hide his feelings or separate his heart fromhis head. It was one of the reasons why Amanda loved him. From the look in his eyes when he saw her, she could tell her feelings were far from unrequited. When she’d run to the bathroom crying—not her most poised moment, true, and one that had certainly pissed the hell out of that poor schmuck she’d been having lunch with, who’d disappeared while she was gone and stuck her with the bill—the tears streaming down her face had been ones of joy, not despair. She’d been crying with gratitude, because Harry still loved her.
    And now, right in front of her, was the evidence. Once again in black-and-white. Ink, that is.
    Amanda took a long drag from her cigarette—smoking, she thought ruefully, being just one of the seemingly unbreakable bad habits she’d picked up during these last terrible months. Gingerly, she laid it still smoldering on the side of the cracked bathtub and reached for the newspaper on the floor. Careful to keep the precious pages from falling into the tepid perfumed water, she began once again to read the words she had by now practically learned by heart:

    The song says life is just a bowl of cherries, but lunch was much more than just a Cobb salad for Tinseltown’s own