Fix You

by Beck Anderson

  “I went to see him.”

  “On his movie set.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you slept with him.”

  “Yeah.” I blush. I can feel it. I hate that.

  “And it was awesome.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You suck at this, telling me about your new romance.”

  “Yeah.” I smile uncontrollably.

  “I feel like this is a Choose Your Own Adventure. I’m just writing the story here.”

  I approach the fridge, looking for somewhere to hide. “I know. I just don’t know what to say, or even where to start.”

  “I can’t believe you. I’d be shouting it from the rooftops. You’ve been with a movie star.”

  Two of the neighbor kids walk through to the backyard at this point, and I elbow Tessa.

  “What was that for?”

  “This is completely on the down low, Tessa.”

  “What the hell for? What’s the point of dating someone like Andy Pettigrew if you can’t brag about it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe to be with someone you like?” I open a bag of Cheetos and start to mow through them. I will have orange hands and an upset stomach, but the occasion calls for some stress eating.

  “Seriously, what are you so worried about?”

  “The boys, for one. I don’t know what kind of attention we’d get if anybody found out, and I’m not ready for that.” I leave the part out where Jeremy has also forbidden it. That information would send Tessa into orbit.

  Tessa has a handful of Cheetos now too. “I hadn’t thought about that. Would you get stalked? How would that work?”

  I think back to Tucker, to the decoy van in Ventura, to the underground parking garage. “Maybe you can get stalked by association, I don’t know. I don’t know where this is going.”

  Through the window, I can see Josie trying to feed the fat little pony old snow from the flowerbed. The pony doesn’t look amused.

  “I’m impressed.” Tessa’s given up the Cheetos and now munches a celery stick. This is why she’s a doctor’s wife. She has the whole vegetable-eating thing going for her.

  “Impressed by what?”

  “Despite your best friend’s cautions, and despite your inherent chicken-ness, you’re in uncharted territory and going for it, my friend. Usually you’d be hyperventilating by now.”

  “I heard your cautions, but I’m ignoring them, remember? And no, I wouldn’t usually be hyperventilating.” I feel the need to defend my honor.

  “Oh, yes, you would. You don’t do change well. You know it.”

  “Give me one example.”

  Tessa twirls the celery stick in the kitchen air, thinking, and then points it at me. “Oil of Olay-gate.”

  “What?” I know what. I’ve already lost this battle.

  “Raise your hand if you went around town and bought up all of the old version of your favorite face scrub when you realized the formula was changing.” Tessa pauses for a second. “Oh, that’s right, it’s you.” She crunches her celery with authority.

  “Okay. I don’t like change. But I think I have reason enough to hate it, don’t you?”

  Tessa opens the sliding glass door. “Girls! Five-minute warning on Seabiscuit out there.” As she slides the door shut, much groaning from the little people outside can be heard. She turns her attention to me. “No, you’re missing the point. Girl who hates change and uncertainty is up to her eyeballs in the unknowable right now. Like I said, I’m impressed.”

  “Yeah, well. If I think too much about it, I completely freak out. So I’m trying not to think.”

  Tessa eyes me impishly. “Just keep thinking about what you’d like to do to him. That’ll keep you distracted.”

  “Stop.” I grab for a celery stick.

  “Okay, if you don’t want to think about it, I volunteer to think of all the things you could be doing to him. He’s a tall drink of water, indeed.”

  “Who is? Are you girls talking about me? Stop, I’ll blush.” Joe comes in from the living room with his coat.

  “Hi, babe.” Tessa gives him a pat on the ass. “We’re chatting about Andy.”

  “It’s Andrew. And thanks for telling Joe about him.” I’m starting to feel snappish.

  Joe gives me a quick side hug and puts his coat on. “My lips are sealed. Tessa’s, I don’t know. Now I have to get out there and break some little girls’ hearts.”

  Joe goes out back and closes the slider behind him. Tessa looks at me. “Yes, I told Joe, but I get it. I won’t tell anyone else.” She pauses. “I can still think up things for you to do to him, can’t I? He’s fine.”

  “Calm yourself. That’s my boyfriend you’re talking about.” Boyfriend sounds like he lent me his letterman’s jacket to wear. I’m a complete dweeb.

  “Okay, Sandy from Grease. I will keep my impure thoughts off of your boyfriend.”

  There’s a wail from the backyard. Joe and the pony handler must have just announced the end of the pony rides. Genevieve is heartbroken.

  “I’ve got to get out there. Next time you see Andrew, I’m gonna need serious details. Take notes if you have to. Hell, you can borrow my video camera.” She opens the slider, calling over her shoulder to me. “Intimate details!”

  25: Christmastime Is Here

  FINALLY, I’M DONE with the excruciating waiting. On December twenty-third, the boys and I fly to LA. When we arrive, my folks greet us, and we decamp to their main house in LA. We’re following the plan as it has been for the past two years. My mom took over Christmas after Peter died. I couldn’t stand the thought of hosting without my husband in the house, and it’s proven a lot less painful to be in LA for the holidays than I think staying at home would be.

  We get settled, but I’m distracted. I can’t stand it, actually. It’s as though I’ve been put back in the skin of a quivering teenage girl. I think about him. I wait for him to call, to text. At home, I’ve been my normal self, but here I behave like I’m fifteen.

  Maybe he’s mercifully psychic, because Andrew calls.

  “Hello?”

  “Did you make it in one piece?” He sounds like he has a cold.

  “We’re here. Beau is interrogating Mom about the gifts under the tree. Hunter is scoping out the fridge. Pretty typical.”

  My dad swings through the kitchen and eyes me suspiciously. He’s not sold on this dating thing yet. When I mentioned last week on the phone that I’d like to have Andrew over or that Andrew and I thought about doing a dinner at Andrew’s house, Dad developed a very loud, dry, suspect cough. Mom even shushed him, which she never does.

  “Is your dad frowning at you about this phone call yet?”

  I grin. “I was right. You are psychic.”

  “I’m so going to win that man over. Doesn’t he know I was voted Cosmo’s Yummiest Guy last year? There’s no escaping my charm. Just you wait.”

  “Maybe if you clip out the Cosmo article, you’ll convince him. He’d love that, I bet.”

  Dad’s wandered out of the kitchen again, followed by Hunter, who has snacks.

  “So are you guys coming over here tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be over around eleven. Mom and Dad’ll bring the boys around four. They always take them out shopping for me when we get here.”

  “Thank you for that. I need to see you.”

  I think he’s talking about what I’m thinking about, and I blush. “I need to see you too.” Suddenly tomorrow’s not fast enough, and the kitchen feels not private enough for this conversation. I clear my throat, embarrassed.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. You’ve got the address?”

  “You texted it to me. I’m good. Any secret passwords I need to know?”

  “There’s a gate, but it’s not NORAD. What’re you driving?”

  “Dad’s Ford Focus. You’re jealous, I know.”

  “Sweet ride.”

  Beau comes into the kitchen and waves at me wildly. I gather quickly that Mom has annou
nced he can open one present early.

  “I’ve got to go. Beau’s going to bust a gasket if I don’t get off the phone.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  “Okay.” I end the call, and Beau drags me into the living room. Things are back to the normal holiday routine for the evening.

  The next morning, I sleep in, skipping my morning run. It feels liberating to let it go once in a while. When I get up, Mom’s already in full grandson-spoiling mode. She’s cooked them eggs to order and bacon. Dad’s sketching out some plan for Hunter and him and the woodshop. The two of them usually concoct one or two outlandish birdhouses or something similar while we’re here for this visit. Dad has been adamant about setting the boys up with manly experiences since Peter’s been gone. It’s one of the reasons I love him. He’s looking out for them in his own way.

  “Good morning.” I survey the scene.

  “Hi, Mom. Gran made breakfast.”

  “Smells awesome. What’s the plan this morning?”

  “You’re leaving, we’re shopping, and we’re reconvening for dinner at Andrew’s.” Hunter says this with full authority. He has these moments of very adult behavior that surprise me. He’s going to be a man. I’ll turn around, and he’ll be running the show.

  “Well, I guess I better go get dressed then.” I turn to Dad. “You sure you can find the house later?”

  He shoots me a withering look. “Yes. I’ve lived here for twenty years. I think I can find my way to the Hollywood Hills.”

  “He can find the Hollywood sign, Mom,” Beau says. “It’s not hard from there.” He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but he’s trying to capture the same acid tone as Dad. It’s cute, the way he has his granddad’s back.

  I make sure to MapQuest it myself before I leave, in an effort to look at least as able as my dad. I drive into town from my folks’ house, trying hard not to be totally rattled by the traffic. As I wind my way up Andrew’s street, I feel my pulse revving. It’s hard not to be embarrassed by the physical way I react to his proximity.

  The street number is literally plastered to a tall wall. I pull up to the gate and press the buzzer as instructed. The gate swings open, and I drive through.

  The house isn’t insanely big, but in California, this is an extravagance. In Boise it might be within a normal person’s orbit. Here it’s completely out of my league.

  It’s a Spanish-style older home, probably from the nineteen twenties. The red tile roof is charmingly overgrown with bougainvillea. I like that it doesn’t look like a frat boy’s place. I don’t know if part of me expected something out of Animal House, but I’m glad to find the front courtyard free of sofas, flamingos, and underwear.

  The driveway’s empty except for the black convertible we drove to Ventura County. I smile as I park Dad’s car next to it and remember the drive and the rest of the trip.

  Then, Andrew’s out front.

  Of course he looks good. He makes a living making an entrance. It’s not very fair. The only time I made an entrance was in college when I accidentally had toilet paper trailing from one foot as I re-entered a room at a party.

  He smiles widely. “You found it.”

  “Yep.”

  He puts his arms around me, and it feels insanely good. Each time, a little part of me continues to be surprised. At some point, I guess I’ll have to accept that this is actually happening, and it isn’t a result of a mental breakdown on my part or a great misunderstanding on his.

  “Let’s go inside.” His voice is husky with feeling. It takes my breath away. On this front of our relationship, I feel like a strong equal. And I like it very much for that—and a lot of other reasons. I follow him in.

  He holds my hand, just by the fingertips, and leads me through the house. I notice little or none of the details of his living room, kitchen, stairs. All I can focus on is the tingle in my fingers and making sure I don’t step on the back of his heels in my haste.

  “Do you like it?” He turns around as we climb the stairs. He hasn’t let go of my hand.

  “Like what?”

  “My house.” He smiles. Does he know how distracting that smile is?

  “Yes.” I’m thinking about his lips, his shoulders, his hips, his back.

  “Are you just saying that?”

  “Yes.” I sound breathless.

  He laughs. “Thought so.”

  We’re at the door of his bedroom. He kisses me, and my head spins.

  “I don’t want to be forward, but you need to cool it with the Parade of Homes tour.” I push past and pull him into his bedroom.

  “The master suite does have a lot of amenities.” Now he’s just being goofy.

  “Shut up and kiss me.”

  He takes the hint. He does take direction well, I must say. On this occasion especially…

  A little while later we lie in bed together. It’s so warm, and most of the heat is coming off his body. I’m always cold. I don’t get why guys are the ones with the internal combustion, when I’d rather be the cozy one.

  He tugs on the covers, turns over to look at me.

  “Hey!” Now I’m really cold—without the covers, I’m bare.

  His fingers trace my shoulder. “What’s this?” He touches a straight, white scar.

  “I got it crawling under a barbed-wire fence in fourth grade. We were playing Cold War.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “What’s kind of game was that?”

  “The big game in my neighborhood. I was a Soviet, as I recall. Red Dawn was a very influential movie that summer. We ran amok in the woods.”

  “Sounds fun.” He looks a little lost.

  I realize why. “You’re too young. You were probably three when it came out.”

  I lie back, cover my eyes with my arms. This young-guy stuff is painful. Sometimes I feel like an artifact.

  Then I feel him kiss my stomach. I uncover my eyes. He’s looking at another scar.

  “What’s this one?” He’s languidly tracing a jagged-looking pucker of skin, right over my belly button. I think I’m starting to get goose bumps, and not from the chill in the room. I resist the urge to attack him and answer instead.

  “That’s a stretch mark. Thanks for pointing it out.”

  “From babies?” He sounds so naïve sometimes.

  “From baby number two. Beau was two weeks late, and I was all proud of how smooth my stomach was, but then my poor belly button couldn’t handle it anymore, and the skin pulled. No Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover for me.”

  He kisses it again. “It’s called Photoshop. Trust me. See this?” He tugs on his left ear, moving the hair away. There’s a huge notch taken out of the top of his ear.

  “What’s that from?”

  “When I was three, the neighbor’s dog mistook me for a chew toy. I’m pretty sure if my sisters hadn’t been there he would have torn my ear off.”

  “Then that’s not so bad considering, huh?” I trace the deep V chunked out of his ear. I think about kissing it.

  “And, if you were to check most of the magazine covers featuring yours truly, I bet you won’t see it.”

  “Really?”

  “They want their movie star perfect. It takes a minute and a few clicks of the mouse, and it’s done.”

  “That explains why you are totally homely in real life,” I tease.

  He rolls over on top of me and has me by the wrists. “You’re so cruel.” He kisses me. He leans over and kisses my shoulder, the one with the scar. Then he eases himself down, kisses my imperfect belly button again.

  After that, I lose track of the all the kisses and their locations. It’s one of the best endings to a discussion of my flaws to date, though.

  Later, the sun begins to slant a bit through the bedroom windows. I like this place. It has white walls, lots of warm wood trim. The ceilings have old wooden beams and fans that loop lazily in the warm afternoon air.

  “I think we need to get up.” I’m feeling sleepy, and I know my dad w
ould have a coronary if he made it to the house and found me asleep in the arms of the dastardly movie star.

  Andrew sits up reluctantly. “This means we have to tackle dinner, you know.”

  “We’re two grown people. We have recipes. Surely we can do this.”

  “I don’t know if we can, and don’t call me Shirley.”

  “Please.” I watch him get up, enjoying the lithe length of his back, and try to turn my focus to making dinner for my family.

  26: Julia Child, We Aren’t

  IT’S SAD. I like to think of myself as an intuitive person, but all that goes out the window when I enter a kitchen. I don’t know how long it takes to bring a turkey up to one hundred sixty degrees on the inside, and I have no idea where the best place is to stick the thermometer to see if it’s still cold or not.

  Andrew’s no better. He keeps saying things like, “These directions aren’t very clear.” And laughing to himself. We already decided the wallpaper-paste gravy will not be making it to the table. Then he spent some time showing me all the things he could stick straight into it that didn’t move: forks, knives, chopsticks.

  I focus on the pie. We’ve whipped up a pumpkin one, and it actually looks promising. It just needs to go in the oven.

  I have it in my hands when I hear the doorbell. And I reflexively turn toward the sound. So does the pie filling. The pie shell doesn’t move as quickly, and in the course of about two seconds, the most hopeful part of the meal sloshes on the kitchen floor. I’m left standing with an essentially empty pie shell.

  “Andrew!” I can’t help it. I sound totally panic-stricken.

  He stepped out to open the door for the rest of my family, but he pokes his head around the corner and gets a look at the kitchen floor. “Well, maybe we’ll go out for dessert.”

  I think of Christmas Story, when they had Christmas dinner in the Chinese restaurant. This may just be Christmas Eve, but we should’ve called in some professional help.

  Too late. I hear my dad’s voice in the hall. “So you’re the infamous Andy Pettigrew.”