Fix You

by Beck Anderson

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  I take his hand and lead him into my bedroom. I turn on the stereo, choose a song. “This is in honor of the holiday.” It’s “MLK” by U2.

  “I love this.” He kisses me.

  “It reminds me of Indio.” I think of Joshua Tree—the empty, bright blue sky above the red earth and the shimmering heated air. But the peace of the song, the calm, reminds me of tonight too.

  Something about it makes me want to be as close as possible to Andrew. We’re sitting together on the bed, the moonlight streaming in through the windows. I face him, kiss him on the lips, and pull back to take off my shirt. I want to be here with him, next to him, nothing between us. I move slowly, deliberately, and kiss him again before I pull his shirt over his head.

  He seems hesitant, gentle. I’m not sure where that’s coming from. I kiss him again, and then I feel tears come. Why am I crying? Everything was so good two seconds ago. “I’m sorry…” I sit back for a moment before he pulls me to him, holds me.

  “This is your room. Your room, Kelly.”

  It’s amazing how everything can turn so quickly, change in a breath. Pure joy is woven tightly together with grief, and suddenly here is the deep, deep sadness, ready to clobber me over the head. Andrew and I will be together in my bedroom, yes, but it was first my bedroom with Peter, our bedroom.

  I shiver, not from my bare skin, but from the realization. Andrew kisses me, eyes open to the tears in mine. He leans back on a pillow. “Let’s take a minute here.” He strokes my hair.

  “Okay.” I’m quiet, trying to find my center. “I’m not sure what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything. I’m happy to be here with you.” He closes his eyes, a content smile on his lips.

  I rest my head on his chest, listen to his heartbeat. I feel my mind quiet as I let my breath fall into rhythm with his. At some point, I must doze off.

  I stand on a train platform with the boys. They’re little. They cling to me, each drags me forward toward the station. It’s cold and wet.

  There’s no train at first, but then I turn and the train is there, standing at the platform, steam coming from the undercarriage. It creaks, massive, black, and glistening in the rain.

  The boys jump up and down with glee. Peter comes to us off the train: young, smiling, bundled up in a camel overcoat. He hugs each of the boys, stands to hold me.

  I’m about to feel his arms around me when someone calls to him. He slips out of my embrace and walks to the station. He swings open a door, waves to us, and walks in.

  I rush to the doors, and they’re locked. I can’t see inside the station. The boys hold on to me. I pull at the doors, calling out to Peter. He does not come back. We’re locked out.

  I feel a gentle brush on my shoulder. I come to the surface from sleep. Andrew’s fingers trace a pattern on my shoulder blade. His blue eyes are on me. He smiles.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “You were talking in your sleep.”

  Uh-oh. “Did I order a Diet Coke? I do that sometimes.”

  He sits up on one elbow, tucks the hair that’s fallen into my eyes behind my ear. “I think you were talking to Peter.”

  “I guess I do that sometimes too.” I don’t know what to say. He leans forward and kisses me.

  He looks straight into my eyes. “I couldn’t make all of it out, but it seemed like you were trying to get him to stay.”

  He’s probably right. “I’m surprised I didn’t wake myself up.” I try to sound like it’s not a big deal, but there’s no disguising the twinge of pain in my voice.

  He takes my hand and squeezes it. “I want to fix it for you. I wish I could.”

  “There’s no fixing it. Just be here with me.” I touch his cheek. He closes his eyes, turns to kiss my palm. I lean forward and brush his long eyelashes with a gentle kiss. “But I love you for trying.”

  I think back to the dream. I can almost feel Peter’s arms around me. I do feel new tears on my face.

  Andrew doesn’t say anything.

  Something occurs to me. “You know what? You know what the best part of tonight was?”

  “What?” He traces the path of one of my tears with his finger.

  “I had a moment where I really missed Peter. But I missed him because I wished he could be here to meet you.”

  Andrew pulls me close and holds me. I stay still, thinking.

  After a moment I put my hands on his face and kiss him. “I love you.”

  29: Sticks and Stones

  IT SEEMS LIKE WE DO a lot of leaving each other, Andrew and I. I guess it’s good—obviously he needs to work. And I need to keep pinching myself. I like the breaks so I can ensure that I remain connected to the real world.

  After our weekend, the new semester begins for the boys, and I once again look ahead to the next time Andrew and I will be together. Our plan is a big, bold, daring one: he has a premiere to attend for his spy movie, Churchill’s Man. I’ll be attending too, under the radar. In the movie, he’s a World War II intelligence officer—with an amazing life story, of course, and it’s true, of course. This is the movie he was doing reshoots for when I first met him in Indio. For that reason, it will be a movie I like.

  He’s noncommittal about it, says he doesn’t like to watch his own performances. Since I’m not in his business, I don’t press it. I have no idea what that would feel like, beyond the fact that I never had a school picture turn out well, even in my years as a teacher. So if I had to watch two hours of myself on a forty-foot screen, I think I’d develop a rash. Maybe that’s where he’s coming from.

  Filming on the sheriff movie with Franca is winding down. He won’t have much of a break between that and the premiere. This is where we stand when I wheel my cart into the twelve items or less line at the grocery store and see Andrew. On a magazine cover, of course. With Franca.

  It’s a good thing I don’t have a hot cup of tea in hand, because if a spit take were ever apropos, it’s now. He’s hugging her. It looks like that, at least. It’s definitely him. The other figure is tiny, blond, vaguely resembles a yardstick. Must be her.

  The picture doesn’t bother me. The headline, on the other hand:

  They’re In Love!

  The teaser underneath goes even further: “Co-stars Andy Pettigrew and Franca Delaney can’t keep their hands off each other. Will they go public at the Churchill’s Man premiere?”

  Ugh. Okay, I was not born yesterday. I grit my teeth. “Jeremy.”

  Jeremy and his minions are hard at work, promoting the are-they-or-aren’t-they relationship. As I wait for the person in front of me who clearly does not have twelve items or less, I flip to the story. It’s a couple more pictures. It looks like they’re on set, so the chance that this is from an actual scene in the movie is strong. I know. I know this is not a real story. I would know that even if I weren’t dating him. This is the fodder these magazines require as a matter of course, and they fabricate stuff constantly.

  What I didn’t realize is that the magazines have help. When I was on set, there was no way anyone could get this close to the filming unless someone gave them a way in.

  “Jeremy.” The person in line behind me probably thinks I’m a raving lunatic by now. Or is wondering what poor Jeremy ever did to cross me.

  Nothing except his job, I remind myself. This is the story of Andrew’s life. If I want him to be successful, some of the gamesmanship probably has to be part of the picture.

  But I don’t have to like it.

  The phone rings, and I pick it up before I even look. “Hello?”

  “Is this Kelly Reynolds?” I don’t recognize the voice.

  “This is.”

  “What can you tell me about your relationship to Andy Pettigrew?”

  I end the call. WHAT. THE. HELL? How did this happen? What is going on?

  The phone rings again. I jump and then proceed to peel myself off the ceiling of the grocery store in time
to answer it. The lady in front of me is arguing about the price of a cantaloupe, but for once I’m grateful. She’s bought me some time.

  “Hey, it’s Andrew.”

  I try not to yell. “Andrew, someone just called here and asked about you. How?”

  “Okay, hang on—”

  He must be floored. I ambushed him with the info. This isn’t a good way to start a phone call with anyone. I take a breath and try again.

  “Someone just called here and asked me about my relationship to you. How would they know? How could they get my number?” My mind is racing. Could Tessa have said something?

  “What did you say to them?” He actually sounds unconcerned.

  “Nothing. I hung up, and then you called.”

  “Good.”

  “What?” He’s okay with this? “What about the boys? I’m not ready for them to get any attention. And you’ll get in trouble—the whole Franca thing—oh, and I saw the cover with you and Franca. I know it’s fake, don’t worry about it, but I still don’t love seeing you and seeing the headline—”

  “Time out! Kelly! Breathe!” Andrew has raised his voice a bit.

  “Huh?”

  “My phone was stolen. Whoever it was is just fishing.”

  “What?” Not all my cylinders are firing on this new information yet. I hope the guy behind me isn’t listening.

  “They have my phone, Kelly. With my numbers in it. They’re calling all the numbers. They’re fishing.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. And they should have about two minutes’ more time to snoop, because the phone company is in the process of turning off my cell as we speak.”

  I’m quiet for a second. “So they don’t have anything more than my name?”

  “You did good. Hanging up was good—they have no dirt on you. You’re just another name from my cell phone.”

  I guess that’s good.

  He laughs a little. “You saw the cover, though.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was wondering when I’d hear from you about that.”

  “It’s okay. I know it’s Jeremy.”

  “With a little help from Sandy, my publicist. But she just does as she’s told. She’s actually a good person.”

  “As opposed to Jeremy?”

  “Naw, he’s not a terrible guy. He’s just very single-minded. Kind of terrier-like. When he wants something to work, he’ll do everything he thinks might make it work. He thinks the on-set romance thing is a good angle.”

  I’m totally distracted. It’s finally my turn in line, and I don’t want to be, you know, that person who’s on her phone while checking out—even if I’m currently looking at the person on the other end of the phone on the cover of a magazine, which is a weird sensation.

  “Hey, I have to go.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. As long as it’s a false alarm on the us-being-outed thing. I want the boys left alone. But it’s my turn in line at the store.”

  “Get off the phone! Don’t be that person. I hate that person, the one on the phone when they’re supposed to be paying.”

  “Me too. Love you. Bye.”

  “Love you.” And the call is ended, just in time for the checker to ring me up.

  30: The Good Part of a Bad Night

  SERIOUSLY, EVERYTHING IS GOOD, up to a certain point when it isn’t anymore. And kind of in a sudden way.

  I fly to LA for the Churchill’s Man premiere in the early morning. Tucker’s waiting for me at the curb, and he drives us through the streets of LA. It’s a relief, really, to have someone else handle the traffic. I’m not a baby about it, but I don’t want to nervous sweat right now. It’s not attractive.

  I sit with him in the front seat of the gigantic black SUV. I resist the urge to fiddle with the stereo and look up at the side of a huge office building. Andrew’s face is forty feet tall. He’s working a smoldering stare. I smile, because if he were with us, he’d probably make some comment about his lip gloss and the blue steel photo shoot.

  The text under his handsome face reads: Churchill’s Man. Coming 1/28.

  Tucker points to the billboard. “There’s your guy.”

  “He’s not my guy. He’s somebody’s man.”

  He smiles. “Careful. You say it that way and it sounds like he and Churchill had a very special relationship.”

  “That’d be a different movie, wouldn’t it?” I try to chuckle, but the butterflies in my stomach are threatening to crawl up my throat. I check the backseat for my garment bag and suitcase. Tucker took care of it, but I’m feeling a little OCD. “Tucker, what’s this going to be like?”

  “Truthfully, premieres make me break out in hives.”

  “I’m so glad I don’t have to do the red carpet thing. I would fall apart.”

  “Andrew and I bond over our hatred of premieres. They’re a necessary evil, but mostly they’re just evil.” Tucker pulls the SUV into the valet circle of the hotel. He hops out of the car and has my bags at the curb all in one swift, graceful motion.

  With a big smile, he hands me a room key. “He’s doing press for another couple hours. He’ll sneak up when he gets a chance, I’m sure.”

  “Thanks, Tucker.” He’s so nice. I wish he were assigned to handling me. I would be so much calmer by association. Cooler too.

  The hotel’s very chic—lots of mirrors and glass, high ceilings in the lobby, big fireplaces, and a glossy black piano.

  As I’m dragging my rolling bag—which refuses to stay the right way and keeps flopping over, into the elevator—my cell phone rings. I’m distracted by the hoopla, but if Hunter and Beau are calling to check in and let me know they haven’t tied Tessa up yet, I want to take the call.

  “Hello!” It kind of comes out in a gasp of air.

  “Are you okay?” It’s Andrew.

  “Yeah, I’m just trying to get my luggage to cooperate with me.” No one else took the elevator up, and I’m grateful for that, because the bag is now on its side diagonally across the floor of the elevator.

  “What room are you in?”

  I look at the envelope with the key in it. “Three forty-five. And I’m excited. This is going to be fun.”

  There is a longer than usual pause. “Me too.”

  He’s quiet. Uh-oh. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah. I’m just stressed. They’re fitting my suit for tonight. Kind of a big crowd. But I’ll catch up to you soon. I’m staying here tonight too.”

  That excites me. I think about what could possibly happen later.

  The last time we Skyped, we had a good time doing our super top secret spy plan to make this whole thing work out. We’ll spend as much time as we can together tonight without actually being together. No public appearances for us as an “us.” I never thought for even a second about me walking the red carpet. I know Andrew and I like the way things are right now. We don’t like the conditions laid out by Jeremy and his crew, to be sure, but we like that Boise is still our secret place. We like that Hunter and Beau haven’t seen a big disruption to their lives.

  I find my room. As I get in the door, the phone rings again. I drag the uncooperative rolly bag in on its side and throw it as far into the room as I can, then answer the call.

  “Hi, Mom.” Beau’s on the line.

  I’m glad we can talk before things get too crazy, “Hey, hon. How are you?”

  “What’s your room like?”

  The room is very posh. It has two king beds and a little sitting area with a loveseat and two chairs. There’s a wet bar to one side and a sliding glass door that opens out on to a tiny balcony. I can see the fringe of cliché palm trees that reach almost to the foot of my room’s windows.

  “It’s nice.”

  “Does it have a Jacuzzi in the living room?” Beau cuts to the chase. This is about the glamour, not about missing me.

  “No, Beau. It doesn’t have a living room, and it doesn’t have a Jacuzzi either.”

  “Oh. Well, Te
ssa says everything’s fine, and we’re about to watch the next movie, so can I go?” He yells something to Hunter with the phone covered.

  Tessa’s rented them many movies that their mom most certainly would think were too violent or too adult for them, and she’s gone to the grocery store and bought them non-Mom-approved junk food to munch while watching the terrible movies. They’re not missing me at all.

  “Beau?”

  “Yeah, Mom?”

  “Give everybody a kiss for me. I love you.”

  “Love you, bye.” He hangs up before I can say another word.

  I smile and turn back to my mission. My first job is to get my dress out of my bag. If it creases, I’m done for. I called Barb, who is smart about all these kinds of things, to ask her how to pack a dress. I could’ve asked Tessa, but she was so worked up about the premiere that I got nervous just talking to her about it. Practical information was clearly beyond our capacity in this case. And even Barb wanted to know what was going on, but I told her my mom had a thing in LA that was fancy so I had to dress up. I have still not fully figured out how this relationship will fit into my real world, but I’ll be damned if this event is how everybody finds out.

  The dress is wrapped in a complex layering of tissue paper and plastic dry cleaner bags. I haul it out of its cocoon and hang it up. It looks like it’s survived the trip. I find all the outfit components: the shoes and the various firming, smoothing, and shaping undergear. I think all that stuff cost me more than the dress itself, but I want to feel totally safe. No body part will be making an unplanned appearance. And I don’t want to be bulgy in any way.

  I’ve already had my meltdown over this, trust me. There’s no way I can compete with the women who will be at this event tonight. And I’m trying very hard to take Andrew at his word. He says he chooses me, so I must believe he chooses me for a reason.

  However, I don’t know what in God’s name that reason is right now. I look at all this battle gear I’ll be putting on in a few hours, and I’m not at all convinced I belong here. We can sleight-of-hand it all we want, but I’m a non-famous, nondescript woman dating a handsome, charismatic, famous person. It’s ridiculous.