by Lisa Ferrari
I must not.
I decide to get the heck out of here.
I have a sense that fleeing is also not a healthy and appropriate impulse but I don’t care. I grab my magnet, my purse and keys, and head for the front door.
But then I see my books. My modest library. Two cheap, second-hand bookshelves crammed, albeit neatly and in quasi-alphabetical order, with books I’ve been accumulating for as long back as I can remember.
My beloved Stephen King hardbacks.
My Harry Potter series (Kellan is getting ready to begin Deathly Hallows; yay!), also hardcover, with their beautiful and amazing dust jackets featuring Mary DuPre’s stunning artwork that I love to stare at and study.
And so many more.
My Twilight series which, I’m sorry, is a wonderful, beautiful story about two people who want to be together, who we desperately want to be together because we know they should, that they must, be together, but who are kept apart by the machinations of circumstance.
I read once online that Salman Rushdie said Fifty Shades of Grey makes Twilight read like War and Peace, which is a great literary work by Leo Tolstoy. I’ve never read War and Peace. It’s, like, 1500 pages. Which is fine. Reading by the pound can be fun. Order of the Phoenix comes close. As do many of Mr. King’s epic works. The Stand comes to mind. One of and perhaps, perhaps, my favorite work of all time. Dreamcatcher comes to mind as well. Not my most favorite story of his overall, but it most definitely contains some of the best writing I’ve ever read anywhere. The part pertaining to when the main character was hit by a car and escaped death by the thinnest of margins… It was Mr. King’s first book since the accident that nearly took his life. It was powerful wordcraft. Something I aspire to daily when I overcome my fear and begin my own creation.
But I digress. I think Salman Rushdie’s comment was mostly sour grapes and professional envy. Something all artists, and likely all professionals, must resist succumbing to.
Or maybe he’s dead-on and the writing is crap.
Doesn’t matter.
The stories are beloved by millions. And one person’s opinion is merely that: opinion. And we all know what they say about opinions.
Looking at my books, I realize I don’t have any boxes. Kellan is bringing them with the truck. I begin to wonder if I want to actually bring my books with me. How long are we going to live there? Will we stay in that house? Will we move somewhere else? Kellan did say something about Malibu and living close to the beach, which is something I’ve always, always longed for. Do I want to be hauling boxes of books all over California? Books are heavy. Wonderful and magical and I love each and every one on the shelf, but heavy. Some metaphorically and some literally (my genuine-leather Complete Works of William Shakespeare with gold edging comes to mind).
But when it’s an entire box full of them, they’re all heavy.
Maybe… maybe it’s best to leave them here. Travel light. Buy new books on Amazon and read them on my phone and stash these in Kellan’s garage. I survey both bookshelves, each taller than I am, with each shelf packed with books upright and more lain flat atop the others. How many? It’s been some time since I counted them. 200? 300? Something like that. I could fit all of them on my phone in e-book format.
I so don’t know what to do.
There’s a knock on the door and Kellan enters. He’s carrying a big stack of flat cardboard boxes and a tape gun and a couple of black Sharpies.
He drops everything on the carpet, grabs me, kisses me, undoes my red skinny jeans and pushes them down to my knees, opens his own jeans and pushes them down to his knees, revealing his ginormous erection, grabs me and lifts me in the air and makes love to me while we’re both standing up. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on for dear life as he cleaves me with his divine penis. It’s so hot, so hard, and so deep inside me.
Kellan’s hands support my butt as he holds me in the air, pounding me with a salacious and ardent need. There’s a ferocity to his lovemaking that usually takes us awhile to build up to. But he’s letting me have everything he’s got full-force right off the bat without saying a word. I realize he’s been counting the seconds since I told him I’d pleasured myself thinking about him, and this is him finally having me.
It’s so hot that within a few seconds everything inside me tenses and a powerful orgasm seizes me. My eyes clamp shut and I’m lost in it, driven to ecstasy by Kellan’s warm, thick penis pumping and pistoning in and out of me. It’s all I can do to remember to hold on to him with both hands.
Kellan cries out and his body jerks and spasms in small movements. I feel him coming inside me, a familiar dull heat deep within me. I would come immediately if I weren’t already coming so hard I can’t breathe.
Finally I manage to gasp for air. But I can’t hold on much longer.
Kellan must feel me slipping because he has the presence of mind to lower me onto the sofa and collapse beside me, although the sofa really isn’t big enough for the two of us. His penis slips out of me and I feel his warm, precious semen drip out of my vagina and onto my thighs. I scoop it up as best I can with my fingers and spread it lovingly around my vagina and into my pubic hair. I put my fingers in my mouth, tasting it.
Kellan lies beside me, gasping, with his pants still around his ankles.
He looks up at me. “I see you’ve packed.”
“I HAVE. SEE?” I hold up the refrigerator magnet picture of the two of us at the Hollywood Classic.
He takes it and studies it. “I remember this. That was quite a weekend. Our first expo together. And your first expo ever.” He shakes his head.
“What?”
“Friggin’ Stacy back there with her boobs hanging out and doing that crap with her fingers and sticking her tongue out. Who does she think she is, Gene Simmons?”
I laugh. “That’s exactly what I thought when I looked at it earlier. Have you talked to her lately?”
“No. Traded a few emails about her clinic but that’s about it. Purely business.”
I suspect it won’t be long until Stacy is no longer able to resist the urge to attempt to reinsert herself into Kellan’s life in a romantic capacity despite his being engaged to be married to me. The last time I was at her sports medicine clinic, she confessed openly to still being madly in love with Kellan. I felt bad for her. Unrequited love sucks. But I was all the more grateful to be the one with Kellan.
Kellan and I sit up and pull our pants up. I go to the kitchen and wash my hands. Kellan checks the fridge. Seeing that it’s empty, he closes the door and kisses my hair. “What about your clothes?”
“They’re all at your house.”
“Shoes?”
“Same.”
“What about your books?”
“I don’t know. I can’t decide.”
“You said you wanted them with you.”
“I know. But…”
“But what?”
“They’re heavy.”
Kellan laughs. “That’s okay. I’ll carry them.”
“I don’t want you to hurt your back.”
“Claire, please. What did we just do in your living room? Besides, there’s a hand-truck in the back of the rental truck so we can stack them up and wheel them around.”
“I don’t know if we should.”
“Claire, you love your books. Let me ask you a question. What’s in your backpack?”
“Books.”
“And what’s on your nightstand at the house?”
“Books.”
“And what’s the one thing you said you wanted to bring when we talked about moving Friday?”
“My books.”
“Exactly. Look, maybe… maybe don’t bring all of them. Just pick your favorites, the ones you like having close to you. I don’t know how much shelf space we have in the new house, anyway. We’ll have to see. So, maybe just grab a few. Which are your favorites?”
“Everything on the top two s
helves, I guess.” These are all my Stephen King hardcovers, the Harry Potter books, Twilight, and a few others. The complete Narnia I got when I was eight. The Visible Man by Chuck Klosterman, which is a character study sci-fi story I wish I could’ve written myself. Ready Player One, an epic 80s opus. Eye Candy, an Asimovian love story. A bunch of Philip K. Dick books I got from the library for fifty cents. I fell in love with Bladerunner when I was a kid and was hooked thereafter, even though Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep bears only a passing resemblance to the iconic film. I’ve typically found the movies to be better than the books, though I’d never admit as much to a bona fide Dick-head, as they’re known.
Kellan and I pack up only my favorite books, which fill about six boxes. He makes two trips up and down the stairs with the orange hand truck thing and puts the boxes in the moving van. There’s nothing else I want. Nothing else I need. Perhaps I should give them my 30-day notice. Save myself $875 a month plus utilities. I could put that money into, I don’t know… stocks? Bonds? The S&P 500? Mutual funds? Wherever financially-savvy wealthy individuals put their money. Maybe call Charles Schwab and speak with one of those fiduciary people. I make a note to ask Kellan later. I’m sure he has an impressive portfolio and is fully diversified. Can’t put all your eggs in one basket and all that.
Then it occurs to me: am I putting all my eggs in one basket? The Kellan Basket? Am I putting all my hopes on him? My future? What if, heaven forbid, something happened and we broke up or… something I dare not think about?
Would I still be in the position I’m in now? With the movie and my finances and everything? My name is on the rental agreement for our new house in the Hollywood hills. No way could I afford that on my own. Plus, there’s no way I would live there by myself if… well, I won’t go there.
The dark, wounded, cynical girl deep inside me, the one who deals with the trials of life by shoving a gazillion calories down her throat, knows, knows!, that she’ll end up back at work carrying trays, wearing that effing tuxedo shirt and bow tie and cheap black Walmart pants that she had to buy in the men’s section.
I push back against this torrent of negativity.
Kellan is watching me. “What is it?” As we stand there, looking into the back of the mostly empty rental truck, he’s seen something dark and disturbing flit across my face, through my soul: the prospect of losing everything I’ve found in the past eight months; losing him.
Kellan grabs me and literally gives me a little shake. “Claire, earth to Claire. Come in, Claire. Ground Control to Major Valentine. What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
Kellan gives me his patented Don’t bullshit me look.
I say, “Just… promise me that…” I stop because I don’t even know how to ask it. “Just promise me that we won’t go backwards.”
“Forward. Ever forward. Relax. It’s going to be great. Remember what Sheila said? Get ready for the next two years to be the wildest ride of our lives.”
“That doesn’t scare you?”
“A little, maybe, sure. But I’m looking forward to it. I’m ready for a new adventure. New challenges. Especially since it’s going to be with you.”
Kellan takes me in his arms and holds me tight.
Chapter 17
WE LEAVE AND drive to my parents’ house. Kellan drives the rental truck and I drive my Solstice.
I knock on the door.
My dad answers. He looks me up and down. “That’s some outfit.”
“Oh, thanks. Kellan got it for me at a little place on Melrose.”
“I see. Come in. We’re just having a bite to eat.”
Always with the food; you’d think my family were a clan of competitive eaters. It’s no wonder I’ve been over 200 pounds most of my life.
My dad is eyeing me; I’m waiting for him to say something about my new physique. A mixture of emotions swirl inside me, competing for attention; they distill down, I think, to pride and embarrassment; I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished, but I’m also uncomfortable with my new body and my new appearance. Claire 2.0 is definitely one heck of an update.
Inside, my mom and dad are supping with Beth and Chris. My first reaction is sadness because Kellan and I weren’t invited. No one even mentioned it. I survey the table. Spaghetti. Garlic bread. Salad. Three empty bottles of red wine. They’re having an Italian feast and getting plowed!
My mom looks up at me from her glass of cab. “Well, hello, Claire bear.” She looks me up and down and does her customary pause during which we both understand that she does not approve. Not that I give a crap. I do of course, want her approval, insofar as it would be nice to hear a compliment come out of her mouth for once. But I understand that such praise is likely not forthcoming, and that it’s my job not to care either way because it’s my life. “To what do we owe the privilege of your presence?”
My mother is the world champion at placing blame on someone she’s insulted. It’s a gift.
“Um, well, Kellan and I are driving to L.A. tomorrow. We wanted to say goodbye.”
Chris asks, “You’re moving there?”
Kellan says, “No, no. We just have a bunch of meetings and stuff this week.”
“Oh,” Chris says. “Cool.”
Beth is eyeing me. “Cool outfit. Where’d you get it? Rodeo?”
“At a little shop on Melrose, actually,” I reply.
My mother says, “It’s a little revealing, isn’t it, Claire?”
“No, mom, not really. Anyway, we don’t want to intrude. Enjoy your dinner.”
My mom says, “You don’t want to stay for a glass of wine?” But it’s obvious she wants us to leave.
“No,” I say, “no, thank you. We just ate a few minutes ago. Stuffed.” This is a lie, of course. Truthfully, I’m very hungry. The smell of the garlic bread is killing me. Almost as much as the way my mom is sitting there with her pretending-to-be-nice-but-actually-judging-the-shit-out-of-you smile on her face. She’s even twirling one of her earrings, with her glass of red wine in the other hand.
She says, “Too many carbs, anyway, I suppose. The rest of us like our carbs.”
Her powers of graceful alienation are world-class.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to explain the finer nuances of carbohydrates, both simple and complex, and everything Kellan has taught me about how to incorporate them into our nutrition and exercise programs at different times in order to achieve different results. But I decide to keep my mouth shut about it and simply say, “Anyway, bye.” I grab Kellan and get the hell out of there.
Kellan calls out, “We’ll be in touch!”
Beth calls out, “Try to get Calista’s autograph!” just before the front door slams.
I’m already behind the wheel of my Pontiac as Kellan passes me on the way to the rental truck. He leans down and says, “You didn’t want to tell them we rented a house and stuff?”
“Nope. The way I figure it, they’re on a need-to-know basis. And at this point, they don’t need to know. Everything has been such a whirlwind, I don’t want any negativity seeping in and trying to ruin it.”
“Understood. Say no more. Hungry?”
“Yes!”
“Italian?”
“Yes!”
“Follow me.”
We drive to The Old Spaghetti Factory and go inside and are miraculously given a table in the big train car, something that has never happened to me. We both order chicken parmesan with an extra chicken breast, a salad with honey mustard, and we share one loaf of their signature bread. At the end, we both ask for spumoni ice cream for dessert.
We then head back to Kellan’s house and change into our workout clothes. Kellan has me grab a set of dumbbells.
When I ask how heavy, he says it’s up to me.
When I ask what I’m going to be doing with them, he says, “You’ll see.”
I decide to go middle-of-the-road and grab the 30s.
Kellan grabs 60s. Show off.
He tells me to lunge from here to the swimming pool, lunge around the pool three times, and then back here to rack the weights.
Holy gluteus maximus; I’m going to puke my chicken parm for sure.
I start lunging.
By the time I’m halfway around the pool for the second time and halfway through this set (because I just know Kellan will mandate more than one set), I really am concerned about getting sick.
Kellan is almost one full lap around the pool ahead of me, but he’s pausing every few reps to burp, too. So I know he’s feeling it.
“Come on,” he says, “you did 404 lunges on the beach. This is nothing.”
I realize he’s right.
I decide to plough through. If I puke, I puke.
By the time I’m back in the gym, getting ready to slam those 30s down onto the rack, my legs are on fire, as is my groin. I swear I can feel the burn all the way to my vagina.
Kellan is supine on one of the flat benches, pressing the 60s rapidly. “Not yet,” he grunts. “Flat bench. Dumbbell press to failure. Go.”
Crapola. I hate going to failure. If there’s one technique I loathe above all others, it’s reps to failure. Nothing else hurts like going to failure, especially with light to moderate weight enabling you to do reps into the 30s, 40s, 50s, or higher. Failing at 10 or 11 or 12 is easy. Failing at 68 hurts. A lot. Like Tony Horton once said on one of the P90X training videos, “I hate it, but I love it.” I concur. More importantly, I like the way I look and feel now. Kellan helped me get this way. So I trust him.
I sit on the bench and lie back until I’m staring at the ceiling. My legs are glad for the rest, but my chest and shoulders are about to scream. I start pressing the dumbbells up and down from my chest toward the ceiling, over and over, quickly but still under control.
The 30s are light but by the time I get to 40 reps, I’m starting to fade.
At 46 I’m doing only one at a time. My arms are starting to quiver.
I crap out at 53 and drop the dumbbells.
Kellan is sitting on the bench, watching me, belching quietly.
“This was a bad idea,” he says. “Two minutes, then go up, and repeat.” He burps again. He gets to his feet, racks his 60s, and moves to the 80s.
