Boston

by Alexis Alvarez

  I keep wanting to write Let’s get together and talk. Or even I miss you. I’m almost ready to take the chance.

  ***

  The book has been doing more than well—it’s rocketed to the top of the New York Times bestseller list, something I could not have imagined, and now we’ve all been invited to visit the local news morning show, for a “feel good” segment called LTE, Local Talent and Entertainment. When I say “We all,” I mean me, Boston, and Annalise. The amazing thing is that segments from here often get picked up and go big time, and the entertainers can get invited to much bigger, nationwide shows.

  The bad part is that the whole thing is scheduled for my birthday. I try to be positive about things—it’s a great present to me, the present of success. But I still miss my mom, and I’m torn up about Boston, and I’m a nervous wreck about seeing him for the first time in person while we’re being filmed. Ugh.

  What if he’s found another girl between then and now? Surely he’s had a million opportunities. My mind races, thinking of all the women he meets all the time, and I feel sick. But he cares for me, he all but said it—he sort of said it, right? He was so tender and rough and passionate when we made love. That kind of emotion just can’t evaporate this fast. Can it? God.

  My mind is going crazy. When he sees me, we’re going to have the most romantic reunion EVER. He’s going to go all Tom Cruise on the interviewer and jump up on some couch and scream out his love for me. I’m not going to mess it up.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He looks so good. He’s in a suit, like that day at Erik’s office, but this suit is even nicer, more tailored; it fits his body impeccably. His hair is perfect, and his jaw, his lips, his eyes—my whole body lights up. Every molecule of my body wants to rush to him and surround him, let him surround me, to melt together. When our eyes meet, I catch my breath. He nods at me and I see his lips move across the room: “Abby.” My eyes tear up, because he’s here, we’re finally going to be face to face again, and he’s so handsome, and I’m so angry at myself for letting it go this long. Why didn’t I just pick up the damn phone?

  My hands are shaking a little as we keep staring, and he starts to walk to me, but then a woman comes up and puts her hand on his arm and he pauses to smile, and the way her hand stays on his arm makes my heart break, because she’s standing just a little too close.

  She has legs, gorgeous long slender perfect legs, and her dark hair belongs in a shampoo commercial, and her eyes are exotic with a hint of a slant. She looks like one of those “perfect woman” amalgamations that people make on the computer sometimes, except she’s real, unless Android Women are now a reality. I remember my newfound confidence, and find it. I’m not less than she is, and I know that. But Boston is his own person, and makes his own choices about what he wants and likes in a woman. What if he’s already moved on, just when I’m ready to beg him for another chance? The horror of being too late fills me with shock and sadness.

  Annalise comes up behind me with Erik in tow, and they rush up and surround me with hugs and cheek kisses and exclamations and a blend of their perfume and cologne and happiness.

  “Oh, my God, Abby, I’m so nervous!” Annalise grabs my hands and hers are cold. “I’ve never been on television. Have you ever been on television? I’m probably going to vomit.” She clutches her stomach. “Actually, I won’t. I don’t know why I said that.”

  Erik wraps his arms around her and rubs her shoulders. “Babe, you’re going to be fine,” he says, his voice low and confident, and she leans into his body, looking up at him, her eyes bright and hopeful. “Yeah? You think?”

  “I know.” He kisses her head and she sighs and I bite my lip. I don’t miss him; I just wish I had someone to blend into this way, so easily, so happily.

  I glance back across the room at Boston, and he’s looking at me, still, even though Android Girl is still chattering up at him. Are they together? Or is she just hitting on him? Why can’t I tell these things? It would help if people had signs floating above their heads to identify their relationships: “We’re just friends.” “I’m into him, but he thinks of me like a rock.” “I just want some Chinese takeout right now, and this woman next to me is a robot.”

  He comes over and so does the girl, but also there’s the host of the segment, who does introductions and instructions about what he’ll ask and in what order, and we do a quick run-through of what our answers will be, just so we don’t forget.

  “Lots of people freeze when the camera goes on,” says the host, Jerry Rugbaum, in a friendly, apologetic kind of way. “So don’t freak if it happens to you. Just glance over at the prompter and you’ll see a suggestion of what to say, okay?”

  He points to a large screen just behind the main camera, and a woman gives a thumbs-up sign to all of us along with wave. We nod, a mismatch of bobble-heads.

  “I mean, we’re not scripting you!” he adds with a chuckle. “You say what you want. But these are the things you all emailed me, so it’s just here as a starter. I want this to go smoothly for all of us. I’ll start by asking Abby a few questions, then Parker, then Annalise.”

  More bobble-heading. Is Boston nervous?

  The girl looks at Jerry. “Should the rest of us wait back here?”

  He points. “You guys,” he gestures to her and Erik, “can watch from behind that tape line if you promise to stay out of the way.”

  Erik gives Annalise a big kiss and she squeaks, and a makeup person immediately comes up to retouch her lipstick, and everyone giggles, and then Erik and that girl go to the tape line. To me it looks like a flattened “crime scene stay out” kind of thing, or maybe a race, and they’re going to do a four-hundred-meter dash. Only Erik already won his prize. Did this girl win hers, too?

  So the first thing I do is whisper in a harsh croak, “Are you dating that girl?”

  Boston’s head whips around. “Abby.” His voice sounds pained. “This is the first thing you say to me after you walked away?”

  “No, it’s not, like a big deal. I’m just curious. So, are you?”

  He looks away and doesn’t reply. “Let’s talk about this later.”

  “You are?” My voice rises. He really is? “Seriously?”

  He pauses. “This isn’t the time or place.”

  And now we’re ushered in to sit on a couch, me next to Annalise, Boston across in a chair next to the interviewer. And it’s a good thing that the prompter thing is there, because I forget the name of my book and panic, feeling like I’m drowning. But on that large and helpful screen I see the sexy title, him on the motorcycle, and I recite the words I see there, feeling like a stuffed parrot.

  Time passes in a blur and a slow-motion whorl. I remember Annalise smiling and wiggling next to me, proud of her new contract at a huge makeup company as their cover girl face. Boston’s been commissioned for at least ten other bestselling authors and has started a larger online store to sell prints of his pictures. I think I say stuff about this book, and my other books, and agree that yes, they’re all selling very well right now. In fact, I think I talk very well, like a literary superhero, because I can hear the words coming out of my mouth and they even impress me. I’m happy that my brain works on autopilot. Someone should write an article about this phenomenon for some neuropsychology article. Maybe I’ll suggest it to Marr later.

  Then the host looks at me. “Abby. Today must be a pretty special day. Your birthday, and a feature on our program. But tell us how it all started. How did you two come together and work so well on this book?”

  I sneak a look at Boston, and his eyes are trained on me. I hesitate. “I liked his pictures online and I thought he’d be perfect for my book idea, so I pitched it to him and he said yes. And here we are today.”

  “Your words and his face. What a combination!” The host sounds excited. “So at what point did he become more to you than just a pretty face? Boston, when did Abby become more than a storyteller to you?”

  I stare, my mouth parti
ally open. I’ve never believed that someone’s jaw could “drop” but apparently it’s possible to sit there like a Venus flytrap, a drooling idiot, because someone’s floored you with a question for which you were not prepared.

  “That’s not on the teleprompter,” I point out, baring my teeth in a small, fierce smile.

  The host laughs. Har, har! “You are funny! But rumor has it that the two of you developed something more than friendship while working together?” He raises one eyebrow. Jesus. This guy isn’t known for digging people’s souls out with spoons, so he must think this is a perfectly appropriate question to ask.

  “Um,” I say, as if “um” is a full and clear explanation.

  Boston cuts in. “I’m more than happy to provide the physical talent to the project. I’m proud of my photography and my bodybuilding, and that I’ve been able to inspire so many people with what I’ve done. Abby’s the brains of the project, I’m the brawn, and that has worked out for us. She made it clear that she wasn’t interested in romance.” He sets his jaw, stubborn, not looking at me.

  “Well, it’s full-time work, being a living typewriter,” I snap back at him, “so there’s no time for romance, especially since I don’t frequent the gym eight times a day and eat string beans morning, noon, and night. We can’t all be supermodels in our spare time.” I know I’m not supposed to care about this anymore, but he’s really making me mad. I’m the brawn. Who says that?

  Annalise clears her throat. “It was a lot of fun to work with Boston and Abby,” she offers. “We always had a lot of… fun.” Her voice trails off, then she shoots a look at Erik and her voice gains strength. “They always tease each other like this, it’s such a riot!” She laughs, and sounds authentic. “Because, as you can clearly see, they are both very intelligent and also attractive people.” She waves her hand at us and nods at Jerry. “Also, they play… practical jokes on each other! Did you know, one time Abby even brought a whoopee cushion in and Parker sat on it during a photo shoot? It was hilarious.”

  She giggles and the host laughs with her. “Do you have more examples?” he asks. “This is good stuff.”

  “Oh, sure.” Annalise looks up and to her right. “So this one time? Parker… he knows Abby is afraid of cats, right? So he got a stuffed cat and put a string on it, and dangled it in front of her computer and she freaked out!”

  Annalise pinches me and I laugh, too, first forcing it, but then for real, thinking about how funny that could have been, and even Boston chuckles. And I feel like an asshole. This isn’t just about me, it’s all three of us, and I have no right to trash anyone’s chance at success. Who does that to themselves and their business partners? I can only blame tension and anxiety and nerves, but still, I need to get my act together.

  I nod. “It was pretty funny. But I got him back when I… ah… put hot pepper sauce into his nasty green veggie juice. You should have seen him cough.”

  Boston laughs. “But I got the last laugh. I, well, I… sent her a mock email from her editor saying that she needed to add in a sexy stepbrother with tentacles and a motorcycle in order to get the book published. She just about hit the ceiling.”

  I crack up. He remembered! He remembered me whining about how you could sell the crappiest book in the world if it had stepbrothers, shapeshifters, weird alien sex, or guys on bikes. I smile at him and he’s grinning back at me, the way we used to do, and I feel my heart soar. This. I miss this.

  “So,” Annalise continues, her voice strong, “we’d love to tell you more about the modeling shoots.” She lowers her voice and leans forward. “Want to hear the real scoop about what happens behind the camera?”

  When we go backstage, the host is all smiles. “That was great!” he exclaims. “We may cut a few parts out and smooth it just a bit, but I think it will be a big hit with the viewers. It’ll be on next Thursday morning, so hopefully you’ll see book sales spike over that weekend.”

  Erik and Annalise are together, his hands on the sides of her face, her smile beaming up at him, her energy making both of them glow with pleasure and pride. I can see how proud he is of her, and how happy she is with him.

  I turn to Boston, a little wary. “So, I guess—that ended up okay.”

  He nods. “Yeah. Listen, Abby…”

  I rush in, my words crashing onto each other. “I miss you. I really miss you. I’m sorry for, I don’t even know. I’m sorry for everything. We need to talk. Please, I—”

  But then that girl is back, dark hair and eyes. “You ready?” she says to him, a questioning smile on her face, and kisses him on the cheek. I suck in my breath and try not to freak out, but I sort of do anyway.

  The look he gives me is apologetic. “Abby, I—”

  I put up my hand. “No. It’s fine. I have to go, too. I have… things to do. We can talk… another time. Great job today, and I’m sure we’ll be in touch about book stuff, maybe more publicity, if we get more shows like this.”

  The girl tries to introduce herself. “Hi! Abby? I’ve heard so much about you! I’ve been dying to meet you. I’m—”

  And Boston calls out, “Abby!”

  But I don’t even listen, and I know I’m being horrible, and it’s embarrassing—or it should be—but all I want to do is get out of there.

  “I’m needed at the cemetery,” I snap. Then I rush to the exit and to my car and break down into sobs.

  ***

  This is the most horrible day ever. It should be the happiest thing, right? My new career is rocking. My book is a bestseller, I’m going to make tons of money, which means I can keep doing this—this is my day job now, writing, what I’ve always wanted. I was on TV. It’s my birthday. But all I feel is miserable.

  Liesl calls while I sit there. “Abby. How’d it go?” She sounds excited.

  “Horrible.” I gulp. “I almost tanked it all, and Annalise had to pull a last minute Hail Mary and rescue us all from my idiocy. Turns out she’s as good at PR as she is at auto mechanics and modeling. And poetry. So it turned out really well. It also turns out that I’m a dumb moron, did you know that?”

  “Stop. You’re not a moron. Not all the time. What exactly happened? Were you nervous?”

  I wail into the phone. “I’m stupid and because I was too chicken-shit to talk to him, I missed my chance forever! He has a new girlfriend!”

  “Aw, Abby. No! Really? Shit. Listen, where are you? Come over here, okay?”

  “I don’t want to.” I pick at some lint on my shirt and look out my car window. It’s a cold day but the sky is bright blue, and the clouds look like puffs of cotton candy.

  “Well, you can’t be sad alone. It’s your birthday. We’re all taking you out later, so you have to come back here sometime.” Her voice is a mix of threat and worry. “Home, remember? We’re making you a good home tonight.”

  I sigh. “I’ll be back. I—thank you for organizing a happy hour for me. I’ll be there. I just, I need a little time, that’s all. Besides, I have—I have to visit my… The grave. You know.”

  Liesl is silent for a second, then she says, “If you ever want company, Abby? I will be there in one heartbeat. You know that.”

  “I need to do it alone, but thanks.” My voice cracks, then I force it to straighten out, like pulling a wrinkled string taut again. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you later this evening. You said seven, right?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice is cautious.

  “Okay. Love you.”

  “You, too.”

  I hang up and wipe my eyes. I might as well get my cemetery visit out of the way. Sometimes I hate that my mom died right on my birthday, but then again, I suppose—would it have been so much better to have it happen a day before or a day after? Death is death, after all, and my sadness wouldn’t be less just because of the happenstance of the calendar.

  ***

  I hate the rush of anxious adrenaline that surges through me when I spot the cypress trees. I want to cut them all down and plant flowers, roses, tons and tons of vin
es and gardenias. I hate the ugly marble benches with cracks in them, and I hate that someone has left a Snickers wrapper on the ground, and it’s blown into some brown dead-looking bushes, and it waves at me in the cold breeze. I pick it up and stuff it in my pocket to throw out later, hoping the person who had it didn’t get contagious phlegm on it or anything. Then I suppose that perhaps the litterer was like me: So anxious, so sad that they could barely remember the name of their book, let alone how to properly dispose of a wrapper in the cemetery.

  I crumple the plastic in my pocket and fist it, hard, my nails biting into my skin. My mom’s grave is a flat shiny stone on the ground with her name and the dates and a carving of a dove. I don’t care for the dove, and I didn’t order it, but that’s how it came, and it didn’t seem important to change it afterwards. Besides, I had no energy at the time, and now I trace the contours in my imagination, wondering about the person whose job it is to etch doves and praying hands and crosses into marble slabs all day, every day. Unless they mix it up and do some random artistic stuff, too? Or is it done by machine these days, and a laser?

  This is the kind of random thing my mom and I would talk about in the last days together. I read a poem about someone dying in that book from Marr, and their last conversations were described as pocket change being spent, used up. It was like that, but better, because every conversation with my mom was interesting, fun. She could make anything sparkle.

  I open my purse and take out a blue rock. I got it at the Lizzadro Museum of Lapidary Art in Chicago a few years ago, and I like the way it sparkles. I lay it down on top of the stone and smile. The sadness never goes away, but I remember my mom’s laugh and the way she told stories, and it gives me the kind of memory that leaves a smile on my face for a long time, not just a second, but lots of seconds all strung together like a necklace, a smile that keeps coming and coming, like waves on the ocean, one after the other, blending together.