by Susan Ward
I find myself grinning. “You say the most outrageous things, love.”
She shoves the gray lop-eared creature into the other hutch. “Do you want to know their names?”
“I don’t know if I care to know any rabbits on a first-name basis.” I run a hand through my hair and note the disappointment in her eyes. Fine. I’ll ask. “What are their names, Krystal?”
She points at the one in front of her. “That one I named after Mommy. Her name is Chrissie.”
I make a face, and bite back a laugh. “I bet that went over well with your mum.”
Krystal shakes her head. She points to the gray bunny. “That one I named after you. That one we call Manny.”
Oh fuck.
The blood starts to riot through my ears. I can feel color on my face like a burn. I am being confronted about my past with her mother. Fuck, what the hell does she know?
“Krystal, why would you do that?”
I stare at her.
Her eyes widen. “I always name my pets after the people I love. You look very strange. What’s wrong?”
I find her explanation not cute.
“I don’t care for having a rabbit named after me.”
She stares silent and pouty at the cages. Damn, what is she trying to do here? I am being dragged through a minefield of innuendo by a little girl.
“Are you reading the online tabloids again? Is there anything you’ve read that you’d like to ask me about? It’s mostly garbage, Krystal. I hope you know that.”
She stares at me with her enormous blue eyes. “If I asked about the things I see we would be here forever.”
Fuck, I don’t know what that means, or how I should answer that one.
I place a kiss on her hair. “I love you, Krystal. I want you to remember that always in case I don’t visit again for a long time.”
I don’t like her reaction. She springs to her feet. She stares, her eyes anxious and searching, then runs away.
Before I can stop her, she’s gone, disappeared around the house into the main back lawn.
Good one, Alan. You’ve blown it again. I’m out of my depth. Fuck, I should never have come here.
Chapter 8
I turn the knob on the side door of the house. Oh fuck. Locked. I do a quick study of the yard. No gate over here. The only direction to go is through the backyard.
I round the side of the house onto the patio.
“Hello, Alan.”
My startled gaze locks on Chrissie.
She is sitting on the edge of a patio table, bouncing the book she was reading against her fingertips. The yard is empty. The boys are gone, the French doors closed. I can tell by her expression she knew I was here before she saw me.
“What a man of eclectic vices you’ve become,” she says before I’ve collected myself enough to even say hello. “To top off the list I’ve been reading in the tabloids of how you’ve amused yourself on tour, you’ve become a voyeur to the lusty pursuits of rabbits. What an exciting life you live.”
I tense. She said that in a silly way, but there was bite in each word. I fight not to let my anger stir since it is appropriate that her first words to me should be critical. I owe her that.
I take a moment to regroup. I can’t tell what direction this is going to go. I’m getting a dose of the playacting. Nonsensical drivel. But I don’t know what’s underneath the façade.
Anger?
Hurt?
This could take off in any direction.
I opt for nonsensical as well. “I need to take a page from the rabbits, Chrissie. The male is discreet, he is modestly quick and delightfully charming in the afterglow. Somehow it makes him all the more tolerable to the female.”
Oh fuck, what made me say that?
She shakes her head in a dramatic and cutesy sort of way. “Don’t do that, Alan. We would all be living in a boring world if you became discreet, modestly quick and charming in the afterglow all on the same day.”
Direct hit.
“I love you, Chrissie. How much longer are you going to make me wait for you this time? Five years? Ten? Let me know so I can pray, fast and mentally prepare.”
Her expression doesn’t change. Not even a hint of reaction.
“I wasn’t aware that you were waiting,” she says smoothly. “A phone call might have been useful to get the message to me. Hell, I would have even settled for a text.”
Aggravated, I run a hand through my hair. How like her to drop the mistakes we both own solely on me. “Then you are the only one unaware on seven continents, love.”
Her brows lift. “Really? How irritating that must be for the women in your life. No wonder you’ve run through so many so quickly this year. You irritate them.”
Fine. You’ve had your pound of flesh. Enough.
“Not quickly, Chrissie. While I’m there I give it my all.”
There. Hopefully, she’ll be ready to back off on this charade. I hate the playacting. She knows it. It’s not a good sign that she’s leading with it.
“You’re right. Let me rephrase. You are never quick in the endeavor. There are times you do exceed your exaggerated public persona, Alan. You exceed in the endeavor. Maybe I should take a poll on this. No, it would be an exhausting effort. How many women have you gone through this time? Fifty? A hundred? No, more like fifty. You’re getting older and you’ve only had thirteen months to work with.”
She’s learned to fight in a year. And she’s not just angry, she’s hurt. Deeply hurt. Message received, Chrissie.
“Do you want to talk about the women I’ve had in my life or do you want to talk about us? I’ll talk about both, whichever you care for. I never do bullshit with you, Chrissie. So remind yourself of that before you decide which way you want to take us in this and how far into detail. Why don’t we skip the first topic since not a single woman was of any significance since none of them were you?”
She moves away from the patio table until she is standing.
Her eyes flash.
“I won’t tolerate the women, Alan. If you can’t give me that, go home. Don’t follow me into the house. Spare us both and leave. If you step through that door it’s a promise to me. A promise I expect you to keep. Then we can take some time to figure out what we want to do about you and me.”
She walks away, through the patio door, and closes it behind her.
I sink onto the foot of a chaise lounge and stare. What the fuck happened here? Did I hear her correctly? She moved through the first round with the sureness of a military mastermind. Chrissie defined the ground rules of having a relationship with her—this time—in a series of five unleashed blows masquerading as a conversation.
Christ, I don’t understand any of this. Does she mean what I think she means? That she has already decided she wants to try to give us a go again.
Definitely not what I expected today. Not her calmness. Not her emotional poise. And not how quickly she moved us to the reason I’m here: us.
I take several measured breaths and realize I can’t sit out here all afternoon trying to figure this out. If I delay much longer Chrissie might take that as me debating with myself over whether to follow her.
I go into the house.
I find her alone in the kitchen, tidying the mess on the counter left by the children. They’ve eaten their pizza. The house is quiet. It sounds like it’s empty.
I settle myself on a stool across the island from her. “If you don’t stop force-feeding me shit, Chrissie, you’ll suffocate me before I get a chance to even ask you to dinner.”
She looks over her shoulder at me. She laughs.
“It’s the art of tough love, Alan, and you need it. I don’t need dinner. And monogamy isn’t the worst promise in the world to keep.”
I don’t like being lectured.
“I have always been faithful to you when we were together, Chrissie, and you know it.”
She nods. “I know you were, Alan. But our circumstance is more complicated. You’
ve changed and not in all ways better. I can’t let you back into my life, not for a day if this isn’t something you’re going to do the way I need you to. My children come first. Don’t ever forget that.”
I sit back, staring at her.
“Would you like to explain what’s going on, Chrissie? I came here hoping you wouldn’t throw me out the front door. I don’t mind if you’re inclined to skip the preliminaries, we both know what I want and why I’m here, but I wish you’d let me know what it is you want so I can reschedule my calendar. What is it you want, Chrissie?”
Chrissie shuts off the water, turns from the sink, and leans back against the counter. “I’m not throwing you out the front door, but we’re a long way from anything else. This time it has to be my way, not yours.”
“Your way, love? What makes you think that’s a change?”
She smiles, contrite. “I concede your point. I’m sorry. I can see I’m confusing you. You came here expecting a fight and you thought I was going to hate you. I don’t want to fight and I don’t hate you. But that won’t make this any easier for either of us. I can’t be your friend. I’m pretty sure we’ll blur that line. And I won’t be your lover. There are a few issues we need to work through. It’s part of me being sure this time, sure about you, sure about us. Sure about the direction I take my life.”
Sure?
Is she fucking serious?
“I’ve loved you every day since the moment I first saw you. What more do you need from a man to be sure?”
She stares at me, blinks twice, and then smiles, one of her comical smiles. “May it be written on every obelisk and pylon. The tabloids just didn’t do it for me. Too many photos.”
Again, dramatic and exaggerated. Still playacting in round two; not a good sign.
I shake my head. “Tomorrow I’ll purchase all the obelisks and pylons in America. Where do I find them?”
I let out a ragged breath.
I sense we both need a rest in this.
“Your house is quiet, Chrissie. What have you done with your kids?”
Those blues begin to sparkle. “I locked them in the cellar.”
I roll my eyes. “I suppose I should be grateful that you didn’t lock me in the cellar, love. Not being an optimist I’m not dismissing the worry yet.”
She smiles again. The change of subject seems to ease some of her tension.
“In case you weren’t aware, Alan, you were on the patio over an hour. You have a horrible concept of time. Grace took Krystal and the boys home with her. Kaley is staying at a friend’s. You can spend the night if you want to. You look like hell. A night of healthy living couldn’t hurt you.”
I don’t take those words as an invitation to share her bed tonight even though she got rid of the kids. I’m more inclined to believe she is expecting something to happen and doesn’t want the kids to witness it.
“It’s a good thing I look like hell. I’m dead tired. I only reached LA a few hours ago. Us alone in a house—you would never let me sleep unless I looked like hell, Chrissie.”
I regret the joke the second it’s out, because hearing those words aloud reminds me of our last night together and that we haven’t talked about that yet.
She turns and reaches into a cabinet, blowing by that without a response. She pulls out two glasses and a bottle of unopened scotch. She breaks the seal, fills my glass too generously and puts a splash in her own.
“I’m assuming you still drink scotch,” she says.
“Some things never change, Chrissie.”
She picks up her glass, take a sip, and then studies me over the rim. The hold of her eyes makes my heart accelerate.
“You really do look good, Chrissie. As a matter of fact you look wonderful.”
“I wish I could say the same about you. You really do look awful.”
Something about the way her expression changes makes me more aware of this past year. I make a vague gesture with my hands. “It’s just road fatigue.”
“More like roadkill.” She eases closer to me. Her finger moves to lightly trace my chin and upper lip. “And what’s with this? When did the facial hair start?”
I smile ruefully. “Six months ago. I can see by your expression you don’t like it.”
Her lips scrunch up as if she’s holding back a smile. She shakes her head. “No, I don’t. Not at all.”
Her gaze fixes on me more sharply. The thrill of her runs straight into my veins like an elixir. It reminds me why I’m here. Why I put up with so many unpleasant things to be with her.
So I can know this.
The thrill of her eyes. The sound of her voice. The feel of her touch. The smell of her. Her laughter and little gestures missing in all other women.
I lock my eyes on her. “What are the chances if I shave tonight my room assignment will improve?”
She laughs. “Nonexistent.”
“How about in the near term?”
She laughs harder. “That depends entirely on you.”
My tightly coiled nerves unbend.
“On me, huh? You must feel sorry for me and I must really look terrible.”
My gaze roams the kitchen. Her house looks disorganized and untended.
“What is going on here? You’re living in a multimillion-dollar slum. Are you OK financially, Chrissie?”
“I just have Lourdes since the move and I think she’s a little too old to take care of all my kids by herself. I’ve been trying to hire a nanny. But I’m very careful who I trust. Especially now. I haven’t found anyone I feel comfortable with, so for now I live with mess.”
She takes her glass to the sink and seems to spend a lot of time washing it.
“Financially, I’m OK,” she says without turning to look at me. “I took a hit when the real estate market crashed, like everyone else I know. But I’ve had a good year, all things considered.”
“Congratulations on the new release. I was expecting you to take more time off, and then all of a sudden I started hearing you everywhere.”
“Jack’s idea of therapy: work. For what it’s worth, it helped. I really enjoyed doing a musical animated feature. It was the right kind of work when I needed it. Busy, but private. And the kids got such a kick out of it.”
I’m not sure I believe she’s OK. I can feel a hint of worry in her. “You know that if you need anything I will always help you.”
She turns back toward me. “I’m OK, Alan. I’ve had lots of good things happen this year. Life can be good when you least expect it to.”
I don’t know what to make of that one. “I got to visit with the girls a little when I first got here. Kaley seemed different. Is everything all right?”
Chrissie shakes her head, exasperated. “She is different, Alan. She’s seventeen. A senior in high school. She has a car. A driver’s license. A boyfriend. I only see her now when she needs food, sleep or money.”
“You guys are still close, aren’t you?”
She shrugs. “When she wants to be. Otherwise, not. Our relationship has been through a bit of a strain this year. It’s not always easy to know what’s going on with Kaley.”
“You sound worried.”
“I am worried, even though everyone tells me I shouldn’t be. I expected the move to be hardest on her. Senior year of high school and everything. I think she’s doing OK. I just don’t know for sure. And I definitely should have thought through Pacific Palisades a little more before I moved here.”
“Why?”
Her eyes widen in a blend of frustration and reluctant amusement. “The Rowans live less than a mile away. Kaley has been dating Bobby Rowan four months now. I don’t know what I think about that. Not that I am allowed to comment.”
I laugh. “For what it’s worth, Bobby is a good kid. Not at all like his old man.”
Chrissie laughs. “So Linda tells me. I worry anyway. So there we are.”
“There we are.” I fix my eyes on her face. There is something about her expression that I find not enc
ouraging. “Exactly where are we, Chrissie?”
Her eyes meet mine directly again. “Getting to know each other again, I think. A year, it’s a long time. We both have a lot to catch up on.”
“Too long, Chrissie. I don’t ever want to go a year without you in my life, not ever again.”
“You wouldn’t believe the things that Kaley gets poor Bobby to do, so perhaps I should take Linda’s advice and not worry.”
She just pivoted in conversation. She doesn’t seem to want to talk about us and I am beginning to get impatient with her. We’ve covered the kids. Why is she talking so much about them? Isn’t it time to cover us yet?
“Have you seen any of Kaley’s documentaries?” she asks.
I nod. “Linda has showed me a few.”
“They are part of her portfolio for her USC application. She wants to go to film school. And she decided her work from Santa Barbara isn’t serious enough for submission so she and Bobby decided to do a series on OWS Los Angeles—”
I struggle to listen carefully, enveloped in tinnitus. I can see her maternal pride. There are times when she is painfully beautiful. This is one of those times.
“—Well, they went downtown and Bobby was wearing this t-shirt Kaley got made. I don’t know what famous Brit we can credit for the quote, but the shirt said: America went in one generation from a country not afraid of success to a country that sits on its ass in tents and whines about everything.”
I grimace. “That idiot would be me. However, the phrase country not afraid of success I lifted from Margaret Thatcher.”
Chrissie shakes her head at me.
“Before you give me too much grief over the comment, Chrissie, I should point out I’ve gotten enough shit over it already. Hate mail by the truckloads. OWS camped out in front of my Manhattan apartment for two months straight after that.”
“You deserved it. Network news, Alan. You didn’t think that one out at all. It might amuse you to piss everyone off, but you should have thought that one out.”
“I apologized afterward.”
