by BJ Knapp
Tim is constantly torn between his mother and me, which I am sure is a major drag for him. Portia has interrupted more intimate moments between Tim and me than I can count. I know she’s lonely since Tim’s dad died and all, but she’s ridiculous. It’s almost as if she knows when we’re about to have sex, and then she calls. Our disjointed caller ID voice always mispronounces her name, “Call... from... Por Tee Ya Dunkirk.” And then Tim drops me and runs to answer her call every time. I used to delight in the caller ID robot mispronouncing her name. Now it just pisses me off when I hear it.
“Hi, Brenda!” Portia gushes. “Don’t tell me Timothy waited to the last minute to send your taxes in.” She glances at the envelope in my hand, trying to see what it is. I step ahead with the line. She follows, her eyes fixed on the letter.
“Nope, he sent ours in January, just as he always does. Our return is safely in our retirement fund.” I really wish I hadn’t just told her that. Why do I invite her to discuss our finances? What I should have said was that we’ve used our refund to buy a couch, so we wouldn’t have to sit on those starchy chaises she bought for Tim after insisting that she decorate the house.
“Good for him,” she says, smiling tightly. “You never know where the future will take you.” But what she actually meant was, “Your career as a publicist is flaky at best, and Tim should be saving every penny he can for when you leave him and bleed him dry.”
“Well, Tim and I are a great team.” I smile back at her. But what I wish I could actually say is “I am not a gold digger. I love your son, and I am not ever planning on leaving him.” At last, the woman behind the counter calls to me, and I can tell that the man behind me in line is growing impatient. “Oh look, it’s my turn. Gotta go! Lovely to see you, Portia.” I wave with the tips of my fingers as she makes her way to the exit. Glad that’s over with. I wish I could just tell that woman what I really think of her. But if I did, it would hurt Tim’s feelings. He and his mother are very close; more so since his dad passed away. Either I get in between them and look bad, or I can be her doormat and feel bad. Either way, I can’t win.
When I get to the counter, I place the envelope face down on the scale, still not wanting anyone to see who I am writing to. The woman working the counter, obviously exhausted from her long shift, huffs and turns the letter over. She punches the postal code into her computer. I hope she doesn’t notice that I am sending a letter to the attention of Mr. Keith Kutter, Hydraphonic Records, Sydney, Australia. Does anyone still know who he is? Back in the ‘80s and ‘90s, he’d been on the cover of every magazine. In the mall, you could hear their songs blasting from every single store. But today, I wince, bracing myself for her judgment. Yes, I am conscious of the fact that I am a thirty-five-year-old woman mailing a letter to an ‘80s rock star.
“Next!” the woman calls out to the next person in line without even giving me a second look.
I press the stamps on the envelope and slide it into the slot. This is by far the dorkiest thing I’ve done in a while. Sending a letter to Keith Kutter feels like I am just shy of parking myself on his front lawn like some deranged groupie. I will probably never tell another living soul about this act of dorkery I’ve just committed. Not even on my deathbed. Maybe Keith will see the letter, maybe he won’t. Either way, I just needed to reach out to him to let him know that I want to know more. Maybe his family will never forgive him, but to survive professionally, he has to get his fans to forgive him. I think he could pull it off if he really tried to show us that he’s changed.
When I get back to work, I see that I have a voicemail from Annie Wilkins, an editor at MTV News. Annie and I went to college together, and she’s still a very good friend.
“Hey, Bren,” she says in her usual cheerful voice. Annie is always so upbeat. I don't know how she does it, or how it's even possible, because she never drinks anything with caffeine. “So, you got any juicy news for me?”
"Let me check," I tell her, pulling up the newsfeed on my phone. Annie can rely on me for a story now and then, which I gladly provide, mostly because talking to her is just plain fun.
“Jamie Fire is doing a benefit in your neck of the woods tonight," Annie says. "Have you heard anything about any of her shenanigans?”
I swipe through the newsfeed, but it's all pretty boring. “No, nothing too interesting yet. It’s still just lunchtime, though. She has an entire afternoon to do something stupid."
Jamie Fire is the latest teenage-sensation pop tart. The entire world is on the edge of their seats, waiting for her public deflowering. Until then, she’s stringing them along with her virgin/whore drama. As a result, she’s selling like crazy, and her impossibly flat midriff is on the cover of every magazine and in every Pepsi ad all over the world.
"So far, she and her entourage have gone shopping," I say, reading from the newsfeed. "I think she’s going to Taylor Swift’s house on Ocean Drive for brunch tomorrow. Sounds like she’s behaving herself.” I laugh. We talk for a few minutes about how we need to get together soon, but we can never seem to get our schedules to line up.
After we hang up, it’s back to work for me. I have the Smile product launch in July that I need to get to work on. This project could be just the thing to propel me into management. First on the agenda is preparing for a team meeting that I’ll be leading this afternoon. Joy left the mockups for the magazine ads on my desk while I was out that still need client approval. Unfortunately, the color and the font are all wrong. And I need to get with Joy to see what kind of progress she’s made on the media buys. Joy is our receptionist but wants to move into a new role, so I kind of have to hold her hand while she’s learning. I have seventeen new emails in my inbox, all of which came in while I was at lunch. Amanda needs me to send her some sample press releases for the pitch she’s preparing for tomorrow, too.
My letter to Keith slips out of my mind just as fast as it slipped into the slot at the post office.
Chapter 6
SMILE AIRLINES HAS KEPT ME so focused that I barely notice it’s now the end of June. Before I know it, the hot Rhode Island summer is upon me. I feel like Tim and I have barely seen each other in the last month. I’ve been working late every night, and he’s up to the same old thing, working on his campaign with Aria. Lately, we haven’t had dinner together at all, and putting together meals has been a bit of a free-for-all, as neither of us has really bothered to grocery shop. But today I manage to get home at a reasonable hour, and I left a message for Tim on my way home to see if he could, as well. It would be nice to reconnect with him and actually have a conversation.
There’s a box in front of the garage when I get home. I don’t remember ordering anything, and I don’t know if Tim has, either. I am a little disappointed it’s not the dog food I ordered online, as even Vito’s dinners are going to suffer soon. I park the car outside the garage and take the box with me into the back door.
I peel away the packing tape, and when I pull the lid off the box, I find inside a gorgeous flower arrangement. There are roses, lilies, those lime-green puffy things that I can never remember the name of, and some gladiolas. I have an old glass vase up in one of the cupboards. I take it down and fill it with water then pull the flowers out of the tissue paper. The arrangement is almost too big to fit into the vase, but eventually I get it all in. I press my face into it and inhale deeply; the fragrance instantly revives my mood.
I put the packaging into the recycling bin out the back door, and then carry the flowers upstairs into the bedroom. I am absolutely exhausted from working so much lately, but Tim is clearly making the effort here, and so will I. I light some candles and lower the shades to block out the bright late-afternoon sun. I rifle through my dresser and pull out my special little black lacy number. I cannot even remember the last time I wore it. I spritz it with a bit of perfume so it won’t smell musty on me.
It isn’t long before I hear Tim come in through the front door. “Hey, I’m home,” he calls out. “Honey?”
; I hear the door close, and then the sound of his footsteps crossing the hardwood floor to the stairs. I debate whether to stay quiet and let him find me, but then there’s the risk that he’ll think I went out for a run, and he’ll flop down in front of the TV and stop looking. I hear him hang his keys on the hook by the door. Then I hear his footsteps as he walks back to where I’d tossed mine on the kitchen counter; back one more time to hang mine on the hook beside his. I smile, because I know that leaving my keys on the counter drives him crazy. He’s stopped hassling me about it, though, ever since I pointed out it was his hang up and not mine.
“I’m up here,” I call out.
Moments later, Tim comes into the bedroom, where I am sprawled across our bed in his favorite little black lace number.
“Hey, I could get used to this,” he says, smiling as he stops to peel off his greasy work jeans. He looks tired. I know the feeling. Just once, I hope that he’ll just fling his clothes aside and dive into bed with me. But no, he turns the pants right side out and removes the change and a folded piece of paper from the pockets which he places into the sterling silver tray—a gift from his mother—on his dresser. Then he pulls off his T-shirt and boxers and drops them with his jeans into the hamper. I know I shouldn’t complain about a fastidious husband, but sometimes waiting for him kills the mood a bit. I can tell that he’s dying to get a shower before joining me in our bed—he fidgets slightly. But just before I suggest we take it to the shower together, he kisses me hard—although not nearly as hard as he has in the past.
“Wow, look at you,” he whispers into my ear. “You are so hot.”
Is he just saying that because he thinks he should say that? Is he really not in the mood either? Why does his voice sound as if he’s reading from a script?
His hands slide over the lace, but they feel rigid, which suddenly makes me feel tense, too. We used to know how to do this, and, in fact, we were pretty damn good at it. How did we get this far off the path? Sex used to be the main event for us, but now it feels like something we’re just crossing off the list because we know that we should be doing it. I just need to concentrate on the mood. When was the last time we had really hot sex? If I can remember that, then I can get us fired up again. Was it really so long ago that I don’t remember? Come on, something has to stand out. Think!
He starts to peel back my negligee, but it feels like he’s on auto-pilot, with his hands methodically reaching for all the right places, as if he’s just trying to get things over with. Is that why he sent me flowers? Just to phone in a half-assed effort?
I need to calm down. My mind is spiraling toward an unhappy place. I need to focus on Tim right now. Okay, time to make hot sex happen. I put my mouth on his and give him one of those powerful tongue-filled kisses that will make him see stars when I am done. I flip us over and straddle him, bracing his arms over his head, then proceed to run my tongue along his ear and down the side of his neck. He frees his hands and pulls the black lace over my head and off my body. Then, just before we’re about to really make something happen, he turns his head and glances at my birth control pill pack on top of my night table.
“Whoa, I saw that,” I say, pulling myself out of his arms. “Did you seriously just check my pill pack?”
A few months ago, Tim freaked out after I’d forgotten to refill my prescription for birth control pills. He wouldn’t even come near me until he was sure that I’d taken them every day for two weeks. I asked him if he thought I’d done it on purpose, and he didn’t exactly said no.
I don’t even give Tim a chance to answer. “Do you honestly think I’d stop taking them without telling you first? I feel like you think I’m trying to trap you with a baby or something. It’s nice to know that you don’t trust me.”
“Bren, I’m sorry,” he says. He sighs and runs his hands through his red hair. “It was just one of those things. I didn’t even think about it.”
“I know we don’t agree on the baby question right now. But I would never in a million years go behind your back and stop taking my pills. It pisses me off that, somewhere deep down, you’d even think that. God, Tim. Is this what we’ve come to?” I watch the guilty look cross his face. I know he feels bad about all of it. He feels bad about not being ready for a baby, and he feels bad for making me feel this way.
“Honey, I am sorry.” He takes me into his arms. “I am sorry I made you feel that way. I didn’t mean it.”
“What are we doing here, Tim? I thought that, because you sent me flowers, we were going to have a nice night together.”
“What flowers?”
“The gigantic display right there. The one you walked right past when you came in here. How could you miss them?” I laugh.
“I would think you would want me to notice you instead of the flowers,” he quips. He smiles at me and kisses me on the forehead. “But I didn’t send those.”
“Really? Then where did they come from?”
“Maybe you have a secret admirer,” he says, laughing.
“Seriously, they aren’t from you? I thought for sure...” I trail off. Who would have sent me flowers?
It’s pretty clear that we are not going all the way tonight. We’re both off into our own heads again. Normally a scene like this would devolve into me having hurt feelings and him feeling guilty. And then, when I’d try to remedy the situation, the moment would be over for him. Then the night would end in an awkward silence. The next morning would be weird, as we’d fumble around each other at the bathroom sink while getting ready for work, each of us not wanting to accidently bump into each other, being over-polite in the weirdest of ways. Then, an awkward kiss on the cheek before we both got into our cars and left for our respective jobs.
But is this normal? I feel like I don’t have anyone to ask. Sex has become such a minefield for us lately. The baby issue is killing me. I don’t want to “accidentally” get pregnant. It’s a decision that I want the both of us to make together, and I am trying to be supportive. But my patience is wearing thin, and my time is running out. I don’t want to be seventy at my kid’s high school graduation.
After a few minutes of lying in silence, Tim says, “Okay, the mystery of the flowers then. I know you’re dying over there, so let’s go.” He gets up from the bed, heads to his dresser, and pulls on a clean pair of shorts and a T-shirt. “Was there a box or any wrapping on these?” He’s being such a good sport. I am sure I can find some way to repay him later on tonight. I rack my brain for a sexy detective joke; but I got nuthin’.
“Yeah, a box. It’s in the recycling bin.”
I didn’t even think to look at the packaging. I just assumed they were from him. When we’re downstairs, he gets the box from the recycling bin, sets it on the counter, and begins pawing through the tissue paper. “I found an envelope,” he says, finally.
I pull the card out and read the note silently. I roll my eyes. “Yeah, sure, they’re not from you. Listen to this.” I read the note with a mocking tone: “’Dear Brenda, thanks for your letter. It means a great deal to hear from a fan like you. Enjoy the flowers. All my best, Keith Kutter.’” I raise my eyebrows. “Real cute, Tim.” I laugh and toss the note onto the counter.
He picks up the note and reads it himself. “What letter?” he asks.
“Huh?” I pause and feel my mouth hang open. “Holy crap. I never told you about that. I wrote a letter to Keith Kutter after I read his book.”
“You mean, like a fan letter? You are such a dork!” he teases. “You wrote a fan letter to a rock star?”
“Yes, I did. But I didn’t think he’d actually read it. I just figured it would get caught up by an army of assistants at the record company.” I read the note again. It’s handwritten—but did he actually write it himself? Surely he has an assistant who handles all his correspondence. Or does he? I stare at the note a few moments longer, dumbstruck that Keith Kutter has even read my letter, never mind that he’s sent me flowers. There is no way this is really happening.
> “There’s something written on the back,” Tim points out. I turn it over. Sure enough, there’s a series of numbers on the back of the card.
“Tim, does this look like an international phone number to you?” I hold out the card to him.
“Either that or a combination to a big safe. Maybe coordinates to the hidden treasure,” he replies, laughing. “I say you dial it, and see if it is a phone number.” He shrugs and holds out the cordless phone we keep on our kitchen counter. Our kitchen is way bigger than two people would ever need. We have miles of white granite counter top; the only thing Tim wants on the counter is a set of white ceramic canisters which are actually empty. We don’t even keep things like flour and sugar in them, like other people would. The cabinets are white, the appliances are white. I am dying to hang up a red curtain over the kitchen window. But no, that’s white, too. Tim likes all the white because it always feels clean to him. Honestly, it drives me a bit stir crazy sometimes. “Worst thing that’ll happen is that you won’t get through, right?”
I stare at the phone for a few seconds. In my work, I’ve had to call up strangers hundreds of times to ask them to do things for me like offer quotes or run stories. But this time, I have no idea what to say if I do make this call. “Dial it and say what?” I ask him. “What time is it in Australia, anyway? What if it’s the middle of the night?” I head to the computer and Google a time zone map. “Look, it says they’re sixteen hours ahead in Sydney. It’s seven o’clock here now, so...” I count on my fingers. “It’s eleven in the morning there now.”
