Andrew relents. “Okay.”
“I’m going up. The sheets are clean on the bed in the guest room. See you in the morning.”
Andrew sits at the table with me for a minute. “Want to leave? We can just go. Say the word.”
“I’d love to take off. But you know we need to stay. They’re your folks, Andrew. They always will be. You need to give them a chance.”
“I knew you’d say that. Want a cup of tea?” He gets up to look through the cabinet.
“Show me around. Where’s your old room?”
“Down the hall.” He points.
“Let’s go.” I stand up and take him by the hand.
He walks me down the hall. There are tons of family pictures hanging: he and his two sisters, all towheaded, posed in a little circle in front of a fountain; the family in front of Niagara Falls; Andrew and his dad with fishing poles.
“Look at all these memories. You look like the perfect family.”
“Oh, I learned to be an actor from somewhere. I’ll tell you all the sordid details someday when we’re trapped together in an elevator for hours or something.” A trace of bitterness clings to his words.
We stop at a panel door. “Here it is, the famous lair of Andrew Pettigrew, boy wonder.”
He swings the door open. I step in to a sewing room. “What?”
“I told you, my mom converted my room the second I left for LA. No shrine to Andy Pettigrew in here.”
“Aw, that’s kind of sad.” I look at the sewing machine, the card table in the corner, the rolls of gift wrap hanging on the wall, organized by holiday.
“They had faith in my success, maybe…knew I wasn’t going to come crawling back a failure.”
“So much for having sex in your childhood bed.” I elbow him, trying to get him to smile.
“Now that is a bummer. I could make up for all of the failed attempts in my teen years.”
“Not a lot of luck with the ladies?”
“Todd was the ladies’ man. I never really figured it out.”
“Your fans would be shocked.” I turn around, plant a kiss on his lips, and smack his butt.
“Watch it, girl! This is a wholesome and decent family’s home.”
“I’ve been corrupted by a Hollywood lothario. Can’t help it.”
“I’m not going to get up to no good with you in a sewing room. Not gonna do it.”
“Well, let’s go look for a more suitable place.” I wink and lead him out the door.
I don’t sleep much. A guest room in a strange house, Andrew tossing and turning next to me, and absolute terror for the awkward morning that awaits keep my eyes wide open. I can’t imagine how the next talk with Andrew’s parents is going to go.
I’ve never been much for confrontation. It’s so much easier to run in the opposite direction. Andrew never seems afraid to have the big conversations, and I admire that about him. I wonder if the movie business requires a certain boldness. Andrew would be trampled by all the hungry actors looking for a break if he weren’t able to hold his own and speak his mind, I suppose.
It’s a relief when he sits up on his side of the double bed before seven.
“Are you up?” he whispers.
“Never really went down. Not a good night’s sleep.” I sit up too and cuddle into his back, strong and broad under the white T-shirt he slept in.
“Let’s go down. I have an idea for the olive branch.” He stands and slides on his jeans.
“Thank God for that. I spent a good chunk of the night trying to find a way to redeem myself.”
“And?”
“I got nothin’.”
“Get dressed, because I’m taking you and the fam-damily golfing.”
“What?” Maybe I’m not awake yet, because I think Andrew just said we were golfing.
“Golf. My folks love golf. I’m going to fix this.”
“I thought your mom didn’t like going out.”
“The country club she can manage. I try not to ask too many questions.”
“I don’t golf. I haven’t since my grandmother got kicked out of the Sevier County Country Club.”
“What was that for?”
“She said it was okay that the four-year-old French twins wore Speedos in the country club pool. The rest of the social committee thought it was immoral.”
Andrew stretches and runs a hand through his messy brown hair, ruffling it more into place. “Scandal. Well, Hugh and Maria like golf, and I’m decent at it, and you can whack the ball around and drive our cart.”
“And then we leave first thing tomorrow?”
“It’s the best I can do. I can’t push the visit any longer. I have a movie to shoot.”
I stand up and give him a kiss. “Golf is a brilliant idea. Otherwise we have to stare at each other for a day. Might as well have a purpose.”
Andrew can be a charming guy, and a persuasive one too. At a rather frosty breakfast, he talks his mom and dad into a round of golf at the local country club. Hugh is a member, but Andrew’s called in some favors too, so we’ll get a prime tee time and any other first-class perks he can think of.
We drive in Hugh’s Cadillac to the club. I keep quiet, finding the Pennsylvania countryside intensely intriguing, in hopes that I can keep from making anyone cranky before we even get there.
The golf pro’s arranged everything for us, so in swift succession we have clubs, carts, and arrive at the tee box for the first hole.
Maria wears a cute pink and green outfit with a matching windbreaker. Her golf glove is worn smooth on the palm and fingers. She knows what she’s doing on the course, obviously, and her straight, long drive down the fairway is further proof of that.
Andrew’s good at everything, so he’s next and pounds the ball down the course.
Hugh whistles. “I thought you didn’t like golf, son. That was quite a drive.”
“I don’t like it much. But producers love it. Deals get made on LA courses.” He hands me a driver from my borrowed bag of clubs, and I say a silent prayer.
I step up to the tee and try to channel my grandma’s abilities. “You all might want to look alive,” I joke, but for a split second I pray that I don’t bean Andrew’s mother. I’d be done for sure.
The club head connects with the ball, and I do that “look down the fairway” thing I’ve seen golfers do on television. My freshman suitemate in college watched golf when hung over; she liked it that the commentators whispered.
“Andrew, you didn’t tell me Kelly played golf.” Hugh seems impressed.
“She didn’t tell me.”
“Beginner’s luck.” I owe my grandma for the angelic assist.
We get in two carts and head down the fairway. Andrew drives and puts an arm around my shoulder as we follow Hugh and Maria’s cart. “Okay, Miss LPGA, you may just get on my folks’ good side faster than I thought.”
“I have no idea what I’m doing.” I suspect I will pull a muscle before day’s end.
“That’s fine. Keep having no clue.” He hums a little tune that sounds suspiciously like the Caddyshack theme.
We make our way around the course, and my luck holds. I can’t putt from any kind of distance, but I’m able to keep driving the ball down the course far enough to make it on the green in a decent number of swings.
Hugh loosens up at about hole number six, a long dogleg to the left with bunkers on both sides of the green. When he asks Andrew if we’re naming our baby Jack Nicklaus, I think we’ve turned a corner with him.
But Maria stays quiet.
When we’re on number fifteen, I finally start to fade. It’s after lunchtime, and I’m hungry, and my back is starting to hurt. Plus, the humidity makes me queasy. The drive I’m able to manage off the tee hooks left hard.
“And it’s in the water.” Andrew gives me a high five.
“My streak is officially over.” I rub my back.
I drop another ball and make it down the fairway this time. We go to get in the carts, a
nd Hugh motions to his. “Kelly, come ride with me. Your boyfriend needs some time with his mother.”
I do as he says. Andrew raises his eyebrows hopefully over his sunglasses.
I’m grateful for the cart ride. “I’m getting tired. The rest of this could get pretty ugly, Hugh.”
He nods. “I’m sorry about last night. We were just surprised.”
Thank God he’s not angry. “We were too.”
He looks at me. “Really?”
“I love Andrew more than anything, and now I’m excited, but I thought I was done.”
Hugh nods, without looking at me, and looks out into the thick leafy forest at the edge of the fairway. “The longer you live it, the more life surprises you.”
“I couldn’t agree more. I figured on a long and boring life with Peter.”
“Your husband. Andrew told me about him. I’m sorry, Kelly.”
I’m ready to change the subject. “The universe has a lot of plans that I don’t get consulted on, apparently. But the one where Andrew and I get to have a child together I never thought was in the cards. It’s a gift I didn’t even consider.”
Hugh pats my hand. “What do you think? Can you stand us as in-laws, grandparents to your child?”
“Can you stand me as your daughter-in-law?”
He pulls the cart to the end of the path. “More than stand. Andrew loves you; we love you. And look at him.”
We turn to see the other cart driving up behind us. Andrew has his arm around his mom, and he’s got her laughing about something. The man’s a miracle worker, I tell you. I look at Hugh. “She doesn’t look mad anymore.”
“She was never mad. She just had to see he was happy. And I haven’t seen him stand so tall since he went out to Hollywood. You’ve brought him peace. I’m on board with that.”
Andrew gets out of the cart and pulls a putter to go to the green. I smile at him, and he gives the brim of his Ping visor a little tip. I look at Hugh. “In that case, let’s put this round out of its misery, shall we?”
He pats me on the shoulder, and we follow Maria and Andrew to the green. “Maybe you can bring the little tyke out for golf lessons when he’s bigger.” He says this loud enough for Andrew to hear.
“You hear that, Andrew? Your dad thinks it’s a boy too.”
Andrew shakes his head. “The campaigning has no effect on the outcome, Kells. This isn’t the Academy Awards.” He motions me to him. “Come here a minute before we finish this hole.”
I walk across the spongy turf, putter in hand. “What?”
He bends down on one knee and takes out a stainless steel ball marker, attached to a ring fashioned out of grip tape. He takes my left hand, slides the twist-tie off and slides the ball marker on. “Will you marry me?”
I laugh out loud. “On a golf course?”
Maria looks confused. “What, is he proposing?”
I look at her. “It’s a long story.”
Andrew shakes his head. “I like to propose. I’m only getting married once, but no one said I couldn’t propose lots.”
Hugh rolls his eyes. “Andrew never can do something without a production. We knew from the time he was five he’d be an actor. Always the center of attention.”
Maria points to the ball marker. “Is this real? Are you really going to get married?”
“Yes, Mom.” Andrew stands up and kisses me. I haven’t let go of my putter yet.
“That’s not the ring you’re giving her.”
I kiss Andrew again and smile wide under his lips. “He’s working up to the Eye of the Tiger.”
Hugh walks over to his ball and sinks it in the hole without so much as a look. He points to the fairway behind us and walks back to the golf cart. “Time to wrap it up, kids. The Yorks want to play through.”
5: Tell Me You Love Me
THREE DAYS LATER, up-and-coming actress Amanda Walters sits next to me at a long, white conference table in New York City. She has a Starbucks cup in one hand and her copy of the shooting script in the other. Her red hair tumbles down her back, and I can’t help but remember my hands tangled up in it. She was amazing in bed.
But a mess everywhere else—the true definition of a hot mess.
And though I’ve made it crystal clear to Kelly and anyone else who will listen that I’m not interested in having anyone but Kelly in my life, Amanda Walters doesn’t make anything easy. She’s not a temptation for me—not in the slightest—but Amanda never lets anything go. What I’m worried about now is how this red-headed freight train of crazy will be received by my currently-very-tenderhearted Kelly.
I grew up with sisters, and it was a good way to grow up. I mean it when I say I appreciate and admire women’s strength, tenderness, and instinct. But now that I’ve made that clear, I also have a gripe. What I hate about women is the insecurity. I can meet the most amazing girl, but she’s consumed by it. I mean, I don’t walk around feeling like God’s gift, but I also couldn’t live my life if I were a quivering mass of “Do you like me?” and “Are you mad at me?”
That’s the thing that gets me. It pisses me off that Kelly still sometimes can’t see how I feel about her. She can’t feel how badly I want to touch her when I’m close to her. How I would take a bullet for her.
Since that first visit to Boise, I’ve wanted her to be mine. She is mine. I want to possess every inch of her, and she has the audacity to look up at me with those eyes and ask if I still like her.
Seriously? When a man says he wants to move in with you, it’s not because he’s wishy-washy. It’s because he wants his life to be your life.
Believe it. End of story. Let it go.
Right now, if I could shut Amanda’s ass in a packing crate and ship her to eastern Katmandu, I would. I’m not an idiot. She is trouble, and she is bat-shit crazy. And she could send my significant other into orbit. Around the moon. Make my life a living hell.
It certainly doesn’t help that Kelly is carrying my child. You’d think the fact that she is “ripe with my heir” (too much Game of Thrones for me) would give her some reassurance that I want her in my life. But apparently in early pregnancy all it does is invite comparison between hers and other women’s asses. Her mind tells her I will see the fertile spread of her derriere, and I will ditch her for some bounce-a-dime-on-it perky butt sashaying around dangerously close to me.
Women are exhausting.
Specifically, one particular woman named Kelly is exhausting. One maddening, amazing, soft-hearted woman who clearly does not truly get the way I feel about her. Jesus.
So, what has put me in the middle of this sure-to-be mess? Mandy and Andy, that’s what.
Almost seven years ago, Amanda and I were in a movie together: Redcoats Rising. We were both pretty young, and it was one of the first big movies I did. She came from England; I came from a soap opera.
Neither of us was the star of the movie. We were the son and the son’s love interest. But we could tell it was going to be a big deal. The movie was going to break both of us out of working-actor oblivion.
And we were right. We got some attention for our acting, but when we started dating, the attention really ramped up. Lots of pictures walking from lunch at the Ivy or outside Chateau Marmont in the early morning hours of a late, late night. It was kind of heady. It was a good six months of tabloid chatter and paparazzi mayhem. And in her native UK, we got the nickname “Mandy and Andy.”
It didn’t last, the attention—and our relationship either. She did a lot of yelling, I did a lot of drinking, and when we went to Cannes for the premiere of her first “serious” indie movie, she threw a plate at my head in the Majestic suite of the Hotel Barriere. I kind of took that as a hint to quit while I was ahead (or still had a head).
But ever since, Jeremy has been jonesing to get the two of us to work together again. And when the script for this movie came my way, I did like it, a lot. Even though Amanda was already attached to it.
So, I said yes. I may regret it later. I may
regret it sooner than later—we’ll see.
The movie—The Bull, the Bear, and the Dragon—is about a young trader (me) who realizes a Chinese diplomat in America is maneuvering to launch a cyber-attack on the U.S. stock markets. He also suspects the NSA may have put the Chinese spy up to the sabotage. Lots of intrigue, and I’m on screen for most of the movie.
We also get to film almost exclusively in New York. Yes, I have to put up with Amanda, but it’s summertime, and as soon as I started thinking about having the boys and Kelly in Manhattan—showing them around, taking Kelly to the places I love here—I couldn’t help but get excited.
I’m crazy about New York. Cheesy, I know, but I came here once on a trip with my friend Todd and his folks when we were in high school. We stayed on West 57th, did all the tourist crap, and I was hooked. I can’t wait to show my family all the cool parts of the city.
Plus, I get a little privacy here in New York. It’s weird, but there are just too many people living here to keep track of a movie star. Sometimes I can even wander around in relative anonymity.
But today, here I am at the first table read. Jeremy is somewhere, pacing around, yelling at some poor soul on the phone. Sandy, my publicist, even made an appearance today. I think it was mostly because she has a bit of a crush on the director, Chase McDougal.
She shouldn’t. He’s a douche. The first clue is that he turns any noun he can into a verb. He “tasks” the second unit director with finding the storyboard artist. He talks about us “hothousing” the script so we can “boilerplate” the themes we want to “front stage” in the movie. If I were still drinking, McDougal’s verbing would make a fine drinking game. As it stands right now, I’m thinking a little on-location wager for the number of nouns that get “verbed” might be the way to go instead of shots.
Sometimes the habits from drinking are hard to forget. Since rehab, I haven’t touched a drop. But I’ve sweated through some tough temptations. I’ve dreamed about drinking, and when I cross paths with a hung-over frat boy who still oozes alcohol from his pores, the smell makes me salivate like one of Pavlov’s pups. It’s behind me, but not far enough to make me feel comfortable. Kelly, God love her, she’s been quiet and trusting and all-around inspirational about the whole thing. I dragged her into my mess, almost broke us apart for good, but we made it out the other side together, so I guess we’re stronger at our broken places now.
Trouble Me Page 4
