Trouble Me

by Beck Anderson

  “This is unacceptable.” Amanda slaps the script down on the table.

  I’m a little thankful, truthfully. My mind’s been wandering for a while, and someone’s probably going to notice the gigantic circle that I’ve drawn, shaded, and added octopus legs to on the legal pad in front of me. It must be getting pretty dire if I’m about to cheer Amanda on through a diva hissy fit.

  Too bad Jeremy’s wandered off. He loves to watch her throw a tantrum. She’s not his client, but I suspect he has some devious plot to win her over on the shoot. The brother likes hotheaded women.

  McDougal raises his head. “Amanda?” This will be interesting. They’ve never worked together. He may regret that she’s a genuine redhead.

  “I don’t appear until page six. In the draft I read, I was onscreen by minute three.”

  McDougal licks his lips nervously. Ooh, there’s something I could keep count of. I bet I could get a PA to hide one of those little silver clickers in his pocket, and we’d track the lip-licking all the way through the eleven-week shoot.

  “We messengered this script over to your rep last Tuesday. You haven’t had a chance to eyeball it?”

  I think I counted two nouns that just got hijacked in there. I try to refocus on what McDougal actually said.

  Amanda flips through the pages. “Are you saying I’m not doing my job?”

  That took two seconds. She’s already defensive. This shoot will either be really entertaining or really, really long.

  McDougal launches into a monologue-length backtrack, trying to appease his leading lady. My mind drifts again. To sex, to be honest.

  I found us a condo in Chelsea, a neighborhood that’s a little boring for my tastes. But it’s safe and near the water, and I think the boys will like it. The condo has a split layout. The master is set on the opposite side of the place from the boys’ bedrooms. Which Kelly and I will like.

  What I consider right now, while watching McDougal’s lips move, is how loud Kelly and I can get without risking the boys hearing us.

  Oh, come on now. I’m a guy. This is what we do. And it’s pretty tame, because I could be thinking about what I want to do to Kelly, but I’m just thinking logistics right now. Tactics.

  I had no idea. A family is something I’ve always wanted. It’s a thrill to have one, and Hunter and Beau amaze me. I had no idea how much those little dudes would wrap themselves into the corners of my heart. They’re like kudzu.

  But sharing space with the woman I want to be with in every sense of the word and a tween and a bona fide teenager is a challenge I hadn’t anticipated. There’s a balcony in our new condo. Maybe that’s a place we could sneak off to late at night. Of course, it could get mighty awkward if a nosy neighbor decided to see what the moon looked like…

  Amanda stands up. “I need a minute here. I’m going to walk away from the table and figure out why I’m already being jerked around, and we haven’t even started shooting yet.” She stalks off. Several young women scurry after her.

  She should have said “dicked” around, and she and McDougal could bond over the verb-erizing. McDougal looks like he has a headache.

  He shrugs at me. “Sorry, Andy. I guess we’re taking a break.”

  I like this. “No problem. I’ll just step out to make a quick call.”

  So, I’m the good guy, the level-headed, amiable one. This is a healthy way to start the shoot.

  I hustle out to the hall and run into Jeremy.

  “Hey, hot stuff.” He slaps me on the shoulder.

  “You owe me five bucks.”

  “She already went ballistic?” He pulls out a money clip and peels off a twenty.

  “I said five, J.” I take the twenty anyway.

  “I’m a high-roller, son. I don’t have a fiver.”

  “Jeremy, the high-roller. Don’t overcompensate so obviously. People will worry that your dick is shrinking.”

  “Ooh, burn.” He slaps me again, hard enough to knock me to one side.

  I get past him to the stairwell and out onto a fire escape. I call Kelly.

  She answers right away. “Hey.”

  “Hey. How are you?”

  “Good, and you? I thought this was the first table read. Aren’t you busy?”

  I want to go home and hold her. Kiss that full, wet mouth of hers. Do other stuff. “Yeah, well…”

  “This is an Amanda thing, huh? Is she better or worse than Franca?”

  Kelly met Franca, and Franca tried to eighty-six my relationship with Kelly before it even started. “Different, maybe? Like Dante’s Inferno—a different level of hell.”

  “And you dated this woman.”

  “Don’t remind me. I had poor taste. Until I met you, of course.”

  “Nice save. When will you be home?”

  It thrills me to the marrow of my bones to hear her say that. Who knew the word home could be so sexy. “It’s not looking good. You should probably eat without me.”

  “Bummer.”

  “This is why I wanted you here with me. I’ll at least get to crawl into your bed every night.” I run a hand through my hair and try not to think about her, in that bed, waiting for me.

  “I could text nasty things to you if you want. It might make the day go faster.”

  “No, thank you. I’ll resent Amanda for keeping me away from you that much more.” There’s a guy at the window in the building across from me with a cigarette in his hand. Now I want a cigarette. Great.

  “I didn’t get sick this morning at all.” Kelly sounds proud.

  “Remind me not to eat garlic at lunch today. Let’s see if we can keep the streak going.” We discovered garlic is not cool when I made spaghetti and she had to leave the condo until we aired it out.

  I could go on and on about the pregnancy. It’s been a mystery so far. Every day I figure out something new about what it’s doing to Kelly. But I’ve only had two panic attacks about becoming a father. I think that’s good, considering that I’m not exactly the role model of the year—since I’m a recovering alcoholic and brooding movie star and all that.

  I can’t go on and on right now, though. Jeremy steps out on the escape and waves me back in. Amanda must’ve calmed down.

  “Gotta go, Kells. Love you.”

  “Have fun. Love you.” She hangs up.

  Jeremy rolls his eyes. “How’s the missus.”

  “At least make it sound like a question.”

  “I love Kelly. I don’t know how I feel about knocked-up Kelly calling you while you work. You need to stay focused, not have some Mr. Mom moment.”

  “I called her. And you need to cool it on the baby talk. That is a state secret until we make it out of the woods. The very last thing I need right now, if you want me to stay focused, is some craft services flunkie to tell TMZ what he heard Andy Pettigrew chit-chatting about on set.”

  Jeremy rolls his eyes again. “Point taken. I’m leaving anyway. Text me when you wrap up. Or call me from the car and let me know how the read went.” He sees Amanda walking down the corridor in our direction and abruptly turns and jogs in the other. “Hasta, amigo. Enjoy the drama.”

  I watch as Amanda fluffs her hair and straightens her tight T-shirt before she walks back into the conference room. She’s gearing up, readying for battle.

  This is going to be a long day.

  6: Back in the High Life Again

  AFTER TWO WEEKS OF PREP for the movie, Andrew has concluded that he’s not crazy about his director, Chase McDougal, but he does like the meticulous rehearsals. He tells me he’s happy to be working and happy to be with me. This is the first time, really, that we’ve been in the same place while he filmed, and so far the time we’ve had here by ourselves has been blissful.

  He’s gone today, for a long set of rehearsals, and he’s told me to expect that the days will get longer and longer when filming starts. Hunter and Beau are in LA with my mom and dad for another five days, but I’m getting used to kicking around by myself.

  I fe
el a little better, so that’s good. And when I talk to them, the boys seem to have settled more into the idea of a new sibling. I think Hunter just wants to get home to Idaho so he can see his friends. Beau, he’ll be a little mad forever. He will never again be the baby, so that will always be a bone of contention.

  I miss them. I’ve planned out these days on my own in New York to keep myself plenty busy. I go to museums. I run in Central Park. I ride the Staten Island Ferry just to ride it. I’m proud of myself. I only rode the subway out to Brooklyn mistakenly once, and a very nice lady told me how to get off and get back on to ride in the correct direction. All my experiences with New Yorkers so far have been so hospitable, not hostile at all.

  Today I need to run. A car came for Andrew painfully early this morning, though he’s not doing location shots yet. I’m actually looking forward to that because Tucker, my favorite bodyguard, will be in town. I miss him. I haven’t seen him since January, when we all went to the Golden Globes together. If Andrew is out on the town shooting, Tucker gets to be here. I want to hog him and take him to dinner and maybe have him take me some places to go shopping. The fourteen-hour days might slow us down on that, but we’ll see.

  I choose an early morning run on the High Line. I walked to it from our condo a few days ago, and I love it. It’s an old elevated rail line that’s been converted to a greenbelt, floating above Chelsea and the Meatpacking District. The breeze comes in off the Hudson River, and the views are glittering and wide, not something I get to experience much here in New York. The Idaho part of me gets to feeling a little claustrophobic when I’m down in the concrete canyons for whole days. The High Line liberates me from the city.

  I don’t have huge expectations for my runs. I know girlfriends who ran hard all through their pregnancies. I wasn’t much of a runner when I was pregnant with either boy, and I was young. The way my knees are already creaking and complaining to me now means the present-day Kelly will likely not get to be the bad-ass pregnant marathon runner either. I might just be a take-a-trot-every-other-day runner and stop when my knees or other parts of me start to hurt. But as long as I can still run, even if it’s not for long, I’ll be good. It’s mental, as much as physical, for me.

  I lace ’em up, tuck my phone into the pocket of my running skirt, and scoot out the door. Down in the lobby, I double check with the doorman about my directions: north on Seventh Avenue one block, west three blocks. This is easy, but I don’t dare pull out my phone on the street and check my map. I don’t want to be that person.

  I’m tired, and my stomach still feels mildly queasy, but I promise myself I can get a tea if I run a little.

  Andrew didn’t even mean to, but the condo he chose for us—the very safe and very nice building with the insane rent (we’re talking monthly rent that’d be close to the mortgage on my house in Boise for the year)—is one block from the most extravagant tea shop. I’m in green tea heaven.

  The man is good, even when he’s not trying.

  I swing open the door of the building and feel the humid New York air. Lately I’ve made a very conscious effort not to breathe too deeply. Occasionally there’s a whiff of overripe trash can, and though I think I’m almost out of the nauseated woods, eau de Manhattan garbage might send me back to the toilet.

  “Excuse me.” A sweet, high voice speaks up behind me.

  I turn around, almost out the door of the lobby, to see who it is.

  A young woman, dressed in running gear, stands behind me.

  “I’m sorry. Did you need to get by?” I assume I’m in the way. I move on a ten-second delay compared to native New Yorkers. They know where they’re headed, for one thing, but the cliché might also be a bit true: they seem to be in a perpetual hurry.

  She smiles. She has pale blond hair, her bangs clipped to the side with a barrette. She has her phone out. “No, but my phone’s dying. What time is it?”

  “Ten after seven.” I smile as she does get past me now, sliding out the door as the doorman pulls it wide.

  “Thanks!” she calls over her shoulder and breaks into a confident stride. She looks like she’s running in the direction of the High Line.

  And I have a dorky thought—Oh! A running friend!—before I remember that this is a gigantic city, even if she does live in the building. I don’t think it’s a strike-up-a-running-friendship kind of place.

  I start my run, carefully following the blocks to the stairs to the elevated railway.

  When I climb, I can hear my right kneecap click a little. I’ve been ignoring this, but I’m not an idiot. I know that pregnancy does things to ligaments, loosens them. Something is clicking in Denmark. It doesn’t hurt, yet, but I have to be careful or I could really screw something up.

  At the top of the stairs, I feel the breeze first and then take in the view. The sun climbs in the sky, and the green strip of the High Line bathes in the gold light. Tall grasses wave languidly, and here, at one of the places where the thin path widens, water trickles along the side in a small fountain.

  It’s not crowded. No one occupies the chaises or benches dotting the deck.

  I jog for a while and let my mind wander. Andrew’s invited me to the set. Next week he’ll be location shooting all around New York’s Battery Park and in the Financial District. I’m excited. I’ve only spent time with Andrew on the set of The Last Drive, and our relationship was in its infancy.

  This time, a location visit means I’ll meet the infamous Amanda Walters. An ex-girlfriend. That’ll be interesting.

  And people will realize I’m pregnant. Maybe not everyone, but sooner or later, people will notice. I’m twelve weeks in, and the first trimester is almost over. We’re going to tell Tucker when he gets here. He’d figure it out too fast anyway. He’s a smart, smart guy. So far, Jeremy knows, Sandy knows, Hunter and Beau know, and our folks know.

  I slow down. The girl, the one from the lobby, is up ahead. She’s stretching out on one of the steps to the little amphitheater that’s suspended between the High Line and Chelsea Market below. Andrew said sometimes there are concerts or plays here. The girl is doing dips, stretching her Achilles out one at a time, stepping backward off the step to lengthen the back of her calves.

  She smiles at me. “Hi, again.”

  I take this invitation. I might actually make a friend here in New York. All by myself. “You live in my building?”

  “Maybe you live in my building, you know. I might have been there first.” She puts out a hand, steps up so that both her feet are on the same step. “Mari. Nice to meet you.”

  I shake her hand. “Kelly.”

  She stretches both arms up, grasps her hands together. Her running jacket comes up a bit on her stomach, and I have a moment of envy. She is impossibly toned, and I catch the wink of a navel ring. “What a great morning. I’m having a hard time staying focused on running. I think I need to do something to savor the day before it’s too hot and sticky.”

  I nod. I could run more, but I feel the urge to put my feet up somewhere and relax. “Lately my runs aren’t as amazing as they could be. I’m always looking for a reason to put the run and me out of our misery.”

  “Today is your lucky day. I’m looking for someone to have a cup of coffee with.”

  “Say you’ll have tea with me at that place near our building, and you have a deal.”

  “Done.” She trots up the last few steps and walks along with me, back the way we came.

  “Mari. That’s a nice name.” We stroll, and I’m kind of pleased to not push it, force the run. My knee throbs a bit.

  “It’s a constant thing, though,” she says. “No one who sees it on paper knows how to pronounce it. I’m always, ‘Mari rhymes with sorry.’ Every class I have to re-explain it nine million times.”

  “Class? Are you in school?” I have a moment where I really hope she’s not in high school. She can’t be my friend and be a juvenile; it’d just be embarrassing. She doesn’t look that young. Plus she’d be at school right now if
she was in high school. I breathe a little easier with that thought.

  “Grad school. Design school at The Fashion Institute. My marketing degree just wasn’t cutting it, and luckily, I got my dad to agree with me.” She peels her running jacket off. She wears a tiny tank, revealing a tattoo on her shoulder blade: scripted initials that read CRM.

  “You live with your folks?”

  “Nah. They live on Long Island. I’m housesitting for some friends of theirs. So, I guess I can’t say you moved into my building, really. But you did just move in, didn’t you?”

  We climb down the stairs to street level. I wince a bit. There will be ice when I get home. I say a silent apology to my abused knee. “We’re just here for the summer.”

  “And the ‘we’?”

  “My boyfriend and my two sons. They’re with their grandparents right now, but they’re excited to be in New York for the summer.”

  “Most people escape if they can. To the Hamptons, or somewhere else that’s not so hot with pavement.”

  “It’s different from where I’m from, so I like the novelty. I like new adventures.”

  “Me too. Grad school is good for that.”

  “So, you’re going to be a fashion designer? Like runway and Paris and all that?”

  “Hopefully. I love men’s fashion, which some people think is weird. I’d love to do a men’s and women’s line, clothes that fit with both maybe. Twiggy, Mick Jagger, skinny ties. Mod androgyny.”

  We come to the front of the Argo Tea, the best spot in the universe as far as I’m concerned. “Ah, sweet relief. This is the only reason I ran today—the promise of a giant iced green tea.”

  “I thought you’d be a sweet tea drinker.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Your accent is southern, isn’t it? Maybe just a hint of it?” She pulls her jacket back on.

  “You’re good. Yeah. A while ago, though. But born and bred south of the Mason-Dixon line, that’s true.”