Fix You (15 page)

He breaks my wishful thinking. “I’m starving. Let’s go back to my apartment. I want to cook you dinner.”

“You can’t cook.” I smile at him.

“Neither can you.” He climbs up on the fence and sits next to me for a second.

“Point taken.”

“Well, let’s go back to my place and do a bad job preparing something for dinner together.”

He swings a leg over and hops to the ground, out of the arena. I worry about achieving a similarly nimble dismount, but Andrew reaches up for my hand and helps me. The set has cleared rapidly. An armada of golf carts and ATVs hauled equipment and crew away, and a wrangler took Petunia and walked her back to the stables. Andrew and I walk down the dusty road to the parking lot. I rode in to the set with one of the production assistants in our continuing attempt to keep things appearing mellow.

“Boy, ya’ll close up shop quick around here.” I’m enjoying the soft pink light of approaching dusk, and the birds flit from the trees and call to one another.

“Ya’ll?”

I didn’t notice I’d said it. “Yeah. Holdover from my past.”

“Where?” He likes to walk a little ahead of me, turning and keeping eye contact more than I think a normal guy would. Okay, maybe more than Peter would. He was a side-talker. Big conversations often took place sitting next to one another on the back stoop at night, watching the dog wander around the backyard.

“I lived in Tennessee when I was a kid. Went to college in Virginia. That’s where I met Peter.” Oh, yes, Kelly, let’s bring Peter up again. Score another one for the girl who has no brain.

“Did you guys get married right out of college?”

“No. We dated some at school. He was too wild for me. When I’d been out in the real world for a couple years, I ran into him again. He was living in the same town as me; he was in grad school. I went to dinner at a friend’s house, and there he was.”

I skip the vivid memories that rise to the top with the story. I’ve found that if I dive into them, I can get lost in a deep lake of grief. For some reason the early stuff hurts the worst. Maybe because it feels like we were so far away from anything bad happening. I look back at my younger self and think,
Poor girl, she has no idea what’s coming
, while I watch her falling in love with Peter over dinner. That’s one interesting thing about me then: I was never waiting for the other shoe to drop like I always seem to be now.

“Hello?” Andrew’s voice startles me. It doesn’t sound a thing like Peter’s.

“Hi. Sorry.” I try to refocus. I’m back in the present, on the dusty road, walking with a new man.

He stops. He puts his hands in his pockets and faces me. He smiles gently. “Don’t apologize. You’ve got things you remember. That’s good, right?”

“I guess so. Some things hurt to remember.”

He takes a step forward and puts both hands on my shoulders. “This is when I should say something helpful, and preferably deep. For now, all I can say is that sucks, and I hope it stops soon.”

“You’re making me look bad, getting all wise and stuff.”

He throws his arm around my shoulder, and we continue walking down the trail. “I told you I was good. I won’t charge you for that bit of wisdom. Soon, though. Soon.”

18: We’ve Got Tonight

A
T
T
HE
E
ND
O
F
T
HE
R
OAD
, I follow Andrew into one of the many tents the film crew has put up in the fields around the farmhouse they’re using as a location. It’s like a huge traveling circus. White tents dot the field, each one with a different purpose: mess, makeup, costumes. Andrew goes back to his trailer to change. The plan is to share a ride to his place. Although Andrew drove us to Ventura County, apparently being famous and on location means not being trusted to ferry yourself around—no convertible ride this time. Someone else is driving us home.

A plain-looking minivan with dark windows is parked just inside one of the wider entrances of the tent. When Andrew returns, we get in, and a guy I’m told is named Tucker drives us out. As we leave the set, another van pulls through the gates and out of the camp at the same time. At first I figure it’s just other people leaving the set for the day.

Then I realize it’s a decoy. And I realize we were parked inside the tent so no one could see who got in the van. This is a little disconcerting. When Andrew and I were together in Boise, it felt normal. In this world, it’s a different story. Things appear normal at first glance, but I’m beginning to think that takes a lot of careful orchestration.

We arrive at the block of condominiums where Andrew’s staying. It’s a little mixed-use development—one of those old-time town square fabrications. There are restaurants and shops on the bottom story, and buildings of various heights to make the whole thing look organic, when in fact it probably all went up in a couple months during the last building boom.

Tucker drives us into the underground parking garage. Again, this seems to be just part of the way Andrew’s life works. No one sees him arrive. I wonder if anyone has figured out he’s staying here. Now I know why the top on his convertible went up a couple miles out of town when we drove here from LA. It wasn’t the weather.

In the garage Tucker gets out. He comes around to the door. Andrew steps out first, and suddenly, I feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me. Tucker isn’t a production assistant like the scrawny but very amiable college boy who drove me to the set today. Now that he’s out of the car, I can see that Tucker is huge. He’s as tall as Andrew, and he’s solid muscle. Tucker is a bodyguard.

I sit in the van for a second, letting this sink in. How do I feel about this? For some reason, I’m afraid for my boys. What am I getting them into? Could I be placing them in danger by hanging out with this man—a man who needs a bodyguard like that?

Andrew pokes his head inside. “You coming?”

I take a deep breath. Just because it’s new, doesn’t mean it’s bad. People live lots of different kinds of lives, right? This is just a little different. “I’m coming.”

He helps me step out, taking my hand in a very chivalrous way. But what really helps me relax is the way he continues to hold my hand as we walk to the elevator. Tucker walks ahead of us, but he ambles. He doesn’t act as though we’re in any danger.

We get in the elevator alone. Tucker stands at the doors and waves, smiling. “Have a good night, Andrew.”

Did I notice a slight eyebrow raise with that goodbye?

“You, too, Tucker. See you in the morning.” The elevator doors close.

“So you don’t drive your car when you’re here?” I’m wrapping my brain around this.

“No. Tucker does the driving.” Andrew’s still holding my hand, still relaxed. I don’t think he’s picked up on the state of alarm over here next to him.

“Does that bug you?” I look up at him.

He looks at me. “No, not really. It’s easier if he drives.”

“He’s your bodyguard.” I say it like it’s a secret.

“Yeah. I like him. He’s cool.”

“Is it weird?” I hold his hand a little tighter for a minute.

“I don’t think so. When I’m working, Tucker usually is working too. People know where the sets are, so it’s better to have someone around in case a crowd forms. And if I do press, or a premiere, sometimes it’s Tucker and Dean too.”

“Two?”

He grins. “I’m kind of a big deal, you know.”

The elevator stops at the top floor, and I take a step forward, ready to get off.

“Wait.” He pulls a small key out of his pocket and sticks it into the elevator panel. It turns, and then the elevator resumes its climb.

“How very James Bond of you.”

The elevator stops again, and this time the doors open onto a foyer. There’s a hotel-looking fake orchid sitting on a little table.

“Is this your place?”

He nods. I step off the elevator and around the corner.

It has high ceilings and a very open, loft-style floor plan. It must be the penthouse. I guess that’s a no-brainer. I face a wall of tall windows and French doors and a large deck that runs the length of the room.

Lights of the town twinkle outside. Inside, it’s austere. There’s a guitar and a piano over by the windows. A sleek dining room table has piles of mail and other paper on it. The kitchen looks hardly touched, though I do notice a rather sizable collection of cereal boxes lined up on the counter by the fridge.

“I like this—do you like it?” I turn around. He’s been standing behind me. I guess he’s been watching my reaction.

“I do. It’s just what they rented for the shoot, but if I had a style, I guess it’d be like this.”

“Do you have a house in LA?”

“I’m renting one. Buying something seems so permanent. Plus, I’m gone so much, I don’t think it matters. I’m not into accumulating stuff yet. Maybe when there’s more to it than just me.”

This is interesting. For me, there’s been more to it than just me for a lot of years now. It’s different to look through his eyes.

“I can’t remember what that feels like. And kids grow stuff, I swear. They’re born, and their stuff starts multiplying everywhere. Is it lonely or does the freedom feel good?”

He walks over to the fridge to inspect the contents. He has a lot of takeout cartons. “Oh, you know, sometimes I feel at loose ends. I envy you your boys. I miss my family, but they have their own lives. My sisters are both married, and my mom turned my room into craft room fifteen minutes after I came out to LA. If I’m working, I’m fine. If I have time to think about it, I guess loneliness is one thing I feel.”

He reaches in and grabs a handful of cereal straight out of one of the boxes on the counter.

“Are you feeding me cereal for dinner?” I poke the box.

He shakes his head, breaking whatever thought he was lost in. “Sorry, reflex. Cereal is man’s greatest triumph, but I do have a plan for dinner. You need to camp out in my bedroom for a while.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

“It’s all very innocent. I just want to attempt to surprise you. And I’m not going to oversell it, so don’t get any pictures of nine thousand candles in your head.” He takes me by the elbows and steers me through one of three doors off the great room.

It’s again a Spartan scene. There’s a king-size bed dressed out in basic khaki sheets and blankets. There are some generic-looking oversized black and white photographs of trees on the walls. They must be from the same decorator as the fake orchid in the foyer.

“Is any of this stuff yours?” I circle the bed.

“Nope.”

I stop. On the nightstand is
In Our Time
. He’s reading it.

“Hey!” I’m so pleased, I can’t keep it out of my voice.

“Are you proud of me?”

I put my arms around his neck. “That you’re reading it makes me very, very happy. I’m proud of my star pupil.”

He gives me a peck on the lips. “Wait before you call me a star, because we haven’t actually discussed it yet. My insights may bring tears to your eyes, but not in a good way.”

He unlocks my fingers from behind his neck and turns on the gigantic TV. “You park it in here while I get things going.”

“I may be blind when you come back. No one needs a TV this big.”

He chuckles. “Especially when you watch the crap I do.” He closes the door behind him.

I sit on the edge of the bed for a second. I’m tempted to see how far he’s gotten in
In Our Time
, but that seems invasive. I get up and wander, and something catches my eye on the top of his dresser.

It’s the black rock he found on the Oregon Trail. I pick it up and rub it between my fingers. My face hurts, I’m smiling so big. He is perfectly adorable—heck, he’s just perfect. I want to do a little dance.

Next I peek into the master bath, ’cause, you know, that’s not snoopy at all. There’s a fancy tub with lots of rolled towels stacked on the shelf next to it. None of it appears to have been touched. In the shower there’s a bottle of grocery store shampoo and a bar of soap. Shaving cream, a razor, and Old Spice deodorant sit by the sink. And a toothbrush.

I’m not sure what I thought I’d find, but his normalcy in grooming products is a relief. Not a lot of movie-star preening going on in here.

I wander back out and try to watch
Dirty Jobs
on the Gigundotron. Poor Mike Rowe is up to his waist in sludge of some sort or another.

Andrew peeks back in after a half hour or so. “Let the magic begin!” He swings the door wide with a goofy flourish.

There’s a slight breeze, because the doors are open to the patio. He’s plugged in lots of Christmas lights, and the deck twinkles. There are several potted palm trees, and the lights on them are charming. He’s also set the table.

“I’d offer you a glass of wine, but I don’t know whether red or white would work better with our meal, and I know you’re not much of an imbiber.” He ushers me out onto the patio.