Fix You (3 page)

I pull myself up and wipe my eyes and nose on the sleeve of my shirt. He’s much taller than me, and he has sunglasses on. I feel my hair kind of flop back into place from being upside down.

“No, I’m okay.” I step a little to the left, partly because the sun is still shining from behind him and partly because I have a head rush from standing up so fast.

He does not take this as a sign that I am okay. He steadies me by the elbow. “You should sit for a second. Here.” He pulls out a chair at a little patio table of the coffee shop and helps me sit. He plunks the coffee tray down and sits next to me. “Do you want coffee?” He checks the two cups, evidently trying to identify which is which.

My head isn’t spinning anymore, and I’m beginning to feel the full brunt of complete and total embarrassment. It’s early enough that there aren’t other customers to see this whole travesty, but still…I sound sheepish when I answer. “I’m fine. I drink tea anyway.”

He plucks one of the cups from the holder and hands it to me. “You’ll drink mine then. It’s green tea. I’m trying to make up for eating crap food.”

I sit very still, hoping I can disappear.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“I’m really fine.”

“Why were you crying?” His head is tilted a little. He seems to want to know. To me, it seems like a very young question to ask.

“A girl could have a million reasons to be crying while running. Unpaid bills, hormones, lost job, pulled hamstring—”

“Of course.”

“My husband died two years ago today.” Why, why did I just say that? I can feel tears crawling back up my throat again.

He covers his face with his hands. “Oh, Christ. I’m an idiot.” He melts into his chair. Maybe I feel a little less embarrassed now.

“You couldn’t have known. I didn’t need to say that. I don’t know why that just came out of my mouth.” I put both my hands around the cup of tea. Either the weather’s gone cold, or the turn in the discussion has chilled me. I shiver a little in the morning air. I start to look for an escape route.

He notices that I’m cold. No one ever notices that kind of stuff. He’s up and out of his chair, and he’s got his coat around my shoulders. It smells like Old Spice and cigarette smoke.

What do you say to a guy after you just brought up the death of your husband? I’m flummoxed.

He sits back down, pulls the top off the other cup. He takes a cautious sip and grimaces. “This coffee is awful.”

“I like their tea.” Apparently inane blather is now all I can manage.

“No, this is some triple frappawhip vanilla nonsense. Tucker can tough it out. I’m drinking it anyway.” He pulls open the white bag. “Want a muffin?”

I shake my head no and look at him over the rim of his tea that is now my tea. His brown hair is cut short at the nape and around his ears, but some bangs poke out from under the bill of the ball cap. It’s old and frayed, obviously a favorite. I still can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses he wears. He has a stubbly beard, maybe a day or two. He looks young—younger than me. Maybe in his late twenties? The older I get, the harder time I have telling anyone’s age.

I’m staring. I should say something. “Do you live here?”

“Just a couple days of work, then back to LA. What about you?”

I shake my head again. “No, my parents have a condo here. I live in Idaho.”

He gives up on the sweet coffee and sits back, picking at the faux wicker on the arms of the chair. “I bet Idaho’s nice.”

He sits up abruptly and pulls a phone from his back jeans pocket. The phone vibrates furiously. He looks at the screen and jumps to his feet.

“I have to go. I’m sorry!” He leaves the coffee, the tray with the muffin bag, all of it.

He literally jogs across the street. He climbs into a black car and drives off before I even remember his jacket is draped across my shoulders. I stand up to see where he’s gone, but the car has disappeared already, turned off onto a side street.

“Umm…okay.”

Totally bizarre. I take off the coat and fold it. I check the pockets. There’s a green plastic lighter in one, and the rest are empty.

I turn back toward Mom and Dad’s condo with the jacket draped over my arm. I walk, too stunned by the chance meeting to muster a run.

4: The Next Morning Run

I T
IPTOE
I
NTO
T
HE
L
IVING
R
OOM
, feeling my way around the boys still sleeping on the pullout couch.

Of course I’m going out. The guy needs his jacket back, after all. I spent a lot of time last night thinking about how to graciously return it, how to say something witty, seem cool, or at least less crazy—all of that. Then I spent a lot of time worrying that I’ll cry again.

I don’t think I will. The boys and I had dinner last night and talked about their dad, and I did cry then. But a lot of stories made me smile and laugh too. Mostly I just felt that familiar tight ache under my collarbones. That’s how I feel when I miss him.

At the front door, I take the jacket and stuff it into a daypack I found in the closet.

Mom comes down the hall. “Are you going out again today?”

“I want to give that guy his jacket, Mom.”

Her brow furrows. She’s always been a worrier. “Just be sure he’s not some stalker. Don’t tell him anything.”

“The way he left yesterday was more stalkee than stalker.” I put the daypack on my back.

Mom pulls me into a hug before I can get the door open. “You hanging in there? I know yesterday was hard.”

“I have to go, Mom.” I don’t want to have this conversation right now. I want to run.

“Sure, Bug. Have a good run.” She kisses me on the cheek, just like she did when I was five.

Even though my mom drives me nuts sometimes, spending time with my parents here in Indio is always peaceful. I get a bit of a reprieve from the taxi-service-mom routine, and the boys enjoy hanging out with their grandparents. This morning I’ve got a bit of extra time: Mom and Dad are taking the boys with them to run errands.

As I stretch out and find my rhythm, I start to worry. I feel like a loser with the jacket in the daypack on my back. I am not a marathon runner, and normal runners with daypacks look like they’re trying too hard, in my opinion. Also, the mystery guy’s departure was odd. Is he a wanted criminal? Because the way he took off sure seemed a lot like that.

I’m almost to the coffee shop. What am I going to do if he’s there? Do I jog on up, pull out the jacket? Then what?

I slow down, check the bistro tables out front. No one. The inside looks empty too. I stop for a moment, look around. The only person inside is the lonely barista behind the counter. I check my watch. It’s roughly the same time as yesterday. Mystery guy is a no-show.

I’m a little relieved, actually. All the guy did was help out someone bawling her eyes out. I’m silly to think I’ll run into him again.

So I’ve been spared some humiliation. That’s what I’m thinking about twenty minutes later when I finally come up the street to the condo and stop to stretch and cool down.

I peel off the daypack and toss it on the grass by the sidewalk. The shade of the big palm tree out front is a good spot to stretch. I sit and start with my hips, turning across my body to lengthen the outside leg. Beauty queens. That’s what Hunter’s soccer team calls these stretches. Mid-beauty queen, I hear someone walk up the sidewalk behind me.

“Um, hello.”

I unwind out of the stretch to face the voice. It’s him. Same baseball hat. Same sunglasses.

“Hi…How’d you find me?” It starts me to worrying for a second. How
did
he find me?

“I pulled up to the coffee shop and saw you leaving, running home. I kind of followed you. That sounds bad.” He tucks his hands into his jeans pockets, his shoulders shrugging up. He’s uncomfortable.

“You needed your coat back.” I jump up, brush off, and go for the daypack. I will be gracious, cool, and let him get out of here without embarrassing him. He wants to be on his way; I’m sure of it.

“Did you have a better run today?” He doesn’t look rushed.

“I did. Yeah, I did. Thanks for asking.” I try to hold still.

“I’m Andrew.” He puts a hand out to shake.

I wipe mine off before I do. “Kelly. Nice to meet you.”

“Are you busy?”

He’s asking me. Really?

“No, I’m not.” I have no idea what to say.

He shifts from foot to foot. He looks at me from behind the sunglasses briefly, and then stares at the sidewalk. “I have some time before I have to be anywhere. I could buy you a green tea.”

I’m quiet. At some point I should probably talk. “Or I have tea. Do you want to come in for some?” For once in my life I say something normal.

He smiles. “Sure.”

I pick up the daypack and try to fix my ponytail a little as I walk toward the front door. “My mom and dad got this place a few years ago. They live in LA.”

I panic for a second as I open the door. First of all, did I just invite a serial killer into my house? And second of all, I can’t remember—is said house clean? The boys have been sleeping on the pullout in the living room, but did they put it in before they left this morning? I cross my fingers that the kitchen doesn’t look too terrible.

“It’s been great to come visit them here. More mellow than LA.” I swing the door open, and all looks well. Thank God Mom makes the boys pick up. The same probably couldn’t be said if we were walking into my house.

“You said you live in Idaho?” He stands in the doorway. He takes off his sunglasses.

For a second, I can’t answer. I am too stunned.

Andrew is Andrew Pettigrew. Andy Pettigrew. Movie star Andy Pettigrew. “Twenty-Five Things You Didn’t Know About Andy Pettigrew” Andy Pettigrew. Holy shit. Too bad I didn’t read that article on the plane when I had the chance.

Recover. Recover. Speak! My brain finally comes back to me. He asked a question. What was it? “I’m sorry. Yeah. I live in Boise. Come on in. I’ll get the kettle on.” I check to make sure my mouth is closed.

How did I not notice this before? Young, tall, scruffy beard, nice smile, lives in LA. Probably the sunglasses. Without them, his famous blue eyes are unmistakable. Jesus, I am a dumbass.

What was the last thing I saw him in? He started out in a couple movies as sons of really famous guys. I remember the one with that one girl, set during the Revolutionary War…What was the name of it? Oh, God. Nothing comes to me to say to this person. How do I say something if I can’t even remember the name of his last movie? It was huge last summer, for God’s sake. Come on!

He looks at me for a minute. His lips part, as if he’s about to say something. It’s a question, a look with a staggering vulnerability to it. I’m not sure what it means, but the way I take it, it feels like he’s asking a favor. Maybe a favor about recognizing him, or not making a big deal out of who he is. I try to say yes by keeping my mouth shut. Keeping my mouth shut for once in my life is hard—trust me, I am a total reject at following social cues and shutting up. However, I’m all in favor of not discussing the movie thing at this point since I can’t remember a single title of any of his multiple hits. Pathetic.

I put the kettle on and promptly am at loose ends. I don’t know how to make small talk with a man, much less a famous one. I put two mugs on the kitchen table, get a tea bag in both. Thank God I have something to concentrate on.

He sits at the table. “What’s Boise like?”

“There’s a lot to do. Plus it’s a good place to raise kids.” Hum. I just mentioned that I have children. I should know something personal about him. How old is he? Surely I can recall something from pop culture that could help me talk with this person. Why, why did I not read Tessa’s magazines when I had the chance? I will bore him to death.

He seems interested. “You have kids?”

“Hunter and Beau. We moved to Idaho, and I realized their names are like the top two hunting dog names out here. It embarrasses them. Hunter is eleven, and Beau is eight.”

He looks at me for a moment, deciding something. “They must miss their dad.”

Oh. He went there. I don’t know why, but I let go. There’s been nothing normal about meeting this person anyway. “My husband was sick for five months before he died. It was impossible for the kids. I was a mess. Some days are still worse than others.”

He turns the mug by its handle. “That’s why you run.” He’s perceptive. And curious. Interesting.

“If I don’t, I yell. A lot. Things are tough enough without me being a total bitch.” I try to take a deep breath. I’m not crying. That’s a complete miracle.

“I have a hard time imagining you as any kind of bitch.” He looks at me warmly and then leans forward. What’s he going to do?

He takes the teaspoon out of my hand. The teaspoon I’ve been tapping on the table incessantly. I didn’t realize that until now. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. You make me nervous.”

“Why?” He smiles.