Twice in a Blue Moon

by Christina Lauren

  “I’m sorry.”

  He laughed lightly at this. “Don’t be.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do. But I have to think it was worlds better to be with Luther and Roberta than Michael, even if that had been an option.”

  “So… you don’t know your dad?”

  “No.” Sam blew out a breath and arced a smile over at me. He let the confidence settle between us for a few quiet beats. “What about you?”

  My heart slammed against my breastbone, and Nana’s stern warning expression was printed on the inside of my eyelids. This was where I always played my part: My dad died when I was a baby. I was raised by Nana and Mom.

  But the thing was, I’d spent my whole life with the truth trapped in my throat. And with Sam’s enormous backstory out there between us, I didn’t want to lie again. “Me?”

  Sam tapped his knee against mine, setting off an electrical storm along my skin. Even when he wasn’t touching me, it was impossible not to feel how close he was. “You.”

  “I grew up mostly in Guerneville.” The truth rattled a cage inside my ribs. “It’s a super small town in Northern California. I’m moving to Sonoma for school—which isn’t very far.” I lifted my hands in a shrug and let a hint of the truth slip out: “I was raised by my mom and Nana.”

  “No dad, either?”

  I swallowed. The easy, familiar lie was right there, on the tip of my tongue—but I was under the London sky, thousands of miles from home, and a rebellious, impulsive flash streaked through me. This had always been such a bigger deal to Nana and Mom than it had ever been to me; why was I still protecting their story? “He sort of… fell away.”

  “How does a dad fall away?”

  I became aware, while I was lying beside this completely earnest stranger on a damp lawn, that it was weird that I’d never really talked about this. In part, I didn’t talk about it because I knew I wasn’t supposed to. And in part, because it was unnecessary: the one person in my life who learned about it—my best friend, Charlie—had watched the drama unfold in real time, in bite-sized servings that grew spaced farther and farther apart. I’d never needed to summarize it or spin it into a story. So why did I suddenly want to?

  “My parents got divorced when I was eight,” I told him, “and Mom moved me back to her hometown. Guerneville.”

  “Back from where?”

  I peeked over the edge of this canyon, and I didn’t know what it was about that garden or Sam but I decided: Fuck it. I was eighteen and it was my life, what’s the worst that could happen?

  “LA,” I said.

  I blinked in the direction of the hotel again as if I expected to see Nana racing toward us, shaking her fists.

  Sam let out a low whistle, as if this even meant anything yet. And maybe it did; maybe to a farmer from Vermont, LA seemed as exciting as it could get.

  I had only tiny, pulsing memories of living in the city: foggy mornings, hot sand on my bare feet. A pink ceiling that seemed to stretch into space above me. Over time I’d started to think maybe I remembered LA the way Mom remembers childbirth: all of the good parts, none of the obvious pain.

  The quiet swallowed us again, and in it, I felt the adrenaline ebb. I grew aware of the contrast of the cold at my back and the heat at my side. I’d shared a tiny slice of my history and the sky hadn’t opened up and rained fire. Nana hadn’t materialized from behind a tree, intent on dragging me back to California.

  “So, divorced parents, Mom moved back to Guerneville. Now you’re on your way to Sonoma? I told you about adultery and a secret love child. I’m disappointed, Tate,” he teased. “That wasn’t very scandalous.”

  “That’s not exactly all of it, but… ”

  “But …?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  Sam rolled to his side, facing me. “Which makes it even better.” He pointed to his chest. “I’m nobody. I’m not going back to Vermont of all places and telling everyone this beautiful girl’s secrets.”

  My thoughts tripped on the word beautiful.

  Torn, I searched out the thread on the hem of my fraying sweater, but I was distracted when Sam reached out to pluck a blade of grass from my hair. The tip of his finger grazed the curve of my ear. Heat blazed from the point of contact and down across my cheek, scalding my neck. Could he see my blush in the dark?

  He waited one… two… three seconds before he rolled onto his back again.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I guess that’s why I said that about Luther. I sure can’t talk about it at home. He and Roberta are the bedrock of our community, and for as independent as she is, I don’t know how Roberta would survive without him. If he’s sick, I’m sure that’s partly why he hasn’t told anyone. Like I said, I think I needed to put it out there.” Scratching his jaw, he added, “Does that make sense? Saying it out loud makes it real, means I can work on dealing with it.”

  What he was saying, what he was describing—it was like a deep gulp of cold water, or the bursting first bite into a perfect apple. I knew, in some ways, that my life had been entirely constructed as a safe little bubble. Dad was loaded, but I wasn’t sure we even took money from him, because we’d never had a lot. We had enough. I had freedom within a small geographic range, the best friend I could have ever hoped for, and a mother and grandmother who adored me.

  All I had to do was keep the secret.

  The problem was that I didn’t want to anymore.

  “I’m not supposed to talk about this,” I said, and I could feel the shift in his focus, how he was really looking at me now.

  “You’re not supposed to?” He held up a hand, and quickly added, “Okay, in that case—”

  I shoved the words out: “My dad is Ian Butler.”

  Even if he was going to let me off the hook, I wanted to say it. I wanted to name it, like he did, so it could stop being this thing that threatened to burst out of me.

  Sam was quiet before he pushed up onto an elbow, eclipsing the stars as he hovered over me. “Shut up,” he said, laughing.

  I laughed along with him. I’d never said that sentence out loud before; it sounded ridiculous to me, too. “Okay.”

  “Wait.” He held a hand out, palm down. “You’re serious?”

  I trembled, nodding. I knew I’d just dropped a bomb—my father was arguably the biggest movie star of his generation. He’d won back-to-back Oscars twice, was constantly on magazine covers and entertainment news shows everywhere, and I sometimes wondered whether there was a human alive who hadn’t at least heard his name. But all I could imagine right then was the way Sam looked above me.

  The way he’d look on top of me.

  “Holy shit,” he whispered. “You’re Tate Butler.”

  It’d been ten years since someone called me that. “I go by Tate Jones, but yeah.”

  Sam blew out a breath, eyes cataloging every one of my features: the oval face and high cheekbones, the beauty mark near my lip, whiskey-colored eyes, heart-shaped mouth, and dimpled smile that made Ian Butler the only man who’d been People’s Sexiest Man Alive a record three times. “How did I not notice it before? You look just like him.”

  I knew I did. I used to watch his movies in secret and marvel over seeing my face on the screen in front of me.

  “Everyone wondered where you went.” Sam reached forward, gently tugging at a wayward strand of my hair. “And here you are.”

  two

  “WHAT DID YOU DO last night?” Nana spooned some melon onto her plate and moved down the line to the tiny, decadent pastries.

  The second-to-last thing I wanted to do was have next-morning processing with Nana about Sam. The last thing I wanted to do was lie to her about him. My heart took off at a gallop. “Just hung out in the garden.”

  She looked over her shoulder at me. “Is it pretty?”

  I could still see the looming shadows of the manicured trees, still feel the chill at my back and the heat of Sam on the lawn beside me. “Yeah.”

  My
answer was intentionally lackluster. If I’d told her what it had really been like she might have wanted to see for herself, and I didn’t want her anywhere near the scene of the crime.

  “How late were you up?”

  She asked this kind of semi-controlling question so habitually, like my schedule was hers to manage. Would it still be like that when I’d left for college and she didn’t know the parents of every person I went to school with? I knew she’d hate my answer, too: I don’t know how late we were up. That first morning, my eyelids felt dry and wrinkly. My limbs were slow. I wanted to sleep, but more than sleep, I wanted to see Sam again.

  He and I stayed up well past midnight, talking. It started heavy—with his details about Luther, about Danya and Michael—but once we touched on my parents, and my past, he pivoted. He didn’t ask a single thing about my personal life in LA. Instead, we talked about movies, and pets, and favorite kind of pie, and what we wanted to do today when the sun came back up. He was right that it was easy to talk to him because who cared what he knew? I’d never see him again after this. I wanted to capture the night on film and show it to Mom and Nana later to say, See? I can tell a stranger who I am and they don’t turn into an obsessed maniac and run to the press. He didn’t ask me for Dad’s phone number, okay?

  I fell asleep next to him on the lawn, and when I woke up he was carrying me inside. In his arms.

  “Late?” Nana prompted.

  “Pretty late,” I agreed. “It was nice out.”

  My stomach dropped at the memory of feeling Sam’s arm banded beneath my knees, the other curved around my shoulders, and the steady pace of his footsteps across the marble lobby. I woke up with my face pressed to the collar of his flannel shirt and my arms around his neck.

  Oh my God. You don’t have to carry me.

  I don’t mind.

  Did I fall asleep?

  We both did.

  I’m sorry.

  Are you kidding? I came to London and slept with the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. I get to say that now.

  He put me down once we were inside the elevator, but it was a slow, intimate process. My front sliding along his chest until my feet landed safely on the floor. He kept his arm around my shoulders, one huge hand stretched across, cupped possessively on the other side. I wanted to ask exactly how many girls he’d carried. How many he’d made lose their minds over his thick arms and broad chest, his honesty, and the tiny comma scar under his lip. How many girls he’d slept with, on the grass or otherwise.

  Thankfully, Nana moved on. “I’ve scheduled the British Museum for us today.” She nodded so that I’d follow her to the table. In my daydreaming, I only managed to put a piece of bread and cheese on my plate. “Then have lunch at Harrods.”

  The sleep—not to mention the view—she scored last night seemed to have served her well: she was smiling in that modest, contented way of hers and wearing her favorite red cardigan from Penney’s, which could only mean she was in a decent mood.

  It was either that or the simple truth that Nana loved nothing more than a schedule. Other than Christmas and New Year’s Day, she opened Jude’s at six thirty every morning and closed at four every afternoon, on the dot. And in between, she prepped pie crust, put in her vendor orders, checked and double-checked the cash registers, butchered and marinated the chicken in buttermilk and paprika for frying the next day, made all the side dishes fresh, and slow cooked the brisket while I washed dishes, mopped floors, and set tables. Mom made lemonade; peeled apples, peaches, and potatoes; made lemon curd; and then took whatever leftover food we had from the lunch crowd down the road to Monte Rio, where the same people waited every night for the one meal they’d get that day.

  Nana waved at someone over my shoulder, pulling me out of my sleepy thoughts. I assumed she was flagging down the waiter for some coffee, but Luther’s voice rang out across the restaurant: “Our two favorite ladies!”

  Heads turned, and the girls at the table beside ours gaped at Sam as he made his way over. A weight dropped from my chest to my stomach. I knew I’d see him again—hoped I’d see him again—but I didn’t think it would be over breakfast with Nana, before I’d had a chance to remind him not to mention what I’d said about Dad.

  “Okay if we join you?” Sam asked.

  He must have directed the question at me, because a beat of silence passed before Nana jumped in: “Of course. We just sat down.”

  Across from me, beside Sam, Nana pulled her napkin onto her lap, smiling up at him, and then over to Luther, who sat down to my left, patting my knee affectionately.

  I finally worked up the nerve to drag my eyes to Sam’s face. His arms were enormous—an anatomy lesson in individual muscles, tendons, and veins. His blue shirt stretched across his chest—Bob Dylan’s face was mildly distorted by pectorals. There were a few lines on his left cheek, like he’d come straight from the pillow to the hotel restaurant.

  Although he looked as exhausted as I felt, he met my gaze with a lazy, flirty grin and I was reminded again of the way our bodies dragged against each other when he put me down last night. I hoped the flash of heat that blew across my skin didn’t show on my face, because I could feel Nana looking at me.

  He blinked away and nodded when the waiter asked if he’d like coffee, and then lifted a hand to his stomach, mumbling, “Starving,” before wandering away toward the buffet.

  The teenagers at the table next to ours followed him with their eyes glued to his back, all the way to the spread of meats and cheeses.

  Beside me, Luther seemed content to enjoy his coffee, adding four packs of sugar and a generous helping of cream. “I hope you woke up to a beautiful view?”

  “We sure did.” Nana shifted uncomfortably in her seat. I knew her well enough to understand that she’d already thanked him—she didn’t want to have to say it over and over. “Many thanks… again.”

  Waving a hand to dismiss this, Luther lifted his cup to his lips and blew away the steam. “Women care more about those things than men do.”

  I felt a defensive wave rise up inside me, and saw it mirrored in Nana’s expression. She forced her face into an amiable smile. “Hmm.”

  Luther tilted his head to me. “These two were out late last night, huh?”

  Tires screeched, laying down black rubber tracks in my brain.

  Nana went still, before tilting her head in question. “These… two?”

  He glanced from me to where Sam was presumably tearing his way through the buffet. “Our grandchildren seem to have hit it off.” I would have taken a moment to appreciate Luther’s delighted laugh if he hadn’t been currently destroying my life.

  Nana looked at me again, eyes sharp. “Really.”

  At this, Luther’s delight visibly wilted. “Oh. Oh, dear. I hope I haven’t gotten Tate into any trouble,” he said. “I’m a light sleeper and woke up when Sam walked in around three.”

  THANKS, LUTHER.

  Nana’s eyebrows disappeared beneath her bangs. “Three?”

  I pressed my hands to my forehead just as Sam returned to the table with a plate piled high with eggs, sausage, potatoes, bread, and fruit. I’d never stayed out past curfew—eleven—and Nana thought that was too late a curfew for me.

  “Three?” Nana asked him. “Is this true?”

  Sam slowly lowered himself into his chair, looking around the table in confusion. “Three what?”

  It was so unbelievably awkward.

  Nana pinned him with her deeply intimidating brown eyes. “You were out with my granddaughter until three in the morning?”

  “Well, yeah,” he said, “but we were asleep for a lot of it.” He did a double take at her deepening horror. “On the lawn. Just—sleeping.”

  Nana’s face had slowly gone from ashen to pink to red, and Sam winced over to me, stage-whispering, “I’m not helping, am I?”

  “Nope.” My voice echoed from where I was trying to crawl into my cup of tea.

  “Tate,” Nana hissed, “you are not allo
wed to stay out with strangers in the garden of a hotel until three o’clock in the morning!”

  I was having flashbacks to the time Nana walked in on me and Jesse tangled on my bed, shirtless, and chased him out of the house with a spatula.

  And the time she found us making out in his car and wrote down his license plate and called Ed Schulpe down at the police station, who came and rapped his heavy police flashlight against the window, scaring the crap out of us.

  Even the time she found us lying innocently on the couch watching television—barely touching—and reminded me that high school relationships end when high school does because there’s a whole big world out there.

  “I know, Nana.”

  “Do you?”

  Luther and Sam both fixed their attention on the tablecloth.

  My jaw clenched. “Yes.”

  * * *

  “Are you having fun, muffin?” Mom asked, and although I’d spoken to her on the phone thousands of times, knowing how far away she was made her sound really far away, and I got a sharp pang of homesickness.

  “So far, yeah.” I peeked at the closed bathroom door, lowering my voice. “Just one day in, and Nana is still calibrating.”

  “Meaning,” Mom guessed, “that Nana is being uptight and miserable?”

  I laughed and sat up straighter when I heard the toilet flush. “She’s okay. We’re headed to a museum today, I think. And lunch at Harrods. Then Les Miz!”

  “I know you’re dying for the theater, but oh my God: Harrods!” She paused before quietly adding, “Tater Tot, Harrods is really nice. Try to have a good attitude.”

  “I do have a good attitude!”

  “Good.” Mom sounded unconvinced. “And make Nana buy herself something fancy.” Something clattered in the background—a pan against the stove, maybe—and even though I wasn’t hungry, my mouth watered for home cooking. I did the brief math—it was midnight there. I wondered whether she was getting a snack before bed, wearing her favorite flowery turquoise silk pajama pants and I’m a Proud Artist T-shirt.