I close my curtains, turn out the lights, but it still takes three episodes of Schitt’s Creek on the small television to distract me from this spiral and to pull my ego back up above water. Remember? I tell myself, You never wanted to feel this way again. The bliss is not worth the anguish.
There’s a knock just as I start to drift off.
A slice of light stretches across the carpet, and I crack open an eye to see Mom standing in the open doorway.
“Sweetie, your phone was ringing.” She pauses, and then brings it across the room to me.
I look down. Only a handful of people have this number. A notification on the screen tells me I’ve got a voice mail, but I don’t recognize the caller.
Mom slips out at some point while I’m staring down at the screen, half hoping it’s Sam, and half hoping it isn’t. The bliss is not worth the anguish.
Holding the phone to my ear, I listen to the voice, even more gravelly through the line.
“Hey, Tate. It’s me.” A long pause—during which my ribs begin to tightly constrict my lungs—and then a dry laugh. “This is nuts. There are guys with cameras outside my window right now. I just wanted to make sure you knew it wasn’t me this time.”
He falls quiet again, and then clears his throat. “I don’t even know what to say. I wish I’d been able to say goodbye. I don’t know what you need from me—hell, I don’t know what you even want from me at this point, but I’m here. This is my number. Call me when and if you’re ever ready.”
* * *
There’s not another house for almost a half mile. The nearest neighbor, a woman Nana’s age named Shirley, seems to have no idea who I am and admits to us when she brings a welcome casserole that her favorite show is and will always be Hill Street Blues. I don’t think we need to worry about Shirley calling up the paper and giving away our location.
Nana takes to baking pies with local ingredients and hand-delivering them to the handful of people within walking distance. Mom sets up an easel on the back deck and tries to capture the sunrise every morning. I walk up and down the beach, searching for intact seashells and hoping that this is the day I wake up and know what to do.
By the time we’ve been here a week, it hasn’t happened yet.
Sam hasn’t called again, but—as far as I know—he hasn’t made a statement yet, either.
But on day eight, Marco comes to town with a stack of scripts and the news that in an unrelated interview, Gwen finally addressed the S. B. Hill scandal.
“ ‘Gwen Tippett confirmed that Tate Butler and Sam Brandis had a relationship in the past, and reconnected while shooting the feature film Milkweed,’ ” Marco reads, squinting down at his phone. He came directly from a meeting in New York and is sitting barefoot in the sand wearing what has to be an eight-hundred-dollar suit.
“ ‘When the director was asked if the relationship affected Tate’s performance on-screen, Tippett cheekily hinted that audiences would just have to wait and see.’ ” Marco rolls his eyes. “Very subtle, Gwen.”
I tuck my legs to my chest and pull my sweater around them to keep warm. “So the circus has died down.”
He tosses his phone to the sand beside him, and looks out over the waves. “For the most part. At least until the press junket. Or until someone gets a glimpse of you and Sam together.” When I don’t say anything, I feel him turn to look at me. “Any chance we’ll see that happen?”
“I don’t know.” I chew my thumbnail, thinking. “Was it you who gave him my number?”
“Yes.”
I let out a long, slow breath. “Okay.”
“Tell me what you’re feeling, Tate.”
“I miss him. I want to call but then my brain pipes up, reminding me that I did everything too fast last time.” I frown. “And the time before that. I figure this is the time to really think it through and be sure.”
“My parents moved in together after a week,” he says, and shrugs. “They’ve been married for fifty-two years. What’s fast to some isn’t fast to everyone.”
I consider that, wanting it to be true. I think about the first day of filming, seeing Sam on the trail, and the way it all came back in a rush. Sometimes I’m glad I didn’t have any warning. Would I have still accepted the part? Looking back, it almost seems like fate that—
I stop, my mind snagging on that detail. Something must change in my posture or my expression, because Marco is suddenly leaning toward me.
“Tate?”
His emails.
I reach for my phone in the pocket of my sweater, and start searching through the emails that Terri archived. I scroll through months and months and then there, Tuesday, January 8.
Thursday, March 14.
Wednesday, July 24.
Thursday, July 25.
My head is spinning. I hold my breath, and I read.
To: Tate Butler
From: S. B. Hill
Subject: Milkweed
Date: Tuesday, January 8
Dear Tate,
I’m not sure how to start this email. In fact, I’ve spent years thinking how to start an email to you, but given the news I’ve just heard, I can’t afford to linger too much on the wording.
First, in case you didn’t put the pen name to the person, it’s Sam, from London. I realize I have no right writing you. I fully intended to leave you alone after what I did, but this particular situation warrants a heads-up.
You see, I am the writer of Milkweed, and as I understand it, you’ve just signed on for the role of Ellen. From the looks of things, we will be shooting on a small farm in Northern California. The cast and crew are going to be housed together on the farm for the duration of the shoot.
I believe it’s early enough for you to back out if you wish; no announcements have been made yet, and Gwen tells me we are still a few weeks out from making one.
I’m sitting here, wondering if it’s worth saying all of the things I’ve stored up for the past fourteen years, but in truth I’d be crazy to think you’d want to hear any of it.
As much as I’d love for you to play Ellen, I understand if you back out.
I wish you nothing but the best in life, Tate.
All my love,
Sam
To: Tate Butler
From: S. B. Hill
Subject: RE: Milkweed
Date: Thursday, March 14
Hi Tate,
Things have gone along in the development of the film; the cast is coming together, the crew and location are being finalized. For all I knew, you were still involved. But when I saw the announcement in Variety today, I panicked, wondering whether you’d seen my first email. I’m not sure if it’s too late for you to back out; contractually, I don’t know how these things work. But the idea that you wouldn’t know about the film, and the backstory, before coming on set makes me feel nauseated.
I need to tell you a little bit about Luther and Roberta. My life with them was good. Better than good, it was the best kind of life. Free-range, bottomless love. Wisdom and commitment to community. Anyone who crossed paths with them was lucky to have known them—I was by far the luckiest for having been raised by them.
I think of this sometimes and wonder whether my decision made your life better or worse in the long run. It’s impossible for me to know. I carry the weight of my guilt with me every day, every step. I don’t say that to mean it should be a concern on your end; more that we’ve both had these inflection points in our lives where, unbeknownst to us, someone is making an enormous decision that will impact us forever. I’ve thought about this in hindsight quite often. What an arrogant kid I was.
It’s important to me that you know that none of it was premeditated. What I felt for you—to be honest, what I still feel for you—was genuine. I made the call on impulse, in a panic.
That phone call got me ten more years with Luther. I’ve examined it from every angle, but I wouldn’t trade those y
ears for anything.
When we see each other on set, I’m sure it will be strange at first. If I am especially strange, I’m sorry for that, too. I’ll do everything I can to respect your wishes, whatever they may be. If you’d like to have your manager or publicist send along a note to me with a response from you, I’d appreciate knowing that you’ve seen this email.
With love,
Sam
To: Tate Butler
From: S. B. Hill
Subject: RE: Milkweed
Date: Wednesday, July 24
Dear Tate,
We are two months out from filming, and I haven’t heard from your manager or your PR representative (Marco?). I still have no idea if you’ve even seen these. Should I tell Gwen? Should I contact Marco? I don’t want to betray your privacy. I don’t want to mess up your official PR story. You have a right to control the narrative, and I don’t know who knows.
I am an absolute fucking mess over this. I can’t wait to see you but am terrified that it’s going to be awful for you to see me.
I want to crawl out of my skin thinking about it.
If I could move past this, it would be easier. But I can’t. It looks like you have, and I’m glad for that, Tate, I really am.
I’m still in love with you (the real you, not the television version, not the magazine version. I’m in love with the girl who wanted to take charge of her life—fuck, the irony—who wanted to grab the world by the balls). You’re the reason I still feel like my life hasn’t started yet. It’s like I’m waiting for you to release me.
I can’t wait to be near you, and I just need to know that you’re seeing these.
I’ve loved you for so long, and I just need to know that you know.
Sam
To: Tate Butler
From: S. B. Hill
Subject: RE: Milkweed
Date: Thursday, July 25
Dear Tate,
I’m sorry about that last email. I’d been out late with some friends, had one too many drinks. It won’t happen again. I promise that I will be nothing but professional on set.
I am, as I’ve always been, yours,
Sam Brandis
It’s really only when I look up that I feel the tears running down my face. Marco is on the phone, pacing a few feet away. Mom is standing on the back porch with her arm around Nana’s shoulders; they’re both watching me intently.
“Two?” Marco says, pulling my attention back up to him. “That works. Business or better.”
“Two what?” I mouth when he looks at me.
“Thank you.” He hangs up and ignores me, looking up at the house. “Emma,” he calls. “Can you get some clothes packed for—”
“They’re all clean and folded,” Mom interrupts with a laugh, turning to head back inside. “I’ll put them in a bag.”
“Marco?” I ask, confused.
He looks down at me, blue eyes softening. “You don’t even need to say it, Tate. It’s written all over your face.” He grins. “But don’t worry. I just booked your ticket.”
* * *
There’s a no trespassing sign posted at the bottom of the long road, so the taxi stops near a white wooden gate.
“There were a bunch of reporters here last week,” the driver says, waiting while I run my card. “Whole road was blocked. Couldn’t even get up this way.”
I look up past the fence. Trees hide the house and most of the property. “Can you wait down here in case he isn’t home?”
He shakes his head. “That’s a ten-minute walk. I can give you a number to call if you need another ride, but it’s too long to just wait.”
Because Eden, Vermont, is bursting at the seams with cab fares waiting for rides? I give him a tight smile and sign my receipt. “Thanks anyway.”
He gives me a questioning look in the rearview mirror. “Why didn’t you just call the house?”
“Don’t have the number,” I lie. That’s not exactly true. Sam had to change his number when the news broke, but the studio has it. I’m sure Marco does as well. It’s just that this is something I needed to do in person. I’m not a writer like Sam is; I couldn’t put what I want to say in an email or a text message. But I know how to love him in person. I don’t think I needed to know Roberta and Luther’s story in order to know that love like that can exist, but if it hadn’t been for Ellen, I’d never have figured it out.
I climb out of the car and reach for my bag. “Thanks.”
The driver waves in reply and pulls away, and I’m left staring down the long dirt road, framed by white split-rail fences on either side. I step forward, my bag heavy on my shoulder, the road damp beneath my feet.
It’s uncanny, really. Although Milkweed ostensibly takes place in Iowa, the set was designed to look like Luther and Roberta’s farm. It was beautiful, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing. Staring down the lane is a little like looking in a fun house mirror: the pieces are all where they should be, but everything here seems at once bigger, smaller, brighter, older. The apple orchard on Ruby Farm was too big; this one is maybe only two dozen trees. The replica barn was too small and weathered; in reality, the barn here is massive and painted a fresh, brilliant red.
Behind me, hills stretch as far as you can see, and the grass is dotted with grazing cattle and sheep.
My stomach twists a little tighter with every step. What if he isn’t here? What if he isn’t happy to see me? What if he is? I haven’t exactly worked out what I need to tell him, how to take the feelings inside me and turn them into words. But I want to take back control of this story. I don’t want Dad or Sam leading the way on this. Not even Marco. I want to be the one to tell the world the truth, but it’s terrifying to imagine doing that: putting my feelings out in the world for everyone to read. It’s occurred to me more than once lately that I’ve always been better at living someone else’s life than living my own. But here I am, walking down this long road the same way Luther did all those times, all those years ago.
As the road curves, the beautiful two-story farmhouse stands proudly in the distance. A wide porch wraps around the yellow building, and I half expect to see Ellen Meyer fixing her washing machine on the back lawn.
My heart knocks against my chest as I near the house and my feet crunch over the dirt road. The November evening is cold—it’s probably forty degrees out—and the sun has just dipped below the tree line, turning the sky a flirtatious cornflower blue. I can barely make out two black rocking chairs looking out over the orchard. Did Roberta and Luther ever sit outside there together, talking, rocking, making each other laugh?
A small dog bounds off the porch as I approach. He barks, at first in warning and then happily as, I guess, I am determined to not be threatening. I drop my bag and kneel, holding out a hand to see if he’ll come closer.
The screen door squeaks open and then falls closed again with an echoing slap.
“Rick!” a deep voice calls, and when I look up I see Sam moving down the steps. I straighten, pushing my knit cap higher up on my forehead, and he stops cold in his tracks.
He’s wearing worn jeans and old brown boots. The sleeves of his blue flannel are rolled up his forearms, and a dark beanie is covering his head. My eyes never tire of looking at him.
“Tate?” he asks, squinting as if I might be some kind of a mirage.
I don’t know what the right thing to say is right now, but the words that come out first—“Your dog’s name is Rick?”—are probably not it.
He tilts his head, reaching up to scratch his jaw. “Yeah. Rick Deckard.” He doesn’t add more; he just stares like he’s not sure what to do with me.
“From Blade Runner? That is fucking delightful.”
There’s no warning when he jogs the few steps to reach me and scoops me up into his arms. He’s trembling, arms wrapped tightly around my waist as he buries his face in my neck. “Oh my God. You’re here.”
I let m
yself breathe him in, and my arms find their way around his neck. “Hey.”
He walks in a small circle, around and around, and then presses his mouth to my neck before setting me down. But he doesn’t back away; I have to tilt my chin to look up at him.
We stare at each other for a good ten seconds, just taking it all in. “I got back from lunch with my dad,” I say finally, “and you’d already left the farm.”
“Gwen hustled me out of there.”
I shrug. “Still. It sucked. I felt like you ditched me again.”
He winces at this, and then bends, pressing his mouth to mine for two perfect seconds. “I don’t like that.”
“I didn’t either.”
“I assumed they’d tell you that I was worried about you. That they’d sent me home to get away from the madness and not make things worse, I suspect.”
“Only a few crew members were left on the farm when we got back. I had no idea whether you were worried or not.”
“I realize,” he says, and his gaze is level, totally calm, “how easy it was for me to disappear last time. No one knew I was involved. I made you take all the heat. This time, it was my name dragged through mud, and I had to reckon with that.” He looks down, kicking a stick away, onto the lawn. “I figured if you called or wanted to talk, I’d be up for that. But if you didn’t, I’d understand.” He looks at me and grins. “Then I got impatient, but you wouldn’t return my call.”
“You took a long time to call me that first time,” I reply. The truth was always so easy when it was just us like this. “And I let it get in my head.”
He wipes his mouth, laughing. “This is some mess we made.”
“This is some mess my dad made.”
Sam’s eyes go wide. “No shit?”
“He’s eating it up, I bet.”
“You haven’t talked to him?”
I shake my head. “I still can’t believe he sold me out like that. Marco has us—me, Mom, Nana—sequestered away in South Carolina.”
“You all’re pretty good at hiding.”
I can’t read his tone. It doesn’t sound chastising exactly, but it worms under my skin, making me uncomfortable anyway.
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