by Karen Booth
I didn’t move, to take in every piece of sad and delicate information as he intended. No wonder he’d never wanted this to be public, then or now.
“Our marriage was completely irreparable by that point. We stayed together for a few weeks, but that was all I could take. I finally just told her to leave. I couldn’t save her and we were never going to have a family. I had to accept that and grieve for the child we’d lost because I knew she never would.”
Chapter Seven
We sat in silence. He had to be exhausted and I was still processing everything he’d said, everything the world supposedly needed to know. I excused myself and patted cold water on my cheeks in the bathroom, avoiding my eyes and the mascara that would run. He was still on the couch when I opened the door, his forearm over his eyes. I tiptoed my way over, thinking he might be asleep.
“You’re back,” he said softly, once I’d interrupted his solitude by taking my seat.
Sitting all alone with him was too much to take. I wrestled with my infatuation. It kept creeping into the feelings I had about everything he’d told me. “I should let you get some sleep,” I said. “You’ve had a long day.”
“We’ve both had a long day. You’re probably just as knackered as I am.” He spoke in a sleepy voice that made me feel as though I might melt into a puddle on the sofa. “When does your flight leave?”
“Nine-thirty. I need to head to the airport in a few hours.”
“Let me take you. We can talk. Off the record.”
I swallowed and cleared my throat. “Oh, thanks, but the magazine is sending a car.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it.”
“It’s three in the morning. I don’t even know who you’re supposed to call.”
“Don’t make things so complicated. I insist.” He sat up and I was quite conscious of our new proximity, but it didn’t seem to faze him at all. Our legs touched and he clapped me on the back.
“Are you really taking me to the airport?” I asked, as I got up to collect my things. I was concerned about wearing out my welcome, transparently making idle comments to steal his time.
“Yes, I’ll send Lou a text right now. I’m sure he’s dying to get up early.”
When I got to my room, I let the door slam behind me. I collapsed on the bed and curled into a ball. I found the pillow by feel and buried my face, unconcerned about falling asleep and missing my flight or more importantly, my final sliver of time with Chris. My brain would need days to shut down. I couldn’t believe that I’d convinced him to talk, that I’d actually done what I set out to do.
I was dreading having to say goodbye. It would be the end of my dream, a fantasy I’d held near and dear for more than half of my life. Even when it’d been set aside or forgotten, it was still there in the back of my head, waiting. There was no going back or undoing any of it. The Chris that once only existed in my head would never compare to the real thing.
I arrived downstairs early, wearing the blue sweater with a white t-shirt. I was exalted when he emerged from the elevator five minutes ahead of schedule and flashed his giant smile at me before granting me a kiss on the cheek. It felt as if we were old friends.
“Good morning. Don’t we look lovely?” he asked.
He knew exactly the right thing to say to a woman and, yes, we did look lovely. He wore the spellbinding jeans he’d just bought and a light gray sweater. Like the coziest blanket ever made, he was ideal for wrapping up my entire body, very tightly.
“That’s sweet of you, considering you kept me up all night.”
“I believe it was you who kept me up, madam. You need to check your facts,” he replied, exaggerating his accent.
“Careful. I haven’t written the article yet.”
“Oh, right. Power of the media. Bloody racket.”
A man in telltale driver’s garb entered the lobby and Chris didn’t hesitate to seize control. He strode over and the driver was soon laughing, Chris patting him on the shoulder as he slapped some money into his hand.
“That was nice of you,” I said, when he returned.
Chris’s cell phone rang and it was apparently Lou because he said, “That’s us.” He then placed his hand very low on my back. I felt his palm and fingers, pressure and warmth, through the thickness of my sweater. Wonderfully, it felt like more than a gesture to steer me somewhere.
Once in the car, he made my lightheaded by removing his sunglasses. “You should call me. If you have any follow up questions. Hand me your phone. I’ll give you my number.”
I reminded myself to stay cool. “That’d be great.” I couldn’t hand him my phone fast enough. “Now I won’t have to bother your publicist if something comes up when I’m writing the story.”
“The label handles that, but the publicity department hates me. I prefer to deal with most things myself.” He finished with my phone and then pulled out his own. “I’m going to take your number. So we’re even.” He winked at me while I impolitely stared. “Call me if you need anything. You know all of my deep dark secrets. We may as well be friends.” He returned my phone. “Here. I put it under Chris P.”
I looked down as though the item in my hand was a mystery. “Wow.”
“Wow?” He crinkled his forehead. “Don’t say wow. I like talking to you. You’re different from most women I meet.” He scanned my face, resting his eyes on mine more than once. “I find you, uh, refreshing.” He looked satisfied with his word choice, but I could’ve suggested a few alternates.
“Refreshing?”
“It’s a compliment. I enjoy your company. Most women I meet are rather one dimensional.”
“Maybe you’re hanging out with the wrong women.”
“You know I’ve been hanging out with the wrong women. I believe we touched on that last night.”
I considered the topic—I didn’t want to cross a line, but this was a chance to ask something I’d always wondered about men like him. I looked at him while searching for the right words. “Why do men like you only end up with women who are beautiful, but lacking in other qualities like intelligence or sanity?”
He smiled wide at me, letting me squirm in my seat. “We’re having a normal conversation as friends, right?”
“Right.” Except that nothing about this conversation is normal.
“Honestly, those are the only women I meet. Most women wouldn’t have the confidence to approach me in that way. They assume I wouldn’t be interested. They might ask for an autograph or take a picture. When I was younger, they’d scream and cry. It’s hard to ask someone out after that. Not that I didn’t like being screamed at, because I did.” He continued, “I suppose it’s because of what I do.”
“Interesting.”
“Please don’t say that. What are you thinking?”
“I’d never thought of it like that. Even though it’d be more fun to call you a jerk, you have a tiny speck of a valid point.”
“A speck. That’s all I get?”
“Sorry.” I squinted and pinched my thumb and index finger together for him. “And it’s a teeny tiny speck. I don’t exactly feel sorry for you.”
“I don’t understand the question coming from you anyway. You’re just as capable of dating a rock star as any other woman I might meet.”
“Yeah, right.” I looked down for a moment, feeling embarrassed that we were discussing me in this light. I did better when he was our focus.
“That’s false modesty.”
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s not false. I’m certainly not a model or an actress.”
“That’s probably why I like you so much. I may have to add writer to the list of women it’s okay to date.” He tilted his head, jutting out his lower lip. “It’s not a bad idea, really. It might help my career.”
“I know some very unattractive writers, frumpy, poorly dressed. You might want to reconsider that.”
“Excellent point.” He looked at me in a way that was unbelievably flirtatious, driving every
atom in my body frantic. “Then I’ll merely add you to my list. Everyone else will have to be on a case by case basis.”
My face became white hot. “That’s one way to do it.”
I glanced out the window and saw that we were getting close to the airport, nearing the end of our time together. I put on a good face, I smiled, but I was about to crack wide open on the inside.
Chapter Eight
I stood on the curb outside the terminal building as if what was transpiring was no big deal.
“It was great, Claire. I’m glad I agreed to the interview.” Chris put his sunglasses on, obscuring the green that I would never become accustomed to. “Just think, we never would’ve met.”
I swallowed at the thought of fate, my fantasy partially fulfilled. “Thank you for everything. I’ll call you if I have any follow-up questions.” I felt a sinking in my heart, as if I could fold up into my own body and vanish.
“Yes, do that. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll ring you.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and pecked me on the top of my head with a half-hug to follow, the extent of my physical contact with him, forever.
I wandered into the terminal, trying to put the right spin on what had happened, yearning for a way to keep myself from plummeting into the pits of self-doubt, desperate to prevent my inevitable over-analysis of the last twenty-four hours.
The flight home was bumpy and I grabbed the armrests when the plane dipped, surely driving the man next to me nuts. He was young and good-looking. I would’ve put effort into being charming or friendly if I could have, but I was too tired to think straight. Instead I worried about falling asleep at the wheel on the way home and gracefully gliding into a guardrail, never to be heard from again.
I made it to the house late morning, barely identifiable as a human being. The effects of saying goodbye to Chris hung heavily on my shoulders as I trudged upstairs and sank into my bed, pulling the quilt over my head.
My eyelids drooped with sleep, but just as I began to drift, a scent hit my nose. I took several deep breaths. The fragrance seemed to be his, but I wasn’t sure so I buried my face in my arm and inhaled. Without a doubt, my sweater was perfumed with his heady smell. I curled into a ball, taking in a whiff as I floated off to sleep.
I woke up in a panic, forgetting where I was, what day it was, and what I was doing. I frantically looked at the alarm clock. Two-thirty—I’d managed a few hours of sleep, enough to be ridiculously groggy.
My first thought was coffee, although my stomach quickly begged for attention since I hadn’t had a thing to eat since room service. As the coffee dripped into the carafe, I noticed what a lovely day we were having, splendid and full of promise. The sun shined brilliantly, birds chirped and flitted as they visited my next-door neighbor Rosie’s bird feeder. It was all so sickeningly pleasant.
I reached into the cupboard for a mug and noticed a note from Sam on the fridge.
Mom,
Grandpa called. He’s “very disappointed” you didn’t ask him to stay with me for the night while you were gone. He wants you to call him. See you at school.
I closed my eyes, praying for strength.
The caffeine finally kicked in while I sat in line at school waiting for Sam, sipping my second cup from a travel mug. My phone rattled and jumped in the cup holder, taking me by surprise. A text, from Chris P. My pulse thumped, urging me to hurry and read.
Home OK?
I smiled as if he’d just sent me a lengthy love letter. I’d certainly never expected this.
Yes, thanks, tired.
As soon as I hit send, my phone rang.
I groaned, quietly, but answered. “Dad, hi.”
“Did you get my message?”
“Yes, I did, but—”
“I can’t believe you wouldn’t ask me to drive down and stay with her for the night. Why in the world would you be so irresponsible?”
I sighed, watching Sam file down the sidewalk.
“Dad, she’s seventeen. She’s fine. She can take care of herself.” I hesitated to say more. Arguing would get me nowhere. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should’ve called. Look, Dad, I’m picking Sam up at school and there’s a long line. I’ll call you later. Love you.” I hung up before he said goodbye.
Sam opened the car door and plopped down in her seat with enough force to make the car bounce. “What happened? Your text basically said nothing.” She slammed the door and glared at me. “Tell me everything.”
I kissed her on the cheek and pulled out of the school parking lot. “Hello to you, too. Why do you always assume I’m going to leave something out?”
She groaned with frustration.
“Okay, I get it,” I said. “It went great. We had some rocky moments, but overall the interview went well and I guess we became friends. He gave me a ride this morning.”
“He drove you to the airport?”
“His driver did. Chris came along. It was nice. We could talk without worrying about the interview anymore. He’s such an amazing guy.”
“You totally like him,” she accused, pointing her finger. Her eyes blazed, pleased with her conclusion. “You have a crush on him. Again.”
“Of course I like him.” I fought the goofy grin on my face. “He’s charming and you never completely get over teenage crushes.” I sighed, thinking about that morning. “It’s nothing. It was a fun day I can tell my girlfriends about.”
“Mom. You don’t have any girlfriends. You’re a total hermit. You write all day and talk to Aunt Julie only if she calls you. I’m practically your entire social circle.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh yeah? How many numbers do you have saved in your phone?” She plucked it from the cup holder and pushed a button.
“Hey, that’s private.”
“Mom!” she gasped. “You have a text and it’s not from me.”
Here it comes.
“Oh. My. God. Is Chris P. who I think it is?”
“What if it is?”
“He wants you to call him tonight.”
“What? You’re lying. Give me my phone.” I lunged for it, but she was having none of that and I had to make a sharp swerve to avoid a trashcan.
“No way. Not yet. Are you telling me everything?” She held the phone to her chest, staring with bug-eyes.
“Yes, I swear. That’s everything.”
For the remainder of the afternoon, I became consumed with the question of when “tonight” was. It could be eight or eleven; either time would still be post meridian. I didn’t want to seem too eager, like the poster child for poor impulse control, so I decided on nine o’clock.
Until then, I worked. I made dinner. I paid a few bills, but that did nothing in terms of settling my nerves. I glanced at the clock on my laptop for the fiftieth time—fifteen minutes until nine. Now what? I got a drink of water in the kitchen and flipped through a magazine, but eventually became preoccupied with the pink and gray speckled boomerang pattern of the counter top.
Eight forty-eight came. This is stupid. I dialed, the phone rang, and my heart pulsed in my chest.
“Claire, hello.”
My heart raced even faster as I realized I hadn’t planned out what to say. I should have made notes, written myself some snappy dialogue. “Hi. What’s up?” I almost sounded comfortable, not at all like I felt.
“I just got off the phone with the engineer. We start mixing the record tomorrow.”
“Oh, great,” I said, happy with my immediate and logical participation in the back-and-forth.
“Definitely. It puts me one step closer to the finish line. That feels good.”
“Great.” My mind turned frantic as I struggled for vocabulary. It felt as though it was still my turn to talk. “Is there something you wanted to talk about?”
“I thought we could chat. It gets dreadfully boring in a hotel room.”
“Didn’t you have big dinner plans tonight?” I asked. “Am I keeping you from something?”
; “I cancelled those.” He hesitated. “So, no, you’re not keeping me from anything.”
There was a lull and I began to fear the worst, but he surprised me by launching into the personal.
“I was wondering something today. I know we discussed your job at lunch, but I’m curious which came first? Music or writing?” he asked.
It was hard to believe there was anything more to know after he’d grilled me at Marco’s, but I indulged him because it wasn’t my inclination to do anything less. “Oh, uh, music. I love to write, but that didn’t start to come together until high school. I’ve always loved music.”
“Any particular bands that you really liked?”
I panicked, realizing what band was at the top of the list at that time. “Just the normal stuff. I loved The Beatles when I was in middle school. My parents had a bunch of their old 45s. Then, I got into punk and new wave when I was a teenager. I liked a lot of local bands from Minnesota.” I walked upstairs with the phone and crept past Sam’s room, ducking into my bedroom to be alone with his voice. “What about you?” I stretched out on the bed and shut my eyes.
“You aren’t interviewing me again, are you?”
“Oh, no. It’s just a question. Unless it’s something you want me to put in the story.” I sat up, struck by the enormity of the gray area we were entering.
“I’m kidding. We’re chatting, right?”
“Of course.” I relaxed and dropped back against the pillows.
“My dad loved music. He used to play Wilson Pickett and Marvin Gaye for me. He showed me some chords on the guitar when I was five or six.” The idea of the five-year-old version of Christopher learning to play guitar was adorable, little uncoordinated fingers on the fret board. “When I was in school, Graham from Banks Forest and I idolized The Jam and The Clash. Funny, those guys weren’t much older than us.”
We spent more than an hour on subjects from first loves to my favorite flower, but I was drifting, even though I couldn’t bear to get off the phone. What I longed for, more than anything, was to talk to him until I fell asleep. I wondered if that would be okay with him.