Fix It Up

by Jessica Gadziala

  "What is it? What's going on?" I asked as Warren flicked on the light, sitting up in bed as I finally turned to make my way back.

  I could feel it.

  The twisting in my belly.

  From the look on Warren's face, he felt it too.

  The shit just hit the fan.

  "It's over. It got out."

  My shoulders fell as my legs gave out, making me drop down on the bed, my password only half-typed in.

  "How?" I whispered as Warren took my laptop, erasing what I had done, then adding it in himself.

  "What am I looking for?" Warren asked, tone guarded.

  "I don't know how. But I have your name as an alert. I just got a ding that woke me up. Found some online rag got the scoop. Celebs Behaving Badly," he told me.

  "Celebs Behaving Badly," I told Warren, my stomach plummeting as he moved to sit off the side of the bed beside me, so we could both see the screen.

  Warren no sooner clicked the website when I saw our faces from a selfie we had posted on the show's Instagram just the day before, smiling, happy, a genuine couple picture.

  'Oops, Fix It Up Did It Again.'

  Ugh.

  Of course.

  Ruining our careers wasn't bad enough, they had to take a Britney Spears shot too, huh?

  "''A show brought low by last season's hooker scandal, and vicious divorce has another embarrassment on their hands'," Warren read aloud, tone dead, as dead as my suddenly very still heart felt.

  "Get the fuck out of there," Brent told me, voice commanding, as it often was when he thought I needed to hear it, that I wouldn't respond correctly without it. I called it his 'warden voice.'

  "What?"

  "This is going to bring all the slimy rag paparazzi down there. Get the fuck out while you can."

  Warren must have overheard, because he tossed my laptop to the side, and moved to stand, pulling a shirt on, then grabbing our bags out of the closet, yanking the zippers open, and throwing things inside.

  I should have been helping him, but all I could do was reach for the laptop, torture myself with our failure.

  HITV's new hit couple, Brinley Spears (yes, that is her real name) and Warren Reyes, have been gaining attention with their sweet social media selfies and playfully bickering teasers for the new season of their show set in Cape May, restoring houses destroyed by Sandy in a clear publicity stunt to try to regain some respect, are not all they seem.

  A happy, lovesick, newly married couple.

  In fact, they are not at all what they seem.

  Rumors of on-site bickering have been circulating online for weeks now, but that isn't even the biggest facade.

  Oh, no.

  It turns out that Brinley and Warren are not even MARRIED.

  "Stop," Warren snapped, slamming the laptop shut on my lap, snagging my chin, dragging it up.

  "Tell that asshole to get you home," Brent said in my ear that felt oddly muffled, like my hearing wasn't working properly right then.

  "Look at me," Warren demanded. "I need you to help me pack. We need to be in the truck, and on the road in ten minutes."

  "We can't just run away," I said, tone hollow. "It will follow us."

  "We're not running away. We are getting some space, so we can handle it in our own way," he told me, tone reasonable, but firm.

  I rose to my feet, feeling oddly numb. "I have to pack," I heard my voice, dry and brittle as fall leaves crunched underfoot, tell Brent. "Thank you for this."

  With that, I hung up, vaguely aware that he had still been speaking.

  But this wasn't the time for talking.

  This was the time for throwing everything in bags, and getting a head start away from our problems.

  And not thinking.

  Not freaking thinking.

  About what was going to happen when Rachel, Mica, or Andy got up in the morning to this news. About how they would feel, the betrayal they would rightfully be drowning in, the anger they would be entitled to.

  About my life.

  My career.

  My dreams.

  Warren's career.

  Warren's farm.

  His dreams.

  It was gone.

  All of it.

  I was only half aware of what I was doing as I carelessly tossed shampoo, conditioner, and soap into a plastic shopping bag, as I scooped my makeup right on the top of it all, as I dug through the cabinets for any other personal items we might have put away.

  I came back out to a bare room, hangers knocked onto the floor of the closet, nightstand drawers open. I could hear Warren downstairs collecting everything else up as I turned off the lights, and went down to help.

  Within twenty minutes, we had everything jammed into the backseat of the truck, and were backing out of the driveway.

  I didn't ask how he felt.

  I imagined it was similar to how I did.

  Upset.

  Anxious.

  Guilty.

  Ugh, the guilt was maybe the strongest of the sensations as we had to drive past Bobby and Jennifer's place.

  We'd lied to them.

  And Mica.

  And Andy.

  And, especially, Rachel.

  Who had put her neck on the line for us.

  Who had fought for us.

  Who thought we were fantastic.

  Only to learn we were that... fantastic fakes.

  My hand went to my belly that felt like it was sloshing around ominously, making me worry I might need Warren to pull over, so I could throw up.

  But I slow breathed.

  I fought it.

  We were just driving out of the city limits when it came on.

  The song.

  The one I had secretly loved, then not so secretly loved, singing it with wild - tone-deaf - abandon around the townhouse almost daily for weeks.

  Somehow, the slow, sad tone worked at my guards, at the dam that was holding back my emotions.

  I turned away, looking out the side window as the tears started, slow, but relentless.

  I don't know if he was aware, if he could see or hear me, all I knew was he was silent as he drove.

  Two hours of silence as our worlds fell apart.

  "Brin," his voice called a while later, just as we crossed into my old town. "I don't know where you live."

  My eyes closed hard, making the last two tears stream down my cheeks, dripping off my chin, and dying on the material of my t-shirt.

  "Off of Wilson on Birch."

  "The townhouses?" he asked, there was something in his voice too, but I couldn't seem to muster the wherewithal to analyze it.

  "Yeah. Number twelve," I told him, watching the mostly dark streets, only the occasional porch light on. Including Brent's.

  "All the lights are on."

  "Brent was who called me."

  "Brent?" he asked, parking in the small drive, his monster truck taking up what little space was left after Brent's.

  "He has my name as an alert. It woke him up."

  I climbed out, not bothering to get any of the bags. Neither did Warren as he followed a full step behind me, walking up the front path. The door opened, and there was Brent, arms open.

  Because he knew.

  Even without seeing my tear-stained face, he knew.

  Maybe it wasn't smart.

  Maybe I should have thought it through more.

  Maybe I should have leaned on Warren.

  But I flew at Brent, letting The Bear envelop me in a, well bear hug, like he had done many times before, the tears starting up again. This time, though, there was no dignity involved. It was loud, ugly, and, well, snot-laden.

  I wasn't even really aware of anything until I felt tissues shoved in my hand, and took a moment to try to regain some of my composure even if the sinking feeling inside felt worse than ever.

  "The world isn't over, Brinny," Brent assured me as I finally pulled away, mildly embarrassed about the wet spot on his shirt that was likely a mix of two differe
nt types of face fluids.

  "Right. Just my career. Our," I corrected, looking suddenly around for Warren.

  Only to find he wasn't there.

  "He didn't come in," Brent told me, tone a little careful.

  "What? Why?"

  "I couldn't exactly ask over your 1950s dramatics," he told me, trying to lighten the mood, but all I could feel then was panic. A different kind of panic. The kind that was making my heart hurt.

  Why would he leave?

  Why would he just... go?

  Without a word?

  We had so much to discuss, to try to work through.

  And he just took off?

  "Don't know that asshole well," Brent told me, getting up, moving into the kitchen to, I imagined, put on some coffee. "But I figure maybe he wanted to be the one you leaned on."

  "What? Why?" I asked quickly, too quickly.

  See... I hadn't told them.

  My parents, siblings, Brent.

  About how we weren't really faking anymore.

  I figured it wouldn't do any good if I told them, and things went south. And that it didn't do any harm to simply keep them in the dark until things became more clear to us.

  "Oh, please," he snorted, moving into the doorway to the living room, crossing his arms, his brows raised. That was his I know all about that time that you thought your UTI was a crippling STD, so you can't keep anything from me look.

  "What?" I asked, going for innocent, knowing my acting had improved as of late.

  "From the looks of it, you two stopped acting like you were crazy about each other... around that trip to the city you took. I've seen you with guys before, Brin. I've never seen you look at one the way you've been looking at him in your pictures, in the show trailers. You two finally got your heads out of your asses, and took down the pillow barrier."

  There was no use trying to deny it.

  "It happened in New York," I agreed. "Well, he kissed me one night on the set. But then..."

  "Then you both acted like it was the end of the world if you two - who were supposed to dig each other - actually started to?" he asked, rolling his eyes.

  "He started avoiding me." My voice was defensive.

  "And instead of putting your big girl panties on, and confronting him, you got all mopey?" he asked.

  "You don't know me," I said, not even able to stop the smile because we both knew that - more often than not - he knew me better than I knew myself.

  "So, why did you throw yourself at me instead of him?"

  I looked away, annoyed at myself, embarrassed to admit the truth. "Because we decided to just... let things happen. Nothing super serious."

  "You decided."

  "What?" I asked, looking over at him.

  "You decided that."

  It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway.

  "Yeah."

  His hand went up, rubbing the flat of his palm between his brows like I was giving him a headache. "Christ, Brin. You're a smart girl, but sometimes you can be so fucking dumb."

  "Hey!" I yelped, hurt.

  Brent had always been blunt, a characteristic I both loved and hated equally. But he had always just been honest, not malicious.

  "That man is into you. And you go ahead and share his bed and share his daily life and his work for months, but don't give him anything."

  "I gave him..." I trailed off, feeling my cheeks redden.

  "What? Your body? Sex? So the fuck what? We both know that isn't what it is about. It's not about that nice shit. It's about the ugly. It's about the nights bent over the toilet with food poisoning, and the panic attacks at three A.M when you're pacing the living room floor, and the snot crying when your career is falling apart. It's easy to give someone the pretty shit. It means nothing. He wanted the ugly, Brin. And you gave it to me."

  "Hey! You're the one who opened the door with his arms out."

  "Had tears still drying on your cheeks. You're not mine, but you're mine, y'know? I'm not gonna see that and refuse you a shoulder. But I'm saying... it should have been his." I was still adjusting to the sinking feeling in my belly when he added, "And I think you wanted it to be his too."

  "He's seen me ugly," I told him, still defensive.

  "What kinda ugly?"

  "Ate at every food truck vendor ugly."

  "Psh, we both know that is only about a two on the ugly scale."

  "He's never ugly," I added, grimacing. "I bet he could pull off your peak ugly - bent over a puke bucket with the flu, throwing up the soup I made you - and..."

  "You'd still want to jump him," he filled in for me. "Yeah, idiot. Because you're into him. Admit it already."

  "I'm into him," I agreed, since there was no denying it clearly.

  "Come on, do it."

  "I just did!"

  "Nope. You know what you really need to say."

  "Why don't you tell me?" I suggested, brows drawing together.

  "Been living with him for months, knew him longer than that..."

  "I hated him back then. And don't you dare say that cliche about a thin line between hate and passion."

  "It's love," he corrected. "And cliches are cliches for a reason."

  "Don't be ridiculous. I don't love him."

  "Why not?"

  "What?"

  "Why don't you love him?"

  And, well, I had no answer for him there.

  Sure, he still managed to tick me off on a daily basis, but it wasn't rife with all the animosity that used to exist there. There was no resentment afterward, no hurt feelings. I didn't stare at the ceiling unsleeping, getting angry all over again at something he did or said.

  No.

  I curled up on his chest, feeling his fingers sift through my hair as mine traced the outlines of his muscles, our own personal little bedtime ritual.

  I woke up with his hands on me, sometimes rousing me with greedy fingers, having me completely turned on before my eyes even opened.

  We shared, well, everything.

  And we weren't sick of each other.

  In fact, when we did separate to do filming at different locations, I found I missed him. Even though we spent every waking - and sleeping - moment together.

  What was that, if it wasn't, well, love?

  Right?

  "Exactly," Brent said, nodding.

  "I'm not admitting anything," I said, even though my heart was an undeniably weighted thing right that moment, as if it had been waiting for me to acknowledge its fullness.

  "Not to me, no," he agreed, nodding. "I think you have someone else that needs to hear it."

  "It's like three in the morning."

  "You're not going to sleep tonight."

  That was true enough.

  Even if I straightened things out with Warren, there was no way I was going to be able to sleep until we knew what the fallout would be from that article - and the dozen or so others that had no doubt picked it up by now.

  "And you're still here because..."

  "My car is at Warren's," I admitted, making Brent half turn to the mail table, grabbing his keys out of the wooden bowl I had bought for just that purpose, and tossing them at me.

  "Let's get your car. Then you can go put out one fire before the next one really gets going."

  So, that was what I did.

  TWELVE

  Warren

  It was wrong to feel like I did as I drove away from the townhouse, my backseat still loaded down with half a dozen of her bags.

  We'd agreed.

  We went with the flow.

  We weren't serious.

  I shouldn't have been having the sensations I had in my body, though, at seeing her with Brent. The tightening of my muscles, the sour taste in my mouth, the hard set to my jaw.

  Jealousy.

  That was what that feeling was.

  It wasn't one I was overly familiar with.

  I guess I'd never let a woman mean that much.

  She did, too.

  Mean that muc
h.

  It wasn't - as our fake publicity story went - love at first sight. Not even close. It was something that had built. Slowly, day by day as we worked shoulder-to-shoulder, as we shared the same frustrations and triumphs, as we learned how we could deal with setbacks together, as we boosted each other up when we were having a bad day.

  And all that was before things really got started between us.

  But once we let down those guards, allowed ourselves to feel what we naturally did toward the other, the rest seemed to happen almost effortlessly.

  We talked about daily nothings, about important everythings.

  She showed me pictures online of the offices she had found, calling them 'dreams' until I had convinced her otherwise. She trolled Craigslist for me to find all kinds of animals she thought I could have on my farm.

  We fucked.

  We had sex.

  We made love.

  We did chores together.

  We fought over whose turn it was to load the dishwasher, or why it was so hard to do both the wash and folding and putting away in the same day.

  But I felt it there still.

  On her side, and maybe mine as well.

  That wall we'd started building when we had agreed to be casual, to go with the flow, to not label or analyze things.

  It was still there, maybe getting more and more reinforced each time we could have - and maybe even wanted to - but didn't, talk about the other stuff.

  The us stuff.

  The things like what our plans were once we finished.

  If she would move out of her current place.

  If she would come to the farm with me.

  If we would come out as official to everyone around us.

  If we would admit that this was as serious as it felt.

  The not-knowing was hard.

  It had been weighing on me since it was clear that once we grew up, realized we were in it together on the work-front, and therefore stopped trying to sabotage each other, and had learned that it wasn't that we weren't compatible, but rather that we were so much alike that sometimes it was like having an argument with ourselves, and all the hard feelings dissolved, leaving just what was underneath.

  Mutual passion.

  In general, but also toward each other.

  I regretted agreeing to her terms every morning when she woke up, stretching and shivering against me, every time she grumbled at me for cutting back the sugar in her coffee, each time she came running up to me on the job, words tripping over themselves in her excitement to get them out, to bring me in on some new discovery of hers, every evening when she would eat too much, then bitch about it, every night when she would writhe and moan for me, come with my name on her lips, then curl up into me, body relaxing, letting out a soft, almost inaudible mewling sound of contentment as she drifted off to sleep.