Fix You

by Beck Anderson

  “Thanks.” I set his jacket on the back of his chair, sit at the table, and watch him pour water into both mugs. Do I feel different now that I know who he is? I can’t tell.

  He hands me my tea. “What if we went running tomorrow?”

  “What?”

  “You and me. I’d like to get out, stretch my legs. We could go for a run.”

  “I don’t know. I usually run alone.”

  “You could humor me.” He tilts his head in a little plea. I can’t imagine anyone resists that look very often.

  “I guess.” I’m pretty sure this is a hallucination. What in the world?

  “Good. I could meet you here. What time?”

  “It’s supposed to be really hot tomorrow. Six?”

  “In the morning?”

  “Yes.” This running thing still seems unlikely. “Why would you want to run with me?”

  “When you do take a minute and actually look straight at me, I like it. And I have to say, the way you were upset yesterday? I kind of feel like you could use a wingman.”

  “Except you ran off.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that.”

  “Sorry about the way I cried like a blithering idiot.”

  “No, really. I shouldn’t have run off, but I needed to. Word sometimes spreads quickly.”

  We’re talking about him. Him being famous. But we aren’t talking about it. “I thought you were a spy. Or a felon.”

  “I act like a total lunatic ninety percent of the time, I swear to you. You’ve probably heard. I earned kind of a reputation when I was younger.”

  Again, I try to remember anything I’ve heard, but my mind is a total vacuum. “So you have to go back soon?”

  He looks at me, takes a sip of his tea. “I think Monday. When do you go back?”

  “Sunday. The boys start school again on Monday.” I try to stay cool, but I think I’m sweating from nervousness. That’s attractive. “I’ve kept you talking way too long. You probably have lots to do.”

  He makes no move to get up. “You’d be surprised. Unless I’m working, I’m completely bored most of the time. Sometimes friends come out to LA to visit, but other than that, I’m completely and utterly dull. I buy sneakers on eBay for fun.”

  “What kind of sneakers?”

  “Old Air Jordans, other basketball shoes mostly. It’s kind of addictive.”

  This strikes me as funny. “You buy sneakers worn by other people? Like, used shoes?”

  “When you put it like that, it sounds gross. They’re collectible. Limited editions. One guy spent eighty thousand dollars in a year.”

  “Really.” I can’t help it, and I can hear the sarcasm in my voice.

  “I’m not that guy. It’s something to do. I said I was boring.”

  “Do you even play basketball?”

  “Not particularly.”

  I laugh. It feels good. As absolutely bizarre as this is, I like talking to him. He’s funny.

  Suddenly, I’m struck by a new thought: someone will be home soon. Someone as in one of my sons with my dad or my mom. I’m not prepared for any sort of introductions of this new person. I need to get him to leave.

  Nothing smooth occurs to me. I stand up from the table. He looks at me. “I’m so sorry, but my boys should be home soon and…” I’m about to kick Andy Pettigrew out of my house. I am the biggest idiot on the planet.

  “I’m leaving. Say no more.” He’s already on his way to the door, returned jacket in hand. He smiles at me. “So I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

  “Okay. And thanks for stopping yesterday. Most people would walk a little faster if a person was freaking out on the sidewalk like I was.”

  He turns, hand on the doorknob, thoughtful for a moment. “It just seemed like the right thing to do. No big deal.” He walks down the sidewalk to his car and gives a little wave before he gets in and drives away.

  So I’m going on a run tomorrow at sunrise with Andy Pettigrew. No big deal.

  5: Still Running

  I DON’T EVEN GIVE the birds a chance to start their pre-dawn tweeting before I am out of bed, dressed, and in front of the condo, ready for Andrew.

  I held my breath for most of my morning routine, terrified that I would wake up my parents or the kids. The stealthy thing does not come to me naturally, so this is nerve-wracking. This is still my secret.

  Yet my movie-star hallucination continues as the same black sedan pulls up and parks at the curb, just as the sun begins to filter through the palm trees to the east. Andrew Pettigrew climbs out of the car. He wears the same hoodie, with baggy shorts to match, but no sunglasses this morning.

  “Good morning.” His voice sounds scratchy. He joins me on the sidewalk.

  “You sound tired.” I don’t know if I should wave or what, so I put my hand out for a shake. “Good morning.”

  He shakes it. “Greetings, Kelly.” He smirks. It’s clear he thinks I’m a dork.

  “Are you ready?” The longer I stand here, the worse the awkwardness will become, so I take off down the street, jogging slowly.

  “Okay. Be gentle.”

  Of course I spent way too much time last night planning this. We’re going to do a straight shot down the street to the cart paths of the municipal golf course, not far from Mom and Dad’s condo. At night the course is lit, but it’ll be deserted now—too early for golfers.

  We run for a while in silence. He looks over at me and smiles. I smile back. He runs a little ahead, so I pour it on a bit and pass him easily. He catches up. We run in this easy, playful pattern for a while. He seems to be fairly fit.

  He nudges me with an elbow. “How am I doing?”

  “I don’t know. Are you okay? Do you run much?” I like this. Talking to him while he’s next to me is easier. I can run and look straight ahead and feel much more functional as a human. I don’t know when I turned into such a crazy person.

  “I run sometimes to get ready for work. Usually it’s when I’m told to.”

  “You tell me when you want to stop and we will.”

  “You tell me how you are today. You feeling better?”

  I’d much rather just run. “I’m okay. Each day is a new day. Some are easy; some seem long.”

  “Why don’t we turn around at the end of that path up there? By that palm tree.” He looks sly.

  Probably because there are palm trees everywhere we look. I stop and turn around. “This is an easy run day for me. We can head back.”

  He makes a big circle, twice around me, and then heads back the way we came. “Thank God. I was worried I’d have to fake an Achilles tear.”

  I enjoy hearing the rhythm of two pair of feet for a while, and I watch the sun climbing higher in the sky. We run together, side by side. I feel calm, so much more sane than I did yesterday, or the day before.

  “I can see why you run. You’re at peace.”

  We’re back at the condo again.

  “Here we are.” I feel good—that wasn’t a complete disaster.

  He looks at me. “See? We’re making direct eye contact without any kind of prompting or cue cards for you. Well done. And I have to say, you have lovely eyes. It’d be a shame if you avoided eye contact for the rest of your life.”

  “Thanks. For the run and for the compliment.” I kind of want to reach over and touch him. I almost chicken out, but then I touch his elbow, just barely. It’s my attempt to say “Hey, you’re cool” in a low-key manner. Of course, I’m a complete dork, so…

  He looks a little surprised. Maybe people aren’t supposed to touch fancy-schmancy movie stars. Or maybe people just don’t. He grins. “My pleasure.”

  We walk to his car. He swings the door open, stands with an arm draped over it.

  He looks like he wants to say something else. For once I keep my mouth shut and wait to see what it is.

  He fishes his cell phone and sunglasses out of the car. “Can I get your number?”

  “You don’t want my number.”

 
“Yes, I do.”

  “No, you don’t.” Seriously, is he kidding?

  “Do too.” He shakes his head. “This is insane. Why not?”

  “Look at you. Come on.”

  He stares at me with those very blue eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Give me your number.”

  I tell him. He puts it into his phone. I bite the inside of my lip. I haven’t done this in a lot of years, but I think the way I feel is the way a person feels at the beginning of something. It’s kind of a dusty memory, but, yes, it’s coming back to me.

  I look at him for a minute. The world creeps back into my brain and speaks to me about real life again. “I don’t suppose you get to Boise much.” If this is a beginning, it’s the beginning to a very short story. We are never going to see each other again.

  His sunglasses are back in place, and he looks over them at me. “You never know.” He gets in his car, but pauses for a second to comment: “Like I said, I’m bored a lot.” And then he’s gone.

  6: The Next Time

  THE NEXT DAY, I load the car with my dad. The boys and I are headed back to real life, back to an empty house in Boise. But on this trip, we’re also headed back to a reality that involves me keeping a surreal secret. Dad puts the boys’ luggage in the back of the car for the ride to the airport, and I spend the whole time wanting to tell him who I went running with the day before.

  Mom comes out on the driveway and begins tear up instantly. I walk over and give her a big hug. I don’t want to cry. I’m cried out for now.

  “Oh, it was too short.” She takes in a shaky breath, and I give her a stern stop crying look before I hug her again.

  “We’ll be in LA for Christmas, Mom.” I snap the car’s hatch shut.

  “Did you get that guy’s coat back to him?” She’s changed the subject, making what she thinks is small talk. Little does she know.

  “Yes, Mom, I did. When I ran back to the coffee shop.”

  Dad’s interested is piqued. “What guy?”

  Oh, oh, oh, I want to tell him. “Just a guy, Dad. He left his coat at the coffee shop.”

  “You gotta be careful these days, Bug. People kill each other from Greglist.”

  “It’s Craigslist, Dad. And there was nothing creepy about it. He left his coat, and I returned it. End of story.” There was a bit more to the story, actually, but still nothing worth divulging right now.

  We say our goodbyes, get the whole crew to the airport, and all I can hear repeating in my head is “end of story.”

  The boys and I fly back to Boise. I don’t say a word to anyone about Andrew. I’m really tempted, more than a few times, but then I remember that look, that silent favor I promised I would do for him. So I keep quiet.

  I do get the names of his movies straight, though. I got on the computer when we got home and Googled him. And I may have done it a time or two since then. It feels wrong, kind of like I’m running a background check on him or looking through his underwear drawer.

  It’s amazing what you can remember when you’re not standing in front of a famous movie star. I didn’t have to go far to remember last year’s big bank-robbing movie, Thief at Midnight. And that girl in that Revolutionary War movie, Redcoats Rising? Her name is Amanda Walters. There’s a picture of him with her at some awards show right around then—about five years ago. They must have dated. It’s at the top of the Google search.

  There are more than a few old news stories out there from around the same time, with titles like “Andy Pettigrew’s Wild Night Out.” My stomach flip-flops a little when I see those. He mentioned a reputation. For what? Partying? Lots of women? It’s clear I could probably dig around for a while and find out more than I care to know.

  But I don’t.

  I leave it at that.

  There are a lot of reasons I don’t want to know about his past. The big one right now is this: what’s the point? He was nice. He was a good listener. I’ll likely never see him again. No reason to drag out the old dirty laundry.

  However, there are many websites devoted to his wonderfulness. I can’t tell without looking more closely if any of them say he’s dating anyone right now or not. I’ve decided to preserve our relatively pleasant exchange in my mind and not mess it up with any bizarre fan musings I might find if I look further. I’m keeping my little brush with fame unsullied by tawdry gossip, thank you very much. It’s fun from time to time, as I sit and watch the millionth soccer game, or fold the millionth pair of boys’ socks, to think about Andrew. I smile every time, and it makes my heart happy whether our paths ever cross again or not.

  So the Reynolds clan falls back into our routine. School days are busy with the boys’ swimming and soccer, homework, all that stuff. The school year has started without me in the classroom for a second year in a row, and I wonder a lot about what’s next for me.

  The days pass pretty quickly when the boys are in school. I get them up, get them to school. I check email, pay bills, all the boring stuff. Then I usually run, shower, and get ready. Sometimes I meet Tessa for coffee or go to the YMCA and lift. Or I do errands or clean the house (not that I enjoy that, or do it well, or often enough). Most of the time I turn around and it’s time to go get the boys. It’s weird. I do like to read, and I’ve been known to have other hobbies too. But since I got married, and then had kids, and then lost Peter, and then gave up my job, it’s like my life is a funnel. Things have narrowed and narrowed to a point where sometimes it seems I exist to take care of the house and the kids.

  It’s probably time for me to get a new job—a new kind of job. Teaching reminds me too much of my old life. It reminds me of Peter. I feel better thinking about a new direction. But I don’t know what the new direction is yet.

  As early November turns cold and crisp, I have to admit, I’m getting to be hard to live with. I try to run every day. I work on repainting the boys’ room. I do just about everything to keep the ache under my collarbones from turning into a chest-crushing depression. But with the holidays around the corner, it’s difficult. There’s no way around it.

  But I continue to try, so today I run before I pick the boys up at school. To add to the gloomy onset of the saddest time of my year, Boise is blanketed with a thick, gray layer of inversion, a cold, frosty smog. It hurts my lungs. It makes it ten degrees colder in the valley than it would be if we were on the top of the Boise Front, the foothills outside of town. Yuck.

  When my cell phone rings, I’m more than glad to stop to take the call. “This is Kelly Reynolds.” I don’t recognize the number, and it’s not a local area code. It’s probably the Shriners or the Kiwanis or the somebodies asking for a donation.

  “Hi, Kelly. It’s Andrew.”

  There’s a pause. I’m drawing a total blank. “Hi there. Can I help you?”

  “Andrew Pettigrew. We met in Indio?”

  Oh my God, I’m an idiot. “Hi! I’m so sorry. I was just trying to figure out who I knew named Andrew. How are you?” I feel the blood rise to my cheeks, despite the cold. I’m thrilled; I’ll admit it. Andrew called! This is some sort of miracle or defect in the time-space continuum.

  “I’m good. But I need a ride. Are you busy right now?”

  Clearly I’m suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s. What is he talking about? “I’m in Boise, on a run, but—I’m sorry, where are you?”

  “At the Western Air terminal. Can you come get me?”

  What? But I don’t say that out loud, thank God. “Okay…I’ve got to get my car. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “See you then.”

  The line goes dead. I sprint home. What the hell? What the hell is Andy Pettigrew doing calling me for a ride in Boise, Idaho? When we haven’t spoken in two months? When he is one of the most famous and sought-after men in the world, and I am a not-famous, not-sought-after regular person? Seriously, this is hard to believe. Running home, I think I probably set a personal record from sheer adrenaline.

  And, oh, God, I can’t even look at myself i
n the mirror when I get there. I’m in my running gear. I don’t think I’m a feast for the eyes on my best days, but the hat I’m wearing right now is a hand-me-down from Hunter’s last-season ski outfit, and my running tights are coated with Samoyed hair. Today I am not only not a feast for the eyes, it would be a stretch to say I’m even a junky, stale snack for the eyes.

  I’ll be damned if I leave Andrew waiting there, though. Yes, it’s a private terminal, but I’m not going to give anyone a chance to call out the vultures that are the paparazzi. Of course, I’m not sure who that would be, given that this is Boise, Idaho, but the point is, I feel protective of him. I think we might be friends, and I’m not leaving him there for people to recognize and harass.

  I drive way too fast to get there, and I also start to worry about the approaching end of the school day. I don’t know where Andrew is headed, but this could be a close shave in terms of getting back to pick up the boys.

  As I pull up to the terminal parking lot, I feel a little smile form. I’m going to see him again. I never thought that would happen. But I try to remain calm. There’s absolutely no reason to believe he noticed me or thinks of me in any special way. This is a man, a famous man, who happens to be in my town, and there’s no reason to believe it’s anything more than that. Although a teeny, tiny part of me remembers that he did say I have lovely eyes.

  I chew a stick of gum before I leave the car. I look a mess, but maybe the gum will distract from any terrible, sweaty odor I might be putting off.

  Inside the door, I don’t see him right away. There isn’t a counter, just a woman sitting at a desk in a generic office reception area.

  “I’m here to pick up a friend,” I tell her. “He just flew in?”

  “You can go on back.” She absently waves me toward a door.

  I go through it into a huge airplane hangar. The triple-story doors are open to the cold weather. A small jet taxis out, headed toward the runway. A man stands just outside the doors, silhouetted, a bag at his feet.

  It’s him. I can tell as I get closer. The baseball hat is the same. So are the sunglasses.

  He looks kind of abandoned. I can’t believe a private plane just dumps you at the door of a terminal and takes off, but I’ve never flown on a private plane, so…