Fix You

by Beck Anderson

  Thanksgiving at Tessa’s is a tradition. It was even before Peter died. I have to take the boys to Thanksgiving, I have to speak to Tessa, and it looks like I’ll have to tell her what’s up. If I take that trip before I tell her about him, she’ll disown me.

  I decide to tell her pre-turkey. We usually do something in the morning, just me and her. Sometimes we bake the pies together (she bakes them, I watch) or go on a walk with Ditto. I suggest a run today. She agrees, which is impressive. Tessa is constantly trying to get me to go work out with her, but she never wants to run on the trail with me. For her, working out without an audience is without a point. There’s a reason she goes to the Y. It’s to be seen. Working out is secondary. Probably tertiary—she also likes to see who she can spy, and so seeing is almost as important as being seen.

  For that reason, running on the trails is never very appealing to her, and it speaks volumes about her curiosity that she’s agreed to go out with me now. That she insists on it, actually.

  So here we are, running up the Corrals Trail, the path muddy and the air wet and cold. Ditto is with us, and he’s already a lovely shade of mud from the tops of his legs down. Yuck. But I owe Tessa an explanation, and I need to placate her too.

  “Let’s stop, can we? Please?” Tessa’s got her arms akimbo, and she’s walking already. We’ve run for maybe twenty minutes. Maybe. Ditto’s thrilled. He wanders off trail to sniff for critters.

  I pull up and walk back to her. “You need to walk?” She’s fit, so I know it’s not that she’s tired.

  “What I need is for you to dish on the movie star you were so casually hanging out with in the grocery store parking lot three weeks ago, that’s what I need. And yeah, I don’t feel like running anymore.” She turns around to walk toward the trailhead, so I follow.

  “What do you want to know?” I don’t know how this is going to work.

  “Have you slept with him?”

  “For the millionth time, no. I haven’t.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because, that’s why.”

  “Because is not an answer.”

  “Can we start with something easier, like how he and I met?”

  “Oh, no, he is gay, isn’t he?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because you’re avoiding the sex discussion, and because isn’t a good enough reason to avoid having sex with a gorgeous specimen like Andy Pettigrew.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to sleep with me. Maybe he doesn’t like me like that.”

  “Is that true? He’s not into you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Has he at least kissed you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it a gay kiss?”

  “I don’t know. What the hell is a gay kiss like? Is this some weird homophobic streak in you?”

  “No, it’s not that. Gay as in he’s not thrilled to kiss a girl. No tongue. You know, he closed-mouth kisses you like he’s kissing his grandmother, like he’s Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice.”

  “So if a guy doesn’t French kiss a girl, that makes him automatically gay, does it? And have you even read that book?”

  “You’re making it sound so dumb, but yeah. And no, I haven’t read it. I saw the movie.”

  “Mr. Darcy is not gay, and I’m not having this conversation with you anymore.”

  “Okay, listen. Do you like him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you really meet him in Indio?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you really not going to say anything more than that?”

  “Probably not. The French-kissing line of conversation was kind of off-putting. You’ve made me crabby. Plus, you said you were going to tweet about him, so that makes me suspicious.”

  “You’re not ever allowed to say tweet as a verb again. It doesn’t suit you.” She kicks the dirt in front of her. “But listen, I think it’s great that you’ve got a new friend. Just promise me you won’t get too tied up in it, okay? I’d rather see you have a little meaningless sex.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s your first foray into the world since Peter. And, man, you took go big or go home to heart, didn’t you? This guy is not an easing-back-into-things guy, Kelly Jo.”

  I don’t answer, so she keeps going.

  “I just mean, look at the world he lives in. Women throw themselves at him. How can he possibly resist all of that?”

  I take offense. “Because I’m such a loser, how can he not sleep with other women? Is that where you’re going with this?”

  She shakes her head vehemently. “Of course not. Kelly, put your brain in your head for a second. He’s a Hollywood movie star. They’re not famous for their fidelity. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “He’s not like that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know.”

  “What if I told you I researched him a little?”

  “I would tell you I don’t care. I’ve spent time with him. We know each other. How is it fair that I can do a full background check on him courtesy of the Internet? I wouldn’t do that with a normal guy. And half of what you read is lies, anyway. I’ll find out about him like I would any person I’m getting to know.”

  “This is happening pretty quickly, though. Are you sure about him? What have you told him about you and Peter?”

  “He’s my new guy, not my new counselor. But he’s great with the boys.”

  “I’m just saying. He was pretty wild when he first went out to LA.”

  “I’ve stopped listening to you.”

  “Okay, so let’s assume for a minute he’s not into cheating with other women. He’s not gay, or at least you don’t think he is. Has it ever crossed your mind that he might just be looking for a diversion, a distraction?”

  I hesitate. I hate it, but I feel doubt creeping in. “No.”

  “Could he be goofing around?”

  “Do you mean screwing around? Sleeping around?”

  “I thought you said you hadn’t slept with him.”

  “I haven’t, so why would he bother with me? I didn’t jump him the second we met, and you know he’s probably got plenty of women who’ll do that, so why has he stuck around?”

  She throws up her hands in surrender. “Listen, counsel, I’m not getting into a legal debate with you. The point is, he lives in a different world than you and me, sister. Don’t be naïve about that. Okay?”

  I feel pouty. Of course she has a point. Tessa’s right. She’s always right—surprise, surprise.

  But no, on second thought…“You know what?”

  She’s not even pretending to exercise now. She’s just strolling. She stops and looks at me. “What?”

  “I’m not being naïve. I want to trust my gut on this one. This is a good man, Tessa.”

  She smiles at me gently, or condescendingly. “Okay, okay. Maybe I’m wrong. It happens.”

  I feel better that I stuck up for Andrew. “It doesn’t happen very often, but maybe this time.”

  I try not to hesitate. I’m not telling her about my trip to see him, though. I don’t want to hear something cynical about it, not right now. I want to trust, to risk, to take a chance with Andrew. And not have to take a tumble because of it. Sometimes the reward is worth the risk. Let this be one of those times.

  Tessa points to the car at the trailhead. “C’mon, let’s go stuff ourselves with white flour and starch and turkey that I’ll have to work off in spinning class later.” She breaks into a brisk run.

  17: Time Together

  I COULD START this discussion with the obvious, which is to say it’s been a very long time since I’ve had a weekend with a man I’m interested in without the boys being in on it—like, before they were born. And that’s just a distant memory.

  Or I could start with how Mom was impressed with the car Andrew sent around for her (a black Mercedes coupe with tinted windows), a little disappointed by the flight (first clas
s commercial—no friend with a private jet to lend this weekend), but thrilled to hear who I was dating (mostly because he exists, with the bonus of being someone exciting).

  Or I could discuss the talk my dad had with me over the phone about not losing my head, knowing what I was doing, considering the boys, etc., etc. I sort of expected him to give me a curfew too, but I guess I should be touched that part of him still thinks of me as a little girl.

  Instead, though, I’ll start with one of my favorite parts of the trip so far: riding shotgun in a convertible, heading out to Ventura County, listening to Florence + the Machine loud on the stereo with my head tilted back to see the blue sky and clouds racing by overhead. If I had the To Catch a Thief long scarf trailing out behind me, it would’ve been totally perfect, but I did have the Cary Grant-esque leading man at the wheel next to me, so I was good.

  And then we arrive. Andrew has already assured me that on set I’m Kelly, the friend from Indio, and he’s given most people the impression that our families have known each other forever and there’s a wedding in Ojai I’m going to this weekend. We will keep the PDA to a minimum. He may or may not also be attending said fictional wedding. He’s apparently saving that in case we need it for some other diversion or excuse. Who knows.

  The sun is setting over a dusty old rodeo arena. I’m up in the bleachers, which did not exist before yesterday but were constructed to match the old arena for the purpose of the movie. I sit behind the crew, safely out of the shot. This is my only objective this weekend, movie set-wise: keep the hell out of the way and lie low.

  Though it is quite fun to watch for a while. It’s warm. The sun soaks into my shoulders and back, and I was right: watching Andrew work is fascinating.

  Every once in a while, in a long stretch of setting up a take, I’ll catch him looking up into the stands at me. He’ll toss his sun-bleached (actually bleach-bleached, but that’s the movies for you) mop of hair toward me and smile.

  Most of the time, though, he’s intent on his work. Occasionally he confers with the script supervisor, reviewing the scene’s dialogue, I assume. After most takes he stands behind the director with the producer and gets a look at the scene on the playback.

  That’s about the extent of movie making that I can figure out. The rest of it seems to involve a lot of standing around as cameras are moved, big lighting set-ups are fussed with, or some other mystery of a delay is created.

  The director is Logan VanderSmoot. He’s a Dutch filmmaker, and this is his first foray into American movies. He’s got quite a reputation, apparently, as an eccentric. Word has it he puts the Oh! in OCD. He keeps his socks on those tiny little hangers they hang on in the stores, installed fans in the back of his closets to keep the air moving through his clothes, has a nanny for his pet Maltese. But he’s a fan of Westerns, Andrew seems to like him, and he’s very warm when we meet, so I like him.

  He paces a lot. He fiddles with the video screen, which he wears like a fanny pack in front of him on his belly (maybe more like a Baby Bjorn), and when he gives Andrew direction, he always seems to pull him into what looks suspiciously like a football huddle with either the writer (on set today), the producer, or both. Then they break, and I half expect him to pat Andrew on the butt as he gets back out on the field to execute the play.

  And have I said anything about the execution of those plays? Andrew has a gift. When the fussing of all the people stills and they roll, when it’s quiet and focused on him, he’s in another dimension. I swear the air shimmers around him like a mirage. His intensity is palpable.

  He’s beautiful to watch. Besides the gift of his craft, he’s been groomed into full-on matinee idol form. His hair, as I mentioned, has been bleached a golden brown/blond. He’s wearing a cowboy shirt, cut to move with him closely, and his boots and riding pants are equally well fitted. He’s broad at the shoulders, slim at the waist, noble. Now I understand more fully why he has approximately nine bazillion Facebook fans. He’s a man who deserves followers, devotees, just for the look and charisma of him.

  I’m trying hard not to be too star-struck. I’m glad I get to be at a distance from all of this, because there’s a small possibility that I would, as the fangirls say, make a sound that closely resembles squeee if I were closer to him right now.

  In the middle of my reverie, there’s suddenly a lot more activity down in the arena than there has been all afternoon. The light is waning—Logan prefers to shoot during the “golden hour,” when the afternoon sun illuminates his scenes with a warm glow—so the shoot must be winding down.

  I look for Andrew. He’s giving me the all done sign, waving at me to come down. I meet him at the fence of the arena, climb up on it to look down at him.

  “We’re done. What’d you think?”

  “I didn’t understand everything you had to stand around and wait for, but it’s cool, Andrew. It’s really cool. And you’re really good.”

  He scoffs. “You couldn’t even hear.”

  I wave him off. “No, seriously. From up there—hell, from up in a blimp—I could still see it. You command the scene. You light the place up.”

  This seems to please him. “Thanks.”

  I’m starting to sound like a suck-up. “But enough about you. I want to meet Petunia.”

  He fake frowns. “That bitch is always crowding me out of the shot. She’s a total diva.”

  “Speaking of divas, we haven’t touched on your leading lady. You have one, I assume?” I try to sound completely non-threatened. Totally lying, but you know.

  “Franca? She’s fine. She’s not on set today—mostly just me and Petunia and a little of Gerry.”

  Gerry Turner plays the old, retired sheriff Andrew’s character turns to for fatherly advice when the chips are proverbially down in the movie. I’ve seen him in quite a lot of movies, but meeting him was like meeting an accountant your dad uses. Just a normal guy.

  I’m glad Franca’s not on set. Maybe I can avoid a direct side-by-side comparison all weekend and escape before Andrew realizes he’s been shortchanged.

  He breaks my wishful thinking. “I’m starving. Let’s go back to my apartment. I want to cook you dinner.”

  “You can’t cook.” I smile at him.

  “Neither can you.” He climbs up on the fence and sits next to me for a second.

  “Point taken.”

  “Well, let’s go back to my place and do a bad job preparing something for dinner together.”

  He swings a leg over and hops to the ground, out of the arena. I worry about achieving a similarly nimble dismount, but Andrew reaches up for my hand and helps me. The set has cleared rapidly. An armada of golf carts and ATVs hauled equipment and crew away, and a wrangler took Petunia and walked her back to the stables. Andrew and I walk down the dusty road to the parking lot. I rode in to the set with one of the production assistants in our continuing attempt to keep things appearing mellow.

  “Boy, ya’ll close up shop quick around here.” I’m enjoying the soft pink light of approaching dusk, and the birds flit from the trees and call to one another.

  “Ya’ll?”

  I didn’t notice I’d said it. “Yeah. Holdover from my past.”

  “Where?” He likes to walk a little ahead of me, turning and keeping eye contact more than I think a normal guy would. Okay, maybe more than Peter would. He was a side-talker. Big conversations often took place sitting next to one another on the back stoop at night, watching the dog wander around the backyard.

  “I lived in Tennessee when I was a kid. Went to college in Virginia. That’s where I met Peter.” Oh, yes, Kelly, let’s bring Peter up again. Score another one for the girl who has no brain.

  “Did you guys get married right out of college?”

  “No. We dated some at school. He was too wild for me. When I’d been out in the real world for a couple years, I ran into him again. He was living in the same town as me; he was in grad school. I went to dinner at a friend’s house, and there he was.”


  I skip the vivid memories that rise to the top with the story. I’ve found that if I dive into them, I can get lost in a deep lake of grief. For some reason the early stuff hurts the worst. Maybe because it feels like we were so far away from anything bad happening. I look back at my younger self and think, Poor girl, she has no idea what’s coming, while I watch her falling in love with Peter over dinner. That’s one interesting thing about me then: I was never waiting for the other shoe to drop like I always seem to be now.

  “Hello?” Andrew’s voice startles me. It doesn’t sound a thing like Peter’s.

  “Hi. Sorry.” I try to refocus. I’m back in the present, on the dusty road, walking with a new man.

  He stops. He puts his hands in his pockets and faces me. He smiles gently. “Don’t apologize. You’ve got things you remember. That’s good, right?”

  “I guess so. Some things hurt to remember.”

  He takes a step forward and puts both hands on my shoulders. “This is when I should say something helpful, and preferably deep. For now, all I can say is that sucks, and I hope it stops soon.”

  “You’re making me look bad, getting all wise and stuff.”

  He throws his arm around my shoulder, and we continue walking down the trail. “I told you I was good. I won’t charge you for that bit of wisdom. Soon, though. Soon.”

  18: We’ve Got Tonight

  AT THE END OF THE ROAD, I follow Andrew into one of the many tents the film crew has put up in the fields around the farmhouse they’re using as a location. It’s like a huge traveling circus. White tents dot the field, each one with a different purpose: mess, makeup, costumes. Andrew goes back to his trailer to change. The plan is to share a ride to his place. Although Andrew drove us to Ventura County, apparently being famous and on location means not being trusted to ferry yourself around—no convertible ride this time. Someone else is driving us home.

  A plain-looking minivan with dark windows is parked just inside one of the wider entrances of the tent. When Andrew returns, we get in, and a guy I’m told is named Tucker drives us out. As we leave the set, another van pulls through the gates and out of the camp at the same time. At first I figure it’s just other people leaving the set for the day.