Fix You

by Beck Anderson

  Then I realize it’s a decoy. And I realize we were parked inside the tent so no one could see who got in the van. This is a little disconcerting. When Andrew and I were together in Boise, it felt normal. In this world, it’s a different story. Things appear normal at first glance, but I’m beginning to think that takes a lot of careful orchestration.

  We arrive at the block of condominiums where Andrew’s staying. It’s a little mixed-use development—one of those old-time town square fabrications. There are restaurants and shops on the bottom story, and buildings of various heights to make the whole thing look organic, when in fact it probably all went up in a couple months during the last building boom.

  Tucker drives us into the underground parking garage. Again, this seems to be just part of the way Andrew’s life works. No one sees him arrive. I wonder if anyone has figured out he’s staying here. Now I know why the top on his convertible went up a couple miles out of town when we drove here from LA. It wasn’t the weather.

  In the garage Tucker gets out. He comes around to the door. Andrew steps out first, and suddenly, I feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me. Tucker isn’t a production assistant like the scrawny but very amiable college boy who drove me to the set today. Now that he’s out of the car, I can see that Tucker is huge. He’s as tall as Andrew, and he’s solid muscle. Tucker is a bodyguard.

  I sit in the van for a second, letting this sink in. How do I feel about this? For some reason, I’m afraid for my boys. What am I getting them into? Could I be placing them in danger by hanging out with this man—a man who needs a bodyguard like that?

  Andrew pokes his head inside. “You coming?”

  I take a deep breath. Just because it’s new, doesn’t mean it’s bad. People live lots of different kinds of lives, right? This is just a little different. “I’m coming.”

  He helps me step out, taking my hand in a very chivalrous way. But what really helps me relax is the way he continues to hold my hand as we walk to the elevator. Tucker walks ahead of us, but he ambles. He doesn’t act as though we’re in any danger.

  We get in the elevator alone. Tucker stands at the doors and waves, smiling. “Have a good night, Andrew.”

  Did I notice a slight eyebrow raise with that goodbye?

  “You, too, Tucker. See you in the morning.” The elevator doors close.

  “So you don’t drive your car when you’re here?” I’m wrapping my brain around this.

  “No. Tucker does the driving.” Andrew’s still holding my hand, still relaxed. I don’t think he’s picked up on the state of alarm over here next to him.

  “Does that bug you?” I look up at him.

  He looks at me. “No, not really. It’s easier if he drives.”

  “He’s your bodyguard.” I say it like it’s a secret.

  “Yeah. I like him. He’s cool.”

  “Is it weird?” I hold his hand a little tighter for a minute.

  “I don’t think so. When I’m working, Tucker usually is working too. People know where the sets are, so it’s better to have someone around in case a crowd forms. And if I do press, or a premiere, sometimes it’s Tucker and Dean too.”

  “Two?”

  He grins. “I’m kind of a big deal, you know.”

  The elevator stops at the top floor, and I take a step forward, ready to get off.

  “Wait.” He pulls a small key out of his pocket and sticks it into the elevator panel. It turns, and then the elevator resumes its climb.

  “How very James Bond of you.”

  The elevator stops again, and this time the doors open onto a foyer. There’s a hotel-looking fake orchid sitting on a little table.

  “Is this your place?”

  He nods. I step off the elevator and around the corner.

  It has high ceilings and a very open, loft-style floor plan. It must be the penthouse. I guess that’s a no-brainer. I face a wall of tall windows and French doors and a large deck that runs the length of the room.

  Lights of the town twinkle outside. Inside, it’s austere. There’s a guitar and a piano over by the windows. A sleek dining room table has piles of mail and other paper on it. The kitchen looks hardly touched, though I do notice a rather sizable collection of cereal boxes lined up on the counter by the fridge.

  “I like this—do you like it?” I turn around. He’s been standing behind me. I guess he’s been watching my reaction.

  “I do. It’s just what they rented for the shoot, but if I had a style, I guess it’d be like this.”

  “Do you have a house in LA?”

  “I’m renting one. Buying something seems so permanent. Plus, I’m gone so much, I don’t think it matters. I’m not into accumulating stuff yet. Maybe when there’s more to it than just me.”

  This is interesting. For me, there’s been more to it than just me for a lot of years now. It’s different to look through his eyes.

  “I can’t remember what that feels like. And kids grow stuff, I swear. They’re born, and their stuff starts multiplying everywhere. Is it lonely or does the freedom feel good?”

  He walks over to the fridge to inspect the contents. He has a lot of takeout cartons. “Oh, you know, sometimes I feel at loose ends. I envy you your boys. I miss my family, but they have their own lives. My sisters are both married, and my mom turned my room into craft room fifteen minutes after I came out to LA. If I’m working, I’m fine. If I have time to think about it, I guess loneliness is one thing I feel.”

  He reaches in and grabs a handful of cereal straight out of one of the boxes on the counter.

  “Are you feeding me cereal for dinner?” I poke the box.

  He shakes his head, breaking whatever thought he was lost in. “Sorry, reflex. Cereal is man’s greatest triumph, but I do have a plan for dinner. You need to camp out in my bedroom for a while.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “It’s all very innocent. I just want to attempt to surprise you. And I’m not going to oversell it, so don’t get any pictures of nine thousand candles in your head.” He takes me by the elbows and steers me through one of three doors off the great room.

  It’s again a Spartan scene. There’s a king-size bed dressed out in basic khaki sheets and blankets. There are some generic-looking oversized black and white photographs of trees on the walls. They must be from the same decorator as the fake orchid in the foyer.

  “Is any of this stuff yours?” I circle the bed.

  “Nope.”

  I stop. On the nightstand is In Our Time. He’s reading it.

  “Hey!” I’m so pleased, I can’t keep it out of my voice.

  “Are you proud of me?”

  I put my arms around his neck. “That you’re reading it makes me very, very happy. I’m proud of my star pupil.”

  He gives me a peck on the lips. “Wait before you call me a star, because we haven’t actually discussed it yet. My insights may bring tears to your eyes, but not in a good way.”

  He unlocks my fingers from behind his neck and turns on the gigantic TV. “You park it in here while I get things going.”

  “I may be blind when you come back. No one needs a TV this big.”

  He chuckles. “Especially when you watch the crap I do.” He closes the door behind him.

  I sit on the edge of the bed for a second. I’m tempted to see how far he’s gotten in In Our Time, but that seems invasive. I get up and wander, and something catches my eye on the top of his dresser.

  It’s the black rock he found on the Oregon Trail. I pick it up and rub it between my fingers. My face hurts, I’m smiling so big. He is perfectly adorable—heck, he’s just perfect. I want to do a little dance.

  Next I peek into the master bath, ’cause, you know, that’s not snoopy at all. There’s a fancy tub with lots of rolled towels stacked on the shelf next to it. None of it appears to have been touched. In the shower there’s a bottle of grocery store shampoo and a bar of soap. Shaving cream, a razor, and Old Spice deodorant sit by the s
ink. And a toothbrush.

  I’m not sure what I thought I’d find, but his normalcy in grooming products is a relief. Not a lot of movie-star preening going on in here.

  I wander back out and try to watch Dirty Jobs on the Gigundotron. Poor Mike Rowe is up to his waist in sludge of some sort or another.

  Andrew peeks back in after a half hour or so. “Let the magic begin!” He swings the door wide with a goofy flourish.

  There’s a slight breeze, because the doors are open to the patio. He’s plugged in lots of Christmas lights, and the deck twinkles. There are several potted palm trees, and the lights on them are charming. He’s also set the table.

  “I’d offer you a glass of wine, but I don’t know whether red or white would work better with our meal, and I know you’re not much of an imbiber.” He ushers me out onto the patio.

  It’s warm. It’s probably freezing cold back in Boise right now. I try not to get distracted by a thought of the boys and how Mom’s doing with them.

  “Okay, sit.”

  I do as he says. There’s no food on the table. My curiosity is piqued. “What’re we having?”

  “Patience, patience. I’ll be right back.” He hustles off to the kitchen.

  I can smell something savory. I hate to admit it, but I was the person in my marriage who ate whatever was put in front of her. Thankfully, Peter was a good cook. I hope somehow my boys won’t be as useless as I am in the kitchen.

  Andrew walks out and sets a plate down in front of me with a waiterly bow.

  It’s bacon, eggs, and pancakes. I laugh out loud.

  “Madam, may I present breakfast for dinner.” He sits down next to me and hands me my napkin.

  “And you were fretting about red or white wine. I’m sure.”

  He grins. “I actually don’t drink at all when I’m on a movie. Too many empty calories, and I want to stay focused.” He takes a bite of his eggs.

  “If we’re going to keep doing this, one of us needs to learn how to cook.”

  He looks right at me. “If we’re going to keep doing what?”

  Uh-oh. Panic city. “I don’t know.” I swallow hard.

  “You mean dating?” He talks with his mouth full.

  “Are we dating?”

  He stops chewing for a minute this time. “Umm, you flew down to see me for the weekend. Yes, we’re dating. I have so decreed it. End of story.”

  I sit there and spin my fork a few times. “I like to hear you say it.”

  “Well, good. Now eat your pancakes.”

  19: Juke Box Hero

  DINNER PUTS ME in a very good mood—the kind of good mood I get in when I run a lot and feel like I’m twenty, except smarter than when I was twenty. These are the times when I’m almost successful at quelling the worry in my head. I’m almost normal in these spaces of my life.

  The air is cooling, but we’ve stayed out on the patio to talk. Andrew smokes. I’m restless, ready to explore his place a little more. It’s too bad it’s not really his house—I could glean a lot more clues that way.

  “Let’s go in.” I take his hand.

  I think he likes that I’m taking the lead. “Okay. Are you cold?”

  “Well, yeah, but I also want to snoop. You’ve seen my house, met my kids, seen me crying my guts out—I need more dirt on you.”

  “You don’t want the dirt on me. Trust me.”

  “Oh, come on. You can’t have too many skeletons.”

  “Let’s say I have enough that I’m changing the subject. Maybe we can listen to music.”

  We come inside. The air still smells like bacon. The stereo’s on, but I can’t make out the music, it’s so soft.

  “What’s playing?” I spy his iPhone docked on the stereo over by the piano.

  “I have no idea. But I do have some songs on there for you.” He grins.

  “Oh yeah? Which ones?” As I look at it, he scoots between me and the stereo.

  “Listen. Tell me if I’m on target.” He fiddles with it for a moment and presses play as I sit on the couch. It’s Duran Duran. “Rio.”

  “Oh, I do love this song.”

  He comes over and sits next to me. He puts his arm around me, and we listen for a minute. Then I get up and wander over to the piano for more clues. While Simon Le Bon serenades us, I try to decipher the notes and scribbling on the staffs in front of me.

  “You write songs?” I can distantly remember how to read music from high school band.

  “Nothing of substance. But it’s fun. My sisters are both good singers. They stick mostly to church choirs, but we play a lot of music when we get together. I’m always the one who accompanies.”

  Of course he can play the piano. Would it be too much for him to be sucky at more than just cooking? He’s too impressive.

  He’s up at the stereo for the next song. “How about this one?”

  It’s Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

  “You just know this from Glee. Suddenly you young ’uns know all the good eighties music.” I go to the stereo this time. “What else?”

  He stands behind me. “Well, I like this one a lot. It might be cheesy, but it speaks to me.” He reaches around me to pick the song, and I feel the hair on my arms prickle from his energy. I love feeling him close to me.

  I recognize it as soon as he plays it. “Juke Box Hero.”

  He wanders around the kitchen, picks up a wooden spoon. He sings the first verse into it. Then he speaks up to be heard over the music. “The story song. That’s why this song’s cool. Same with ‘Don’t Stop Believin’.’”

  I walk over to him so I don’t have to yell. “They’re both about small town boys who turn out to be rock stars. Is this your secret? You really want to be a rock star, don’t you?” I jab him in the ribs for emphasis.

  “Now you’ve gone and done it. Don’t you know every actor’s a closet rock and roll god?”

  “You’re not going to pull a Bruce Willis on me, are you?” I make a terrible face.

  He still has the spoon in hand, and it looks like he’s going to swat me with it. “You’ll pay for that.”

  I take off around the kitchen island, but he’s in hot pursuit. I grab the nearest utensil in self-defense.

  He stops. “Not the whisk!” He’s laughing so hard, he can’t finish talking.

  “It’s not that funny. You forced me to find a weapon.” I bop him on the head with the whisk.

  He’s ready for me. He ducks under and grabs me around the waist in one swift movement. Now I’m over his shoulder in the fireman’s carry. And I’m yelling. I hope his neighbors aren’t too close, because we’re definitely making a ruckus.

  “Juke Box Hero” is almost over—the rocking with one guitar is at full tilt. Andrew hauls me over to the couch and flips me off of his shoulder. I land with a plop, but I have a decent hold on his arm, so he comes down with me.

  He kisses me. The release, the emotion of it rushes through me, and I kiss back, hard. I have him by both arms and pull him to me without hesitation.

  He, on the other hand, pulls back. He stands. “Wait, I want to play another song for you.” He gets up off the couch, pulls me up too. I try not to appear petulant.

  He presses play again. It’s one of my favorite songs of all time: “Don’t Dream It’s Over.”

  “Your boys said it’s on your top ten list.”

  “You asked the boys?” This is interesting.

  “You mentioned you liked eighties music. Last time I called, the boys checked the iPod for me. A little reconnaissance. I played a spy in a movie once.”

  “Did you play a stalker ever?”

  “Ha, ha. Let’s dance.”

  The song’s decidedly down tempo from the last one. He pulls me into his arms.

  “Okay, this is nice too.” I hum as he leads me around the great room in large, slow circles. I listen to the lyrics. “This song seems kind of appropriate.”

  He listens for a second. “Which part?”

  I stand
close to him, rest my head on his chest, listen to the music and feel him against me. “The title, mainly because I keep waiting to wake up from all of this.”

  We sway together as our orbit around the room tightens to a small spot.

  “Well, stop. Don’t look for reasons why this shouldn’t be, or why this shouldn’t work.”

  He’s right, I know, but my brain whirls for a minute, clouded with images from nightmares, worries about the boys, a fleeting grip of pain when I think of nights spent with Peter. I take a deep breath, try to stay in the moment.

  The song is over. He slips out of our dance to change the music. “Last song for real.”

  He pushes play and comes close to me, waiting. I feel my heart rev up. I think something is about to happen that hasn’t happened in a long time. It’s terrifying and exhilarating. Though for a moment I toy with the idea of running for the door, I really want him to kiss me, hold me, put his hands on me.

  The song starts. It’s Beck’s “Let’s Get Lost.” As Andrew kisses me, his hands move down my back. I tug at his shirt, pulling him even closer.

  We kiss with urgency. Then he stops for a moment and looks into my eyes. He wants me, but he’s waiting. He’s waiting for me. For me to say yes.

  I want this. I want this, and I want it to be right. I’m taking the plunge. I close my eyes and feel the pain under my collarbones release me from its grip. It’s replaced by desire blooming in my blood. Peter would ski the chute, take the risk, get lost in the moment. I know what to do. I am bold. This is right.

  I take Andrew by the hand and lead him to the bedroom.

  20: Well, Then

  UTTER BLISS IS A WONDERFUL, wonderful place to be. When I wake up in the morning, I’m there. I’d forgotten what it feels like.

  My heart has been pumping at two-thirds capacity for a very long time. Now someone has opened a floodgate, and I just got a transfusion of fresh, clean, joyously happy red blood. Every cell in my body is getting a boost.

  I wake up snuggled into a broad, tan, gorgeous back. I examine the freckles for a minute before I move up to the neck and nuzzle the cowlick of hair at the nape.