Fix You

by Beck Anderson

  I try to shake this off. Now is the time to be excited, not self-critical. I need to soak up the atmosphere and enjoy it for what it is, not for what I’m not.

  My phone buzzes. It’s a text. I know it’s not the boys. I just talked to them, and all is well there.

  I read the text.

  Still doing the business thing. Catch up to you soon.

  I text back.

  Relax. Come when you can. xoxo.

  I glance at the time on my phone. I have four hours. I probably need two to get ready, and that’s only if I take the longest shower in world history, which I think they frown on in California, ’cause they’re running out of water. I’m going on a run.

  I get changed and go downstairs, then out the side doors by the pool. There are several guys camped out by their cars. A few sit on little scooters or motorbikes.

  Game on. This must be the paparazzi. I examine them. Most are younger than I would think. In their twenties. I don’t notice any women—that’s an interesting piece of trivia. They all seem to be smoking, which must help pass the time. Several talk or text on cell phones. Some sit with each other, chatting. I count fifteen or twenty guys. Wow.

  Oh, hell yes, I’m going to spy on them. This is like being behind enemy lines, or deep undercover, or something. None of these men have a clue that I have any relationship to the man I presume they’re stalking. The premiere’s at a theater not too many blocks from here, and if Andrew’s doing some press, then everyone knows where he is.

  I run a little in place, then jog closer to them. This isn’t my warm-up routine in any way, shape, or form, but I’m trying to look natural. When I’m within earshot, I pick a palm tree to stop at and stretch out my quads and Achilles. Let the spying begin.

  Two young men wearing leather jackets sit on the bumper of a silver sedan. They’re smoking. My back’s partially turned to them, but I can hear. One of them has a bit of an accent that I would place as Turkish maybe?

  “This is shit.” The Turkish guy’s speaking.

  “Well, it’s a premiere. All the shots are going to suck ass anyway.” The other one sounds resigned, at peace with whatever is sucky about this job.

  “Yeah, but he could at least do something before the theater. Walk out and get a damn cup of coffee or something. The guy lives like a freaking recluse.”

  Non-Turkish guy sounds sympathetic. “Can you blame him? We’re a circus, for Christ’s sake. I wouldn’t bother with the cup of coffee either, if I was him.”

  Turkish guy is still grumpy. “His friend is in town, that Todd Ford guy. The musician. They haven’t even gone out one night together.”

  This is something I didn’t know. I haven’t met Todd yet. Andrew has mentioned him a few times. This makes me nervous. I have the feeling not all of Andrew’s friends are as mature and enlightened as he is, and I remember the asses some guys were when I was twenty-nine. Am I going to be meeting him tonight?

  Non-Turkish guy perks up. “Oh, well, there you go. Todd’s an absolute animal. They’ll be out after the premiere. I guarantee it. We’ll make some shots then.”

  Turkish guy snorts. “Pettigrew’s hot or cold. Either they’ll tear it up, or he’ll have freaking ice water all night and go to bed at eight. It’s all or nothing with that dude.”

  I realize I probably need to run now. There’s only so long a person can stretch. I turn my back on the men and trot off.

  As I run, I feel nagging worry start to eat at my insides. This is a new bit of information, Todd being in town. I don’t know how he might change things. What if he doesn’t like me? Does his vote count for a lot with Andrew? And what did the guy mean with that “hot or cold” comment? My gut rumbles with uncertainty.

  I scream inside to shut up. I cannot ruin this night. It’s going to be great. I kick the run up a notch and feel my lungs burn. Bring a little pain and keep myself working too hard to worry—that’s my plan, and for a few miles, I think it works.

  I get back to the hotel with two hours to go. I immediately get into the shower. I think I hear my phone buzz, but right now I’m shaving and mid-leg, so I ignore it.

  I’m about to get to the business of my dress when there’s a knock at the door. I pull a robe on and open the door a crack. Andrew’s there.

  “Let me in, quick! I have twenty minutes before I have to be back for the last interview.”

  I open the door wide, and he sweeps in. He’s not even dressed for the premiere yet. He runs a hand through his hair. He looks tense.

  “Where’ve you been?” He slips an arm around me, kisses my neck.

  “I went running.”

  “I wanted a minute alone with you.”

  He kisses me again, and I start to shiver. “Wait! I haven’t done my hair or makeup yet. Don’t distract me.”

  “Hold off on that. I need a smoke, and then I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  I wonder if the surprise is his friend Todd. This sets my teeth on edge. I don’t know why, but it just feels bad.

  He has a cigarette between his lips already. He seems off, out of sorts. Tucker was right—it’s clear premieres stress Andrew out.

  “I have to say, I wish you’d quit that.”

  “I am in total agreement with you.” He steps to the balcony. “I think you may get your wish.” He doesn’t open the door, just looks through it.

  “What?”

  “Your room is a bit inconvenient. Look.” He peeks out again.

  I join him. The paparazzi are still camped out in the parking lot, right under my balcony. “They’ve been there all day. I didn’t even think about it.”

  “I’m not in the mood to give them a photo op right now. God.” He groans.

  I’m starting to get crazy nervous. There’s another knock at the door.

  Andrew brightens. “It’s surprise time!”

  The person at the door is a young, sweet-faced woman who is hugely pregnant.

  He slips an arm around my waist. “This is Mallory. She’s my hair and makeup lady. She’s the surprise.”

  It doesn’t click. “Huh?”

  He looks worried for a minute. “I thought you might like her to get you all glam-ified.”

  Mallory smiles and holds up her tackle box. She looks friendly.

  “That’d be a lot of fun. Thanks, Mallory.” I give Andrew a hug around his waist and step forward to shake her hand.

  She directs me to one of the chairs.

  Andrew claps his hands together, glad his plan is in action. “Let the makeupping begin! You two have fun. I’m going to go finish up and get dressed. See you in a bit.” He bounds out the door, and I’m left with Mallory.

  She does her thing. When she finally hands me a mirror, I have to say I’m impressed. The makeup has a lot of fluttery eyelashes and shiny gold eye shadow to it, but it works. The only thing I’m a little uncomfortable with is the hair. It’s still mine, except there’s a lot of curl. Ever since my failed perm in the attempt to have Princess Bride hair in fifth grade, I’m kind of allergic to curls.

  I go get my dress on, and I hear knocking once again just as I smooth the last bits of myself in place.

  This time Mallory gets the door. Andrew stands there in a beautiful black suit. He’s clean-shaven, he smells good, his hair is neatly coiffed. He’s beautiful.

  He comes into the room and stops. “Wow, that’s a great dress. You look amazing.”

  “Thanks.” I can’t help it—I feel better. Maybe that’s what I’ve been so worked up about all day. My dress is simple, but I do love it. It’s a deep eggplant satin. It has a V-neck and little cap sleeves. It just hits the top of my knees. I’m fair, so I think the color looks good with my skin and eyes. I know I’m blushing. “And thank Mallory. She did most of this.”

  Mallory smiles and gathers up her tackle box. “Nothing doing, Kelly. You were an easy subject. Have fun tonight.” She pats Andrew on the shoulder and leaves the room.

  Andrew hasn’t moved. I haven’t gotten up. “Now what?�
�

  Andrew smiles slyly. “Well, I can think of one thing.”

  He hops on the bed and fluffs a pillow next to him invitingly.

  “Um, you should’ve thought about that way before the dress and the hair and the other frou-frouing. I cannot be touched now for fear that everything will fall apart.”

  “C’mere, pet.” He sounds suspiciously like Jeremy.

  I put a knee on the bed, pretending to crawl toward him. “Meow.” And then I feel the remote under my knee, and the TV clicks on.

  It’s loud, and it’s an entertainment show. The announcer sounds too chipper. “Tonight in Hollywood, Churchill’s Man premieres. Will it be another hit for Andy Pettigrew?”

  Andrew reaches for the remote. “Quick, before it’s a total buzz kill.”

  He can’t turn it off fast enough. The announcer continues: “But more importantly, will Andy and Franca finally go public with their heated on-set romance?”

  He sighs. “Not. Quick. Enough.”

  He clicks the TV off and rolls over, gets up from the bed.

  I can’t help but tease a little. “Heated, eh?”

  “Jeremy. That man.” His phone buzzes. “His ears are burning apparently. He’s wondering where I am.” He pulls me up off the bed, runs a hand through his hair again, and makes a point of taking a very deep breath. “We’re going to pretend I didn’t get that text. There’s not too much more time. Let’s take a ride.”

  He has his cell to his ear as we leave the room. “Tuck, we’re going to the elevator. Can you meet us in the garage?”

  I don’t know what’s up. How can we leave the hotel together? Why are we leaving now? There’s just an hour before he has to walk the red carpet.

  We take the service elevator by ourselves. I feel uneasy. This feels like a risk. The doors open, and Tucker’s right there. The back door to the black Suburban is open. Andrew leads me to it and helps me climb in. He’s in quickly right behind me. Then we’re moving. The way Tucker looks at the wheel tells me he’s on high alert now. This is him working his job in full bodyguard manner.

  The black SUV rolls out of the garage, and immediately there are two cars behind us. They give chase—there is no other way to describe it. I have a moment of feeling dizzy. I don’t want to ruin things for Andrew.

  He can tell. He pats my hands, which I realize I’m wringing in my lap. “Hey. It’s going to be fine. This is what Tucker and Dean do for a living. They’re very good at it.”

  “And Dean?” I haven’t seen him tonight. Andrew motions to the car next to us.

  It’s an identical black car, right next to us, and it seems there’s another young man and woman in the back. The man, through the deeply tinted windows, looks strikingly like the one sitting next to me right now. That must be Dean in the driver’s seat.

  “A decoy?” This is, again, beyond what I know from my life. Andrew nods.

  We continue down several streets, then side streets, and eventually our tails seem to give up.

  “Why aren’t they following?” I thought they’d be more persistent.

  “Because the other car just went into the underground garage at the theater. They think we’re the decoy car.” Andrew holds my hand and relaxes back into the seat, throwing his other arm around me.

  Tucker seems to relax too. But we keep driving.

  I’m confused. Doesn’t he have to get back? “Where’re we going?”

  Andrew kisses me. “Almost there.”

  We pull onto a residential street, turn in to a gated drive, and park. The city’s given way to palm trees and canyon and gardens.

  “This is Wattles Garden. The mansion’s up the hill a little. I want to show you something.” Andrew gets out of the car.

  It’s like we have the place to ourselves. The air’s warm. The sun sifts through the trees. Everything smells lush, earthy.

  “I found this place when I first moved here. I like to run the trails a lot. It’s quiet most of the time.”

  I have a strange moment, because both of us are insanely overdressed for a hike. But he leaves Tucker with the car and leads me down a concrete sidewalk. The garden looks like it wants to reclaim this trail. It’s overgrown and wild-looking.

  Suddenly the leaves part. We’re in front of a Japanese tea house. There’s a pond and a bridge. He takes my hand.

  “This is so pretty. Who would’ve known it was even here?” I stand at the top of the bridge and marvel.

  Tucker’s behind us again. “You forgot your tea.” He smiles. This must have been a plan between the two of them. He holds a carrier with two large iced green teas.

  Andrew takes them, and Tucker retreats. Andrew hands me one and toasts, clinking plastic cups together. “To us.”

  I love that we have a thing. I take a sip and kiss him. “To us.”

  After a quiet moment in the gray-green twilight of the gardens, we return to the bustle of the city to drop Andrew off. Tucker has me sit with him up front.

  Tucker turns to me. “Ms. Reynolds, you’re going to want to put on your sunglasses and look nonchalant. We’re about to throw your friend here to the wolves.”

  Our black SUV pulls into the fire lane in front of the theater, and suddenly there’s a frenzy of flashbulbs and noise outside the car. I look in the backseat.

  Andrew straightens his tie. “Well, I’m off. I’ll see you after the movie.”

  Tucker and I both nod. The back door of the car opens, and Dean’s on the other side of it to walk with Sandy and Andrew.

  There’s a roar, and then it’s muffled again as Dean closes the car door. I watch him take Andrew into what looks essentially like the lion’s mouth: a long stretch of red carpet lined with people and equipment and then bleachers that rise up from both sides of the entry to the theater. If running the gauntlet didn’t come to mind before, one look at this scene definitely conjures it now.

  I see Franca join Andrew on the red carpet, a little ways in front of the theater entrance. She looks like a brilliant-colored bird of paradise, slim as a stem.

  Tucker notices too. “Look, it’s your favorite hyena.”

  I chuckle. “I’m surprised Jeremy didn’t make her ride with us.”

  “Oh, he tried.” Tucker grins. “Andrew put his foot down, but they’ve got to sit together in the theater. That was the compromise.”

  “She’s not even in this movie. This is stupid.” I try not to let it bother me.

  “You know, it keeps those people out of your business, if they think he’s with her. Maybe that’s a good thing.” He nods in the direction of the huge bank of reporters and photographers.

  Tucker always has a good perspective. “True. Now what?”

  Tucker pulls away from the curb. “Now we normal people go back to business.”

  After a short drive, he pulls the car into the underground parking lot of the theater and walks me to the lobby himself. He offers to sit with me during the movie, but I can tell he’s really supposed to be working. I send him off to stand guard somewhere. I mill around for a while and go find my seat. The last time I see Andrew is at a considerable distance, as he waves to the crowd from a balcony box, Franca at his side, looking cozy. I give her my best death stare as the lights go down, and I sit in a darkened movie theater and watch Andrew onscreen, like the rest of his admirers, from afar.

  He’s magnificent. He plays an American, code named Intrepid, who made himself into Churchill’s wingman during the war. He taught himself to fly planes, made his own fortune, helped save the Allies, and looked dashing and handsome while doing it. Actually I don’t know if the real man looked dashing while accomplishing these tasks, but Andrew sure does.

  It’s surreal, falling in love with the person you’ve already fallen in love with all over again on the movie screen. But it feels especially strange because I’m sitting in the theater all by myself. And sort of fraudulent. Really, what if I turned to the person next to me and said, “That’s my boyfriend, you know.”

  And I almost
do, except the lady who sits next to me is very old, and about halfway through the movie, it becomes apparent that she has a little dog hidden in her purse. She watches the movie, but she also feeds the dog popcorn periodically. I’m not sure who would be the crazy one if I claimed Andrew as my man. It’s all kind of odd.

  Kind of odd, and kind of lonely.

  31: The Bad Part of a Bad Night

  THE MOVIE’S CREDITS ROLL, and the lights come up quickly. Some people begin to leave, but others turn around in their seats and visit with one another, mingling and chatting.

  I, of course, know absolutely no one, so I get up, rearrange my dress after sitting for two hours, and try to figure out how I’m going to look like I belong here for the time it takes me to find Tucker and/or Dean. I have no problem at all deciding when it comes to fight or flight. In my past life, I was the antelope, not the lion.

  But I’m trying really, really, really hard not to do my best antelope impersonation right now. I remember to walk smoothly and slowly in my heels, and I clutch my clutch for all it’s worth as I high tail it to the lobby of the theater.

  I spot Dean at lookout on the front door and am making my way to him when I’m intercepted. Jeremy.

  “Hey, Kelly!” He sidles up to me.

  I feel distinctly antelope-ish next to him. “Jeremy! Good to see you again.”

  He’s dressed in a sleek gray suit, with a black tie a little loose at the neck and the uniform cowboy boots. He has an expensive-looking watch. His brown hair recedes a bit, but tonight it’s kind of spiked up, and he’s got a carefully groomed five o’clock shadow. Everything about him says “I threw this together” in a way that tells me he didn’t. Nothing about Jeremy is by accident. The man is the definition of calculating.

  “So! What’d you think?” He sips a longneck Coors. I try to stand up tall.

  “The whole premiere thing made it kind of hard to settle down and focus on the movie, to be honest.” You know what? I’ll be friendly and treat him as though he’s a fellow human being. Maybe he’ll surprise me.

  “It’s kind of a spectacle. I think we tend to forget that. We’ve become immune.”