Get to You

by Albany Walker

  I ask Beau, "How about your family, what are they like?" He pulls the bowls I had set aside over to get ready for plating. I add the milk to the sauce, which also confuses him. I fill his bowl with noodles and spoon the bolognese over top, grabbing my bowl to do the same. I turn to him and ask, "Can you grab the parmigiana, please?"

  He brings over the tub of grated cheese, and I sprinkle it on both dishes before handing him his, "Dig in." He still hasn't answered about his family, so I sit on the sofa with my legs folded under me. I'm surprised when he responds.

  "My parents are great, they always supported me and still do actually. My mom was the one who convinced me to follow my heart," he grins with an eye roll. "Sounds cheesy, right?" He shrugs, "It’s the one thing she's always told me. It was hard to walk away from everything. I was going to take a sabbatical, I wanted out, but I was also chicken shit. After talking with her and dad, I knew. I knew I'd be okay no matter what I chose to do, so I left.” He swirls his fork around his pasta, a little unsuccessful in picking it up, “I tried to do it quietly but that's damn near impossible when you live in a fishbowl." He stabs a few bites of noodles and chews, "I had a few contracts to deal with, luckily the biggest one was with my agent. He knew I had him on fraud, and a few other not so nice things, so he let me go without a fight. Then it was just dealing with the whole Lauren situation." He looks down, lost in thought.

  When a minute or two has past, I use my toe to nudge his leg, "So how is it?" I motion to his bowl, and he looks down like he'd forgotten it was there.

  Beau mixes it a bit and shovels in another bit. He smiles, nodding as he chews and swallows. He remains quiet in between bites. He eats with gusto, but he's perfectly neat. The noodles are rolled onto his fork, and he dips back in to grab more sauce. I'm watching him eat, distracted by his obvious enjoyment of it. I barely eat myself, because watching him is so much more fulfilling. The simple act of sharing meals together has quickly become one of my favorite things we do together.

  After his second heaping bowl, Beau sits back and groans, "You're going to ruin me. I'll never be able to eat my mom’s spaghetti again. That was delicious." He stretches his legs out.

  I'm too content by his response. It makes me feel good that he enjoyed it so much. I move to stand, walking over to the kitchen to put our dishes in the sink. I go to spoon the leftovers into a container, but he beats me to it.

  "I'll put this up. What should I put this stuff in?" He searches around in the kitchen, banging the cabinets, so I show him the containers where I stow the leftovers.

  We sit on the sofa about to watch another episode of Top-Shot. He takes his shoes and socks off. I'm happy with the possibility he might stay over again, but I know he still doesn't have any fresh cloths.

  "Beau?"

  He looks down at me with a sleepy content look on his face. "Yeah, sweets?"

  "Are you staying over again? You're welcome to, but it's just you don't have any clothes, not that you need them —” I realize what I just said and stop myself “—Yes you need them. I just mean you haven't changed since yesterday, not that you stink or anything. Oh god, it keeps getting worse.” I cover my eyes with my hand and peek out at him through my fingers, “I just want you to be comfortable and don't feel like you have to stay here or anything." I gush out in one long breath then my face crinkles at my wording.

  Beau just smiles, "Glad to know I don't stink." He smirks, "I was planning on stopping by my place to get some stuff, but I was afraid if I asked you, you would just tell me to stay home.” He smiles genuinely, “I'm happy to hear you've already invited me to stay." He waggles his eyebrows. I look at the clock. It's barely eight on a Saturday night, and I'm in my comfy clothes camped out on the couch.

  I feel self-conscious about how much I've isolated myself.

  "Did you want me to go with you?" I ask quietly. "We could get a few of your things. I mean you don't have to stay,” I shift, “but if you are, I could go with you." I try to sound more confident but not too assuming.

  "You don't mind coming with me?"

  I shake my head, "Not at all. I just realized I got you tucked away at barely eight on a Saturday night." I'm probably boring him out of his skull.

  He furrows his brow. "I wish we didn't have to go, but I guess I could use some stuff. I should have just bought a few things when we were out," he muses almost to himself.

  "Let me just throw my jeans back on," I say and stand to go get redressed

  "What?" He asks.

  "I'm gonna put some clothes on really quick," I say, thinking he mustn't have heard me.

  "I heard you, but why?" He seems truly confused looking at my black yoga pants and baggy vee neck shirt that is so threadbare you can clearly make out the color of my bra through it.

  "I can't go outside in this, I'll only be a minute." I scoff.

  "What's wrong with what you have on?" he challenges.

  "I don't wear this in public," I gesture down at my body.

  He looks down again, "Alright." He concedes, "I don't think I want anyone seeing your ass in those pants anyway, but the shirt stays." He commands like I'll just obey

  "What?" Now it's my turn to question him, “You can’t be serious?”

  "I think I like that I'm the only one seeing you in those things you call pants, but the shirt sweets, it’s sexy. I want you to keep that shirt on." He looks up at me, his tongue licking across his bottom lip.

  My stomach clenches as I find myself saying, "Okay." I dash back to the bathroom where my jeans are folded on top of the dryer.

  The washer has finished, so I pull everything out and hang my new bras on the hooks I've installed for just this purpose and throw the rest in the dryer on low.

  I look in the mirror and see my flushed cheeks. My lips are curved up in an easy smile. I think this is pretty close to the best I've looked in a while. I look happy and not even my slouchy white tee shirt can make me feel bad.

  I skip out of the bathroom.

  17

  Beau already has his shoes on when I'm done getting dressed. I'm super excited about seeing his place. He's mentioned it’s close, but that's all I know.

  I grab my black moto jacket, slide my feet into a pair of grey Lucchese boots, and pull my small cross body purse over my head. I'm ready.

  I turn around to see Beau watching me with a small smile. His gray shirt is a little wrinkled. He doesn't have a jacket because it was warm today out in the sun, but now he'll probably freeze.

  "I'll call a cab. It'll only take a minute"

  "You don't want to walk?" He asks and pulls his phone from his back pocket looking at the screen, before sticking it back.

  I point to him answering with, "It's probably twenty degrees cooler now with the sun down, and you don't have a coat."

  He looks down, "I still dress like I live in California. I don't know if I even brought a coat, but I'll be fine. We can walk, it doesn’t bother me." I think about us walking home earlier today, wondering what made him nervous then.

  Was it the heavy crowd?

  "Okay, but don't come crying to me when you get the sniffles."

  His bottom lip pokes out, and he actually pouts, "You wouldn't make me soup?"

  I so would, but he doesn't need to know that.

  I tut and roll my eyes, turning my back to him, “I’ve heard men can be real babies when they're sick."

  I unlock the door, and walk out.

  He catches up to me quickly, "I don't know about your other boyfriends." He sneers the words, "But I am no baby." He pats his hard chest as an indication of his manliness.

  "I haven't had any boyfriends," I try to put the same amount of disdain into the word as he did, but it just sounds weird coming from me. He pushes open the entry door, standing with his back to it as he holds it open for me to pass.

  I look up as I do and say, "Thank you," for the simple gesture.

  He nods, seeming distracted, "What do you mean you haven't had any boyfriends?" His voice sounds gu
arded, like he is uncertain if he should be asking me about it.

  I attempt to sound casual as I say, "Just what I said, I've never had a real boyfriend." I know it's strange, I'm twenty-three and I've never had a boyfriend, but after my experience in high school and my failed attempts at intimacy, I haven't really tried since.

  He's walking next to me and looks down, "I thought you didn't do casual?" He seems kind of disappointed in my answer.

  "I don't," I say simply.

  He stops and the couple behind us has to veer around us as he grabs my arm, "What does that mean then? You've never had a relationship, and you don't do casual?" His brow is drawn in; it seems to really be bothering him. I don't want to hash out my history standing on the sidewalk, but maybe it'll make it easier to just throw it out there while we're here so it doesn't seem like such a big deal.

  "High school was tough for me," I start and grab his hand to pull him along. "I was this hillbilly girl thrown into a private school in New York. The girls hated me immediately, and the boys were just as bad, they just hide it better." We step past a few street performers and keep a steady pace as we walk. I don’t need to tell him the gory details of the ‘pranks’ that were played on me, all in the name of good fun of course. "Anyway, right after I got up here, I met a guy in a coffee shop. He took me to his place, but not much more happened. He could tell I wasn't really present, ya know.” It’s embarrassing to say, so I look away and continue to walk ahead. “A few years later I tried my luck again and it was—” I am not sure how to put it"—um it was well, the same, but this guy wasn’t as aware."

  I stop walking. I try to form an accurate description of it. He stops too, I can feel his eyes on me. I don’t meet them. I look instead at the street, pretending to be engrossed in the few people moving up and down the sidewalk. I laugh and decide to just go with the truth, "It was really fast and pretty terrible."

  I finally chance a look up at him and immediately start laughing harder at his horrified expression.

  "What?" He almost yells. Laughing, I motion down the street.

  "Are we close?"

  He shakes his head no but says, "Yeah, it's right up here." We continue on in awkward silence. After another block, we are standing near the front of the Dakota building, and my jaw almost hits the ground.

  "You're trying to get away from the celebrity life, so you moved into the Dakota?" I ask incredulously.

  Beau looks sheepish, "It’s a friend’s apartment, that's why I didn't offer it to Brian, and it would be like handing him to the wolves. This place is crazy. I swear people stake out the door. Most of the people that live here must give a fucking press conference every time they walk out the door. I hate it."

  The disdain in his voice makes it clear he's speaking the truth. We're still about thirty feet from the entrance when he grabs my hand and rushes up to the doorman tugging me along behind him. As we pass, a woman in a white dress, comes out the door and is helped into a waiting car at the curb. She stops momentarily looking over the vehicle. It takes me a moment to realize that she is posing. She then bends into the back seat of the car.

  The driver closes the door behind her quickly, and I lose sight of them as Beau tows me to an elevator.

  "Mr. Huntington? Sir. Mr. Huntington, Sir." Beau doesn't even turn to answer, only ignores the man darting forward.

  I tug his hand, "Beau." I know he can hear him, why not answer? Beau sighs in defeat and turns. His face is stone, no sign of the fun, easy-going man that was in my studio an hour ago.

  "Yes," he says curtly conveying annoyance.

  I can see the relief in the nervous man’s face, no matter how unwelcoming Beau’s response seems.

  "Sir, you have quite a few messages at the desk and a few deliveries as well."

  "Put them in my box." Beau presses down on the elevator button.

  “Yes sir, we’ve have done that like you asked. But….” Beau turns and pushes the up button again, clicking it this time repeatedly.

  "Sir, these messages are of an urgent nature," the man looks at me quickly and then looks back to Beau, indicating that he doesn't want to say what they are with me present. "I've personally taken several messages from the same caller," he urges.

  "Anyone I want to speak with can call me directly," Beau dismisses him. His hand is tightening on mine as he's moving us closer to the elevator door.

  The persistent man either takes no notice or just ignores the back off vibe, Beau is clearly conveying, "Sir, I'm more than sure these messages you would take." He almost seems desperate for Beau to accept them.

  Beau finally turns again and narrows his eyes. He shifts from one foot to the other clearly uncomfortable, still gripping my hand.

  "That's where you're wrong. I don't care who it is. Unless I've given them my number; I don't want to speak to them. Okay!” There’s no question, just a statement. The man looks aghast but doesn't try to convince Beau any further.

  "Yes of course, Mr. Huntington. When she calls back, I'll inform her of your wishes. What of the deliveries?" It's not lost on me that he mentioned the caller is a female.

  "I didn't order anything," is Beau’s only response. He turns back around effectively dismissing the man. The elevator doors click close.

  "Shit," he curses as he punches the button again. I use my free hand to wrap it around our already entwined palms. Beau looks down at me at the contact. His face looks weary. I give him a small smile and step forward when the doors ping open, this time I pull him along with me.

  "What floor hoss?" Beau hits the button, his shoulders falling as soon as the doors close. We're alone.

  He looks right into my eyes and says, "I hate all these people. They constantly cater, thinking they know me and what I need.” He sighs, “I hate the person I become when they're around me even more." He looks up at the closed doors. It feels like he's just made a confession. “I don’t want to be ushered through my own life, but they won’t take no for an answer.”

  "It's okay to protect yourself, Beau."

  The doors open, and he drops my hand to retrieve the keys from his front pocket. It's a simple ring with three large keys attached. He pulls one free and goes to unlock the only door in the hallway. The lock clicks open, and he steps to the side, beckoning me to enter first.

  The first thing I notice is how similar it is Rita’s. The ultra-modern design is all clean lines and minimal decor. The colors I see are limited to primarily black and white, with a vibrant red splashed around in a purposeful manner.

  "When I first got here I liked it." He looks around the rooms that are visible from our vantage point. "After seeing your place, it feels like a museum, a cold one."

  "It's not that bad," I offer, and he grins at me.

  "You are a terrible liar,” He boasts. “You hate it!"

  "I don't hate it,” I defect. “I just don't like it either," I add sheepishly. He chuckles and moves to the fridge.

  "You want a drink?" He opens the door. I peer inside the massive fridge that contains at least ten different beer choices and a few bottles of wine. His fridge resembles a bar. The only food I see is in the form of take out containers.

  "Um water, if you have one."

  He pushes aside a few bottles causing them to clang together. The sound takes me back to my childhood home, reminding me of a deranged Darryl sifting through empty bottles. He had poured them out into the sink the previous morning, amid a cloud of apologies. The night before being the first time he hit me. I remember him coming home drunk that same day, furious to find the bottles empty. He blamed me. It became a routine.

  A nervous flood hits my belly. I didn’t emphasis to Beau how bad the drinking got with Darryl. I said things in passing, but I never told him how the thought of being around a man drunk terrifies me.

  The excitement I felt at seeing his apartment is gone. This place isn't even really his.

  A door in the apartment opens and I freeze.

  Beau moves around the counter and calls ou
t, "Hello? Who's there?"

  "Who do you think?" comes a sultry reply. "You know I can't stay away for long." A woman with dark hair comes strutting out in only a pair of panties. Her legs are toned and impossibly long, her hip bones clearly visible, her stomach so flat it's almost concave. Her breasts are impossibly pert.

  Before my gaze can land on her face, Beau moves in front of me and scolds, "Tasha, what are you doing here? Go put some fucking clothes on."

  "That's new," she murmurs, moving closer. I can't see her around Beau, but I see him stiffen and take a step back.

  "Knock it off Tasha," he warns in a deep voice.

  "I love it when you get all bossy," she purrs. “Whatcha got behind you, Beau? A new plaything?”

  I'm dumbfounded. I don't even move. I stand there and watch as she wraps her arms around him, bringing her naked body to his, eyeing me from his shoulder.

  She mock whispers, "I don't mind if she watches. It wouldn't be the first time, but we've never had someone quite so—robust join us. Didn’t expect that—from you.” I stumble back. “Why didn't you call me, if you were desperate enough to bring a fat girl home?" I see her red tipped fingernails curving into his back. I take two further steps back.

  My ears are ringing. I feel strangely calm when I turn and walk quietly out the door. I check out, automatically moving to the elevator. The ride down the elevator blinking, as I watch the numbers fall past. As the elevator doors open, I realize what this feeling is. The other shoe dropped. Someone finally said what I was waiting for them to say. It’s what I’ve been saying to myself all along. I leave the lobby and walk with little direction at all.

  I still can't comprehend what I witnessed. He just stood there with her arms around him. He told her to get dressed and asked her to knock it off. Knock what off exactly? What was she doing that I couldn't see? Was that Laura? I find myself unable to imagine their faces to compare, even though I have seen them. He called her Tasha. Just how many women are in Beau’s life that don’t make it to the Wikipedia page?