Trouble Me

by Beck Anderson

  “I want you.” His arm between us drops without him checking it. He sucks a breath in. “Christ.” He releases me and pulls the arm close to his body. He ducks his bad shoulder, trying to escape the pain, which I’m sure is carving a long, thin line around his shoulder blade.

  “That’s it. We need to call a timeout before you pull your stitches.” I kiss him and turn him around to check them. They are angry and red, but still safely intact under the clear, thick steri-tape.

  “We should to go up to the condo.” He sounds tired.

  I want to salvage the moment. “Wait a second. Let’s just float for a minute. It can’t be any worse than a shower. Hold my hand and lie back.”

  He leans back and floats. I hold his hand, float next to him, let the water fill up my ears.

  I feel his hand in mine, and I look up at the ceiling, listening to my blood pump. As long as I can touch him, I feel peaceful. I can feel new tears slide down my face, joining the pool water, but they are tears of relief. I could have lost him. I can barely think about it without dissolving into panic. I try to push the what-ifs into the back of my mind. I feel the water lapping over my skin and breathe slowly, calming my thoughts.

  I don’t know how many minutes we lie there, floating side by side. It’s sheer peace.

  Then I sense a shadow at the door to the pool. I sit up and slide under the surface, swimming under water to the side.

  It’s Mari. She’s in workout clothes, wears earbuds, has a towel draped over her shoulder. I smile. She has The Great Gatsby open, reads as she walks.

  Andrew’s next to me. “We should have left.”

  “It’s okay. It’s just Mari. She must be cutting through to the gym.” I wave at her. “Mari!”

  She looks up and takes out the earbuds. “Kelly! Hey! I didn’t see you there.”

  “Mari, I don’t think you’ve officially met my boyfriend.” I try to sound nonchalant.

  Andrew gives me a nervous sideways glance. “I’m Andrew. I’d shake, but I’m soaking wet.”

  “And he tore his rotator cuff. Shoulder surgery. Sling and no handshakes.” I swim to the ladder and pull myself up, go get his sling and his towel.

  Mari nods. “That sucks. Good idea rehabbing in the pool, though.”

  Andrew climbs out at the steps rather than the ladder, and I hand him the towel. He conveniently pulls it over the scar and over his head, accomplishing a hoodie effect.

  “I’m headed up. Nice to meet you.” He turns toward the door to leave.

  “See you. It was nice to meet you, Andy.” She continues into the gym as we’re walking out the door.

  Down the hall, I finally make a comment. “Nice acting. I don’t think she made the connection.”

  He looks at me. “Nice lying. You’ve been hanging around me too much. But she knew exactly who I was.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She called me Andy. I introduced myself as Andrew.”

  “The Andy Pettigrew giveaway. Very astute of you.”

  “Now let’s go upstairs. We were in the middle of something.”

  “Tearing out your stitches. You need to lie down and rest.”

  “Not my plan.” He stoops a bit and kisses me.

  He’s going to be hard to resist, stitches or no.

  We board the elevator. Andrew still hasn’t pulled the towel from his head. He broods.

  “What are you chewing on?”

  “I don’t know about this Mari girl.” He keeps his eyes on the carpet of the elevator as it climbs to our floor.

  “What do you mean?” I take a step a little to one side, trying to get a look at his face, read his expression.

  He shakes his head, just barely. “I just, maybe it’s because of the accident, all the attention now, the media outside the building.” He leaves off as the doors of the elevator open and walks out into the hall.

  “Are you going to finish that thought?” I take two long strides to catch back up to him and walk next to him in the hallway to our door.

  “I think maybe you should keep some space between you and her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re targets now.” He says this, and I feel a chill. The words come through as short, clipped, dangerous.

  “What do you mean? You’ve been hurt. I get that. But what could Mari do?”

  Now the towel comes off his head, and he stops walking. “She knows who I am. The accident makes us a target. People want in this building. They want information. I just…She makes me feel uneasy.”

  I look at his face. He means it. There’s worry in his eyes.

  “I hear you. But I don’t see it. I want to trust her. I need a friend here. Maybe now more than ever, Andrew. I don’t see it.” I’m frustrated. I’ve made one friend. One. And now I’m supposed to give her up.

  He touches my arm, takes hold of me gently with his good hand. “I don’t want you paranoid. I’m not saying that. I don’t know what I’m saying, I’m so exhausted. Can you hear me, though, that my gut says to be wary? Can you at least acknowledge that I’m getting a weird intuition off of her? Humor me a little?”

  He’s not ever been one to be paranoid. Or a worrier. That’s my claim to fame. “I get it. I hear you, Andrew. Yes, I’ll be cautious. And I get why we’re a target. I do. Let me be cautious, but let me have a friend. I need someone. But I’ll be smart about it.”

  “I don’t want you lonely. But, yes, trust your gut. And mine. Please.”

  I reach up and kiss him gently one more time. “My gut tells me Jeremy’s on the other side of that door, and I’m going to want to punch him in under an hour.”

  Andrew cracks a smile, the first one I’ve seen this morning. Maybe the first one since he was hurt yesterday. “That’s not intuition, that’s just ears that can hear.”

  On cue, I hear Jeremy yell on the other side of the door. “Tucker! Where’s my cell charger? How am I supposed to save the world with a dying phone?”

  I’m not lying when I say we spent a minute or two debating going inside.

  18: Hurts So Good

  COMING BACK ON SET SUCKS. It’s been three days. I’m not scared—more anxious. But the big issue is the fuss everyone will make over me.

  It’s bad enough, the way people kiss my ass when we make a movie. Everybody, from the set dresser to the PA for the cinematographer, treats me like I walk on water. And it’s such transparently suck-up-ish behavior I could smack somebody. The second I cool off on the STARmeter on IMDb, all of these people will evaporate into thin air.

  But injured? Oh lord, people here don’t know the meaning of “too much drama.” What an opportunity to win my approval: by kissing up to my injured ass.

  It’s too much to bear.

  Jeremy, though? Jeremy is a godsend. He’s in the car when I get to it in the garage, on his phone. Tucker gets the door for me, and I climb in gingerly.

  “Hey, pussy,” Jeremy says.

  “I have sixty-seven stitches. Sorry I didn’t hop in the car.”

  “Okay, baby. Next time you want to play in traffic, pay better attention.”

  See, that may seem cold, but I love it. Jeremy treats me like crap no matter what. I don’t think he even comprehends how to kiss up to me. He calls it like he sees it. If I’m being a jackass, I know Jeremy will tell me straight up.

  Tucker rolls the car out of the garage and slides into traffic. Today we’re shooting in Battery Park. It’s been locked down. Jordan and his Apotheosis crew spent serious dime to accomplish that, but he also had to promise the folks insuring the production that I wouldn’t get my ass killed, so no expense will be spared to make things airtight today.

  I don’t mind, to be honest. Whoever gave me that shove into traffic has some serious issues. I’d rather not run into them without backup.

  But it’s not my job to think about that. In fact, it’s my job to shoot five to seven scenes, and right now I’m hoping my head is clear enough to recall the forty-odd pages of dialogue I’m s
upposed to have committed to memory for today.

  I’m usually really good at that. I have a pretty sharp memory. But the crescent moon cut into my back has made it hard to sleep, and lack of sleep makes recall pretty damn hard. And, yes, I’ve had a couple nightmares. Maybe more than a couple. Maybe the one with the broken glass and the pistol again.

  Plus, Kelly won’t come near me. She’s terrified she’s going to hurt me, open my stitches up. What I want to do is forget, and my hands and mouth all over her always seems to make me feel better about everything. A private moment to have my way with her has been damn hard to come by, though, since the condo’s been crawling with security and producers and doctors and everybody else in the world who wants to keep me safe because I am part of their earnings ratio on their retirement plan.

  Sandy the publicist was by yesterday, trying to convince me to do an interview with 60 Minutes or Dateline about the car thing.

  No one but Tucker and I knows there was a push. A shove. I don’t want to talk about it at all. Someone wanted me road pizza and failed. I’d rather not go on national television and tell them, “Hey, bastard, you blew it. Wanna try to kill me again?”

  I think poking the homicidal bear with a stick seems like a bad idea.

  Thank God Tucker bent Jeremy’s ear about it already. He put the kibosh on Sandy’s idea and sent her on her way.

  When I got up this morning to try to shower before I left, all I could think of was pulling Kelly in there with me, letting all the fear and pain wash away, cleansing my soul with a little time close to her skin.

  But she was sleeping so soundly. She finally looked relaxed. She’s looked so exhausted since the accident, and I just couldn’t bear it.

  The car stops at the entrance to the parking lot of Battery Park, and all of a sudden, Jeremy has his phone to his ear. “Give me five minutes, that’s all. Then the rest of the day is yours.” He ends the call.

  “What was that?”

  He loosens his tie. “I want to talk with Jordan the dick. Before your day starts. Before I turn you over to these leeches.”

  Do I detect a hint of a protective streak? “I can handle him myself, Jeremy. I’m a big boy.”

  “Look, Andy, you pay me a nice cut of your earnings to do things for you. This one is all mine. I expect you to make it to the end of this shoot in one piece. Jordan only needs you for this movie. I need you to keep working for a long, long time.”

  I nod grimly. “Teslas don’t pay for themselves, after all.” I don’t like talking about my own longevity.

  “You’re my friend. Everything aside, he can’t screw you over with this. It’s not your fault this happened, and I don’t want you exhausted. We know how getting overworked wrecked you last time.”

  He’s referring to the beginning of my long slide into rehab—a media tour and an anniversary I don’t like to revisit resulted in pneumonia and all hell breaking loose. I don’t like to remember it. I almost lost Kelly forever because of it.

  “Fine. Do your thang, Jeremy.”

  Tucker chimes in. “Go get ’em, Tiger.”

  “Shut it, Tucker.” Jeremy gets out and motions for the both of us to stay put.

  Tucker goes over the shooting schedule for the day, and I check my phone. I’d text Kelly, but it would wake her up.

  A few minutes pass. Jeremy jumps back in the car. “On to makeup. You’re golden. I’ll stay close today, make sure they treat you right.”

  I nod, and Tucker gives me the signal. High alert today means I don’t make a move until he tells me to. I step out of the car to him waiting by the door, and he provides close coverage until I’m in the makeup trailer. There’s another security guy covering the door, Janus again. Tucker stands just inside, talking into the cuff of his shirt from time to time.

  Mallory, my lovely makeup artist, looks over at him. “No chit-chat today, huh?”

  I shake my head. “Tucker’s all business until he can see that no one’s planning to lay me out flat again.” I reach for a stick of gum.

  Mallory ushers me to the chair. “We’re all glad you’re okay. How’s it going to be to sit back?”

  “It’s going to hurt.” My back protests the feeling of pressure as I say this.

  “Tell you what—let’s try it another way.” She looks around the trailer. “Tucker, can you grab that stool?”

  He comes over with it and plunks it down, returns to his station. Tucker post-accident is absolutely no fun.

  I sit on the stool and thank Mallory profusely. It still hurts, but it’s not agony.

  My phone buzzes just about the same time Amanda sashays into the trailer.

  “Yes?” I say to the phone—not Amanda.

  “Hey, it’s me.” Kelly sounds sleepy.

  “Hey, beautiful! How’d you sleep?”

  “Until you left, okay. I don’t like not knowing where you are.”

  “You knew I was going back to set today. Time to get back up on the proverbial horse.” Amanda waves at me, sits down in the chair next to me, and pulls off her sweatshirt. She’s in a bra. “I have to go. Mallory’s improvising a bit. She needs to use the trowel on me. Even out the fatigue and wrinkles, you know.”

  “Love you.”

  I look right at Amanda. “Love you too. Go back to sleep, baby mama.”

  “Okay.”

  Amanda can’t leave it alone. “You are simply adorable, you know that?”

  She runs a finger under the strap of her bra, readjusting. Bullshit. She’s trying to get some attention. I have zero patience for her games right now.

  “Cut it out, Amanda. This is a big day. Let’s try to stay focused, you know?”

  “Oh, I get it, Andy. You’re brave to even be here. I’d be so rattled. You look like you haven’t slept. Good thing Mallory’s a whiz, isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh.” I close my eyes and try to find my happy place. The Coast: walking on the beach with the boys and Kelly.

  “How’s Kelly taking all this? She’s so new to all of it; she’s not used to it like you and me. Bet it’s hard on her. Wonder if she can hold up under the reality of your life, you know?”

  “Uh-huh.” I have an idea—that house, the one Kelly was staring at last time we were in Oregon.

  Mallory taps me gently on the shoulder. “Andy, I’m so sorry. I need to go find Justine. She’s got the wardrobe for the scenes today. Two-minute break, is that okay?”

  “Sure.” I’m grateful for the chance to stand up and give the shoulder blade a minute to rest.

  Mallory scoots past Tucker. Amanda is out of her chair too and comes over to me. “Can we have a word?”

  I nod. “Sure.”

  She takes me by the elbow. “Over here. I want a private minute.”

  We stand in the corner. “What, Amanda?”

  She puts her hands on my forearms, comes close, whispers, “I was so scared.”

  “What?”

  “So scared for you. I thought, what if I’d lost him? and it shook me to the bone.”

  “What?” I look over her head at Tucker. He’s talking into his cuff again. He really needs to get over here and deal with this crazy woman.

  “I want to try again, with you.” She touches my hand. I resist the urge to snatch it away from her. “I think you feel it too. We both want each other. Remember the sex, Andy? We were amazing. We could be again.”

  “Amanda, are you on drugs? I mean, right at this moment, are you high?” I take a step back.

  “What do you mean?”

  “At what point in the weeks we’ve been shooting have I given even one tiny indication to you that I am interested in anyone but Kelly?”

  “Well, I just thought, with your near-death experience, you’d be done humoring her. You’d want to get back to living the life you want, with your kind of people…”

  “Kelly’s my kind of people. She’s having my baby. I love her.”

  Mallory comes back. Thank Jesus. I walk away from Amanda before she can even respond.


  I expected people sucking up to my wounded self. I did not expect that.

  I pick up my cell and call Jeremy. “Jeremy, there’s a piece of property I want you to check out in Oregon.”

  Amanda almost looks upset. I close my eyes. Lord, get me through this day. Tucker can protect me from the danger of the street, but who knew I’d need someone to hold Amanda at bay.

  19: House of the Rising Sun

  DAY FOUR POST-ACCIDENT, I get up early. Really early. I want to run alone. I need it. This morning when I woke up, I felt something that had been gone since Andrew and I have been together. It’s the anvil, the one that was formerly camped out, pressing down on my chest from the moment my sweet husband Peter died until the moment Andrew and I kissed in the rain on the condo steps a year ago last June.

  I don’t know exactly why it’s back, but it scares me. Depression is my Achilles heel. I can’t go back to it; I just can’t.

  When the boys were born, I was fine. I count myself lucky that postpartum depression didn’t visit me. But the depression of losing a loved one, and the time I sent Andrew away while he suffered through getting sober alone—those times were terrible. I hate the feeling.

  And it seems to want to creep up on me.

  So, I’m going to run away from it. I’m going to push my body and feel my lungs burn and breathe in. I will fight back, and I will say, “No, I won’t go away like this. I have people who want me here.”

  I have a baby who wants me here.

  Andrew’s accident has thrown me for a loop. I know logically that I should chalk this melancholy up to the scare. But I thought, for just a second, that I could be stronger than that, that I could move forward and be fine, be grateful and live in the moment.

  The anvil weight on my chest tells me it’s not working.

  I slip out of the bedroom to the kitchen with running shoes in hand. The sun is just starting to peek into the tall windows of the condo. Down in the concrete narrows, it’s probably still pretty dark. I think I can get out of the building without paparazzi. They do actually go to bed sometimes too. I won’t put my headphones in on the street. I will stay alert and hustle to the High Line. Then the sun will touch me, and I will run this funk out of me.