by Liz Kay
“I don’t know if it’s so much about vulnerability,” I say, giving him a sideways glance, “and actually, I’m going to argue with you on that word.” I smile. “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the interplay of vulnerability and power.” It’s true. This is basically what my first book is about. “And we tend to think of vulnerability as weakness, or a willing weakness maybe, but it’s an illusion, isn’t it? I mean, the more power you have, the more vulnerable you can allow yourself to be, but you’re never really giving up that power, are you?” I shake my head. I think I’m getting off track. “And in this scenario, I definitely didn’t have any power. I don’t know if you know this, but poets don’t generally have agents, so when they were drawing up the contract, I didn’t really have anyone negotiating this for me, and the end result was that I found myself in a position where Tommy was saying, ‘You’re lucky I’m so cool with you, because I own this shit now,’ so, yeah, I really don’t think ‘vulnerable’ is the word.”
Tommy laughs. Loudly. And he leans forward and says, “I definitely never said that.”
“Maybe not word for word.”
The next girl, they’re mostly girls, wants to know what Tommy saw in the book. “Do you read a lot of poetry?” she says. “And what made you fall in love with this book?”
“I don’t. I don’t read a lot of poetry necessarily. Well, I guess sometimes I do. I read a lot. I read whatever people give me.” He pauses. “And why this book? I mean, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He says it like he assumes everyone in the room has read it. I’m betting it’s more like three. “I mean, it’s full of rage and grief and loss and all of the mess and ugliness of human experience, but it’s beautiful too, you know, and there’s that conflict, that tension, and I just saw a lot of power in it. It just seemed true.”
His hair has fallen forward into his eyes, and he lifts his hand to push it back. He looks serious and a little tired. Then he notices me looking, and he pulls his mouth into a smile, and he’s just delicious Tommy again. He could be on a fucking poster.
• • •
“You were fantastic,” Tommy says. “That reading was gorgeous. We could just film that.”
We push through the doors into the service hall, and while it’s not totally empty, compared to the room we’re coming from, we’re practically alone.
“Sure, yeah, you’d make a ton of money on that.”
“I don’t know, Stace, I think people would pay to watch you.” And he raises his eyebrows, changes the tone of his voice. “I mean, I would.”
I just roll my eyes.
“What now?” he says. “You have to stay? You want to get a drink?”
“I do want to get a drink. I want that very much.” I slow down, look around, trying to get my bearings. “You know, I left my bag at my publisher’s booth in the book fair. I can just run back. You want to meet me at the car?”
He shrugs. “I’ll just come with you.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s already a madhouse in there, and then to throw you into it? Jesus. That’s like my worst nightmare.” I can already feel my jaw tensing up.
“Aw, honey, stop with the sweet talk already. You’re gonna make me blush.” His mouth curls up on one side. “I mean, it’s nice to hear how much you enjoy spending time with me.”
“It’s not you. It’s just, you know, all of this and them, and, just, all of it.” I shake my head, press my fingers to my temples.
“You know what?” He takes my hand and starts pulling me toward the door that leads out into the main hallway. “It’s like that therapy where they make you hang out in a room with spiders or whatever shit you’re afraid of. It’ll be good for you.”
“No, come on. I really don’t want to.”
“We’ll probably see friends of yours, and you can introduce me.” His hand is on the door now. He’s starting to push it open. “We can make out a little. People will take pictures.”
“Seriously, Tommy.” I try not to step forward, but he tightens his grip.
“Seriously? You’re gonna want to stay very close. Don’t look up. Don’t make eye contact. Keep talking.”
Then we’re through the door and into a crowd of people. So far, no one seems to have noticed, but it’s only been maybe two seconds, and now a woman ten feet away does a double take. Great.
• • •
The booth is being staffed only by interns, and they are absolutely losing their shit over Tommy, but I introduce them, and he’s super gracious and friendly. He looks through the books, asks them which are their favorites, and he buys a few. My bag is tucked in the corner under one of the side tables next to some boxes. I throw it over my shoulder, but when I step out of the booth and we start moving away, Tommy pulls the strap off my arm and takes it from me.
“Thanks,” I say.
He smiles. “I’m just trying to get you into bed.”
“You’re really sweeping me off my feet.”
“I think we both know it’s easy to get you into bed. It’s just hard to get you to stay.”
We’re talking quietly, but there are people everywhere, and of course everyone’s paying attention to Tommy. “Would you shut up? Jesus, people can hear you.”
He laughs and pulls my arm under his again. “No one can hear me.” He holds up the books he bought. “These any good?”
I’ve only read one of them, and it was pretty dull. I guess it was well done, but it’s just these long contemplative essays on place. I shrug. “I’ve read that one. It’s eco-lit, which I think is pretty boring. I mean, the language is nice, but I don’t know, maybe you’ll like it. It wasn’t really my thing.”
“Really?” He looks disappointed. “Find me a book I’ll want to read.”
“I have no idea what you like to read,” I say, but I think I know exactly the book. I spent almost an hour talking with the author this morning. “Fine. We need to go this way.”
The crowds are getting thicker, which is good on the one hand because only the people right around us can see Tommy, but bad because it’s hard to make our way through. I pull my arm from Tommy so I can walk ahead of him, weave my way in and out and around. The table I’m looking for is just a few rows away.
“Oh my god!” I hear a voice behind me squeal. “Oh my god!”
Sure enough, when I turn around, this woman is on him. Her fingers are curled around his biceps, which honestly is just insane, like she has some innate right to touch him. He’s being cool about it, of course. I hear him say, “Oh yeah? That’s so sweet. Really, so kind of you,” but he keeps glancing in my direction. Then more people start milling closer to him, and some guy says, “Hey, Tommy, loved you in Destructions, man,” and Tommy nods and waves. When he looks back at me, I give him this look like, I knew it, but still he can’t seem to pull himself away.
“Excuse me, sorry.” I push my way through and grab his wrist. “I’m so sorry,” I say to the people around him. “We’re on a schedule.”
Tommy makes an apologetic face. “Handlers,” he says, so they’re all annoyed with me, but at least they let us through.
“I told you to stay close,” he says. “That was not my fault.”
I still have my fingers around his wrist, and I might be digging them in a little. He pulls away, takes my hand in both of his, and pats it in this patronizing way. “Have we talked about the possibility of getting you on some Xanax?”
By now we’re at the row with the table I’m looking for, but I can’t remember exactly where it is. I’m scanning the banners in the front. I know it’s on the left side. “There,” I say, and I point.
“Hey,” I say to the guy working the table. He’s too busy checking me out to notice Tommy, who’s sort of half turned away anyway. “I’m looking for Ben Merriman’s new collection of essays. Tell me you haven’t sold out.”
“We have.” He gives me a little frown. “I know he’s around here though with more copies. If you can find him.”
“Uh, yeah, I’m on
my way out. Shit.” I turn to Tommy. He’s on his phone, looking busy. “They don’t have it.”
The guy at the table looks up and says, “Oh shit. Are you … ?”
“Yeah,” I say to him, but I think I roll my eyes. “Look,” I say to Tommy, “I’ll order a copy for you later.”
“You know, I actually have a copy myself,” the guy says. “I mean, I could sell you that one, and I’ll just grab another from Ben.”
I don’t know why he didn’t offer this when he thought it was for me. It’s kind of insulting.
“That would be awesome, man. I really appreciate it,” Tommy says.
“Don’t enable him. He can wait,” I say, but the guy’s already digging it out of his bag.
“I mean, it’s signed to me, but, if you don’t mind …”
“Jesus, don’t give him your signed copy.”
“No, it’s cool. I mean, I know Ben, so he’ll sign another one. It’s fine.”
Tommy’s got the book in his hands now, and he flips it open to the inscription, which is actually really personal and lovely, and I look at the guy like, You can’t give him this, but Tommy just laughs. He says, “This is awesome, man. I love it.”
“This is bullshit.” I hand the guy a twenty. “No, it’s cool, keep the change. I love your press.”
“Did you just buy this for me?” Tommy says, and he looks at the guy. “See, she really does like me.”
• • •
Getting to the car is like the biggest relief of my life. Tommy drops my bag in the backseat, and I slide into the front and hold my palms up over my eyes.
“That wasn’t even that bad,” Tommy says.
“I don’t like crowds.”
He laughs. “Where to? You hungry?” He backs out of the parking spot, pulls toward the front of the garage.
“It’s barely four o’clock.”
“Yeah, but you’re on a different time zone, so …”
I shake my head. “I’m fine. Let’s just get a drink.”
“See, you’re like the woman of my dreams.”
“Mmm. Right. Actually, can we swing by the Sheraton? I still have to check in.”
“What?” He turns to look at me. He’s sitting in the exit lane waiting to turn into traffic. It’s clear, but he doesn’t pull out. “What the hell are you talking about, ‘check in’?”
“It’s a hotel,” I say. “People sleep there.”
“That’s stupid, Stacey. You’re staying with me.”
“It’s fine. This isn’t for the movie, you know. This is all, like, through my publisher.”
“Honey, I don’t care why you’re here. When you’re here, you stay with me.” He smiles, then turns his head to the left and pulls out of the garage. “Forward your reservation to Daniel. He’ll take care of it.”
“You know, you’re sweet, but really, I’ve missed the cancellation—”
Tommy cuts me off. “Forward the fucking information,” he says. “How many times do I have to say it?”
I press my lips together and pull my phone out to scroll through my e-mail for the confirmation. I’m not exactly sure what to say, so I say, “Thanks.”
He reaches over and squeezes my leg. “You want to stop for a drink or drink at my house?”
“Your house, definitely. I’ve had enough of people today.”
• • •
I slip my shoes off, curl my feet up beside me on the couch, and rub the ball of one foot and then the other with my thumb. Tommy is at the bar, opening a bottle of wine. He brings the open bottle and two glasses to the table and sets them down.
“That needs to breathe. You want a vodka while we wait?”
“God, yes.” I smile. “Sometimes you’re just the best.”
When he comes back, he sets my vodka on the table and sits next to me, picks up the book of essays from the table.
“I can’t believe you let that guy give you that,” I say, rubbing my feet again.
“People like giving me things. I just let them. It’s mutually beneficial.” He flips the book open to the first page, then glances toward me. “Feet hurt?”
“Like hell. I want to soak them in a tub full of vodka.”
“Shoes were pretty hot though. They might be the kind you should only wear to bed.” He holds the book in his right hand, his thumb holding it open, and while he’s reading, he reaches with his other hand and pulls my left foot into his lap, presses the tips of his fingers in circles across the bottom. “Have you read this whole book?”
“Uh-uh. I’ve read a few of the essays in magazines, but I just picked up a copy this morning. That first one, the title essay, is gorgeous.”
“Yeah? Even the opening line is sharp.” He keeps reading, flips the page with his thumb, keeps rubbing my foot. “You ever write essays?”
“No. Never. I don’t write anything but poetry.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t have it in me. Maybe I can’t sustain anything past twenty lines. Maybe I’m lazy.”
He laughs. “You don’t strike me as lazy, honey. Maybe you’re just too intense.”
“Is that the same as uptight?”
“It’s very fucking similar, yes.” He nods. “So what are you working on these days? What’s the next book?”
I hate this question. I really do. “I’m working on nothing, Tommy. There may not be a next book.”
“Don’t be stupid. Of course there’ll be a next book.”
“No, I’m serious. I haven’t been able to write.” I take a sip of the vodka, but right now, it’s not really helping.
“What do you mean you can’t write? You write for us all the time.” He looks at me like I’m crazy.
“That’s just tweaking, revising, playing with words and shit. This is different. I can’t draft anything new. I can’t get started.”
“Since your husband?” he says, and I just say, “Yeah.”
“Interesting. I’d always assumed he was the one cutting your tongue out, but maybe you’re doing it to yourself.”
“The book’s not about me.”
He laughs. “Right. You’ve said that before, but you’re clearly full of shit.”
“She’s a constructed identity based on contemporary gender ideals.”
“And those ideals don’t affect you at all. That’s why you go to a poetry reading in fuck-me shoes.” He runs one fingernail along the arch of my foot as he says this. I pull my leg back, but he grabs my ankle and laughs. “I’m just giving you shit, Stace. I like the shoes.”
“Gee thanks, Tommy, because I’m really desperate for male approval.”
“I know. It shows.” He closes the book and holds it up. “Thank you for this. I like it. I’m putting it on the top of my stack.”
Sometimes the way he can shift so quickly into what looks like sincerity is a little dizzying. Or maybe it’s just him that’s dizzying. That’s a distinct possibility.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
He sets the book down and takes my foot in both hands. He presses his thumb into the arch of my foot, trails the fingers of his other hand around my ankle, slides his hand up under the leg of my jeans.
“Are you trying to seduce me?” I say, and he shakes his head.
“I wouldn’t have to work this hard. I’m just trying to show you how much I like you.”
“I don’t like you at all.”
“You’re a terrible liar. You would never make it in this town.”
“You’re a terrific liar. You’re like the best.”
“Shut up and finish your vodka,” he says. “I’m ready to pour this wine.”
• • •
When I wake in the morning, Tommy’s hand is splayed across my stomach. I try to slip out from under it, but he slides his hand around my waist, pulls me back against him. “Uh-uh. Stay. Go back to sleep.” He presses his lips against my shoulder. I can’t sleep obviously, so I just lie there, breathing, thinking. Michael has been dead for thirtee
n months, long enough that I feel like maybe it’s okay for me to be naked in a bed with someone, but not long enough for it to be Tommy. It would take years for that. It might take a whole lifetime. I think, If Michael were here now, but he isn’t. He obviously isn’t, so I tuck myself farther into Tommy’s arms, and I close my eyes, and eventually I fall back asleep.
• • •
When the plane coasts to a stop in Omaha and I turn my phone back on, it buzzes and buzzes with notifications. There are two texts from Tommy, one that says, Feeling well rested? and another that reads, God, this book is phenomenal. How do you know this guy? There’s one from my editor that they sold out of my book, and they’re upping the size of the next print run. Jenny says Stevie has lost a tooth, and she follows it up with a picture of him grinning around a bleeding hole in his gums. I don’t reply to any of them. I just grab my bag from under the seat in front of me and scope out the people around me. I wonder if I’ll be able to slip off the plane quickly. I’m so tired of traveling, of being up in the air.
JULY
IN THE AFTERNOON, I take the boys to the cemetery. It’s Michael’s birthday. We didn’t last year. It was too new, but we came once in the fall when the plaque was done. It was easier because Jenny and Todd came too.
I like an old-fashioned cemetery with big gravestones, but this is just flat stones with bronze plaques listing names and dates. Easy for mowing, Michael had said. His grandparents are buried here too. I intend to be cremated, but Michael left specific instructions, so it’s a double plot with a shared stone, and my name is on a little plaque next to his. It’s a strange feeling, looking at your own grave. Not that I’m going to be buried here, or anywhere, so it doesn’t count.
“I made him a card,” Stevie says, pulling it out from where he’s hidden it under his shirt like it’s a surprise.
“That’s not fair!” Ben yells. “I didn’t … no one told me.” He crouches on the grave, scrunches his hands into fists, and holds them against his eyes.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. I squat next to him, my hand on his back. “You can make him a card tonight.”