Fix You (16 page)

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

D
INNER
P
UTS
M
E
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

U
TTER
B
LISS
I
S
A W
ONDERFUL
, 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.

“Andrew. Andrew Pettigrew.” I don’t know his middle name.

He turns over, a marvelously sleepy smile on his face. “Good morning.”

“What’s your middle name?” I kiss him.

He kisses back. “Ummm, Fleming. It’s a family name.” He stretches, twists his legs around mine. It feels glorious.

“Andrew Fleming Pettigrew. I like it.”

“I don’t. Kids in junior high called me Flem. What’s yours?”

“Jo. As in, ‘Kelly Jo Harrison, you’re in trouble, young lady. I’m going to tan your backside.’”

“Is that how your mom talks?”

“No, but my grandma sounded suspiciously like that. She was from Tennessee. She also called me
pantywaist
.”

Andrew puts his arms around me. “That’s awful. You aren’t a pantywaist.”

“I think it was a term of endearment, coming from her. She was a tough old lady. She ran the volunteer fire department. When I broke my arm at Skateworld in fifth grade, she threatened to ground me if I passed out.”

He can’t help it. “Well, passing out is a little pantywaist-ish. It’s just a broken arm.”

“I was ten! And it hurt!”

He kisses me again. I was thinking about getting up, but now I’m totally lost.

He’s the one who sits up abruptly. “What time is it, anyway?”

“I have no idea.”

He pulls his cell phone from the nightstand. “Christ. Tucker’ll be here in half an hour.”

“Wait.”

“Yes?” He’s up on one elbow. He smiles that crazy high-wattage smile.

“No fair. That’s an acting face, isn’t it?”

“That’s not an acting face.
This
is an acting face.” He smiles again, and there’s just a little too much cheese this time.

“Anyway, I had a fabulous time last night.” There. I said it.

“Me too.” He hops up and goes to the bathroom. It’s too much to watch him walk away. I have to cover my face with a pillow to hide the blush. Lord, he’s beautiful.

Today I’m not meeting him until later. We’re going to have lunch together and then meet back up when he’s done shooting tonight. Tomorrow morning we have to head back to LA so I can go home.

Right now, though, I lie in bed and listen to the water from the shower. I want to stay in this moment, savor it.

Drowsing, I almost don’t hear his phone buzz. It skitters across the glass of the nightstand table.

He comes into the room, towel wrapped around his waist. “Was that my phone?”

“Yep.”

He picks it up and checks it. “It’s Franca. She wants to know who you are.”

“Why is she asking about me? We didn’t do anything.”

He’s texting her back. “She heard you were on set. I’m sticking to the old family friend story. And we did do something, just nothing she knows about.” He arches an eyebrow at me.

Seconds later, the phone vibrates again. “Oh. She wants to meet us for lunch.”

Well, yay. That’s exactly what I think of when I imagine a super-fun time with my new lover. Hang out with his insanely gorgeous, rich, and famous co-star. “Why?”

He snorts. “’Cause she’s a snoop. That, and she’s bored. Franca’s famous for being difficult on location. She’s not good at keeping herself occupied. She’s looking for a diversion.”

“Great, and I’m it?” This is not a good idea. I can feel it.

“I promise not to leave you alone with her. Truly.” He texts her back.

You know, I should at least feel superior to her in one way. I’m older. Yes, she’s older than Andrew, but not by much. And I’m definitely taller than her. And I know a little about her. She’s divorced, and she’s impossibly blond and tiny.