Fix You (20 page)

My dad swings through the kitchen and eyes me suspiciously. He’s not sold on this dating thing yet. When I mentioned last week on the phone that I’d like to have Andrew over or that Andrew and I thought about doing a dinner at Andrew’s house, Dad developed a very loud, dry, suspect cough. Mom even shushed him, which she never does.

“Is your dad frowning at you about this phone call yet?”

I grin. “I was right. You
are
psychic.”

“I’m so going to win that man over. Doesn’t he know I was voted
Cosmo
’s Yummiest Guy last year? There’s no escaping my charm. Just you wait.”

“Maybe if you clip out the
Cosmo
article, you’ll convince him. He’d love that, I bet.”

Dad’s wandered out of the kitchen again, followed by Hunter, who has snacks.

“So are you guys coming over here tomorrow?”

“I’ll be over around eleven. Mom and Dad’ll bring the boys around four. They always take them out shopping for me when we get here.”

“Thank you for that. I need to see you.”

I think he’s talking about what I’m thinking about, and I blush. “I need to see you too.” Suddenly tomorrow’s not fast enough, and the kitchen feels not private enough for this conversation. I clear my throat, embarrassed.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. You’ve got the address?”

“You texted it to me. I’m good. Any secret passwords I need to know?”

“There’s a gate, but it’s not NORAD. What’re you driving?”

“Dad’s Ford Focus. You’re jealous, I know.”

“Sweet ride.”

Beau comes into the kitchen and waves at me wildly. I gather quickly that Mom has announced he can open one present early.

“I’ve got to go. Beau’s going to bust a gasket if I don’t get off the phone.”

“See you in the morning.”

“Okay.” I end the call, and Beau drags me into the living room. Things are back to the normal holiday routine for the evening.

The next morning, I sleep in, skipping my morning run. It feels liberating to let it go once in a while. When I get up, Mom’s already in full grandson-spoiling mode. She’s cooked them eggs to order and bacon. Dad’s sketching out some plan for Hunter and him and the woodshop. The two of them usually concoct one or two outlandish birdhouses or something similar while we’re here for this visit. Dad has been adamant about setting the boys up with manly experiences since Peter’s been gone. It’s one of the reasons I love him. He’s looking out for them in his own way.

“Good morning.” I survey the scene.

“Hi, Mom. Gran made breakfast.”

“Smells awesome. What’s the plan this morning?”

“You’re leaving, we’re shopping, and we’re reconvening for dinner at Andrew’s.” Hunter says this with full authority. He has these moments of very adult behavior that surprise me. He’s going to be a man. I’ll turn around, and he’ll be running the show.

“Well, I guess I better go get dressed then.” I turn to Dad. “You sure you can find the house later?”

He shoots me a withering look. “Yes. I’ve lived here for twenty years. I think I can find my way to the Hollywood Hills.”

“He can find the Hollywood sign, Mom,” Beau says. “It’s not hard from there.” He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but he’s trying to capture the same acid tone as Dad. It’s cute, the way he has his granddad’s back.

I make sure to MapQuest it myself before I leave, in an effort to look at least as able as my dad. I drive into town from my folks’ house, trying hard not to be totally rattled by the traffic. As I wind my way up Andrew’s street, I feel my pulse revving. It’s hard not to be embarrassed by the physical way I react to his proximity.

The street number is literally plastered to a tall wall. I pull up to the gate and press the buzzer as instructed. The gate swings open, and I drive through.

The house isn’t insanely big, but in California, this is an extravagance. In Boise it might be within a normal person’s orbit. Here it’s completely out of my league.

It’s a Spanish-style older home, probably from the nineteen twenties. The red tile roof is charmingly overgrown with bougainvillea. I like that it doesn’t look like a frat boy’s place. I don’t know if part of me expected something out of
Animal House
, but I’m glad to find the front courtyard free of sofas, flamingos, and underwear.

The driveway’s empty except for the black convertible we drove to Ventura County. I smile as I park Dad’s car next to it and remember the drive and the rest of the trip.

Then, Andrew’s out front.

Of course he looks good. He makes a living making an entrance. It’s not very fair. The only time I made an entrance was in college when I accidentally had toilet paper trailing from one foot as I re-entered a room at a party.

He smiles widely. “You found it.”

“Yep.”

He puts his arms around me, and it feels insanely good. Each time, a little part of me continues to be surprised. At some point, I guess I’ll have to accept that this is actually happening, and it isn’t a result of a mental breakdown on my part or a great misunderstanding on his.

“Let’s go inside.” His voice is husky with feeling. It takes my breath away. On this front of our relationship, I feel like a strong equal. And I like it very much for that—and a lot of other reasons. I follow him in.

He holds my hand, just by the fingertips, and leads me through the house. I notice little or none of the details of his living room, kitchen, stairs. All I can focus on is the tingle in my fingers and making sure I don’t step on the back of his heels in my haste.

“Do you like it?” He turns around as we climb the stairs. He hasn’t let go of my hand.

“Like what?”

“My house.” He smiles. Does he know how distracting that smile is?

“Yes.” I’m thinking about his lips, his shoulders, his hips, his back.

“Are you just saying that?”

“Yes.” I sound breathless.

He laughs. “Thought so.”

We’re at the door of his bedroom. He kisses me, and my head spins.

“I don’t want to be forward, but you need to cool it with the Parade of Homes tour.” I push past and pull him into his bedroom.

“The master suite does have a lot of amenities.” Now he’s just being goofy.

“Shut up and kiss me.”

He takes the hint. He does take direction well, I must say. On this occasion especially…

A little while later we lie in bed together. It’s so warm, and most of the heat is coming off his body. I’m always cold. I don’t get why guys are the ones with the internal combustion, when I’d rather be the cozy one.

He tugs on the covers, turns over to look at me.

“Hey!” Now I’m really cold—without the covers, I’m bare.

His fingers trace my shoulder. “What’s this?” He touches a straight, white scar.

“I got it crawling under a barbed-wire fence in fourth grade. We were playing Cold War.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s kind of game was that?”

“
The
big game in my neighborhood. I was a Soviet, as I recall.
Red Dawn
was a very influential movie that summer. We ran amok in the woods.”

“Sounds fun.” He looks a little lost.

I realize why. “You’re too young. You were probably three when it came out.”

I lie back, cover my eyes with my arms. This young-guy stuff is painful. Sometimes I feel like an artifact.

Then I feel him kiss my stomach. I uncover my eyes. He’s looking at another scar.

“What’s this one?” He’s languidly tracing a jagged-looking pucker of skin, right over my belly button. I think I’m starting to get goose bumps, and not from the chill in the room. I resist the urge to attack him and answer instead.

“That’s a stretch mark. Thanks for pointing it out.”

“From babies?” He sounds so naïve sometimes.

“From baby number two. Beau was two weeks late, and I was all proud of how smooth my stomach was, but then my poor belly button couldn’t handle it anymore, and the skin pulled. No
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit cover for me.”

He kisses it again. “It’s called Photoshop. Trust me. See this?” He tugs on his left ear, moving the hair away. There’s a huge notch taken out of the top of his ear.

“What’s that from?”

“When I was three, the neighbor’s dog mistook me for a chew toy. I’m pretty sure if my sisters hadn’t been there he would have torn my ear off.”

“Then that’s not so bad considering, huh?” I trace the deep V chunked out of his ear. I think about kissing it.

“And, if you were to check most of the magazine covers featuring yours truly, I bet you won’t see it.”

“Really?”

“They want their movie star perfect. It takes a minute and a few clicks of the mouse, and it’s done.”

“That explains why you are totally homely in real life,” I tease.

He rolls over on top of me and has me by the wrists. “You’re so cruel.” He kisses me. He leans over and kisses my shoulder, the one with the scar. Then he eases himself down, kisses my imperfect belly button again.

After that, I lose track of the all the kisses and their locations. It’s one of the best endings to a discussion of my flaws to date, though.

Later, the sun begins to slant a bit through the bedroom windows. I like this place. It has white walls, lots of warm wood trim. The ceilings have old wooden beams and fans that loop lazily in the warm afternoon air.

“I think we need to get up.” I’m feeling sleepy, and I know my dad would have a coronary if he made it to the house and found me asleep in the arms of the dastardly movie star.

Andrew sits up reluctantly. “This means we have to tackle dinner, you know.”

“We’re two grown people. We have recipes. Surely we can do this.”

“I don’t know if we can, and don’t call me Shirley.”

“Please.” I watch him get up, enjoying the lithe length of his back, and try to turn my focus to making dinner for my family.

26: Julia Child, We Aren’t

I
T’S
S
AD
. I like to think of myself as an intuitive person, but all that goes out the window when I enter a kitchen. I don’t know how long it takes to bring a turkey up to one hundred sixty degrees on the inside, and I have no idea where the best place is to stick the thermometer to see if it’s still cold or not.

Andrew’s no better. He keeps saying things like, “These directions aren’t very clear.” And laughing to himself. We already decided the wallpaper-paste gravy will not be making it to the table. Then he spent some time showing me all the things he could stick straight into it that didn’t move: forks, knives, chopsticks.

I focus on the pie. We’ve whipped up a pumpkin one, and it actually looks promising. It just needs to go in the oven.

I have it in my hands when I hear the doorbell. And I reflexively turn toward the sound. So does the pie filling. The pie shell doesn’t move as quickly, and in the course of about two seconds, the most hopeful part of the meal sloshes on the kitchen floor. I’m left standing with an essentially empty pie shell.

“Andrew!” I can’t help it. I sound totally panic-stricken.

He stepped out to open the door for the rest of my family, but he pokes his head around the corner and gets a look at the kitchen floor. “Well, maybe we’ll go out for dessert.”

I think of
Christmas Story
, when they had Christmas dinner in the Chinese restaurant. This may just be Christmas Eve, but we should’ve called in some professional help.

Too late. I hear my dad’s voice in the hall. “So you’re the infamous Andy Pettigrew.”

“Please, call me Andrew.”

I resist the urge to run out to defend Andrew. I hear Hunter and Beau briefly, but I can tell they’ve run off to check out the house. I have a feeling they’re going to be disappointed to find no bowling alley or screening room or garage full of Bentleys.

I wash the remains of the pie from my hands and go out to greet my folks.

Andrew holds the poinsettia my mom’s given him. “This is so thoughtful. Thank you.”

She pats him on the hand, and I’m happy to be out here. She sometimes needs me to rein her in. I credit her with a lot, but she’s always been great at revealing way too much information about me, my family in general, everything.

Dad puts his hands in his pockets and looks around. Maybe he’s also wondering about the bowling alley.

“Hi, Dad.”

He smiles widely when he spots me, hugs me warmly. “Kelly.”

“You found it fine?” I can’t help but ask. I’m secretly hoping I found it more easily than he did.

“Your dad didn’t even need me to navigate.” Mom gives me a big hug too. I pull away before she can whisper something totally embarrassing too loud. She does that a lot.