Fix You (30 page)

He doesn’t take the bait. “Yeah, we could do something.”

I’m changing the subject. If that wasn’t the most lackluster response, I don’t know what is. “As soon as you start feeling tired tonight, we should leave. You’re finally feeling a little better. No reason to overdo it.”

He nods absently, eyes still on the road. “Yeah.”

When we get there, a valet takes the car, and we go around to the back of a beautiful beach house. It’s perched on a bluff overlooking the ocean. There’s a long, winding staircase that leads down to the shore. The whole house is open to the warm sea air, and candles float in the azure swimming pool.

I’m relieved because this is nothing like the wild crowd I encountered at the premiere after-party some months ago. Apparently producers know more people who are around my age, because some of them are in attendance at this function. And the tone is mellow. I relax a little bit. Maybe this will be fine. I think I’ve been bracing for something ugly. Maybe there’s no need to worry this time.

Andrew hands me a glass of wine, and I notice he has a beer in his hand. I speak before I even realize what I sound like. “Be careful. The cough syrup you took this morning packs a punch.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, Mom.” But he gives me a little side squeeze and a smile.

Jeremy materializes next to me. I jump. I forgot to ask Andrew what our story is. I don’t know the protocol for tonight. Is a private party a safe place to conduct ourselves as boyfriend/girlfriend, or are we still stealth dating?

“Kelly Reynolds. So fabulous to see you.” Jeremy gives me the kiss-on-each-cheek hello. What a snake. A charming snake, but still.

He steps back, both of my hands in his. “You look radiant. How’s your visit been?” He apparently wants something.

“It’s been fine. Thanks for asking.” I give him the up and down, since he just did it to me. He’s wearing a linen shirt and slacks, Italian loafers. Again, Jeremy’s general style says, “I’m playing it cool,” but behind that is a very careful decision to look relaxed and casual.

“Andy, good to see you. You still look like shit, my friend.” Jeremy shakes his head.

“Thanks.” Andrew gives him a nod.

Jeremy turns to me. “Let me show you the house.”

I look at Andrew. He shrugs. Oh well. I’ll have little to do at this party, and this’ll buy Andrew some time to visit with that producer he wanted to chat up about the role.

Jeremy takes my hand and leads me in through the patio doors.

“How are you?” he asks.

“I’m fine. What’s up?” We walk through the huge living room to a stairway, which I can see leads to a large mezzanine area that overlooks the pool.

“Let’s go on up here where we can hear ourselves think.”

Once we’re up the stairs, he goes to the railing out on the deck above the pool. I stand next to him, rest my arms on the edge. We can see Andrew from here. He’s on the other side of the pool, close to the spa area and the overlook to the ocean. He’s out of earshot. Of course he is. Jeremy is calculating. He meant for us to be out of earshot.

I look at Andrew. He looks tired. He’s too thin. His color is still not good. He stands, talking, but his shoulders slope forward. It’s barely perceptible, but still a sign of his general state of fatigue. I want to drag him out of here and back to bed.

“He looks a little better.” Jeremy says this gently. I would even venture to say with a caring tone.

“He shouldn’t be here. And not with a beer in his hand.”

A couple comes up next to us. Jeremy’s clearly not comfortable with them as close as they are. He takes me by the elbow. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

I feel like I’m in a spy movie. We retreat inside, and he pulls me over to a couch tucked into a corner of the second level.

“Kelly, this is a bad time of year for him. Always.”

Jeremy knows. He knows about Emily. “I know.”

“He told you?” He sounds surprised.

I feel ashamed. “No, I found out about it.”

He thankfully doesn’t press the issue. “Well, this year it’s worse than usual. He’s been working really hard. Now he’s sick. And he doesn’t have a role to get ready for yet.”

I wait to see if he’s going to reference the drinking.

“Kelly, I was there the first time. I’m the one who dragged his ass out of the hotel room and to his first job. He came this close to never even getting a chance in this business because of it.” His index finger and thumb are perilously close to one another for emphasis. He considers for a moment, and then goes for it. “You seem like you’re good for him.”

“I don’t know.” I don’t know where this is going, but with Jeremy, I can be sure it’s going somewhere.

“Well, I do. He can’t drink the way he has been. It almost ruined him once. I can’t tell him. Maybe he’ll listen to you. I won’t have it affecting his career, and if he’s this sick, it’s going to.”

“Being sick is human.”

“Being sick because you haven’t been sleeping because you’ve been out tearing it up isn’t human, it’s juvenile. And not good for business.”

“He’s a person, not just your business.”

“Fuck, I know that. Of course I know that. I care about him. I want him to be well. Just talk to him, please. Remember, we’re on the same team.”

Jeremy’s up off the couch and headed to find a new conversation before I can respond. Sharks have to keep swimming, I tell myself. They always have to be moving. After a few moments I see him down by the pool, and lo and behold, Franca Delaney materializes next to him. For a second I almost feel sorry for Jeremy, getting cornered by the human hyena. Almost.

Now I fully intend to go find Andrew. I don’t think my plan involves the Jeremy-endorsed lecture, but I do want to check and see how he is.

Instead, I’m intercepted again. This time it’s by Gerry, Andrew’s co-star in the sheriff movie. He’s a sweet man. He strikes up a conversation, and then takes it upon himself to introduce me around to a host of people he knows at the party. I do actually appreciate it, on the one hand. I should be giving Andrew the space he needs to do some business. On the other hand, if he’s not up to business, then I’m just giving him time to get into trouble.

But for crying out loud, he’s a grown-up. And if he doesn’t have that self-control, I need to think about what that says about him and his drinking.

Maybe it’s more accurate to say drinking problem.

This interior monologue gnaws at my skull for most of the time I spend with Gerry. Finally, I notice the deepening blue of the sky above the ocean, and I find a way to excuse myself. I return to the pool terrace in search of Andrew.

I can’t find him. I have no idea. I text him, but get no response. I go back inside and make several laps of the upstairs and down. Where is he? I start to shake a little.

I hate this. It’s fundamentally clear that I have no trust in him. That’s no way to build a relationship, and that’s more my problem than his. We need to have a serious talk. I’ve been trying to leave him alone since he’s sick, but this can’t wait.

As soon as I find him. I drift back out to the pool.

Jeremy sees me and steps away from his conversation. “What’s up?”

“I can’t find him.” I sound panicked. I am panicked.

“He’s probably in the house. He was in there chatting up some producers earlier.”

“No, I was just in there.”

“Check the stairs. Maybe he’s down on the beach. I’ll make another swing through the house.” Jeremy looks at me, and I can see it in his eyes. He’s worried too.

I walk to the far edge of the bluff to look out over the ocean.

There’s a bonfire on the beach, some distance below the house at the bottom of the winding staircase I noticed earlier. I’ve checked everywhere else, so I start down the stairs.

As I descend, I can hear the surf more clearly, but I can also hear voices. It sounds like two people. It sounds like Andrew and someone else. A female someone else.

My teeth chatter. Yes, it’s a cool evening, but this is in response to the fight-or-flight surge coursing through my body. I long to be in full antelope mode and flee, but I force myself to keep putting one foot in front of the other all the way down the stairs.

“And Franca?” The woman’s speaking. Her voice is clear and clean above the surf.

“She’s a friend.” Andrew’s voice is muddled by his cough.

“Friend with benefits?” The girl laughs, but something’s not ringing true.

“No, no, no.” He laughs hard. Too hard. He’s drunk. I look at my watch. Yes, it’s been probably two hours. But this is a man with a problem. Someone told me once that to an alcoholic, the first drink is like falling off a cliff. There’s no going back. I remember Andrew’s comment to me about no switch. He can’t turn it off. I want to weep. This sucks, and this is the reason he and I won’t make it together.

That realization hits me hard, but I press forward. I still need to get him home tonight. He’s sick, and drinking problem or no, his first problem is getting over pneumonia.

As if on cue, he coughs.

“I should take you home,” the woman suggests. “I have a cure for that cough.”

“I’ve got a ride.” He’s coughing again. This fit is a longer one.

I can see them, silhouetted by the orange ball of fire behind them. The woman is sitting close. She’s patting him on the back now, trying to still the coughs.

“He does, that’s true.” I announce as I’m approaching. I call it announcing. It’s probably more like yelling, but let’s not split hairs.

The woman straightens up, surprised. “Who are you?” She’s beautiful: huge black hair and dark eyes, luscious full lips.

“I’m the one who’s taking my sick friend home.” I put myself between them.

She stands up. “Interview’s over, I guess.”

“Are you a reporter?”

“Maybe.” She looks around, uncomfortable. Good.

“I think maybe you should leave now.”

“Whatever.”

I stand my ground and consider growling at her. Behind me, Andrew tries to laugh but loses it to another round of coughing. He’s not on his feet yet, and I’m glad. I’ll deal with him in a minute.

She stalks away, back up the staircase. I don’t know how Andrew’s going to make it. I don’t know if he can catch his breath to climb. This is a sick déjà vu to standing with another man I loved, listening to him try to catch his breath. I have to sit for a second to bear the brunt of the feeling.

Andrew stands. “Nice.” He thrusts his hands clumsily into his pockets, and he tries to walk off down the beach. He stumbles a bit and stops.

“Nice, what?” I am mad. I am steaming mad.

“She’s just a reporter.”

“Yeah, I noticed. And you’re a drunk talking to a reporter.” I pull up even with him.

He turns to face me. “Nice.” He takes off down the beach again.

He’s got a bigger stride, but I’m sober, so we’re an even match in the storming-off competition. “No. No, you’re not going to be all self-righteous with me.”

He stops, and I grab him by the elbow.

“Look at me.”

He does. Why I’m talking to him, I don’t know. He more than likely won’t remember this in the morning.

“What?”

“You’re on a dangerous path. You’re sick, and you’re drinking. Plus you’re talking to some vulture. And she’s flirting with you…or something.”

I shouldn’t have added that last part, because that’s the part he latches on to.

“Do you think I’d even take that bait? You give me no credit.” He shakes off my hold on his elbow and starts down the beach again.

This has to stop. He’s going nowhere, and I need to get him home. We can argue tomorrow. Or whatever. Right now it’s getting colder and colder, and he’s got pneumonia.

“Andrew. Andrew, stop.” I try to get him by the elbow again. I use a softer tone. “Andrew, we need to get you home.”

He shakes his arm up and out of my grasp with a hard jerk. I catch the business end of that hard jerk and lose my balance, falling backward. My hands go out behind me, and I feel something sharp under my right arm as I land in the sand.

I sit there for a minute. The pain comes quickly. I see the glint of broken glass. Great. Andrew stands over me as I turn my arm over, revealing a sizable gash.

Yes, Andy Pettigrew just pushed me down and cut me. Not on purpose, but I can see the headlines now. His life is over. I feel a trickle of blood on the inside of my elbow and immediately get up and look around for a place to run.

“Kelly—”

I shake my head. “No, Andrew. Look.” The reporter woman has turned around and is coming back down toward us.

This is not how this is going to end. I will not allow it.

I break into a run, fumbling for my cell in my pocket. I look back to see him crumpled, kneeling on the sand with his head in his hands.

I lengthen my stride to put as much distance between us as possible. The crash of the waves becomes the only sound in my ears, and when I turn to look back, the bonfire is a distant dot behind me on the beach. I finally stop for a moment, try to collect my thoughts. I call Tucker.