Fix You (4 page)

I doubt he needs to ask that question. I mean, really.

“Remember when you were first learning to drive?” I take another deep breath. I’m not sure if I’ve been breathing in any reliable way since we crossed the condo’s threshold.

“Yeah, I do, actually. Everything was a giant ordeal. My dad took me out in our neighborhood. I sneezed and ran the car up on Mr. Hattingfield’s yard. Took out his mailbox.”

“I haven’t been very social lately—except with people I know. Heck, since the boys were born, I haven’t been super social at all. Okay, I wasn’t ever amazingly social to begin with.”

“But your point?” I think he’s kind of grinning. At me. He could be close to laughing.

“I have one. Stop smiling. You’re not helping. The point is, I’m back at the aware-of-every-little-part-of-a-social-interaction stage. Like early driving, when you check the mirrors, and you have to think,
turn on the blinker
. That’s the stage I’m at. I don’t even know where to look. Do I look right at you the whole time we talk? Do I look you right in the eye?”

I stop to breathe for a second. He turns the mug all the way around by the handle before he responds, his eyes on the teabag. “You’re fine. You need to breathe, and you need to not tap the spoon on the table. Other than that, I find you pretty socially capable. I might even venture to say charming.”

“Where do I look?” This has devolved into a social etiquette class offered by a movie star to a woman whose mind has completely left her in her moment of need.

“You can always look at me.” He looks up from the mug right into my eyes.

I agree. I think I could look at him for a nice long while.
Gaze
might be the word I’d choose for it. “Yeah.” It’s quiet for a moment. “Oh, let me get your jacket.” I’m grateful for a reason to walk out of the kitchen and breathe. I look for where I tossed the daypack when we came in. I seem to be okay. I’m settling into the idea of the movie star in the kitchen.

When I come back, he’s up, kettle in hand. “It was boiling.”

“Thanks.” I set his jacket on the back of his chair, sit at the table, and watch him pour water into both mugs. Do I feel different now that I know who he is? I can’t tell.

He hands me my tea. “What if we went running tomorrow?”

“What?”

“You and me. I’d like to get out, stretch my legs. We could go for a run.”

“I don’t know. I usually run alone.”

“You could humor me.” He tilts his head in a little plea. I can’t imagine anyone resists that look very often.

“I guess.” I’m pretty sure this is a hallucination. What in the world?

“Good. I could meet you here. What time?”

“It’s supposed to be really hot tomorrow. Six?”

“In the morning?”

“Yes.” This running thing still seems unlikely. “Why would you want to run with me?”

“When you do take a minute and actually look straight at me, I like it. And I have to say, the way you were upset yesterday? I kind of feel like you could use a wingman.”

“Except you ran off.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Sorry about the way I cried like a blithering idiot.”

“No, really. I shouldn’t have run off, but I needed to. Word sometimes spreads quickly.”

We’re talking about him. Him being famous. But we aren’t talking about it. “I thought you were a spy. Or a felon.”

“I act like a total lunatic ninety percent of the time, I swear to you. You’ve probably heard. I earned kind of a reputation when I was younger.”

Again, I try to remember anything I’ve heard, but my mind is a total vacuum. “So you have to go back soon?”

He looks at me, takes a sip of his tea. “I think Monday. When do you go back?”

“Sunday. The boys start school again on Monday.” I try to stay cool, but I think I’m sweating from nervousness. That’s attractive. “I’ve kept you talking way too long. You probably have lots to do.”

He makes no move to get up. “You’d be surprised. Unless I’m working, I’m completely bored most of the time. Sometimes friends come out to LA to visit, but other than that, I’m completely and utterly dull. I buy sneakers on eBay for fun.”

“What kind of sneakers?”

“Old Air Jordans, other basketball shoes mostly. It’s kind of addictive.”

This strikes me as funny. “You buy sneakers worn by other people? Like, used shoes?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds gross. They’re collectible. Limited editions. One guy spent eighty thousand dollars in a year.”

“Really.” I can’t help it, and I can hear the sarcasm in my voice.

“I’m not
that
guy. It’s something to do. I said I was boring.”

“Do you even play basketball?”

“Not particularly.”

I laugh. It feels good. As absolutely bizarre as this is, I like talking to him. He’s funny.

Suddenly, I’m struck by a new thought: someone will be home soon. Someone as in one of my sons with my dad or my mom. I’m not prepared for any sort of introductions of this new person. I need to get him to leave.

Nothing smooth occurs to me. I stand up from the table. He looks at me. “I’m so sorry, but my boys should be home soon and…” I’m about to kick Andy Pettigrew out of my house. I am the biggest idiot on the planet.

“I’m leaving. Say no more.” He’s already on his way to the door, returned jacket in hand. He smiles at me. “So I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

“Okay. And thanks for stopping yesterday. Most people would walk a little faster if a person was freaking out on the sidewalk like I was.”

He turns, hand on the doorknob, thoughtful for a moment. “It just seemed like the right thing to do. No big deal.” He walks down the sidewalk to his car and gives a little wave before he gets in and drives away.

So I’m going on a run tomorrow at sunrise with Andy Pettigrew. No big deal.

5: Still Running

I D
ON’T
E
VEN
G
IVE
the birds a chance to start their pre-dawn tweeting before I am out of bed, dressed, and in front of the condo, ready for Andrew.

I held my breath for most of my morning routine, terrified that I would wake up my parents or the kids. The stealthy thing does not come to me naturally, so this is nerve-wracking. This is still my secret.

Yet my movie-star hallucination continues as the same black sedan pulls up and parks at the curb, just as the sun begins to filter through the palm trees to the east. Andrew Pettigrew climbs out of the car. He wears the same hoodie, with baggy shorts to match, but no sunglasses this morning.

“Good morning.” His voice sounds scratchy. He joins me on the sidewalk.

“You sound tired.” I don’t know if I should wave or what, so I put my hand out for a shake. “Good morning.”

He shakes it. “Greetings, Kelly.” He smirks. It’s clear he thinks I’m a dork.

“Are you ready?” The longer I stand here, the worse the awkwardness will become, so I take off down the street, jogging slowly.

“Okay. Be gentle.”

Of course I spent way too much time last night planning this. We’re going to do a straight shot down the street to the cart paths of the municipal golf course, not far from Mom and Dad’s condo. At night the course is lit, but it’ll be deserted now—too early for golfers.

We run for a while in silence. He looks over at me and smiles. I smile back. He runs a little ahead, so I pour it on a bit and pass him easily. He catches up. We run in this easy, playful pattern for a while. He seems to be fairly fit.

He nudges me with an elbow. “How am I doing?”

“I don’t know. Are you okay? Do you run much?” I like this. Talking to him while he’s next to me is easier. I can run and look straight ahead and feel much more functional as a human. I don’t know when I turned into such a crazy person.

“I run sometimes to get ready for work. Usually it’s when I’m told to.”

“You tell me when you want to stop and we will.”

“You tell me how you are today. You feeling better?”

I’d much rather just run. “I’m okay. Each day is a new day. Some are easy; some seem long.”

“Why don’t we turn around at the end of that path up there? By that palm tree.” He looks sly.

Probably because there are palm trees everywhere we look. I stop and turn around. “This is an easy run day for me. We can head back.”

He makes a big circle, twice around me, and then heads back the way we came. “Thank God. I was worried I’d have to fake an Achilles tear.”

I enjoy hearing the rhythm of two pair of feet for a while, and I watch the sun climbing higher in the sky. We run together, side by side. I feel calm, so much more sane than I did yesterday, or the day before.

“I can see why you run. You’re at peace.”

We’re back at the condo again.

“Here we are.” I feel good—that wasn’t a complete disaster.

He looks at me. “See? We’re making direct eye contact without any kind of prompting or cue cards for you. Well done. And I have to say, you have lovely eyes. It’d be a shame if you avoided eye contact for the rest of your life.”

“Thanks. For the run and for the compliment.” I kind of want to reach over and touch him. I almost chicken out, but then I touch his elbow, just barely. It’s my attempt to say “Hey, you’re cool” in a low-key manner. Of course, I’m a complete dork, so…

He looks a little surprised. Maybe people aren’t supposed to touch fancy-schmancy movie stars. Or maybe people just don’t. He grins. “My pleasure.”

We walk to his car. He swings the door open, stands with an arm draped over it.

He looks like he wants to say something else. For once I keep my mouth shut and wait to see what it is.

He fishes his cell phone and sunglasses out of the car. “Can I get your number?”

“You don’t want my number.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.” Seriously, is he kidding?

“Do too.” He shakes his head. “This is insane. Why not?”

“Look at you. Come on.”

He stares at me with those very blue eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Give me your number.”

I tell him. He puts it into his phone. I bite the inside of my lip. I haven’t done this in a lot of years, but I think the way I feel is the way a person feels at the beginning of something. It’s kind of a dusty memory, but, yes, it’s coming back to me.

I look at him for a minute. The world creeps back into my brain and speaks to me about real life again. “I don’t suppose you get to Boise much.” If this is a beginning, it’s the beginning to a very short story. We are never going to see each other again.

His sunglasses are back in place, and he looks over them at me. “You never know.” He gets in his car, but pauses for a second to comment: “Like I said, I’m bored a lot.” And then he’s gone.

6: The Next Time

T
HE
N
EXT
D
AY
, I load the car with my dad. The boys and I are headed back to real life, back to an empty house in Boise. But on this trip, we’re also headed back to a reality that involves me keeping a surreal secret. Dad puts the boys’ luggage in the back of the car for the ride to the airport, and I spend the whole time wanting to tell him who I went running with the day before.

Mom comes out on the driveway and begins tear up instantly. I walk over and give her a big hug. I don’t want to cry. I’m cried out for now.

“Oh, it was too short.” She takes in a shaky breath, and I give her a stern
stop crying
look before I hug her again.

“We’ll be in LA for Christmas, Mom.” I snap the car’s hatch shut.

“Did you get that guy’s coat back to him?” She’s changed the subject, making what she thinks is small talk. Little does she know.

“Yes, Mom, I did. When I ran back to the coffee shop.”

Dad’s interested is piqued. “What guy?”

Oh, oh, oh, I want to tell him. “Just a guy, Dad. He left his coat at the coffee shop.”

“You gotta be careful these days, Bug. People kill each other from Greglist.”

“It’s Craigslist, Dad. And there was nothing creepy about it. He left his coat, and I returned it. End of story.” There was a bit more to the story, actually, but still nothing worth divulging right now.

We say our goodbyes, get the whole crew to the airport, and all I can hear repeating in my head is “end of story.”

The boys and I fly back to Boise. I don’t say a word to anyone about Andrew. I’m really tempted, more than a few times, but then I remember that look, that silent favor I promised I would do for him. So I keep quiet.

I do get the names of his movies straight, though. I got on the computer when we got home and Googled him. And I may have done it a time or two since then. It feels wrong, kind of like I’m running a background check on him or looking through his underwear drawer.