Monsters (13 page)

“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 thirteen 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.

I
N 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.”

“It's not the same,” Ben says.

Stevie lays his card in the grass. It says
Daddy
in big red and blue letters. The last time Stevie made him a card, I had to write the letters for him. He traced them with marker, but you could still see the black line of my pen underneath spelling out
Happy Birthday Daddy
. Then he'd covered it with hearts.

“Benny,” I say.

“Don't call me that,” he growls.

“Okay,” I say, and I nod.

I rub my thumb across his shoulder blade, but he shrugs my hand off. Sweat pools behind my knees and the dry grass bites at my ankles.

“How long are we staying?” Stevie says. He's swinging his arms, wiggling his hips. “Can we look for Gran and Pops' grave too?” He's never going to remember Michael. Not really.

•   •   •

I have an hour while the boys are at swim lessons, so I figure I'll stop at the store. As usual, I've forgotten my list, but I know I need spinach. I'm making quinoa, and I run through the recipe in my head. I pick up onion, garlic, shallots. I hold a tomato up to my nose. It doesn't smell like anything. It doesn't smell real.

In the checkout, I see Tommy on the cover of a gossip magazine, not the lead story, but in one of the little bubbles with the heading
New Romance?
In the photo, he looks like Tommy, but also not. He looks more like a character from one of his movies. He has his arm wrapped around the very small waist of a blonde that I think I've probably seen before. She's beautiful, like a porcelain doll, and very,
very young. I think I was probably in high school by the time she was born. He has his head turned toward her, almost in her hair, like they caught him turning to whisper something in her ear.

I think about calling him, just to see what he's doing, but I think that would be weird, so I just text him the title of a book I keep hearing about.
Have you read this? Should I?
I type, and I know he'll call me by the end of the day. He usually does. I doubt he ever calls the porcelain doll. Not that it matters. None of this matters. Because the reality of my life is organic juice boxes and baby-carrot snack packs. It's just weird seeing these stories, though I see them a lot.

Besides, next month, I'm going out to see him, or not to see him, exactly. I'm just going out.

“There's a ton of shit going on, final casting, set design, storyboard should be done. I want to get your take,” he'd said when he called.

“I don't know,” I said. “It's hard to get away. How long are you talking
about?”

T
HE BOYS ARE COM
ING WITH ME
just till Tuesday. Tommy says they'll be fine hanging out with Daniel for a few days, but I don't know how I'll handle having them there. I don't like to feel divided. They'll fly with me and spend a few days at Tommy's, and then my parents will drive down from San Francisco. It's a day's drive, but they can take them to Disneyland and then I'll meet them all back at my parents'. They've been bugging me to bring the boys out anyway.

The boys are totally excited because they know Tommy has a pool, and this is the single greatest thing they can imagine. He's not home when we pull up, but Daniel is, and he stands in the front doorway with his arms crossed while I'm still trying to get the boys out of the car. They've brought backpacks, and the backpacks could not go in the trunk, and now Stevie's gotten his caught on the seat belt.

I turn toward Daniel, hold my arms out for a hug. He looks me over a little too closely. “You look thinner.”

I don't say thank you. I know he doesn't mean it as a compliment. “I've just been busy.”

“And this must be Ben.” He holds his hand out, and Ben shakes it.

Stevie finally tugs his backpack loose and trudges out to stand next to his brother. I can tell he's nervous because he's trying to hold Ben's hand. It's an old habit, and Ben's old enough now not to like it, but he still puts up with it.

“Stevie?” Daniel asks, and Stevie nods. Neither one of them has said a word yet, and I wonder how long it's going to take. “Your mom says you guys like swimming.” They both nod. “You want to see the pool?” Stevie looks at Ben, and Ben looks at me.

“Go ahead,” I say.

Daniel puts his hand on Stevie's back and nudges him toward the house. “Now, don't go jumping in with your clothes on,” he says. “But I bet after lunch you can get changed and go in. By the end of the day, you'll look like a couple of prunes.”

•   •   •

They do get changed after lunch, and I go out to the pool deck to sit and watch them. They don't swim so much as jump in, flail their way to the side, and do it again. But they're happy. They're squealing and dripping all over the tiles. I like watching them. The sun is out, but it's not too hot, and I think I could just sit here all day. I dangle my legs in the water and lean back on my elbows, letting the sun slowly warm my neck and chest.

“Hey,” Tommy calls from behind me, and I tip my head backwards to smile at him.

He kicks his shoes off and sits next to me. “They look like they're having fun.”

“They are,” I say. “They're loud though.” Today, though, the loud
doesn't bother me. Somehow, out here with all the sun and air, the loud feels fine.

He watches them for a minute and then calls out, “Hey, you Stacey's boys?”

They stop and look at him, and Stevie says, “Yeah.”

“I'm Tommy,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

They're standing at the edge of the pool, just dripping. They don't really look at him or me. They don't seem to know what to do. They're sort of jockeying to see who can stand behind whom.

“I'll give five bucks to whoever makes the biggest splash,” Tommy says.

Stevie sort of hops. Five dollars is a big deal to him.

“It's got to be a really big splash though. It's got to come all the way over here. You're gonna have to get your mom wet.”

I kind of groan, but the boys throw themselves into it, wearing themselves out, and by the end of it Tommy and I are drenched, and I haven't yelled at them, and the boys think Tommy is the coolest guy they've ever met. They're talking to him now, telling him all sorts of stories and things that they think are jokes but that aren't really funny. It's the kind of talk that I tend to zone out, so they have to repeat it a few times, ask,
Mommy, did you hear me?
He can tell when they want him to laugh, and so he does, and as they're drying off, he gives them each five dollars, and they totally love him.

•   •   •

For dinner, the boys are eating sandwiches with the crusts cut off, which I would normally never allow. Stevie had said, “Do we have to eat the crusts?” which he always asks, even though I always say, “Yes,”
and I did say, “Yes,” but then Tommy took their plates and cut their crusts off and gave me this look that said,
Stop being such an asshole.

“My dad taught us how to swim,” Stevie volunteers after a while, which isn't even true. He made them take lessons.

“Yeah?” Tommy says. “Well, you guys are great at it.”

Stevie looks at his sandwich for a minute. I can tell he's working up to it, but I don't know how to stop him. “Did you know my dad's dead?” he says finally.

“Shut up, Stevie,” Ben says. “You'll make Mom sad.”

Tommy gives me a look like,
Jesus
, and I'm sure he's thinking that I've broken my kids.

“Your mom's pretty tough,” he says to Ben. “But I bet it makes you sad.”

Ben doesn't say anything.

“You know, I did know about your dad,” Tommy starts again, this time talking to Stevie. “I'm really sorry.”

“It's okay,” Stevie says. I don't think he really has anything to add. I think he'd just wanted to say it. It's like he needs to, every so often. Sometimes I hear him talking to his friends at school,
Can you come play on Friday? Did you know my dad is dead?

•   •   •

Once the boys are in bed, I head back downstairs. Tommy is in the great room on one of the overstuffed leather couches with a bottle of wine, and I drop down next to him, prop my feet on the edge of the table. He hands me a glass of wine and doesn't say anything. He's just sitting there, his legs loosely crossed, his foot on his knee, watching me, and it feels like he's waiting for something.

“You think I'm a bad mom,” I say finally.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I think you're a great mom. I think you have great kids.”

I try again. “You think I'm smothering their grief.”

He takes a drink, stalling probably. “I think”—he turns to look at me—“I think the three of you are not the best at grief.”

“I know.” I set my wineglass down, bury my face in my hands.

“How long has it been?”

“Almost a year and a half.”

“And you think, if you just gut it out, at some point things will get better?”

This is exactly what I think, but I shake my head. But then I say, “Maybe. I don't know.”

“It might work like that for you, Stace, but it's not going to work like that for them.” He reaches across the couch and grabs my hand. Already I feel like there's too much in my head, like how am I supposed to think about Michael and the boys and all of this grief when Tommy's sitting here looking at me? How am I supposed to remember to breathe? He tugs on my hand. “C'mere.”

I tilt my head. I frown. “I can't sleep with you with the boys in the house.”

“Honey, you can't sleep without me.”

“What if they go looking for me upstairs and they can't find me?”

“It wouldn't matter if they could. You're a mess, Stacey. You're no good to anybody.” He moves closer, slides his fingers deep into my hair, pulls my mouth against his. “Let me help you. Let me fix you up.”

•   •   •

My hair is still wet from the shower. I have my clothes draped across the bed, but I don't know what to put on. We're going to the production
office today, and thinking about it makes me feel anxious. I pick a pair of gray jeans. They're skintight, any tighter they'd bruise my hips, but I feel held together. I feel defined. I pull on a tailored navy cotton tee. It looks simple, but it cost a fortune. It's cut a little lower than I remember, and while it's not see-through, it hints that maybe it could be. I squirt a bit of mousse into my palm, finger it through my hair, and I pull out my makeup bag, smooth a little lotion over my face. It's true that I don't look as tired. This morning it was nearly light out when I woke up. Sleeping with Tommy doesn't help in the long run though. It just makes me even more restless when I get back home.

•   •   •

When I get downstairs, there are dirty cereal bowls on the counter, and Tommy and Daniel are both in the kitchen. Tommy's reading the paper. Daniel's on the phone. He must be on hold because he just twists it away from his mouth. “Morning,” he says. “There's coffee. Boys have already eaten. They're in the media room, watching cartoons. You want some breakfast? I bought you plain yogurt.”

I lean behind him, kiss him on the cheek. “You are my favorite person ever.”

“Excuse me?” Tommy says, tossing his paper on the counter. “I think I do some shit for you that's way better than picking up yogurt. I mean, we could talk about some of the shit I do for you.”

“Oh god, please don't,” Daniel says. “I can't hear this kind of talk about Stacey.”

“Yeah, you know, I feel like no one needs to hear this kind of talk about Stacey,” I say. “Maybe what you could do for me is have a little discretion.”

Tommy laughs. “Why? You embarrassed?”

“I'm not embarrassed,” I say. “It's more like I'm deeply, deeply ashamed.”

Daniel nods. “You should be, honey.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, both of you,” Tommy says. Then he smiles, but his mouth seems stretched a little tight. “For you, Stacey, I have been nothing but discreet.”

He stands up and walks behind me toward the door, but then he stops, takes hold of my hips. He pulls me back against him and leans down, says in my ear, “But as long as you're dressed like that, people are still going to think you're a slut.”

“Go to hell,” I say.

“I feel like I'm there already,” he says, but he pats me on the ass as he moves away. “We're leaving in thirty.”

“Don't take this the wrong way,” Daniel says when Tommy's gone, “but you being here all week makes me sick to my stomach.”

“Is there a right way to take that?” I say, pulling the yogurt out of the fridge.

“Never mind,” he says. “It's none of my business anyway.”

•   •   •

“Jason,” I say when we walk in, and he jumps up from the desk. “The script is amazing. I love it.”

Jason is not a groper, exactly, but he doesn't keep his hands still when he hugs me. Over his shoulder, Tommy raises his eyebrows and kind of laughs. Quietly though. He's not the type to call Jason out on it. I put my hands on Jason's waist and gently push him back.

“Pull up a chair.” He waves toward the desk. “I was just looking at casting tapes. I'm down to the last few decisions, but I'll show you the people we've already locked in.”

“Contracts signed on all of them?” Tommy says. He's already moving a chair for me.

“Yeah.” Jason nods. “Sarah's in, obviously. And we've got Allen for the neighbor.” He looks at me. “You know Allen Hayes?”

I know he means do I know of him, but I don't, so I shake my head.

“He's good. Not much of a résumé yet, but good.” He goes on listing names I don't know, but Tommy seems happy with them. “So we're down to the last few key roles and the extras, of course, but I don't really dip my hands in that.”

“He just fires the ones that don't work out,” Tommy says.

“Yeah,” Jason says. “I do do that.” He motions toward the chair. “So sit down, I want to show you our cast.”

He sits down too, and he starts pulling up all these clips on the screen in front of us. Tommy stands behind us. I can feel his hand on the back of my chair. We watch a lot of these, and honestly, I don't know what I'm looking at, so I just say a lot of
yeah
s, and
sure
s, and
seems great
s. Tommy seems super invested though. He keeps leaning forward to point at the screen, and every time he does, he brushes against me. If I was trying to pay attention, it would be very distracting.

“Who's this?” he says at one point.

Jason flips through a stack of paper on the desk for a second, but he gives up quickly. “Can't remember her name. She's no one yet, but we've got her down for the neighbor's wife.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “She looks good.” And she does, she looks great, and maybe all of nineteen. “I like her for this role,” he says.

•   •   •

Tommy's daughter gets in from her mother's before we make it back to the house. She's apparently been holed up in her room all day, and
when Tommy insists she come down for dinner, she holds her phone in front of her plate and spends the entire time texting. She barely eats. I count, and she takes a total of five bites. Three of the spinach salad. Two of the potatoes. I can tell she's counting too. Her plate looks untouched even after the boys have been excused.