Monsters (23 page)

As he's pushing past me to sit back down, he says, “Stacey, you don't eat.” Which is bullshit, and not something that people are supposed to say anyway. I must look pissed because he pats me on the leg and says, “It's cool, honey, I'm used to it.” He shrugs. “I mean, it's fucking L.A.”

I just glare at him, but he opens the bag and tips it toward me. He's sitting next to me. His leg's pressed right up against my leg. “No, thank you,” I say.

He laughs and bites into a chip. He holds another one up to my mouth, uses the corner of it to poke at my lip. “Come on,” he coaxes. “They're delicious.”

I brush his hand away. “I don't want a chip, Tommy.”

“I don't really care what you want. You're gonna eat it because I don't feel like cleaning you up in the morning. I have been there, and done that, and it is no goddamn fun.” He waves another chip in front of my mouth. “C'mon, baby, open up. Do it for me.”

I try to sink farther into the corner of the couch, but he just leans closer, his whole body pressed against me now, his hand braced against my thigh. “We can do this the hard way if you want to, honey. It's a whole lot easier if you just say yes.”

•   •   •

He makes me eat eleven chips, which is ridiculous, and then he tosses the bag on the table. He reaches across me and grabs my thigh, pulling it toward him over his lap so I'm straddling him, and his chin is between my breasts. He tugs the neck of my shirt down with his teeth.

“I'm not going to bed with you,” I say.

He holds my hips in his hands, presses me down against him. “I think it's so cute when you talk that way.”

“I'm serious, Tommy. I'm seeing someone.”

“It's cool, baby. I'm seeing lots of people, but I save all my best shit for you.” He grabs the skin of my neck with his teeth, and I let my head fall back. I don't have a lot of resolve left, and he's already pulling off my shirt.

“Tommy, I mean it,” I say, and he pulls my mouth against his and pushes his tongue between my teeth and, of course, I kiss him back because I always do, because I can't seem to help myself, and when he pulls away he says, “I think I'll decide what you don't mean and what you do.”

•   •   •

I wake to Tommy's lips on my cheek. “You look like shit, Stace.”

This is appropriate since it's exactly how I feel. I just groan, hold my hands over my eyes.

“How long till my flight?”

“Three hours. Here, sit up. I brought you coffee.”

I do sit up, but maybe too fast. My head is pounding already, and the motion sends a jolt through the top of my skull. I might sway a little, or maybe the room does, but Tommy wraps an arm around my shoulders, holds me up straight. “Easy, honey,” he says, and then he holds his hand out. “Pills?”

I look at him like,
Christ,
but I take them. I say, “God, Tommy, what are you doing to me?”

He just laughs, takes a mug from the bedside table, puts it in my hands, and lies back on the bed next to me. He trails his fingers along my spine. “Sure you want to fly today? You know you can stay if you
want to,” he says, but I can't see his face. I can't tell what he means, if he just feels like he should offer.

I shake my head. I say, “I'd better get back.”

Tommy moves behind me, wraps his arm around me, grabs hold of my breast. He presses his lips against my back, and for a second I think he must be trying to convince me, but he's not, because his mouth is still on my skin when he says, “Yeah, okay.”

•   •   •

Phillip picks me up when I land in Omaha. The airport is tiny, and I'd told him to just pick me up at the curb. They won't let you wait, but he must have driven in circles until he spotted me, because when I walk out, it's like he's right there. He gets out of the car and takes my bag from me and puts it in the trunk. He opens the passenger door, and as I move to get in, he stops me and gives me a long kiss. I'm glad to see him. He makes me feel like I can catch my breath. I get in the car, and he closes the door behind me, and then he walks back around to the driver's side and climbs in. He puts the car in gear, but before he pulls out, he takes my left hand and kisses the back of it and holds it in his lap as he starts to drive.

“I'm happy you're home,” he says, and I smile and say, “Me too.”

Traveling from L.A. takes like all fucking day, and I'm still hungover, and I just want to get home, but when he says, “Can I take you to dinner?” I say, “Sure.”

•   •   •

“So how was the movie,” Jenny says, holding her mug out for me to fill.

“Pretty awful.”

She frowns at me. “Really?”

I shrug. “I don't know. I'm sure they'll fix it.”

“I can't wait to see it,” she says, and she turns to look out the window at the kids. They're playing this game with Bear where they run screaming away from him, and he knows he's supposed to run them down hard, that that's what they want. He always slows down in the end though, veers to the side, lets them win.

“So is Tommy really dating that Vivian Kells?” Jenny says, turning back to me. I don't even have time to think. I'm too busy trying not to react. “She is so cool. I've loved her forever, ever since she was in that movie
Caroline
, remember? I loved that movie.” She shakes her head. “Doesn't really seem like his type though. I mean, she's like forty, right?”

“I don't know,” I say. “I think probably everyone is Tommy's type.”

“He didn't talk about her?”

“Tommy doesn't really talk about that kind of stuff with me.” I shrug.

“I thought you two talked about everything.”

“Yeah, but not that.” I take a sip of my coffee. “I'm not really interested in who he's dating.”

“The kids say you talk to Tommy a lot,” she says slowly. “Pretty much every day.”

“I talk to you every day.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Just that, you know, there are lots of people I'm close to.” I move to refill my cup. “I talk to Sarah a lot too.”

“Okay,” she says, and she sets down her mug. “I guess I'm wondering if maybe you have some feelings?”

“For Tommy?” I force a laugh.

“I'm just asking,” she says.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “I adore Tommy. I do. And he's been really good to me. But it would be stupid to have those kinds of feelings for someone like Tommy. Wouldn't it?” I want her to say no. I want her to feed me some bullshit line about how you have to follow your heart, or be true to yourself, but she doesn't say any of that.

She says, “Yeah, it would be really stupid.” She holds out her cup for me to fill. “That's why I'm glad you have Phillip now.”

I nod. I say, “Me
too.”

S
TEVIE'S BASEBALL TEAM
is having an end-of-season potluck, and of course I'm going to take him. He's excited. He's wearing his team shirt. I can see him smiling in the rearview mirror. “Do you think I'll get a trophy?” he asks Ben.

“Everyone gets a trophy,” Ben says, but he doesn't say this as a dismissal. He's being reassuring, and this is exactly how Stevie takes it. He wiggles in his seat.

I feel out of place even pulling up to the house. The boys climb out of the car, and I hand Ben a package of organic juice boxes. I made hummus, and I've sliced up carrots and bell peppers. I don't want the boys to just fill up on chips. Stevie races to the front door, but he doesn't ring the doorbell. That would be asking too much. He just hops up and down on the step.

It's a nice house, and the neighborhood is prime, but inside, it's a little out of date. There's a wallpaper border above the kitchen cabinets. There's an awful lot of oak.

“You can just set your food in the dining room, and if the boys are hungry they can go ahead and grab a plate,” the hostess tells me.

There are a lot of moms and dads here, and while I've been running into them twice a week for the past two and a half months, I don't know any of their names. It's Stevie's first year, and none of these kids even go to the same school. I think we got put on the wrong team. Everyone else seems to know each other, and none of them have ever talked to me, and I think,
That's fine. I don't need friends who bring frosted sugar cookies and potato chips to a potluck. How about a salad? How about you don't try to give my kids diabetes?
But maybe I'm just defensive.

The boys are eyeing the table, and Ben says, “Mom?” I glance over it. The other kids are piling their plates with mostly chips, half barbecue, half plain.

“Ten chips, lots of veggies, and you can split a cookie,” I say.

The woman across from me raises her eyebrows.

“I'm a vegetarian,” I say, “kind of a health nut. I try to be pretty mindful about what they eat.”

I think this may be why people like her don't like me. She's squirting a lake of ketchup onto her kid's plate. I think about saying,
You know that shit is mostly corn syrup,
but I don't. Instead I say, “Which boy is your son?”

“Gavin,” she says, and nods at a redheaded kid.

The truth is I haven't actually been paying attention at most of the games. The thing about baseball is that you only really have to watch the few minutes your own kid is up to bat. I mean, sometimes I glance up when he's in the outfield just in case he's looking, so I can wave, but they put him way the hell out there. The kid can barely catch. In any case, I spend a lot of the games reading or texting, and maybe the
other parents have noticed my lack of investment. This may be the other reason they don't like me.

“Did you have fun playing baseball, Gavin?” I say, even though I don't care. I'm just trying to fit in.

“Gavin loves it,” his mom says, rubbing his head. She actually smiles at me, and I think,
Oh, look at that, I'm doing okay.
“His dad played baseball in college, so he got some extra coaching. Right, buddy?”

Gavin nods.

She just waits for a minute, and I know she's waiting for me to say something about Stevie's dad and whether he's really into sports, but most important whether he still lives with us. I know they all think I'm divorced, which in Omaha is not okay, at least not in this neighborhood. You can be divorced, but you have to live in Midtown, and your kids can't play in this league. I almost wish Stevie would make one of his announcements.

“I'm so sorry, I didn't catch your name,” I say, and I hold my hand out.

“Lynn,” she says, and she shakes my hand.

“I'm Stacey,” I say, and she smiles.

“And these two are both yours?” she says, nodding toward the boys.

“They are. And you have Gavin? Is he your only?”

“Oh no,” she laughs. “We have five.”

I say, “Oh, you're Catholic,” and then I think,
Shit, why did I say that?
I make a little face like,
I'm just kidding,
but I think it's too late. She kind of laughs, but it's the kind of laugh people use to tell you you're an asshole.

I say, “Well, I should probably fix a plate.”

•   •   •

I sort of position myself at the edge of a group of parents, and I turn my head so it looks like I'm really intently watching the kids. There must be three dozen of them in the backyard. They're swarming the wooden playset, falling in the grass.

The dads behind me are talking sports now, mostly about the Huskers, and I think,
I wish Michael were here. He would know how to do this.
Actually, I think Phillip would too. I can see where he would fit between these two guys in their golf shorts. I wouldn't let him wear golf shorts, but he could stand there. He could bridge the gap between us.

•   •   •

I walk out to get the boys, tell them it's time to go, and as I walk up behind Stevie and the boys around him, I hear them all talking. They want to have a pool party. They're asking a couple of the other moms.

“We'll see,” one says, and then she turns to her friend. “Let's just get through this one first.”

Stevie says, “My mom's boyfriend has a pool. He's a movie star. He lives in a mansion.”

“Stevie!” I say, and I look at the other women. I kind of shake my head. I say, “I don't . . . he's just . . . ,” and then I think,
Fuck it.
I say, “His dad died.”

I drop to squat beside him, take his arms in my hands. I say, “Honey, Tommy is not my boyfriend. He's just a really good friend.”

Stevie just says, “Oh,” but he looks like I've just told him Disneyland burned down. Even to Stevie, Tommy's a big deal. I can feel these moms looking at me, and I think,
God, how can I deal with this here?
I pull Stevie into a hug, and I say, “Hey, it doesn't mean you can't still
see him, right? Because he's one of my very best friends, and he would love for you to come stay with him and go swimming.” I smile up at the other moms, but they're both making this sad, sorry face like they feel like they should bring me a casserole. It's Nebraska. It's the only thing they know to do.

•   •   •

When I tuck him into bed, I think about telling Stevie how proud Michael would be, but it feels like something I don't want to start. It feels like an intrusion, so I just say, “Who's my favorite bug?” and Stevie says, “Me.”

In the kitchen, I throw out the leftover hummus, which is most of it, and wipe down the counters. There aren't really any crumbs, but Bear comes running anyway, snuffles along the floor. I lean forward over the island, let the edge of it press against my stomach, rest on my arms. The granite feels damp still and cool, but I don't really care. Everything else in the house feels too hot. I keep forgetting to turn on the fan. Across the room, Stevie's trophy sits on the mantel. He's already polished it twice, standing with it over the sink with an old washcloth.

Looking at it makes me feel raw, and I think how, in the opposite corner, on the shelf with painted wineglasses and crystal decanters that are really only filled with colored water, just for display, is Tommy's bottle of scotch that I never planned to open, but I think tonight might be a good night. It might be just what I need. I pour a little into a glass, not even two fingers, and I swirl it. I hold it up to my nose. I don't know if you're supposed to do this with scotch, and it smells terrible. I know it's going to taste bad too. It's like trying to swallow gasoline, but I do like the way it leaves my tongue feeling numb. I like
how it feels against my teeth. I pour a little more in the glass, raise the level back up. I'm just topping it off, so I don't feel like I have to start counting. I feel like this just makes it one. With each sip, the fist knotted around my spine is loosening its grip. I set the glass in front of the bottle and snap a picture of it with my phone, and I label it
fucking godsend
and text it to Tommy.

When the phone rings, it's been twenty minutes and I'm staring at the trace in my glass, wishing it wasn't almost empty. It's too late now to call this topping it off. I'm curled in the chair by the fireplace, and my phone is across the room, back in the kitchen on the counter. When I walk, I don't feel wobbly, but my joints feel loose.

“I hope you're not alone,” Tommy says when I answer. “You need a babysitter with that shit.”

“I'm just having a little,” I say, “just a little, little bit,” but I do pour another small splash in the glass. I decide to call it one and a half.

It's loud wherever he is. I can tell he's not at home. “What's wrong?” he says.

“Nothing. You should go back to your party. I've just had a long day.” The voices behind him get louder and some of them are calling his name. “Seriously, though, you should go. You can call me tomorrow.” I don't actually mean this, and I'm afraid the scotch lets it show in my voice. This is what I don't love about the scotch. It's not that it makes me let my guard down. I'm still trying to hold it up, but with each sip it just eats a little more of it away.

“I hate most of these people anyway.” The noise behind him fades a little like he's moving out of range.

“It was just this stupid baseball party for Stevie and all these parents and their mayonnaisey salads and their ‘Why don't you have a husband?' looks. I just . . . I can't blend in.”

“Why would you want to? They sound like assholes. Only assholes eat mayonnaise.” I have actually seen Tommy eat mayonnaise, but him I forgive.

“I don't know, for the boys, I guess. Don't they need a regular mom who makes friends with all the other moms, who isn't like some kind of pariah?”

“Pariah?” Tommy says, and I think he laughs at me. “Come on, honey, the boys are fine.”

“Yeah, they're totally fine. This is why Stevie announced to a whole group of them that ‘my mommy's boyfriend is a movie star,'” and then I think,
Fucking scotch,
because I wasn't going to tell him that part.

“Me?” He laughs. “That's pretty cute.”

“No, Tommy, it's sad. It's a sad little story made up by a little kid who doesn't have a dad, and that's what all these awful moms were thinking, and they're just standing there looking at me and wondering what the hell I'm doing that he's making up these crazy stories and how I must have a lot of men coming around anyway, or where else would he get the idea.”

“Jesus, take a breath,” he says. “He's not pulling this shit out of thin air, you know. So are you pissed off that he caught you or that his interpretation of reality doesn't line up with yours?”

“Reality? We don't have reality, Tommy. We have, I don't know, vacation sex.”

“Wow.” The laugh he makes now does not sound happy. “You just keep taking the asshole up a notch, don't you? You're the one who's always on vacation, honey. This is just my fucking life.”

I should have stopped at the first glass. I maybe shouldn't have started. “I don't know,” I say. “I don't even know what I'm saying right now.”

He doesn't say anything, and I can hear the noise behind him picking up again. I'm sure there's some very pretty girl waiting for him in that crowd. There always is.

•   •   •

I try to take the boys to the pool a few times a week. We go in the late afternoon, so when we're getting there, it's the busiest time, but it thins out pretty quickly as everyone's heading home for dinner. I can usually find a shady spot to camp out. It was more fun when they were littler and needed me to stand at the bottom of the waterslide, needed me to catch them. Now they're such good swimmers. They jump and jump off the diving board. I watch for a while. Then I usually just sit and read. I'm right in the middle of a chapter when my phone rings, so I almost let it roll, but when I glance down, I see that it's Erin, my editor.

“I'm putting together all the book promo stuff to send to this conference in Chicago, and I need an updated bio. The one I have doesn't even mention the movie. They want it fast though, so I need it by tomorrow.”

“What are you talking about?” I sit up and let the book fall closed in my lap.

“I thought you knew.” She sounds nervous now, like she knows I might back out. “Okay, it's nothing crazy. It's just a weekend in Chicago.”

“
What
is just a weekend in Chicago?”

“It's a publishing conference. More of a pitch event really, and the panel you're on is acquisitions, what makes a project stand out. It's with one of your movie producers, so I doubt you'll really have to say much. Very low-stress, but it's a good chance to move some books.”