Monsters (34 page)

When I turn to look at him, he's smiling and he just looks like himself. He looks like Tommy, my Tommy. I laugh, but my breath
catches in my throat and I have to hold my mouth closed with my teeth to keep from sobbing because I feel like he meant it. I feel like he meant every word.

“Stace,” he says, putting his hand on my cheek. “We're fine. I got you. You don't need to cry.”

“I'm not crying,” I say.

Tommy rubs his thumb under my eye. “I can see that,” he says. “You'll make a mess of yourself and then you'll look like hell in all the pictures they get of you.”

I laugh a real laugh this time. Tommy takes my face in his hands and leans his head against mine. I can feel his breath.

“And then I'll get all these calls, people saying, ‘Tommy, who is this girl? She's a mess.' And I'll say, ‘Yes, she's a fucking disaster, but god I love her.'”

“Do you?” I say.

“How can you be so stupid when you're so fucking smart? Do I love you?” He kisses me, brushes his thumb across my lips. “Baby, I love you.”

I press my mouth against his over and over. I say, “I love you.” I say, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

“Fuck. You better. 'Cause I don't think Rebecca's going to call me now.”

“You're an ass,” I say, shoving him in the chest.

“I know, but you love it,” he whispers in my ear.

He turns his attention back to the stage, but he leans his body against mine, slides his hand through the slit in my skirt, rests it just above my knee, massaging his thumb along my thigh. I slip my arm under his, lean my head against his shoulder. I don't even care that
people are watching, probably Rebecca is watching.
There's no space here,
I want to say.
There's no space for you, or anyone like you, to slip between us.

•   •   •

Sarah wins too, and her little speech is a hit. She's such a natural. It seems totally off the cuff. While she's backstage, John slips into her seat and leans toward us. “Thank god,” he says. “This should keep her happy for at least a week.”

We both laugh, and Tommy says, “Yeah, she's a handful. Don't know how you do it, man.”

John shrugs. I can tell he's looking at our hands, but he doesn't say anything. John's always cool. He gives me a smile, and he moves back to his regular seat.

Jason does not get best director, but he's already got two, so nobody feels too bad for him, though Tommy does turn and grab his arm and say, “Best fucking director I know.” They miss out on best picture too, but honestly it's a big night. No one's complaining.

•   •   •

When the show finally ends, Sarah drags me off to the bathroom, which is a nightmare because everyone wants to stop and talk to her.

As we're walking, Sarah pulls both our phones out of her little clutch, and she hands me mine.

“Yours is flashing like a motherfucker,” she says. “I wonder why.”

It is. I have a lot of messages. Jenny has sent seven. First she says,
Oh my god, what are you doing?
Then,
What about Phillip?
Then,
You are a selfish, selfish brat.
Then,
That seemed like a hell of a kiss.
Then,
You're still an asshole.
Then,
I hope you're happy.
Then,
I didn't mean that sarcastically.

Sadie just texted,
OMG! OMG! LOVE!
which as far as I'm concerned just seems like an awful lot of pressure.

Phillip did not text. He has called three times though, and he left a voice message. I don't feel like I need to listen to it. I know what it says.

“Shit,” I say. “I feel like such an asshole.”

“Yeah, you really are. What the hell is going on with you and Tommy anyway? I mean, one minute you're not even speaking, and then I turn around and the two of you are making out.”

“We're not making out.”

“Whatever, Stacey.” She pushes the door to the restroom open, and there's a line of women, which is great. I love that we're stuck here. “You may not have noticed,” she says, “but Tommy's not the kind of guy you can push around like that.”

I've noticed, and the women around us are noticing too. They know who we're talking about, obviously. “Sarah, can we not do this here?” I say quietly.

“Oh fuck,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “You think we're the only ones talking about it? It's big news, Stacey. For two people who can't make their minds up, that was a hell of a stunt.”

•   •   •

The first stop after dinner is this nightclub, and the guests are strictly A-list, like there are not very many faces that I don't recognize. Tommy keeps his hand on me at all times, which is a relief because the crowd around us is constantly moving. It'd be really easy to get swallowed up. It's also a relief that everyone he introduces me to is famous. It makes it easier to remember their names, which is good because all the conversations are basically the same.
Where the hell did I come from? What the fuck is in Omaha?
and
How'd I manage to lock
Tommy down? I don't know,
I say to all of it, and Tommy just laughs a lot. At least he's happy. We're happy. Because suddenly we're a couple and we're happy about it. Tommy tosses around the word
girlfriend
like it's his favorite thing to say.
My girlfriend, Stacey. My girlfriend's a poet. Have you met my girlfriend?
And every time he does this, there are invitations—to lunches, and brunches, and shopping, and dinners, and to show me around L.A. I nod like I'm agreeing, though I don't really know to what.

“So how long are you in town?” Elaine Parsons asks me. Elaine Parsons.
Christ.

“I leave tomorrow,” I say, taking a sip of champagne. I wish it was vodka. Champagne is lovely and all, but it never seems to do any real work.

“Tomorrow?” she says.

She widens her eyes and glances at Tommy, who's half turned away. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and now he's standing with his back to me, really deep in conversation. It's so loud in here, I can't really tell what he's saying, but he has his fingers twisted tightly through mine, and this makes me feel—not exactly grounded—but at least held in place.

“Well, when you come back, we'll have to have lunch.” She smiles broadly. “Tommy and my husband and I go way back. I'll fill you in.”

“That would be great,” I say, though it sounds pretty awful. I already don't like her, the way she's studying me, how she keeps glancing past me to see who else is walking by.

“Why don't you give me your number?” she says just as Tommy turns back, slipping his arm around my waist.

“Daniel has her calendar. He can set it up.”

She stares at him for a minute, her smile tight. “Great,” she says
finally. She looks away from him, looks me straight in the eye. “Don't let Tommy keep you all to himself now.”

I laugh, shake my head.

“We'll set something up,” she says, patting my arm and eyeing Tommy a last time before she turns away.

“You could have told her to fuck off. You can tell any of these people to fuck off,” Tommy whispers in my ear.

I turn toward him, let him brush his fingers along my neck. “I thought these were your friends.”

“Tough to say,” he says. “How loose a definition are we working with?”

•   •   •

It takes Tommy three tries to punch in the door code because we've been drinking, and now he's kissing me, and my hair is in the way. I slip under his arm and move behind him, and he hits the right buttons and pushes the door open and pulls me inside. My shoes are already in my hand, and he takes them from me, drops them on the floor.

“God, I've missed you,” he says. His mouth is on mine, his fingers spread across my shoulder blades.

“How much?” I say. “Tell me how much.”

He laughs, and he takes my face in his hands and kisses me over and over. He takes my hand in his and pulls me down the hall and through the great room. But when he flips on the light in the master, he says, “Fuck,” and steps backwards, blocking my way.

“Let's go upstairs,” he says. He flips the light off and turns to face me. “You go. I'll be right up.”

I frown.

“Stacey, go upstairs,” he says, but I don't. I push past him and turn
the light on, and of course, there she is. That little actress,
the neighbor's wife,
naked, passed out across his bed.

“I'll get her out,” he says. “Someone'll come get her. Don't let this ruin our night.”

I can't seem to turn away. She's got these perky little tits, dark brown nipples.

“Stacey,” he says. He puts one hand on my shoulder to nudge me out of the room, but I shake him off.

“How'd she get in here?”

“Stace, come on.”

“She has a key?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I don't know. She knows the door code or something.”

“You gave her the code?” I turn to look at him, but he looks at his phone.

He gestures toward the door. “C'mon. I'll take care of it.”

“You've been seeing her this whole time?”

“Stacey, stop.” He takes my face in his hands and leans his head against mine. “She's no one. She's nothing. I love you.”

“Then what the fuck is she doing here?” I shove him back hard and walk past him into the great room, and then farther still. He's already making a call, and I don't want to listen. I go into the living room and sit in Sadie's chair. I hold my hand over my mouth and pinch my lips. I think how it will always be like this, Tommy making a mess, someone coming to clean it up.

I hear the front door open and close. It's quiet, then still quiet, and then there's a commotion in the hallway. She's half awake now, mumbling, crying. I can't hear what Tommy says to her, but his voice sounds like a threat. I wonder if they've dressed her or just thrown a
blanket over her shoulders on the way out. I wonder if I'll find her clothes in the morning, tucked around the house like little clues. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

“Hey.” Tommy's voice is soft. He squats down in front of me, holds my hands in my lap. He holds my fingers up to his lips. “Stace, I know you're upset.”

“Upset,” I say. “You think I'm upset?” I pull my hands away and press them over my face.

Tommy keeps his hands in my lap, rubs his thumb across my thigh. “Honey, come on. The girl is unstable.”

“She's not unstable,” I say.

“I don't give a fuck what she is.” He stands up and takes a few steps away. “Stacey, please. Let's not start this shit. Not tonight.”

My fingertips are black with mascara. I try wiping my eyes with the backs of my knuckles. Tommy watches me, his arms crossed, his lip curled just slightly like he doesn't like what he sees.

“You bailed on us. That was you.” He jabs one finger in my direction and then steps backwards, walks to the bar. I close my eyes, cover my face with my hands. I hear him pull a bottle down.

“Am I pouring one for you?”

I laugh through my hands, drop them into my lap. “Sure, Tommy. Pour us another drink. That'll fix everything.”

“Goddamn it!” he yells, and then a shatter of glass, a million tiny bells clattering against the floor. I turn to look at him, and he's leaning hard against the bar, his head down like he's studying the broken bottle.

“There's nothing to fix,” he says finally. “This just is what it is. You either want it or you don't.”

“Maybe I don't,” I say. I turn my head away, rub my thumb along
the arm of the chair. There are tiny markings in the soft finish, and I can almost see Sadie pressing her thumbnail into the wood, feeling the give as she tunes Tommy out. I wonder if that would work for me.

“I don't know what to do,” he says, but I don't have anything to offer. I don't know what to say. I just know the sound of his voice is too quiet, it's too far away. I think,
Come get me, Tommy,
but he doesn't. He slumps down against the wall, his feet sliding into the puddle of whiskey and glass.

“You'll ruin your shoes,” I say quietly.

He looks up at me, shakes his head. “I can't carry this whole thing. If you're not going to be in this, really in this, I don't want it. I'm not Michael.”

Sometimes I wish he was. I wish he would hold everything together and make it easy for me. Michael would never just sit there the way Tommy is, his arms balanced across his knees, waiting.

“You know this girl . . . That was not . . . You were gone,” he says finally.

I nod, but then I shake my head. It feels impossible. It's all impossible. “I wish we knew how to do this,” I say. I brush my fingers under my eyes and try to smile at him.

He watches me for a minute. Then he sighs, lowers his head. “It's late. You should go upstairs,” he says.

I think about waking up without him, opening my eyes in the room upstairs that Sadie calls
Stacey's room
, though I've slept there exactly once. I think it would feel lonelier now. I think everything would feel lonely without Tommy.

I stand up and cross the room.

“You'll cut your feet,” he says, trying to shove a clear path with his shoe.

I step through the wet of the whiskey, over his knees, and slip down into his lap, burying my face in his neck. He puts his hands on my shoulders, shifting me backwards, pushing my hair back from my face, and I lower my eyes.

“Look at me,” he says.

I look at his eyes, at the skin around his eyes. He looks so tired. I put my hand on his cheek, run my fingers over the stubble along his jaw. I rub my thumb across his mouth. “Your lips are dry,” I say.

“I spilled my drink,” he says, and I almost smile.