Authors: Beck Anderson
We pack ourselves into the car and drive up to the ski resort. It snowed early in the morning today, but now the night has fallen clear and cold, with an almost-full moon to boot.
Once we park in the cross country parking lot and get out, Andrew gives my hand a little squeeze. He looks across the lot to the lodge, where we had dinner on—hard to believe—a much warmer night than this a few months ago.
Beau’s in heaven. We’re all together, he’s good at snowshoeing, and he loves the novelty of it being at night. We approach the trailhead, which glows with luminarias, and he stops and turns around.
“This is totally ‘Silent Night.’” He starts singing just to make the point: “All is calm, all is bright.” He crunches ahead in his snowshoes.
He’s right. The moon throws thin shadows from the branches. The trees are coated with snow, and the moonlight bounces off of each frosted limb. There are also luminarias along the trail every so often, and the night is almost day. It could not be more perfect.
Andrew leans over and kisses me. “This is almost as gorgeous as you.”
Okay, I was wrong.
Now
the night is perfect. Seriously, the man is good.
The boys get ahead of us. We crunch along for a while, our snowshoes breaking the crust of the frozen trail. I follow Andrew’s steps, and I watch the smile on his face spread. He spots an owl in a bare aspen tree and points out the moon with the rainbow of haze around it.
Then he stops for a moment, and I come up even with him. “You see something?” I look off the trail to see what might have held him up.
“No. I just wanted a second with you.” He smiles.
“Okay.” I try to hold still and not fidget.
“Can I tell you something?” He speaks softly.
His face is lit with moonglow. The angles of his face are half in shadow, half in light. I can’t read his expression well. “Sure.” I don’t know what’s coming.
“I just want you to know that I love you. I know we said it on Christmas, but I want you to hear me say it, for real.”
“I love you too.”
“There’s more than that.” He glances down the trail at the boys. They’ve stopped to pull clumps of snow off the low boughs of a pine. He waves at them, and they wave back, return their attention to the tree.
“I’m listening.” I try to quiet myself so I really can. It’s not my strong suit.
“I’m not perfect. If we keep dating, you’re going to hear about a lot of stuff and a lot from my past.”
My mind winds up. “Like what?”
“When I first came to LA, I had a hard time keeping my head screwed on straight. The business is crazy—”
“I can see that. I met Franca, remember?”
“It made me a little crazy. And some stuff happened, when I was younger. I almost blew my career before it even got started.”
“But you didn’t. We all have a past, believe me.” I don’t really want to get into that discussion just now. Mine is full of Peter, and that hurts.
“Well, I just want you to hear it from me. Anytime you want to talk about it, I will. I work all the time to stay clear-headed now. I’m not perfect, but having you in my life, things feel right, I feel good. I think everything’s going to be fine.”
“I’m sure it will be. Don’t worry so much.”
“All things in moderation, right?”
“Exactly.” I kiss him. “Except that. You can completely overdo the kissing thing. That’s very allowed.”
He kisses me one more time, slowly, and I feel a surge of emotion radiate through me. I want to hold him, protect him.
“Hey! Mom! Stop the smooching!” Beau comes back down the trail toward us.
Andrew gives me a quick squeeze. “We’re coming!”
His face is different, the moment over. He jogs off to meet Beau.
I try to sort out what that moment was, but the boys call to me, and it slips away.
When the night comes to an end, I feel truly sad. It’s not often that I have time with the boys, with Andrew, on such a beautiful night.
We get home, and the boys collapse into bed, exhausted from the exertions of the evening.
I get the house locked up and realize, suddenly, that this will be the first night Andrew is in my bed, here in my house.
He comes out of the kitchen and into the living room. He seems to pause.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I take his hand and lead him into my bedroom. I turn on the stereo, choose a song. “This is in honor of the holiday.” It’s “MLK” by U2.
“I love this.” He kisses me.
“It reminds me of Indio.” I think of Joshua Tree—the empty, bright blue sky above the red earth and the shimmering heated air. But the peace of the song, the calm, reminds me of tonight too.
Something about it makes me want to be as close as possible to Andrew. We’re sitting together on the bed, the moonlight streaming in through the windows. I face him, kiss him on the lips, and pull back to take off my shirt. I want to be here with him, next to him, nothing between us. I move slowly, deliberately, and kiss him again before I pull his shirt over his head.
He seems hesitant, gentle. I’m not sure where that’s coming from. I kiss him again, and then I feel tears come. Why am I crying? Everything was so good two seconds ago. “I’m sorry…” I sit back for a moment before he pulls me to him, holds me.
“This is your room.
Your room
, Kelly.”
It’s amazing how everything can turn so quickly, change in a breath. Pure joy is woven tightly together with grief, and suddenly here is the deep, deep sadness, ready to clobber me over the head. Andrew and I will be together in my bedroom, yes, but it was first my bedroom with Peter, our bedroom.
I shiver, not from my bare skin, but from the realization. Andrew kisses me, eyes open to the tears in mine. He leans back on a pillow. “Let’s take a minute here.” He strokes my hair.
“Okay.” I’m quiet, trying to find my center. “I’m not sure what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. I’m happy to be here with you.” He closes his eyes, a content smile on his lips.
I rest my head on his chest, listen to his heartbeat. I feel my mind quiet as I let my breath fall into rhythm with his. At some point, I must doze off.
I stand on a train platform with the boys. They’re little. They cling to me, each drags me forward toward the station. It’s cold and wet.
There’s no train at first, but then I turn and the train is there, standing at the platform, steam coming from the undercarriage. It creaks, massive, black, and glistening in the rain.
The boys jump up and down with glee. Peter comes to us off the train: young, smiling, bundled up in a camel overcoat. He hugs each of the boys, stands to hold me.
I’m about to feel his arms around me when someone calls to him. He slips out of my embrace and walks to the station. He swings open a door, waves to us, and walks in.
I rush to the doors, and they’re locked. I can’t see inside the station. The boys hold on to me. I pull at the doors, calling out to Peter. He does not come back. We’re locked out.
I feel a gentle brush on my shoulder. I come to the surface from sleep. Andrew’s fingers trace a pattern on my shoulder blade. His blue eyes are on me. He smiles.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“You were talking in your sleep.”
Uh-oh. “Did I order a Diet Coke? I do that sometimes.”
He sits up on one elbow, tucks the hair that’s fallen into my eyes behind my ear. “I think you were talking to Peter.”
“I guess I do that sometimes too.” I don’t know what to say. He leans forward and kisses me.
He looks straight into my eyes. “I couldn’t make all of it out, but it seemed like you were trying to get him to stay.”
He’s probably right. “I’m surprised I didn’t wake myself up.” I try to sound like it’s not a big deal, but there’s no disguising the twinge of pain in my voice.
He takes my hand and squeezes it. “I want to fix it for you. I wish I could.”
“There’s no fixing it. Just be here with me.” I touch his cheek. He closes his eyes, turns to kiss my palm. I lean forward and brush his long eyelashes with a gentle kiss. “But I love you for trying.”
I think back to the dream. I can almost feel Peter’s arms around me. I do feel new tears on my face.
Andrew doesn’t say anything.
Something occurs to me. “You know what? You know what the best part of tonight was?”
“What?” He traces the path of one of my tears with his finger.
“I had a moment where I really missed Peter. But I missed him because I wished he could be here to meet you.”
Andrew pulls me close and holds me. I stay still, thinking.
After a moment I put my hands on his face and kiss him. “I love you.”
29: Sticks and Stones
I
T
S
EEMS
L
IKE
W
E
D
O
a lot of leaving each other, Andrew and I. I guess it’s good—obviously he needs to work. And I need to keep pinching myself. I like the breaks so I can ensure that I remain connected to the real world.
After our weekend, the new semester begins for the boys, and I once again look ahead to the next time Andrew and I will be together. Our plan is a big, bold, daring one: he has a premiere to attend for his spy movie,
Churchill’s Man
. I’ll be attending too, under the radar. In the movie, he’s a World War II intelligence officer—with an amazing life story, of course, and it’s true, of course. This is the movie he was doing reshoots for when I first met him in Indio. For that reason, it will be a movie I like.
He’s noncommittal about it, says he doesn’t like to watch his own performances. Since I’m not in his business, I don’t press it. I have no idea what that would feel like, beyond the fact that I never had a school picture turn out well, even in my years as a teacher. So if I had to watch two hours of myself on a forty-foot screen, I think I’d develop a rash. Maybe that’s where he’s coming from.
Filming on the sheriff movie with Franca is winding down. He won’t have much of a break between that and the premiere. This is where we stand when I wheel my cart into the twelve items or less line at the grocery store and see Andrew. On a magazine cover, of course. With Franca.
It’s a good thing I don’t have a hot cup of tea in hand, because if a spit take were ever apropos, it’s now. He’s hugging her. It looks like that, at least. It’s definitely him. The other figure is tiny, blond, vaguely resembles a yardstick. Must be her.
The picture doesn’t bother me. The headline, on the other hand:
They’re In Love!
The teaser underneath goes even further: “Co-stars Andy Pettigrew and Franca Delaney can’t keep their hands off each other. Will they go public at the
Churchill’s Man
premiere?”
Ugh. Okay, I was not born yesterday. I grit my teeth. “Jeremy.”
Jeremy and his minions are hard at work, promoting the are-they-or-aren’t-they relationship. As I wait for the person in front of me who clearly does
not
have twelve items or less, I flip to the story. It’s a couple more pictures. It looks like they’re on set, so the chance that this is from an actual scene in the movie is strong. I know. I know this is not a real story. I would know that even if I weren’t dating him. This is the fodder these magazines require as a matter of course, and they fabricate stuff constantly.
What I didn’t realize is that the magazines have help. When I was on set, there was no way anyone could get this close to the filming unless someone gave them a way in.
“Jeremy.” The person in line behind me probably thinks I’m a raving lunatic by now. Or is wondering what poor Jeremy ever did to cross me.
Nothing except his job, I remind myself. This is the story of Andrew’s life. If I want him to be successful, some of the gamesmanship probably has to be part of the picture.
But I don’t have to like it.
The phone rings, and I pick it up before I even look. “Hello?”
“Is this Kelly Reynolds?” I don’t recognize the voice.
“This is.”
“What can you tell me about your relationship to Andy Pettigrew?”
I end the call. WHAT. THE. HELL? How did this happen? What is going on?
The phone rings again. I jump and then proceed to peel myself off the ceiling of the grocery store in time to answer it. The lady in front of me is arguing about the price of a cantaloupe, but for once I’m grateful. She’s bought me some time.
“Hey, it’s Andrew.”
I try not to yell. “Andrew, someone just called here and asked about you. How?”
“Okay, hang on—”
He must be floored. I ambushed him with the info. This isn’t a good way to start a phone call with anyone. I take a breath and try again.
“Someone just called here and asked me about my relationship to you. How would they know? How could they get my number?” My mind is racing. Could Tessa have said something?