The Idea of Love (21 page)

“Hey, Ella,” he said.

“Hi, Sims.” Her voice was cold, flat.

“What's up?” he asked as if she had called from work on a regular day and he wanted to know what she needed, if they'd eat in or go out.

“Nothing is up. I'm calling you back. You called four times.”

“Well, first, I wanted to let you know that I know you were in the house, that you took some things. And I'm not going to report it.”

“How generous of you,” Ella said.

“You know I could.”

“Yes, I do.”

“But I'm curious. How did you get in?”

“The alarm wasn't on.”

“Shit,” he said.

Ella closed her eyes, fighting her need to ask for something from him, something he couldn't give: a promise, a word of encouragement, some love.

Ambient noise filled the line, birds maybe, clattering of dishes, she couldn't tell. He spoke again. “Did you bring that guy into my house?”

“What guy?”

“The guy I saw you with … the guy…”

“I don't know who you're talking about.”

“Come on, Ella. I even know his name. Hunter Addison.”

“Adderman,” she said.

“Okay. I get it. It's none of my business what you do. But if you brought him into my house—” He dropped the end of the sentence, left it unknown.

A shift occurred, a little bit of his need came across, and she didn't appease it. At that moment, he could say, “Come back to me now. I've made a mistake. I love only you.” And she would, but he didn't need to know this. Not even for a minute.

“You hate me,” he said.

Why did everyone keep asking her this? She placed her hand over her belly and closed her eyes. He needed something and he wanted something and she fought not to give it to him: assurance that she still loved him and would be there to accept him the way it was. No.

“I don't hate,” she answered.

“I know,” he said. “It's one of the things I love the most about you.”

“I have to go,” she said. “I'm really busy.”

“Okay.”

“You were right before, Sims. It's time to get this over with. I can't live this way, in this apartment … let's just get it over with.”

“Over with?”

“Yes,” she said. “Over with. It's obvious this is what you want, so why wait? Okay?”

“Okay,” he said. “I'll call my lawyer first thing in the morning.”

Ella hung up without saying another word. With full force, she lifted her hand and swiped across the table, scattering her sketches through the room, watching them flutter and then fall to the floor. Sims had gone and ruined one of the first good nights she'd had in a long, long time. She'd been happy, hadn't she?

*   *   *

Blake was back to work and it felt good. His office was in perfect order. He had Ashlee to thank for that. His computer open, hot coffee on the desk, the notes he'd dictated to her through the past few weeks sitting in a pile, labeled. He'd printed his own notes and within days he would have a story. It felt good. No, better than good. It felt like a victory in a war he'd been losing.

Ashlee was waiting for him when he came home, in his bedroom, in his bed. He'd just finished eating that pancake breakfast with his daughter and after the long flight, he just wanted some sleep. But when he saw Ashlee waiting for him like that, he wanted something else altogether. Afterward, tangled in bed almost asleep, she said, “I missed you so much and you seemed so happy over there. I'm glad you're home.”

“Me, too,” he lied.

Ashlee was gone when he awoke, but his desk and papers were ready for work. She left a note.
Went for breakfast, back soon. Xoxoxo.

Coffee was enough for him. Work was satisfying enough. Finally. He filled in the blanks.
Setting. Off-screen sounds. Names. Characters. Plot.
He had it all, all except the ending, but that always came with the writing. He'd find it before he hit the last page.

He never questioned the creative process. As long as he was willing to go through the times of abandonment and loneliness, as long as he pushed through … God, it felt good. He longed to call Ella and tell her. “It's back.”

He stopped, his fingers poised over the keyboard. Hell. He couldn't tell her. She had no idea what he really did or why. He was such an ass. Why hadn't he just told her? This want for her would pass. He'd stop thinking about her soon. Except he was writing about her. That didn't help.

Ashlee had downloaded the pictures onto the computer. He went through them slowly, typing notes about the setting into the blank spots of the screenplay. Wisteria. Iron gate. Steps with moss. An antique bench and bird feeder. He clicked again and there was a picture of Ella, standing at the end of the dock. She held up her hand to wave and he'd captured her smile, her hair in the wind. He'd caught her in the net of this photo and he stared at it for too long, an ache in his chest he'd once known as the feeling of missing someone.

He couldn't miss her. He didn't even know her. And she definitely didn't know him. Not one other woman on his months-long journey had a name. They were faces and stories, nothing more. Not Ella. She was a name, a face, and a life. He picked up his phone and glanced at it as if she might be there, ready to talk, and that's when he saw it: Ella's missed call on his extra phone.

Should he call her back? It was too late there. Or was it? In a quick flash, he pushed the call back button and the phone rang. He imagined her in the bed in that cottage, asleep. Or maybe watching TV in the chaise longue where he'd left her without saying good-bye.

Blake sat the phone on the desk and put the phone on speaker. He'd leave a message. “Hello?” her voice came over the line, full of fog and distance.

“Ella?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“It's Hunter. I just thought … I saw you called. Are you okay?”

“Yes. Of course. Yes.”

“Did I wake you?”

“It's okay. How was your trip home?” she asked.

“Good. I saw my daughter. Took her to breakfast and didn't try to talk about anything serious. Just hung out with her.” He felt like a teenager, a kid who'd never called a girl on the phone.

“Good move.”

“Thanks for that advice,” he said.

“Mmm…”

“I'm sorry. I'll let you go back to sleep,” he said.

“Do you think we all have a gap?” she asked.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“I didn't think so.”

“What do you mean?” Then she was quiet so long he thought she might have fallen back asleep. “Ella?” he asked.

“Do you think everyone all the time feels like they're missing something?”

“Maybe. I don't know.”

“Me neither,” she said.

“Like Leonard Cohen sings, ‘There is a crack in everything,'” he said.

“I know, I know.… ‘That's how the light gets in.' Nice. Anyway … I was just talking to Mimi and … forget it.”

“Well, I just wanted to say hello and that I'm home safely.”

“Good night then,” she said, and she was gone. Her name disappeared from the screen.

Blake started to type again, moving quickly, a runaway train of words and dialogue.

EMILY

Do you think there's a crack in everything?

 

HUSBAND

(struggling to keep his feet in storm)

There's going to be a crack in this boat soon if I can't keep

her steady! And yes! There is a crack in everything and

everyone. How else can love find its way in?

He was almost finished with the section when Ashlee returned with food. “Hi, sweetie bug,” she said, and kissed the back of his neck.

“Sweetie bug? It sounds like you're talking to a two-year-old.”

She turned his swivel chair around and then placed the food on the side of the desk. Her pout was ridiculous, meant for a child. “Well, what do you want me to call you?” she asked.

“Hunter,” he said.

“Huh?”

“I'm kidding. No nicknames, okay? Just saying my name will do nicely.”

“Blake,” she said, and leaned down, kissing his forehead and then his eyelids. She moved closer and straddled him before she sat down and kissed his mouth. “Blake,” she said again. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, Ashlee.” He returned her kiss but felt nothing. A mouth. Lips. A tongue. His mind was on the work behind him. He placed his hands on her hips, which were moving in small circles on his lap, and lifted her up. “Not now.”

A whine came from her, like the squirrel that had once been caught under his living room couch. “Whyyyy not?” She stood above him and looked down, ran her fingers through his hair.

“Work, baby, work. I'm on a roll,” he said.

“Okay. I get it. When the muse shows up, you have to dance.”

“Something like that.” He took her hand and kissed the inside of her palm. “Thank you so much for getting everything organized for me. It's the reason I'm able to work so quickly. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Okay, I'll let you work, but later, you're all mine.”

twelve

Coffee. That was the only place to start. Ella would figure out the rest later. Today was her day off and she would clean up the mess of her apartment and then go find her own lawyer. She would go get a hellcat lawyer, and maybe even move into the house. Or … she flopped back into bed … or “take to the bed” as her mom used to say.

Downstairs a door slammed and Bruiser began his frenzied barking. It faded slowly as, Ella knew, Mimi was trying to take him outside, seeing if a walk would calm him down. Ella did nothing but stare at her surroundings as if taking them into account, solidifying her place in the world. Outside her window, ivy crawled and tangled its way across the bottom of the window frame, as if trying to peek into her apartment. A crack, thin as hair, maneuvered its way from the top of her wall down to the floorboards, spawning new cracks before moving on.

Even coffee seemed too big an effort, but she rose and went to the sink. Nothing would change if she didn't change. She'd read that in one of the many books stacked on the side of her bed. She needed to return them to the library before she got a late fine. When she'd checked them out, a pyramid of self-help I've-been-ditched books, the librarian had given her that look, the one Ella hated:
I'm so sorry. Poor, poor you.

The coffee was too hot and it singed the roof of her mouth, a scorched feeling that didn't improve her mood. All her good intentions for the day faded into gray. She lifted the remote from the chair and sank into the cushions, clicked on for the TV and off for her mind.

The TV droned on, and beautiful people flashed on and off the screen, a montage of life so perfect that it seemed like science fiction. Get up, she told herself.
Do something
.

Now
E! News
was on and her cell phone was buzzing across the room and finally, with her coffee cold and only half drunk, she rose from the chair to answer it: Amber.

She pushed decline and looked at the missed messages. Sims had called twice. Her eyes opened wider, like someone had pulled up on her eyelids, quivering. All those times she'd frantically checked her phone every five minutes and here he was calling and she'd been ignoring him for the TV. Well, good, let him worry why she wasn't answering.

He answered on the first ring. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I'm fine. Why?”

“Amber and I have both been trying to call you and you're never without your phone and…”

“I'm super busy,” she said. “What do you need?”

“I … want to talk. Can you talk?”

“Talk?”

“Yes. Like see you and talk. Try to have a real conversation about all of this mess.”

“I'm pretty sure you've told me everything I need to know. You're in love. You want a divorce. What else is there to talk about?”

“Ella. Please.”

“Please what?”

“Can I come over?”

“Here? You sure you want to lower yourself to my level?” She wanted him back. She loved him, so she took a long moment and then said, “Sims, I'm sorry. It's coming out wrong. If you want to come here to talk, that's fine.”

“Well, I'm outside so I'll be up in a minute.”

“You're outside?”

“Yes,” he said. “Outside.”

“Give me ten,” she said. “I've been … Stuff is everywhere.”

“I don't care about that.”

Ella saw herself through Sims's eyes. Messy hair. Dark circles under her eyes. Yesterday's clothes. Hell, yesterday's makeup. There wasn't time for the whole routine—cleanse, tone, moisturize, and tint. A quick swipe of mascara and a brush through her hair would have to do.

He stood there in the hallway, her husband of seven years. He held his hands behind his back and waited to be invited in. She didn't say a word.

“Oh, Ella,” he said.

She stepped aside to let him in. Her throat held the tears she wanted to cry.

“Yes?” she asked, hiding her need.

“I can't believe you're living here. Why—”

“Because you've locked me out.”

“I just thought you'd go to your dad's while we worked things out. Why didn't you?”

“I can't. I can't go there.”

Below their feet the barking started. “What the hell?”

“That's Bruiser. He's my neighbor's dog. He's kind of cute.”

“That is not cute.” He pointed to the floor. “That is hell.”

“Sometimes,” she said as a smile moved across her face. “But if you knew Mimi you would have some sympathy.”

He laughed. God, how she missed that laugh. “Figures you'd make friends,” he said.

“Actually I went there to tell her what a nuisance the dog was and then…”