Fix You (5 page)

It’s amazing what you can remember when you’re not standing in front of a famous movie star. I didn’t have to go far to remember last year’s big bank-robbing movie,
Thief at Midnight
. And that girl in that Revolutionary War movie,
Redcoats Rising
? Her name is Amanda Walters. There’s a picture of him with her at some awards show right around then—about five years ago. They must have dated. It’s at the top of the Google search.

There are more than a few old news stories out there from around the same time, with titles like “Andy Pettigrew’s Wild Night Out.” My stomach flip-flops a little when I see those. He mentioned a reputation. For what? Partying? Lots of women? It’s clear I could probably dig around for a while and find out more than I care to know.

But I don’t.

I leave it at that.

There are a lot of reasons I don’t want to know about his past. The big one right now is this: what’s the point? He was nice. He was a good listener. I’ll likely never see him again. No reason to drag out the old dirty laundry.

However, there are
many
websites devoted to his wonderfulness. I can’t tell without looking more closely if any of them say he’s dating anyone right now or not. I’ve decided to preserve our relatively pleasant exchange in my mind and not mess it up with any bizarre fan musings I might find if I look further. I’m keeping my little brush with fame unsullied by tawdry gossip, thank you very much. It’s fun from time to time, as I sit and watch the millionth soccer game, or fold the millionth pair of boys’ socks, to think about Andrew. I smile every time, and it makes my heart happy whether our paths ever cross again or not.

So the Reynolds clan falls back into our routine. School days are busy with the boys’ swimming and soccer, homework, all that stuff. The school year has started without me in the classroom for a second year in a row, and I wonder a lot about what’s next for me.

The days pass pretty quickly when the boys are in school. I get them up, get them to school. I check email, pay bills, all the boring stuff. Then I usually run, shower, and get ready. Sometimes I meet Tessa for coffee or go to the YMCA and lift. Or I do errands or clean the house (not that I enjoy that, or do it well, or often enough). Most of the time I turn around and it’s time to go get the boys. It’s weird. I do like to read, and I’ve been known to have other hobbies too. But since I got married, and then had kids, and then lost Peter, and then gave up my job, it’s like my life is a funnel. Things have narrowed and narrowed to a point where sometimes it seems I exist to take care of the house and the kids.

It’s probably time for me to get a new job—a new kind of job. Teaching reminds me too much of my old life. It reminds me of Peter. I feel better thinking about a new direction. But I don’t know what the new direction is yet.

As early November turns cold and crisp, I have to admit, I’m getting to be hard to live with. I try to run every day. I work on repainting the boys’ room. I do just about everything to keep the ache under my collarbones from turning into a chest-crushing depression. But with the holidays around the corner, it’s difficult. There’s no way around it.

But I continue to try, so today I run before I pick the boys up at school. To add to the gloomy onset of the saddest time of my year, Boise is blanketed with a thick, gray layer of inversion, a cold, frosty smog. It hurts my lungs. It makes it ten degrees colder in the valley than it would be if we were on the top of the Boise Front, the foothills outside of town. Yuck.

When my cell phone rings, I’m more than glad to stop to take the call. “This is Kelly Reynolds.” I don’t recognize the number, and it’s not a local area code. It’s probably the Shriners or the Kiwanis or the somebodies asking for a donation.

“Hi, Kelly. It’s Andrew.”

There’s a pause. I’m drawing a total blank. “Hi there. Can I help you?”

“Andrew Pettigrew. We met in Indio?”

Oh my God, I’m an idiot. “Hi! I’m so sorry. I was just trying to figure out who I knew named Andrew. How are you?” I feel the blood rise to my cheeks, despite the cold. I’m thrilled; I’ll admit it. Andrew called! This is some sort of miracle or defect in the time-space continuum.

“I’m good. But I need a ride. Are you busy right now?”

Clearly I’m suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s. What is he talking about? “I’m in Boise, on a run, but—I’m sorry, where are you?”

“At the Western Air terminal. Can you come get me?”

What?
But I don’t say that out loud, thank God. “Okay…I’ve got to get my car. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“See you then.”

The line goes dead. I sprint home. What the hell? What the hell is Andy Pettigrew doing calling me for a ride in Boise, Idaho? When we haven’t spoken in two months? When he is one of the most famous and sought-after men in the world, and I am a not-famous, not-sought-after regular person? Seriously, this is hard to believe. Running home, I think I probably set a personal record from sheer adrenaline.

And, oh, God, I can’t even look at myself in the mirror when I get there. I’m in my running gear. I don’t think I’m a feast for the eyes on my best days, but the hat I’m wearing right now is a hand-me-down from Hunter’s last-season ski outfit, and my running tights are coated with Samoyed hair. Today I am not only
not
a feast for the eyes, it would be a stretch to say I’m even a junky, stale snack for the eyes.

I’ll be damned if I leave Andrew waiting there, though. Yes, it’s a private terminal, but I’m not going to give anyone a chance to call out the vultures that are the paparazzi. Of course, I’m not sure who that would be, given that this is Boise, Idaho, but the point is, I feel protective of him. I think we might be friends, and I’m not leaving him there for people to recognize and harass.

I drive way too fast to get there, and I also start to worry about the approaching end of the school day. I don’t know where Andrew is headed, but this could be a close shave in terms of getting back to pick up the boys.

As I pull up to the terminal parking lot, I feel a little smile form. I’m going to see him again. I never thought that would happen. But I try to remain calm. There’s absolutely no reason to believe he noticed me or thinks of me in any special way. This is a man, a famous man, who happens to be in my town, and there’s no reason to believe it’s anything more than that. Although a teeny, tiny part of me remembers that he
did
say I have lovely eyes.

I chew a stick of gum before I leave the car. I look a mess, but maybe the gum will distract from any terrible, sweaty odor I might be putting off.

Inside the door, I don’t see him right away. There isn’t a counter, just a woman sitting at a desk in a generic office reception area.

“I’m here to pick up a friend,” I tell her. “He just flew in?”

“You can go on back.” She absently waves me toward a door.

I go through it into a huge airplane hangar. The triple-story doors are open to the cold weather. A small jet taxis out, headed toward the runway. A man stands just outside the doors, silhouetted, a bag at his feet.

It’s him. I can tell as I get closer. The baseball hat is the same. So are the sunglasses.

He looks kind of abandoned. I can’t believe a private plane just dumps you at the door of a terminal and takes off, but I’ve never flown on a private plane, so…

“Hi.” I walk up to him.

He smiles, picks up his bag. “Hi. Thanks for coming to get me.”

An employee walks by and gives us an odd look. Maybe this isn’t the way it usually works.

I can’t act natural. I just can’t. “What are you doing here? I mean, I’m totally glad to see you, but where are you going? Why do you need a ride?” I stop talking before
What the hell?
or worse escapes my mouth.

We walk around the outside of the building toward my car. He lugs the duffle bag casually over one shoulder. Wherever he’s headed, he hasn’t packed much.

“Some of the people I work with are going skiing in Sun Valley and invited me to go with them. I wasn’t doing anything, so I said yes. I don’t ski, but it’s important sometimes to hang out with the people in my business—you know, network and all that.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “I’m so sorry, but I have to smoke. I really need it. Filthy habit, I know. I never should’ve started. It’s one of the vices I’ve yet to give up.” He smokes, and we’re almost to the parking lot. I’m still silent, still confused. “Anyway, the longer I sat on the flight with these people and listened to them, the more I knew I could not spend a weekend with them.”

We’re at my car. He hurriedly drops the cigarette and stomps it out. I pop the hatchback and silently cringe. We’ve got the dog’s bed, two pool noodles, and a bag of clothes destined for the Goodwill in the back. It’s a total mess.

He tosses his bag in without a second glance and shuts the door. I don’t even get an opportunity to sheepishly apologize. He’s talking too fast.

“So then suddenly we’re landing, and I realize we aren’t landing in Sun Valley, we’re landing in Boise—some nonsense about wind shears in Hailey, who knows, and we’re on the ground, waiting it out.”

He’s climbed in the passenger side and now scoots the seat way back. Of course it’s up too far because no one ever rides in the front seat. The boys are too young. He’s still talking. “I’m really pissed now, really dreading the weekend, and as I fidget and look through my contacts on my cell, I see your number. And to be totally frank, the sudden idea of seeing you sounded immeasurably more appealing than being with those idiots.”

Now, finally, he is quiet. I sit in my seat, keys poised to turn in the ignition, but I’m stuck. I think what he just said is still bouncing around the inside of my head, waiting for the neurons to fire and make meaning.

Stuff comes out of my mouth that I hope resembles sentences. “So you called because you want to hang out with me? Like, for the weekend?” I’m staring at him, I’m pretty sure.

“Kind of? I don’t know. It was a whim. If it’s a bad whim, just tell me.” His brow crinkles a little above those very blue eyes.

I wake up. “Oh, shit! I have to get my kids.” I start the car and gun it a little, rushing now to get across town.

It’s ten minutes to three—the bell at school will be ringing, and Hunter and Beau will be standing on the curb waiting for me. I need to get my kids, but there’s no way I can do that with a man in my car. Fabulous movie star or no, the boys haven’t seen me with a guy since their dad. I haven’t had coffee with anyone, I haven’t done a single thing with anyone of the opposite sex who was not related to me or one of my friends, and I certainly haven’t dated anyone since their dad. Not that I am dating
this
person, but still, what will the boys think when they meet him? Will they freak out? How badly will they freak out?

My hands shake all of a sudden. Andrew is still looking at me.

“Okay, I have to drop you somewhere.”

Now he looks really confused. “What?”

“I have to drop you somewhere. I can’t think straight, and I have to pick my kids up, and you can’t be in the car when I get them. Then I have to think of something to say to them about you…” I trail off. We drive through downtown, headed toward the school.

“You didn’t tell them you met me?”

“I didn’t tell anyone about you. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Now I’m blushing.

“I got your number, and you didn’t tell a soul about me?”

“I thought you were just being polite. I didn’t think you’d actually call. Or show up in my town. So, no.”

“Geez. I appreciate you being discreet, but really…”

We’re about to pass my house when inspiration strikes. I turn the car hard into the alley, throwing Andrew against the passenger side door.

“What are you doing?” He looks a little panicked now.

I brake hard and stop the car behind our garage. It used to be a standalone one-car, but the owners before us built it out with a loft above, which is connected to the house by a catwalk to the second-story deck. Peter used it as his man cave—watched TV and tuned skis in it. Since he’s gone, I put a bed in there so guests can stay, but it’s not a place I can spend much time in yet. It’s still Peter’s room.

“Wait here.” I grip the steering wheel and smile at him, take a deep breath and blow my bangs out of my face. I’m kind of proud of myself for thinking of a solution.

“In an alley?”

I nod.

“You’re ditching me in an alley.” He chews on his lip.

“No, no, this is the back of my house. It’s our garage—a guest room, not just a garage. There’s a guest room over the garage. It connects to the house. Just wait here. I’ll get the boys, and I’ll figure out a way to introduce you. We can hide you in the guest room while you stay for the weekend.”

“You do know I’m not wanted by the law, right?” He smiles a little.

Thank God, because I’m pretty sure this is the worst hostess behavior I’ve ever exhibited in my life. There have to be thousands of Andy Pettigrew devotees who would skin me alive at this moment. Or offer to take my guest off my hands in a heartbeat.