Parts Unknown (25 page)

I’d wake up alone, my heart broken, again.

I was determined: I would never be vulnerable in that way. From now on, I would be the one who was loved most, not the other way around. My heart was so fragile. Protecting it was paramount.

But he’d opened something up inside me, and now it wouldn’t close, and I had no one to give it to.

Chapter 12

I used Astrid as my excuse in the end. George couldn’t stand her—her new-agey, psychic vibes were like the anti-George. His automatic response whenever I mentioned Astrid was always “that nut case.” So when I said I’d be meeting her for a late lunch at Buddha’s Belly on Beverly, he all but pushed me out the door. He’d never call her to check, and I knew she wouldn’t pop up unexpectedly—she was in San Diego that weekend at a quincanẽara for Fernando’s niece. Friday as we’d chatted after preschool, I thought for maybe one second about telling her I was planning to use her as a pretext to meet my long-lost love. But the details were so complicated and slimy, and besides, our kids were right there.

So, trusting in fate, I pushed my way through the mad crush that was the perennial weekend afternoon scene at the Grove. It was so hot outside, a person couldn’t even think on a day like this.

Kids perched on the smooth stone balustrade surrounding the fountain, tossing in coins and staring spellbound at the computer-controlled water display. Beyond the fountain, in the madly successful shopping center’s one complete failure, the Grove’s lone stretch of lawn was perpetually either dead or dying. It was blocked off now, a sign promising eventual resuscitation of the brown grass. Overly Botoxed and lip-plumped women, some of whom were clearly in their 60s and should know better, strode by, swinging armfuls of glossy shopping bags. I let myself be carried along by the tide of people so that it seemed almost accidental that I was deposited right in front of Barnes & Noble.

The air conditioning blasting at me as I entered Barnes & Noble was a welcome relief from the sweltering day outside. I pushed my sticky, sweaty hair out of my eyes. I really should cut it short again. By the time I made it up the two flights of escalators to the kids’ section, I still had five minutes to spare, but the place was already packed. I’d been living under a rock, not realizing that
Supers
had become an overnight success. Now that the Harry Potter series had finished, clearly the preteen boys of the world, too old for
Goosebumps
and through with
The Spiderwick Chronicles
, had found a new fantasy world to glom on to. Merchandising not yet having caught up with the book, several boys were attired in leftover
Superman
and
Spiderman
costumes from Halloweens of yore. I lurked in the back row, scrunching myself down so I wouldn’t be seen—like some sort of private eye, scoping out the scene. If I was hidden from Josh, I always had the option of escaping, after all.

I hadn’t slept at all the night before, imagining over and over this moment, our real reunion. And there he was, flanked by a chic PR person wearing horn-rims and a miniskirt. All my fantasies hadn’t prepared me for this. It was a punch in the stomach, seeing him again.

But after a moment, it felt almost pedestrian, too—oh, yeah, there’s the love of my life, up there on that little wooden stage, sitting in a chair too small for him. Josh, the Josh of my dreams and hazy memories, his face the same color I’d painted it so long ago. Aureolin yellow, rose madder genuine. A touch of cerulean blue. I squinted; I could see faint lines radiating now from the corners of his eyes and the edge of his nose. His face had started to settle into its age, squaring off, but his eyes were still the same clear hazel that I had stared into for so long, a lifetime ago.

My heart was pounding, and I felt dizzy, but ultimately, the biggest shock was that he was actually real, solid, and in front of me, rather than the fantasy figure I’d imagined all week, and determinedly forgotten about for ten years previously. I scrunched down further in my chair. Perhaps he could hear my pounding heart from up there. I really should leave; this was a terrible idea—but if I got up, he’d see me. I’d have to wait.

Josh turned out to be a natural with kids.

“Who saw
The Spiderwick Chronicles
?” he asked, to warm them up. Most of the hands went up.

“And which did you like better, the movie or the book?”

Various competing shouts of “The movie!” “The book!” A small freckled boy’s hand shot up, and he yelled the loudest, “The book, ’cause you can use your imagination!” Obviously, a teacher’s-pet answer. Maybe he was a plant.

Josh smiled and nodded. “Very good, you’re right. And that’s why I like books, and why I wrote one, so that you all can use your imaginations when you need to the most. Your imagination can get you out of all sorts of bad situations. Say you’re stuck in a class with a teacher you don’t like . . .” (Giggles of appreciation.) “Or you’ve got someone bullying you at school, or you don’t want to do your chores, and your report card had some bad grades . . .” They were eating out of his hand by this point.

“But isn’t it fun to read a book, and get away from all that stuff for a while? Pretend you live at the School for Superheroes, and have magical powers? That’s what I was doing when I wrote the book.” Laughter. “No matter how tough things might be in real life—books can let you escape for a while.

“So, I’m going to read to you from Chapter 5 . . . how many of you have read the book?” Almost every kid’s hand shot up. I almost raised mine. “You’ll remember, that’s where Arthur and Dana start hatching a plan to destroy the Academy of Darkness. But first they have to deal with Dana’s inconvenient new power, which is that her body has become so elasticized that she has trouble walking, and has to slither along the floor like a snake, which causes no end of teasing . . .”

I’d forgotten how his voice sounded, and listening to him was almost as much of a shock to my system as seeing him. He was so thoroughly in control of the situation—he always had known exactly what to say. How to persuade anybody to do anything. Or, well, just me.

The reading over, Josh settled himself at the book-signing table, pen at the ready. I was near the end of the long line, so I had ample time to peer around the people ahead of me and watch Josh sign books. His head bowed, thick dark hair shot here and there with silver now, he signed swiftly with quick jagged strokes. The pen was thick, black, and certain in his hand. The line moved slowly but inevitably, until finally I was just ten people from the front, then five, then three. As I got closer, I felt as nervous as I did in high school, back in Mrs. Vanderberg’s Biology class, giving an oral report on frog anatomy. My knees actually started to shake. I felt myself flush all over. My stomach lurched. I should just leave, right now. That would really be the smart thing to do.

Too late. The boy ahead of me walked away with his mother, cradling his signed book like a precious object, and I was next. I gulped, nauseous, and marched to the table as if to certain doom. Josh glanced up briefly, his eyes not meeting mine. “So who should I make this out to?” he asked.

“Vivian,” I choked.

“Vivian. Alright, then.” He started to scribble, the white star at the top of his Mont Blanc pen winking crossly at me.

“Vivian Lewis,” I managed. He dropped the pen.

He looked up.

“Oh, my god,” he said.

~ ~ ~

We sat outside the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf at the other end of the Grove, on shiny pastel-colored Adirondack chairs. We sipped foofy coffee drinks and covertly assessed each other.

It was intensely awkward. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. And this was the one person I couldn’t stop talking to, years ago.

Josh seemed to be having the same difficulty. He’d half-begin sentences, then stop and take tiny sips of his drink, making it last so he could drink instead of speak.

Finally I asked, “So, how do you like Santa Fe?”

“It’s good. I needed to get away from Los Angeles. And Santa Fe seemed remote, and artsy, and different. It was as good a place as any to try to be a writer. I worked at a law firm there for a few years, then quit to finish the novel. I met Caroline there,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“And I hear you have a baby!” I exclaimed encouragingly. “You must be so happy.”

“Yeah,” he smiled, that full-tilt, no holds barred grin I still remembered from so long ago. “She’s everything to me. Amanda’s amazing. She’s what I live for.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “My daughter—she’s a handful most of the time, but having her was the best thing that ever happened to me, too.”

We sipped our coffees in silence. Eventually he said, “So, you’re married, then.”

“Yes—I’ve been married to George for four years. Four years as of last week, actually.”

“That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks.” My coffee was almost done. I’d leave in a few minutes.

So this was how it was going to be. That whole week of fantasies—so silly. We were just two strangers after all, who’d known each other once a long time ago. Having a coffee, chatting about our children, and soon saying genial goodbyes. I could tell George about this afternoon, after all. What a relief.

Without warning, a horde of preteen boys descended upon us. “Mr. Barnes! Mr. Barnes, is that you?”

“Can I have your autograph?”

“Can you sign my t-shirt?”

“Sign my arm, okay? Here’s a pen!”

“I love your book, when are you writing  another one?”

“Sign my butt!”

There were about a dozen of them, and Josh genially obliged them all, down to autographing someone’s underwear band. He looked around when they’d gone, a shine of mock fear in his eyes. Then he pushed his chair next to mine, grabbed his jacket, and covered both our heads with it, so that we were inside this makeshift protective tent-slash-Nautica jacket. “They’re on to us,” he stage-whispered to me. “Take cover!”

It was the old, silly Josh again—and all of a sudden, laughing, I felt those gears slide back into place. It was all so easy. Hiding under the jacket on that hot, hot day, the sunlight splashing down on the pavement like a living thing, his throaty laugh, mock-suspicious eyes peering out. I was laughing so hard suddenly that tears were springing from my eyes, trailing helplessly down my cheeks as I tossed my head back and shouted with a pure childish joy, caught up so totally in the moment that I forgot, for the first time in weeks—in years—to think, to examine. I could just
be
, right there.

Our eyes met. “It’s good to see you again,” said Josh. “More than good.”

“Likewise,” I said.

That night, I determined: No one would have to know. No one would get hurt. It would be my secret, forever. If he would have me—I would have him. Just once, then back to regular life.

No one would have to know.

No one would get hurt.

Chapter 13

Monday morning, I perched nervously on the edge of a wooden chair at the miniscule Starbucks on Beverly Boulevard, covertly eying the door. He was in town till tomorrow, and we’d planned to meet this morning, after I dropped Lucy at preschool.

I’d told George nothing. “I had a great time at Buddha’s Belly,” I’d said. “Sorry I’m late—Astrid and I were talking so long I forgot about the time.” He looked tired, anyhow, and distracted.

“That’s okay,” he’d returned. “I don’t get to spend enough one-on-one time with Lucy, and we had a lovely day. We went to the pony rides at Griffith Park. It was a lot of fun. Listen—did you dye the eggs yet for our little Easter hunt tomorrow? Lucy keeps talking about it and I want to make sure we’re all prepared first thing in the morning.”

Lying turned out to be as easy as losing my virginity. All that build-up and worry, and in the end, it was no big deal.

The door snicked shut behind Josh, and our eyes locked. We sat in those little wooden chairs next to each other, not touching, and sipped our coffees. I kept spilling mine, my hand shaking, so nervous. And the whole time I kept telling myself,
We’re just friends. Everything’s fine, we can just be friends
. At the same time, that treacherous internal voice kept saying,  
It’s true, I love him. I still love him.
Over and over.

Meantime, my mouth was saying lots of things I wasn’t really aware of. I told him about my endless days with Lucy, the tantrums, the palpable relief of leaving her at preschool every day, and feeling free and light, a burden lifted.

“So, are you still close with your family?” I asked eventually.

“Yes, I am. It was rough, when I quit the law firm to finish that novel.” He couldn’t stop stirring his coffee with one of those little wooden sticks. “You remember—about my dad. Being kind of an asshole about self-sufficiency, and wanting me to be a good family provider.”

“He must be proud now,” I offered.

“Oh yeah, he’s always talking about me. Making me sign books for his clients’ kids. It’s kind of embarrassing really.” But I could tell Josh was happy. He had cemented his place as a success, was the writer he’d always wanted to be, and had made his family proud too. Everything he’d ever wanted.

“It sounds like everything’s going really well for you,” I said lamely, and he nodded.

“I have you to thank, actually. You were the one who got me started writing, and you were the first person to really believe in me.”

“It was nothing,” I said shyly. “You did the same for me.”

He told me how he spent each day writing, in the little adobe casita behind his main house in Santa Fe. The blue tile floors, reflecting the light, and the temple bells on the gate, jingling to alert him to his wife’s arrival, punctually at 10 am and 2 pm daily, bringing snacks and coffee, so he wouldn’t need to get up or be disturbed from his writer’s trance.