In Some Other World, Maybe: A Novel (20 page)

Their kisses are reflected in the mirrored elevator doors; pretty people but different from when they met. Different kisses, too, the kind where he strokes her hair, brushes it from her face; years ago he used to pull it. He leads her down the hall to his room, natural gravitation to the bed. More kissing, more hair stroking.

Pulling off his shirt, she fights a gasp. He’s always been fit, always put in hours at the gym, but whatever he’s doing lately has caused a fundamental shift—the landscape of his body is all hills of lean, defined muscle, waxed smooth and hairless for his role as Captain Rowen. And of course the softball-size bruise on his left shoulder that everyone was talking about at the bar.

Tracing her fingers on the edges that are already changing from purple to yellow, she tells him it’s okay if he wants to go back down to his friends.

“I don’t.” He turns his head, touches his lips to her fingers.

“Cecily seemed disappointed.”

“There’s nothing to worry about with her.” His gray eyes are solemn. “When I first met Cese, maybe there was something, but we’re just friends now. I love you, Phoebe.”

“I know.” For the first time since he came into her life, she’s really not concerned about the other women vying for his attention. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” Adam aims for mock flabbergasted but can’t quite conceal his hurt as he flops back on the bed. “Not exactly the response I was hoping for.”

And she realizes this is the first time he’s told her he loves her, realizes how much she’d wanted him to say this in some distant, before time in LA—in her country.

“I meant I know you’re not sleeping with her.” Following him down, she rests her head on his chest, rubs the hairless skin of his stomach, and feels his abdominals tremble. “I know you love me. I love you, too.”

“Really?” he asks like a boy, not at all right with his new body, not at all like five years ago. “So are you, like, my official person?”

“Yes, Adam, I’m your girlfriend.”

“Good.” He rolls slightly so they’re facing each other, smiles wide. “I actually already listed you as the emergency contact on all my paperwork.”

Had Sharon been her brother’s emergency contact? Sharon, who couldn’t show up for the funeral, couldn’t send a note or make a donation in Chase’s name.

And when was the last time Phoebe had to write down those numbers? The last time she’d started anything new? They hadn’t made her update her information at Rosebud when she demanded the promotion to bartender four years ago.

Here, in Canada, Adam’s lips on her forehead, her nose. She closes her eyes and he kisses the lids. Finally her mouth.

*   *   *

The morning after Chase’s funeral, Phoebe woke up and found Adam in bed beside her wearing her brother’s college sweatshirt. Grimy and bone-weary from having traveled hours and hours to get to her, he’d still been half asleep when she began an all-out assault on his mouth. Brutal kisses with teeth, her tongue eager to learn any remaining things she didn’t already know about Adam Zoellner. She’d dug fingers under the offensive University of Wisconsin hoodie and the sweater underneath, raked her nails over his sides. Sticky with a film of dried sweat, he smelled as though he hadn’t showered or applied deodorant in days (he hadn’t). It didn’t matter; she bit the flesh of his neck hard enough to taste blood, made him cry out in a combination of pain and surprise. He was still rubbing the bite when she changed course and reached for his pants, yanked open the belt. Flipping her so he was on top, Adam had held her arms and tried to soothe her. He probably would have stayed like that all day, caressing her, dotting her skin with kisses so tender they made her want to cry. But she’d been crying for three days and wanted to feel different. She’d arched her back so her pelvis rubbed against his cock swelling in his jeans.

In the end he’d won, though, making love to her gently, slowly, even when she tried to ratchet up their rhythm. Afterward he’d held her until he had to go back to BC that afternoon. The network went ahead and ordered a full twenty-two episodes of
E&E: Rising,
but Adam came home the weekend she got back to LA and made love to her that same way.

The way he does now, as if she’s made of Fabergé eggs and blown glass and might shatter. Not at all like the girl he used to throw around when they were just fucking a million years ago.

When they’re done, she curls into his side, and he dots her spine with drowsy fingertips, tells her about all the things he can show her tomorrow—Granville Island and Gastown, Stanley Park, maybe sneak her onto the set—places of his universe without her.

“Or we can stay in bed all day,” he murmurs as he drifts. “Whatever my
girlfriend
wants.”

He starts to snore, something she’d forgotten about in the weeks they’ve been apart, the weeks of secretly calling Chase’s machine and wearing Converse. Running her fingers across his chest, she makes his breathing shift. She’d forgotten about that, too, and about how warm it is to sleep next to him.

Kiss on his collarbone, she whispers, “I really do love you.”

*   *   *

At the airport three days later, he sets down her bag, puts his hands on her hips, and asks her to stay the week.

“Come on, Pheebs, my shooting schedule is pretty light. Whad’ya say?”

He doesn’t ask what she’s rushing back for, but it’s a valid question. Back to traffic and smog and martini shakers. To the too-stylized Rosebud patrons and the next generation of hostess/actresses who look at Phoebe as a tragedy, convinced they’ll never work their way up to bartender because their big break must be mere days away.

“I can’t, sweetie.” Phoebe rubs Adam’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay, but promise you’ll come back in the next few weeks? My treat.”

“I may have to go home and see my parents first.”

“Of course,” Adam says apologetically. “If you can wait a little bit, I can come with you, maybe.”

“That’d be nice,” she says, knowing it won’t matter; his filming is solid for the next two months.

She checks in, and he walks her to the security line. He tastes like toothpaste when they kiss.

“I love you,” she says, and is struck with the memory of seeing Oliver off after he’d helped her move to LA eleven years ago, when the world had been dewy and hers for the taking, when she’d never met Adam Zoellner and Chase was still in high school.

“I love you, too, Phoebe Fisher,” he says. “Stay snuggly for me.”

Sweet and charming, trying to cram her into the remaining spaces of his new world.

*   *   *

Los Angeles without Adam is more quiet than lonely.

Rosebud is loud and bustling as always, but it’s mostly background noise. Clinking glasses and drink orders, superficial conversations of people trying so hard to skate on the surface—designer labels, pilot season, which people in the bar they want to screw.

Adam orders Phoebe a cell phone with a Canadian plan and calls several times a day. Sometimes it’s because he needs a prescription refilled or a crucial piece of paper faxed; other times he has a few minutes between takes and wants to check in. Usually he’ll ring her from the hotel to say good night, but that’s when Rosebud is getting slammed. None of their conversations last more than half an hour. When she’s not working or talking to Adam, all the other minutes of her day are quiet.

Dating, it turns out, had eaten a large chunk of time, and now that she’s not accepting invitations from men at work or coffee shops or bars, her interactions are quicker and more perfunctory. The space around those moments quiet, too.

Jerry, the manager at Rosebud, acquires a new girlfriend who’s allergic to his bull terrier, so Phoebe volunteers to take Kraken on nights when the girlfriend stays over. Pretty soon she’s keeping the dog on nights when Jerry’s girlfriend isn’t sleeping over, and then after Jerry and the girlfriend break up. Finally Jerry asks if Phoebe is interested in keeping the dog permanently. Because she loves Kraken’s velvety head and the way he licks her calves after she puts on lotion, Phoebe happily agrees. Occasionally Kraken pants, and he’ll bark on the rare times the doorbell rings, but generally he’s also quiet.

Quiet time still passes. She calls her brother’s apartment, listens to his voice, and wonders about Sharon Gallaher, who could seemingly delete Chase from her life. She goes through Adam’s mail and sends him what’s important, skims his NYU alumni magazine, paying heightened attention to who majored in what and the kinds of careers they have now. She talks to Gennifer and assures her she’ll visit in the next few weeks. Once in a while, she’ll try to grab a drink with Melissa and Burke, but they had both left Rosebud, and it’s hard to coordinate around everyone’s schedules.

Adam’s mother calls one Tuesday morning, even though she probably knows her son isn’t there.

“How about you, love?” Anna Zoellner asks. “How are
you
doing?”

Maybe it’s because Anna seems genuinely concerned, but Phoebe isn’t sure what answer to give and flirts with the honest one: that everything in her life is somehow different without Chase, even though she’d seen him only three times in the past two years.

“I went to see Adam in Vancouver,” she says instead.

Hearing the joy in Anna’s voice, Phoebe tells her about how friendly the cast is and how much they like her son, about how amazing he looks in costume with the Rowen makeup, and how exciting it is in BC. All the things Adam doesn’t share with his mother despite loving her with a connection more fierce than Phoebe’s ever felt for her own mother, even before her mom moved halfway around the world.

“That’s so wonderful,” Anna says again and again.

Phoebe wonders if Adam told his mother that the two of them are a couple, wonders if Anna always assumed that they were or would be. Wonders once again about why lovely and smart Anna chose to stay in small-town Florida long after her son was gone.

“Can I ask you a question?” Phoebe asks. Anna agrees. “How old were you when you went back to school?”

“Oh, I was in my midtwenties. I had Adam and I was working, so I went at odd times and took a lot of classes at night, when my parents could watch him.”

“Did you feel weird being older?”

“People of all ages were there,” Anna says. “Are you thinking about going to school?”

“Maybe.” Like a shot of Red Bull it occurs to Phoebe she definitely is. “I kind of want to mix things up a bit.”

“Well, you’d be fantastic,” Anna says. “College is sort of lost on the kids who come right from high school. It’s good to have experience under your belt, so you can appreciate it.”

*   *   *

Two weeks later Phoebe flies to Chicago, where her stepmother is waiting at passenger pickup. On the ride from O’Hare to Evanston, Gennifer tries to warn Phoebe that her father isn’t back to his normal routine, but nothing prepares Phoebe for the sight of Dad watching
Law & Order
on the couch in the middle of a Thursday afternoon. He’s wearing jogging pants and a pharmaceutical company T-shirt, no socks or shoes; clearly he hasn’t shaved in a while. On the glass coffee table, where his feet are propped up, is a plate with an uneaten sandwich.

“Lar, honey, Phoebe’s here,” Gennifer says tentatively as Phoebe continues to stare.

“Hey, princess.” Her father turns and, after what seems like a long time, stands to hug her. Beneath her arms he feels softer and smaller than usual—the reverse of Adam. Then he’s back on the sofa, eyes on the flat-screen where Jerry Orbach and the handsome Latino detective are searching for clues in a run-down apartment building.

Unsure what to do, Phoebe sits beside him. From the open kitchen, Gennifer asks if they want anything to eat. Neither one of them responds, but Gen comes back with a bag of tortilla chips and homemade guacamole, perches on the light blue love seat.

“The other day there was a
Law & Order
with an actor who was the spitting image of Adam.” Gennifer’s voice is cookie dough and
Romper Room
, the way she sounded the first time she met Phoebe and Chase and didn’t know how to interact with her boyfriend’s children. “Remember, honey?”

“Yeah,” Phoebe’s father says. “Looked exactly like him.”

“It was him, wasn’t it?” Gennifer is still bubbling. “I told Larry, ‘I bet Adam’s been on that show.’”

“He had a couple of small parts after college,” Phoebe says, but Gennifer gives her a pleading look, so Phoebe continues, explains that in one episode Adam played the murdered victim and in another he had a few lines as a suspect’s prep school friend.

“Remember which one it was, Lar?” Gennifer asks. “It must have been the school one, right?”

Her father makes an affirmative grunt. Then they sit there, and Phoebe realizes she’s never watched an entire episode of the show, decides she likes the state psychiatrist. Sam Waterston gets his conviction, and the credits roll.

Another episode starts immediately after, but Gennifer turns to her husband and animatedly says, “Weren’t you going to ask Phoebe about Adam’s fingers?”

“Oh, yeah.” Her father nods with the most energy he’s shown since her arrival.

“What?” For a shocking, horrible minute, Phoebe thinks her parents are referencing her sex life.

“When he was here,” her father explains, “it looked like he had mild frostbite on his left hand.”

“He’s fine, Dad,” Phoebe says, looking at Gennifer, who nods encouragingly. “I’ll ask him about it.”

*   *   *

She does ask Adam when he calls three hours later while she’s trying to nap.

“My hands are hunky-dory,” Adam says. In the background someone is barking orders about camera direction, and she realizes he must be on set. “But they’d be better if they were touching my
gorgeous
girlfriend.”

Giggling, she lets herself feel light. She walks to the dresser and absently plays with forgotten objects in her old jewelry box—hoop earrings, her high school class ring, a P necklace.

A few more minutes of banter about missing each other, and he changes tone, sounds serious.

“So Kathleen Turner is producing and starring in a remake of
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
with Sean Bean, and they like me for the young professor.”