Trouble Me (5 page)

A
FTER
T
WO
W
EEKS
O
F
P
REP
for the movie, Andrew has concluded that he’s not crazy about his director, Chase McDougal, but he does like the meticulous rehearsals. He tells me he’s happy to be working and happy to be with me. This is the first time, really, that we’ve been in the same place while he filmed, and so far the time we’ve had here by ourselves has been blissful.

He’s gone today, for a long set of rehearsals, and he’s told me to expect that the days will get longer and longer when filming starts. Hunter and Beau are in LA with my mom and dad for another five days, but I’m getting used to kicking around by myself.

I feel a little better, so that’s good. And when I talk to them, the boys seem to have settled more into the idea of a new sibling. I think Hunter just wants to get home to Idaho so he can see his friends. Beau, he’ll be a little mad forever. He will never again be the baby, so that will always be a bone of contention.

I miss them. I’ve planned out these days on my own in New York to keep myself plenty busy. I go to museums. I run in Central Park. I ride the Staten Island Ferry just to ride it. I’m proud of myself. I only rode the subway out to Brooklyn mistakenly once, and a very nice lady told me how to get off and get back on to ride in the correct direction. All my experiences with New Yorkers so far have been so hospitable, not hostile at all.

Today I need to run. A car came for Andrew painfully early this morning, though he’s not doing location shots yet. I’m actually looking forward to that because Tucker, my favorite bodyguard, will be in town. I miss him. I haven’t seen him since January, when we all went to the Golden Globes together. If Andrew is out on the town shooting, Tucker gets to be here. I want to hog him and take him to dinner and maybe have him take me some places to go shopping. The fourteen-hour days might slow us down on that, but we’ll see.

I choose an early morning run on the High Line. I walked to it from our condo a few days ago, and I love it. It’s an old elevated rail line that’s been converted to a greenbelt, floating above Chelsea and the Meatpacking District. The breeze comes in off the Hudson River, and the views are glittering and wide, not something I get to experience much here in New York. The Idaho part of me gets to feeling a little claustrophobic when I’m down in the concrete canyons for whole days. The High Line liberates me from the city.

I don’t have huge expectations for my runs. I know girlfriends who ran hard all through their pregnancies. I wasn’t much of a runner when I was pregnant with either boy, and I was young. The way my knees are already creaking and complaining to me now means the present-day Kelly will likely not get to be the bad-ass pregnant marathon runner either. I might just be a take-a-trot-every-other-day runner and stop when my knees or other parts of me start to hurt. But as long as I can still run, even if it’s not for long, I’ll be good. It’s mental, as much as physical, for me.

I lace ’em up, tuck my phone into the pocket of my running skirt, and scoot out the door. Down in the lobby, I double check with the doorman about my directions: north on Seventh Avenue one block, west three blocks. This is easy, but I don’t dare pull out my phone on the street and check my map. I don’t want to be that person.

I’m tired, and my stomach still feels mildly queasy, but I promise myself I can get a tea if I run a little.

Andrew didn’t even mean to, but the condo he chose for us—the very safe and very nice building with the insane rent (we’re talking monthly rent that’d be close to the mortgage on my house in Boise for the
year
)—is one block from the most extravagant tea shop. I’m in green tea heaven.

The man is good, even when he’s not trying.

I swing open the door of the building and feel the humid New York air. Lately I’ve made a very conscious effort not to breathe too deeply. Occasionally there’s a whiff of overripe trash can, and though I think I’m almost out of the nauseated woods, eau de Manhattan garbage might send me back to the toilet.

“Excuse me.” A sweet, high voice speaks up behind me.

I turn around, almost out the door of the lobby, to see who it is.

A young woman, dressed in running gear, stands behind me.

“I’m sorry. Did you need to get by?” I assume I’m in the way. I move on a ten-second delay compared to native New Yorkers. They know where they’re headed, for one thing, but the cliché might also be a bit true: they seem to be in a perpetual hurry.

She smiles. She has pale blond hair, her bangs clipped to the side with a barrette. She has her phone out. “No, but my phone’s dying. What time is it?”

“Ten after seven.” I smile as she does get past me now, sliding out the door as the doorman pulls it wide.

“Thanks!” she calls over her shoulder and breaks into a confident stride. She looks like she’s running in the direction of the High Line.

And I have a dorky thought—
Oh! A running friend!
—before I remember that this is a gigantic city, even if she does live in the building. I don’t think it’s a strike-up-a-running-friendship kind of place.

I start my run, carefully following the blocks to the stairs to the elevated railway.

When I climb, I can hear my right kneecap click a little. I’ve been ignoring this, but I’m not an idiot. I know that pregnancy does things to ligaments, loosens them. Something is clicking in Denmark. It doesn’t hurt, yet, but I have to be careful or I could really screw something up.

At the top of the stairs, I feel the breeze first and then take in the view. The sun climbs in the sky, and the green strip of the High Line bathes in the gold light. Tall grasses wave languidly, and here, at one of the places where the thin path widens, water trickles along the side in a small fountain.

It’s not crowded. No one occupies the chaises or benches dotting the deck.

I jog for a while and let my mind wander. Andrew’s invited me to the set. Next week he’ll be location shooting all around New York’s Battery Park and in the Financial District. I’m excited. I’ve only spent time with Andrew on the set of
The Last Drive,
and our relationship was in its infancy.

This time, a location visit means I’ll meet the infamous Amanda Walters. An ex-girlfriend. That’ll be interesting.

And people will realize I’m pregnant. Maybe not everyone, but sooner or later, people will notice. I’m twelve weeks in, and the first trimester is almost over. We’re going to tell Tucker when he gets here. He’d figure it out too fast anyway. He’s a smart, smart guy. So far, Jeremy knows, Sandy knows, Hunter and Beau know, and our folks know.

I slow down. The girl, the one from the lobby, is up ahead. She’s stretching out on one of the steps to the little amphitheater that’s suspended between the High Line and Chelsea Market below. Andrew said sometimes there are concerts or plays here. The girl is doing dips, stretching her Achilles out one at a time, stepping backward off the step to lengthen the back of her calves.

She smiles at me. “Hi, again.”

I take this invitation. I might actually make a friend here in New York. All by myself. “You live in my building?”

“Maybe you live in
my
building, you know. I might have been there first.” She puts out a hand, steps up so that both her feet are on the same step. “Mari. Nice to meet you.”

I shake her hand. “Kelly.”

She stretches both arms up, grasps her hands together. Her running jacket comes up a bit on her stomach, and I have a moment of envy. She is impossibly toned, and I catch the wink of a navel ring. “What a great morning. I’m having a hard time staying focused on running. I think I need to do something to savor the day before it’s too hot and sticky.”

I nod. I could run more, but I feel the urge to put my feet up somewhere and relax. “Lately my runs aren’t as amazing as they could be. I’m always looking for a reason to put the run and me out of our misery.”

“Today is your lucky day. I’m looking for someone to have a cup of coffee with.”

“Say you’ll have tea with me at that place near our building, and you have a deal.”

“Done.” She trots up the last few steps and walks along with me, back the way we came.

“Mari. That’s a nice name.” We stroll, and I’m kind of pleased to not push it, force the run. My knee throbs a bit.

“It’s a constant thing, though,” she says. “No one who sees it on paper knows how to pronounce it. I’m always, ‘Mari rhymes with sorry.’ Every class I have to re-explain it nine million times.”

“Class? Are you in school?” I have a moment where I really hope she’s not in high school. She can’t be my friend and be a juvenile; it’d just be embarrassing. She doesn’t look that young. Plus she’d be at school right now if she was in high school. I breathe a little easier with that thought.

“Grad school. Design school at The Fashion Institute. My marketing degree just wasn’t cutting it, and luckily, I got my dad to agree with me.” She peels her running jacket off. She wears a tiny tank, revealing a tattoo on her shoulder blade: scripted initials that read
CRM.

“You live with your folks?”

“Nah. They live on Long Island. I’m housesitting for some friends of theirs. So, I guess I can’t say you moved into my building, really. But you did just move in, didn’t you?”

We climb down the stairs to street level. I wince a bit. There will be ice when I get home. I say a silent apology to my abused knee. “We’re just here for the summer.”

“And the ‘we’?”

“My boyfriend and my two sons. They’re with their grandparents right now, but they’re excited to be in New York for the summer.”

“Most people escape if they can. To the Hamptons, or somewhere else that’s not so hot with pavement.”

“It’s different from where I’m from, so I like the novelty. I like new adventures.”

“Me too. Grad school is good for that.”

“So, you’re going to be a fashion designer? Like runway and Paris and all that?”

“Hopefully. I love men’s fashion, which some people think is weird. I’d love to do a men’s and women’s line, clothes that fit with both maybe. Twiggy, Mick Jagger, skinny ties. Mod androgyny.”

We come to the front of the Argo Tea, the best spot in the universe as far as I’m concerned. “Ah, sweet relief. This is the only reason I ran today—the promise of a giant iced green tea.”

“I thought you’d be a sweet tea drinker.”

“Really? Why?”

“Your accent is southern, isn’t it? Maybe just a hint of it?” She pulls her jacket back on.

“You’re good. Yeah. A while ago, though. But born and bred south of the Mason-Dixon line, that’s true.”

“Well, Southern Kelly, welcome to New York. Hope you have a great summer. I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you around in the lobby, yes? Maybe we can go on a run together sometime.” She gives a little wave and turns on her heels, leaves the shop before we’ve even ordered. I stand by myself for a second, puzzled.

I thought we were going to bond. Maybe I was too overeager and scared her off.

I get my tea and sit outside, watching the traffic and the people pass by. I’m disappointed—my first New York acquaintance might not turn out to be a buddy. Now it looks like my best shot at a new friend might be one of the doormen.

I guess I’ll be executing the rest of my day alone. I decide to go to a bakery off of Houston Street next. It’s another subway ride, but I want to get off and walk Greenwich Village a little. It’s seemed greener, calmer, and mellower than some parts of the city. I want to get my bearings there a little more. I have a sad moment that no one will be coming with me.

I dig out my phone. I dial Andrew.

“Yes?” He picks up right away.

“I just wanted to say hi.”

“Hi, and happy birthday tomorrow. Are you excited?”

“I’m ready for Tucker and the boys to be here. That’s what I’m excited about. Except that we won’t have the condo to ourselves anymore.”

“We should’ve messed around in the kitchen and living room and study while we had the chance. You didn’t remind me to ravish you all over the house, woman! Damn. I should leave. We could fix that now, before anyone’s home.”

“You need to work. You want to work. This’ll be a big movie for you.”

“What I want is to come home and see you. The birthday girl. The mother of my child.”

“You can’t leave. It’s not even ten a.m. yet. Next week, we’ll hang out on set. It’ll be fun. This week, you work.”

“Fine. At least tell me what you and the little Pettigrew are up to.”

“I ran up on the High Line. It was quiet and just gorgeous. And I met someone who lives in the building. She seemed sweet.”

“Really? Well, that’s good.” He sounds a little skeptical.

“That didn’t sound like a good tone. What?”

“I wonder if she knows who we are.”

“I don’t think so. Do people know we’re in the building?”

“At some point we’ll get sold down the river. A doorman or somebody will tip off the paparazzi. A neighbor, maybe.”

“I didn’t tell her who you were.” I feel a bit defensive.

“I know you didn’t. It just got me to thinking. When location shoots start, everyone will be looking for me.”

So, so many things I never think of. How will the boys react to a media circus outside our building? I’ve been walking from the building to all over the city. Will we not be able to do that anymore? “Will I still be able to go out and run?”

“I don’t think it’ll be a problem. Until they figure out you’re pregnant. Then it might be for a while. There’s always the treadmill.”

Jesus
. I hadn’t thought about that, either. Getting hugely pregnant is enough of an ordeal. Now people will be keeping track of it too? Great. “You’re making all of this sound really fun. Can’t wait.”

“Don’t worry about it. Tucker will be here; he can always go out on runs with you. And you may not want to run that much longer, anyway, depending on how you feel.”

My knee throbs in agreement with him. “I’ll have to do something. I go crazy if I don’t. You’ve not seen me when I don’t exercise. It’s not pretty.”