From the moment Jared made his escape from me down the hall, his attitude has been aloof and very unlike him. During lunch he barely looks at me, engaging with Shelby instead as she gushes on and on about her tower and the kittens. His face is animated and smiling as they discuss what to name the kittens, and how much she loves everything about the tower. And the more they talk, the more like shit I feel about what I said to him. I have to face it...once again I've opened my mouth and behaved like an idiot.
While we eat veggie burgers with a side of tabouleh salad—first time for me eating either one and I find them odd but surprisingly delicious—Constance's eyes flit between Jared and me, so I know she's picked up on the distance and tension between us.
So does Shannon when he appears for a bite to eat. "I was in the studio," he explains when, desperate for something to say, I ask where he's been.
"I haven't seen the studio yet. Where is it?" I ask.
"There's a big soundstage on the north end," Jared replies shortly, not looking at me, but at his plate, before meeting Shannon's eyes across the table. "I'd like to spend the rest of the day in there, too. I had some songs I was working on before I left for Arizona, and I think I've finally figured out the bridge for Dawn Will Rise. I'd like to play around with it."
Jared and Shannon launch into a music discussion from that point. I look away and sigh inwardly before rising from the table to carry my plate to the sink. I've fucked up. I've fucked up bigtime. I just don't know how to make it right without carrying the burden of what could possibly be another lie.
***
That night, no one's in the house except Jared, Shelby, and me, Shannon and Constance having left a few hours ago. Shelby's in bed with the two kittens curled up with her, and I'm up in her room with her as she tells me all about meeting Jimmy's son Tyrell. The two of them hung out for a few hours in the tower, played with the kittens, ate snacks, and played video games on Shelby's new Playstation. With his big dark eyes, ready grin, and impeccable manners, he is his father in miniature.
"He's really nice," Shelby says now. "He's going to show me around school and introduce me to his friends. He told me all about his teacher, Mrs. Bryce. Maybe I'll have her, too."
I pinch the bridge of my nose between my finger and thumb. School? In the Hollywood Hills? My God, the students that go to Ty's school are comprised in good part of celebrity and other wealthy people's children. In contrast, Shelby has exactly two pairs of jeans, neither of which are in good condition, and three t-shirts. One pair of hiking boots, and a few changes of underwear. My daughter will be laughed out of the place. Or worse, bullied mercilessly.
But she can't not go to school. She's already missed several weeks of her fifth grade year, and to keep her out for the duration of our stay at Jared's is out of the question. Not to mention illegal, and the last thing I need is another black mark on myself. I have a few hundred dollars; I'll find a thrift store. Surely there must be one somewhere in the area, and given the neighborhood, their cast-offs are probably top-end designer labels.
As I say goodnight I turn off Shelby's bedside lamp using the wall switch, and the moon and hundreds of stars on the ceiling instantly glow with ethereal light. "Oh, wow," she whispers. "Mom, you gotta come here and see this. Lay on the bed with me."
I come back and lay beside her, and I instantly realize what's got Shelby so enchanted. Looking up through the branches of the silk-leaved trees at the stars reminds me of the many nights spent in the wild with her, when we'd lay on our backs in a clearing and stargaze. I look up at the heavenly spectacle over our heads and my throat tightens, knowing without a doubt that Jared had this done for Shelby to bring a bit of her home to L.A.
"Mom?" Shelby snuggles against me.
"Yeah, kiddo?" I murmur, wrapping my arms around her.
"Why does Dad hate black people so much?"
I rub the space between my eyebrows and sigh. "Your dad is one of those people who doesn't like anyone who looks different, believes different, and thinks different from him. He doesn't agree that differences are what make people interesting and awesome."
"He'd be really mad if he knew I made a black friend. But I don't care. Ty's really nice. So is his dad."
I nod in the darkness. "They are."
"I wanna stay here forever," Shelby whispers. "I don't want to go to Mexico. I don't wanna go back to Minnesota, either. I love Jared and his brother and his mom. I have a new best friend, too. Can't we please just stay here?"
***
After Shelby's asleep, I leave the tower and make my way toward my room for a shower and sleep. My bathroom is a dream; big, with a huge walk-in shower stall tiled in real ceramic tiles of peach and blue, fluffy towels neatly folded on a rack next to it, and an enormous marble vanity. I marvel all over again at the work Flora DuSchene and her team put into these rooms, and once more feel a surge of self-loathing for the way I came off so rude, dismissive, and ungrateful to Jared for all he has done for us.
That's enough to change my mind about bed. After showering, I pull on my one clean t-shirt, which I washed at Constance's, and a pair of soft blue pajama pants she's lent me.
As I get dressed I look at myself in the full-length mirror on the wall and sigh. I've lost weight I can ill afford since leaving Minnesota. I'm not gaunt by any means; I have too much of an athletic build to be a stick-figure like...well, like Katia...but I can tell I'm not in the shape I was in even three weeks ago. I definitely need to start working out again and getting more protein. Good luck with that in a strictly vegan household, I think sourly.
Then I realize I'm being a bit unfair. First, Jared never said Shelby and I have to be vegans too. Second, there's more than one kitchen in this place. There are several, in fact. If he doesn't want meat cooked in the main kitchen, I'll cook it in another. And third, Jared's sure not lacking in protein. Not with that perfectly sculpted masterpiece of a body.
I know I'm stalling. I also know my mind's heading down a path it shouldn't. I leave the bathroom and set off in search of Jared. It's not that late, before midnight, so I'm quite sure he's up. Besides, there's no way he'd be able to maneuver himself down to the floor on that mattress, not without hurting himself, anyway. But I also imagine he's stubborn enough to try. That thought puts speed in my steps.
I knock on his bedroom door, and when there's no answer, I slowly open it. The light is on, but the room is empty.
Shutting off the light, I continue toward the front of the house. He may still be in the studio where he holed up with Shannon since after lunch, not even coming out for a delightful vegan stir-fry dinner which Constance also prepared. Shannon ended up bringing a plate for Jared back to the studio, saying his brother is deep into work and doesn't wish to break concentration. Constance accepts that excuse as nothing out of the ordinary, and perhaps it isn't. I don't know Jared well enough to say. I helped clean up the kitchen and then spent the rest of the evening with Shelby.
From the direction of the living room that houses the El Capitan painting, I hear something. A clink, like glass against glass. I turn and head for the archway and the dim glow casting shadows into the hall outside it.
Jared's half-sitting, half-laying on the red couch, broken leg propped on a black lacquer table pulled up against it. He has a glass in his hand and he's leaning his head against the back of the couch. A pad of paper rests against his other leg, and a pencil in his other hand. Across the room the blinds have been drawn back, and he's staring out into the night.
For a moment I lean against the archway, just looking at him. He's in profile to me, but even with that limited view I can tell he's deep inside himself, lost in thought. I should leave him alone, but something compels me to stay, and also compels me to announce my presence and break whatever deep place he's gone to.
"Hey." I speak in barely above a whisper, but my voice seems inordinately loud as it carries into the room, and for a split second I regret intruding into the silent peace in which he's enveloped himself. I'm aware it's a rare commodity for him.
Jared looks my way. "Hi," he responds. His tone is still that cool, disengaged one from earlier. "Still up? Or can't sleep?"
"Still up." I pad into the room. "I...I wanted to talk to you." I approach the sofa, and Jared watches me unblinkingly as I sit carefully on the edge of the other section. "What I said earlier. It came out wrong. I didn't mean it the way it sounded at all. I was rude, and—"
"Lanie." Jared leans forward and sets his water glass on the table next to his leg. "Don't ever apologize for stating how you feel."
I clench my hands together tightly. "That's just it. That's not how I feel. Not really."
"Okay," he says slowly. "Then how do you feel?"
I shrug and my hands continue wringing themselves. "Out of my depth. Insecure and a little scared and a lot intimidated. Not knowing how or if I can adapt long-term to a life so different than anything I've known before." I look down unseeingly at a spot between my bare feet, but I can still feel his gaze on me. "I'm used to doing for myself and my daughter."
"Then that's all you had to say." Jared's hand comes into my view and covers my own. I watch his thumb stroke the back of my hand. "I guess I was a little presumptuous, having those major renovations done, but it seemed like the right thing to do, and I wanted to do it. You've seen this place...it's not very warm or home-like. And Flora was so excited to do it; being a Minnesota girl herself, she knew just how to design Shelby's bedroom with that whole northwoods theme."
I look up in surprise. "Flora's from Minnesota?"
"Yeah. Didn't Magda tell you that?"
I shake my head. "What part of Minnesota?" I ask, thinking probably the Twin Cities. In all my travels, every native Minnesotan I've met is from the metro area.
"I can't remember. Somewhere way up north. I can't remember the name of the town but it's closer to Canada than to Minneapolis." He looks thoughtful. "I think it starts with Soo-something?"
My mouth drops open and my eyes widen. "Soudan? Is it Soudan? There's a family of DuSchene's there who own and operate a hunting and fishing retreat like ours. That's not far at all from our place!"
Jared frowns thoughtfully. "Soudan sounds right. These DuSchenes that you know—are they Native American?"
"Yes!" I say excitedly. "French Canadian and Ojibwe!"
Jared gives me the first smile I've seen from him since shortly after getting him home from the hospital. "That must be her family, then. Small world, indeed."
"Wow, I guess," I marvel. "I can't wait to meet her."
"She actually is in Minnesota now, she left yesterday, and she'll be back in about a week, I think," Jared informs me. "I know she wants to meet you and Shelby, too, and see what you think of her work."
"What I think of her work?" I shake my head. "I have no words to really describe what she's done. It's amazing. She's truly gifted."
"Yeah, she is. I'm having her head the renovations on the rest of the house whenever I get around to actually doing them." He looks around the big living room. "It won't be much. I mean, I don't want some fancy Hollywood showplace. That's not my style. I like comfortable, but I'm about minimalism." He turns to me again. "I always have been, really, but even more after experiencing what someone as resourceful as you can do with just your bare hands and that wealth of knowledge." He gently taps the side of my head. "To be perfectly honest, Lanie, you might feel like you're out of your depth and out of place in Tinseltown, but I believe you and I are a lot more alike than you realize."
I'm not entirely sure how that's possible, but I nod anyway. "So..."I gesture at the sofa. "Are you going to try to sleep here tonight instead of on your bed?"
"Yeah, I thought it'd be easier, but I don't know. I tried to lay down but I can't get comfortable." He grimaces. "My leg hurts like a motherfucker tonight, and it's not only that. My back's flaring up now, and so is my hip."
"What's wrong with your back and hip?" I ask as, wincing, he shifts around a little.
"Arthritis in my hip," he replies and scoffs. "Can you believe that shit? And I have had back pain for a while now. From touring, mostly." He shifts and grimaces again. "Muscle spasms, shooting pain throughout the lower lumbar."
"Having a heavy cast on your leg is probably aggravating both," I nod. "Anything I can do? Anything I can help with?"
Jared studies me as a slow smile crosses his face. "Yeah. I think maybe there is, if you're up to it."
***
"Turn over on your side as much as you can," I instruct, pillows in hand.
"It's not gonna be comfortable," Jared grumbles, but he does what I ask, turning over in the big king sized bed. Towels are spread out under him to protect the bottom sheet. The top sheet falls to just below his hips so that the waistband of his silky blue boxers is visible. I lift his casted leg and place the pillows between it and his lower leg. "How's that feel?"
"Better." He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Your bed is nice, Lanie."
Kneeling behind Jared, gazing at his tattooed bare back and the way his beautiful dark hair brushes his shoulders, remembering the last time we were in a bed together, all I can think is, Oh, shit...this isn't a good idea. Not at all.
But Jared's in pain, and I'm pretty good at therapeutic massage, having learned techniques that came in handy when Todd used to request one for a strained muscle. And very often, those massage sessions that started with pain relief and/or relaxation turned to something else.
I squint my eyes closed, willing thoughts of Todd away. It's Jared I'm giving the massage to, and Jared's made himself clear. He is determined to never cross that line. This is a therapeutic act and nothing more.
Still...my fingers ache to touch him, my hands to slide over that smooth skin, feel the muscles ripple under my fingers.
And so I begin. Using heated massage oil I located where he told me it would be, in his lower level gym—which has a massage table that, with his cast, is useless to Jared right now—I pour some of the fragrant, warm liquid in my hands and slowly, gently, begin to massage his right shoulder, working my way over his deltoid, across to as much of his spine as I can, and then, slowly, I work my way further down.
When I reach his lower lumbar, Jared lets out a quiet sound that's half-moan, half-sigh, and says softly, "Oh God, you're good, Lanie. So damn good."
I gulp and will my hands not to tremble, but it takes some effort. My imagination drifts to another activity in which Jared might moan and sigh with similar praise and I'm unable to control the way my heart picks up its pace, nor the way his oil-slickened skin under my hands seems to radiate enough heat to set my entire body on fire.
My hands should be cramping by now. I have a vague sense that they are, but I keep going anyway. At the waistband of his shorts, I pause, re-oil my hands, and then slip one under the elastic to begin working on his sore hip. As I do, Jared shivers, sucks in his breath and I pause. "Are you okay?" I murmur.
A quiet laugh. "Depends on what you mean by that. On the one hand, I feel fantastic. On the other...well..." he shifts a little and laughs. "I'm getting a little...ah...snug."
It takes me a second to comprehend what he means by that. When I do, it's as if a furnace has been lit in the room. Doing my best to maintain my composure, I ask lightly, "Do you want me to stop?"
"Not at all. Please, don't stop. Not unless you want to."
Okay, then. But isn't this a form of line-crossing? I have no idea and I'm not about to ask and possibly ruin the moment. I focus one hand on Jared's hip, the other on his lower back just above his tailbone, and once more he lets out that soft moan that sends my thoughts and emotions into a complete frenzy that I have to somehow find a way to control.
The moans, sighs, and "So good"s continue. Then, twenty minutes later, I realize that Jared's no longer moving, no longer moaning or sighing or saying anything at all. I lean over and quickly realize why. His eyes are closed, his lips parted just slightly—he's fallen asleep.
Gently I blot any excess oil from his skin with a towel, pull the sheet and coverlet up over him, and then I sit there for a few minutes, massaging my cramping hands and wondering what I should do. Let him sleep, certainly. But—what about me? Do I take his previously claimed spot on the sofa? Or should I sleep with him here in my bed?
Indecision gnaws at me, but fatigue and common sense finally win over. I gently work the towels out from under him before rolling him on his back, positioning the pillows under his leg to support it. Then I go to my bathroom, brush my teeth, and return to my bed.
I slide in between the cool sheets and switch off my bedside lamp. I'm so far on the other side of the king-sized bed that even if I extended my arm its full length, I wouldn't be able to touch Jared.
But I am still all too aware of his presence over there. I can hear his steady, even breathing, and the faintest rustles as he moves slightly. I lay awake staring up into the blackness. I'm glad, so glad that Jared and I have bridged the chasm I caused with my thoughtless, callous words, but I am equally apprehensive about what tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, and all the other tomorrows to come will bring.