Cooking dinner had been her idea, not mine. I just asked if she’d spend some time with Andrea; try to make a further connection. We were sitting there in the coffee shop of the bookstore, me trying to ignore the strange jittery sensation in my chest every time she looked up at me with those moss-green eyes. Her eyes have it, no doubt about that. They’re almond-shaped, kind of aquamarine, like jewels that might change colors in the sun. Maybe there’s a little magic behind them, because they sure made something strange happen inside of me.
She has a kind of ingrained gesture of touching her scars, although I doubt she even knows she does it. The marks are noticeable, but I’m betting they’re not nearly so bad as she thinks they are. That’s the problem with Hollywood. Everything’s supposed to be idealized perfection. So what’s a gorgeous woman like Rebecca to do if she’s permanently flawed? Like a chipped vase at Tiffany’s, she’s been shifted onto the clearance rack. Or at least that’s what she probably believes.
Truth is she’s still lovely. Yeah, the pale streaking marks along the left side of her face take something from her looks, especially the one that runs the length of her jaw. Takes some getting used to, talking to her and not staring at them. Can’t deny that. But her eyes, with those dark lashes, and her face shaped like a heart, well it’s been such a long time since a girl’s had me feeling this way.
Of course, Alex always insisted that I was bisexual, but it just felt easier to categorize myself as gay. I never have been one for half-measures about anything. He loved ribbing me when we watched movies, though, because while he scoped the boys, I still watched the girls. That didn’t freak him out, it just made him laugh. Alex Richardson was nothing if not sure of himself about everything—most of all me.
I wonder what he’d tell me now, with this infatuation thing I’ve got going for Rebecca O’Neill. Would he be jealous, as I stand here in the kitchen, pacing around in my polished loafers and sipping my Heineken? Would he remind me that before him, I’d been with plenty of women, especially back in my army days? I think he’d give me a luscious kiss on the mouth and tell me to just relax. That she’s coming to see Andrea anyway, because I asked her to, and that it’s not even about me.
Alex is right; this is not about me. It’s about our daughter, and this stranger who has somehow forged a mysterious link with her. I just hope Andie won’t retreat when she discovers this plan of mine. I’ve been there too many times with her in the past year, on the outside, trying to force my way in. I really can’t handle being there again.
Rebecca shows up with bags of groceries from Whole Foods and a load of fresh spices I couldn’t possibly identify by name.
“I love to cook,” she tells me with a faint grin. She tries to hide her smile most times; I’ve already caught on to that. Her injuries have affected her mouth, so that the left side doesn’t turn up quite right. She tries to hide her face, too, always kind of moving the left side away from me, brushing her hair forward. Maybe when I know her better I can tell her to just relax. Funny, ’cause isn’t that what Alex would have said to me about tonight?
“Where’s Andrea?” She drops the paper bags in the middle of our small kitchen floor, and they thud against the old hardwoods. She glances over the bar, into the den, as I clutch my beer anxiously between both hands like a frat boy at a first mixer.
“She’s not here yet,” I explain, my voice hitching with blatant nervousness. “Um, she stayed at my friend Marti’s house last night, but she’ll be back soon.”
God, I suddenly feel ridiculous, with my freshly combed hair and neatly pressed shirt, like a refugee from some preppy detention camp.
Rebecca nods, and for a tense moment we stand eyeing each other. I clear my throat. “Look, I really appreciate you coming over like this,” I begin. “You know, to be with Andrea. She doesn’t have enough women in her life. I mean, there’s Marti, but…” How can I explain to Rebecca how she’s different than the other women, and not offend her?
She hoists a bag up onto the countertop with a bittersweet laugh. “Michael, I get it.” She begins unloading cheeses and spices and meat, and I get the feeling she’s avoiding looking at me. “Andrea and I have something important in common. You can just say it.” She keeps organizing her ingredients, busying herself too much, like she’s trying to defuse a bomb or something.
“Okay, yeah, you and Andrea do have something in common.”