After they returned, we sipped on iced tea and ate chicken salad sandwiches in the formal dining room, making small talk about plans for the summer. Andrea actually got a little animated about going to Casey’s for July Fourth, a nice change from our conversation in the car—but then her face fell when I told her Marti would be bringing her kids. “You guys can swim all weekend,” I promised, and she forced a dark smile. Inwardly I groaned, realizing I’d unleashed the demons again. With her, it’s like walking a minefield, and I never seem to know when I’m going to misstep.
Maybe Rebecca can talk to her again, get her to open up more about the scar. I don’t think it looks that terrible, but I’m not eight years old. And I don’t bear a physical memento of Alex’s death every day of my life. Not unless you count that butterfly tattoo on my shoulder. Ah, but that’s a pure, perfect memory, a reminder of his vivid life. I’ll never forget that sheer look of mischief that danced in his eyes the first time he tugged my T-shirt off and discovered the small monarch on my shoulder. I remember that he laughed, a soft rumbling sound, tracing it with his fingertip. Michael Warner, maybe a little softer than he’d always seemed on the outside.
I wonder what Rebecca would think about my tattoo. The thought pops into my head before I can even stop it, and I rub my shoulder like it’s just been burned, imagining her mouth kissing it, the way Al always loved to do. Almost like the flutter of a delicate butterfly wing, there’s the sensation of feminine lips pressed against my skin, Rebecca O’Neill making love to me, one seductive kiss at a time.
What the hell is wrong with me? Alex deserves better than this. More loyalty. I mean, it’s only been a year. Then how come with as much as I miss him, something feels like it’s starting to change inside of me? Something irreversible, unstoppable.
I’ve been down this road before, and I know what it’s like to feel the sexual pendulum begin to swing. Which is why that unshakable image of Rebecca O’Neill kissing my back, tumble of blonde hair spilling over my shoulder, lithe body pressed naked against mine tells me one thing.
Baby, that damn pendulum has already swung.
Chapter Seven: Rebecca
And so it’s Sunday evening. Which marks one full weekend—and the better part of a week—without a call from Michael Warner. Ever since the Chinese lunch that I’ve come to term The Debacle, I haven’t heard a word from him. I should’ve told him my entire life story when he asked; I knew then that I’d probably offended him, and this whole non-calling scenario only proves that fact. Now I’ll never hear from him again, I think, hoofing it up the steep, winding hill to the garage apartment where I live. My lungs are tight from the three-mile run I’ve just completed, but at least my body’s more relaxed than it was beforehand.
Coming to a stop in front of my garage door, I bend down to stretch, sucking in rattling gasps of air. Despite my asthma, I still run five days a week, but it took a long time to feel comfortable on these secluded side streets of Beverly Hills. I figure that six p.m. on a Sunday evening is about as safe as I’ll ever be, though I doubt I’ll ever feel perfectly secure anywhere on planet Earth again.
Just yesterday in the grocery store I nearly had one of my panic attacks when I noticed a guy staring at me. He had stringy long hair and beady eyes, and generally creeped me out, so I hurried past him, feigning interest in a row of paperbacks until I sensed that he had moved along. Later, he approached me in the checkout line and told me he watched About the House in reruns every day and loved it. “I’m a really big fan, Rebecca,” he told me in an oily voice, black eyes bulging wide. I just smiled and stared at the scorpion tattoo on his forearm.
Once upon a time, I dreamed about being recognized in public like that; thought it would be the benchmark of true success—although, admittedly, scorpion tattoos weren’t factored into that plan. Now all I want is complete anonymity. The syndication payments from the show are nice, but I wouldn’t mind giving them up—not if it meant watching the series slip below the pop-culture horizon and into permanent obscurity.
Even then, I wonder if it would ever really die, especially considering the rabid Internet base that still supports it. There’s fan fiction, multimedia outlets, and online sites that ask me for interviews every now and then, which I always politely decline. And of course all this ongoing devotion—combined with my self-imposed seclusion—only breeds more Rebecca O’Neill rumors. Theories that I’m actually dead, and the execs covered it up by settling some massive lawsuit with my family.