Chapter 9 Three Months #4
That put me on the defensive: “Listen here. Jack’s a grown man.
He doesn’t need me or anyone else. I know I hurt him, but he’s getting over it, and he’s doing great things.
You should know that, since you’re the star of his film.
Now whether or not he wants to forgive me is another question, but that’s between him and me, and it doesn’t concern you.
It’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Vivian, but I’ve got to be on my way. ”
She dropped her cigarette, crunched it out with the toe of her shoe, and went inside as I walked away.
When I got home, there were still fifteen minutes left before the broadcast, so I took a shower and put on my pajamas.
I wasn’t in the mood to cook, so I filled a big bowl with cereal and milk and got under a blanket on the couch.
On the screen I saw the same red carpet, black curtain, and security guards that I’d seen in person just an hour before.
The poster for the film flashed on the screen.
You could hardly focus on anything except for Vivian’s eyes.
In front of her was a guy, and she was resting her head on his shoulder.
His hair was dark, his face visible in profile, and from what little I could see, I could tell he was a looker.
Behind them was a setting sun. Simple but effective.
Good going, Jack. He knew how to pick a designer.
I remembered him telling me one time never to overcomplicate things, and he was right: the poster focused on what mattered, the main characters and the title, which appeared below them in curved letters: Three Months.
The camera cut to Vivian, who responded nicely to the interviewer’s questions, the same way she had spoken to me before I revealed my name.
She made a good impression on the screen: direct but polite, a straight shooter.
If she thought something, she said it. And I had to admire that, especially because it was something I sometimes struggled with.
Three more interviews followed, including one with the guy on the poster, but I didn’t pay much attention to him.
I was more focused on my cereal until Jack’s parents appeared on-screen.
Mr. Ross said he was very proud, that his career as a pianist had taken too much time away from his children, but he was glad he could see them more often now.
Mary, standing next to him, didn’t get the chance to open her mouth, and I didn’t catch a glimpse of Mike, Sue, Naya, or Will.
Jack looked uncomfortable during the interview with his manager.
There were fans behind him begging him to turn around, but he ignored them, and I’m not even sure he really registered the reporter’s presence.
He answered the questions absent-mindedly, as though his mind were elsewhere.
More people from the press soon crowded in, talking over each other so that it was impossible to hear clearly.
The reporter asked if he was nervous about the film premiering in the city where he was born. He said no.
“How do you feel? Proud? Worried?”
“Indifferent,” Jack responded.
What was going on with him? His attitude was worrying me, and I couldn’t imagine what his agent was thinking as he kept glancing over nervously. The questions went on:
REPORTER: “How does your family feel about your success?”
JACK: “Ask them.”
REPORTER: “Did you come here alone?”
JACK: “Yes.”
REPORTER: “What about Vivian Strauss?”
JACK: “What about her?”
REPORTER: “You are in a relationship with her, aren’t you?”
JACK: “No.”
REPORTER: “Is there another special someone?”
Joey interrupted them. “Movie questions only, please. He’s not here to discuss his personal life.
” Jack continued responding apathetically to the reporter’s prying: No, the rumors of the film being based on a true story weren’t real.
It was fiction, imagination, not inspired by anything in particular.
Eventually, Jack got pissed and told them to just watch the movie.
Then all their questions would be answered.
Joey could tell things were about to go south, and he smiled and dragged Jack off.
Then the press attacked the producers and everyone else.
None of what any of them had to say interested me, so I changed the channel to my favorite radical makeovers program and watched it till I dozed off.
I opened my eyes to find something else on and heard the door struck the wall. I put on my glasses, assuming the whole gang was back, but it was only Jack. He tossed his keys blithely on the counter. Was I seeing things? He looked like he’d just returned from smoking a cigarette on the roof.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Nice to see you, too!”
He took off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair, struggled to get off his bow tie, finally gave up, and sat down next to me.
I lent him a hand and then made space for him to lie down next to me.
He looked tired. Noticing my empty bowl, he went to the kitchen and got some cereal for himself, then sat down and zoned out to the TV.
Perplexed, I asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be at your premiere?”
“Yep.”
“The movie’s still showing, isn’t it?”
“Yep.”
“You don’t care?” I asked.
“Nope.”
I paused a moment, trying to analyze the situation, and when I couldn’t, asked, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
He swallowed an enormous spoonful of cereal and shrugged. “Is something wrong? You don’t want me here?”
“Of course I do! That’s not what I meant. It’s just… You cut out on your own premiere!”
“No one’s going to miss me. They’re there to see the movie, not me. What’s the point of me being there?”
That sounded absurd, but I couldn’t think of a counterargument, so I said nothing as he wolfed down his cereal, took our two bowls to the kitchen, and walked back, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling his bow tie up over his head.
I wanted to scold him when he wadded everything up and threw it into a chair, but it wasn’t my place.
Anyway, I had other things to worry about, like not staring at his bare torso as he walked back and forth.
That required an Olympic level of effort.
Thankfully (or not), he threw on a T-shirt and changed into some sweatpants before grabbing his cigarettes and going outside to smoke.
He was keeping quiet, and I decided to do the same in case he had something pressing on his mind.
And he must have, because he couldn’t stop fidgeting once he was back inside.
Finally, he turned to face me and asked, “Can we sleep together again?”
“No,” I said, eliciting a shocked reaction. I hurried to correct myself: “I mean, yeah! But this couch is killing my back. If we do it in a regular bed, that’s a different story.”
“Ah.”
He looked down the hall to the room we used to share and considered my offer for a few seconds. Was it too soon? I didn’t mean to pressure him. But then, he was the one who had asked. The tension was killing me. I thought he’d never respond, but finally he nodded.
“I’ll need help moving my things.”
“I’m on it!” I yelped, maybe a little too enthusiastically.
“Easy, now,” he said jokingly. “What if I change my mind?”
“Too late, you’re on the hook!”
I crouched and started opening the drawers of the sideboard in the living room where he’d been storing his things.
I was shocked to find them almost empty.
There were just a couple of sweatshirts and T-shirts and one pair of pants, plus some socks and underwear.
I started making fun of him: “Jack, this is pathetic, you’re famous now and you’ve barely got anything to wear.
Look at this hoodie! It’s been washed so many times, you can’t even see the logo on it! ”
“Sure you can. It’s the Kill Bill poster. Look, it’s perfectly clear!”
“It’s full of holes, Jack. I don’t even think the Goodwill would take it.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this from the girl who used to love to steal my sweatshirts!”
“Yeah, to sleep in, not to go to awards shows and banquets and things like that,” I replied.
Frustrated, I pulled out all the drawers out and dumped them onto the floor. Everything he owned was balled up and in tatters. It reminded me of a crime scene. “Jack, none of this stuff is even folded,” I told him.
“Why should I bother? It’ll just get wrinkled when I wear it anyway!”
I rolled my eyes, grabbed everything I could, and walked off toward the bedroom. When I heard his footsteps behind me, I called back, “I hope you’re not walking in here empty-handed, Jack Ross!”
He stopped and hurried back, fetching his T-shirts and underclothes, and together we sorted everything in front of his dresser.
Inside of it was some more of his old clothing—whether it was fit to be worn was another question—like his Pumba sweatshirt and the one with the girl from Pulp Fiction on it.
I turned toward the bed and started folding clothes, and when I looked back, I saw him stuffing them in the drawers by the handful.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You said I needed to put my stuff away!”
“Not like that, though! For heaven’s sake. Now I know how my sister used to feel when I’d make a mess in our room. Just let me take care of it.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were Sue,” Jack said. I pretended to throw a pair of underwear at his face, and he smiled and jumped back, leaning against the bed, where he alternated between watching me work and playing with his cell phone.
I felt satisfied when I was done, and told him so: “In the end, it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared…”
“You’re a neat freak.”
“And you’re a slob. You need some order in your life, not to mention some halfway decent clothes. This is embarrassing.”
“It works for me.”
“What are you going to do when you leave the apartment one day in these rags and they split open out on the street?”