Chapter 67
Tom had to leave in two weeks.
He had to be back in Los Angeles for the movie premiere, even though he still wasn’t planning to go to the premiere itself,
and then on to New York City for promo. They’d booked him on Good Morning America and The View. And they wanted him to do one of those YouTube shows where you eat chicken on camera. He’d told his new publicist—Michelle—that
he’d rather eat gravel.
He brought his suitcase home from his dad’s house. And a box full of clothes that Cherry didn’t trust because she didn’t know
their provenance. (The Pendleton sweater was a gift from his sister.) He still had things to bring home from Los Angeles.
He’d bought a car there. And he had to break his lease in Pasadena.
Tom had phone calls all the time. And Zoom calls. He took them in the living room, with Stevie lying at his feet.
The meetings made his eyes go flat and faraway. Sometimes he still looked that way when Cherry got home from work.
Cherry almost didn’t go back to work . . . She certainly didn’t have to. And Tom being home made every day feel like a holiday. “The trains will run without you,” he told her that first Monday
morning when her alarm went off.
It was tempting . . .
But work had been Cherry’s lifeline for the last year. She wasn’t letting go now.
Besides, what would Cherry do in the house all day? Watch Tom work? Make curtains? (She’d already run out of windows.) The thought made her itch.
The truth was—Cherry had spent so long worrying about what she’d do if Tom got fired, she couldn’t quite trust the freight cars of money he was earning now. She needed to work.
On those nights when she came home and Tom’s eyes had gone dead, Cherry would crowd him against the wall or crawl on top of
him where he sat, kissing and nosing at him, looking for signs of life. If his wrist had fit into her mouth, she would have
held it between her teeth.
Cherry still didn’t know how to rescue him, but she wanted him to know she was there.
Also, she still didn’t have any pride. She hadn’t found any over the last year. Cherry loved Tom too much, and she showed
him too much.
And once she’d decided to forgive him, her heart was wide open to him. (Probably this was why she’d held him off for so long.)
They didn’t put anything back on the shelves or the walls. Tom didn’t bring home the rest of the boxes from his dad’s house.
They were in an in-between place, and they both knew it. They were both afraid to jinx it. They ignored the empty spaces.
Tom bought new sketchbooks and left them on the coffee table and in the bathroom. Cherry watched him doodle while he talked
on the phone.
He drew Stevie mostly. Walking on two legs and wearing clothes. Taking Zoom calls. Applying to college.
Sometimes he drew Baby—doing something that Cherry had been doing, but doing it more comically than Cherry ever would. Cherry
dropped half a plate of garbanzo-bean spaghetti, and Tom drew Baby with spaghetti in her hair and on her nose.
Sometimes he drew himself. Underwater. Except for one hand holding up the phone.
They both got antsy when it was time for Tom to pack. Cherry had watched him pack so many times. When he’d first started traveling, she used to help him.
“You should take something to wear to the premiere.” Cherry was sitting on the bed next to his suitcase. “In case you decide
to go.”
“I’m not going.” Tom was standing in front of the suitcase, folding his fancy cargo pants.
“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience,” she said.
“If I can help it, this whole thing will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
Cherry looked down at the suitcase. “Do you have clothes for the interviews?”
“I have a stylist.”
She made a disgusted face. “A stylist?”
Tom was smiling at her. “My personal stylist wasn’t answering my calls.”
“I guess you didn’t need me . . .” Cherry said sadly. “You’ve looked really great in all your interviews.”
“I’ve looked like I have a stylist,” he corrected. “She always brings three options—” He tilted his head at Cherry. “You want
me to FaceTime you and let you pick?”
Cherry sat up. Excited despite herself. “Yeah.”
Tom smiled at her. Fully. Then a cloud of anxiety moved over his face. “I know I haven’t always called home . . . as much
as I should.”
She nodded. She remembered.
He was looking in her eyes. “It wasn’t the same as being home, and I always felt like I may as well just wait and see you when I saw you.”
Cherry nodded. “I know.”
“But then I was gone for so long . . .”
She took his hand. “So call me.”
“I’m gonna call you,” he said.
She brought his hand to her mouth and kissed it.
Tom frowned. “Though I don’t know what we’re going to talk about.”
She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you’re already talking yourself out of calling home . . .”
“I’m talking myself out of leaving.”
“Go,” she said, kissing his hand again. “Do what you have to do.”
Tom caught her chin and turned her face up to him. “You always say that.”
Cherry nodded. “Should I say something else?”
He looked troubled. “I don’t like hearing you tell me to go.”
Cherry kissed his thumb. It was right there. “I was only ever saying it to be encouraging,” she said. “I hate when you go.”
“Say that,” he whispered.
“I hate that you’re leaving,” Cherry said, looking up at him. “I miss you so much when you’re gone.”
Tom dropped the socks he was holding into the suitcase and stepped closer to her.
“I miss you the second I wake up,” she said, “before I even open my eyes. The room sounds wrong without you.”
He brought his other hand to Cherry’s face.
“Every room of the house is wrong without you,” she said. “I work too much, and I listen to podcasts I don’t care about. And
I talk to Stevie about you. About what you might be doing. And whether you miss us.”
“You talk to Stevie?”
“I tell Stevie everything.”
He laughed.
Cherry tilted her head up farther. She made her neck long. “I hate when you leave. I hate everything that makes you go. I
hate bookstores. And foreign editors. I hate librarians.”
He slid his hand under her jaw, cupping her chin. “Why haven’t you ever said so?”
“I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”
“This makes me feel great,” Tom said. He lifted her head up a little higher. He kissed her.
Cherry put her arms around his hips.
When Tom pulled away, he kept hold of her jaw. He stroked the top of her cheek with his other hand, with his thumb. “I know
you don’t need me,” he murmured. “You’ve got it all under control.”
Cherry shook her head. Careful not to shake him off. “I need you,” she said, “to keep it under control. You’re my other half.”
He kissed her.
“You’re the half with all the vital systems,” she said. “Cooling and life support.”
He kissed her.
“I hate it when you leave,” she said.
Tom pushed her back onto the comforter. He held on to her jaw.
Cherry kicked his suitcase off the bed—with malice.
“I’ll come home early,” he promised, unbuttoning her dress, pulling off her tights.
“Are you going to cancel The View?”
“Fuck The View. Jesse Plemons can go on The View.”
Tom left her bra on. He liked her bras.
“Is he nice?” Cherry asked.
“Who?”
“Jesse Plemons.”
“Yeah, he’s nice.” Tom was pulling his T-shirt over his head. It was a little big on him. All his old clothes were a little
big on him.
“How’d you get so skinny?” she whispered.
He dropped his shirt on the floor. “I only lost twelve pounds, Cherry.” He unbuttoned his pants.
“Are you taking a semaglutide?” She was still whispering.
He lowered his eyebrows. “No. Hey . . .” He kicked his pants away and got into bed. He pulled Cherry close, scooping her up,
jostling her into his arms. “I’m not keeping secrets from you.”
“A whole year went by,” she said. “You got a stylist.”
“I was fucking depressed,” he said. “That’s my secret.”
“Me, too.”
“Here . . .” Tom rolled her onto her back again. “Let me cheer you up.”
“I missed you,” she said.
He kissed the top of her breast—then pulled her bra strap down her shoulder and left it just so. He was art-directing her
cleavage.
“Like this,” she said. “I missed you.”
Tom looked up, and their eyes met. “Cherry, I . . .” He raised himself up onto his knees, between her legs. Away from her.
“Where are you going?”
He rested back on his calves. His cock was springing up under his boxer briefs. He was rubbing his face. “I think I’m trying
to say something.”
She lifted up on her elbows, concerned. “Say what?”
Tom dropped his hands. “I know we’re not . . . back. I know we’re still kind of broken. I want to keep coming home, Cherry.
I want to keep making it better.”
She nodded. There were tears in her eyes. (She wasn’t sure which kind yet.)
Tom seemed to be waiting for her to say something. He looked worried. He looked turned on still. He looked like he’d lost
at least twenty pounds.
Cherry dropped onto her back and reached for him. “So come home.”
Cherry took Tom to the airport.
Well, he drove.
She could hardly find anything to say in the car, her mouth was so full of dread. She wasn’t sure what she was afraid of . . .
She didn’t think that Tom would cheat on her or change his mind. But they were going through the same motions that had driven them apart. Tom was going to be gone for sixteen days.
“Will you come pick me up when I get back?” he asked. “If you’re not at work?”
“I’ll come pick you up no matter what.”
It wasn’t a special promise. She’d always taken Tom to the airport. She’d always picked him up. She’d always hugged him tight
when she got out of the car to let him drive home. It hadn’t protected them.