The Road Trip Rewind

Chapter 13 - Beatrix

Chapter 13

Beatrix

Friday, December 31, 1999

Iopen my eyes to check the nightstand clock for what feels like the hundredth time.

Three on the dot.

There’s no hope for sleep—not after this night, Tom, the tabloid page, everything we might have done, or undone, with that one split second of time. I should have tried harder to getthe page back sooner. He was so far gone, no matter the means, the details would have been hazy for him in the morning.

But now he’ll have concrete evidence.

Rocco and I were real. And so was that article.

I slip my legs out from under the covers, try to sit up without making the bed creak. Rocco is there, just a few inches away. Sleeping, I’m sure. He always did fall asleep straight away—I’d always joked it was just one more superpower of his, that he could remove his mind so completely from everything and everyone else in his day. Like it didn’t matter, at least for those eight precious hours. We hadn’t even kissed tonight when we got back. Like we both knew that was too much, or maybe too little, after this night. But I’d asked him to stay with me again anyway, because I didn’t want to be alone. Not in this strange ’90s world that feels so like our past but also so impossibly different.

I miss my apartment and my age-appropriate clothing, my favorite coffee shop latte, long chats with Sylvie, and life on set, the knowledge that I was finally achieving, creating, existing with a purpose. I don’t miss the way I resented Rocco, the way I toyed with his emotions for my own satisfaction. But everything else, I miss.

“You can’t sleep either?”

I startle, turning to look down at Rocco. “I thought you were asleep. You could always sleep.”

He turns his body toward mine, props his head up on the pillow as he studies me. “I guess even I have my limits. And this night? Exceeded that limit.”

I ease back down against the pillow, level with Rocco’s gaze. “Do you think . . . did we blow up everything? When—if—we make it back, will it be different because of tonight?”

Rocco frowns. “Honestly?”

I nod.

“I don’t have a clue.”

“Me neither. I just keep wondering: What was on the other side of the page? What other information about the future does he have? How much more could we possibly ruin?” It’s the thought that’s been clawing at me every time I shut my eyes.

He rubs a hand over his thickening dark stubble. “Huh. Hadn’t even thought about that. One more fear to pile on the load. Thanks for that. I may never sleep again.”

“At least we’ll be awake together. I could use the company.”

“Yeah?” He gives me a weary smile. “Though I guess I shouldn’t feel too special. I know I’m your only choice right now.”

“No. I’m glad. That it’s you. If I could choose anyone right now, the person I’d want to share this fever dream world with— it would still be you.” The words are out before I can analyze and then overanalyze; they’re true, though. I’m exhausted and terrified and vulnerable to the point of extreme and unavoidable honesty.

Rocco’s staring at me, his eyes like bottomless pools in the darkness. I want to lose myself in them, jump into the water and drown. “I would choose you, too.”

It’s no longer a decision to consciously make, the line in the sand gone now, washed away in the passing of hours, minutes, seconds in this impossible sliver of time. Rocco—his eyes, his laugh, his voice, his touch—he’s the only thing keeping me grounded in this place, in this body that transcends every known rule of the universe.

We reach for one another in the same heartbeat, my palms pressing into the rough stubble along his jawline, his warm fingers skimming up the sides of my waist. I arc my back up to lift my T-shirt over my head, toss it unceremoniously to the floor, and then dive back in—my lips pressing into his, and my fingertips circling the elastic band of his boxer briefs, slowly, teasing, before I start to tug them down. I pull up to my knees to slip the boxers the rest of the way off, sliding past his knees, his ankles, until he is laid out underneath me, completely bare on the sheets, gazing up with an expression that looks disarmingly like reverence. I’ve seen him naked before, of course I have—in the real ’99, in this version, too. All golden tan skin and taut muscles, long, strong limbs, everything about him long and strong. Pleasantly thick.

But somehow he’s never appeared quite like this before now, like he’s been exposed from the inside out. Arms, eyes, mind wide open.

It’s like he’s accepted that he is, in fact, breakable, and he’s inviting me to give it my very best shot.

“Bea,” he moans, and I’ve never loved the cadence of my nickname more. I’ve never been more relieved to have shed Trixie and now Beatrix, too. I’m still both but I’m also neither, and neither—with him—is exactly who I most want to be. “You’re sure?”

“It’s the only thing in this world I’m sure about right now,” I say, and am struck once again by the sharp edge of my own honesty. My own need.

“I have never wanted anyone more.”

His words are like a spell, completely undoing me. My body is all hot racing blood and sparking synapses, feeling without thought. In this moment, I don’t care where we are or why we’re here, what comes next—if we’ll go back to our future, if we have any future at all, together or apart, after everything that’s happened tonight. None of it matters, not now. Just him, this, our bodies coming together, unified and whole for this precious, glittery scrap of time the universe has inexplicably dealt us.

I wrap my thighs around his waist, sliding myself up and down the length of him. He moans again, a deep rumble, reaching his hands up to tug my hair from its bun, running his fingers through the loose ends, then down along my neck. He pulls me in closer, sitting up to meet me in the middle, his lips following his fingers, first pressing against my neck, then making their way down to my collarbones, my chest, his hands moving to gently cup my breasts. I rock against him, and he shudders, gasping, and then flips me onto my back, moving himself to hover above me.

“Your turn,” he says, and then sits back as his fingers skim the edge of my lacey black thong—a spontaneous purchase at Victoria’s Secret on our shopping trip, a just in case, a choice I couldn’t quite explain to myself as I handed over Rocco’s bills to the cashier. “Though these barely count as underwear, they’re so flimsy. I remember you despising these back in the day, no? Said you’d rather go with nothing at all than overpriced floss. Which I recall being thoroughly okay with.” He smiles as his fingers trail along the lace and then down my inner thigh, slow hot circles that encompass everywhere with one exception, making me ache for him even more.

I gasp, my hips arching up on instinct, his thumb grazing against me. An electric surge. “You remembered?” It’s a silly memory, really—my preference in undergarments. And I had adamantly bucked the thong trend with very few wardrobe exceptions. But something about it now, this intimate anecdote that has transcended so many years, so many other women with their own preferences for lacy underthings, or no underthings at all, makes my body burn even hotter.

“Rip them off,” I say. “Get them off me.”

He stops what he’s doing, eyes widening as he seems to drink me in. “You sure?”

I nod, and he grins as he threads his fingers in the lace, ripping through each side with one strong pull.

“That was incredibly satisfying,” he says. “And surprising. You never cease to surprise, you know that?”

I can barely pull myself together enough to nod.

He gives one last sturdy tug to each side, and they’re gone, blessedly gone. Nothing left between us as he gently spreads my legs farther apart, palms burning against the tops of my thighs. He lingers there for a few minutes, his fingers teasing, exploring, rubbing, until I am frantic with need for all of him. I motion wordlessly in the direction of those foil packets, relieved Rocco had such amazing foresight. No ’99 slipups for us.

He jumps up and readies himself as I watch with great interest, and then he’s back on top of me, and I am more than ready, too. I tilt my hips up and he pushes inside, one swift thrust that leaves me calling out for more. I hear myself cry out his name then, and he whispers “my Bea” as he leans in to hold me in his arms. He rocks into me again and again, and I wrap my arms and legs around his back as we go, bind him in as close as possible.

The days, the years, they all break apart, strands of time free and untethered.

I let go of the strings, let go of everything but Rocco. We float away, together.

* * *

I know that he’s gone, even with my eyes still closed.

It’s too cold.

I’m an unpaired baby spoon.

No warm arms curled around my shoulders, no chest pressed up tight against my back, no second heartbeat thumping close to mine. I stretch my hand out over to where he should be, and the sheet feels cool.

He’s been gone for a little while then.

I open my eyes to take in the room, still dim in the early morning, just a soft splinter of light playing between two thick drapes. The top sheet is twisted around my legs, the duvet half off the bed. My clothes from the party are draped carelessly on the lone chair in the room, my jacket and purse on the floor, alongside last night’s T-shirt.

None of his things seem to be here. His party shirt, pants, underwear gone.

He panicked and left, clearly. To his room, to anywhere else that isn’t here, with me.

I shouldn’t be surprised—we’re here, literally watching history repeat itself.

But I still am.

Because even without any promises, no reassurances or grand proclamations made, I now had expectations, didn’t I? Expectations that had snuck up on me. Let themselves in, entirely of their own volition.

I feel the tears before I’m consciously aware of the fact that I’m crying. Thick and fast, streaming down over my cheeks. I realize now, too, just how naked I am, and tug the sheet over my shoulders, curling up inside it like it’s my cocoon. The sheet smells like Rocco, like us, sweat and sex with an undercurrent of cheap motel detergent and White Tea and Ginger.

Just as I’m about to really lean into my pity party, swiftly passing through the stages of sadness and disappointment to claim my well-deserved rage, the door swings open.

I scream.

“Bea?” Rocco says, stepping into the room, a cup of coffee in each hand, along with a brown paper bag. “Shit, I’m sorry I scared you. I wanted to slip back in before you woke up.”

“You weren’t leaving me,” I say, and the shudder of relief that passes through me is nearly as euphoric as my climax during our early morning foray. Nearly. I’m not sure anything could ever quite compare.

“Leaving?” He walks over and puts the cups and bag down on the nightstand next to me, then sits on the edge of the bed. “You thought I, what? Just walked out on you?” He’s studying me with a deep frown.

“No. Well, yes. I don’t know? I didn’t know what to think, honestly. This morning was . . . unexpected. Everything about what’s happening here is. We haven’t talked about any of it, and I guess the weight of that hit when I woke up and you weren’t here.”

“The weight of what exactly?”

“What we’re doing? Or not doing, I suppose. What we are and aren’t saying. We had sex, but I’m also a fully grown adult woman, and the rational part of my brain accepts that sex is sometimes just that. Sex. We have a history, yes, but a dusty one. And it didn’t exactly wrap with a happy ending, so . . .” I shrug. The sheet slips, an unintentional nip flash, and I tug it back up, tucking it securely beneath my arms. “I suppose what I’m trying to express, and doing quite poorly at, is that I realized you might have left. And that I have no clue what you’re thinking or feeling about any of this. Or at least about me. Because the rest of this—” I wave my hands around the room, this place, the fucking ’90s, and my sheet, of course, slips again. “Damn disobedient sheet,” I mutter, yanking it back up. “As I was saying, the rest of this, it’s beyond our control, isn’t it? But you and me, the way we feel about one another—or the way we don’t feel—that’s maybe the only real thing we have. The only piece we have any power over.”

“Bea,” Rocco says calmly. A sort of calmness that feels utterly incomprehensible to me—in this time and place, but also on any timeline, in any location, naked in the sheets next to Rocco Riziero.

“Yes?”

“Let me say this clearly, because I don’t want us to have one of those classic rom-com miscommunication moments. God, I hate those kinds of movies. You feel one thing and say another, and I feel the same thing you’re feeling, but also say the exact opposite. We get mad, we go our separate ways, and then, if we’re lucky, we both come full circle and realize we were a bunch of dipshits who should have just been honest in the first place.”

“Rocco?”

“Yeah?”

“Please get to the point. This is brutal.”

“Right. Yes.” He pulls his legs up on the bed, leaning against the headboard so we’re side by side, shoulders touching. “So, in plain terms to start: I don’t regret any of what happened between us, not in the slightest. I’m actually pretty damn delighted it happened. And I hope it happens again. A lot.” The room is suddenly twenty degrees too hot; I am a swirl of sweat and steam beneath my sheet. “Because I like you, Bea. I really, really like you. I like your incredibly pointy wit and your unfailing arsenal of smirks. I like how much you fight for yourself and for your dreams. I like that you have more layers to peel away than any onion I’ve ever come up against in my kitchen—and yes, before you say it, I do like to cook, and no, I do not have a live-in chef.”

I laugh because he’s exactly right. I was very tempted to make a crack. He knows me uncannily well.

“I like the way you laugh, exactly like that, and only when you really mean it. I like everything about you, really, on this timeline, and I suspect on every other possible timeline, too. And I’m pretty certain, looking back at us now, seeing how you made me feel firsthand . . . I was a total ass, to not put two and two together sooner. I should never have done what I did, Bea. And not just because it was a selfish thing to do to any woman. That, too, yes. But specifically to do it to you, because I think we could have been something special if I hadn’t imploded everything. Or we already were something special, but I was too thickheaded to wrap my head around it. And maybe we’re here, caught up in some impossible snag in the universe, because . . . we still can have that. It’s not too late for us. Or maybe it’s random that we’re here, but this is our silver lining. Either way, it’s the same for me. I want this. I want you.”

It’s arguably the most perfect monologue, in content and execution, I’ve ever witnessed, in real life or on the screen. Ten out of ten, no notes.

I’m thinking so many things, feeling so many things. Most of them good. Tinged with anxieties, of course, because what is romance, especially in the early phases, without anxieties? But of all the options, what comes out of my mouth is: “If those were your plain terms, I’m desperately curious to hear the fancy explanation.”

He laughs. Hoots, really. “That is the most Bea Noel response possible. Part of your appeal, obviously. But you still don’t get to avoid the real talk. Remember what I said? No rom-com miscommunication for us. There’s a reason I don’t do those movies, and it’s not just because there’s an inordinate number of shirtless scenes. It’s all just so painfully avoidable. Pure torture, really.”

“I like you, too,” I whisper.

“Say that again? Couldn’t quite hear it from all the way over here, a good six inches from your lips.”

I lift my hands up to cup both sides of his face, look him dead on. “I like you very much. And I also have no regrets. Well, I may regret the events of the party, the car ride . . .” I shake my head, dismissing the thought of Tom, the article, worries for another moment. “But with you and me? None. This time with you here has been the most outrageously bizarre gift of my life. I don’t understand what’s happening to us or why, but I do believe that you’re real. This is real. The only real thing we have. And sure, I’m mildly terrified because I’m not in the mood to have my heart broken, now or ever again. Because of what happened with us in the past, yes, but also because after my divorce, it’s harder to be . . . optimistic about the long-term for any romantic connection. But right now? I feel hopeful. I feel strongly enough about you to try. I’m not sure this is what the universe intended for us to realize, but I do know it’s the takeaway I choose.”

Rocco leans in, closing those six inches, and presses his lips to mine. So gently. It’s as much a whisper as it is a kiss. We stay like that for a moment, eyes locked, neither of us moving. Not pushing further. Because in the moment, this kiss is more than enough. It’s everything I need.

“Do you think,” Rocco says, his sweet coffee-laced breath hot on my lips, “we’re here to make us work the first time around? So we don’t waste all the years in between?”

This time when he asks, the answer feels clear. I shake my head, my lips brushing soft lines against his. “No. I don’t.”

He nods.

I lean across his lap to grab one of the coffees. “Your breath smelled so good, I had to have some of my own.” I take a long swig. Delicious creamy latte.

“I got some banana chocolate chip muffins, too. Had to walk a few blocks and try a few cafes, but I was on a mission.”

I smile into my cup. “Thank you.” I take another few sips, close my eyes as the caffeine soaks into my veins. “I don’t think we should change anything about our relationship then,” I start again. “For one, we’ve talked about how dangerous that could be, how much of our lives it could rewrite. You wouldn’t fall out with your brother, a good thing on the surface, sure. But then who knows how that would have changed both of your lives? He could still be with Piper, or back in Hollywood, or married to someone he’s not with on our original timeline. Or maybe we broke up later on, and you found someone new. I found someone new, not my actual ex. You could have kids. I could have kids. Maybe my career path would have changed, and I wouldn’t have written the script, wouldn’t be making Murder in the Books.”

I shake my head. Take another sip. Rocco watches me, waiting for more.

“And besides,” I continue, “say we did somehow keep ourselves together back then, which magically sends us back to our real time again . . . we would miss our whole love story, wouldn’t we? Or maybe we would have lived it in some parallel-universe kind of way, and some alternate version of ourselves would hold those memories. But if we’re going to make this work, I want the real deal. Present and future. Even if that means we both made bad choices along the way, lost time together. We learned. Made our paths. All the shitty side hustles I worked, the disappointing ex-boyfriends—the disappointing ex-husband—that’s all part of it. Maybe we wouldn’t work together now, not without those things.”

“You’re right,” he says. He picks up the brown bag and pulls out an oversized muffin, just as much top as bottom. “About all of it. I can feel it. I just . . . don’t know what that means for us here. What we’re supposed to do; if there’s anything to do. If we’re not trying for a do-over, how do we reset the clock?” He takes a large bite of muffin, top of course, and sighs. Passes it over to me. “Not quite as good as your old favorite, but darn close. I almost thought about driving all the way over to the one by my old house, but A, I didn’t want to be away even longer, and B, didn’t want to have another run-in with my past self. Though I suspect I was still sleeping off the champs fountain.”

I take a bite of the top, too. Swallow. It is pretty good, even if it’s not an exact replica. I pass it back to him, and we finish it that way, bite by bite, top to bottom, not talking.

“While we’re being honest,” Rocco says, brushing the last crumbs off my chin, “there is something I keep coming back to. About our past. Something I don’t quite understand.”

“Yeah?” I take his hand from my chin, wrap my fingers around his. He gives a soft squeeze.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your dad? At the time, I mean. If you felt so strongly about me. What stopped you from opening up? Did you not . . . trust me? To be supportive enough of what you were going through, or to take it seriously enough, or . . . what? Because I’m trying to make sense of that.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t know. I did trust you. But it was hard for me to talk about it to anyone, and mostly I just wanted a new life for myself. A place where no one saw me as William Noel’s daughter. Not the bestselling author, not the suspected murderer. I did want to tell you—it almost slipped out a few times. But the longer I went without mentioning it, the harder it felt to casually drop it in. And then when things ended between us, I’d felt justified in keeping myself closed off.”

“But it’s that exactly,” he says, his voice extra gentle. “Because maybe if I’d known, things would have been different. Maybe you wouldn’t have ended up at the Roxy party. And maybe I still would have gone, and I’d have made the same bad decision. Or . . . maybe I wouldn’t have. Maybe telling me, opening up like that, would have made things different between us. Stronger. We’ll never know. It was just such a big piece of your life at the time, and you . . . said nothing about it. I was thinking about that last night, when I couldn’t sleep, trying to remember anything about your family at the time. I drew a total blank.”

The weight of it hits, what Rocco is saying—because I’d never thought about that side of it before. I only thought about the consequences of opening myself up, the risks instead of the benefits. Maybe I did hold him at arm’s length. Maybe telling the truth could have been enough to change everything.

“I’m sorry,” I say, looking down at the crumpled bed sheets. “I should have tried to be more open. It wasn’t anything you said or did, not at the time. You made me feel good. And I needed that. Simple, easy good. But that’s not what a real relationship is.”

“Hey.” Rocco nudges my chin up with our interlocked hands. Looks me in the eye. “Don’t apologize. Like you said—maybe we needed all the mistakes to get to this place. You and me, in actual working order together. I was just thinking . . .” He trails off, though his eyes only become more focused as whatever thought he’s having takes form.

“What?”

“Maybe if there’s something that could or should be different, it’s . . . about your dad after all.”

Every one of my senses sharpens; the room spins, everything around me suddenly in hyper focus. “How? What do you mean?”

“I’m not totally sure, to be honest. It’s a new thought. Half-baked. And I’m not saying it will change our circumstances, jet us back to the future or anything. I don’t know that it’s any kind of solution or ticket out. Like we said when it first came up—LA, our paths here, that feels most likely to be the fix, if there is one. But maybe that . . . doesn’t matter now? Or it doesn’t matter as much as this. Because if we’re here, and we’re not trying to mess with things at the Y2K party tonight . . . you should take the chance, Bea. See your dad again. Before . . .”

Before he dies.

On the first day of the new millennium.

I check the clock, do the mental calculations: eight hours of driving to get to Tucson, best case, plus some time for bathroom and food breaks. We should be there well before midnight—and whatever will or won’t happen for us when the clock strikes twelve and a new year begins.

Like Rocco said, seeing my dad probably won’t get us out of here.

But at this point? With no other better ideas about how to redo the night?

I don’t really give a damn.

Dad.

I’m jumping out of the bed then, tearing through my piles of clothes until I find the sweater and jeans I arrived in; it gives some comfort, this reminder of the woman I’ve become. I scrounge around for my underwear from last night, remember it’s in scraps, littered like black-lace confetti around the room.

“So, we’re doing it then,” Rocco says, handing me the last clean pair of new underwear from my stash on the bureau.

“We’re doing it,” I say, giving him a quick peck on the lips as I grab the underwear from his hands. “We’re going to Tucson.”