The Foreseeable Future Page 18

  “Have any of Jackson’s movies gone viral?”

  I sighed. “Not unless he has an adorably deformed cat or something.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I looked out the window. It was so dark, I couldn’t tell where the ocean ended and the sky started. “Did Jackson even like going on those talk shows?”

  Tamora frowned. “I don’t think I ever asked him.”

  “It seems like he’d get tired of answering the same questions over and over.”

  “They flew us out to New York for that interview . . .” She spoke slowly, her words decelerated by nostalgia, and maybe sleep deprivation. “Afterward, we had to catch another flight to London, but it was delayed. There was a problem with the windshield.”

  I could imagine her and Jackson soaring over the Atlantic, sipping champagne and discussing the details of his world tour. Eventually Tamora would get tired and pull one of those silk sleep masks over her eyes. The fantasy was appealing, so I included myself in the scene. I could hear the roar of the engines, taste the bubbles on my tongue.

  I wondered if Seth had ever been on a plane. Was it possible he’d never left the state of California?

  Tamora’s eyelids were sinking shut. “Ready to sleep?” I asked her.

  With a jolt of surprise, and a sigh of relief, she admitted that she was.

  * * *

  * * *

  Before the end of my shift, I logged onto the desktop computer in the break room and pulled up Tamora’s file. As I’d hoped, Jackson Moon was listed as her emergency contact. My pulse raced much faster than it would have, had I been listening to the automated voice-mail greeting of a non-famous person.

  “Uh, hi,” I said after the tone. “Mr. Moon? This is Audrey Nelson calling from the Crescent Bay Retirement Home about Tamora Sinclair. She’s having kind of a tough time adjusting, and I thought it might help if she had some of her stuff from home. Like, a lot of our residents bring pictures, artwork, bedding, or kitchen stuff . . . whatever makes their apartment here feel familiar. So, um, call me back if you can maybe help with that.”

  I was still sitting dumbly in front of the computer, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal, when Maureen entered the break room.

  “Hmm. Okay. What are you doing right now?”

  It was never a good sign when Maureen began her sentences with okay, or when she clasped her hands together, just beneath her chin.

  “Uh, I’m just—” The phone on the desk started ringing. I lunged for the receiver before Maureen could beat me to it.

  Jackson Moon’s voice bore absolutely no resemblance to the drawl that had distinguished him as a country music star. “Hi, Audrey. I just got your message and yes, of course, I think it’s a great idea. I tried to talk her into packing some of her personal effects from the very beginning, but she’s stubborn, as you’ve probably noticed by now.”

  His accent—breathy, fast, with every sentence ending like a question he never wanted answered—was strictly Californian. Jackson continued talking over my nervous laughter. “Listen, I can’t make it all the way up to Crescent Beach this weekend. I’m in Redding, visiting my partner’s parents. But the storage unit is in Arcata. It’s about halfway between you and me. Do you mind meeting me there?”

  I glanced at Maureen, who was standing over me, hands on her hips. Arcata was about ninety miles south on Highway 101. Road trips were not part of my job description, but neither was my friendship with Tamora.

  “Sure,” I said into the phone. “I could do that.”

  As we made a plan, I tried to keep my responses vague enough that Maureen wouldn’t guess my intentions to meet a resident’s emergency contact at a faraway storage facility. Easily done, since Jackson only paused long enough for me to confirm that yes, this Friday at seven p.m. would work fine.

  When I hung up, Maureen lifted a freshly plucked eyebrow.

  “Just confirming a resident’s nut allergy,” I improvised.

  “At four in the morning?”

  My eyes flew to the time on the computer screen. I had somehow managed to forget that my entire life now took place in the middle of the night. But Jackson Moon hadn’t sounded half asleep. He had sounded alert, caffeinated.

  I relaxed, realizing that even though Jackson Moon was famous, he was also Tamora’s family—her next of kin, her fellow insomniac. And I was excited to meet him.

  * * *

  * * *

  After work, I told Seth I had a plan. Maybe I imagined it, but I thought I saw him flinch.

  “What is it?” He reached behind his head to tug on his ponytail. The sky above the parking lot was the exact color of cotton candy. I was pretty sure that, no matter what happened, I was going to associate the sunrise with Seth O’Malley for the rest of my life. It seemed sort of extreme. Most boyfriends were allowed to ruin a song or two; was I really going to give Seth the dawn?

  “On Friday I’m driving down to Arcata to get Tamora’s stuff out of storage.”

  Seth relaxed. He put his hands on my waist, tightening the fabric of my scrubs until it became clear I had an actual body beneath the shapeless uniform. “Arcata’s not that far. I’ll go with you.”

  “Yeah?” It was what I’d wanted him to say. “Should we take your car?”

  “Nah. I like it when you drive.” Seth pulled me closer. My hip bones were pressed against his thighs.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I like being able to watch you when you have to watch the road. And I like the way you always take your sunglasses on and off. And I like it when you pull your left foot onto the seat, and drive with one knee bent.”

  I’d never realized he found my mindless habits so fascinating.

  “Okay,” I said, the word catching as he kissed my throat. “I’ll drive.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Before sliding into the passenger seat Friday afternoon, Seth opened the back door of the MINI Cooper and loaded in a small mountain of supplies—a Frisbee, a football, a package of jerky, a blanket, an umbrella, a six-pack of Dr Pepper, a long-stemmed lighter, a bundle of firewood, and a Duraflame log.

  I couldn’t stop staring at the Duraflame log.

  “What’s all this?” I asked, slowly facing Seth.

  “Snacks, toys, and stuff for a campfire on the way home.”

  My friends and I built fires on the beach all the time, but we never used a starter log. That would have been cheating. Seth noticed my eyes darting to and from the supplies. Sensing my judgment, he said, “It might be dark by the time we get Tamora’s stuff. Could be hard to find enough kindling.”

  I took a breath, wanting to ask whether he’d purchased the Duraflame log fresh from the Qwick Mart, or if he had taken one from his ex-girlfriend’s stash. Cameron must have had extras, left over from her awkward attempt to flirt with Elliot.

  Seth kissed me. “You have the best ideas,” he said, convincingly unaware of my obsession with the log and its provenance.

  “I do?”

  “Yeah.” He pressed his back to the seat and regarded me. “Surprising Tamora with her stuff? It’s nice of you. You’re nice.”

  I wasn’t sure anyone had ever called me nice. It wasn’t a trait Sara, Elliot, or I had ever aspired to possess. Crescent Bay was full of kindness, but we had set ourselves apart from our smiling, surf-happy peers. We had wanted something more than something nice.

  But now, I wondered, what the hell was wrong with nice? I would be good, generous—even sweet—if it meant that Seth O’Malley would look at me like I had hung the moon. Like I didn’t have all this jealousy poisoning my blood, fighting my urge to smile back at him.

  Jealousy lost. I started the car.

  Halfway between Crescent Bay and Arcata, Seth unmasked my darkest secret. He pulled my phone out of my bag and asked if he could put on some tunes.

  “You thin
k you can operate my fancy smartphone?” I teased him.

  “I can probably figure it out.” He sounded adorably unsure.

  Distracted by the switchbacks of the highway, I had forgotten that no one ever scrolled through my music. It wasn’t a problem I normally encountered; Sara commandeered the speakers wherever she went.

  I glanced over at Seth. A look of astonishment spread across his face at the exact moment I realized my error.

  “Give me that.” I lunged sideways for the phone. Seth held it just beyond my reach.

  “Gosh,” he said, “you really love country.”

  I had everything, ranging from the relatively sophisticated—Gillian Welch, Patty Griffin—to the truly, truly embarrassing: Tim McGraw, Kenny Chesney, Lady Antebellum. Songs about pickup trucks, trailer parks, and going to church. Songs about the road. Songs about the bar. Songs that referred to our country as The U.S. of A.

  “This is incredible,” Seth said, scrolling. “You have every single that’s ever been considered for a Country Music Award, and about ten thousand that haven’t.”

  “I’m aware.” I didn’t need a mirror to confirm my cheeks were on fire.

  “Am I the last to know about this?” Seth asked.

  “You’re the only one who knows.” If my parents had ever suspected that our family’s ironic appreciation of Jackson Moon had instilled in me a sincere love of lyrics about dads with shotguns and moms with tears glistening in their uniformly blue eyes, the professors would have given me up for adoption long ago.

  “Amazing,” Seth said. “If we ever get married”—as if we might casually wed someday between night shifts—“you’re walking down the aisle to Lyle Lovett.”

  I laughed. “Deal.”

  “How come you don’t have any Jackson Moon songs?”

  I had only ever listened to Jackson Moon in the minivan, wedged between my siblings, Mom and Dad singing along. It would never have occurred to me to listen to “Shotgun Wedding” by myself.

  I just shrugged. “He’s so corny.”

  “Cornier than Faith Hill?”

  Seth pressed play, and “This Kiss” blasted from the speakers, as cloyingly nonsensical as ever. The song was one of my secret favorites. I especially liked the part where Snow White and Cinderella discussed the relative shortage of knights with fast horses.

  Over the next three minutes and fifteen seconds, Seth proved he knew every word.

  * * *

  * * *

  After exiting the highway, we drove through residential streets, passing houses that looked like mine, then houses that looked more like Seth’s. Beyond a field full of cows, mud puddles, and gutted school buses we found the turnoff for Humboldt County’s premiere self-storage facility.

  We parked and got out of the car. Hand in hand we traveled a long, concrete corridor lined with garage doors painted bright orange, searching for Tamora’s unit, number 247. Standing up ahead was a guy clad in neon running gear, his chin dipped toward the phone in his hand. As we approached, I saw he was wearing those amphibious shoes that outlined each toe.

  We had arrived at Unit 247, but Jackson Moon was nowhere to be found.

  Our shadows fell over the runner, prompting him to look up.

  “Hi,” he said, extending his hand. “Are you guys from the nursing home?” His hair was peppered with gray, but he had the lean, ropy body of a teenager.

  “Yes,” I said, confused.

  “I’m Jackson Ross.”

  “Ross?”

  “I took my husband’s name when we got married. As for why Tammy’s so attached to my maiden name, it’s a long story.”

  “Tammy?” I echoed.

  “I know, I know. We call each other by our least preferred identifiers. What can I say? We’re spiteful.”

  Same as on the phone, his voice was devoid of any country twang. He wore no Stetson. He didn’t look like someone who had ever done a shot of Jack Daniel’s or fired a rifle in his whole life.

  Jackson Moon, if he’d ever existed, had definitely retired. Mr. Ross beckoned us into the storage unit, which was crammed with furniture—a green velvet couch, a set of suede chairs, a hat rack—and lifted one box after another from a tower against the wall.

  “I put these together when we were packing up our house,” he said. “I had a feeling she’d send for her stuff eventually. I put in some pictures, her favorite teapot, a Pendleton blanket she always had on her bed, some books, some odds and ends.” He shrugged.

  Seth bent his knees, wrapped his arms around several boxes, and stood like the weight was nothing.

  Jackson cocked his head. “You lift?”

  “Uh, yes,” Seth replied. “You?”

  Jackson smirked. “I just wanted to see if you’d answer that question in earnest.”

  Now Seth looked offended. For some reason, it was me to whom Jackson winked an apology. Taking my hand again, he said, “Thanks for driving all this way. Thinking of her depressed up there, without her favorite things . . . It was beginning to get to me. I’m glad she finally came to her senses.”

  “She didn’t,” I said, following Seth back into the alley. “It’s a surprise.”

  “Ah, good luck with that. She hates surprises.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  Jackson gave me a tight smile and reached to secure the storage unit’s door.

  “So when are you coming to visit?” I asked him.

  “Soon,” he said unconvincingly. “It’s complicated. You probably think she’s my mother, right? That I’m, like, the world’s worst son. But no. Tammy’s an old friend. I helped her transition to assisted living because she doesn’t have any family of her own.”

  Seth and I shared a look, acknowledging Jackson’s assumption that we had no idea who he was, or who he had been. Did he think we were too young?

  “You know,” I said experimentally, “my whole family really loves that album you made in the eighties. Shotgun Wedding? We always listen to it on long drives.”

  Jackson Moon’s face darkened. Now, in his sharp suntanned features, I could see the brooding country star Tamora had made of him.

  “That album is trash,” he said, as if reasserting the verdict of an argument he’d won years ago. Dramatically, he turned on the heels of his high-tech running shoes. Seth and I watched as Jackson moved west down the shadowed alleyway. The sun was sinking into the square of sky framed by two rows of storage units.

  “I guess he probably didn’t have an affair with Dolly Parton,” I said.

  Still gripping the boxes, Seth looked at me, confused.

  I shook my head. “Sorry. Inside joke with my brother.” For a second, I missed Jake as much as I did when he was away at school. Since moving in with Mom, my brother had kept his distance from the rest of us, as if participating in a trial separation of his own.

  “You think Jackson will ever visit the nursing home?” Seth asked.

  It was an obvious question, but my heart sank anyway. Tamora knew full well that Jackson was no cowboy—she had assigned him to the role herself, coached him on his country twang and swagger—but she believed in their friendship. She believed she knew the real Jackson Moon beneath his award-winning performance.

  “Yeah,” I said, “he’ll come.”

  For Tamora’s sake, I had to believe it, too.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  We were still about eighty miles from home when we followed an exit sign for a beach to which neither of us had ever been. Seth gathered all his supplies in his arms and went stumbling fast over the dunes, toward the almost deserted shore. By the time I had locked the car and caught up with him, he was poised to send the Frisbee slicing through the air, straight at my chest, so that I had no choice but to catch it.

  Framed between the white sand and the sky on fire, he grinned at me, hands raised. I threw the Frisbee, forgetti
ng about the horrors of phys ed—the gymful of boys scowling at every girl who had not spent her entire childhood hurtling objects across the backyard. The disc veered a good forty-five degrees from my target, but Seth didn’t mind; he just sprinted to intercept its path. Effortlessly, he snatched the thing from the air.

  As we played, I took subtle steps toward Seth, slowly closing the gap between us until we were just passing the toy back and forth. I pressed it flat against his chest. He seized both my wrists. The Frisbee fell.

  Years ago, Sara had warned me that once I started sleeping with someone, kissing that person would fail to hold its original appeal. Sara had been mistaken. The list of things I loved about kissing Seth was long. His skin smelled like cheap soap, and vaguely woodsy. He never shoved his tongue inside my mouth without first, gently and wordlessly, making the request. And as his hands moved from my face to my waist to the small of my back, they warmed the places they touched, until I was compelled to push him to the ground.

  We stopped short of anything that could be described as sex, because the sun disappeared and the sand became extremely cold. Seth went back to the rocks where he had deposited our campfire supplies and returned with the wood, the lighter, the Duraflame log.

  He built the fire fast. Soon the blaze was hot on my cheeks and bare feet, while cold air gnawed on the back of my neck. Leaning against Seth, I checked my phone. Before we’d left Arcata, I’d taken a second to text my brother, Surprising twist: Jackson Moon has extremely questionable taste in running gear. Also, he’s gay.

  So far, silence.

  “Waiting to hear from your other boyfriend?” Seth asked.

  In his mind, jealousy was just a joke.

  “My brother,” I said.

  Responding to the disappointment in my voice, Seth pressed his lips against my forehead.

  “Hey,” I said, “what was it like when your parents split up?”

  He hesitated. “I was seven.”

  “You don’t remember being seven? When I was seven, Rosie was two. She used to bite my cheek so hard she’d leave teeth marks. Then, before I could run and tell Mom, she’d stroke my face and say, No worries, Audrey.”