Part Four
Part Four
Michael was both everything and nothing I remembered. He was charming, funny, gentle and intelligent. He was handsome and modest, shy and reserved. When the paparazzi snapped away at our reunion - a warm hug, that I made sure to lengthen - he tried his hardest to guard my face from the onslaught of flashbulbs. I pretended to drop my purse, so I could duck out of his grasp and guarantee the paps a clean shot of my profile.
I didn’t want it to be unclear at all who it was.
He was also confident in a way that he hadn’t been before. It seemed to flow out of his pores, and I wondered at him as I swirled my glass of mineral water. I stared into its clear depths, listening to him speak of his new role and thinking about how strange life was, how transient.
My first date with Rob had been in this restaurant. I actually had not chosen that - I wasn’t that cruel. It just happened that it was one of the more popular, upscale restaurants in Portland, and we had surprisingly little choices. I stared at the booth in the corner, the booth that Rob and I had sat in that night, nearly a year ago.
I remembered with a faint smile that the server had blanched when Rob had ordered a cheeseburger. The server had suggested maybe a prime rib sandwich, instead? But Rob was adamant - that was the thing with him, when he knew what he wanted he wasn’t going to stop until it was his. He was patient and persistent and unbelievably charming - a deadly combination.
“Kristen?” Michael’s voice snapped me back to present-day, and I drew my eyes away from the couple that were seated in the booth that had been ours.
“Hi,” I said, laughing and bringing my hand up to my hair. “Sorry, I spaced.”
“It’s the THC, I suspect,” he said cheekily, mimicking lighting up a bowl.
“Stop!” I laughed, swatting at his arm. He caught my hand in his fingers, and my mind went to that weird girlie place where it analyzes the difference between boyfriends. Rob’s fingers were long and thin and nearly feminine; Michael’s were short and stubby, and a little too soft to be masculine. I squeezed his hand with a smile, and let go.
We were nearly all the way through our entrée before I was approached by a girl of about twelve. I gave her my autograph and smiled as she took a picture of us with her cell phone. But that, as always, set off the Domino effect - more people began to crane their necks to see what the commotion was, and when I started hearing things like Twilight and Bella, I knew it was time to go.
Michael had thrown a hundred dollar bill on the table before I even started to get up. I smiled my thanks and he guided me out of the restaurant with his hand on the small of my back. Outside, the paparazzi had grown bold enough to swarm outside the door, and my name was suddenly being shouted from every angle as I threw up my hand to shield my eyes from the bright popping lights.
I turned back to say something to Michael along the lines of get me out of here, but at that moment I tripped on someone’s foot and pitched backwards. His arms shot out to steady me, and he was suddenly holding me in an intimate dancer’s positions - we were dipped.
The flash bulbs went even wilder. Michael’s name was suddenly mixed in with mine, and I heard the word ex-boyfriend being muttered like a swarm of angry bees about to take flight. I hopped out of Michael’s arms as quickly as I could, smiling at my clumsiness. I think Michael reached out to take my arm, but I crossed them over my chest and stalked towards the car.
We spent another hour or so together, and I would have enjoyed his company greatly if I could have stopped thinking about Rob’s face when he would see the pictures of Michael and I locked in a lover’s dance.
*
Two nights later, I was about to slide into bed when there was a frantic sort of knocking on my door. I stalled, confused. Who would come around at this hour?
It was Nikki, of course - she couldn’t even wait for me to get to the door before opening it herself with the key I left under the mat. “Kristen!” she shouted, and I heard her feet hitting the floor heavily. She was running.
“I’m in here,” I called, standing up to greet her. She raced into my room, her face flushed. She nearly fell into my arms as she demanded I turn on the TV. I did as I was told, asking her what her problem was - she shushed me and told me to turn it on channel twenty four.
“And tonight on Access Hollywood, we have Twilight’s Robert Pattinson on his future works, his rising music career, and his public break up with long-time girlfriend and costar, Kristen Stewart…”
I sat down hard on the edge of the bed, the remote falling out of my hand. Nikki sat down next to me, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “It was on earlier, and I’m sorry, but you need to see this…”
I stared blankly at the TV as they showed clips of some of Rob’s newer movies - How to Be, Little Ashes, Parts per Billion - and him talking and laughing with the interviewer. Then, they showed his face going dark and sad, and the words Total Heartbreak panned across the bottom of the screen.
The beginning of the interview went like most do. He looked gorgeous in a grey t-shirt and dark grey pants, his hair groomed and styled in a way I hadn’t seen before. He was funny and charming, flirting a bit with the attractive journalist, before she asked the hard question.
“Now, Rob… have you seen the video of your ex-girlfriend out and about recently?”
I nearly flung myself back, but Nikki put a steadying hand on my face. I breathed in and out rapidly, wondering if this is what hyperventilating felt like.
“Um, she and I, well, we don’t really keep up, so no, I haven’t seen it.” He kept his face politely disinterested, shuffling in his seat. He expected the journalist to move to the next question.
But I knew better.
“Well, we have the clips here… can you roll them, Scott?” Her bright and cheery voice continued as I suddenly filled the screen, with Rob in the bottom corner, his face guarded. The video showed me run up to Michael, lingering in his arms just as I had planned to do. Rob’s face broke just a bit; I saw his eyes crumple in the corners before he pulled his expression back together. Michael put his arm around my shoulder and we laughed as we walked into the restaurant.
His eyes stared at a screen I couldn’t see, and I couldn’t look away from the screen right in front of my face - we were watching the same thing, and I actually had to see the pain I was causing him. I hadn’t bargained for that. I didn’t want this. I wanted to call the most powerful person on my team and demand that woman be fired. But I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t.
Michael and I traipsed back out of the restaurant, his hand on the small of my back, guiding me forward. He was staring at the back of my head intensely, his body language guarded as the onslaught of paparazzi made their way towards us. In the bottom corner of the TV, I saw Rob clench his fists in his lap. I saw myself turn to say something to Michael, saw myself trip, saw him reach out quickly to catch me in his arms. Michael was staring directly into my face, but I was looking away - already calculating in my head that the paparazzi had no doubt caught that moment. I backed out of his arms, and I saw him reach for my hand, but I dodged it and stalked towards the car.
Rob’s picture came back up to the screen full-sized as the video ended, and my face crumpled when I saw his expression. He was looking away from the journalist, from the camera - his eyes were shut and his fist was balled against his forehead. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, like he was battling an intense bout of stomach flu.
“Isn’t that Michael Angarano, Kristen’s ex?” the journalist pursued, knowing that she had made herself a household name with this interview.
“It, um, well, it appears to be,” Rob choked out. He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling the style that must have taken hours to perfect.
“How do you feel about that?” she urged.
He sighed deeply, his shoulders rising and falling with his breath. “Kristen is not now, nor will she ever again be a part of my life. I wish her happiness, but what she does is not my concern. Next question, please.”
*
It was like losing him all over again, only worse. When I lost him the first time, I knew that he still loved me and a part of him still wanted me. Then, he had still sought me out from time-to-time, had still spoken in my general direction, would still send me somewhat generic emails detailing his whereabouts. It had been as it always was - we had our own bubble, only this time what we shared wasn’t chemistry, but pain. We both understood each other’s pain, and that locked us in even tighter. I guess I had been taking advantage of the fact that I knew he still loved me.
I guess I had always taken advantage of the fact that I knew he loved me.
*
THE LETTERS.
February 7th, 2008
Kristen,
Surely today you would deny me nothing. I am to look the part of a dashing prince, an otherworldly knight, an unattainable goal. Surely today you could give me a compliment; surely today you could tell me that I look nice in my tuxedo. I went with the skinny tie as you suggested, even though Edward Cullen probably wouldn’t approve of something so metro/modern. The prom scene is one of the most pivotal moments of the movie, and I look forward to tackling it with you. I know that we still do not know each other very well, but when I look in your eyes - even when they are brown, and not that entrancing aquamarine color that I can never figure out - they seem to have answers to questions I haven’t even asked yet. I think, with that, I will be able to pull off the lovesick fool charade.
Or, shall I say, façade?
Dazzling you with my writing,
Rob.
March 28th, 2008
Kristen,
It is nearly your birthday; don’t think that I’ve forgotten. I got you something truly horrendous, and I hope it makes you hate me, just a little bit - because really darling, the constant parade of affection towards me gets embarrassing. I hope you realize that I’m joking, and if you ever feel the need to parade me with affection, I would quickly acquiesce to your decision. Do not think that our constant banter puts me off; I know in my heart that a strong woman like you, with a sharp tongue and a strong will, does nothing but keep up the sarcastic exterior to guard the soft interior. Sort of like a coconut - I mean, you should be really put out when facing a coconut, you know? Why in the hell would you want to devour something so rough, so hard? But then you open it up, and on the inside, the world’s sweetest juices are ready to meet your tongue, and you realize that the whole reason you put up with cracking the coconut’s shell was so you could devour the milk.
Not that I want to devour your milk.
Not that I don’t not want to, either.
Oh, you are really going to get me in trouble, hurry up and be legal,
Rob.
April 10th, 2008
Kristen,
I’m sorry you had to work twenty hours on your birthday. I hope my present put you to sleep efficiently when you finally got home; Virgil’s work tends to do that to most people. I hope you actually read it and enjoy it, but I am not getting my hopes up - something I learned the hard way when it comes to you. I hope you enjoyed the cake, because even though you acted embarrassed, when you looked at me from across the table, I saw that little wink. I hope you know that you looked absolutely stunning, even in that stupid tiara Nikki made you wear, even with dark circles under your eyes, even with the blush tingeing your cheeks as Kellan sang that not-so-kosher version of Happy Birthday. Maybe I am just a fool, but you are always the most beautiful thing to me.
Embarrassed,
Rob.
May 17th, 2008
Kristen,
I just heard the news, and I am so sorry about you and Michael. The wrap party is tonight, and I will be seeing you there - but if this letter puts you off in any way, just avoid me so I know how it is for us, and how it will always be for us. I’m sorry that by telling you that you’re beautiful, I made you uncomfortable. I know the bounds of our friendship, but I do not understand the bounds of our relationship. I repeat what I said in my last letter - you are the most beautiful thing to me. I can say this, even though I have seen the sun coming up over the Thames, even though I have seen the lights of New York City on New Years Eve, even though I have seen the Mediterranean Sea sparkle in the middle of summer. Your voice is the most beautiful thing to my ears, even though I have heard Van Morrison in concert, even though I have heard the sound of my great grandmother’s last breath, even though I have heard the way the rain splatters off a tin roof in the middle of the night. You are the most intoxicating thing I have ever smelled, even though I have smelt bread rising in an old fashioned oven, even though I have smelt the same perfume in my mom’s hugs for twenty-two years, even though I have smelt freshly mowed grass.
I do not doubt that you would be the best thing I have ever felt, ever tasted - but I have not had the chance to experience such things, to finish my sensory overload. As it were, I do not consider myself worthy of being close to you in that manner, and because of this, I want it more than I can express. I can taste it on the tip of my tongue every time you are around me. I know that you got me Jeff Buckley on vinyl for my birthday, only four days ago, and I love it more than anything - but if you would give me this chance, that would be the only sort of present I would need for as long as you would have me.
I can’t think of anything witty to place here, so I will just sign it as I come to you, simply,
Rob.
June 1st, 2008
Kristen,
Now that I know how you taste and how you feel, I can say this with total assurance - you invigorate all of my senses, and the only way I will ever be able to think clearly around you is to block one of them out at the time.
I am not Jerry Maguire, but I think you had me at hello, darling.
Yours,
Rob.
*
The answer was in those letters the whole time.
You invigorate all of my senses, and the only way I will ever be able to think clearly around you is to block one of them out at the time.
I stewed over this as my plane descended into Italy. I had finally made it - over the past two weeks, I felt like my entire life depended upon Volterra. I knew what I had to do. I knew what I couldn’t live without. But I didn’t know how to do it. I wasn’t exactly a plan-girl; I really just made things up as I went along, not bothering to blink twice at the outcomes.
Well, that hadn’t exactly faired me well. I had emailed Rob in the past two weeks, and he hadn’t bothered to respond. That confirmed what he had told the journalist, told the world - that he was done with me, that I was in the past, and that he was looking onward from now on. While I agreed that we needed to look onward, I wanted us to be able to look onward together.
I had tried to make a list with Nikki, a list that encompassed exactly what needed to happen in Volterra, Italy. She hadn’t been a bit of help; she kept writing inappropriate suggestions like rip his pants off or bang his brains out, and just because I wanted to do both of those things didn’t mean that they belonged on The List.
*
THE LIST
1. Get him to talk to me. Well, shouting at me to move while his bag trolley lost control down the hotel hallway didn’t count.
2. Make him fall back in love with me.
3. Cry when it all goes to hell.
*
He had a balcony that he frequented often, sitting on one of the cold wrought-iron chairs with a Marlboro between his lips. He would stare out into oblivion, his focus never leaving the horizon. I could see him from my hotel room, which was exactly across from his - the hotel formed a circle, with a courtyard in the middle. Our balconies faced inward, and I never had the courage to use mine. I didn’t want him to see exactly where my room was; I both did and didn’t want him to show up unannounced.
So, I would take advantage of being able to watch him from the comfort of my bedroom, peering out of the sliding glass door to where he sat across the way, maybe thirty feet from my balcony. He was just so aesthetically pleasing; all of his angles and planes and shadows and jaw lines and cheekbones painted such a complete, beautiful picture that I felt like I could stare at him for hours and never get bored.
I let the memories flow back to me then, as I watched him pull on his cigarette. I remembered being able to trace those lines of his face with my fingers, kiss his hairline and hear him sigh my name with a mixture of reverence and lust. I remembered waking up to him every morning, and how my toes would curl in happiness as I took in his relaxed face. I remembered rolling around in the bed with him, he trying to tickle me mercilessly and I trying to tickle him back and get away at the same time. I remembered the way those tickle fights had always turned into some of the best sex ever - my hands locked above my head in his grasp, my thighs quivering with the effort to keep them wrapped around his slender waist, his length sheathed so deeply in me that my eyes would roll back into my head on their own, and wouldn’t right again until after my back would arch up off the bed and he would take my body into his arms and groan my name into my hair. And how he would kiss my fingers afterwards, all ten of them, before pressing my hands to his heart to feel the way it raced against his ribcage - he would murmur, you did that to me, love - and I would feel how deeply his adoration for me went… right into his bones, into his vital organs.
I knew what I had to do, and I didn’t know how I was going to do it.
I just knew that I was going to.