Between Me and You Page 3

  2016 (NOW)

  36 TATUM NOVEMBER I see Ben as he leans over the white fencing that separates the path from the cliff down to the beach. He tilts over and assesses, then rights himself and starts toward the steps to the ocean. I sink lower in the driver’s seat, though I’m a block away and the SUV has tinted windows, which usually guard against the prying eyes of fans who recognize me or paparazzi who need a slice of me whenever they manage to track me down. I’ve gotten better at evading them; figured out how to leave early before they plant themselves outside my gate, or how to barter for a good shot if they agree to give me freedom for the rest of the day. So for now, I’m alone, something I rarely am anymore, an irony that isn’t lost on me now that Ben doesn’t sleep on his side of the bed. I’d realized I’d forgiven him a few weeks ago. He’d shown up to get Joey for the weekend, and rather than abruptly stand by the door and make courteous small talk (or have Constance do it and skip it altogether), I

  37 BEN NOVEMBER Amanda stretches out in her sleep, rustling the duvet, shaking the mattress. I’d forgotten how she did this, even back in New York all those years ago—a lifetime, really—when we’d mostly stay at her place—a one-bedroom off Astor Place, because I was living with my parents. How she’d hog the bed as if she were the only one who should be in it. I watch her sleeping, then her toes scrape against my shin, and she sighs—eyes still shut, red hair spilling over my pillow—and drifts back to wherever her dreams have taken her. I ease out of bed and then peel off my shirt, then boxers, and step into the shower, trying to wash off the saltwater and the sand. Also to rinse off a film of something else: that I had been waiting for Tatum, yet I left with Amanda, as if they were interchangeable. We’d barely made it back to my apartment. She’d jogged to the beach, so we’d taken my car, driven back to my place in some sort of frenzy, like dogs in heat. She’d told me that she didn’t real

  38 TATUM DECEMBER Work keeps me busy, of course. Work, work, work, work, work. That’s what I tell myself, what I’ve done since I was barely old enough to be employed. I have been working for almost thirty years, and I will work through this too. Work can’t be everything, though. Luann thinks it’s important that I start dating again or at least that I give the appearance that I’ve started dating again, even though the divorce isn’t final, even though neither of us has been able to sign the papers. “He’s dating again,” she said a couple of months ago, even before I saw him on the beach with Amanda. “A friend saw him leave a bar the other night with someone who was way too young for him.” “It’s sex,” I said. “It’s fine.” Now, I wonder when he had time for casual sex if he is back with Amanda. If their relationship is something casual, or if theirs is now something that has morphed into more. I can’t bring myself to ask; I can’t even bring myself to say her name to him. “Well, you need to

  39 BEN DECEMBER “Jesus Christ!” Tatum screams when she finds me sitting at the kitchen island, nursing a glass of merlot from a bottle I’d found open in the wine fridge and flipping through the December issue of Elle, for which she’s the cover model. Her hand flies to her heart, and her heels click against the bare wood floor as she skitters in surprise. “Sorry, shit, sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” “What are you doing here? Is everything OK?” She exhales, regaining her breath, drops her purse on the island, and reaches for an empty wineglass of her own in the cabinet. “I brought over Joey’s gifts to put under the tree. Figured I’d stay. Sent Constance home.” Her brow furrows, then relaxes. “Oh, OK. I mean, sure, that’s fine.” I was doing this from time to time now: stopping by unannounced, with the honest intention of spending time with Joey—our custody agreement was fluid, and Tatum never minded—but then often loitering for longer, inviting myself to stay for dinner, sug

  40 TATUM DECEMBER I can’t sleep after Ben leaves. I debate texting Damon, thanking him for the lovely, unexpected evening, but I’m not sure if that’s too forward, too needy after just one evening together. I’m new at the dating thing, and besides, I don’t even know if I want to be forward or needy or see him again. Luann has texted me three times, desperate to know how it went, but I don’t have the energy to tap back: He kissed me and my knees went a little weak, and then Ben was waiting for me in our kitchen when I got home. And then I discovered that I was glad to see him there, that I didn’t really want him to leave. That part of me wanted to say, Stay forever. But part of me knew that was just a line someone wrote in a romantic comedy. Not real life. I fling off the sheets, slide my feet into the slippers some designer gifted me, and pad across my bedroom toward Joey’s room. He doesn’t like me to sleep in his bed anymore. Eight going on fifteen, I tell anyone who asks. I crouch nex

  41 BEN DECEMBER “Come back east with me,” Amanda says, forking her eggs. We’d slept late and walked to a late breakfast at a bistro with a garden a few blocks from my apartment. “I have that whole week off between Christmas and New Year’s.” I push around my own omelet, pick out the onions. Amanda had ordered for me while I took a call from Eric—our lead actress, Cassidy Rivers, was threatening not to return to the set after the holidays if we didn’t fire the lead actor, Paxton Fisher, with whom she’d been sleeping until last week—and Amanda had forgotten (or didn’t know) how much I loathed onions. “I don’t know if I can get away.” I use my knife to point to my phone. “Cassidy is threatening mutiny.” “Screw her. Call her bluff. Isn’t she contracted for the next decade? I think I read that in People.” “It doesn’t really work that way,” I say. “Besides, I’m not really sure that calling people’s bluffs is the best way to cultivate a relationship that indeed needs to last the better part of

  42 TATUM DECEMBER Monster collapses on the kitchen floor while I’m pouring myself coffee. I hear a loud thud, and it takes a moment to register because Joey is at school, and the house is otherwise quiet, just as I need it to be to go over the towering stack of scripts this afternoon. I’ve promised my team I’ll make a pick on my next three projects—line up my entire next year—by Christmas. Piper and Scooter and the kids are arriving in two days; I’ve left myself no time to consider the next twelve months of my life. I race around the kitchen island and see him, helpless, shaken, in a pool of his urine. “Monster! Oh baby boy, oh sweet boy, no, no, no, I’m here.” I sink to my knees and cradle his head. His lost eyes find mine, his nose nuzzling my lap. He is too big for me to carry myself. And I promised myself I wouldn’t call Ben. It’s a stupid thing: my pride, the welt that sits with me because he’s with Amanda, and I’m still alone. There’s Damon, but that isn’t much of anything yet, j

  43 BEN DECEMBER I’d answered on the first ring. I was rereading the script and second-guessing everything: if writing it for her had been a mistake, if she’d read it and say: Ben, we’re done with us, I thought that was obvious, if that would finally be our death knell. But then my phone rang, and caller ID said TATUM, and I answered it, and she was wailing. “Ben,” she said. “Please. Please come, it’s Monster. I didn’t have anyone else to call.” And I said: “You should have called me. I’m glad you did. I’m still your person.” And I raced to the vet, and we agreed that Monster deserved better than waiting around for his heart to explode, so we sat with him, each of us cradling his face, each of us spilling an unending waterfall of tears, until he went to sleep. Back home, in our old (new) home, she curls herself into a ball on the white sectional her designer picked out, despite its impracticality for a home with an enormous dog who jumps on all the furniture, and a nearly nine-year-old

  44 TATUM DECEMBER We order a pizza and watch Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Joey’s favorite, even if it’s not totally appropriate for an almost nine-year-old. He sobs when we tell him about Monster, and I realize this is the first real death he’ll remember. He was too little to recall the day we buried Leo, even though he was there, holding my hand. And my mom and Ben’s dad will always just be faces in photographs for him, stories we’ll tell. I promise him we’ll get another puppy soon. Go to the shelter after Hawaii and bring hom
e whichever dog he chooses. I can already hear Luann in my ear, excited about the notion of a photo op, all the ways my unselfish act for Joey can be marketed. Joey falls asleep right when Ferris is serenading the city of Chicago. His head lolls into Ben’s lap, his arm splayed off the couch. Ben rests his palm over Joey’s chest, as if he can intuit the beats of his heart, and then laughs out loud at the screen. This was always his favorite part: the parade. The pure

  45 BEN DECEMBER Amanda leaves for Boston early. Changes her shifts at the hospital so she can fly on the twenty-second, a few days sooner than planned. She doesn’t have to tell me that this is a giant fuck-you mostly to me, not that she wants more family time with her extended clan; she just wants less time with me. She’d asked me to come one last time a few nights ago, implored me to be spontaneous, grab a ticket and join her, but I was resolute. “There’s Joey,” I said. “We’re going to get a new puppy too once they’re back from Hawaii.” She crossed her arms and left the room. We’d both understood that this wasn’t just about spending Christmas back east; it was about starting new traditions and a new chapter. And we also both knew that because I was unwilling to do either, even if simply disguised as a last-minute plane ticket, that we were all but done. She e-mails me from the plane to say that I shouldn’t call over the holiday, shouldn’t be in touch. I e-mail her back to say: I under

  46 TATUM CHRISTMAS I make Joey wait until Ben gets here to open his presents. He’s been up since five a.m., jumping on my bed, demanding that we start, but I insist. Instead, I make him pancakes (from a mix, but it’s the best I can do on my own), let him dump out his stocking, and log him in to Petfinder, where he keeps squealing that he wants to adopt all the dogs. All of them, Mom! All of them! Finally, at eight, Ben, holding a tray of gourmet coffees, lets himself in with his key, and Joey races through the house into the foyer to throw himself at Ben. “You’re finally here! Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. Mom was making me wait,” Joey shouts, then untangles his limbs and races into the living room. “Latte?” Ben asks, holding out a cup. “Necessary,” I reply. “He’s been up since five.” “Ouch.” Piper, Scooter, and Emily come down the steps, Piper with the new baby, Harry, on her hip. “I’ll call Dad,” I say. “Tell him we’re starting.” To Joey, I shout, “Hey, Joe,

  47 BEN CHRISTMAS I kiss all of them good night and wish them a safe flight. Tatum promises to call when they land. “And after I open this mysterious gift of yours,” she says. “Take your time with it,” I reply. “It’s OK. There’s no rush.” She wrinkles her brow. “OK.” “OK,” I say, and then kiss the top of her head. Dinner had been perfect, like we were a family again. Daisy had started it, broken the tension. Told the story of how Tatum and I first met, over a bet, and Joey’s eyes got wide and then he laughed until apple cider came out of his nose. “Mom, you bet Aunt Daisy that you could get three numbers?” He looked at her cockeyed. “No offense, Mom, but really?” “I know you think I am over-the-hill,” Tate said, laughing. “And embarrassing and horrifying, but let me tell you, I could put on an act and pour a beer with the best of them.” “She could,” I concurred. Tatum and I locked eyes, and we both remembered that this was the truth. “And then I got the chicken pox,” Daisy said. “And ma

  48 TATUM NEW YEAR’S EVE DAY The beach is deserted now. It’s nearly sunset, and the families with little kids have taken them inside to tend to sunburns or to stave off full meltdowns; the retirees have returned to their condos for early dinners or, in my dad’s case, a nap. There are a few stragglers, a young couple who keep chasing each other into the water, a father and his teenage son still tossing a football. But mostly I’m alone. Something I’d grown used to, even if I resented the isolation I’d brought on myself. I tug my Tisch baseball hat lower, hug my tunic closer as the wind kicks up. I reach for my straw bag and rest the script inside. I’d opened it on the flight over. Everyone had fallen asleep, so it was just me, in a darkened cabin, with the overhead light aglow. He’d written a note on top: For you, just for you, Tate. I should have done it years ago but maybe now was the only time I was ready. Take your time. Don’t rush. Be sure. But now you know how I feel, now you know,

  49 BETWEEN ME AND YOU BY BEN LIVINGSTON (FINAL DRAFT) INT. BEN’S BEDROOM—DUSK Ben, our hero, sits on his bed in his small apartment, stunned. Fading light ekes through his window. From his expression, it’s obvious that he just received news that he can’t get over. Then a joyful—the happiest—grin spreads across his face. In one quick instant, he grabs the phone off his bed, lets out a hoot, and runs to the front door, where his suitcase is already packed and ready. He races down the steps to the waiting taxi. BEN: How quickly can you get me to the airport? DRIVER: Traffic’s not bad. It’s New Year’s Eve. Everyone’s at home getting fancy, ready to party. So twenty minutes, no problem. Ben checks his watch. BEN: Twenty minutes is perfect. DRIVER: Gotta be somewhere by midnight? BEN: Gotta kiss a girl by midnight. The driver laughs, guns the gas. We pan out to see the taxi racing down the 405.

  50 TATUM NEW YEAR’S EVE The sky is bigger than I ever dreamed it could be. That’s what I keep thinking from my chaise, tucked under a blanket on the empty Hawaiian beach as midnight nears. That the world is so immense, and we are so small, and isn’t it a miracle that we find someone to love amidst its expanse? That Ben and I found each other? That we found our way back to each other again? I check the time on my phone. He’ll be here in time. I know it. “Hey, Tate, you coming in?” Piper shouts from the open patio door. From behind her, I can hear the pulse of music, the sound of heightened laughter from my family, as they dance and celebrate and wait to ring in the new year, the new chapter. “Mo-o-o-o-ommmm,” Joey yells beside Piper. “I’m addicted to sparkling apple cider! It’s. The. Best!” He toots a noisemaker in triumph. “I’ll be in soon, don’t worry,” I call back to them. “You OK?” Piper says. “I called him,” I say. “He’s coming.” “HOLY SHIT!!” Piper screams, running down to me, kis

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This book could not have been written without the counsel of my agent and friend, Elisabeth Weed. After countless drafts filled with structural problems and obstacles that seemed insurmountable, and when it would have been easier to throw in the towel and write a more traditional novel, Elisabeth said, Keep going, you can do this, and so I did. I am enormously grateful for her words and support. Tiffany Yates Martin provided editorial insights that elevated the plot and characters beyond my initial musings and in ways that I could not have done on my own. Thank you, thank you. It was a joyous collaboration. Danielle Marshall, Kelli Martin, Dennelle Catlett, Devan Hanna, Gabriella Dumpit, Nicole Pomeroy, and the entire team at Lake Union have offered the best possible cushion for a writer: a bubble of support and enthusiasm and kindness, and I am appreciative of their hard work and expertise every step of the way. Kathleen Carter Zrelak is a dream publicist. Truly. Just

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR Photo © 2015 Kat Tuohy Photography A New York Times bestselling author, Allison Winn Scotch has published The Department of Lost & Found, Time of My Life, The One That I Want, The Song Remains the Same, The Theory of Opposites, and In Twenty Years, a Library Journal Best Books of 2016 selection. Her novels have been translated into twelve different languages. A freelance writer for many years, Allison has contributed to Brides, Family Circle, Fitness, Glamour, InStyle, Men’s Health, Parents, Redbook, Self, Shape, and Women’s Health. A cum laude graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, where she studied history and marketing, Winn Scotch now lives in Los Angeles, where she enjoys hiking, reading, running, yoga, and the company of her two dogs, when she’s not “serving as an Uber service” for her kids. Follow her at www.allisonwinn.com, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/allisonwinnscotch, or on Twitter at www.twitter.com/aswinn.

  PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR

  IN TWENTY YEARS

  “Scotch hits a grand slam with this novel . . . With wonderfully fleshed-out, relatable characters, this is an absolute must-read that lovers of women’s contemporary fiction will devour in one
sitting.”

  —Library Journal, starred review

  “Told from five vastly different perspectives of characters who are deeply developed and relatable in their flawed ways, this novel captures the nostalgia many feel for the friendships and simple nature of youth . . . Heartfelt . . . Well written and memorable.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Allison Winn Scotch is the ultimate beach read. If you plan to sink your toes into the sand and need a fab book to kick back with . . . this is the one.”

  —Parade

  “The perfect beach read.”

  —PopSugar

  “Both heartbreaking and funny, this novel explores how we cope with the disappointments of adulthood and come to terms with our past.”

  —Real Simple

  “A story about youthful dreams and middle-age reality, this is a page turning book to talk about.”

  —Parkersburg News & Sentinel

  “Winn Scotch’s highly anticipated, thought-provoking, and emotional sixth novel tells the story of complex yet relatable characters questioning the paths they have chosen in life (and who can’t thoroughly relate to that?).”

  —New You magazine

  “A story of learning to accept the past and confront the future, In Twenty Years is a heart-wrenching read, highly recommended.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  ALSO BY ALLISON WINN SCOTCH

  Time of My Life

  The Department of Lost & Found

  The One That I Want

  The Song Remains the Same

  The Theory of Opposites

  In Twenty Years

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.