Page 47 of Charm City Rocks
“And you’re moving in with her…above the…garage?”
“Not moving in,” he says. “Just staying awhile. It’s her and her husband’s place. You’ll like Aaron, too. He looks a little like the murderer inAmerican Psycho,but super nice guy.”
“You’re all…friends?”
Billy steers around a pothole the size of a small bathtub and smiles—finally, it seems, picking up on the long pauses between key words. “Sounds weird, right?”
“Maybe a little.”Or maybe a fucking lot.
“I know. It’s not, though. It was Caleb’s idea. We’ve never lived together in his lifetime, Robyn and me. I think he just wants that for a little while, even if I’m on the other side of the driveway. But seriously, it’s nothing. Rob and I are friends—like, partners, like in Caleb, Incorporated. That’s all. It’s nothing.”
Margot looks through the windshield. One of the squeegee boys missed a spot—a single, anxiety-inducing line of blue liquid spreading in the breeze. He called her Rob, not Robyn, just now. She noticed that. She noticed, too, that he said “nothing” twice, and she imagines the utter back-assed absurdity of moving into one of Lawson’s pool houses.
Oh, hi, Margot,Willa Knight says, looking up from a downward goddamn dog while she does yoga in a bikini.You want a Vitaminwater? This is nothing, right? Nothing!
They drive along a highway called 83. They catch up to the moving truck that’s hauling the Steinway and follow it onto an exit. Then they move slowly through a tree-lined neighborhood with bike lanes and cozy-looking midsize homes. Billy was right when he said it wasn’t quite the suburbs. The houses sit close together, and the streets are lined with cars and bus shelters. There are Black Lives Matter signs and Orioles flags and bumper stickers with crabs on them, and joggers and dogwalkers.
“Just up here a bit,” he says.
Maybe Margot’s being unnecessarily dire. She does that sometimes. As they pass a coffee shop and a little market called Eddie’s, Poppy’s voice starts up again.
What? You’re worried about some boring lady in the sorta burbs? She probably wears mum jeans and crochets throw pillows with littleinspirational messages on them. Stop it. You’re Margot fucking Hammer!
Which is true, she is. Earlier, in bed—Margot still naked but wrapped in sheets, Billy holding a cup of espresso—he smiled, happy and warm beside her. “I’m so glad you came back,” he said.
She probably has nothing to worry about. Families have their own rules. Especially broken families. Just because Margot and Lawson aren’t friends—far from it; they haven’t spoken in years—that doesn’t mean Billy and this Robyn woman can’t be on good terms.
The moving truck turns on its blinker and slows. “Okay,” Billy says. “Here we go.”
It’s one of the nicest houses on the street—big, but not a mansion—nestled among a bunch of steadily blooming trees. It’s green with bright white shutters. A ten-speed bike leans against the pole of a basketball hoop. Birds watch them from branches, then scatter when the moving guys jump out of the truck. You’d have to drive an hour to find a place like this outside of Manhattan.
Billy shifts to park. “Caleb’s gonna freak when he sees you, by the way.”
Margot steps out of the car and immediately spies the place above the garage. It’s more of a miniature house than an apartment: two big windows and a red door. Yesterday, she packed an overnight bag and hopped on a train heading south like a girl in a country song. Now she’s here. She doesn’t know why, exactly, but she knows that she doesn’t want to leave. Not yet.
The front door of the main house opens. That door is red, also. A man wearing sneakers and a T-shirt steps out. Billy was right. He’s eighties-killer handsome—tall, perfect hair. He shakes his head, miming disbelief. “Hey, Billy,” he says. “And hello there…Margot Hammer?”
Margot is about to say hello back, but then a woman appears holding Gatorades. Sometimes dire thinking is best, because, of course, this is Robyn—Rob—and she’s very, very pretty.
The window above the front door opens and Caleb sticks half his long body out of it. “Dad! Holy shit!”
Margot feels Billy’s hand on her lower back. “Cay, come on. No need to swear.”
Part 3
Actually, I Like It
Chapter30
The stunt car pitches right, then left, then shimmies more than any real car ever would, like it’s about to explode. Lawson Daniels jams his foot down on the gas pedal, which is connected to nothing, then he pretends to be shoved back in his seat by raw horsepower.Acting!he thinks. He shifts from third to fourth gear. He checks the rearview mirror, holds for two beats, then delivers the line.
“Good luck, you stupid motherfuckers.”
There was a whole discussion about “stupid motherfuckers.” An R rating versus PG-13 matters—there’s a whole box-office calculation. Lawson did fifteen takes this morning saying, “dumb bastards,” then twelve before lunch with “dumbass bitches,” which made absolutely zero sense and was a complete waste of everyone’s time.
“Dumbass bitches?” he asked earlier as the crew stood watching, hands on hips. “I’ve never heard a British person say that in my bloody life.”
“Maybe just do it,” replied Hugh Ward, the childlike director. “Could be good for a laugh, yeah?”
