Page 24 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
She races over and throws her arms around my knees, “Five more minutes! I have to finish showing you the dance.”
“Aw, I have to go, hon.” I shoot a “save me” look to her dad, but so far he’s zero-for-seventy-two at doing what I expect. When heblinks his impossibly blue eyes at me I know I’m not going to see my pillow any time soon.
“You can’t go. I picked another absolute classic Anders Beck film for you to dissect. We were supposed to watch it last night, but you made us go out for burgers.” He shrugs like his hands are tied. “Unless you’re too tired?”
“You’re the one who made us go out for burgers, for the record.” I kick off my sandals and pad into the living area. “And I’ve never met a movie star so obsessed with watching his own movies.”
He mimics a stab to the chest while he follows me. "I'm doing this for you. You need to develop your cinematic palate. Your favorite Anders Beck movie is a blight on the catalog.” He drops onto the couch, remote in hand.
I have a decision to make. I can sit next to him on the overstuffed white couch within sniffing distance of his cologne, or I can sit in the sturdy armchair and crank my neck for two hours to see the screen. It seems like an obvious choice. Unfortunately, Immy makes the decision for me when she takes the seat next to her dad. Hairy takes the cushion on her other side, drooping her huge head across the armrest. I curl into the armchair, tucking my feet under me with a sigh. This is for the best. I don’t need Oliver running me through with his lightsaber tonight.
“You won’t be comfortable watching from there. Hairy, get down.” Anders’ stern voice makes tiny bumps pop up all over my arms. Hairy groans as she lowers her massive body onto the ground, giving Anders—and me—the dog version of side-eye the whole way.
Great, now I’m on the beast’s poop list.
“Get over here, Sunny,” Anders commands, and something about the way he says my nickname makes those bumps pop up all over again. “Second best seat in the house.”
I lower myself onto the cushion next to Imogen and cross my legs under me. “What’s the best seat?”
“The one next to me.” His cocky grin makes his dang dimple pop. I would roll my eyes if I wasn’t so flustered.
Imogen snuggles into his side, proving his point. He curls his big arm around her, leaving my shoulder four inches from his right hand. If my calculations are correct, if I shift to the left by half an inch every fifteen minutes, his hand will touch my shoulder by the time the credits roll. It’s going to require all of my concentration to stop myself from allowing that to happen.
Because I’m only interested in Micah, I remind myself.
No, because you’re Cold Turkey Sunny, the logical side of my brain interjects.
Party pooper, a voice that sounds eerily like Anders whispers in the back of my mind.
I am officially going crazy.
Luckily, Anders has chosen a movie I’ve seen multiple times so I won’t have to pay close attention. I could recite the dialog from memory. It’s a sci-fi story about a guy who receives a signal from deep space and follows it, ultimately saving humanity. It’s layered with metaphors and has a sweet love story, obviously. One does not cast Anders Beck in a film without a love story unless one wants to deal with hordes of disappointed female viewers.
Five minutes into the movie, Imogen is snoring, her lanky body dangling across Anders and more than her portion of the couch. Her head is twisted at an angle on Anders’ arm and her mouth is wide open. She still hasn’t adjusted to this time zone. If I didn’t know that, I’d be checking for a carbon monoxide leak. I’ve never seen a person go out so fast. Her white-blonde curls have flopped over Anders’ arm and onto mine. I want to reach over and comb her hair out of her face. I want to straighten her out so she doesn’t get a kink in her neck. I remind myself for the two hundredth time today that she isn’t mine.She isn’t yours,I think dejectedly. Her dad is here. I’m off duty.
You don’t even want kids, remember?I scold myself. I’ve been talking myself into this lie for years now, but the part of me that aches tonurture and raise a child hasn’t gotten the message that I’m infertile. And the connection I feel to Imogen is deepening in a dangerous way. It’s going to hurt when she leaves. How am I supposed to spend my days with her without getting attached? It feels impossible.
Speaking of. I want to sneak a look at Anders, but at this angle it is difficult to check him out subtly. He’s blurry in my periphery—all tan arms and dark stubble—and I can’t see his face. He’s sort of like a dream man. I pretend to get more comfortable, angling myself against the couch so I can get a better look at him. When my eyes dart his way, his blue eyes are already on me and he’s grinning.
“Comfortable?” Why does every word out of his mouth sound like a tease? When I nod he adds, “I’m gonna to put Immy to bed.”
“Want me to do it?” I offer.
“No, I enjoy taking care of her.” I sigh inwardly at his sweet words—he loves that girl so much—then he adds, “Will you pause it for me, though?” He hands me the remote and our fingers brush and linger just long enough to make me silly.
“Haven’t you already seen this? Aren’t youinthis?” I laugh, buzzing from the contact high of Anders’ touch. This man has a way of grounding me in the present and making me put off thinking about the future. This isn’t good.
He stands and hoists his daughter into his capable arms, a move that he’s obviously done more than once. “Yeah, but I haven’t watched it with you, and that’s kinda the point.”
“Okay.” I pause the movie, and the screen freezes on an unflattering shot of Anders—mouth hanging open, eyes wide, with his long hair standing upright in the wind. I shoot out a laugh that makes his gaze swing to the television.
“Why you gotta do me like that, Sunflower?” he calls over his shoulder.
My face burns at the name, but while Anders puts Imogen to bed, I scan the man on the screen. What I thought about Anders—the pictures the tabloids paint—doesn’t match what I’m seeing. Ihear him whisper to his daughter and I know that this is who he really is. No one can fake being a loving father that well. If he’s a party animal, he’s doing a great job of hiding it.
The version of Anders on the TV screen is softer around the edges and boyish. Immature. I can admit that he has always been handsome, but he’s getting better with age. The man walking back into the room is all angular lines and muscles. Creases form around his eyes when he smiles at me. Is this really happening? Am I having another movie night with Anders Beck? I will never get used to this. And I don’t think I’ll ever recover when this gig ends. Reality will be such a letdown.
He plops onto the center couch cushion, well within my personal space bubble, and way closer than a guy watching a movie with his daughter’s nanny should. He takes up a lot of room, because everything about Anders is big. His personality fills a room when he enters it, his deep voice booms like a jet doing a flyby, but he’s also just physically large. He’s well above six feet tall, with thick arms, and legs like tree trunks.
