Good at Being Alive(25)

“I read a lot,” I reply. My voice sounds defensive, as if I’m responding to an accusation. Perhaps because it felt like one. I know what he expects of me—idiocy, indolence, chaos.

I’m not sure why I haven’t been providing it.

There’s only one quick stop after Reynisfjara—an ice cave that’s technically already closed for the season because it could cave in…Lars seems slightly disappointed when we escape unscathed—and then we’re back in the van and racing to the airport in Keflavík.

All of us will be heading in different directions—Lars and his crew to JFK, me to Newark, Theo to London. It will be like this after all of our trips—Lars apparently is working on another show at the same time, so ours is to film in fits and starts.

I thought I’d be relieved to be free of them all, but instead I’m surprisingly sad. It’s not really about leaving Theo. It’s just about leaving…humanity. It’s about leaving this slice of the world where I have dinner with people and someone worries that I’m not eating and is sporadically forced to hold my hand.

Theo helps me with my bag when we arrive and then we head indoors, still side by side though we no longer need to pretend anything. We go through security and turn to face each other.

“I’m sorry I pushed to do this trip so fast,” he says. “I told Lars last night that it was too much, and he agreed we’d slow the pace down going forward.”

He was worried on my behalf.

I’m touched and also a little terrified. In some ways it would be easier if he was a dick all the time—then there’d be nothing to lose.

I hug him impulsively, inhaling the hotel soap from his skin. I used the same soap, but it’s so much better on him. “I’m sorry I was such a baby about it. And I know it’s weird that I’m hugging you, but I’m too sleepy to care.”

His laughter is quiet and low, gusting against my ear. “You’re sort of sweet when you’re tired, Bex.”

I smile. It won’t last, I’m sure. But he’s kind of sweet when I’m tired too.

And it’s the first time he’s ever called me Bex.





Bex


I’ve only been back in New Jersey for a few days when we get word from Lars: they put together a pilot episode from the Iceland trip and the network bought the first season. They could still choose not to air it, but the odds are in our favor.

The show’s working title is Love in Plane Sight. The title is even cringier than that tagline Emil came up with, but there’s not much to be done about it. Cringiness aside, it means we’ve got at least five more trips to Europe this summer. It doesn’t make sense to nearly double the length of my flight each way by remaining in California, especially when I could and should stay at my dad’s house for free.

I return to LA and begin the depressing process of bidding my adopted city adieu. I donate all my crappy furniture, sell my even crappier car, sublet my apartment, and ship the few things I’m keeping back to New Jersey. I say goodbye to the cute little kids on the first floor and make sure Mrs. Johnson in 3C has someone she can call if she falls again, and then I return to New York—forty degrees and bleak as hell, though the calendar claims it’s now spring—where I get my hair blown out, don the Stella McCartney jumpsuit Mindy sent over, and go to the studio for our first big interview.

Lars has arranged for a publicist to prep us in a conference room beforehand—probably because he’s scared Theo will bore everyone to death with phrases like “data points” and “market share.”

Or perhaps he’s worried I’ll talk about shocking a corpse’s penis, though it’s not like I’d discuss it twice.

Theo is already waiting when I arrive. He’s got his jacket off, and his tie is askew. There’s a flutter in my chest, butterflies. I would like to suffocate each of those butterflies individually. I can imagine nothing worse than starting to take any piece of this fake relationship seriously. It’s humiliating that I possess even a tiny impulse to do so.

I step through the door and his eyes slowly sweep over me, head to toe, before he reaches for his phone. “Brought in the fairy godmother again, I see,” he says, swiping across his screen.

“We’re about to be interviewed as a married couple for the first time,” I reply, settling into the chair two down from his. “I figured I’d better look like someone who’d choose to marry a ninety-year-old willingly.”

“For someone who can remember currency rates so easily, it’s puzzling that you consistently forget I’m only thirty-six,” he replies.

This would all be easier if you weren’t. If you were hideous and had a big stick up your ass the way I’d thought. Well…I guess the stick is there. It just doesn’t bother me the way it should.

“Have you met this Samia chick?” I ask, brushing my hair behind my shoulders. “Lars said she’s from London.”

“You realize we don’t all know one another? England is rather large.”

“Bro, all of the UK plus Ireland is still smaller than Texas. That’s not ‘rather large.’ So do you know her?”

He sighs. “Well yes, actually, we’ve met before, but saying we’re not large just because our combined area is smaller than your third-biggest state is still unfair.”