Beach read

EmilyHenryBEACHREADContents
Cover
TitlePage
AbouttheAuthor
Praise
Dedication
1:TheHouse
2:TheFuneral
3:ThePete-Cute
4:TheMouth
5:TheLabradors
6:TheBookClub
7:TheRide
8:TheBet
9:TheManuscript
10:TheInterview
11:TheNotDate
12:TheOliveGarden
13:TheDream
14:TheRule
15:ThePast
16:ThePorchFurniture
17:TheDance
18:TheEx
19:TheBeach
20:TheBasement
21:TheCookout
22:TheTrip
23:TheLake
24:TheBook
25:TheLetters
26:TheBestFriend
27:TheRain
28:NineMonthsLater
Acknowledgments
Copyright
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Cover
Frontmatter
TableofContents
BeginReadingAbouttheAuthor
EmilyHenrystudiedcreativewritingatHopeCollegeandtheNewYorkCenterforArt&MediaStudies,andnowspendsmostofhertimeinCincinnati,Ohio,andthepartofKentuckyjustbeneathitBeachReadisherdebutadultnovel.WhatreadersaresayingaboutBeachRead
‘WhenIsayIwanttoreadromance,thisiswhatImean.Thisbook.Thisexactbook’Netgalleyreviewer★★★★★
‘ThebestbookI’vereadthisyearsofar,andeasilyatop10onmyall-timefavouriteslist.EmilyHenry’swritingismasterfulinBeachRead…Witty,interestingandutterlyenjoyable’Patricia,Netgalley★★★★★
‘Adelightful,romantic,amusingandwellwrittentale…willhaveyousmilingtotheend.Awhollysatisfyingread’Netgalleyreviewer★★★★★
‘IlovedthisbooksodamnmuchthatIdon’tevenknowwheretobegin.Thisbookmademelaugh,cry,andlaugh-cry…Icannotrecommenditenough’Brooks,Netgalley★★★★★
‘Exceptionallywellwritten,incrediblyauthenticcharacters,deeplymovingandentertaining’Emer,Netgalley★★★★★
‘Lovedthisbook!’Rachel,Netgalley★★★★★
‘Romanceatitsverybest.IwassoinvestedinJanuaryandGusandtheirliteraryjourneytolove.Ican’ttellyouhowhappythisbookmademe!Highly,HIGHLYrecommend’Kate,Netgalley★★★★★
‘Anabsolutelybrilliant,freshandexcitingbook.Withfamilydrama,anexcellentloveinterestandagreatconcept,it’saclearwinner’Andrea,Netgalley★★★★★ForJoey:Youaresoperfectlymyfavoriteperson1TheHouse
IHAVEAFATALflaw.
Iliketothinkwealldo.OratleastthatmakesiteasierformewhenI’mwriting—buildingmyheroinesandheroesuparoundthisoneself-sabotagingtrait,hingingeverythingthathappenstothemonaspecificcharacteristic:thethingtheylearnedtodotoprotectthemselvesandcan’tletgoof,evenwhenitstopsservingthem.
Maybe,forexample,youdidn’thavemuchcontroloveryourlifeasakid.So,toavoiddisappointment,youlearnednevertoaskyourselfwhatyoutrulywanted.Anditworkedforalongtime.Onlynow,uponrealizingyoudidn’tgetwhatyoudidn’tknowyouwanted,you’rebarrelingdownthehighwayinamidlife-crisis-mobilewithasuitcasefullofcashandamannamedStaninyourtrunk.
Maybeyourfatalflawisthatyoudon’tuseturnsignals.
Ormaybe,likeme,you’reahopelessromantic.Youjustcan’tstoptellingyourselfthestory.Theoneaboutyourownlife,completewithmelodramaticsoundtrackandgoldenlightlancingthroughcarwindows.
ItstartedwhenIwastwelve.Myparentssatmedowntotellmethenews.Momhadgottenherfirstdiagnosis—suspiciouscellsinherleftbreast—andshetoldmenottoworrysomanytimesIsuspectedI’dbegroundedifshecaughtmeatit.Mymomwasado-er,alaugher,anoptimist,notaworrier,butIcouldtellshewasterrified,andsoIwastoo,frozenonthecouch,unsurehowtosayanythingwithoutmakingthingsworse.
Butthenmybookishhomebodyofafatherdidsomethingunexpected.Hestoodandgrabbedourhands—oneofMom’s,oneofmine—andsaid,Youknowwhatweneedtogetthesebadfeelingsout?Weneedtodance!
Oursuburbhadnoclubs,justamediocresteakhousewithaFridaynightcoverband,butMomlituplikehe’djustsuggestedtakingaprivatejettotheCopacabana.
Sheworeherbutteryyellowdressandsomehammeredmetalearringsthattwinkledwhenshemoved.Dadorderedtwenty-year-oldScotchforthemandaShirleyTempleforme,andthethreeofustwirledandbobbeduntilweweredizzy,laughing,trippingallover.Welaugheduntilwecouldbarelystand,andmyfamouslyreservedfathersangalongto“BrownEyedGirl”likethewholeroomwasn’twatchingus.
Andthen,exhausted,wepiledintothecaranddrovehomethroughthequiet,MomandDadholdingtighttoeachother’shandsbetweentheseats,andItippedmyheadagainstthecarwindowand,watchingthestreetlightsflickeracrosstheglass,thought,It’sgoingtobeokay.Wewillalwaysbeokay.
AndthatwasthemomentIrealized:whentheworldfeltdarkandscary,lovecouldwhiskyouofftogodancing;laughtercouldtakesomeofthepainaway;beautycouldpunchholesinyourfear.Idecidedthenthatmylifewouldbefullofallthree.Notjustformyownbenefit,butforMom’s,andforeveryoneelsearoundme.
Therewouldbepurpose.Therewouldbebeauty.TherewouldbecandlelightandFleetwoodMacplayingsoftlyinthebackground.
Thepointis,Istartedtellingmyselfabeautifulstoryaboutmylife,aboutfateandthewaythingsworkout,andbytwenty-eightyearsold,mystorywasperfect.
Perfect(cancer-free)parentswhocalledseveraltimesaweek,tipsyonwineoreachother’scompany.Perfect(spontaneous,multilingual,sixfootthree)boyfriendwhoworkedintheERandknewhowtomakecoqauvin.PerfectshabbychicapartmentinQueens.Perfectjobwritingromanticnovels—inspiredbyperfectparentsandperfectboyfriend—forSandyLoweBooks.
Perfectlife.
Butitwasjustastory,andwhenonegapingplotholeappeared,thewholethingunraveled.That’showstorieswork.
Now,attwenty-nine,Iwasmiserable,broke,semi-homeless,verysingle,andpullinguptoagorgeouslakehousewhoseveryexistencenauseatedme.Grandlyromanticizingmylifehadstoppedservingme,butmyfatalflawwasstillridingshotguninmydinged-upKiaSoul,narratingthingsastheyhappened:
JanuaryAndrewsstaredoutthecarwindowattheangrylakebeatingupontheduskyshore.Shetriedtoconvinceherselfthatcomingherehadn’tbeenamistake.
Itwasdefinitelyamistake,butIhadnobetteroption.Youdidn’tturndownfreelodgingwhenyouwerebroke.
Iparkedonthestreetandstaredupattheoversizedcottage’sfacade,itsgleamingwindowsandfairytaleofaporch,theshaggybeachgrassdancinginthewarmbreeze.
IcheckedtheaddressinmyGPSagainstthehandwrittenonehangingfromthehousekey.Thiswasit,allright.
Foraminute,Istalled,likemaybeaworld-endingasteroidwouldtakemeoutbeforeIwasforcedtogoinside.ThenItookadeepbreathandgotout,wrestlingmyoverstuffedsuitcasefromthebackseatalongwiththecardboardboxfullofginhandles.
Ipushedafistfulofdarkhairoutofmyeyestostudythecornflowerblueshinglesandsnow-whitetrim.Justpretendyou’reatanAirbnb.
Immediately,animaginaryAirbnblistingranthroughmyhead:Three-bedroom,three-bathlakesidecottagebrimmingwithcharmandproofyourfatherwasanassholeandyourlifehasbeenalie
Istartedupthestepscutintothegrassyhillside,bloodrushingthroughmyearslikefirehosesandlegswobbling,anticipatingthemomentthehellmouthwouldopenandtheworldwoulddropoutfromunderme.
Thatalreadyhappened.Lastyear.Anditdidn’tkillyou,soneitherwillthis.
Ontheporch,everysensationinmybodyheightened.Thetinglinginmyface,thetwistinmystomach,thesweatpricklingalongmyneck.Ibalancedtheboxofginagainstmyhipandslippedthekeyintothelock,apartofmehopingitwouldjam.ThatallthiswouldturnouttobeanelaboratepracticaljokeDadhadsetupforusbeforehedied.
Or,betteryet,hewasn’tactuallydead.He’djumpoutfrombehindthebushesandscream,“Gotcha!Youdidn’treallythinkIhadasecretsecondlife,didyou?Youcouldn’tpossiblythinkIhadasecondhousewithsomewomanotherthanyourmother?”
Thekeyturnedeffortlessly.Thedoorswunginward.
Thehousewassilent.
Anachewentthroughme.ThesameoneI’dfeltatleastonceadaysinceIgotMom’scallaboutthestrokeandheardhersobthosewords.He’sgone,Janie.
NoDad.Nothere.Notanywhere.Andthenthesecondpain,theknifetwisting:Thefatheryouknewneverexistedanyway.
I’dneverreallyhadhim.JustlikeI’dneverreallyhadmyexJacquesorhiscoqauvin.
ItwasjustastoryI’dbeentellingmyself.Fromnowon,itwastheuglytruthornothing.Isteeledmyselfandsteppedinside.
Myfirstthoughtwasthattheuglytruthwasn’tsuperugly.Mydad’slovenesthadanopenfloorplan:alivingroomthatspilledintoafunky,blue-tiledkitchenandhomeybreakfastnook,thewallofwindowsjustbeyondoverlookingadark-staineddeck.
IfMomhadownedthisplace,everythingwould’vebeenamixofcreamy,calmingneutrals.ThebohemianroomI’dsteppedintowould’vebeenmoreathomeinJacques’sandmyoldplacethanmyparents’.IfeltalittlequeasyimaginingDadhere,amongthesethingsMomneverwould’vepickedout:thefolksyhand-paintedbreakfasttable,thedarkwoodenbookshelves,thesunkencouchcoveredinmismatchedpillows.
TherewasnosignoftheversionofhimthatI’dknown.
MyphoneranginmypocketandIsettheboxonthegranitecountertoptoanswerthecall.
“Hello?”Itcameoutweakandraspy
“Howisit?”thevoiceontheotherendsaidimmediately.“Isthereasexdungeon?”
“Shadi?”Iguessed.ItuckedthephonebetweenmyearandshoulderasIunscrewedthecapfromoneofmyginbottles,takingaswigtofortifymyself.
“IthonestlyworriesmethatI’mtheonlypersonwhomightcallyoutoaskthat,”Shadianswered.
“You’retheonlypersonwhoevenknowsabouttheLoveShack,”Ipointedout.
“Iamnottheonlyonewhoknowsaboutit,”Shadiargued.
Technicallytrue.WhileI’dfoundoutaboutmyfather’ssecretlakehouseathisfunerallastyear,Momhadbeenawaremuchlonger.“Fine,”Isaid.“You’retheonlypersonItoldaboutit.Anyway,givemeasecond.Ijustgothere.”
“Literally?”Shadiwasbreathinghard,whichmeantshewaswalkingtoashiftattherestaurant.Sincewekeptsuchdifferenthours,mostofourcallshappenedwhenshewasonherwayintowork.
“Metaphorically,”Isaid.“Literally,I’vebeenherefortenminutes,butIonlyjustfeelthatIhavearrived.”
“Sowise,”Shadisaid.“Sodeep.”
“Shh,”Isaid.“I’mtakingitallin.”
“Checkforthesexdungeon!”Shadihurriedtosay,asifIwerehanginguponher.
Iwasnot.Iwassimplyholdingthephonetomyear,holdingmybreath,holdingmyracingheartinmychest,asIscannedmyfather’ssecondlife.
Andthere,justwhenIcouldconvincemyselfDadcouldn’tpossiblyhavespenttimehere,Ispottedsomethingframedonthewall.AclippingofaNewYorkTimesBestSellerslistfromthreeyearsago,thesameonehe’dpositionedoverthefireplaceathome.ThereIwas,atnumberfifteen,thebottomslot.Andthere,threeslotsaboveme—inasicktwistoffate—wasmycollegerival,Gus(thoughnowhewentbyAugustus,becauseSeriousMan)andhishighbrowdebutnovelTheRevelatories.Ithadstayedonthelistforfiveweeks(notthatIwascounting(Iwasabsolutelycounting)).
“Well?”Shadiprompted.“Whatdoyouthink?”
Iturnedandmyeyescaughtonthemandalatapestryhangingoverthecouch.
“I’mledtowonderifDadsmokedweed.”Ispuntowardthewindowsatthesideofthehouse,whichalignedalmostperfectlywiththeneighbor’s,adesignflawMomwouldneverhaveoverlookedwhenhouseshopping.
Butthiswasn’therhouse,andIcouldclearlyseethefloor-to-ceilingbookshelvesthatlinedtheneighbor’sstudy.
“Oh,God—maybeit’sagrowhouse,notaloveshack!”Shadisoundeddelighted.“Youshould’vereadtheletter,January.It’sallbeenamisunderstanding.Yourdad’sleavingyouthefamilybusiness.ThatWomanwashisbusinesspartner,nothismistress.”
HowbadwasitthatIwishedshewereright?
Eitherway,I’dfullyintendedtoreadtheletter.I’djustbeenwaitingfortherighttime,hopingtheworstofmyangerwouldsettleandthoselastwordsfromDadwouldbecomforting.Instead,afullyearhadpassedandthedreadIfeltatthethoughtofopeningtheenvelopegreweveryday.Itwassounfair,thatheshouldgetthelastwordandI’dhavenowaytoreply.Toscreamorcryordemandmoreanswers.OnceI’dopenedit,there’dbenogoingback.Thatwouldbeit.Thefinalgoodbye.
Sountilfurthernotice,theletterwaslivingahappy,ifsolitary,lifeinthebottomoftheginboxI’dbroughtwithmefromQueens.
“It’snotagrowhouse,”ItoldShadiandslidopenthebackdoortostepontothedeck.“Unlesstheweed’sinthebasement.”
“Noway,”Shadiargued.“That’swherethesexdungeonis.”
“Let’sstoptalkingaboutmydepressinglife,”Isaid.“What’snewwithyou?”
“YoumeantheHauntedHat,”Shadisaid.IfonlyshehadfewerthanfourroommatesinhershoeboxapartmentinChicago,thenmaybeI’dbestayingwithhernow.NotthatIwascapableofgettinganythingdonewhenIwaswithShadi.Andmyfinancialsituationwastoodirenottogetsomethingdone.Ihadtofinishmynextbookinthisrent-freehell.ThenmaybeIcouldaffordmyownJacques-freeplace.
“IftheHauntedHatiswhatyouwanttotalkabout,”Isaid,“thenyes.Spill.”
“Stillhasn’tspokentome.”Shadisighedwistfully.“ButIcan,like,sensehimlookingatmewhenwe’rebothinthekitchen.Becausewehaveaconnection.”
“Areyouatallworriedthatyourconnectionisn’twiththeguywho’swearingtheantiqueporkpiehat,butperhapswiththeghostofthehat’soriginalowner?Whatwillyoudoifyourealizeyou’vefalleninlovewithaghost?”
“Um.”Shadithoughtforaminute.“IguessI’dhavetoupdatemyTinderbio.”
Abreezerippledoffthewateratthebottomofthehill,rufflingmybrownwavesacrossmyshoulders,andthesettingsunshotgoldenspearsoflightovereverything,sobrightandhotIhadtosquinttoseethewashoforangesandredsitcastacrossthebeach.IfthiswerejustsomehouseI’drented,itwouldbetheperfectplacetowritetheadorablelovestoryI’dbeenpromisingSandyLoweBooksformonths.
Shadi,Irealized,hadbeentalking.MoreabouttheHauntedHat.HisnamewasRicky,butwenevercalledhimthat.WealwaysspokeofShadi’slovelifeincode.Therewastheoldermanwhorantheamazingseafoodrestaurant(theFishLord),andthentherewassomeguywe’dcalledMarkbecausehelookedlikesomeother,famousMark,andnowtherewasthisnewcoworker,abartenderwhoworeahateverydaythatShadiloathedandyetcouldnotresist.
IsnappedbackintotheconversationasShadiwassaying,“FourthofJulyweekend?CanIvisitthen?”
“That’smorethanamonthaway.”IwantedtoarguethatIwouldn’tevenbeherebythen,butIknewitwasn’ttrue.Itwouldtakemeatleastallsummertowriteabook,emptythehouse,andsellboth,soIcould(hopefully)becatapultedbackintorelativecomfort.NotinNewYork,butsomewherelessexpensive.
IimaginedDuluthwasaffordable.Momwouldnevervisitmethere,butwehadn’tdonemuchvisitingthispastyearanyway,apartfrommythree-daytriphomeforChristmas.She’ddraggedmetofouryogaclasses,threecrowdedjuicebars,andaNutcrackerperformancestarringsomekidIdidn’tknow,likeifwewerealoneforevenasecond,thetopicofDadwouldariseandwe’dburstintoflames.
Allmylife,myfriendshadbeenjealousofmyrelationshipwithher.Howoftenandfreely(orsoIthought)wetalked,howmuchfunwehadtogether.Nowourrelationshipwastheworld’sleastcompetitivegameofphonetag.
I’dgonefromhavingtwolovingparentsandalive-inboyfriendtobasicallyjusthavingShadi,mymuch-too-long-distancebestfriend.TheoneblessingofmovingfromNewYorktoNorthBearShores,Michigan,wasthatIwasclosertoherplaceinChicago.
“FourthofJuly’stoofaroff,”Icomplained.“You’reonlythreehoursaway.”
“Yeah,andIdon’tknowhowtodrive.”
“Thenyoushouldprobablygivethatlicenseback,”Isaid.
“Believeme,I’mwaitingforittoexpire.I’mgoingtofeelsofree.IhatewhenpeoplethinkI’mabletodrivejustbecause,legally,Iam.”
Shadiwasaterribledriver.Shescreamedwheneversheturnedleft.
“Besides,youknowhowschedulingoffisintheindustry.I’mluckymybosssaidIcouldhaveFourthofJuly.ForallIknow,he’sexpectingablowjobnow.”
“Noway.Blowjobsareformajorholidays.Whatyou’vegotonyourhandsisagoodold-fashionedfootjobquidproquo.”
Itookanothersipofgin,thenturnedfromtheendofthedeckandnearlyyelped.Onthedecktenfeettotherightofmine,thebackofaheadofcurlybrownhairpeekedoveralawnchair.Isilentlyprayedthemanwasasleep—thatIwouldn’thavetospendanentiresummernextdoortosomeonewho’dheardmeshoutgoodold-fashionedfootjob
Asifhe’dreadmymind,hesatforwardandgrabbedthebottleofbeerfromhispatiotable,tookaswig,andsatback.
“Sotrue.Iwon’tevenhavetotakemyCrocsoff,”Shadiwassaying.“Anyway,Ijustgottowork.Butletmeknowifit’sdrugsorleatherinthebasement.”
Iturnedmybacktotheneighbor’sdeck.“I’mnotgoingtocheckuntilyouvisit.”
“Rude,”Shadisaid.
“Leverage,”Isaid.“Loveyou.”
“Loveyoumore,”sheinsistedandhungup.
Iturnedtofacethecurlyhead,halfwaitingforhimtoacknowledgeme,halfdebatingwhetherIwasobligatedtointroducemyself.
Ihadn’tknownanyofmyneighborsinNewYorkwell,butthiswasMichigan,andfromDad’sstoriesaboutgrowingupinNorthBearShores,Ifullyexpectedtohavetolendthismansugaratsomepoint(note:mustbuysugar).
Iclearedmythroatandpastedonmyattemptataneighborlysmile.Themansatforwardforanotherswigofbeer,andIcalledacrossthegap,“Sorryfordisturbingyou!”
Hewavedonehandvaguely,thenturnedthepageofwhateverbookwasinhislap.“What’sdisturbingaboutfootjobsasaformofcurrency?”hedrawledinahusky,boredvoice.
IgrimacedasIsearchedforareply—anyreply.OldJanuarywouldhaveknownwhattosay,butmymindwasasblankasitwaseverytimeIopenedMicrosoftWord.
Okay,somaybeI’dbecomeabitofahermitthispastyear.MaybeIwasn’tentirelysurewhatI’dspentthelastyeardoing,sinceitwasn’tvisitingMomanditwasn’twriting,anditwasn’tcharmingthesocksoffmyneighbors.
“Anyway,”Icalled,“I’mlivingherenow.”
Asifhe’dreadmythoughts,hegaveadisinterestedwaveandgrumbled,“Letmeknowifyouneedanysugar.”Buthemanagedtomakeitsoundmorelike,Neverspeaktomeagainunlessyounoticemyhouseisonfire,andeventhen,listenforsirensfirst.
SomuchforMidwesternhospitality.AtleastinNewYork,ourneighborshadbroughtuscookieswhenwemovedin.(They’dbeengluten-freeandlacedwithLSD,butitwasthethoughtthatcounted.)
“OrifyouneeddirectionstothenearestSexualFetishDepot,”theGrumpadded.
Heatflaredthroughmycheeks,aflushofembarrassmentandanger.ThewordswereoutbeforeIcouldreconsider:“I’lljustwaitforyourcartopulloutandfollow.”Helaughed,asurprised,roughsound,butstilldidn’tdeigntofaceme.
“Lovelytomeetyou,”Iaddedsharply,andturnedtohurrybackthroughtheslidingglassdoorstothesafetyofthehouse,whereIwouldquitepossiblyhavetohideallsummer.
“Liar,”IheardhimgrumblebeforeIsnappedthedoorshut.2TheFuneral
IWASN’TREADYTOlookthroughtherestofthehouse,soIsettleddownatthetabletowrite.Asusual,theblankdocumentstaredaccusinglyatme,refusingtofillitselfwithwordsorcharacters,nomatterhowlongIstaredback.
Here’sthethingaboutwritingHappilyEverAfters:ithelpsifyoubelieveinthem.
Here’sthethingaboutme:Ididuntilthedayofmyfather’sfuneral.
Myparents,myfamily,hadbeenthroughsomuchalready,andsomehowwealwayscamethroughitstronger,withmoreloveandlaughterthanbefore.TherewasthebriefseparationwhenIwasakidandMomstartedfeelinglikeshe’dlostheridentity,startedstaringoutwindowslikeshemightseeherselfouttherelivinglifeandfigureoutwhatsheneededtodonext.Therewasthekitchen-dancing,hand-holding,andforehead-kissingthatfollowedwhenDadmovedbackin.TherewasMom’sfirstcancerdiagnosisandthewildlyexpensivecelebratorydinnerwhenshekickeditsass,eatinglikeweweremillionaires,laughinguntiltheiroverpricedwineandmyItaliansodasprayedfromourrespectivenoses,likewecouldaffordtowasteit,likethemedicaldebtdidn’texist.Andthenthesecondboutofcancerandthenewleaseonlifeafterthemastectomy:thepotteryclasses,ballroomdancingclasses,yogaclasses,Moroccancookingclassesthatmyparentsfilledtheirscheduleswith,liketheyweredeterminedtopackasmuchlifeintoaslittletimeaspossible.LongweekendtripstoseemeandJacquesinNewYork,ridesonthesubwayduringwhichMombeggedmetostopregalingherwithstoriesofourpotheadneighborsSharynandKaryn(notrelated;regularlyslidinformational“FlatEarth”pamphletsunderourdoor)becauseshewasafraidshewasgoingtopeeherself,allwhileDaddebunkedtheflatEarththeoryunderhisbreathforJacques.
Trial.Happyending.Tribulation.Happyending.Chemo.Happyending.
Andthen,rightinthemiddleofthehappiestendingyet,hewasjustgone.
Iwasjuststandingthere,inthefoyerofhisandMom’sEpiscopalianchurch,inaseaofblack-cladpeoplewhisperinguselesswords,feelinglikeI’dsleepwalkedthere,barelyabletorecalltheflight,theridetotheairport,packing.Remembering,forthemillionthtimeinthelastthreedays,thathewasgone
Momhadslippedintothebathroom,andIwasalonewhenIsawher:theonlywomanIdidn’trecognize.Dressedinagraydressandleathersandals,acrochetedshawltiedaroundhershouldersandherwhitehairwind-tossed.Shewasstaringrightatme.
Afterabeat,sheswepttowardme,andforsomereason,mystomachbottomedout.Asifmybodyknewfirstthatthingswereabouttochange.Thisstranger’spresenceatDad’sfuneralwasgoingtowrenchmylifeofftrackasmuchashisdeathhad.
Shesmiledhesitantlyasshestoppedinfrontofme.Shesmelledlikevanillaandcitrus.“Hello,January.”Hervoicewasbreathy,andherfingerstwirledanxiouslythroughthefringeonhershawl.“I’veheardsomuchaboutyou.”
Behindher,thebathroomdoorswungopenandMomwalkedout.Shestoppedshort,frozenwithanunfamiliarexpression.Recognition?Horror?
Shedidn’twantthetwoofustotalk.Whatdidthatmean?
“I’manoldfriendofyourfather’s,”thewomansaid.“Hemeans…meantalottome.I’veknownhimallmylife,justabout.Forquitesometime,wewerethickasthieves,and—henevershutupaboutyou.”Herlaughtriedforeasy,misseditbyalight-year.
“I’msorry,”shesaid,hoarse.“IpromisedIwouldn’tcry,but…”
IfeltlikeI’dbeenshovedoffabuilding,likethedroppingwouldneverend.
Oldfriend.Thatwaswhatshesaid.Notloverormistress.ButIknew,fromthewayshewascrying—somefunhousemirrorversionofMom’stearsduringthefuneral.IrecognizedthelookonherfaceasthesameoneI’dseenonminethismorningwhileItappedconcealerundermyeyes.Dad’sdeathhadirreparablybrokenher.
Shefishedsomethingoutofherpocket.Anenvelopewithmynamescrawledacrossit,akeyrestingatopit.Atabhungfromthekeywithanaddressscribbledinthesameunmistakablehandwritingasthechickenscratchontheenvelope.Dad’s.
“Hewantedyoutohavethis,”shesaid.“It’syours.”
Shepusheditintomypalm,holdingonforasecond.“It’sabeautifulhouse,rightonLakeMichigan,”sheblurted.“You’llloveit.Healwayssaidthatyouwould.Andtheletterisforyourbirthday.Youcanopenitthen,or…whenever.”
Mybirthday.Mybirthdaywasn’tforanothersevenmonths.Mydadwouldnotbethereformybirthday.Mydadwasgone.
Behindthewoman,Momunfroze,movingtowarduswithamurderousexpression.“Sonya,”shehissed.
AndthenIknewtherest.
ThatwhileI’dbeeninthedark,Momhadnot.
IclosedtheWorddocument,likeclickingthatlittleXinthecornerwouldshutoutthememoriestoo.Lookingforadistraction,Iscrolledthroughmyinboxtothelatestemailfrommyagent,Anya.
Ithadarrivedtwodaysago,beforeIleftNewYork,andI’dfoundincreasinglyridiculousreasonsforputtingoffopeningit.Packing.Movingthingsintostorage.Driving.TryingtodrinkasmuchwaterasIcouldwhilepeeing.“Writing,”heavyonthescarequotes.Drunk.Hungry.Breathing.
Anyahadareputationforbeingtough,abulldog,onthepublishers’endofthings,butonthewriters’end,shewassomethinglikeMissHoney,thesweetteacherfromMatilda,mashedtogetherwithasexywitch.Youalwaysdesperatelywantedtopleaseher,bothbecauseyouhadthesensethatnoonehadlovedandadmiredyousopurelybeforeandbecauseyoususpectedshecouldsicaherdofpythonsonyou,ifshesochose.
Idrainedmythirdginandtonicofthenight,openedtheemail,andread:
Helloooo,youbeautifulandmiraculousjellyfish,angelicartist,money-makermine,
IknowthingshavebeenSOcrazyonyourend,butSandy’swritingagain—reallywantstoknowhowthemanuscript’scomingslashwhetheritwillstillbereadybytheendofthesummer.Asever,I’mmorethanhappytohoponthephone(orinstantmessage,oraPegasus’sbackasneedbe)tohelpyoubrainstorm/hashoutplotdetails/WHATEVERittakestohelpbringmoreofyourbeautifulwordsandunparalleledswoonintotheworld!Fivebooksinfiveyearswasatallorderforanyone(evensomeonewithyourspectaculartalent),butIdobelievewe’vereachedabreakingpointwithSLB,andit’stimetogrinandbirthit,ifatallpossible.
xox,
Anya
Grinandbirthit.Isuspectedit’dbeeasiertodeliverafullyformedhumanbabyoutofmyuterusattheendofthissummerthantowriteandsellanewbook.
IdecidedthatifIwenttosleepnow,Icouldpopoutofbedearlyandcrankoutafewthousandwords.Ihesitatedoutsidethedownstairsbedroom.TherewasnowaytobesurewhichbedsDadandThatWomanhadpartakenof.
Iwasinafunhouseofgeriatricadultery.Itmight’vebeenfunny,ifIhadn’tlosttheabilitytofindanythingfunnyinthelastyearspentpenningrom-comsthatendedwithabusdriverfallingasleepandthewholecastgoingoffacliff.
It’sSUPERinteresting,IalwaysimaginedAnyasaying,ifIweretoactuallysendinoneofthesedrafts.Imean,IwouldreadyourGROCERYlistandlaugh-crydoingit.Butit’snotaSandyLowebook.Fornow,moreswoonandlessdoom,babycakes.
Iwasgoingtoneedhelpsleepinghere.IpouredmyselfanotherG&Tandclosedmycomputer.Thehousehadgottenhotandstuffy,soIstrippedtomyunderwear,thencircledthefirstflooropeningwindowsbeforedrainingmyglassandfloppingontothecouch.
Itwasevenmorecomfortablethanitlooked.DamnThatWomanwithherbeautifullyeclectictastes.Itwasalso,Idecided,toolowtothegroundforamanwithabadbacktobeclimbingonandoffof,whichmeantitwasprobablynotusedforS-E-X.
ThoughDadhadn’talwayshadabadback.WhenIwasakid,he’dtakemeoutontheboatmostweekendsthathewashome,andfromwhatI’dseen,boatingwas90percentbendingovertotieanduntieknotsand10percentstaringintothesun,yourarmsthrownwidetoletthewindracethroughyourswishyjacketand—
Theacherosewithavengeanceinmychest.
Thoseearlymornings,ontheman-madelakethirtyminutesfromourhouse,hadalwaysbeenjustforthetwoofus,usuallythemorningafterhegotbackfromatrip.SometimesIdidn’tevenknowhewashomeyet.I’djustawaketomystill-darkroom,Dadticklingmynose,whisper-singingtheDeanMartinsonghe’dnamedmefor:It’sJuneinJanuary,becauseI’minlove…I’djoltawake,hearttrilling,knowingitmeantadayontheboat,thetwoofus.
NowIwonderedifallthosepreciouschillymorningshadbeenliteralguilttrips,timeforhimtoreadjusttolifewithMom,afteraweekendwithThatWoman.
Ishouldsavethestorytellingformymanuscript.Ipusheditalloutofmymindandpulledathrowpillowovermyface,sleepswallowingmelikeabiblicalwhale.
WhenIjerkedawake,theroomwasdark,andtherewasmusicblastingthroughit.
Istoodandambled,dazedandgin-fogged,towardtheknifeblockinthekitchen.Ihadn’theardofaserialkillerwhobeganeachmurderbyrousingthevictimwithR.E.M.’s“EverybodyHurts”butIreallycouldn’truleoutthepossibility.
AsImovedtowardthekitchen,themusicdimmed,andIrealizeditwascomingfromtheothersideofthehouse.FromtheGrump’shouse.
Ilookedtowardtheglowingnumbersonthestove.Twelvethirtyatnight,andmyneighborwasblastingasongmostoftenheardindateddramedieswhereintheprotagonistwalkshomealone,hunchedagainsttherain.
Istormedtowardthewindowandthrustmyupperbodythroughit.TheGrump’swindowswereopentoo,andIcouldseeaswathofbodieslitupinthekitchen,holdingglassesandmugsandbottles,leaninglazyheadsonshoulders,loopingarmsaroundnecksasthewholegroupsangalongwithfervor.
Itwasaragingparty.SoapparentlytheGrumpdidn’thateallpeople,justme.Icuppedmymoutharoundmyhandsandyelledoutthewindow,“EXCUSEME!”
Itriedtwicemorewithnoresponse,thenslammedthewindowclosedandcircledthefirstfloor,snappingtheothersshut.WhenIwasfinished,itstillsoundedprettymuchlikeR.E.M.wasplayingaconcertonmycoffeetable.
Andthen,forabeautifulmoment,thesongstoppedandthesoundsoftheparty,laughterandchatterandbottlesclinking,dippedtoastaticmurmur.
Andthenitstartedagain.
Thesamesong.Evenlouder.Oh,God.AsIpulledmysweatpantsbackon,Icontemplatedtheadvantagesofcallingthepolicewithanoisecomplaint.Ontheonehand,Imightmaintainplausibledeniabilitywithmyneighbor.(Oh,’twasnotIwhocalledtheconstable!Iambutayoungwomanofnineandtwenty,notacrotchetyoldspinsterwholoatheslaughter,fun,song,anddance!)Ontheother,eversinceI’dlostmydad,I’dhadaharderandhardertimeforgivingsmalloffenses.
Ithrewonmypizza-printsweatshirtandstormedoutthefrontdoor,marchinguptheneighbor’ssteps.BeforeIcouldsecond-guessmyself,I’dreachedforthedoorbell.
Itrangoutinthesamepowerfulbaritoneasagrandfatherclock,cuttingthroughthemusic,butthesingingdidn’tstop.Icountedtoten,thenrangitagain.Inside,thevoicesdidn’tevenwaver.Ifthepartygoersheardthedoorbell,theywereignoringit.
Ipoundedonthedoorforafewmoresecondsbeforeacceptingnoonewascoming,thenturnedtostomphome.Oneo’clock,Idecided.I’dgivethemuntilonebeforeIcalledthecops.
ThemusicwasevenlouderinthehousethanIremembered,andinthefewminutessinceI’dshutthewindows,thetemperaturehadrisentoastickyswelter.Withnothingbettertodo,Igrabbedapaperbackfrommybagandheadedforthedeck,fumblingforthelightswitchesbesidetheslidingdoor.
Myfingershitthembutnothinghappened.Thebulbsoutsideweredead.Readingbyphonelight,atoneinthemorning,onthedeckofmyfather’ssecondhomeitwas!Isteppedout,skintinglingfromtherefreshingchillofthebreezecomingoffthewater.
TheGrump’sdeckwasdarktoo,exceptforalonefluorescentbulbsurroundedbyclumsymoths,whichwaswhyInearlyscreamedwhensomethingmovedintheshadows.
Andbynearlyscreamed,Iofcoursemeandefinitelyscreamed.
“Jesus!”Theshadowythinggaspedandshotupfromthechairwhereithadbeensitting.Andbyshadowything,Iofcoursemeanmanwho’dbeenchillinginthedarkuntilIscaredtheshitoutofhim.“What,what?”hedemanded,likeheexpectedmetoannouncethathewascoveredinscorpions.
Ifhehadbeen,thiswouldbelessawkward.
“Nothing!”Isaid,stillbreathinghardfromthesurprise.“Ididn’tseeyouthere!”
“Youdidn’tseemehere?”herepeated.Hegaveascratchy,disbelievinglaugh.“Really?Youdidn’tseeme,onmyowndeck?”
Technically,Ididn’tseehimnoweither.Theporchlightwasafewfeetbehindandabovehim,transforminghimintonothingbutatallish,person-shapedsilhouettewithahaloringinghisdark,messyhair.Atthispoint,itwouldprobablybebetterifImanagedtogothewholesummerwithouthavingtomakeeyecontactwithhimanyway.
“Doyoualsoscreamwhencarsdrivepastonthehighwayoryouspotpeoplethroughrestaurantwindows?Wouldyoumindblackingoutallourperfectlyalignedwindowssoyoudon’taccidentallyseemewhenI’mholdingaknifeorarazor?”
Icrossedmyarmsviciouslyovermychest.Ortriedto.Theginwasstillmakingmealittlefuzzyandclumsy.
WhatImeanttosay—whattheoldJanuarywould’vesaid—wasCouldyoupossiblyturnyourmusicdownalittlebit?Actually,sheprobablywould’vejustslatheredherselfinglitter,putonherfavoritevelvetloafers,andshownupatthefrontdoorwithabottleofchampagne,determinedtowintheGrumpover
Butsofar,thiswasthethird-worstdayofmylife,andthatJanuarywasprobablyburiedwherevertheyputtheoldTaylorSwift,sowhatIactuallysaidwas“Couldyouturnoffyoursad-boy-angstingsoundtrack?”
Thesilhouettelaughedandleanedagainsthisdeckrailing,hisbeerbottledanglingfromonehand.“DoesitlooklikeI’mtheonerunningtheplaylist?”
“No,itlookslikeyou’retheonesittinginthedarkaloneathisownparty,”Isaid,“butwhenIrangthedoorbelltoaskyourfratbrotherstoturndownthevolume,theycouldn’thearmeovertheJell-Owrestling,soI’maskingyou.”
Hestudiedmethroughthedarkforaminute—oratleast,Iassumedthatwaswhathewasdoing,sinceneitherofuscouldactuallyseetheother.
Finally,hesaid,“Look,noonewillbemorethrilledthanmewhenthisnightendsandeveryonegetsoutofmyhouse,butitisaSaturdaynight.Insummer,onastreetfullofvacationhomes.UnlessthisneighborhoodgotairliftedtothelittletownfromFootloose,itdoesn’tseemcrazytoplaymusicthislate.Andmaybe—justmaybe—thebrand-newneighborwhostoodonherdeckscreamingfootjobsoloudbirdsscatteredcouldaffordtobelenientifonemiserablepartygoeslaterthanshe’dlike.”
Nowitwasmyturntostareatthedarkblob.
God,hewasright.Hewasagrump,butsowasI.KarynandSharyn’svitamin-powder-pyramid-schemepartieswentlaterthanthis,andthosewereonweeknights,usuallywhenJacqueshadashiftattheERthenextmorning.SometimesI’devenattendedthoseparties,andnowIcouldn’tevenhandleSaturday-nightgroupkaraoke?
Andworstofall,beforeIcouldfigureoutwhattosay,theGrump’shousewentmiraculouslysilent.Throughhisilluminatedbackdoors,Icouldseethecrowdbreakingup,hugging,sayinggoodbyes,settingdowncups,andputtingonjackets.
I’darguedwiththisguyfornothing,andnowI’dhavetolivenexttohimformonths.IfIneededsugar,Iwasgoingtobeshitoutofluck.
Iwantedtoapologizeforthesad-boyangstcomment,oratleastforthesegoddamnpants.Thesedays,myreactionsalwaysfeltoutsized,andtherewasnoeasywaytoexplainthemwhenstrangershadthebadfortuneofwitnessingthem.
Sorry,Iimaginedmyselfsaying,Ididn’tmeantotransformintoacrotchetygrandmother.It’sjustmydaddiedandthenIfoundouthehadamistressandasecondhouseandthatmymomknewbutnevertoldmeandshestillwon’ttalktomeaboutanyofit,andwhenIfinallycameapart,myboyfrienddecidedhedidn’tlovemeanymore,andmycareerhasstalled,andmybestfriendlivestoofaraway,andPSthisistheaforementionedSexHouse,andIusedtolikepartiesbutlatelyIdon’tlikeanything,sopleaseforgivemybehaviorandhavealovelyevening.Thankyouandgoodnight.
Instead,thatknife-twistingpainhitmygut,andtearsstungthebackofmynose,andmyvoicesqueakedpatheticallyasIsaidtonooneinparticular,“I’msotired.”
Evensilhouettedashewas,Icouldtellhewentrigid.I’dlearneditwasn’tuncommonforpeopletodothatwhentheyintuitedawomanwasonthevergeofemotionalcollapse.Inthelastfewweeksofourrelationship,Jacqueswaslikeoneofthosesnakesthatcansenseanearthquake,goingtautwhenevermyemotionsrose,thendecidingweneededsomethingfromthebodegaandrushingoutthedoor.
Myneighbordidn’tsayanything,buthedidn’trushawayeither.Hejuststoodthereawkwardly,staringatmethroughthepitch-dark.Wefacedoffforeasilyfiveseconds,waitingtoseewhatwouldhappenfirst:meburstingintotearsorhimrunningaway.
Andthenthemusicstartedblaringagain,aCarlyRaeJepsenbangerthat,underdifferentcircumstances,Iloved,andtheGrumpstartled.
Heglancedbackthroughtheslidingdoors,thentomeagain.Heclearedhisthroat.“I’llkickthemout,”hesaidstiffly,thenturnedandwentinside,aunanimouscheerof“EVERETT!”risingfromthecrowdinthekitchenatthesightofhim.
Theysoundedreadytohoisthimupintoakegstand,butIcouldseehimleaningovertoshouttoablondegirl,andamomentlater,themusicfellsilentforgood.
Well.NexttimeIneededtomakeanimpression,ImightbebetteroffwithaplateofLSDcookies.3ThePete-Cute
IAWOKE,HEADTHROBBING,toatextfromAnya:Hey,babycakes!Wantedtomakesureyougotmyemailre:yourgloriousmindandthesummerdeadlinewechattedabout.
Thatperiodreverberatedthroughmyskulllikeadeathknell.
I’dgottenmyfirsttruehangoverwhenIwastwenty-four,themorningafterAnyasoldmyfirstbook,KissKiss,WishWish,toSandyLowe.(JacqueshadboughthisfavoriteFrenchchampagnetocelebrate,andwedrankitfromthebottleaswewalkedtheBrooklynBridge,waitingforthesuntorise,becausewethoughtitseemedhugelyromantic.)Later,lyingonthebathroomfloor,I’dswornI’dfallonasharpknifebeforeIletmybrainfeellikeaneggfryingonarockintheCancúnsunagain.
Andyet!HereIwas,facepressedintoabeadedthrowpillow,brainsizzlinginthesaucepanofmyskull.Irantothedownstairsbathroom.Ididn’tneedtothrowup,butIwashopingthatifIpretendedIdid,mybodywouldfallforitandevacuatethepoisoninmygut.
Ithrewmyselfontomykneesinfrontofthetoiletandliftedmyeyestotheframedpicturethathungfromaribbononthewallbehindit.
DadandThatWomanwereonabeach,dressedinwindbreakers,hisarmswrappedaroundhershoulders,thewindpullingatherpre-whiteblondehairandpushinghisonly-just-grayingcurlsflatagainsthisforeheadastheygrinned.
Andthen,inamoreunderstatedbutequallyhilariousjokefromtheuniverse,Ispottedthemagazinerackbesidethetoilet,whichcontainedexactlythreeofferings.
Atwo-year-oldOprahMagazine.Acopyofmythirdbook,NorthernLight.AndthatdamnTheRevelatories—ahardcoverwithoneofthoseshinyAUTOGRAPHEDstickers,noless.
Iopenedmymouthandretchedheartilyintothetoiletbowl.ThenIstood,rinsedoutmymouth,andturnedthepictureframearoundsoitfacedthewall.
“Neveragain,”Isaidaloud.Steponetoahangover-freelife?Probablynotmovingintoahousethatdrivesyoutodrink.Iwouldhavetofindothercopingmechanisms.Like…nature.
Iwentbacktothelivingroom,fishedmytoothbrushfrommybag,andbrushedatthekitchensink.ThenextessentialstepformetogoonexistingwasacoffeeIV.
WheneverIdraftedabook,Iprettymuchlivedinmyillustriousgive-uppants,soasidefromacollectionofequallyterriblesweatpants,I’dpackedprettylightlyforthistrip.I’devenwatchedahandfuloflifestylevloggers’videosabout“capsulewardrobes”inanattempttomaximizetheamountof“looks”Icould“build”fromapairofDaisyDukesImostlyworewhenIwasstress-cleaningandacollectionofrattyT-shirtswithcelebrities’facesonthem—remnantsfromaphaseinmyearlytwenties.
Ipulledonasomberblack-and-whiteJoniMitchell,stuffedmybooze-bloatedbodyintothedenimcutoffs,andputonmyfloral-embroideredankleboots.
Ihadathingaboutshoes,fromtheverycheapandtackytotheveryexpensiveanddramatic.Asitturnedout,this“thing”ofminewasfairlyincompatiblewiththewholecapsulewardrobeconcept.I’donlypackedfourpairs,andIdoubtedanyonewouldconsidermysparklyTargettennisshoesortheover-the-kneeStuartWeitzmanbootsI’dsplurgedontobe“classic.”
IgrabbedmycarkeysandwasheadingoutintotheblindingsummersunwhenIheardmyphonebuzzingfromwithinthecouchcushions.AmessagefromShadi:MadeoutwiththeHauntedHat,followedbyabunchofskulls.
AsIstumbledoutsideagain,Itypedback:SEEAPRIESTIMMEDIATELY
Itriednottothinkaboutlastnight’shumiliatingface-offwiththeneighborasIjoggeddownthestepstotheKia,butthatjustfreedupmymindtowandertomyleastfavoritesubject.
Dad.Thelasttimewe’dgoneboatingtogether,he’ddrivenustotheman-madelakeintheKiaandtoldmehewasgivingittome.ItwasalsothedayhetoldmeIshouldgoforit:movetoNewYork.Jacqueswasalreadythereformedicalschool,andweweredoingthelong-distancethingsoIcouldbewithMom.Dadhadtotravelalotfor“work,”andevenifIultimatelybelievedmyownstory—thatourliveswouldalways,ultimately,workout—abigpartofmewasstilltooscaredtoleaveMomalone.Asifmyabsencewouldsomehowmakeroomforthecancertocreepbackinathirdtime.
“She’sfine,”Dadhadpromisedaswesatinthefrigid,darkparkinglot.
“Itcouldcomeback,”I’dargued.Ididn’twanttomissasecondwithher.
“Anythingcouldhappen,January.”Thatwaswhathe’dsaid.“AnythingcouldhappentoMom,orme,orevenyou,atanypoint.Butrightnow,nothingis.Dosomethingforyourselfforonce,kiddo.”
MaybehethoughtmymovingtoNewYorktolivewithmyboyfriendwas,atitscore,thesameashimbuyingasecondhousetohideawaywithhismistress.I’dgivenupgradschooltohelptakecareofMomduringthatsecondroundofchemo,puteverycentIcouldtowardhelpingwithmedicalbills,andwherehadhebeenthen?WearingawindbreakeranddrinkingpinotnoironthebeachwithThatWoman?
IpushedthethoughtawayasIslidintothecar,theleatherhotagainstmythighs,andpulledawayfromthecurb,crankingdownthewindowasIwent.
Attheendofthestreet,Iturnedleft,awayfromthewater,andheadedintotown.Theinletthatreacheddownalongtherightsideoftheroadthrewsliversofsparklinglightagainstmywindow,andthehotwindroaredinmyears.Foraminute,itwaslikemylifehadceasedtoexistaroundme.Iwasjustfloatingpasthordesofscantilycladteenagersmillingaroundthehotdogstandonmyleft,parentsandkidslinedupoutthedooroftheicecreamshoponmyright,packsofcyclistsridingbacktowardthebeach.
AsIcruiseddownthemaindrag,thebuildingsclumpedcloseruntiltheywerepressedshouldertoshoulder:atinyItalianrestaurantwithvine-coveredterracesflushwithaskateshop,pressingitintotheIrishpubnextdoor,followedbyanold-fashionedcandyshop,andfinallyacafécalledPete’sCoffee—nottobeconfusedwithPeet’s,thoughthesignlooked,actually,likeitwasspecificallytryingtobeconfusedwithPeet’s.
IpulledintoaparkingspotandduckedintothesweetchillofPeteNotPeet’sair-conditioning.Thefloorboardswerepaintedwhiteandthewallswereadeepblue,speckledwithsilverstarsthatswirledbetweentables,interruptedbytheoccasionalframedplatitudeattributedto“Anonymous.”Theroomopeneddirectlyintoawell-litbookstore,thewordsPETE’SBOOKSpaintedinthatsameauspicioussilveroverthedoorway.Anelderlycoupleinfleecevestssatinthehalf-collapsedarmchairsinthebackcorner.Asidefromthelate-middle-agedwomanattheregisterandme,theyweretheonlypeoplehere.
“Muchtooniceofadaytobeinside,Is’pose,”thebaristasaid,asifreadingmythoughts.Shehadagruffvoicetomatchherblondecrewcut,andhertinygoldhoopearringswinkedinthesoftlightingasshewavedmeforwardwithasetofpalepinkfingernails.“Don’tbeshy.We’reallfamilyatPete’s.”
Ismiled.“God,Ihopenot.”
Sheslappedthecounterasshelaughed.“Oh,family’stricky,”sheagreed.“Anyway,whatcanIgetyou?”
“Jetfuel.”
Shenoddedsagely.“Oh,you’reoneofthose.Whereareyoufrom,honey?”
“NewYorkmostrecently.Ohiobeforethat.”
“Oh,I’vegotfamilyinNewYork.Thestate,notthecity.You’retalkingaboutthecitythough,aren’tyou?”
“Queens,”Iconfirmed.
“Neverbeen,”shesaid.“Youwantanymilk?Anysyrup?”
“I’ddosomemilk,”Isaid.
“Whole?Half?One-sixteenth?”
“Surpriseme.I’mnotpickywhenitcomestofractions.”
Shethrewherheadbackandlaughedagainasshemovedlackadaisicallybetweenmachines.“Whohastimetobe?Iswear,evenNorthBearShoresmovestoofastformemostdays.MaybeifItookupdrinkingthis‘jetfuel’ofyoursit’dbeadifferentstory.”
Havingabaristawhodidnotdrinkespressowasn’tideal,butIlikedthewomanwiththetinygoldearrings.Honestly,Ilikedhersomuchthatitsentalittlepangoflongingthroughme.
FortheoldJanuary.Theonewholovedthrowingthemedpartiesandcoordinatinggroupcostumes,whocouldn’tgotothegasstationorstandinlineatthepostofficewithoutwindingupmakingplanstograbcoffeeorhitupagalleryopeningwithsomeoneIjustmet.MyphonewasriddledwithcontactslikeSarah,theanchorbar,cutedogandMike,runsthatnewvintagestore.I’devenmetShadiinapizzashopbathroomwhenshecameoutofthestallwearingthebestFryebootsI’deverseen.Imissedfeelingthatdeepcuriosityaboutpeople,thatsparkofexcitementwhenyourealizedyouhadsomethingincommonoradmirationwhenyouuncoveredahiddentalentorquality.
Sometimes,Ijustmissedlikingpeople.
Butthisbarista,shewasthoroughlylikable.Evenifthecoffeesucked,IknewI’dbeback.Shetuckedtheplasticlidonthecupandploppeditdowninfrontofme.“Nochargeforfirst-timers,”shesaid.“Ijustaskthatyoureturn.”
Ismiled,promisedIwould,andstuffedmylastdollarbillintothetipjarasshewentbacktomoppingupthecounters.Onmywaybacktothedoor,Ifroze,Anya’svoicerunningthroughmyhead:Heeeeeeey,sugarcube!SERIOUSLYnottryingtooverstep,butyouknow,bookclubsareyourDREAMmarket.Ifyou’reliterallyINasmall-townbookstore,youshouldpopoverandsayhey!
IknewImaginaryAnyawasright.Rightnow,everysalematteredtome.
Plasteringasmileonmyface,Ipassedthroughthedoorwayintothebookstore.IfonlyIcouldtravelbackintimeandchoosetoputonanyoutfitbesidesthe2002JessicaSimpsonmusicvideoextracostumeIwassporting.
Thestorewassmalloakshelvesalongtheoutsidewallsandahodgepodgelabyrinthofshorterbookshelvestunnelingbackandforthbetweenthem.Theregisterwasunattended,andasIwaited,Iglancedtowardthetrioofbraces-wearingpreteensintheromancesectiontomakesureitwasn’toneofmybookstheyweregigglingover.AllfourofuswouldbeirrevocablytraumatizedifthebooksellerledmeovertosignstockonlytodiscoveracopyofSouthernComfortintheredhead’shands.Thegirlsgaspedandtitteredastheredheadclutchedthebooktoherchest,revealingthecover:atoplessmanandwomanembracingasflamesleaptaroundthem.Definitelynotoneofmine.
Itookasipofthelatteandpromptlyspititbackintothecup.Ittastedlikemud.
“Sorryaboutthewait,hon.”Thescratchyvoicecamefromovermyshoulder,andIspuntofacethewomanzigzaggingtowardmethroughthecrookedrowsofshelves.“Thesekneesdon’tmoveliketheyusedto.”
Atfirst,Ithoughtshemustbethebarista’sidenticaltwin,sisterswho’dopenedthebusinesstogether,butthenIrealizedthewomanwasuntyinghergrayPETE’sapronfromherwaistasshemadeherwaytotheregister.
“DoyoubelieveIusedtobearollerderbychampion?”shesaidasshedroppedthewaddedaprononthecounter.“Well,believeitornot,Idid.”
“AtthispointI’dhardlybesurprisedtofindoutyou’rethemayorofNorthBearShores.”
Shegavearattlinglaugh.“Oh,no,can’tsaythatIam!ThoughmaybeIcouldgetsomeshitdonearoundhere,ifthey’dhaveme!ThistownisanicelittlepocketofprogressivismhereintheMitten,butthepeoplewiththepursestringsarestillabunchofpearl-clutchinggolfbags.”
Ifoughtasmile.ItsoundedsomuchlikesomethingDadwould’vesaid.Theachesearedthroughme,fire-pokersharpandhot.
“Anyway,don’tmindmeandmyO-PIN-YUNS,”sheenunciated,liftingherthickash-blondebrows.“I’mjustalowlyentrepreneur.WhatcanIdoyoufor,sugar?”
“Ijustwantedtointroducemyself,”Iadmitted.“I’mawriter,actually,withSandyLoweBooks,andI’mhereforthesummer,soIfiguredI’dsayhi,signstockifyouhaveany.”
“Ohhh,anotherwriterintown!”shecried.“Howexciting!Youknow,NorthBearbringsinalotofartisttypes.It’sourwayoflife,Ithink.Andthecollege.Allsortsoffreethinkersoverthere.Abeautifullittlecommunity.You’regoingtoloveithere…”Thewayherwordsdroppedoffsuggestedshewaswaitingformetoinsertmyownnameattheendofhersentence.
“January,”Ichimedin.“Andrews.”
“Pete,”shesaid,shakingmyhandwiththevigorofagreenberetwho’sjustsaid,Put’erthere,son!
“Pete?”Isaid.“OfPete’sCoffeefame?”
“Theverysame.Legalname’sPosy.Whatkindofanameisthat?”Shepantomimedgagging.“Seriously,doIlooklikeaPosytoyou?DoesanyonelooklikeaPosy?”
Ishookmyhead.“Maybe,like,ababywearingapolyesterflowercostume?”
“SoonasIcouldtalk,Isetthatonestraight.Anyway,JanuaryAndrews.”Petesteppeduptothecomputerandpluggedmynameintothekeyboard.“Let’sseeifwe’vegotyourbook.”
Inevercorrectedpeoplewhentheysaidsingular“book”ratherthanplural“books,”butsometimestheassumptiondugundermyskin.Itmademefeellikepeoplethoughtmycareerwasafluke.LikeI’dsneezedandaromancenovelcameout.
Andthentherewerethepeoplewhoactedlikewewereinonsomesecretjoketogetherwhen,afteraconversationaboutArtorPolitics,theyfoundoutIwroteupbeatwomen’sfiction:Whateverpaysthebills,right?they’dsay,practicallybeggingmetoconfirmIdidn’twanttowritebooksaboutwomenorlove.
“Lookslikewedon’thaveanyinstock,”Petesaid,lookingupfromthescreen.“ButItellyawhat,you’dbetterbelieveI’morderingthemin.”
“That’dbegreat!”Isaid.“Maybewecouldhostaworkshoplaterthissummer.”
Petegaspedandclutchedmyarm.“Idea,JanuaryAndrews!Youshouldcometoourbookclub.We’dlovetohaveya.Greatwaytogetinvolvedinthecommunity.It’sMondays.CanyoudoMonday?Tomorrow?”
Inmyhead,Anyasaid,YouknowwhatmadeTheGirlontheTrainhappen?Bookclubs.
Thatwasastretch.ButIlikedPete.“Mondayswork.”
“Fantastic.I’llsendyoumyaddress.SevenPM,lotsofbooze,alwaysahoot.”Shepulledabusinesscardfromthedeskandpasseditacrossthecounter.“Youdoemail,don’tyou?”
“Almostconstantly.”
Pete’ssmilewidened.“Well,youjustshootmeamessageandwe’llmakesureyou’reallsetfortomorrow.”
IpromisedherIwouldandturnedtogo,nearlycollidingwiththedisplaytable.Iwatchedthepyramidofbookstremble,andasIstoodthere,waitingtoseeifthey’dfall,Irealizedtheentirethingwasmadeoutofthesamebook,eachmarkedwithanAUTOGRAPHEDsticker.
Anuncannytingleclimbedmyspine.
There,ontheabstractblack-and-whitecover,insquareredletters,beneathTheRevelatories,washisname.Itwasallcomingtogetherinmymind,adominotrailofrealizations.Ididn’tmeantosayitaloud,butImighthave.
Becausethebellsoverthebookshopdoortinkled,andwhenIlookedup,therehewas.Oliveskin.Cheekbonesthatcouldcutyou.CrookedmouthandahuskyvoiceI’dneverforget.Messy,darkhairIcouldimmediatelypicturehaloedinfluorescentlight.
AugustusEverett.Gus,asI’dknownhimbackincollege.
“Everett!”asPetewascallingaffectionatelyfrombehindthedesk.
Myneighbor,theGrump.
Ididwhatanyreasonableadultwomanwoulddowhenconfrontedwithhercollegerivalturnednext-doorneighbor.Idovebehindthenearestbookshelf.4TheMouth
THEWORSTPARTofbeingcollegerivalswithGusEverett?ProbablythefactthatIwasn’tsureheknewwewere.Hewasthreeyearsolder,ahighschooldropoutwho’dgottenhisGEDafterspendingafewyearsworkingasaliteralgravedigger.Iknewallofthisbecauseeverystoryheturnedinourfirstsemesterwaspartofacollectioncenteringonthecemeterywherehe’dworked.
Therestofusinthecreativewritingprogramwerepullingfodderfromourasses(andchildhoods:soccergameswoninthelastinstant,fightswithparents,roadtripswithfriends),andGusEverettwaswritingabouttheeightkindsofmourningwidows,analyzingthemostcommonepitaphs,thefunniest,theonesthatsubtlybetrayedastrainedrelationshipbetweenthedeceasedandthepersonfootingtheheadstone’sbill.
Likeme,GuswasatUofMonaslewofscholarships,butitwasunclearhowhe’dgottenthem,sinceheplayednosportsandhadn’ttechnicallygraduatedfromhighschool.Theonlyexplanationwasthathewasatrociouslygoodatwhathedid.
Totopthingsoff,GusEverettwasstupidly,infuriatinglyattractive.Andnottheuniversalkindofhandsomethatalmostdullsitselfwithobjectivity.Itwasmoreofamagnetismheemanated.Sure,hewasjustbarelyonthetallsideofaverage,withtheleanmuscleofsomeonewhoneverstoppedmovingaroundbutalsoneverintentionallyexercised—alazykindoffitthatcamefromgeneticsandrestlessnessratherthangoodhabits—butitwasmorethanthat.
Itwasthewayhetalkedandmoved,howhelookedatthings.Not,like,howhesawtheworld.Literallyhowhelookedatthings,hiseyesseemingtodarkenandgrowwheneverhefocused,hiseyebrowsfurrowingoverhisdentednose.
Nottomentionhiscrookedmouth,whichshould’vebeenoutlawed.
BeforeshedroppedoutofUandMtobecomeanaupair(apursuitsoonabandoned),ShadiwouldaskmenightlyatdinnerforupdatesonSexy,EvilGus,sometimesabbreviatedasSEG.Iwasminorlybesottedwithhimandhisprose.
Untilwefinallyspokeforthefirsttimeinclass.Iwaspassingoutmylatestshortstoryforcritique,andwhenIhandedittohim,helookedmedeadintheeyes—hisheadtiltedcuriously—andsaid,“Letmeguess:Everyoneliveshappilyeverafter.Again.”
Iwasn’twritingromanceyet—Ididn’tevenrealizehowmuchIlovedreadingromanceuntilMom’sseconddiagnosistwoyearslater,whenIneededagooddistraction—butIwasdefinitelywritingromantically,aboutagoodworld,wherethingshappenedforareason,whereloveandhumanconnectionwereallthatreallymattered.
AndGusEveretthadlookedatmewiththoseeyes,deepeninganddarkeningliketheyweresuckingeverybitofinformationaboutmeintohisskull,andhe’ddeterminedthatIwasaballooninneedofpopping.
Letmeguess:EveryoneliveshappilyeverafterAgain
Wespentthenextfouryearstakingturnswinningourschool’swritingprizesandcontestsbutmanagedtobarelyspeakagain,unlessyoucountedworkshops,duringwhichherarelycritiquedanyone’sstoriesexceptmineandnearlyalwaysshoweduplatewithouthalfhisstuffandaskedtoborrowmypens.Andtherewasonewildnightatafratpartywherewe’d…notquitetalked,butdefinitelyinteracted.
Frankly,wecrossedpathsconstantly,partlybecausehedatedtwoseparateroommatesofmineandplentyofothergirlsonmyfloor—thoughIusethetermdatedloosely.Guswasnotoriousforhavingatwo-to-four-weekdatingshelflife,andwhilethefirstroommatehadstartedthingsupwithhimhopingtobetheexception,thesecond(andplentyoftheothers)wentinfullyawareGusEverettwasjustsomeoneyoucouldhavefunwith,foruptothirty-onedays.
Unlessyouwroteshortstorieswithhappyendings,inwhichcaseyouwereapparentlyfarmorelikelytospendfouryearsasrivals,passanothersixoccasionallyGooglinghimtocompareyourcareers,andthenrunintohimherewhiledressedlikeateencheerleaderatacarwashfundraiser.
Asin,here.Now.WalkingintoPete’sBooks.
IwasalreadyplanningwhatIwouldtextShadiasIpowerwalkeddownthesideofthestore,chintuckedandfaceangledintotheshelveslikeIwascasuallybrowsing(whilstpracticallyjogging,asonedoes).
“January?”Petewascalling.“January,where’dyougo?Iwantyoutomeetsomeone.”
I’mnotproudtoadmitthatwhenIfroze,Iwaslookingatthedoor,judgingwhetherIcouldmakeitoutoftherewithoutresponding.
It’simportanttonotethatIknewforafacttherewerebellsoverthedoor,andIstillcouldn’tmakeanimmediatedecision.
Finally,Itookadeepbreath,forcedasmile,andsteppedoutfrombetweentheshelves,clutchingmygod-awfullattelikeitwasahandgun.“Hiiiiiiiiii,”Isaid,thenwavedinadistinctlyanimatronicway.
Ihadtoforcemyselftolookdirectlyathim.Helookedjustlikehedidinhisauthorphoto:allsharpcheekbones,furiouslydarkeyes,andtheleanlymuscledarmsofagravediggerturnednovelist.Hewaswearingarumpledblue(orfadedblack)T-shirtandrumpleddarkblue(orfadedblack)jeans,andhishairhadstartedstreakingthroughwithgray,alongwiththejust-past-five-o’clockshadowaroundhiscrookedmouth.
“ThisisJanuaryAndrews,”Peteannounced.“She’sawriter.Justmovedhere.”
Icouldpracticallyseethesamerealizationdawningonhisfacethathadjustcrasheddownonmine,hiseyeshominginashepiecedtogetherwhateverbitsofmehe’dcaughtinthedarklastnight.
“We’vemet,actually,”hesaid.Thefireofathousandsunsrushedtomyface,andprobablymyneckandchestandlegsandeveryotherexposedinchofmybody.
“Oh?”Petesaid,delighted.“How’sthat?”
Mymouthfellopensilently,thewordcollegesomehowevadinggrasp,asmyeyesshiftedbacktoGus’s.“We’reneighbors,”hesaid.“Ibelieve?”
Oh,God.Wasitpossiblehedidn’tremembermeatall?MynamewasJanuary,forshit’ssake.Itwasn’tlikeIwasaRebeccaoraChristy/Christina/Christine.ItriednottothinktoohardabouthowGuscouldhaveforgottenme,becausedoingsowouldonlytakemycomplexionfromovercookedlobstertoeggplant.“Right,”IthinkIsaid.Thephonebesidetheregisterbegantoring,andPeteheldupafingerexcusingherselfassheturnedtoanswerit,leavingusalone.
“So,”Gussaidfinally.
“So,”Iparroted.
“Whatsortofthingdoyouwrite,JanuaryAndrews?”
IdidmybestnottoglancesidewaysatthestadiumofRevelatoriescurlingaroundthetablebehindme.“Romance,mostly.”
Gus’seyebrowarched.“Ah.”
“Ah,what?”Isaid,alreadyonthedefensive.
Heshrugged.“Just‘ah.’”
Ifoldedmyarms.“Thatwasanawfullyknowing‘justah.’”
Heleanedagainstthedeskandfoldedhisarmstoo,hisbrowfurrowing.“Well,thatwasfast,”hesaid.
“Whatwas?”
“Offendingyou.Onesyllable.Ah.Prettyimpressive.”
“Offended?Thisisn’tmyoffendedface.IlooklikethisbecauseI’mtired.Myweird-assneighborwasblastinghiscryingsoundtrackallnight.”
Henoddedthoughtfully.“Yeah,must’vebeenthe‘music’thatwasmakingitsohardforyoutowalklastnighttoo.Hey,ifyouthinkyoumighthavea‘music’problem,there’snoshameingettinghelp.”
“Anyway,”Isaid,stillfightingablush.“Younevertoldmewhatyouwrite,Everett.I’msureit’ssomethingreallygroundbreakingandimportant.Totallynewandfresh.Likeastoryaboutadisillusionedwhiteguy,wanderingtheworld,misunderstoodandcoldlyhorny.”
Alaughbarkedoutofhim.“‘Coldlyhorny’?Asopposedtotheveryartfullyhandledsexualproclivitiesofyourgenre?Tellme,whichdoyoufindmorefascinatingtowrite:love-struckpiratesorlove-struckwerewolves?”
AndnowIwasseethingagain.
“Well,it’snotreallyaboutmesomuchaswhatmyreaderswant.What’sitlikewritingHemingwaycircle-jerkfanfiction?Doyouknowallyourreadersbyname?”TherewassomethingsortoffreeingaboutnewJanuary.
Gus’sheadtiltedinthatfamiliarwayandhisbrowknitashisdarkeyesstudiedme,theintensityofthemmakingmyskinprickle.Hisfulllipspartedasifhewasabouttospeak,butjustthenPetehungupthephoneandslippedintoourcircle,cuttinghimoff.
“Whataretheodds,eh?”Peteasked,clappingherhandstogether.“TwopublishedwritersonthesamelittlestreetinNorthBearShores!Ibetyoutwowillbeshootingtheshitallsummer.Itoldyouthistownwasfullofartists,didn’tI,January?Howdoyoulikethat?”Shelaughedheartily.“NosoonerhadIsaiditthanEverettmarchesrightin!Theuniverseisonmysidetoday,lookslike.”
Theringingofmyphoneinmypocketsavedmefromhavingtoanswer.Foronce,Iscrambledtoanswerthecall,eagertoescapethisconversation.IwashopingforShadi,butthescreenreadANYA,andmystomachsank.
IlookeduptofindGus’sdarkeyesburningintome.Theeffectwasintimidating.IglancedtowardPete.“Sorry—I’vegottotakethis,butitwaslovelymeetingyou.”
“Backatcha!”PeteassuredmeasIretreatedthroughthemazeofshelves.“Don’tforgettomailmeanemail!”
“Seeyouathome,”Guscalledafterme.
IansweredAnya’scallandslippedoutside.5TheLabradors
“SWEARYOUCANdothis,January,”AnyawassayingasIzoomedoutoftown.“IfIpromiseSandyabookbySeptemberfirst,wehavegottohaveabookbySeptemberfirst.”
“I’vewrittenbooksinhalfthattime,”Ishoutedoverthewind.
“Oh,Iknowyouhave.Butwe’retalkingaboutthismanuscript.We’retalkingspecificallyabouttheonethat’snowtakenfifteenmonthsandcounting.Howfarareyou?”
Myheartwasracing.ShewasgoingtoknowIwaslyingtoher.“It’snotwritten,”Isaid.“Butit’splanned.Ijustneedsometimetohammeritout,nodistractions.”
“Icandonodistractions.IcanbetheQueenofNotDistractingYou,butplease.Please,please,please,don’tlietomeaboutthis.Ifyouwantabreak—”
“Idon’twantabreak,”Isaid.AndIcouldn’taffordone.Ihadtodowhateverittook.EmptythebeachhousesoIcouldsellit.Writearomancedespitehavingrecentlylostclosetoallfaithinloveandhumanity.“It’scomingalonggreat,actually.”
Anyapretendedtobesatisfied,andIpretendedtobelieveshewassatisfied.ItwasJunesecondandIhadjustunderthreemonthstowriteabook-likething.
Soofcourse,ratherthanheadingstraighthometowork,Iwasdrivingtothegrocerystore.I’dhadtwosipsofPete’slatte,anditwasthreesipstoomany.IdumpeditinthetrashcanonmywayintoMeijerandreplaceditwithagianticedAmericanofromtheStarbuckskioskinsidebeforestockinguponenoughdraftingfood(macaroni,cereal,anythingthatdidn’trequiremuchprep)tolastmeacoupleofweeks.
BythetimeIgothome,thesunwashigh,theheatthickandsticky,butatleasttheicedespressohadsoftenedthepoundinginmyskull.WhenI’dfinishedunloadingthegroceries,Icarriedmycomputerontothedeck,onlytorealizeI’dletthebatterydielastnight.Iwentbackinsidetoplugitinandcaughtmyphonebuzzingonthetable.AtextfromShadi:NoWAY.Sexy,EvilGUS?Didheaskaboutme?TellhimImisshim.
Itypedback,Stillsexy.StillEVIL.IwillNOTtellhimasIwillNOTbespeakingtohimagain,foraslongaswebothshalllive.Hedidn’trememberme.
Shadiansweredimmediately.Hmmmm,thereisLITERALLYnowaythat’strue.Youarehisfairyprincess.Hisshadowself.Orhe’syoursorwhatever.
ShewasreferringtoanotherhumiliatingGusmomentI’dtriedtoforget.He’dendedupinageneralmathclasswithShadiandmentionedthathe’dnoticedwewerefriends.Whensheconfirmed,heaskedherwhatmy“deal”was.Whensheaskedhimtoelaborateonwhatthehellthatmeant,he’dshruggedandmumbledsomethingabouthowIactedlikeafairyprincesswho’dbeenraisedbywoodlandcreatures.
ShaditoldhimIwasactuallyanempresswho’dbeenraisedbytwoverysexyspies.
Seeinghiminthewildafterallthistimewashorrifying,Itoldher.I’mtraumatized.Pleasecomenursemebacktohealth.
Soon,habibi,shewroteback.
Iwasaimingtowritefifteenhundredwordsthatday.Ionlymadeittofourhundred,butonthebrightside,Ialsowontwenty-eightconsecutivegamesofspidersolitairebeforeIstoppedtostir-frysomeveggiesfordinner.AfterI’deaten,Isatinthedark,foldedupatthekitchentable,withaglassofredwinecaughtintheglowofmylaptop.AllIneededwasabadfirstdraft.I’dwrittendozensofthose,spatoutfasterthanIcouldtypeandthenpainstakinglyrewritteninthemonthsfollowing.
Sowhycouldn’tIjustmakemyselfwritethisbadbook?
God,Imissedthedayswhenthewordspouredout.Whenwritingthosehappyendings,thosekissesintherainandmusic-swelling,knee-on-the-groundproposalsceneshadbeenthebestpartofmyday.
Backthen,truelovehadseemedlikethegrandprize,theonethingthatcouldweatheranystorm,saveyoufrombothdrudgeryandfear,andwritingaboutithadfeltlikethesinglemostmeaningfulgiftIcouldgive.
Andevenifthatpartofmyworldviewwastakingabriefsabbatical,ithadtobetruethatsometimes,heartbrokenwomenfoundtheirhappyendings,theirrain-falling,music-swellingmomentsofpurehappiness.
Mycomputerpingedwithanemail.Mystomachstartedflippinganddidn’tstopuntilI’dconfirmeditwasjustareplyfromPete,withtheaddressforherbookclubandaone-sentencemessage:Feelfreetobringyourfavoritedrinkorjustyourself:)))
Ismiled.MaybesomeversionofPetewouldmakeitintothebook.
“Onedayatatime,”Isaidaloud,thenswipedupmywineandwanderedtothebackdoor.
IcuppedmyhandaroundmyeyestoblocktheglareontheglassandpeeredtowardGus’sdeck.Smokehadbeenplumingoutofthefirepitearlier,butitwasgonenow,thedeckabandoned.
SoIslidthedooropenandsteppedout.Theworldwascastinshadesofblueandsilver,thegentlerushofthetidebreakingonsandmadelouderbythesilenceoftherestoftheworld.Agustofwindblewoffthetreetops,makingmeshiver,andItightenedtherobearoundme,drainingmywineglass,thenturnedbacktothehouse.
Atfirst,Ithoughttheblueglowthatcaughtmyeyewascomingfrommyownlaptop,butthelightwasn’tcomingfrommyhouse.ItshonefromtheotherwisedarkwindowsofGus’splace,brightenoughthatIcouldseehimpacinginfrontofhistable.Hestoppedsuddenlyandbenttotypeforamoment,thenpickedabeerbottleupoffthetableandbegantopaceagain,hishandrunningthroughhishair.
Irecognizedthatchoreographywell.Hecouldlove-struckpiratesandwerewolvesmeallhewanted,butwhenitcamedowntoit,AugustusEverettwasstillpacinginthedark,makingshitupliketherestofus.
PETELIVEDINapinkVictorianontheedgeofthecollegecampus.EveninthethunderstormthathadwhippedoffthelakethatMondayevening,herhomelookedsweetasadollhouse.
Iparkedalongthecurbandstaredupatitsivy-encroachedwindowsandcharmingturrets.Thesunhadn’ttotallysetyet,butthesoftgraycloudsthatfilledtheskydiffusedanylighttoadimgreenishglow,andthegardenthatsprawledfromPete’sporchtoherwhitepicketfencelookedlushandmagicalbeneathitsshroudofmist.ThiswastheperfectescapefromthewritingcaveI’dbeenhidinginallday.
IgrabbedthetotebagfullofsignedbookmarksandSouthernComfortquote-pinsfromthepassengerseatandjumpedoutofthecar,pullingmyhoodupasIboltedthroughtherainandeasedthegateopentoslipinalongthecobbledpath.
Pete’sgardenwas,quitepossibly,themostpicturesqueplaceI’deverbeen,butthebestpartmight’vebeenthat,overtherumbleofthunder,“AnotherBrickintheWall”byPinkFloydwasplayingsoloudlythattheporchwasshiveringasIsteppedontoit.
BeforeIcouldknock,thedoorswungopenandPete,veryfullplasticbluewineglassinhand,sangout,“JaaaaaaaaaaaaanuaryAndrews!”
Somewherebehindher,achorusofvoicessangback,“JanuaryAnnnnnndrews!”
“Peeeeete,”Isanginresponse,holdingoutthebottleofchardonnayI’dgrabbedfromthestoreonthewayover.“Thankssomuchforhavingme.”
“Ohhhh.”Sheacceptedthebottleofwineandscruncheduphereyesassheexaminedthelabel,thenchuckled.ItwascalledPOCKETFULOFPOSIES,butI’dscratchedPOSIESoutandwrittenPETESinitsplace.“SoundsFrench!”shejoked.“WhichistheDutchwordforfancy!”Shewavedformetofollowherdownthehall,towardthemusic.“Comeoninandmeetthegirls.”
Therewasapileofshoes,mostlysandalsandhikingboots,arrangedneatlyonarugbythedoor,soIkickedoffmyheeledgreenrainbootsandfollowedthebarefoottrailPetecutdownthehall.Hertoenailswerepaintedlavendertomatchherfreshmanicure,andinherfadedjeansandwhitelinenbutton-up,shestruckasofterimagethanshehad
Wesweptpastakitchenwhosegranitecountertopswerecrowdedwithliquorbottlesandsteppedintothelivingroomatthebackofthehouse.“Normally,weusethegarden,butnormallyGodisn’tbowlingaperfectgameoverhead,soinsidewillhavetodotonight.We’rejustwaitingononemore.”
Theroomwassmallenoughtofeelcrowdedwiththefivepeopletotalinsideit.Ofcourse,thethreeblackLabradorssnoozingonthecouch(twoofthem)andarmchair(thethird)didn’thelp.Brightgreenwoodenchairshadbeendraggedin,ostensiblyforthehumanstositin,andarrangedtoformasmallsemicircle.Oneofthedogsjumpedupandwandered,tailwagging,throughtheseaoflegstogreetme.
“Girls,”Petesaid,touchingmyback,“thisisJanuary.Januarybroughtwine!”
“Wine,howlovely!”awomanwithlongblondehairsaid,sweepingforwardtogivemeahugandakissonthecheek.Whentheblondepulledback,Petepassedherthebottleofwine,thenedgedaroundtheroomtowardthesoundsystem.“I’mMaggie,”theblondesaid.Hertall,willowystaturewasmademorestrikingbytheseaofdrapeywhitethingsshe’ddressedherselfin.Shesmileddownatme,equalpartsGaladrielLadyoftheGoldenWoodandagingStevieNicks,andthewrinkledcornersofherbrowneyescrinkledsweetly.“Solovelytomeetyou,January.”
Pete’svoicecameabittooloudlyasthemusicdroppedoutfromunderit:“She’sMrs.Pete.”
Maggie’sserenesmileseemedtobeaversionofanaffectionateeyeroll.“JustMaggiewilldo.AndthisisLauren.”Sheopenedanarmtomakeroomformetoshakehandswiththedreadlockedwomanintheorangesundress.“Andbackthere,onthecouch,isSonya.”
Sonya.Thenamehitmystomachlikeahammer.BeforeI’devenseenher,mymouthwentdry.Myvisionfuzzedatthecorners.
“Hi,January,”ThatWomansaidmeeklyfromunderthesnoringLabradors.Sheforcedasmile.“Nicetoseeyou.”6TheBookClub
WASTHEREAdignifiedwaytohappenuponyourdeadfather’slover?Ifso,Iimagineditwasn’tblurtingIhavetopee,jerkingfreethebottleofwineyou’dhandedyourhost,andrunningbackdownthehallinsearchofabathroom.ButthatwasthebestIcouldcomeupwith.
Itwistedthetopoffthewineandpoureditdownmythroat,rightthereinthenautical-themedbathroom.Iconsideredleaving,butforsomereason,thatseemedlikethemostembarrassingoption.Still,itoccurredtomethatIcouldwalkoutthedoor,getintothecar,anddrivetoOhiowithoutstopping.I’dneverhavetoseeanyofthesepeopleagain.IcouldgetajobatPonderosaSteakhouse.Lifecouldbegrand!OrIcouldjuststayinthisbathroom,forever.Ihadwine;Ihadatoilet;whatelsedidoneneed?
Admittedly,itwasnotmygoodattitudeandstrengthofspiritthatgotmeoutofthebathroom.Itwastheshuffleofstepsandconversationmovingdownthehallway,thesoundofPetesaying,“Oh,you’resureyoucan’tstay?”inavoicethatmadeitsoundmuchmorelikeWhatthehell,Sonya?Whyisthatweirdlittlegirlafraidofyou?andofSonyasaying,“No,IwishIcould,butItotallyforgotthisworkcall—mybosswon’tstopemailinguntilI’minthecarandonmyBluetooth.”
“Bluetoothshmootooth,”Petewassaying.
“Indeed,”Isaidintomywinebottle.Thechardonnaywashittingmefast.Ithoughtmywaybackwardthroughmyday,recountingmymealsinanattempttounderstandmyimmediatetipsiness.TheonlythingIcouldbesureI’deatenwasthefistfulofminimarshmallowsI’dgrabbedonmywaytoamuch-neededpeebreak.
Whoops.
Thefrontdoorwasopening.Goodbyeswerebeingsaidoverthepitter-patterofrainagainsttheroof,andIwasstilllockedinabathroom.
Isetthebottleonthesink,lookedatmyselfinthemirror,andpointedfiercelyatmysmallbrowneyes.“Thiswillbethehardestnightyouhaveallsummer,”Iwhispered.Itwasalie,butItotallyboughtit.Ismoothedmyhair,shruggedoutofmyjacket,hidthewinebottleinmytotebag,andsteppedbackintothehallway.
“Sonyahadtodipout,”Petesaid,butitsoundedmorelikeWhatthehell,January?
“Oh?”Isaid.“That’stoobad.”ButitsoundedmorelikePraisebetotheBluetoothShmootooth!
“Indeed,”Petesaid.
Ifollowedherbacktothelivingroom,wheretheLabradorshadrearrangedthemselves,alongwiththeladies.Oneofthedogshadmovedovertothefarsideofthecouch,Maggiehavingtakenthevacantspotleftbehind,whilethesecondonehadrelocatedtothearmchair,mostlyontopofthethird.Laurenwassittinginoneofthehigh-backedgreenchairs,andPetegesturedformetotaketheonenexttoherassheslidintoathird.Petecheckedthetimeonherleatherwatch.“Shouldbehereanyminute.Must’vegottencaughtinthestorm!I’msurewe’llbeabletogetstartedsoon.”
“Great,”Isaid.Theroomwasstillspinningabit.IcouldbarelylooktowardwhereSonyahadbeencurledonthecouch,willowyandrelaxedwithherwhitecurlspiledonherhead,theoppositeofmytiny,straight-bangedmother.Itooktheopportunitytodigthroughmybag(carefulnottoupendthewine)forthebookmarks.
Someoneknockedonthedoor,andPeteleaptup.MyheartstutteredatthethoughtthatSonyamight’vechangedhermindanddoubledback.Butthenalowvoicewasscratchingdownthehall,andPetewasback,bringingintowadampanddisheveledAugustusEverett.Heranahandthroughhispepperedhair,shakingrainfromit.Helookedlikehe’drolledoutofbedandwanderedherethroughthestorm,drinkingfromapaperbag.NotthatIwasonetojudgeatthisprecisemoment.
“Girls,”Petesaid,“IbelieveyouallknowtheoneandonlyAugustusEverett?”
Gusnodded,waved.Smiled?Thatseemedtoogenerousawordforwhathewasdoing.Hismouthacknowledgedtheroom,Iwouldsay,andthenhiseyescaughtonmine,andthehigherofhismouth’stwocornerstwistedup.Henoddedatme.“January.”
Mymindspunitsfeeble,wine-slickwheelstryingtofigureoutwhatbotheredmesomuchaboutthemoment.Sure,therewassmugGusEverett.TherewasstumblinguponThatWomanandthebathroomwine.And—
ThedifferenceinPete’sintroductions.
ThisisJanuarywashowaparentforcedonekindergartnertobefriendanother.
TheoneandonlyAugustusEverettwashowabookclubintroduceditsspecialguest.
“Please,please.Sithere,byJanuary,”Petesaid.“Wouldyoulikeadrink?”
Oh,God.I’dmisunderstood.Iwasn’thereasaguest.Iwashereasapotentialbookclubmember.
I’dcometoabookclubthatwasdiscussingTheRevelatories
“Wouldyoulikesomethingtodrink?”Peteasked,loopingbacktothekitchen.
GusscannedtheblueplasticglassesinLaurenandMaggie’shands.“Whatareyouhaving,Pete?”heaskedoverhisshoulder.
“Oh,firstroundatbookclub’salwaysWhiteRussians,butJanuarybroughtsomewine,ifthatsoundsbetter.”
IbalkedbothatthethoughtofstartinganightwithaWhiteRussianandattheprospectofhavingtoshamefullyfishoutmypurse-wineforGus.
IcouldtellbythehugegrinonherfacethatnothingwoulddelightPetemore.
Gusleanedforward,restinghiselbowsonhisthighs.Theleftsleeveofhisshirtrosewiththemotion,revealingathinblacktattooonthebackofhisarm,atwistedbutclosedcircle.AM?biusstrip,Ithoughtitwascalled.
“AWhiteRussiansoundsgreat,”Gusanswered.
Ofcourseitdid.
Peoplelikedtoimaginetheirfavoritemaleauthorssittingdownatatypewriterwithatasteofthestrongestwhiskeyandahungerforknowledge.Iwouldn’tbesurprisediftherumpledmansittingbesideme,theonewho’dmockedmycareer,waswearingdirtyday-of-the-weekunderwearinsideoutandlivingonMeijer-brandcheesepuffs.
Hecouldshowuplookinglikeacollegejunior’sbackuppotdealer(forwhenthefirstonewasinMyrtleBeach)andstillgettakenmoreseriouslythanIwouldinmystuffyMichaelKorsdress.IcouldgetauthorphotostakenbytheseniorphotoeditorofBloombergBusinessweekandhecouldusehismom’sdigitalcamerafrom2002tosnapashotofhimselfscowlingonhisdeckandstillgarnermorerespectthanme.
Hemightaswellhavejustsentinadickpic.Theywould’veprinteditonthecoverflap,rightoverthattwo-linebiothey’dlethimshitout.Theshorter,thefancier,Anyawouldsay.
IsensedGus’seyesonme.Iimaginedhesensedmybraintearinghimtopieces.IimaginedLaurenandMaggiesensedthisnighthadbeenaterriblemistake.
Petereturnedwithanotherbluewineglassfullofmilkyvodka,andGusthankedherforit.ItookadeepbreathasPeteslidintoachair.
Couldthisnightgetanyworse?
TheLabradornearesttomeaudiblyfarted.
“Okay,then!”Petesaid,clappingherhandstogether.
Whatthehell.Islidmypurse-wineoutandtookagulp.Maggiegiggledonthecouch,andtheLabradorrolledoverandstuffedhisfaceinbetweenthecushions.
“Red,WhiteRussians,andBlueBookClubisnowinsession,andI’mdyingtohearwhateveryonethoughtofthebook.”
MaggieandLaurenexchangedalookastheyeachtookaslurpoftheirWhiteRussians.Maggiesethersonthetableandlightlyslappedherthigh.“Heck,Ilovedit.”
Pete’slaughwasgruffbutwarm.“Youloveeverything,Mags.”
“Donot.Ididn’tlikethemanspy—notthemainone,buttheotherone.Hewassnippy.”
Spies?TherewerespiesinTheRevelatories?IlookedoveratGus,wholookedaspuzzledasIfelt.HismouthwasajarandhisWhiteRussianrestedagainsthisleftthigh.
“Ididn’tcareforhimeither,”Laurenagreed,“especiallyinthebeginning,buthecamearoundbytheend.Whenwegotthebackstoryabouthismother’stiestotheUSSR,Istartedtounderstandhim.”
“Thatwasanicetouch,”Maggieagreed.“Allright,Itakeitback.Bytheend,Isortoflikedhimtoo.Istilldidn’tcareforthewayhetreatedAgentMichelsonthough.Iwon’tmakeexcusesforthat.”
“Well,no,ofcoursenot,”Petechimedin.
Maggiewavedherhandlightly.“Totalmisogynist.”
Laurennodded.“Howdidyouallfeelaboutthetwinreveal?”
“Honestly,itboredmeabit,andI’lltellyawhy,”Petesaid.Andthenshedidtelluswhy,butIbarelyhearditbecauseIwassoabsorbedinthesubtlegymnasticsGus’sexpressionwasperforming.
Thiscouldnotpossiblybehisbooktheyweretalkingabout.Hedidn’tlookhorrifiedsomuchasbemused,likehethoughtsomeonewasplayingaprankonhimbuthewasn’tconfidentenoughtocallitoutyet.He’ddrainedhisWhiteRussianalreadyandwasglancingbackatthekitchenlikehewashopinganothermightcarryitselfouthere.
“DidanyoneelsecrywhenMark’sdaughtersang‘AmazingGrace’atthefuneral?”Laurenasked,clutchingherheart.“Thatgottome.Itreallydid.Andyouknowmyheartofstone!DougG.Hankeisjustaphenomenalwriter.”
Ilookedaroundtheroom,tothecredenza,thebookshelvesonthefarsideofthecouch,themagazinerackunderthecoffeetable.Namesandtitlesjumpedoutatmefromdozens,ifnothundreds,ofdarkpaperbacks.
OperationSkyforceTheMoscowGame.DeepCover.RedFlag.OsloAfterDark
Red,WhiteRussians,andBlueBookClub.
I,JanuaryAndrews,romancewriter,andliterarywunderkindAugustusEveretthadstumbledintoabookclubtraffickingprimarilyinspynovels.Ittooksomeefforttostiflemylaughter,andeventhenIdidn’tdoanamazingjob.
“January?”Petesaid.“Iseverythingallright?”
“Spectacular,”Isaid.“ThinkI’vejusthadtoomuchpurse-wine.Augustus,you’dbettertakeitfromhere.”Iheldthebottleouttohim.Heliftedonestern,darkeyebrow.
IimaginedIwasn’tquitesmilingbutmanagedtolookvictoriousnonethelessasIwaitedforhimtoacceptthetwo-thirds-drunkchardonnay.
“I’vethoughtaboutitsomemore,”Maggiesaidairily.“AndIthinkIdidliketheidenticaltwintwist.”
Somewhere,aLabradorfarted.7TheRide
“THANKYOUSOOOOmuchforhavingus,Pete,”IsaidasIpulledherintoahuginthefoyer.
Shepattedmyback.“Anytime.AnyMonday,especially!Heck,everyMonday.Red,WhiteRussians,andBluecouldusefreshblood.Youseehowthingsgetstaleinthere.Maggielikestohumorme,butshe’snotmuchofafictionperson,andIthinkLaurencomesforthesocializing.She’sanotherfacultywife,likeme.”
“Facultywife?”Isaid.
Petenodded.“MaggieworksattheuniversitywithLauren’shusband,”sheansweredquickly,thensaid,“Howareyougettinghome,dear?”
Iwasn’tfeelingthewinenearlyasmuchasIwould’velikedtoatthatpoint,butIknewIshouldn’triskdrivinganyway.
“I’lltakeher,”Gussaid,sternandunamused.
“I’llUber,”Isaid.
“Uber?”Peterepeated.“NotinNorthBearShores,youwon’t.We’vegotaboutoneofthose,andIdoubthe’soutdrivingaroundafterteno’clock!”
Ipretendedtolookatmyphone.“Actually,he’shere,soIshouldgo.Thanksagain,Pete.Really,itwas…extremelyinteresting.”
ShepattedmyarmandIslippedoutintotherain,openingtheUberappasIwent.Beneaththerain,IheardGusandPeteexchangingquietgoodbyesontheporchbehindme,andthenthedoorshutandIknewheandIwerealoneinthegarden.
SoIwalkedveryfast,throughthegateanddownthelengthofthefence,asIstaredattheblankmaponmyUberapp.Iclosedtheappandopeneditagain.
“Letmeguess,”Gusdrawled.“It’sexactlyasthepersonwhoactuallylivesheresays:therearen’tanyUbers.”
“Fourminutesaway,”Ilied.Hestaredatme.Ipulledmyhoodupandturnedaway.
“Whatisit?”hesaid.“Areyouworriedit’saslipperyslopefromgettingintomycartogoingdowntheSlip’NSlideonmyroofandcompetinginmyheavilypublicizedJell-Owrestlingmatches?”
Ifoldedmyarms.“Idon’tknowyou.”
“UnliketheNorthBearShoresUberdriver,withwhomyou’requiteclose.”
Isaidnothing,andafteramoment,Gusclimbedintohiscar,itsenginesputteringawake,buthedidn’tpullaway.Ibusiedmyselfwithmyphone.Whywasn’theleaving?Ididmybestnottolookathiscar,thoughitwaslookingmoreappealingeverymomentIstoodthereinthecoldrain.
Icheckedtheappagain.Stillnothing.
Thepassengerwindowrolleddown,andGusleanedacrosstheseat,duckinghisheadtoseeme.“January.”Hesighed.
“Augustus.”
“It’sbeenfourminutes.NoUber’scoming.Wouldyoupleasegetinthecar?”
“I’llwalk.”
“Why?”
“BecauseIneedtheexercise,”Isaid.
“Nottomentionthepneumonia.”
“It’slikesixty-fivedegreesout,”Isaid.
“You’reliterallyshivering.”
“MaybeI’mtremblingwiththeanticipationofanexhilaratingwalkhome.”
“Maybeyourbodytemperatureisplummetingandyourbloodpressureandheartratearedroppingandyourskintissueisbreakingupasitfreezes.”
“Areyoukidding?Myheartispositivelyracing.Ijustsatinonathree-hour-longbookclubmeetingaboutspynovels.Ineedtorunsomeofthisadrenalineoff.”Istarteddownthesidewalk.
“Wrongway,”Guscalled.
Ispunonmyheelandstartedintheotherdirection,backpastGus’scar.Hismouthtwistedinthedimlightoftheconsole.“Youdorealizewelivesevenmilesfromhere.Atyourcurrentpacethatputsyourarrivalatabout…never.You’regoingtowalkintoabushandquitepossiblyspendtherestofyourlifethere.”
“That’sactuallytheperfectamountoftimeI’llneedtosoberup,”Isaid.Guspulledslowlydowntheroadalongsideme.“Besides,Icannotriskwakingupwithanotherhangovertomorrow.I’dratherwalkintotraffic.”
“Yeah,well,I’mworriedyou’regoingtodoboth.Letmetakeyouhome.”
“I’llfallasleeptipsy.Notgood.”
“Fine,Iwon’ttakeyouhomeuntilyou’resober,then.IknowthebesttrickforthatinallofNorthBearShores.”
Istoppedwalkingandfacedhiscar.Hestoppedtoo,waiting.
“Justtobeclear,”Isaid,“you’renottalkingaboutsexstuff,areyou?”
Hissmiletwisted.“No,January,I’mnottalkingaboutsexstuff.”
“You’dbetternotbe.”Iopenedthepassengerdoorandslidontotheseat,pressingmyfingerstothewarmvents.“BecauseIcarrypeppersprayinthistote.Andagun.”
“Whatthefuck,”hecried,puttingthecarinpark.“You’redrunkwithagunfloppingaroundinyourwinebag?”
Ibuckledmyseatbelt.“Itwasajoke.Thegunpart,notthe‘killingyouifyoutrysomething’part.Imeantthat.”
Hislaughwasmoreshockedthanamused.Eveninthedarkofthecar,Icouldseehiseyeswerewideandhiscrookedmouthwastensed.Heshookhishead,wipedtherainoffhisforeheadwiththebackofhishand,andputthecarbackintodrive.
“THISISTHEtrick?”Isaid,whenwepulledintotheparkinglot.Therainhadslowedbutthepuddlesinthecrackingasphalt’spotholesglowedwiththereflectionoftheneonsignoverthelow,rectangularbuilding.“Thetrickforsoberingupis…donuts.”Thatwasallthesignsaid.Forallintentsandpurposes,itwasthediner’sname.
“Whatdidyouexpect?”Gusasked.“WasIsupposedtoalmostdriveoffacliff,orhiresomeonetofake-kidnapyou?Orwait,wasthatsex-stuffcommentsarcastic?Didyouwantmetoseduceyou?”
“No,I’mjustsaying,nexttimeyou’retryingtoconvincemetogetinyourcar,you’llsavealotoftimeifyoucutrighttodonuts.”
“I’mhopingIwon’thavetocoaxyouintomycarveryoften,”hesaid.
“No,notveryoften,”Isaid.“JustonMondays.”
Hecrackedanothersmile,faint,likehe’drathernotrevealit.Itinstantlymadethecarfeeltoosmall,himalittletooclose.Itoremygazeawayandgotoutofthecar,headclearingimmediately.Thebuildingglowedlikeabugzapper,itsempty,seventies-orangeboothsvisiblethroughthewindowsalongwithafishtankfullofkoi.
“Youknow,youshouldconsiderdrivingforUber,”Isaid.
“Oh?”
“Yeah,yourheatworksgreat.Ibetyourair-conditioning’sdecenttoo.Youdon’tsmelllikeAxe,andyoudidn’tsayawordtomethewholewayhere.Fivestars.Sixstars.BetterthananyUberdriverI’vehadbefore.”
“Hm.”Guspulledthesmudgydooropenforme,bellsjanglingoverhead.“MaybenexttimeyougetintoanUber,youshouldtryannouncingthatyouhavealoadedgun.Youmightgetbetterservice.”
“Truly.”
“Nowdon’tbealarmed,”hesaidunderhisbreathasIsteppedpasthim.
“What?”Iturnedbacktoask.
“Hello!”avoicecalledbrightlyovertheBeeGeessongcracklingthroughtheplace.
Ispuntofacethemanbehindtheilluminateddisplaycase.Theradiosatthereonthecounter,producingatleastasmuchstaticfuzzascrooningdisco.“Hi,”Ireplied.
“Howdy,”themansaidwithadeepnod.Hewasatleastasoldasmyparentsandwire-thin,histhickglassesheldtohisfacewithneon-yellowCroakies.
“Hi,”Isaidagain.Mybrainwascaughtinahamsterwheel,thesamerealizationplayingoverandover:thiselderlygentlemanwasinhisunderwear.
“Welllll,hellothere!”hechirped,apparentlydeterminednottolosethisgame.Heleanedhiselbowsontopofthecase.Hisunderwear,thankfully,includedawhiteT-shirt,andhehadmercifullyoptedforwhiteboxersratherthanbriefs.
“Hi,”Isaidonelasttime.
Gussidesteppedbetweenmyopenjawandthecounter.“Canwejustdoadozenday-olds?”
“Shore!”Theunderwear-bakergrapevineddownthelengthofthedisplayandgrabbedato-goboxfromthestackontopofit.Hecarrieditbacktotheold-schoolregisterandtappedoutacoupleofnumbers.“Fivedollarsflat,myman.”
“Andcoffee?”Gussaid.
“Can’tingoodconsciencechargeyouforthatstuff.”Themanjerkedhisheadtowardthecarafe.“Thatshit’sbeensittingintheresizzlingforthreegoodhours.Wantmetomakeyouthenewstuff?”
Guslookedtomepointedly.
“What?”Iasked.
“It’sforyou.Whatdoyouthink?Freeandbad?Oradollarand…”Hecouldn’tbringhimselftosaygood,whichtoldmeeverythingIneededtoknow.
“Thatshit”wasalwayssittinginthere,sizzling.
“Free,”Isaid.
“Fiveflat,then,asdiscussed,”themansaid.
Ireachedformywallet,butGusheadedmeoff,slappingfivedollarbillsdownonthecounter.Hetippedhishead,gesturingformetoacceptthefoamcupandboxofdonutsthemanwasholding.Tofittwelveintothisbox,they’dbeencompactedintoonebox-shapedmashoffrieddough.Igrabbedthemandploppedintoabooth.
Gussatacrossfromme,leanedacrossthetable,andpriedtheboxopen.Hestareddownatthedonutgutsbetweenus.“God,thoselookdisgusting.”
“Finally,”Isaid.“Somethingweagreeon.”
“Ibetweagreeonalot.”Hepluckedamangledmaple-nutdonutoutandsatback,examiningitinthefluorescentlight.
“Suchas?”
“Alltheimportantstuff,”Gussaid.“ThechemicalcompositionofEarth’satmosphere,whethertheworldneedssixPiratesoftheCaribbeanmovies,thatWhiteRussiansshouldonlybedrunkwhenyou’realreadysureyou’regoingtovomitanyway.”
Hemanagedtofitthewholedonutintohismouth.Then,withoutanounceofirony,hemadeeyecontactwithme.Iburstoutlaughing.
“Fffwaht?”hesaid.
Ishookmyhead.“CanIaskyousomething?”
Hechewedandswallowedenoughtoanswer.“No,January,I’mnotgoingtotellthisguytoturnhismusicdown.”Hereachedoverandsnatchedanotherdonutclumpfromthebox.“NowIhaveaquestionforyou,Andrews.Why’dyoumovehere?”
Irolledmyeyesandignoredhisquestion.“IfIweregoingtoaskyoutoencouragethisguytomakeonesmallchangetohisbusinesspractices,itwoulddefinitelynotbetheradiovolume.”
Gus’sgrinsplitwide,andevennow,mystomachflippedtraitorously.Iwasn’tsureI’dseenhimsmilelikethatbefore,andtherewassomethingintoxicatingaboutit.HisdarkeyesflittedtowardthecounterandIfollowedhisgaze.Theunderwear-cladmanwaspositivelyboogyingbackandforthbetweenhisovens.Gus’seyescamebacktomine,hyperfocused.“Areyougoingtotellmewhyyoumovedhere?”
Istuffedadonutchunkintomymouthandshookmyhead.
Hehalfshrugged.“ThenIcan’tansweryourquestion.”
“That’snothowconversationswork,”Itoldhim.“They’renotjusteventrades.”
“That’sexactlywhattheyare,”hesaid.“Atleast,whenyou’renotintofootjobs.”
Icoveredmyfacewithmyhands,embarrassed,evenasIsaid,“Youwereextremelyrudetome,bytheway.”
Hewassilentforaminute.Iflinchedashisroughfingerscaughtmywristsandtuggedmyhandsawayfrommyface.Histeasingsmilehadfaded,andhisbrowwascreased,hisgazeinky-darkandserious.“Iknow.I’msorry.Itwasabadday.”
Mystomachflippedrightsideupagain.Ihadn’texpectedanapology.I’dcertainlynevergottenanapologyforthathappilyeveraftercomment.“Youwerehostingaragingparty,”Isaid,recovering.“I’dlovetoseewhatagooddaylookslikeforyou.”
Thecornerofhismouthtwitcheduncertainly.“Ifyouremovedtheparty,you’dbealotcloser.Anyway,willyouforgiveme?I’vebeentoldImakeabadfirstimpression.”
Icrossedmyarms,and,emboldenedbythewineorhisapology,Isaid,“Thatwasn’tmyfirstimpression.”
Somethinginscrutablepassedacrosshisface,vanishingbeforeIcouldplaceit.“Whatwasyourquestion?”hesaid.“IfIanswerit,willyouforgiveme?”
“Nothowforgivenessworkseither,”Isaid.Whenhebegantorubhisforehead,Iadded,“Butyes.”
“Fine.Onequestion,”hesaid.
Ileanedacrossthetable.“Youthoughttheyweredoingyourbook,didn’tyou?”
Hisbrowsknittogether.“‘They’?”
“SpiesandLiquifiedPies,”Isaid.
Hepretendedtobeaghast.“DoyouperhapsmeanRed,WhiteRussians,andBlueBookClub?Becausethatnicknameyoujustgaveitisanaffronttoliteraturesalonseverywhere,nottomentionFreedomandAmerica.”
Ifeltthesmilebreakoutacrossmyface.Isatback,satisfied.“Youtotallydid.YouthoughttheywerereadingTheRevelatories.”
“Firstofall,”Gussaid,“I’velivedherefiveyearsandPete’sneverinvitedmetothatbookclub,soyeah,itseemedlikeafairlyreasonableassumptionatthetime.Secondly”—hesnatchedaglazedcakedonutfromthebox—“youmightwanttobecareful,JanuaryAndrews.Youjustrevealedyouknowthetitleofmybook.Whoknowswhatothersecretsareonthevergeofspillingoutofyou?”
“HowdoyouknowIdidn’tjustGoogleit?”Icountered.“MaybeI’dneverheardofitbefore.”
“HowdoyouknowthatyourGooglingmewouldn’tbeevenmoreamusingtome?”Gussaid.
“HowdoyouknowIwasn’tGooglingyououtofsuspicionyouhadacriminalbackground?”
Gusreplied,“HowdoyouknowIwon’tkeepansweringyourquestionswithotherquestionsuntilwebothdie?”
“HowdoyouknowI’llcare?”
Gusshookhishead,smiling,andtookanotherbite.“Wow,thisisterrible.”
“Thedonutsorthisconversation?”Iasked.
“Thisconversation,definitely.Thedonutsaregood.IGoogledyoutoo,bytheway.Youshouldconsidergettingararername.”
“I’llpassthatsuggestionalongtothehigher-ups,butIcan’tmakeanypromises,”Isaid.“There’sallkindsofredtapeandbureaucraticbullshittogothrough.”
“SouthernComfortsoundsprettysexy,”hesaid.“YouhaveathingforSouthernboys?Noteethandoverallsreallyrevyourengine?”
Irolledmyeyes.“I’mledtobelieveyou’veneverbeentotheSouthandpossiblycouldn’tlocate‘south’onacompass.Besides,whydoeseveryonetrytomakewomen’swritingsemiautobiographical?Dopeoplegenerallyassumeyourlonely,white,male—”
“Coldlyhorny,”Gusinserted.
“—coldlyhornyprotagonistsareyou?”
Henoddedthoughtfully,hisdarkeyesintentonme.“Goodquestion.DoyouassumeI’mcoldlyhorny?”
“Definitely.”
Thisseemedtoamusehimandhiscrookedmouth.
Iglancedoutthewindow.“IfPetewasn’tplanningonusingeitherofourbooks,howdidshejustforgettotelluswhatthebookclub’spickwas?Imean,ifshejustwantedustojoin,you’dthinkshe’dgiveusachancetoactuallyreadthebook.”
“Thiswasn’tanaccident,”Gussaid.“Itwasanintentionalmanipulationofthetruth.Sheknowsthere’snowayIwould’vecometonightifI’dknownwhatwasreallyhappening.”
Isnorted.“Andwhatwastheendgoalofthisnefariousplan?TobecomeaneccentricsidecharacterinthenextAugustusEverettnovel?”
“Whatexactlydoyouhaveagainstmybooks,whichyouhaveallegedlynotread?”heasked.
“Whatdoyouhaveagainstmybooks,”Isaid,“whichyouhavecertainlynotread?”
“Whatmakesyousosure?”
“Thepiratereference.”Idugintoastrawberryfrostedcoveredinsprinkles.“That’snotthekindofromanceIwrite.Infact,mybooksaren’tevenshelvedasromance,technically.They’reshelvedaswomen’sfiction.”
Gusslumpedagainsttheboothandstretchedhisleanolivearmsoverhishead,rollinghiswriststomakethemcrack.“Idon’tunderstandwhythere’dneedtobeafullgenrethat’sjustbooksforwomen.”
Iscoffed.Hereitwas,thatalways-readyangerrisinglikeithadbeenwaitingforanexcuse.“Yeah,well,you’renottheonlyonewhodoesn’tunderstandit,”Isaid.“Iknowhowtotellastory,Gus,andIknowhowtostringasentencetogether.IfyouswappedoutallmyJessicasforJohns,doyouknowwhatyou’dget?Fiction.Justfiction.Readyandwillingtobereadbyanyone,butsomehowbybeingawomanwhowritesaboutwomen,I’veeliminatedhalftheEarth’spopulationfrommypotentialreaders,andyouknowwhat?Idon’tfeelashamedofthat.Ifeelpissed.Thatpeoplelikeyouwillassumemybookscouldn’tpossiblybeworthyourtime,whilemeanwhileyoucouldshartonliveTVandtheNewYorkTimeswouldpraiseyourbolddisplayofhumanity.”
Guswasstaringatmeseriously,headcocked,rigidlinebetweenhiseyebrows.
“Nowcanyoutakemehome?”Isaid.“I’mfeelingniceandsober.”8TheBet
GUSSLIDOUTofthebooth,andIfollowed,gatheringthedonutboxandmycupofsizzlingshit.Ithadstoppedraining,butnowheavyfoghunginclumps.Withoutanotherword,wegotintothecaranddroveawayfromDONUTS,thewordglowingtealintherearviewmirror.
“It’sthehappyendings,”Gussaidsuddenlyashepulledontothemaindrag.
“What?”Mystomachclenched.Theyalllivehappilyeverafter.Again
Gusclearedhisthroat.“It’snotthatIdon’ttakeromanceseriouslyasagenre.AndIlikereadingaboutwomen.ButIhaveahardtimewithhappyendings.”Hiseyescautiouslyflashedmyway,thenwentbacktotheroad.
“Ahardtime?”Irepeated,asifthatwouldmakethewordsmakesensetome.“Youhaveahardtime…readinghappyendings?”
Herubbedatthecurveofhisbicep,ananxiousticIdidn’tremember.“Iguess.”
“Why?”Iasked,moreconfusedthanoffendednow.
“Lifeisprettymuchaseriesofgoodandbadmomentsrightupuntilthemomentyoudie,”hesaidstiffly.“Whichisarguablyabadone.Lovedoesn’tchangethat.Ihaveahardtimesuspendingmydisbelief.Besides,canyouthinkofasinglereal-liferomancethatactuallyendedlikeBridgetfuckingJones?”
Thereitwas,theGusEverettIknew.Theonewho’dthoughtIwashopelesslynaive.AndevenifIhadsomeevidencehe’dbeenright,Iwasn’treadytolethimtrashthethingthathadoncemeantmoretomethananythingelse,thegenrethathadkeptmeafloatwhenMomrelapsedandourwholeimaginedfuturedisappearedlikesmokeonabreeze.
“Firstofall,”Isaid,“‘BridgetfuckingJones’isanongoingseries.Itisliterallytheworstexampleyoucouldhavechosentoprovethatpoint.It’stheantithesisoftheoversimplifiedandinaccuratestereotypeofthegenre.ItdoesexactlywhatIaimto:itmakesitsreadersfeelknownandunderstood,liketheirstories—women’sstories—matter.Andsecondly,areyouhonestlysayingyoudon’tbelieveinlove?”
Ifeltalittledesperate,likeifIlethimwinthisfight,itwouldbethefinalstraw:there’dbenogettingbacktomyself,tobelievinginloveandseeingtheworldandthepeopleinitaspure,beautifulthings—tolovingwriting.
Gus’sbrowfurrowed,hisdarkeyesflashingfrommetotheroadwiththatintent,absorbinglookShadiandIhadspentsomuchtimetryingtoputintowords.“Sure,lovehappens,”hesaidfinally.“Butit’sbettertoberealisticsoshit’snotconstantlyblowingupinyourface.Andloveiswaymorelikelytoblowupinyourfacethantobringeternalhappiness.Andifitdoesn’thurtyou,thenyou’retheonehurtingsomeoneelse.
“Enteringarelationshipisborderlinesadomasochistic.Especiallywhenyoucangeteverythingyouwouldfromaromanticrelationshipfromafriendship,withoutdestroyinganyone’slifewhenitinevitablyends.”
“Everything?”Isaid.“Sex?”
Hearchedaneyebrow.“Youdon’tevenneedfriendshiptogetsex.”
“Andwhat,itneverturnsintomoreforyou?”Isaid.“Youcankeepthingsthatdetached?”
“Ifyou’rerealistic,”hesaid.“Youneedapolicy.Itdoesn’tturnintomoreifitonlyhappensonce.”
Wow.Theshelflifehadshortened.“See?”Isaid.“Youarecoldlyhorny,Gus.”
Heglancedsidelongatme,smiling.
“What?”
“That’sthesecondtimeyou’vecalledmeGustonight.”
Mycheeksflushed.Right,Everettseemedtobehispreferencethesedays.“So?”
“Comeon,January.”Hiseyeswentbacktotheroad,thetwinspearsoftheheadlightsreachingovertheasphaltandcatchingblipsoftheevergreenswhippingpast.“Irememberyou.”Hisgazesettledonmeagain,hiseyesnearlyassolidandheavyasiftheywerehands.
Iwasgratefulforthedarkasheatrushedtomyface.“From?”
“Stop.Itwasn’tthatlongago.Andtherewasthatonenight.”
Oh,God.Weweren’tgoingtotalkaboutthatonenight,werewe?Theonlynightwe’dtalkedoutsideofclass.Well,nottalked.We’dbeenatthesamefratparty.Thethemehadbeenaveryvague“Classics.”
GusandhisfriendParkerhadcomeasPonyboyandJohnnyandspentthenightgettingcalled“GreasedLightning”bydrunkfratboys.ShadiandIhadgoneastruck-stopThelma(her)andLouise(me).
Gus’sgirl-of-the-hour,Tessa,hadgonehomefortheweekend.SheandIlivedinthesamestudentapartmentsandwoundupatalotofthesameparties.ShewasthelatestreasonGusandIhadbeencrossingpaths,butthatnightwasdifferent.
Itwasthebeginningoftheschoolyear,notquitefall.ShadiandIhadbeendancinginthebasement,whosecementwallsweresweating.Allnight,I’dbeenwatchingGus,fumingalittlebecausehislastshortstoryhadbeensogoodandhewasstillridiculouslyattractiveandhiscriticismwasstillonpointandIwastiredofhimaskingtoborrowmypens,andfurthermore,he’dcaughtmestaringathim,andeversince,I’dfelt—orthought(hoped?)I’dfelt—himwatchingmetoo.
Atthemakeshiftbarinthenextroom.Atthebeerpongtableupstairs.Inthekitchenatthekeg.Andthenhewasstandingstillinthethrongofbodiesjumpingandspasticallydancingto“Sandstorm”(ShadihadhijackedtheiPod,asshewaswonttodo),onlyafewyardsawayfromme,andwewerebothstaringateachother,andsomehowIfeltvindicatedbythis,surethatallthistime,he’dseenmeashiscompetitionafterall.
Ididn’tknowifI’dmademywaytohim,orifhe’dmadehiswaytome,orifwe’dmetinthemiddle.AllIknewwasthatwe’dendedupdancingwith(on?)eachother.Therewereflashesofmemoryfromthatnightthatstillmademebuzz:hishandsonmyhips,myhandsonhisneck,hisfaceagainstmythroat,hisarmsaroundmywaist.
Coldlyhorny?No,GusEveretthadbeenallhotbreathandsparkingtouches.
Rivalryornot,ithadbeenpalpablehowmuchwewantedeachotherthatnight.Wehadbothbeenreadytomakeabaddecision.
AndthenShadihadsavedthedaybyshavingherheadinthebathroomwithclippersshe’dfoundunderthesinkandgettingusbothkickedoutandbannedfromthatparticularfrat’spartiesforlife.Althoughwehadn’ttriedtogobackinthelastfewyearsandIsuspectedfratshadarathershortmemory.Fouryears,max.
Apparently,Ihadamuchlongermemory.
“January?”
IlookedupandstartledatthedarkgazeI’dbeenremembering,nowhereinthecarwithme.I’dforgottenthetinywhitescartotherightofhisCupid’sbowandnowwonderedhowI’dmanagedit.
Iclearedmythroat.“YoutoldPetewejustmettheothernight.”
“Itoldherwewereneighbors,”heallowed.Eyesbackontheroad.Eyesbackonme.Itfeltlikeapersonalattack,thewayhekeptlookingatmethenawayafterjustasecondtoolong.Hismouthtwitched.“Iwasn’tsureyourememberedme.”
Somethingaboutthatmademyinsidesfeellikearibbonbeingdrawnacrossscissorsuntilitcurled.Hewenton:“ButnoonecallsmeGusexceptpeopleIknewbeforepublishing.”
“Because?”Iasked.
“BecauseIdon’tlikeeverywhackjobnext-doorneighborI’veeverhadtobeabletoGooglemeandleavemescathingreviews?”hesaid.“Oraskmeforfreebooks.”
“Oh,Idon’tneedfreebooks,”Iassuredhim.
“Really?”heteased.“Youdon’twanttoaddafifthleveltoyourshrine?”
“You’renotgoingtodistractme,”Isaid.“I’mnotdonewiththisconversation.”
“Shit.Ihonestlydidn’tmeantooffendyou,”hepromised.“Again.”
“Youdidn’toffendme,”Isaiduncertainly.Ormaybehehad,buthisapologyhadcaughtmeoffguardyetagain.Moreso,Iwasbaffled.“Ijustthinkyou’rebeingsilly.”
We’dreachedourhouseswithoutmeevennoticing,andGusparkedalongthecurbandfacedme.ForthesecondtimeInoticedhowsmallthecarwas,howclosewewere,howthedarkseemedtomagnifytheintensityofhiseyesastheyfixedonmine.“January,whydidyoucomehere?”
Ilaughed,uncomfortable.“Intothecaryoubeggedmetogetinto?”
Heshookhishead,frustrated.“You’redifferentnow.”
Ifeltthebloodrushintomycheeks.“YoumeanI’mnotafairyprincessanymore.”
Confusionrippledacrosshisface.
“That’swhatyoucalledme,”Isaid,“backthen.Youwantmetosayyouwereright.Igotmywake-upcallandthingsdon’tworkoutliketheydoinmybooks,right?”
Hisheadtilted,themuscleinhisjawleaping.“That’snotwhatIwassaying.”
“It’sexactlywhatyouweresaying.”
Heshookhisheadagain.“Well,it’snotwhatImeant,”hesaid.“Imeanttosay…Youwerealwaysso…”Hehuffed.“Idon’tknow,you’redrinkingwineoutofyourpurse.I’mguessingthere’sareasonforthat.”
Mymouthjammedshut,andmychesttightened.ProbablyGusEverettwasthelastpersonI’dexpecttoreadmelikethat.
Ilookedoutthewindowtowardthebeachhouseasifitwereaglowingredemergencyexitsign,asaviorfromthisconversation.Icouldhearwavesbreakingontheshorebehindthehouses,butthefoghungtoothickformetoseeanything.
“I’mnotaskingyoutotellme,”Gussaidafterasecond.“Ijust…Idon’tknow.It’sweirdtoseeyoulikethis.”
IturnedtowardhimandfoldedmylegsupontheseatasIstudiedhim,searchinghisexpressionforirony.Buthisfacewasserious,hisdarkeyesnarrowedandhisbrowpinched,hisheaddoingthatparticularhalftiltthatmademefeellikeIwasunderamicroscope.TheSexy,Evilstarethatsuggestedhewasreadingyourmind.
“I’mnotwriting,”Isaid.Iwasn’tsurewhyIwasadmittingit,leastofalltoGus,butbetterhimthanAnyaorSandy.“I’moutofmoney,andmyeditor’sdesperatetobuysomethingfromme—andallI’vegotisahandfulofbadpagesandthreemonthstofinishabooksomeoneotherthanmymomwillspendUSdollarson.That’swhat’sgoingon.”
IbattedawaythoughtsofmytatteredrelationshipwithMomandtheconversationwe’dhadafterthefuneraltofocusonthelesserevilofmysituation.
“I’vedoneitbefore,”Isaid.“Fourbooks,noproblem.Andit’sbadenoughthatIfeellikeI’mincapableofdoingtheonethingI’mgoodat,thethingthatmakesmefeellikeme,andthenthere’stheaddedfactthatI’mtotallyoutofmoney.”
Gusnoddedthoughtfully.“It’salwayshardertowritewhenyouhaveto.It’slike…thepressureturnsitintoajob,likeanythingelse,andyoumightaswellbesellinginsurance.Thestorysuddenlylosesanyurgencytobetold.”
“Exactly,”Iagreed.
“Butyou’llfigureitout,”hesaidcoollyafterasecond.“I’msurethereareamillionHappilyEverAftersfloatingaroundinthatbrain.”
“Okay,A,no,therearen’t,”Isaid.“AndB,it’snotaseasyasyouthink,Gus.Happyendingsdon’tmatterifthegettingtheresucks.”
Itippedmyheadagainstthewindow.“Atthispoint,ithonestlymightbeeasierformetopackitinontheupbeatwomen’sfictionandhopaboardtheBleakLiteraryFictiontrain.Atleastitwouldgivemeanexcusetodescribeboobsinsomehorrifyingnewway.Likebulboussucculentsoffleshandsinew.Inevergettosaybulboussucculentsoffleshinmybooks.”
Gusleanedbackagainstthedriver’ssidedoorandletoutalaugh,whichmademefeelsimultaneouslybadforteasinghimandridiculouslyvictoriousforhavingmadehimlaughyetagain.Incollege,I’dbarelyseenhimcrackasmile.ClearlyIwasn’ttheonlyonewho’dchanged.
“Youcouldneverwritelikethat,”hesaid.“It’snotyourstyle.”
Icrossedmyarms.“Youdon’tthinkI’mcapable?”
Gusrolledhiseyes.“I’mjustsayingit’snotwhoyouare.”
“It’snotwhoIwas,”Icorrected.“Butasyou’vepointedout,I’mdifferentnow.”
“You’regoingthroughsomething,”hesaid,andagain,Ifeltanuncomfortableprickleathimseemingtox-raymelikethat,andatthesparkoftheoldcompetitiveflameGusalwaysignitedinme.“ButI’dwageryou’reaboutaslikelytochurnoutsomethingdarkanddrearyasIamtogoallWhenHarryMetSally.”
“IcanwritewhateverIwant,”Isaid.“ThoughIcanseehowwritingaHappilyEverAftermightbehardforsomeonewhosehappyendingsusuallyhappenduringone-nightstands.”
Gus’seyesdarkened,andhismouthhitchedintoanunevensmile.“Areyouchallengingme,Andrews?”
“I’mjustsaying,”Iparrotedhim,“it’snotwhoyouare.”
Gusscratchedhisjaw,hiseyescloudingasherecessedintothought.Hishanddroppedtorestoverthesteeringwheelandhisfocusshiftedsharplytome.“Okay,”hesaid.“Ihaveanidea.”
“AseventhPiratesoftheCaribbeanmovie?”Isaid.“It’ssocrazyitmightwork!”
“Actually,”Gussaid,“Ithoughtwecouldmakeadeal.”
“Whatsortofdeal,Augustus?”
Hevisiblyshudderedatthesoundofhisfullnameandreachedacrossthecar.Asparkofanticipation—ofwhat,Iwasn’tsure—rushedthroughme.Buthewasonlyopeningtheboxinmylapandgrabbinganotherdonut.Coconut.
Hebitintoit.“Youtrywritingbleakliteraryfiction,seeifthat’swhoyouarenow,ifyou’recapableofbeingthatperson”—Irolledmyeyesandsnatchedthelastbiteofdonutfromhishand.Hewenton,unbothered—“andI’llwriteaHappilyEverAfter.”
Myeyessnappeduptohis.Thefringesoftheporchlightweremakingtheirwaythroughthefognow,brushingatthecarwindowandcatchingatthesharpangleofhisfaceandthedarkwavethatfellacrosshisforehead.“You’rekidding.”
“I’mnot,”hesaid.“You’renottheonlyonewho’sbeeninarut.IcoulduseabreakfromwhatI’mdoing—”
“Becausewritingaromancewillbesoeasyitwillessentiallybeanapforyou,”Iteased.
“Andyoucanleanintoyourbleaknewoutlookandseehowitfits.IfthisisthenewJanuaryAndrews.Andwhoeversellstheirbookfirst—withapenname,ifyouprefer—wins.”
Iopenedmymouthtosaysomething,butnowordscameout.Icloseditandtriedagain.“Winswhat?”
Gus’sbrowlifted.“Well,firstofall,you’llhavesoldabook,soyoucanpayyourbillsandkeepyourpursestockedwithwine.Secondly…”Hethoughtforamoment.“Theloserwillpromotethewinner’sbook,writeanendorsementforthecover,recommenditininterviews,chooseitwhenguestjudgingforbookclubs,andallthat,guaranteeingsales.Andthirdly,ifyouwin,you’llbeabletorubitinmyfaceforever,whichIsuspectyou’dconsidernearlypriceless.”
Icouldn’tcomeclosetohidingthesmilebloomingacrossmyface.“True.”Everythinghewassayingmadeatleastsomesense.Wheelswereturninginmyhead—wheelsthathadbeenoutoforderforthepastyear.IreallydidthinkIcouldwritethekindofbookGuswrote,thatIcouldmimicTheGreatAmericanNovel.
Itwasdifferentwithlovestories.Theymeanttoomuchtome,andmyreadershadwaitedtoolongformetogivethemsomethingIdidn’twholeheartedlybelievein.
Itwasallstartingtoaddup.Everythingexceptonedetail.Inarrowedmyeyes.Gusexaggeratedlynarrowedhisback.“Whatdoyoustandtogainhere?”Iasked.
“Oh,allthesamethings,”hesaid.“Iwantsomethingtolordoveryou.Andmoney.Money’salwayshelpful.”
“Uh-oh,”Isaid.“IstheretroubleinColdlyHornyParadise?”
“Mybookstakealongtimetowrite,”Gussaid.“Theadvanceshavebeengood,butevenwithmyscholarships,Ihadalotofstudentloans,andsomeolddebt,andthenIputalotintothishouse.IfIcansellsomethingquick,itwillhelpmeout.”
Igaspedandclutchedmyheart.“AndyouwouldstooptopeddlingthesadomasochisticAmericandreamoflastinglove?”
Gusfrowned.“Ifyou’renotintotheplan,justforgetit.”
ButnowIcouldn’tforgetit.NowIneededtoprovetoGusthatwhatIdidwasharderthanitlooked,thatIwasjustascapableashewas.Besides,havingAugustusEverettpromoteabookofminewouldhavebenefitsIcouldn’taffordtopassup.
“I’min,”Isaid.
Hiseyesboredintome,thatevilsmileclimbingthecornerofhistoplip.“Yousure?Thiscouldbetrulyhumiliating.”
Aninvoluntarylaughsprangoutofme.“Oh,I’mcountingonit,”Isaid.“ButI’llmakeitalittleeasieronyou.I’llthrowinarom-comcrashcourse.”
“Fine,”Gussaid.“ThenI’lltakeyouthroughmyresearchprocess.I’llhelpyouleanintoyourlatentnihilism,andyou’llteachmehowtosinglikenoone’slistening,dancelikenoone’swatching,andlovelikeI’veneverbeenhurtbefore.”
Hisfaintgrinwascontagious,ifoverconfident.
“Youreallythinkyoucandothis?”Iasked.
Heliftedoneshoulder.“Youthinkyoucan?”
IheldhisgazeasIthought.“Andyou’llendorsethebook?IfIwinandsellthebook,you’llwriteashinypullquotetoslaponthecover,nomatterhowbaditis.”
Hiseyesweredoingthethingagain.Thesexy/evilthingwheretheyexpandedanddarkenedashelosthimselfinthought.“Irememberhowyouwrotewhenyouweretwenty-two,”hesaidcarefully.“Itwon’tbebad.”
Ifoughtablush.Ididn’tunderstandhowhecoulddothat,bouncebetweenbeingrude,almostcondescending,anddisarminglycomplimentary.
“Butyes,”headded,leaningforward.“EvenifyougivemeanovelizationofthesequeltoGigli,ifyousellit,Iwillendorseit.”
Isatbacktoputsomedistancebetweenus.“Okay.Sowhataboutthis?Wespendourweekdayswriting,andleavetheendoftheweekforeducation.”
“Education,”herepeated.
“OnFridays,I’llgowithyoutodowhateverresearchyouwouldusuallydo.Whichwouldinclude…”Igesturedforhimtofillintheblank.
Hesmiledcrookedly.Itwasextremelyevil.“Oh,allsortsofrivetingthings,”hesupplied.“AndthenonSaturdays,we’lldowhateveryouusuallydoforresearch—hot-airballoontrips,sailinglessons,two-personmotorcyclerides,candlelitrestaurantswithpatioseatingandbadcoverbands,andallthatshit.”
Heatspreadupmyneck.Hehadjustnailedme,again.Imean,Ihadn’tdonethetwo-personmotorcyclerides(Ihadnodeathwish),butIhadtakenahot-airballoonridetoprepareformythirdnovel,NorthernLight
Thecornerofhismouthtwitched,apparentlydelightedbymyexpression.
“So.Wehaveadeal?”Heheldouthishandtome.
Mymindspunindizzyingcircles.Itwasn’tlikeIhadanyotherideas.Maybeadepressedwritercouldonlymakeadepressingbook.“Okay.”Islidmyhandintohis,pretendingnottofeelthesparksleapingfromhisskinstraightintomyveins.
“Justonemorething,”hesaidsoberly.
“What?”
“Promisenottofallinlovewithme.”
“OhmyGod!”Ishovedhisshoulderandfloppedbackintomyseat,laughing.“AreyouslightlymisquotingAWalktoRememberatme?”
Guscrackedanothersmile.“Excellentmovie,”hesaid.“Sorry,film.”
Irolledmyeyes,stillshiveringwithlaughter.
Ahalflaughrattledoutofhimtoo.“I’mserious.IthinkIgottosecondbaseinthetheaterduringthatone.”
“IrefusetobelieveanyonewouldcheapenthegreatestlovestoryinvolvingMandyMooreevertoldbylettingateenageGusEverettcopafeel.”
“Believewhateveryouwant,JanuaryAndrews,”hesaid.“JackReacherriskshislifeeverydaytoguaranteeyouthatfreedom.”9TheManuscript
WHENIWOKE,Ididnothaveahangover,butIdidhaveatextfromShadi,reading,HehasawholeRACKofvintagehats!!!
Andhowwouldyouknowthat?Itextedback.
Iclimbedoffthecouchandwentintothekitchen.WhileIstillhadn’tgatheredenoughcouragetogoupstairs,orevenstartsleepinginthedownstairsguestbedroom,I’dstartedtofindmywayaroundthecupboards.Iknewtherose-speckledkettlewasalreadyontheburner,thattherewasnocoffeemakerinthekitchen,andthattherewasaFrenchpressandgrinderdowninthelazySusan.This,Ihadtoassume,wasoneofSonya’scontributions,becauseI’dneverseenDaddrinkanythingbuttheStarbucksKeurigcupsMomboughtinbulkorthegreenteashebeggedhimtohaveinstead.
Iwasn’tacoffeesnobmyself—Icouldgetbehindflavoredsyrupsandwhippedtoppings—butIstartedmostmorningswithsomethingdrinkableenoughtohaveitblack.Ifilledthekettleandturnedtheburneron,thatwarm,earthysmellofgasleapingtolifewiththeflame.Ipluggedthegrinderinandstaredoutthewindowasitworked.Lastnight’smisthadheldout,cloakingthestripofwoodsbetweenthehouseandthebeachindeepgraysandblues.Thehousehadchilledtoo.Ishivered,pullingmyrobetighter.
AsIwaitedforthecoffeetosteep,myphonevibratedagainstthecounter.
WELL,Shadibegan,abunchofuswentoutafterwork,andASUSUAL,hewastotallyignoringmeEXCEPTwheneverIwasn’tlookingandthenIcouldfeelhimjustabsolutelystaringatme.SoeventuallyhewenttothebathroomandIalsohadtogosoIwasbackinthehallwaywaitingandthenhecameoutandwaslike“heyshad”andIwaslike“wow,Ihonestlythoughtyoudidn’tspeakuntilthismoment”andhejustlikeshrugged.SoIwaslike“ANYWAYIwasthinkingaboutleaving.”Andhewaslike“oh,shit,really?”Andhewasjustlike,obviouslydisappointed,andthenIwaslike,“Well,Iwasthinkingaboutleavingwithyou.”AndhewasSOnervous!!Andlike,excitedlike,“Yeah?Thatsoundsgood.Whendoyouwanttogo?”andIwaslike“Duh.Now.”Andasyoucansee,therestishistory.
Wow,Itypedback.It’sataleasoldastime.
Truly,Shadiresponded.Girlmeetsboy.Boyignoresgirlexceptwhenshe’snotlooking.Girlgoeshomewithboyandseeshimhanghishauntedhatonacrowdedrack
ThetimerwentoffandIpressedthecoffeeandpouredsomeintoamugshapedlikeacartoonishorcawhale,thentookitandmycomputeroutontothedeck,mistpleasantlychillingeverybareinchofmyskin.Icurledupinoneofthechairsandstartedtomakeamentalchecklistfortheday,andfortherestofthesummer.
Firstandforemost,Ineededtofigureoutwhereexactlythisbookwasgoing,ifnotinthedirectionofafeel-goodsummerromancewithasinglefather.ThenIneededtoplanoutSaturday’sromantic-comedyscenarioforGus.
Mystomachflippedatthethought.I’dhalfexpectedtowakeupinapanicaboutouragreement.InsteadIwasexcited.Forthefirsttimeinyears,Iwasgoingtowriteabookthatabsolutelynoonewaswaitingfor.AndI’dgettowatchGusEveretttrytowritealovestory.
OrIwasgoingtomakeahugefoolofmyselfand,farworse,disappointAnya.ButIcouldn’tthinkaboutthatrightnow.Therewasworktodo.
Asidefromworkingonthebookandschedulingthe(actualonly)UberdrivertotakemetogetmycarfromPete’s,IdecidedI’dconquerthesecondupstairsbedroomtodayanddividewhateverwasinthereintothrowaway,giveaway,andsellpiles.
Ialsovowedtomovemystuffintothedownstairsbedroom.I’ddoneokayonthecouchthefirstfewnightsbuthadawokenthismorningtosomeseriouskinksinmyneck.
MygazewanderedtowardtheswathofwindowsalongthebackofGus’shouse.Atthatprecisemoment,hewalkedintohiskitchen,pullinga(shocker!)rumpled,darkT-shirtoverhishead.Ispunbackinmydeckchair.
Hecouldn’thaveseenmewatchinghim.ButthemoreIthoughtaboutit,themoreIworriedthatImight’vestaredforacoupleofsecondsbeforelookingaway.IcouldvividlypicturethecurvesofGus’sarmsashetuggedtheshirtoverhishead,aflatlengthofstomachframedbythesharpanglesofhipbones.Hewasalittlesofterthanhe’dbeenincollege(notthatittookmuch),butitsuitedhim.Ormaybeitjustsuitedme.
Well.Ihaddefinitelystared.
Iglancedbackquicklyandstarted.Guswasstandinginfrontoftheglassdoorsnow.Heliftedhismugasiftotoastme.Iliftedmineinresponse,andheshuffledaway.
IfGusEverettwasgettingtoworkalready,Ialsoneededto.IopenedmycomputerandstaredatthedocumentI’dbeenpickingatforthelastfewdays.Ameet-cute.Thereweren’tmeet-cutesinAugustusEverettnovels,thatwasfordamnsure.
Whatwasthere?Ihadn’treadeitherofthem,notRochambeauandnotTheRevelatories,butI’dreadenoughreviewsofthemtosatiatemycuriosity.
Peopledoingthewrongthingfortherightreasons.Peopledoingtherightthingforthewrongreasons.Onlygettingwhattheywantedifitwouldultimatelydestroythem.
Twisted,secretivefamilies.
Well,Ihadnoexperiencethere!Theacheshotthroughme.Itfeltlikethefirstfewsecondsofaburn,whenyoucouldn’ttellwhetheritwasheatorcoldburrowingintoyourskinbutkneweitherwayitwouldleavedamage.
ThememoryofmyfightwithMomafterthefuneralroseuplikeatidalwave.
Jacqueshadleftfortheairportthesecondtheservicewasovertomakeitbackforwork,missingtheshowdownwithSonyaentirely,andonceshe’dfled,MomandIdidn’tstickaroundforlongeither.
Wefoughtthewholedrivebacktothehouse.No,thatwasn’ttrue.Ifought.Years’worthoffeelingsI’dchosennottofeel.Yearsofbetrayalforcingthemout.
“Howcouldyoukeepthisfromme?”I’dshoutedasIdrove.
“Shewasn’tsupposedtocomehere!”Momhadsaid,thenburiedherfaceinherhands.“Ican’ttalkaboutthis,”she’dsobbed,shakingherhead.“Ican’t.”
Fromthenon,anythingelseIsaidwasansweredwiththis:Ican’ttalkaboutthisIcan’ttalkabouthimlikethis.I’mnotgoingtotalkaboutit.Ican’t.
Ishouldhaveunderstood.IshouldhavecaredmorewhatMomwasfeeling.
ThiswasmeanttobethemomentthatIbecametheadult,hugginghertight,promisingeverythingwouldbeokay,takingherpain.That’swhatgrowndaughtersdidfortheirmothers.Butbackinthechurch,I’dtorninhalfandeverythinghadspilledoutofmeintoplainviewforthefirsttime.
HundredsofnightsI’dchosennottocry.ThousandsofmomentsI’dworriedaboutworrying.ThatifIdidit,I’dmakethingsworseformyparents.ThatIneededtobestrong.ThatIneededtobehappysoIwouldn’tdragthemdown.
AllthoseyearswhenIwasterrifiedmymotherwoulddie,I’dtuckedeveryuglythingoutofsighttotransformmylifeintoashinywindowdisplayforherbenefit.
I’dmademyparentslaugh.I’dmadethemproud.I’dbroughthomesolidgrades,foughttoothandnailtokeepupwithGusEverett.I’dstayeduplatereadingwithDadandgottenupearlytopretendIlikedyogawithMom.I’dtoldthemaboutmylife,askedthemendlesslyabouttheirssoI’dneverregretwastingtimewiththem.AndIhidthecomplicatedfeelingsthatcamewithtryingtomemorizesomeoneyouloved,justincase.
Ifellinloveattwenty-two,justliketheyhad,withaboynamedJacqueswhowasthesingularlymostbelovedandinterestingpersonI’dmet,andIparadedourhappinesspastthemasoftenasIcould.IgaveupongradschooltobeclosetothembutprovedIhadn’treallymissedoutonanythingbypublishingattwenty-five.
Look!I’mfine!Look!Ihaveeverybeautifulthingyouwantedforme!Look!Thishasn’taffectedmeatall!
Look,theyalllivehappilyeverafter.Again.
I’ddoneeverythingIcouldtoprovethatIwasokay,thatIwasn’tworrying.IdideverythingIcouldforthatstory.Theonewherethethreeofuswereunbreakable.
Onthedrivehomefromthefuneral,Ididn’twanttobeokayanymore.
Iwantedtobeakid.Iwantedtoscream,toslamdoors,toyell,“Ihateyou!You’reruiningmylife!”likeIneverhad.
IwantedMomtogroundme,thensneakintomyroomlaterandkissmyforehead,whisper,“Iunderstandhowscaredyouare.”
Instead,shewipedawayhertears,tookadeepbreath,andrepeated,“I’mnotgoingtotalkaboutthis.”
“Fine,”Isaid,defeated,broken.“Wewon’ttalkaboutit.”
WhenIflewbacktoNewYork,everythingchanged.Mom’scallsbecamerare,andevenwhentheydidhappen,theyhitlikeatornado.She’dcyclonethrougheverydetailofherweek,thenaskhowIwasdoing,andifIhesitatedtoolongshe’dpanicandexcuseherselfforsomeexerciseclassshe’dforgottenabout.
She’dspentyearspreparingforherowndeathwithoutanytimetobraceherselfforthis.Forhimtoleaveusandfortheuglytruthtowalkintohisfuneralandtearallourprettymemoriesinhalf.Shewasinpain.Iknewthat.
ButIwasinpaintoo,somuchofitthatforonceIcouldn’tlaughordanceanymeasureofitaway.Icouldn’tevenwritemyselfahappyending.
Ididn’twanttosithereinfrontofmylaptopoutsidethishousefullofsecretsandexorcisemyfather’smemoryfrommyheart.ButapparentlyI’dfoundtheonethingIcoulddo.BecauseI’dalreadystartedtyping
Thefirsttimeshemettheloveofherfather’slifewasathisfuneral.
MYLOVEAFFAIRwithromancenovelshadstartedinthewaitingroomofmymother’sradiologist’soffice.Momdidn’tlikeformetogoinwithher—sheinsisteditmadeherfeelsenile—soI’dsatwithawell-wornpaperbackfromtherack,tryingtodistractmyselffromtheominoustickingoftheclockfixedoverthesign-inwindow.
I’dexpectedtostareatonepagefortwentyminutes,caughtinthehamsterwheelofanxiety.InsteadI’dread150pagesandthenaccidentallystuffedthebookinmypursewhenitwastimetogohome.
ItwasthefirstwaveofreliefI’dfeltinweeks,andfromthere,Ibinge-readeveryromancenovelIcouldgetmyhandson.Andthen,withoutanytrueplans,Istartedwritingone,andthatfeeling,thatfeelingoffallingheadoverheelsinlovewithastoryanditscharactersastheysprangoutofme,wasunlikeanythingelse.
Mom’sfirstdiagnosistaughtmethatlovewasanescaperope,butitwasherseconddiagnosisthattaughtmelovecouldbealifevestwhenyouweredrowning.
ThemoreIworkedonmylovestory,thelesspowerlessIfeltintheworld.Imayhavehadtoditchmyplantogotogradschoolandfindateachingjob,butIcouldstillhelppeople.Icouldgivethemsomethinggood,somethingfunnyandhopeful.
Itworked.Foryears,Ihadapurpose,somethinggoodtofocuson.ButwhenDaddied,suddenlywriting—theonethingthathadalwaysputmeatease,averbthatfeltmorelikeaplaceonlyforme,thethingthathadfreedmefrommydarkestmomentsandbroughthopeintomychestinmyheart’sheaviest—hadseemedimpossible.
Untilnow.
Andokay,thiswasmoreofadiarywritteninthirdpersonthananovel,butwordswerecomingoutofmyhandsandithadbeensolongsincethathadhappenedIwould’verejoicedtofindALLWORKANDNOPLAYMAKESJACKADULLBOYfillinguptheWorddocumentathousandtimesover.
Thishadtobebetterthanthat(????):
ShehadnoideawhetherherfatherhadactuallylovedThatWoman.Shedidn’tknowwhetherhe’dlovedhermothereither.Thethreethingssheknew,withoutdoubt,thathe’dlovedwerebooks,boats,andJanuary.
Itwasn’tjustthatI’dbeenbornthen.He’dalwaysactedlikeI’dbeenborninJanuarybecauseitwasthebestmonthandnottheotherwayaround.
InOhio,I’dlargelyconsideredittobetheworstmonthoftheyear.Oftentimeswedidn’tgetsnowuntilFebruary,whichmeantJanuarywasjustagray,cold,lightlesstimewhenyounolongerhadamajorholidaytolookforwardto.
“InWestMichigan,it’sdifferent,”Dadhadalwayssaid.Therewasthelake,andthewayitwouldfreezeover,coveredinfeetofsnow.ApparentlyyoucouldwalkacrossitlikeitwassomeMartiantundra.Incollege,ShadiandIhadplannedtodriveoutoneweekendandseeit,butshe’dgottenacallthattheirsheltiehaddied,andwe’dspenttheweekendwatchingMasterpieceClassicandmakings’moresonthestovetopinstead.
Igotbacktotyping.
Ifthingshadbeendifferent,shemight’vegonetothelakesidetowninwinterinsteadofsummer,satbehindthewallofwindowsstaringatthewhite-cappedbluesandstrangefrozengreensofthesnowybeach.
Butshe’dhadthisuncannyfeeling,afearshe’dcomeface-to-facewithhisghostifshe’dshownupthereatjusttherighttime.
Iwould’veseenhimeverywhere.Iwould’vewonderedhowhe’dfeltabouteverydetail,rememberedaparticularsnowfallhe’ddescribedfromhischildhood:Allthesetinyorbs,January,likethewholeworldwasmadeoutofDippin’Dots.Puresugar
He’dhadawayofdescribingthings.WhenMomreadmyfirstbookshetoldmeshecouldseehiminit.InthewayIwrote.
Itmadesense.I’dlearnedtolovestoriesfromhim,afterall.
Sheusedtoprideherselfonallthethingsshehadincommonwithhim,regardthesimilaritieswithaffection.Nightowls.Messy.Alwayslate,alwayscarryingabook.
Carelessaboutsunblockandaddictedtoeveryformofpotatoes.Alivewhenwewereonthewater.Armsthrownwide,jacketsrustling,eyessquintingintothesun.
Nowsheworriedthosesimilaritiesbetrayedtheterriblewrongnessthatlivedinher.Maybeshe,likeherfather,wasincapableoftheloveshe’dspentherlifechasing.
Ormaybethatlovesimplydidn’texist.10TheInterview
I’DREADSOMEWHEREthatittook10,000hourstobeanexpertatsomething.Writingwasdifferent,toovaguea“something”for10,000hourstoadduptomuch.Maybe10,000hoursoflyinginanemptybathtubbrainstormingaddeduptobeinganexpertonbrainstorminginanemptybathtub.Maybe10,000hoursofwalkingyourneighbor’sdog,workingoutaplotproblemunderyourbreath,wouldturnyouintoaproatpuzzlingthroughplottangles.
Butthosethingswerepartsofawhole.
I’dprobablyspentmorethan10,000hourstypingnovels(thosepublishedaswellasthosecastaside),andIstillwasn’tanexpertattyping,letaloneanexpertonwritingbooks.Becauseevenwhenyou’dspent10,000hourswritingfeel-goodfictionandanother10,000readingit,itdidn’tmakeyouanexpertatwritinganyotherkindofbook.
Ididn’tknowwhatIwasdoing.Icouldn’tbesureIwasdoinganything.TherewasadecentchanceI’dsendthisdrafttoAnyaandgetanemailbacklike,WhydidyoujustsendmethemenuforRedLobster?
ButwhetherornotIwasactuallysucceedingatthisbook,Iwaswritingit.Itcameinpainfulebbsanddesperateflows,asiftimedtothewavescrashingsomewherebehindthatwalloffog.
Itwasn’tmylife,butitwasclose.Theconversationbetweenthethreewomen—Ellie,hermother,andSonya’sstand-in,Lucy—might’vebeenwordforword,althoughIknewnottotrustmemoryquitesomuchthesedays.
Ifmemorywereaccurate,thenDadcouldn’thavebeenhere,inthishouse,whenMom’scancercameback.Hecouldn’thavebeenbecause,untilhedied,Ihadmemoriesofthemdancingbarefootinthekitchen,ofhimsmoothingherhairandkissingherhead,drivinghertothehospitalwithmeinthebackseatandtheplaylisthe’denlistedmetohelphimpiecetogetherplayingonthecarstereo.
WillieNelson’s“AlwaysonMyMind.”
MomandDad’shandsclaspedtightlyonthecenterconsole.
OfcourseIrememberedthe“businesstrips”too.Butthatwasthepoint.IrememberedthingsasI’dthoughtthey’dbeen,andthenthetruth,ThatTruth,hadrippedthememoriesinhalfaseasilyasiftheyhadbeenimagesonprinterpaper.
Thenextthreedayswereafervorofwriting,cleaning,andlittleelse.Asidefromaboxofwrappingpaper,ahandfulofboardgames,andagreatdealoftowelsandsparebedding,therewasnothingremotelypersonalintheupstairsguestbedroom.Itcould’vebeenanyvacationhomeinAmerica,ormaybeamodelhome,ahalf-assedpromisethatyourlifetoocouldbethiskindofgenericallypretty.
Ilikedtheupstairsdecorsignificantlylessthanthewarmbohovibedownstairs.Icouldn’tdecidewhetherIfeltrelievedorcheatedbythat.
Iftherehadbeenmoreofhim,orofher,here,she’dalreadydonetheheavyliftingofscrubbingitclear.
OnWednesday,Iphotographedthefurnitureandposteditoncraigslist.OnThursday,Ipackedtheextrabedding,boardgames,andwrappingpaperintoboxesforGoodwill.OnFriday,Istrippedallthebeddingandthetowelsfromtheracksinthesecondupstairsbathroomandcarriedthemdowntothelaundryclosetonthefirstfloor,dumpingthemintothewasherbeforesittingdowntowrite.
Themisthadfinallyburnedoffandthehousewashotandstickyonceagain,soI’dopenedthewindowsanddoorsandturnedonallthefans.
I’dgottenglimpsesofGusoverthelastthreedays,butthey’dbeenfew.AsfarasIcouldtell,hemovedaroundwhiledrafting.Ifhewasworkingatthekitchentableinthemorning,hewasnevertherebythetimeIpouredmysecondcupofcoffee.Ifhewasnowheretobeseenallday,he’dappearsuddenlyonthedeckatnight,writingwithonlythelightofhislaptopandtheswarmofmothsbattingaroundit.
WheneverIspottedhim,Iinstantlylostfocus.Itwastoofunimaginingwhathecouldbewriting,brainstormingthepossibilities.Iwasprayingforvampires.
OnFridayafternoon,welinedupforthefirsttime,sittingatourtablesinfrontofourmatchingwindows.
Hesatathiskitchentable,facingmyhouse.
Isatatmykitchentable,facinghis
Whenwerealizedthis,heliftedhisbottleofbeerthesamewayhe’dmock-toastedwithhiscoffeemug.Iliftedmywaterglass.
Bothwindowswereopen.Wecould’vetalkedbutwewouldhavehadtoscream.
InsteadGussmiledandpickedupthehighlighterandnotebookbesidehim.Hescribbledonitforasecond,thenheldthenotebookupsoIcouldreadit:
LIFEISMEANINGLESS,JANUARY.GAZEINTOTHEABYSS.
Isuppressedalaugh,thenfishedaSharpieoutofmybackpack,draggedmyownnotebooktowardme,andflippedtoablankpage.Inlarge,squareletters,Iwrote:
THISREMINDSMEOFTHATTAYLORSWIFTVIDEO.
Hissmileleaptuphisface.Heshookhishead,thenwentbacktowriting.Neitherofussaidanotherword,andneitherofusrelocatedeither.Notuntilheknockedonmyfrontdoorforourfirstresearchouting,asteeltravelmugineachhand.
Hegavemydress—thesameitchyblackthingI’dworntobookclub—andbootsoneslowup-and-down,thenshookhishead.“That…willnotwork.”
“Ilookgreat,”Ifiredback.
“Agreed.IfweweregoingtoseetheAmericanBalletTheatre,you’dbeperfect.ButI’mtellingyou,January,thatwillnotworkfortonight.”
“IT’SGOINGTObealatenight,”Guswarned.Wewereinhiscar,headingnorthalongthelake,thesunslunglowinthesky,itslastfeverishrayspaintingeverythingtolooklikebacklitcottoncandy.WhenI’ddemandedhepickoutmynewoutfitandsavemethetrouble,I’dexpectedhimtobeuncomfortable.Insteadhefollowedmeintothedownstairsguestroom,lookedatthehandfulofthingshanginginthecloset,andpickedoutthesamedenimshortsI’dworntoPete’sbookstoreandmyCarlySimonT-shirt,andwiththatwe’dsetoff.
“Aslongasyoudon’tmakemelistentoyousing‘EverybodyHurts’twiceinarow,”Isaid,“IthinkIcandealwithalatenight.”
Hissmilewasfaint.Itmadehiseyelidssinkheavily.“Don’tworry.ThatwasaspecialoccasionIletafriendtalkmeinto.Won’thappenagain.”
Hewastappingrestlesslyagainstthesteeringwheelaswepulleduptoaredlight,andmyeyessliddowntheveinsinhisforearms,upalongthebackofhisbiceptowhereitmethissleeve.Jacqueshadbeenhandsomelikeanunderwearmodel,perfectlytonedwithawinningsmileandgolden-brownhairthatfellthesameexactwayeveryday.Butit
Heleanedforwardtomesswiththetemperaturecontrols,hiseyesflickingtowardme.Ijerkedmygazeoutthewindow,tryingtoclearmymindbeforehecouldreadit.
“Doyouwanttobesurprised?”hesaid.
Myheartseemedtotripoveritsnextbeat.“What?”
“Aboutwherewe’regoing.”
Irelaxed.“Hm.Surprisedbysomethingdisturbingenoughthatyouthinkitbelongsinabook.Nothanks.”
“Probablywise,”heagreed.“We’regoingtointerviewawomanwhosesisterwasinasuicidecult.”
“You’rekidding.”
Heshookhishead.
“OhmyGod,”Isaidthroughashockoflaughter.Allatonce,thetensionI’dimagineddissipated.“Gus,areyouwritingarom-comaboutasuicidecult?”
Herolledhiseyes.“Ischeduledthisinterviewbeforeourbet.Besides,thepointofthisoutingishelpingyoulearntowriteliteraryfiction.”
“Well,eitherway,youweren’tkiddingaboutstaringintotheabyss,”Isaid.“SothepointofthislessonisbasicallyEverythingsucks,nowgettoworkwritingaboutit?”
Gussmirked.“No,smart-ass.Thepointsofthislessonarecharacteranddetail.”
Ifaux-gasped.“You’renevergoingtobelievethiscrazycoincidence,butwehavethoseinwomen’sfictiontoo!”
“Youknow,you’retheonewhoinitiatedthiswholelesson-planelementofthedeal,”Gussaid.“Ifyou’regoingtomakefunofmethewholetime,I’mhappytodropyouoffatthenearestsuburbancomedyclubopenmicandpickyouuponthewayback.”
“Okay,okay.”Iwavedhimon.“Characteranddetail.Youweresaying…”
Gusshrugged.“Ilikewritingaboutoutlandishscenarios.Charactersandeventsthatseemtooabsurdtobereal,butstillwork.Havingspecificityhelpsmaketheunbelievablebelievable.SoIdoalotofinterviews.It’sinterestingwhatpeoplerememberaboutasituation.LikeifI’mgoingtowriteacult-leadingzealotwhobelieveshe’sanalienconsciousnessreincarnatedaseverygreatworldleaderforcenturies,Ialsoneedtoknowwhatkindofshoeshewears,andwhatheeatsforbreakfast.”
“Butdoyoureally?”Iteased.“Arethereadershonestlybeggingforthat?”
Helaughed.“Youknow,maybethereasonyouhaven’tbeenabletofinishyourbookisthatyoukeepaskingwhatsomeoneelsewantstoreadinsteadofwhatyouwanttowrite.”
Icrossedmyarms,bristling.“Sotellme,Gus.Howareyougoingtoputaromanticspinonyoursuicide-cultbook?”
Hisheadtiltedagainsttheheadrest,hisknife-edgedcheekbonescastingshadowsdownhisface.Hescratchedhisjaw.“Firstofall,whendidIsaythisinterviewwasformyrom-com?IcouldjustaseasilysetasideallmynotesfromthisuntilIwinourbet,thengetbacktoworkonmynextofficialnovel.”
“Andisthatwhatyou’redoing?”Iasked.
“Idon’tknowyet,”headmitted.“TryingtofigureoutifIcancombinetheideas.”
“Maybe,”Isaiddoubtfully.“Tellmethespecifics.I’llseeifIcanhelp.”
“Okay.So.”Headjustedhisgriponthesteeringwheel.“Theoriginalpremisewasbasicallythatthisjournalistfindsouthishighschoolsweetheart,aformerdrugaddict,hasjoinedacult,sohedecidestoinfiltrateitandtakeitdown.Butwhilehe’sthere,hestartsmovingupthroughtheranksreallyquickly,likewaaaaypastthewomanhewenttheretosave.Andashedoes,hestartsseeingallthisstuff,thisproof,thattheleader’sright.Abouteverything.Eventually,thegirlwasgoingtogetscaredandtrytobackout,trytotalkhimintoleavingwithher.”
“SoI’mguessing,”Isaid,“theyleave,honeymooninParis,andsettledowninasmallvillainthesouthofFrance.Probablybecomewinemakers.”
“Hewasgoingtomurderher,”Gussaidflatly.“Tosavehersoul.Ihadn’tdecidedifthatwasgoingtobewhatfinallybroughtthecultdown—gotalltheleadersarrestedandeverything—orifhewasgoingtobecomethenewprophet.Ilikedthefirstoptionbecauseitfeelsmorelikeaclosedloop:hewantstogetheroutofthecult;hedoes.Hewantstobringthecultdown;hedoes.Butthesecondonefeelsmorecyclicalinaway.Likeeverydamagedpersonwithaherocomplexcouldendupdoingexactlywhattheoriginalleaderofthecultdoes.Idunno.MaybeI’dhaveayoungmanorwomanwithadrughabitshowupattheveryend.”
“Cute,”Isaid.
“ExactlywhatIwasgoingfor,”heanswered.
“So.Anyideasforthenot-terribleversionofthisbook?”
“Imean,Ilikedthatsouth-of-Francepitch.Thatshit’sfire.”
“Gladyouseethingsmyway.”
“Anyway,”hesaid.“I’llfigureitout.Acultrom-comdoessoundlikeathing.Whataboutyou?What’syourbook?”
Ipretendedtopukeinmylap.
“Cute,”heechoed,flashingmeagrin.Speakingoffire,sometimeshiseyesseemedtobereflectingit,eventhoughtherewasn’tany.Thecarwasnearlypitch-black,forGod’ssake.Hiseyesshouldn’tbeallowed,physicallyormorally,toglintlikethat.Hispupilsweredisrespectfultothelawsofnature.Myskinstartedburningunderthem.
“Ihavenoideawhatmybookwas,”Isaidwhenhefinallylookedbacktotheroad.“Andlittleideawhatitis.Ithinkit’saboutagirl.”
Hewaitedformetogoonforafewseconds,thensaid,“Wow.”
“Iknow.”Therewasmore.Therewasthefathersheadored.Therewashismistressandhisbeachhouseinthetownhegrewupin,andhiswife’sradiationappointments.ButevenifthingsbetweenGusEverettandmehadwarmed(thefaultofhiseyes),Iwasn’treadyforthefollow-upquestionsthisconversationmightyield.
“Whydidyoumovehereanyway?”Iaskedafteralengthysilence.
Gusshiftedinhisseat.Clearlytherewasplentyhedidn’twanttotalktomeabouteither.“Forthebook,”hesaid.“Ireadaboutthisculthere.Inthenineties.Ithadthisbigcompoundinthewoodsbeforeitgotbusted.Therewasallkindsofillegalshitgoingonthere.I’vebeenhereaboutfiveyears,interviewingpeopleandresearchingandallthat.”
“Seriously?You’vebeenworkingonthisforfiveyears?”
Heglancedmyway.“It’sresearchheavy.AndforpartofthattimeIwasfinishingupmysecondbookandtouringforthatandeverything.Itwasn’tlike,fiveuninterruptedyearsatatypewriterwithasingleemptywaterbottletopeein.”
“Yourdoctorwillberelievedtohearthat.”
WedroveintautsilenceforawhilebeforeGusrolleddownhiswindow,whichgavemepermissiontorollminedown.Thewarmwhipoftheairagainsttheopenwindowsdissolvedanydiscomfortfromthesilencewe’dfalleninto.Wecould’vejustbeentwostrangersonthesamebeachorbusorferry.
Aswedrove,thesunvanishedinchbyinch.Eventually,Gusfiddledwiththeradio,stoppingtocrankupanoldiesstationplayingPaulSimon.
“Ilovethissong,”hetoldmeoverthewindcycloningthroughthecar.
“Really?”Isaid,surprised.“Ifiguredyou’dmakemelistentoElliottSmithorJohnnyCash’scoverof‘Hurt’thewholeway.”
Gusrolledhiseyes,buthewassmiling.“AndIfiguredyou’dbringaMariahCareyplaylistwithyou.”
“Damn,IwishI’dthoughtofthat.”
Hisgrufflaughwasmostlylostinthewind,butIheardenoughofittomakemycheeksgowarm.
Itwastwohoursbeforewegotoffthehighwayandthenanotherthirtyminutesofice-damagedbackroads,litonlybythecar’sbrightsandthestarsoverhead.
Finally,wepulledfromthewindingroadthroughthewoodsintothegravellotofabarwithacorrugatedtinroof.Itsglowingmarqueeread,THEBY-WATER.AsidefromafewmotorcyclesandajunkerofaToyotapickup,thelotwasempty,butthewindows,illuminatedbyglowingBUDWEISERandMILLERsigns,revealedadensecrowdinside.
“Behonest,”Isaid.“Didyoubringmeheretomurderme?”
Gusturnedoffthecarandrolledupthewindows.“Please.Wedrovethreehours.I’vegotaperfectlygoodmurderspotbackinNorthBearShores.”
“Areallyourinterviewsatspookydivebarsintheforest?”Iasked.
Heshrugged.“Onlythegoodones.”
Weclimbedoutofthecar.Withoutthefiftymphwind,itwashotandstickyout,everyfewfeetpunctuatedbyanewcloudofmosquitoesorfireflies.IthoughtmaybeIcouldhearthe“water”thebar’snamereferredtosomewhereinthewoodsbehindit.Notthelakeitself,Ididn’tthink.Acreek,probably.
IalwaysfeltabitanxiousgoingtoneighborhoodspotslikethiswhenIwasn’tapartoftheneighborhood,butGusappearedtobeatease,andhardlyanyonelookedupfromtheirbeerorpooltablesortrystsagainstthewallbesidetheold-schooljukebox.ItwasaplacefullofcamohatsandtanktopsandCarharttjackets.
IwasextremelygratefulGushadencouragedmetochangemyoutfit.
“Whoarewemeeting?”Iasked,stickingclosetohimashesurveyedthecrowd.Hetippedhischintowardalonewomanatahigh-topneartheback.
Gracewasinhermidfiftiesandhadtheroundedshouldersofsomeonewho’dspentalotoftimesitting,butnotnecessarilyrelaxed.Whichmadesense.Shewasatruckdriverwithfoursonsinhighschoolandnoromanticpartnertoleanon.
“Notthatthatmatters,”shesaid,takingasipfromherHeineken.“We’renotheretotalkaboutthat.YouwanttoknowaboutHope.”
Hope,hersister.HopeandGrace.TwinsfromnorthernMichigan,notquitetheUpperPeninsula,she’dalreadytoldus.
“Wewanttotalkaboutwhateveryouthinkisrelevant,”Gussaid.
Shewantedtobesureitwasn’tforanewsstory.Gusshookhishead.“It’sanovel.Noneofthecharacterswillhaveyournamesorlooklikeyou,orbeyou.Thecultwon’tbethesamecult.Thisistohelpusunderstandthecharacters.Whatmakessomeonejoinacult,whenyoufirstnoticedsomethingoffwithHope.Thatsortofthing.”
Hereyesglancedoffthedoorthenbacktous,anuncertaintyinherexpression.
Ifeltguilty.Iknewshe’dcomehereofherownvolition,butthiscouldn’tbeeasy,scrapingthemuckoutofherheartandholdingitouttoacoupleofstrangers.
“Youdon’thavetotellus,”Iblurted,andIfeltthefullforceofGus’seyescuttome,butIkeptmyfocusonGrace,herwateryeyes,slightlypartedlips.“Iknowtalkingaboutitwon’tundoanyofit.Butnottalkingaboutitwon’teither,andifthere’sanythingyouneedtosay,youcan.Evenifit’sjustyourfavoritethingabouther,youcansayit.”
Hereyessharpenedintosliversofsapphireandhermouthtightenedintoaknot.Forasecond,shewasstock-stillandsomber,amidwesternMadonnainastonepietà,somesacredmemorycradledinherlapwherewecouldn’tquiteseeit.
“Herlaugh,”shesaidfinally.“Shesnortedwhenshelaughed.”
Thecornerofmymouthinchedupbutanewheavinesssettledacrossmychest.“Ilovewhenpeopledothat,”Iadmitted.“Mybestfrienddoesit.Ialwaysfeellikeshe’sdrowninginlife.Inagoodway.Likeit’srushinguphernose,youknow?”
Asoft,wispysmileformedonGrace’sthinlips.“Agoodway,”shesaidquietly.Thenhersmilequiveredsadly,andshescratchedhersunburnedchin,herslopedshouldersrisingasshesetherforearmsonthetable.Sheclearedherthroat.
“Ididn’t,”shesaidthickly.“Knowanythingwasoff.That’swhatyouwantedtoknow?”Hereyesglossedandsheshookherheadonce.“Ihadnoideauntilshewasalreadygone.”
Gus’sheadtilted.“Howisthatpossible?”
“Because.”Tearswererushingintohereyesevenassheshrugged.“Shewasstilllaughing.”
WEWERESILENTformostofthedrivehome.Windowsup,radiooff,eyesontheroad.Gus,Iimagined,wasmentallysortingtheinformationhe’dgottenfromGrace.
Iwaslostinthoughtsaboutmydad.IcouldsoeasilyseemyselfavoidingthequestionsIhadabouthimuntilIwasGrace’sage.UntilSonyawasgone,andMomtoo,andtherewasnoonelefttogivemeanswers,evenifIwantedthem.
Iwasn’tpreparedtospendmylifeavoidinganythoughtofthemanwho’draisedme,feelingsickwheneverIrememberedtheenvelopeintheboxatopthefridge.
ButIwasalsotiredofthepaininsidemyribcage,theweightpressingonmyclaviclesandanxioussweatthatcroppedupwheneverIconsideredthetruthfortoolong.
Iclosedmyeyesandpressedbackintotheheadrestasthememorysurgedforward.Itriedtofightitoff,butIwastootired,sothereitwas.Thecrochetedshawl,thelookonMom’sface,thekeyinmypalm.
God,Ididn’twanttogobacktothathouse.
Thecarstoppedandmyeyessnappedopen.
“Sorry,”Gusstammered.He’dslammedthebreakstoavoidplowingintoatractoratadarkfour-waystop.“Wasn’tpayingattention.”
“Lostinthatbeautifulbrainofyours?”Iteased,butitcameoutflat,andifGusheard,hegavenoindication.Themoreanimatedcornerofhismouthwastwistedfirmlydown.
“Youokay?”heasked.
“Yeah.”
Hewasquietforanotherbeat.“Thatwasprettyintense.Ifyouwanttotalkaboutit…”
IthoughtbacktoGrace’sstory.She’dthoughtHopewasdoingbetterthaneverwhenshefirstfellinwithhernewcrowd.She’dgottenoffheroin,foronething—anearlyinsurmountablechallenge.“Irememberherskinlookedbetter,”Gracehadsaid.“Andhereyes.Idon’tquiteknowwhataboutthem,buttheyweredifferenttoo.IthoughtIhadmysisterback.Fourmonthslater,shewasdead.”
She’ddiedbyaccident,internalbleedingfrom“punishments.”TherestofthetrailercompoundthatwasNewEdenhadgoneupinflamesastheFBIinvestigationwasclosingin.
EverythingGracehadtolduswasprobablygreatforGus’soriginalplotline.Itdidn’tleavealotofroomformeet-cutesandHEAs.Butthatwassortofthepoint.Tonight’sresearchhadbeenforme,totakemybraindownthetrailsthatledtothekindofbookIwassupposedtobewriting.
Icouldn’tunderstandhowpeopledidthis.HowGuscouldbeartofollowsuchdarkpathsjustforthesakeofastory.HowhecouldkeepaskingquestionswhenallI’dwantedallnightwastograbGraceandholdhertight,apologizeforwhattheworldhadtakenfromher,findsomeway—anyway—tomakethelossoneouncelighter.
“Havetostopforgas,”Gussaid,andpulledoffthehighwaytoadesertedShellstation.Therewasnothingbutparchedfieldsformilesineverydirection.
IgotoutofthecartostretchmylegswhileGuspumpedthegas.Nighthadcooledtheair,butnotmuch.“Thisoneofyourmurderspots?”Iasked,walkingaroundthecartohim.
“Irefusetoanswerthatonthegroundsthatyoumighttrytotakeitfromme.”
“Solidgrounds,”Ianswered.Afteramoment,Icouldn’tholdthequestioninanylonger.“Doesn’titbotheryou?Havingtoliveinsomeoneelse’stragedy?Fiveyears.That’salongtimetoputyourselfinthatplace.”
Gustuckedthenozzlebackintothepump,allhisfocusontwistingthegascapclosed.“Everybody’sgotshit,January.Sometimes,thinkingaboutsomeoneelse’sisalmostarelief.”
“Okay,fine,”Isaid.“Letmehaveit.”
Gus’seyebrowsliftedandhisSexy,Evilmouthwentslack.“What?”
Ifoldedmyarmsandpressedmyhipintothedriver’ssidedoor.Iwastiredofbeingthemostdelicatepersonintheroom.Thegirldrunkonpurse-wine,theonetryingnottotrembleassomeoneelsepouredtheirpainoutonahigh-topinacrummybar.“Let’shearthismysteriousshitofyours.Seeifitgivesmeaneffectivebreakfrommine.”AndnowGrace’s,whichweighedjustasheavilyonmychest.
Gus’sliquidydarkeyessliddownmyface.“Nah,”hesaidfinally,andmovedtowardthedoor,butIstayedleaningagainstit.“You’reinmyway,”hesaid.
“AmI?”
Hereachedforthedoorhandle,andIslidsidewaystoblockit.Hishandconnectedwithmywaistinstead,andasparkofheatshotthroughme.
“Evenmoreinmyway,”hesaid,inalowvoicethatmadeitsoundmorelikeIdareyoutostaythere
Mycheeksitched.Hishandwasstillhangingagainstmyhiplikehe’dforgottenitwasthere,buthisfingertwitched,andIknewhehadn’t.
“Youjusttookmeontheworld’smostdepressingdate,”Isaid.“Theleastyoucoulddoistellmeasinglethingaboutyourself,andwhyallthisNewEdenstuffmatterstoyou.”
Hisbrowliftedinamusementandhiseyesflickeredinthatbonfire-litway.“Wasn’tadate.”
Somehow,hemanagedtomakeitsoundfilthy.
“Right,youdon’tdate,”Isaid.“Whyisthat?Partofyourdark,mysteriouspast?”
HisSexy,Evilmouthtightened.“WhatdoIget?”
Hesteppedalittlecloser,andIbecamehyperawareofeverymoleculeofspacebetweenus.Ihadn’tbeenthisclosetoamansinceJacques.Jacqueshadsmelledlikehigh-endcolognebyCommodity;Gussmelledsmokyandsweet,likenagchampaincensemixedwithasaltybeach.Jacqueshadblueeyesthattwinkledovermelikeasummerbreezethroughchimes.Gus’sdarkgazeboredintomelikeacorkscrew:WhatdoIget?
“Livelyconversation?”Myvoicecameoutunfamiliarlylow.
Hegaveaslightshakeofhishead.“Tellmewhyyoumovedhere,andI’lltellyouonethingaboutmydark,mysteriouspast.”
Iconsideredtheoffer.Thereward,Idecided,wasworththecost.“Mydaddied.Heleftmehisbeachhouse.”
Thetruth,ifnotallofit.
Forthesecondtime,anunfamiliarexpressionfluttered—sympathy?Disappointment,maybe?—acrosshisfacetoofastformetoparseoutitsmeaning.“Nowyourturn,”Iprompted.
“Fine,”hesaid,voicescratchy,“onething.”
Inodded.
Gusleanedintowardmeanddroppedhismouthbesidemyearconspiratorially,hishotbreathpullinggoosebumpsupthesideofmyneck.Hiseyesflashedsidewaysacrossmyface,andhisotherhandtouchedmyhipsolightlyitcould’vebeenabreeze.Theheatinmyhipsspreadtowardmycenter,curlingaroundmythighslikekudzu.
ItwascrazythatIrememberedthatnightincollegesovividlythatIknewhe’dtouchedmejustlikethis.Thatfirsttouchwhenwemetonthedancefloor,featherlightandmelting-pointhot,careful,intentional.
IrealizedIwasholdingmybreath,andwhenIforcedmyselftobreathe,theriseandfallofmychestwasridiculous,thestuffofRegency-eraerotica.
Howwashedoingthistome?Again?
Afterthenightwe’dhadtonight,thisfeeling,thishungerinmeshouldn’thavebeenpossible.AftertheyearI’dhad,Ihadn’tthoughtitwasanymore.
“Ilied,”hewhisperedagainstmyear.“Ihavereadyourbooks.”
Hishandstightenedonmywaistandhespunmeawayfromthecar,openedthedoor,andgotin,leavingmegaspingatthesuddencoldoftheparkinglot.11TheNotDate
ISPENTFARTOOmuchofmySaturdaytryingtochooseaperfectdestinationforGus’sfirstAdventureinRomance.EventhoughI’dbeensufferingfromchronicwriter’sblock,Iwasstillanexpertinmyfield,andmylistofpossiblesettingsforhisintroductiontomeet-cutesandHappilyEverAfterswasendless.
I’dpoundedoutanotherthousandwordsfirstthinginthemorning,butsincethenI’dbeenpacingandGoogling,tryingtochoosetheperfectplace.WhenIstillcouldn’tmakeupmymind,I’ddrivenmyselftothefarmer’smarketintownandwalkedthesunnyaislebetweenthestands,searchingforinspiration.Ipickedthroughbucketsofcutflowers,longingforthedayswhenIcouldaffordabundleofdaisiesforthekitchen,callaliliesforthenightstandinthebedroom.Ofcourse,thathadbeenbackwhenJacquesandIweresharinganapartment.WhenyouwererentinginNewYorkbyyourself,therewasn’tmuchmoneyforthingsthatsmelledgoodforaweek,thendiedinfrontofyou.
Attheboothofalocalfarm,Ifilledmybagwithplumptomatoes,orangeandred,alongwithsomebasilandmint,cucumbers,andaheadoffreshbutterlettuce.IfIcouldn’tpicksomethingtodowithGustonight,maybewe’dcookdinner.
Mystomachgrumbledatthethoughtofagoodmeal.Iwasn’tbigoncookingmyself—ittooktoomuchtimeIneverfeltlikeIhad—buttherewasdefinitelysomethingromanticaboutpouringtwoglassesofredwineandmovingaroundacleankitchen,choppingandrinsing,stirringandsamplingtastesfromawoodenspoon.Jacqueshadlovedtocook—Icouldfollowarecipeokay,buthepreferredamoreintuitive,cook-all-nightapproach,andkitchenintuitionandfood-patiencewereboththingsIsorelylacked.
IpaidformyveggiesandpushedmysunglassesupasIenteredtheenclosedpartofthemarketinsearchofsomechickenorsteakandfellbackintobrainstorming.
Characterscouldfallinloveanywhere—anairportorautobodyshoporhospital—butforananti-romantic,itwouldprobablytakesomethingmoreobviousthanthattogettheideasgoing.Forme,thebestusuallycamefromtheunexpected,frommistakesandmishaps.Itdidn’ttakeinspirationtodredgeupalistofplotpoints,buttofindthatmoment—theperfectmomentthatdefinedabook,thatmadeitcomealiveassomethinggreaterthanthesumofitswords—thatrequiredanalchemyyoucouldn’tfake.
Thelastyearofmylifehadproventhat.Icouldplotallday,butitdidn’tmatterifIdidn’tfallintothestoryheadfirst,ifthestoryitselfdidn’tspinlikeacyclone,pullingmewhollyintoitself.ThatwaswhatI’dalwayslovedaboutreading,whathaddrivenmetowriteinthefirstplace.Thatfeelingthatanewworldwasbeingspunlikeaspiderwebaroundyouandyoucouldn’tmoveuntilthewholethinghadrevealeditselftoyou.
WhiletheinterviewwithGracehadn’tgivenmeanyofthoseall-consumingtornadoesofinspiration,Ihadawokenwithaglimmerofit.Therewerestoriesthatdeservedtobetold,onesI’dneverconsidered,andIfeltasparkofexcitementatthethoughtthatmaybeIcouldtelloneofthem,andlikedoingit.
IwantedtogiveGusthatfeelingtoo.Iwantedhimtowakeuptomorrowitchingtowrite.Provinghowdifficultitwastowritearom-comwasonething,andIwasconfidentGuswouldseethat,butgettinghimtounderstandwhatIlovedaboutthegenre—thatreadingandwritingitwasnearlyasall-consumingandtransformativeasactuallyfallinginlove—wouldbeadifferentchallengeentirely.
IwastoodistractedtowritewhenIgothome,soIputmyselftobetteruse.Itwistedmyhairintoatopknot,putonshortsandaToddRundgrentanktop,andwenttotheguestbathroomonthesecondfloorwithtrashbagsandboxes
DadorThatWomanhadkepttheclosetstockedwithtowelsandbackuptoiletries,whichIpiledintodonationboxesandcarriedtothefoyeroneatatime.Onmythirdtrip,IstoppedbeforethekitchenwindowfacingintoGus’shouse.Hewassittingatthetable,holdinganoversizednoteupformetosee.Likehe’dbeenwaiting.
IbalancedtheboxagainstthetableandswipedmyforearmupmytempletocatchthesweatbeadingthereasIread:
JANUARY,JANUARY,WHEREFOREARTTHOU,JANUARY?
Themessagewasironic.Thebutterfliesinmychestwerenot.Ipushedtheboxontothetableandgrabbedmynotebook,scribblinginit.Iheldthenoteup.
Newphonewhodis?
Guslaughed,thenturnedbacktohiscomputer.IgrabbedtheboxandcarrieditouttotheKia,thenwentbackfortherest.Thehumidityofthelastfewdayshadletupagain,leavingnothingbutbreezywarmthbehind.WhenI’dfinishedloadingthecar,Ipouredmyselfaglassofroséandsatonthedeck.
Theskywasbrightblue,anoccasionalfluffycumulusclouddriftinglazilypast,andthesunlightpaintedtherustlingtreetopsapalegreen.IfIclosedmyeyes,shuttingmyselfofffromwhatIcouldsee,Icouldhearsquealsoflaughterdownbythewater.
Athome,MomandDad’syardhadbackeduptoanotherfamily’s,onewiththreeyoungkids.Assoonastheymovedin,Dadhadplantedagroveofevergreensalongthefencetocreatesomeprivacy,buthe’dalwayslovedthatonlatesummernights,aswesataroundthefirepit,we’dhearthescreamsandgigglesofthekidsplayingtag,orjumpingonthetrampoline,orlyinginatentbehindtheirhouse.
Dadlovedhisspace,buthealsoalwayssaidhelikedtoberemindedthattherewereotherpeopleoutthere,livingtheirlives.Peoplewhodidn’tknowhimorcareto.
Iknowfeelingsmallgetstosomepeople,hehadoncetoldme,butIkindoflikeit.Takesthepressureoffwhenyou’rejustonelifeofsixbillionatanygivenmoment.Andwhenyou’regoingthroughsomethinghard—atthetime,Momwasdoingchemo—it’snicetoknowyou’renotevenclosetotheonlyone.
I’dfelttheopposite.Iwasharboringaprivateheartbreak.Abouttheuniverse,aboutMom’sbodybetrayingheragain.AboutthelifeI’ddreamedofdissipatinglikemist.I’dwatchedmyUofMclassmatesoverFacebookastheywentontogradschooland(mysteriouslyfunded)internationaltravel.I’dwatchedthempostdotingMother’sDaytributesfromfarcornersoftheworld.I’dlistenedtothekidswholivedbehindmyparents’houseshriekandgiggleastheyplayedGhostintheGraveyard.
AndI’dfeltsecretlyheartbrokenthattheworldcoulddothistousagain,andevenworsebecauseIknewsayinganyofthatwouldonlymakethingsharderforMom.
Andthenshe’dkickeditthesecondtime.AndI’dbeensograteful.MorerelievedthanIknewapersoncouldfeel.Ourlifewasbackontrack,thethreeofusstrongerthanever.Nothingcouldtearusaparteveragain,Iwassure.
Butstill,IwasmourningthoseyearslosttodoctorvisitsandshedhairandMom,thedo-er,lyingsickonthecouch.Thosefeelingsdidn’tfitwithourbeautifulpost-cancerlife,Iknew—theyaddednothinghelpfulorgood—soI’dtampedthemdownoncemore.
WhenIfoundoutaboutSonya,they’dallsprungout,fermentedintoangerovertime,likeanoverzealousjack-in-the-boxpointedstraightatDad.
“Question.”
IlookedupandfoundGusleaningagainsttherailingonhisdeck.HisgrayT-shirtwasasrumpledaseverythingelseI’dseenhimwear.Hisclothesverylikelynevermadeitfromthehampertodrawers,assumingtheymadeittothelaundryinthefirstplace,butthemussofhishairalsosuggestedhecouldhavejustrolledoutofanap.
Iwenttostandagainsttherailingonmysideoftheten-footdivide.“Ihopeit’saboutthemeaningoflife.ThatorwhichbookisfirstintheBridgetJonesseries.”
“That,definitely,”hesaid.“Andalso,doIneedtowearatuxedotonight?”
Ifoughtasmile.“Iwouldpayonehundreddollarstoseewhatatuxedounderyourlaundryregimenlookslike.AndI’mextremelybroke,sothatsaysalot.”
Herolledhiseyes.“Iliketothinkofitasmylaundrydemocracy.”
“See,ifyouletsomethinginanimatevoteonwhetheritwantstobewashed,it’snotgoingtoanswer.”
“January,areyoutakingmetoareenactmentoftheBeautyandtheBeastballornot?I’mtryingtoplan.”
Istudiedhim.“Okay,I’llanswerthatquestion,butontheconditionthatyoutellme,honestly,doyouownatuxedo?”
Hestaredback.Afteralongpause,hesighedandleanedintotherailing.Thesunhadstartedtosetandtheflexedveinsandmusclesinhisleanarmscastshadowsalonghisskin.“Fine.Yes.Iownatuxedo.”
Ieruptedintolaughter.“Seriously?AreyouasecretKennedy?Nooneownsatuxedo.”
“Iagreedtoansweronequestion.Nowtellmewhattowear.”
“ConsideringI’veonlyseenyouinalmostimperceptiblydifferentvariationsofoneoutfit,youcansafelyassumeIwouldn’tplananythingrequiringatuxedo.Imean,untilnow,whenIfoundoutyouownedatuxedo.Nowallbetsareoff.Butfortonight,yourgrumpybartendercostumeshoulddo.”
Heshookhisheadandstraightenedup.“Phenomenal,”hesaid,andwentinside.
Inthatmoment,IknewexactlywhereIwasgoingtotakeGusEverett.
“WOW,”GUSSAID.
The“carnival”I’dfoundeightmilesfromourstreetwasinaBigLotsparkinglot,anditfitthereabittooeasily.
“Ijustcountedtherides,”Gussaid.“Seven.”
“I’mreallyproudofyouforgettingthathigh,”Iteased.“Maybenexttimeseeifyoucanaimforten.”
“IwishIwerehigh,”Gusgrumbled.
“It’sperfect,”Ireplied.
“Forwhat?”hesaid.
“Um,duh,”Isaid.“Fallinginlove.”
AlaughbarkedoutofGus,andagainIwasalittletooproudofmyselfformyownliking.“Comeon.”IfeltapangofregretasIhandedovermycreditcardattheticketboothinexchangeforourall-you-can-ridebracelets,butwasrelievedwhenGusinterruptedtoinsistonbuyinghisown.Thatwasoneofmanyhorriblepartsofbeingbroke:havingtothinkaboutwhetheryoucouldaffordtosharesucked.
“Thatwasn’tveryromanticofme,Iguess,”Isaidaswewanderedintothethrongofbodiesclusteredaroundamilkcantoss.
“Well,luckyforyou,thatisprettymuchmyexactdefinitionofromance.”Hepointedtothetealrowofportapottiesattheedgeofthelot.Ateenageboywithhishatturnedbackwardwasgrippinghisstomachandshiftingbetweenhisfeetashewaitedforoneofthetoiletstoopenupwhilethecouplebesidehimhardcoremadeout.
“Gus,”Isaidflatly.“Thatcoupleissointoeachotherthey’remakingoutayardawayfromaliteralrowofshitpiles.Thatjuxtapositionisbasicallytheentirerom-comlessonforthenight.Itreallydoesnothingtoyouricyheart?”
“Heart?No.Stomach,alittle.I’mgettingsympathydiarrheafortheirfriend.Canyouimaginehavingsuchabadtimewithyourfriendsthataportapottybecomesabeaconofhope?Abedrock!Aplacetorestyourwearyhead.We’redefinitelylookingatafutureexistentialist.Maybeevenacoldlyhornynovelist.”
Irolledmyeyes.“Thatguy’snightwasprettymuchmyentirehighschool—andmuchofcollege—experience,andsomehowIsurvived,tenderhumanheartintact.”
“Bullshit!”Guscried.
“Meaning?”
“Iknewyouincollege,January.”
“Thatseemslikethebiggestinaseriesofvastexaggerationsyou’vemadetonight.”
“Fine,Iknewofyou,”hesaid.“Thepointis,youweren’tthediarrhea-havingthirdwheel.Youdatedplenty.Marco,right?ThatguyfromourFiction400workshop.Andweren’tyouwiththatpremedgoldenboy?Theonewhowasaddictedtostudyingabroadandtutoringdisadvantagedyouthand,like,rockclimbingshirtless.”
Isnorted.“SoundslikeyouweremoreinlovewithhimthanIwas.”
SomethingsharpandappraisingflashedoverGus’seyes.“Butyouwereinlovewithhim.”
OfcourseIwas.I’dmethimduringanimpromptusnowballfightoncampus.Icouldn’timagineanythingmoreromanticthanthatmoment,whenhe’dpulledmeupfromthesnowdriftI’dfalleninto,hisblueeyessparkling,andofferedhisdryhattoreplacemysnow-soakedone.
IttookalloftenminutesashewalkedmehomeformetodeterminethathewasthemostinterestingpersonI’devermet.Hewasworkingongettinghispilot’slicenseandhadwantedtoworkintheEReversincehe’dlostacousininacaraccidentasakid.He’ddonesemestersinBrazil,Morocco,andFrance(Paris,wherehispaternalgrandparentslived),andhe’dalsobackpackedasignificantportionoftheCaminodeSantiagobyhimself.
WhenItoldhimI’dneverbeenoutofthecountry,heimmediatelysuggestedaspontaneousroadtriptoCanada.I’dthoughthewaskiddingbasicallyuntilwepulleduptotheduty-freeshoponthefarsideoftheborderaroundmidnight.“There,”hesaidwithhismodelgrin,allshinyandguileless.“Nextweneedtogetyousomewherethey’llactuallystampyourpassport.”
Thatwholenighthadtakenonahazy,soft-focusqualitylikewewereonlydreamingit.Lookingback,Ithoughtwesortofhadbeen:himpretendingtobeendlesslyinteresting;mepretendingtobespontaneousandcarefree,asusual.Outwardlyweweresodifferent,butwhenitcamedowntoit,webothwantedthesamething.Alifecastinamagical
Forthenextsixyears,wewereintentonglowingforeachother.
Ituckedthememoriesaway.“IwasneverwithMarco,”IansweredGus.“Iwenttoonepartywithhim,andheleftwithsomeoneelse.Thanksforremindingme.”
Gus’slaughturnedintoanexaggerated,pitying“awh.”
“It’sfine.Ipersevered.”
Gus’sheadcocked,hiseyesdiggingatminelikeshovels.“AndGoldenBoy?”
“Weweretogether,”Iadmitted.
I’dthoughtIwasgoingtomarryhim.AndthenDadhaddiedandeverythinghadchanged.We’dsurvivedalottogetherwithMom’sillness,butI’dalwaysheldthingstogether,foundwaystoshutofftheworryingandhavefunwithhim,butthiswasdifferent.Jacquesdidn’tknowwhattodowiththisversionofme,whostayedinbedandcouldn’twriteorreadwithoutcomingapart,whosluggedaroundathomelettinglaundrypileupanduglinessseepintoourdreamyapartment,whoneverwantedtothrowpartiesorwalktheBrooklynBridgeatsunsetorbookalast-minutegetawaytoJoshuaTree.
AgainandagainhetoldmeIwasn’tmyself.Buthewaswrong.IwasthesamemeI’dalwaysbeen.I’djuststoppedtryingtoglowinthedarkforhim,oranyoneelse.
Itwasourbeautifullifetogether,amazingvacationsandgrandgesturesandfreshlycutflowersinhandmadevases,thathadheldustogetherforsolong.
Itwasn’tthatIcouldn’tgetenoughofhim.OrthathewasthebestmanI’deverknown.(I’dthoughtthatwasmydad,butnowitwasthedadfrommyfavorite2000steendrama,VeronicaMars.)Orthathewasmyfavoriteperson.(ThatwasShadi.)OrbecausehemademelaughsohardIwept.(Helaughedeasily,butrarelyjoked.)Orthatwhensomethingbadhappened,hewasthefirstpersonIwantedtocall.(Hewasn’t.)
Itwasthatwemetatthesameagemyparentshad,thatthesnowballfightandimprompturoadtriphadfeltlikefate,thatmymotheradoredhim.HefitsoperfectlyintothelovestoryI’dimaginedformyselfthatImistookhimfortheloveofmylife.
Breakingupstillsuckedineveryconceivableway,butoncetheinitialpainworeoff,memoriesfromourrelationshipstartedtoseemlikejustanotherstoryI’dread.Ihatedthinkingaboutit.NotbecauseImissedhimbutbecauseIfeltbadforwastingsomuchofhistime—andmine—tryingtobehisdreamgirl.
“Weweretogether,”Irepeated.“Untillastyear.”
“Wow.”Guslaughedawkwardly.“That’salongtime.I’m…reallyregrettingmakingfunofhisshirtlessrockclimbingnow.”
“It’sokay,”Isaid,shrugging.“Hedumpedmeinahottub.”OutsideacabinintheCatskills,threedaysbeforeourtripwithhisfamilywasscheduledtoend.Spontaneitywasn’talwaysassexyasitwascrackeduptobe.You’rejustnotyourselfanymore,he’dtoldme.Wedon’tworklikethis,January.
Weleftthenextmorning,andonthedrivebacktoNewYork,Jacqueshadtoldmehe’dcallhisparentswhenwegotbacktoletthemknowthenews.
Mom’sgoingtocry,hesaid.SoisBrigitte.
Eveninthatmoment,IwaspossiblymoredevastatedtoloseJacques’sparentsandsister—afeistyhighschoolerwithimpeccable1970sstyle—thanJacqueshimself.
“Ahottub?”Gusechoed.“Damn.Honestly,thatguywasalwayssoself-impressedIdoubthecouldevenseeyouthroughtheglareoffhisownglisteningbody.”
Icrackedasmile.“I’msurethatwasit.”
“Hey,”Gussaid.
“Hey,what?”
Hetippedhisheadtowardacottoncandystand.“Ithinkweshouldeatthat.”
“Andhereitfinallyis,”Isaid.
“What?”Gusasked.
“Thesecondthingweagreeon.”
GuspaidforthecottoncandyandIdidn’targue.“No,that’sfine,”heteasedwhenIsaidnothing.“Youcanjustoweme.Youcanjustpaymebackwhenever.”
“Howmuchwasit?”Iasked,tearingoffanenormouspieceandloweringitdramaticallyintomymouth.
“Threedollars,butit’sfine.JustVenmomethedollarfiftylater.”
“Areyousurethat’snottoomuchtrouble?”Isaid.“I’mhappytogogetacashier’scheck.”
“DoyouknowwheretheclosestWesternUnionis?”hesaid.“Youcouldprobablywireit.”
“Whatsortofinterestwereyouthinking?”Iasked.
“YoucanjustgivemethreedollarswhenItakeyouhome,andthenifIeverfindoutIneedanorgan,wecancircleback.”
“Sure,sure,”Iagreed.“Let’sjustputapininthis.”
“Yeah,weshouldprobablyloopinourlawyersanyway.”
“Goodpoint,”Isaid.“Untilthen,whatdoyouwanttoride?”
“Ride?”Gussaid.“Absolutelynothinghere.”
“Fine,”Isaid.“Whatareyouwillingtoride?”
We’dbeenwalking,talking,andeatingatanalarmingrate,andGusstoppedsuddenly,offeringmethefinalclumpofcottoncandy.“That,”hesaidwhileIwaseating,andpointedatapatheticallysmallcarousel.“Thatlookslikeitwouldhaveareallyhardtimekillingme.”
“Whatdoyouweigh,Gus?Threebeercans,somebones,andacigarette?”AndallthehardlinesandleanridgesofmuscleIdefinitelyhadn’tgawkedat.“Anynumberofthosepaintedanimalscouldkillyouwithasneeze.”
“Wow,”hesaid.“Firstofall,Imayonlyweighthreebeercans,butthat’sstillthreemorebeercansthanyourex-boyfriend.Helookedlikehedidnothingbutchewwheatgrasswhilerunning.Iweigheasilytwicewhathedid.Secondly,you’reonetotalk:you’rewhat,fourfeetandsixinches?”
“I’maverytallfivefour,actually,”Isaid.
Henarrowedhiseyesandshookhisheadatme.“You’reassmallasyouareridiculous.”
“Sonotvery?”
“Carousel,finaloffer,”Gussaid.
“Thisistheperfectplaceforourmontage,”Isaid.
“Ourwhatnow?”
“Young—extremelybeautifulandverytallforherheight—womaninsparklytennisshoesteachesfearful,party-hatingcurmudgeonhowtoenjoylife,”Isaid.“There’dbealotofheadshaking.Alotofmedraggingyoufromridetoride.Youdraggingmebackoutoftheline.Medraggingyoubackintoit.It’dbeadorable,andmoreimportantlyit’llhelpwithyoursuperromanticsuicide-cultbook.It’sthepromise-of-the-premiseportionofthenovel,whenyourreadersaregrinningeartoear.Weneedamontage.”
Gusfoldedhisarmsandstudiedmewithnarrowedeyes.
“Comeon,Gus.”Ibumpedhisarm.“Youcandoit.Beadorable.”
HiseyesdartedtowhereI’dbumpedhim,thenbacktomyface,andhescowled.
“Ithinkyoumisunderstoodme.Isaidadorable.”
Hissurlyexpressioncracked.“Fine,January.Butit’snotgoingtobeamontage.Chooseonedeathtrap.IfIsurvivethat,youcansleepwelltonightknowingyoubroughtmeonestepclosertobelievinginhappyendings.”
“OhmyGod,”Isaid.“Ifyouwrotethisscene,wouldwedie?”
“IfIwrotethisscene,itwouldn’tbeaboutus.”
“Wow.One,I’moffended.Two,whowoulditbeabout?”
HescannedthecrowdandIfollowedhisgaze.“Her,”hesaidfinally.
“Who?”
Hesteppedinclosebehindme,hisheadhoveringovermyrightshoulder.“There.AtthebottomoftheFerriswheel.”
“ThegirlintheScrewMe,I’mIrishshirt?”Isaid.
Hislaughwaswarmandroughinmyear.StandingthisclosetohimwasbringingbackflashesofthenightatthefrathouseI’drathernotrevisit.
“Thewomanworkingthemachine,”hesaidinmyear.“Maybeshe’dmakeamistakeandwatchsomeonegethurtbecauseofit.Thisjobwasprobablyherlastchance,theonlyplacethatwouldhireheraftershemadeanevenbiggermistake.Inafactorymaybe.Orshebrokethelawtoprotectsomeoneshecaredabout.Somekindofalmost-innocentmistakethatcouldleadtolessinnocentones.”
Ispuntofacehim.“Ormaybeshe’dgetachancetobeahero.Thisjobwasherlastchance,butshelovesitandshe’sgoodatit.Shegetstotravel,andevenifshemostlyonlyseesparkinglots,shegetstomeetpeople.Andshe’sapeopleperson.Themistakeisn’thers—themachinerymalfunctions,butshemakesasnapdecisionandsavesagirl’slife.Thatgirlgrowsuptobeacongresswoman,oraheartsurgeon.Thetwoofthemcrosspathsagaindowntheroad.TheFerriswheeloperator’stoooldtotravelwiththecarnivalanymore.She’sbeenlivingalone,feelinglikeshewastedherlife.Thenoneday,she’salone.Shehasaheartattack.Shealmostdiesbutshemanagestocallnine-one-one.Theambulancerushesherin,andwhoisherdoctorbutthatsamelittlegirl.
“Ofcourse,Ferrisdoesn’trecognizeher—she’sallgrownup.Butthedoctornevercould’veforgottenFerris’sface.Thetwowomenstrikeupafriendship.Ferrisstilldoesn’tgettotravel,buttwiceamonththedoctorcomesovertoFerris’sdouble-wideandtheywatchmovies.Moviessetindifferentcountries.TheywatchCasablancaandeatMoroccantakeout.TheywatchTheKingandIandeatSiamesefood,whateverthatmaybe.Theyevenwatch—gasp!—BridgetJones’sDiarywhilebingeingonfishandchips.TheymakeitthroughtwentycountriesbeforeFerrispassesaway,andwhenshedoes,Doctorrealizesherlifewasagiftshealmostdidn’tget.ShetakessomeofFerris’sashes—herungratefulassholesondidn’tcometocollectthem—andsetsoutonatriparoundtheworld.She’sgratefultobealive.Theend.”
Gusstaredatme,onlyonecornerofhisverycrookedmouthatallengaged.Iwasfairlysurehewassmiling,althoughthedeepgroovesbetweenhiseyebrowsseemedtodisagree.“Thenwriteit,”hesaidfinally.
“Maybeso,”Isaid.
Heglancedbackatthegray-hairedwomanworkingthemachinery.“Thatone,”hesaid.“I’mwillingtoridethatone.ButonlybecauseItrustFerrissodamnmuch.”12TheOliveGarden
THEREWASNOmontage.Itwasaslownightonthewarmasphalt,undertheneonglowandscreechingmetalofcheaprides.Hoursofeatingdeep-friedfoodanddrinkinglime-infusedbeerfromstickycansbetweenvisitstoeachofthesevenrides.Therewasnodragginginandoutoflines.Therewasjustwandering.Tellingstories.
Guspointedatapregnantgirlwithabarbedwiretattoo.“Shejoinsthecult.”
“Shedoesnot,”Idisagreed.
“Shedoes.Shelosesthebaby.It’sawful.TheonlythingthatstartstobringherbacktolifeisthisrisingYouTubestarshefollows.ShefindsoutaboutNewEdenfromhim,thengoesforaweekend-longseminarandneverleaves.”
“She’stherefortwoyears,”Icountered.“Butthenherlittlebrothercomestogether.Shedoesn’twanttoseehim,andsecurity’stryingtogethimoutofthere,butthenhepullsoutasonogram.Hisgirlfriend,May,ispregnant.Alittleboy.Dueinamonth.Shedoesn’tleavewithhim,butthatnight—”
“Shetriestoleave,”Gustookover.“Theywon’tlether.Theylockherinawhiteroomtodecontaminateher.Herexposuretoherbrother’senergy,theysay,hastemporarilyalteredherbrainchemistry.Shehastocompletethefivepurificationsteps.Ifshestillwantstoleaveafterthat,they’lllether.”
“Shecompletesthem,”Isaid.“Thereaderthinksthey’velosther.Thatshe’sstuck.Butthelastlineofthebookissomeclue.Somethingsheandherbrotherusedtosay.Somesignthatshekeptasecretpartofherselfsafe,andtheonlyreasonshe’snotleavingyetisbecausetherearepeopletrappedthereshewantstohelp.”
Wewentbackandforthlikethatallnight,andwhenwefinallystopped,itwasonlybecauseridingthescramblerleftmesonauseatedIranfromittothenearesttrashcanandvomitedheartily.
Evenastherecentlyeatenchilidogwasrushingbackup,Ihadtothinkthenighthadbeensomekindofsuccess.Afterall,GusgrabbedmyhairandpulleditawayfrommyfaceasIretched.
Atleastuntilhegrumbled,“Shit,Ihatevomit,”andranoffgagging.
Hate,Ifoundoutontheridehome,wasalessembarrassingwaytosayfear
NationalBookAwardnomineeAugustusEverettwasvomit-phobic,andhadbeeneversinceagirlnamedAshleyinhisfourthgradeclasspukedonthebackofhishead.
“Ihaven’tpukedineasilyfifteenyears,”hetoldme.“AndI’vehadthestomachflutwiceinthattime.”
IwasfightinggigglesasIdrove.Ingeneral,Ididn’tfindphobiasfunny,butGuswasaformergravediggerturnedsuicide-cultinvestigator.NothingGracesaidinourinterviewhadmadehimbataneye,andyetcheapridesandpukehadnearlybestedhim.
“God,I’msorry,”Isaid,regainingcontrolofmyself.Iglancedovertohim,slumpedbackinmypassengerseatwithonearmfoldedbehindhishead.“Ican’tbelievemyfirstlessoninlovestoriesactuallyjustunearthedmultipletraumasforyou.Atleastyoudidn’tendupalso…you-know-what-ing…”Ididn’tsaytheword,justincase
Hiseyesflashedovertomeandthecornerofhismouthcurled.“Trustme,Igotoutinthenickoftime.Onemoresecondandyouwould’vegottenAshleyPhillips’ed.”
“Wow,”Isaid.“Andyetyouheldmyhair.Sonoble.Sobrave.Soselfless.”Iwasteasing,butitactuallywasprettysweet.
“Yeah,well,ifyoudidn’thavesuchnicehair,Iwouldn’thavebothered.”Gus’seyeswentbacktotheroad.“ButIlearnedmylesson.NeveragainwillItrytobeahero.”
“Myparentsmetatacarnival.”Ihadn’tmeanttosayit;ithadjustslippedout.
Guslookedatme,hisexpressioninscrutable.“Yeah?”
Inodded.Ifullyintendedtodropthesubject,butthelastfewdayshadloosenedsomethinginme,andthewordscamepouringout.“Theirfreshmanyear,atOhioState.”
“Oh,notTheOhioStateUniversity,”heteased.MichigandersandOhioanshadamajorrivalryIoftenforgotaboutduetomytotalignoranceofsports.Dad’sbrothershadlovinglyreferredtohimastheGreatDefector,andhe’dteasedmewiththesamenicknamewhenIchoseUofM.
“Yes,theveryone,”Iplayedalong
Wefellintosilenceforafewseconds.“So,”Gusprompted,“tellmeaboutit.”
“No,”Isaid,givinghimasuspicioussmile.“Youdon’twanttohearthat.”
“I’mlegallyobligatedto,”hesaid.“HowelseamIgoingtolearnaboutlove?”
Anachespearedthroughmychest.“Maybenotfromthem.Hecheatedonher.Alot.Whileshehadcancer.”
“Damn,”Gussaid.“That’sshitty.”
“Saysthemanwhodoesn’tbelieveindating.”
Heranahandthroughhisalreadymessyhair,leavingitravaged.Hiseyesflickeredtome,thenbacktotheroad.“Fidelitywasnevermyissue.”
“Fidelityacrossatwo-weekspanisn’texactlyimpressive,”Ipointedout
“I’llhaveyouknowIdatedTessaArmstrongforamonth,”hesaid.
“Monogamously?BecauseIseemtorememberasordidnightinafrathousethatwouldsuggestotherwise.”
Surprisesplashedacrosshisface.“I’dbrokenupwithherwhenthathappened.”
“Isawyouwithherthatmorning,”Isaid.ItprobablyshouldhavebeenembarrassingtoadmitIrememberedallthis,butGusdidn’tseemtonoticethat.Infact,hejustseemedalittleinsultedbytheobservation.
Hemussedhishairagainandsaidirritably,“Ibrokeupwithherattheparty.”
“Shewasn’tattheparty,”Isaid.
“No.Butsinceitwasn’ttheseventeenthcentury,Ihadaphone.”
“Youcalledfromapartyanddumpedyourgirlfriend?”Icried.“Whywouldyoudothat?”
Helookedmyway,eyesnarrowed.“Whydoyouthink,January?”
Iwasgratefulforthedark.Myfacewassuddenlyonfire.Mystomachfeltlikemoltenlavawaspouringdownit.WasImisunderstanding?ShouldIask?Diditmatter?Thatwasalmostadecadeago,andevenifthingshadgonedifferentlythatnight,itwouldn’thaveamountedtoanythinginthelongrun.
Still,Iwasburningup.
“Well,shit,”Isaid.Icouldn’tgetanythingelseout.
Helaughed.“Anyway,yourparents,”hesaid.“Itcouldn’thavebeenallbad.”
Iclearedmythroat.Itcouldnothavesoundedanylessnatural.ImightaswellhavejustscreamedIDON’TWANTTOTALKABOUTMYSADPARENTSWHILEI’MTHINKINGFIERYTHOUGHTSABOUTYOUandgottenitoverwith.
“Itwasn’t,”Isaid,focusingontheroad.“Idon’tthink.”
“Andthenighttheymet?”hepressed.
Again,thewordscamegushingoutofme,likeI’dneededtosaythemallyear—ormaybetheywerejustawelcomediversionfromtheotherconversationwe’dbeenhaving.“TheywenttothiscarnivalatalocalCatholicchurch,”Isaid.“Nottogether.Like,theywentseparatelytothesamecarnival.AndthentheyendedupstandinginlinenexttoeachotherforthatEsmeraldathing.Youknow,theanimatronicpsychic-in-a-box?”
“Oh,Iknowherwell,”Gussaid.“Shewasoneofmyfirstcrushes.”
Therewasnoreasonthatshould’vesentnewfireworksofheatacrossmycheeks,andyet,herewewere.“Soanyway,”Iwenton.“Mymomwasthefifthwheelonthis,like,blatantdoubledatetryingtodisguiseitselfasaCasualHang.SowhentheotherswentofftogothroughtheTunnel-o-Love,shewenttogetherfortune.Mydadsaidhelefthisgroupwhenhespottedthisbeautifulred-hairedgirlinabluepolka-dotdress.”
“BettyCrocker?”Gusguessed.
“She’sabrunette.Getyoureyeschecked,”Isaid.
AsmilequirkedGus’slips.“Sorryforinterrupting.Goon.Yourdad’sjustspottedyourmom.”
Inodded.“Anyway,hespentthewholetimehewasinlinetryingtofigureouthowtostrikeupaconversationwithher,andfinally,whenshepaidforherprediction,shestartedcussinglikeasailor.”
Guslaughed.“Iloveseeingwhereyougetyouradmirablequalitiesfrom.”
Iflippedhimoffandwenton.“Herpredictionhadgottenstuckhalfwayoutofthemachine.SoDadstepsuptosavetheday.Hemanagestoripthetophalfoftheticketout,buttherestisstillstuckinthemachine,soMomcan’tmakesenseofthewords.Sothenhetoldhershe’dbetterstickaroundandseeifherfortunecameoutwithhis.”
“Oh,thatoldline,”Gussaid,grinning.
“Workseverytime,”Iagreed.“Anyway,heputinhisnickelandthetwoticketscameout.Herssaid,Youwillmeetahandsomestranger,andhissaid,Yourstory’sabouttobegin.”Theystillhadthemframedinthelivingroom.Oratleast,whenIwashomeforChristmas,theywerestillup.
Thatdeepachepassedthroughme.Itfeltlikeametalcheeseslicer,pulledrightthroughmycenter,lefttheremidwaythroughmybody.I’dthoughtmissingmydadwouldbethehardestthingI’deverdo.Buttheworstthing,thehardestthing,hadturnedouttobebeingangrywithsomeoneyoucouldn’tfightitoutwith.
Someoneyoulovedenoughthatyoudesperatelywantedtopushthroughtheshitandfindawaytomakeanewnormal.IwouldnevergetarealexplanationfromDad.Momwouldnevergetanapology.We’dneverbeabletoseethings“fromhispointofview”oractivelychoosenotto.Hewasgone,andeverythingofhimwe’dplannedtoholdontowasobliterated.
“Theyweremarriedthreemonthslater,”ItoldGus.“Sometwenty-fiveyearsafterthat,theironlydaughter’sfirstbook,KissKiss,WishWishcameoutwithSandyLoweBooks,withadedicationthatread—”
“‘Tomyparents,’”Gussaid.“‘Whoareproofoffate’sstrong,ifanimatronic,hand.’”
Mymouthfellopen.I’dalmostforgottenwhathehadtoldmeatthegasstation,thathe’dreadmybooks.OrmaybeIhadn’tletmyselfthinkaboutit,becauseIwasworriedthatmeanthe’dhatedthem,andsomehowIwasstillcompetingwithhim,needinghimtorecognizemeashisrivalandequal.
“Yourememberthat?”Itcameoutasawhisper.
Hiseyesleapttowardme,andmyheartroseinmythroat.“It’swhyIaskedaboutthem,”hesaid.“IthoughtitwasthenicestdedicationI’deverread.”
Imadeaface.Comingfromhim,thatmightnothavebeenacompliment.“‘Nicest.’”
“Fine,January,”hesaidinalowvoice.“Ithoughtitwasbeautiful.Isthatwhatyouwantmetoadmit?”
Againmyheartbuoyedthroughmychest.“Yes.”
“Ithoughtitwasbeautiful,”hesaidimmediately,sincerely.
Iturnedmyfacetothewindow.“Yeah,well.Itturnedouttobealie.ButIguessMomthoughtitwasaniceenoughone.Sheknewhewascheatingonherandshestayedwithhim.”
“I’msorry.”Forseveralminutes,neitherofusspoke.Finally,Gusclearedhisthroat.Hemadeitsoundsonatural.“YouaskedwhyNewEden.WhyIwantedtowriteaboutit?”
Inodded,gladforthetopicchange,thoughsurprisedbyhissegue.
“Iguess…”Hetuggedathishairanxiously.“Well,mymomdiedwhenIwasakid.Don’tknowifyouknewthat.”
Iwasn’tsurehowIwouldhave,butevenifIdidn’toutrightknowit,itfitwiththeimageofhimI’dhadincollege.“Idon’tthinkso.”
“Yeah,”hesaid.“So,mydadwasgarbage,butmymom—shewasamazing.AndwhenIwasakid,Ijustthought,like,Okay,it’susagainsttheworld.We’restuckinthissituation,butit’snotforever.AndIkeptwaitingforhertoleavehim.Imean—Ikeptabagpackedwithabunchofcomicbooksandsomesocksandgranolabars.Ihadthisvisionofushoppingonatrain,ridingtotheendoftheline,youknow?”Whenhiseyesflashedtowardme,thecornerofhismouthwascurled,butthesmilewasn’treal.
Itsaid,Isn’tthatridiculous?Wasn’tIridiculous?AndIknewhowtoreaditbecauseitwasasmileI’dbeenpracticingforayear:CanyoubelieveIwassostupid?Don’tworry.Iknowbetternow
Aweightpressedlowinmystomachattheimage:Gus,beforehewastheGusIknew.AGuswhodaydreamedaboutescape,whobelievedsomeonewouldrescuehim.
“Wherewereyougoingtogo?”Iasked.Itcameoutaslittlemorethanawhisper.
Hiseyesleaptbacktotheroadandthemuscleinhisjawpulsed,thenrelaxed,hisfacesereneoncemore.“Theredwoods,”hesaid.“PrettysureIthoughtwecouldbuildatreehousethere.”
“Atreehouseintheredwoods,”Irepeatedquietly,likeitwasaprayer,asecret.Inaway,itwas.ItwasatinypieceofaGusI’dneverimagined,onewithromanticnotionsandhopefortheunlikely.“ButwhatdoesthathavetodowithNewEden?”
Hecoughed,checkedhisrearviewmirror,wentbacktostaringdowntheroad.“Iguess…afewyearsago,Ijustsortofrealizedmymomwasn’takid.”Heshrugged.“I’dthoughtwewerewaitingfortheperfecttimetoleave,butshewasnevergoingto.She’dneversaidshewas.Shecouldhavetakenusoutofthere,andshedidn’t.”
Ishookmyhead.“Idoubtitwasthatsimple.”
“That’swhy,”hemurmured.“Iknowitwasn’tsimple,andwhenItalkaboutthisbook,Itellpeopleit’sbecauseIwantto‘explorethereasonspeoplestay,nomatterthecost,’butthetruthisIjustwanttounderstandherreasons.Iknowthatdoesn’tmakesense.Thiscultthinghasnothingtodowithher.”
Nomatterthecost.Whathadstayingcosthismother?WhathaditcostGus?Theweightinmystomachhadspread,waspressingagainsttheinsidesofmychestandpalms.I’dstartedpublishingromancebecauseIwantedtodwellinmyhappiestmoments,inthesafeplacemyparents’lovehadalwaysbeen.I’dbeensocomfortedbybookswiththepromiseofahappyending,andI’dwantedtogivesomeoneelsethatsamegift.
Guswaswritingtotrytounderstandsomethinghorriblethathadhappenedtohim.Nowonderwhatwewrotewassodifferent.
“Itdoesmakesense,”Isaidfinally.“Noonegets‘lookingforpostmortemparentalanswers’likeIdo.IfIwatchedthemovie300rightnow,I’dprobablyfindawaytomakeitaboutmydad.”
Hegavemeafaintsmile.“Greatcinema.”ItwassoobviouslyaThankyouandaLet’smoveonnow.AsdifferentasI’dthoughtwewere,itfeltalittlebitlikeGusandIweretwoalienswho’dstumbledintoeachotheronEarthonlytodiscoverwesharedanativelanguage.
“Weshouldhaveafilmclub,”Isaid.“We’realwaysonthesamepageaboutthisstuff.”
Hewasquietforamoment,thoughtful.“Itreallywasabeautifuldedication,”hesaid.“Itdidn’tfeellikealie.Maybeacomplicatedtruth,butnotalie.”
ThewarmthfilledmeupuntilIfeltlikeateakettletryinghardnottowhistle.
WhenIgothome,IturnedonmycomputerandorderedmyowncopyofTheRevelatories
ANDHERECAMEthetruemontage.
Ididsurgeryonthebook.Irippeditupandstoredthepiecesinseparatefiles.ElliebecameEleanor.Shewentfrombeingadown-on-her-luckrealestateagenttoadown-on-her-lucktightropewalkerwithaport-winestaintheshapeofabutterflyonhercheek,becauseAbsurdlySpecificDetails.Herfatherbecameaswordswallower,hermotherabeardedlady.
Theymovedfromthetwenty-firstcenturytotheearlytwentieth.Theywerepartofatravelingcircus.Thatwastheirfamily:atight-knitgroupwhoendedeverynightsmokinghand-rolledcigarettesaroundafire.Itwastheonlyworldshe’deverknown.
Theyspenteverymomentwitheachother,butsomehowtoldeachotherverylittle.Therewasn’tmuchtimefortalkingintheirlineofwork.
Irenamedthefile,fromBEACH_BOOK.docxtoFAMILY_SECRETS.docx
Iwantedtoknowwhetheryoucouldeverfullyknowsomeone.Ifknowinghowtheywere—howtheymovedandspokeandthefacestheymadeandthethingstheytriednottolookat—amountedtoknowingthem.Orifknowingthingsaboutthem—wherethey’dbeenborn,allthepeoplethey’dbeen,whothey’dloved,theworldsthey’dcomefrom—addeduptoanything.
Igavethemeachasecret.Thatpartwastheeasiest.
Eleanor’smotherwasdyingbutshedidn’twantanyonetoknow.Theclownseveryonebelievedtobebrotherswereactuallylovers.TheswordswallowerwasstillmailingcheckstoafamilybackinOklahoma.
TheybecamelessandlesslikethepeopleIknew,butsomehow,theirproblemsandsecretsbecamemorepersonal.Icouldn’tputmyfatherormotherdownonpaper.Icouldnevergetthatright.ButthesecharacterscarriedthetruthofthepeopleI’dloved.
IwasparticularlyfondofwritingamechanicnamedNick.IlovedknowingthatnooneexceptmewouldeverrecognizetheskeletonofAugustusEverettI’dbuiltthecharacteraround.
GusandImadeahabitofwritingatourrespectivekitchentablesaroundnoon,andmostdayswetookturnsholdingupnotes.Theybecamemoreandmoreelaborate.Itwasobviousthatwhilesomewerespontaneous,otherswereplanned—writtenoutearlierintheday,oreventhenightbefore.Wheneverinspirationstruck.Thosewritteninthemomentespeciallybecamenonsensicalaswriting-madnesstookusover.SometimesIwouldlaughsohardI’dlosemusclecontrolinmyhandsandbeunabletowriteanymorenotes.We’dlaughuntilwebothlaidourheadsdownonourtables.He’dsnortintohiscoffee.I’dnearlychokeonmine.
ItstartedwithplatitudeslikeITISBETTERTOHAVELOVEDANDLOSTTHANTOHAVENEVERLOVEDATALL(me)andTHEUNIVERSESEEMSNEITHERBENIGNNORHOSTILE,MERELYINDIFFERENT(him)butusuallyendedwiththingslikeFUCKWRITING(me)andSHOULDWEJUSTDITCHTHISANDBECOMECOALMINERS?(him).
OncehewrotetotellmethatLIFEISLIKEABOXOFCHOCOLATES.YOUREALLYDON’TKNOWWHATYOU’REEATINGANDTHECHOCOLATEMAPINTHELIDISFUCKINGALWAYSWRONG.
IwrotetotellhimthatIFYOU’REABIRD,I’MABIRD.
HeletmeknowthatINSPACE,NOONECANHEARYOUSCREAM,andIwroteback,NOTALLWHOWANDERARELOST.
GoingthroughDad’sstufffelltothebackburner,butIdidn’tmindprocrastinating.Forthefirsttimeinmonths,Iwasn’tflinchingeverytimemyphoneorlaptoppinged.Iwasmakingprogress.Ofcourse,alotofthatprogresswasresearch,butforeverynewfactoidIgleanedabouttwentieth-centurycircusculture,itseemedlikeanewplotlightbulbilluminatedovermyhead.
Atnight,GusandIsatonourseparatedecks,havingadrinkandwatchingthesunslideintothelake.Mostnightswe’dtalkfromacrossthegap,mostlyabouthowproductivewehadorhadn’tbeen,aboutthepeoplewecouldseefromourdecksandthestorieswecouldimagineforthem.We’dtalkaboutthebooks(andmovies)we’dloved(andhated),thepeoplewe’dgonetoschoolwith(bothtogetheratUofMandbeforethat:SaraTulane,whousedtopullmyhairinkindergarten;MariahSjogren,whobrokeupwithsixteen-year-oldGus—afullthreemonthsintotheirrelationship,hewaswaytooproudtotellme—becausehesmokedacigaretteinthecarwithherand“kissingasmokerislikelickinganashtray”).
Wetalkedaboutourterriblejobs(mypart-timecarwashpositioninhighschool,whereIregularlygotsexuallyharassedbycustomersandhadtoscrubdownthetunnelbeforeIcouldgohomeatnight;hiscall-centerjobatauniformmanufacturer,wherehegotyelledatforincorrectembroideriesanddelayedshipments).Wetalkedaboutthemostembarrassingalbumswe’downedandconcertswe’dbeento(redactedforthesakeofdignity).
Andothertimes,we’dsitinsilence,notquitetogetherbutdefinitelynotalone.
“Sowhatdoyouthink?”Iaskedhimonenight.“Areromanceandhappinessharderthantheylook?”
Afteramoment,hesaid,“Ineversaidthattheywereeasy.”
“Youimpliedit,”Ipointedout.
“Iimpliedtheywereeasyforyou,”hesaid.“Forme,they’reaboutaschallengingasI’msureyou’reimagining.”
Thepossibilityhungintheair:atanytime,oneofuscouldhaveinvitedtheotherover,andeitherofuswouldhaveaccepted.Butneitherofusasked,andsothingswentonasthey’dbeen.
OnFriday,weleftforourresearchexcursionabitearlierthanwehadtheweekpriorandheadedeast,inland.
“Whoarewemeetingthistime?”Iasked.
Gusansweredonly,“Dave.”
“Ah,yes,Dave.I’mabigfanofhisrestaurant,Wendy’s.”
“Believeitornot,differentDave,”Gussaid.Hewaslostinthought,barelyplayingalongwithourusualbanter.
Iwaitedforhimtogoonbuthedidn’t.“Gus?”
Hisgazeflinchedtowardme,asifhe’dforgottenIwasthereandmypresencehadstartledhim.Hescratchedathisjaw.Hisusualfive-o’clockshadowhadstretchedclosertowardaseven-o’clockdusk.
“Everythingokay?”Iasked.
Hiseyesbouncedbetweenmeandtheroadthreetimesbeforehenodded.Icouldalmostseeit—himswallowingdownwhateverhe’dbeenconsideringsaying.“DavewaspartofNewEden,”hesaidinstead.“Hewasjustakidbackthen.Hismothertookhimoutofthereafewmonthsbeforethefire.Hisdadstayedbehind.Hewasintoodeep.”
“Sohisfather…”
Gusnodded.“Diedinthefire.”
WeweremeetingDaveatanOliveGarden,andonthewayin,GuswarnedmethatDavewasarecoveringalcoholic.“Threeyearssober,”Gussaidaswewaitedatthehoststand.“Itoldhimwewouldn’tbedrinkinganything.”
We’dbeatenDavetothetableandputinanorderforacoupleofsodas.We’dhadnoproblemtalkinginthecar,butsittingacrossfromeachotherinanOliveGardenboothwasadifferentstory.
“Doyoufeellikeyourmomjustdroppedusoffherebeforehomecoming?”Iasked.
“Ineverwenttohomecoming,”hesaid.
Ipretendedtoplayaviolin,atwhichpointIrealizedIhadnoideahowapersonactuallyheldaviolin.
“What’sthat,”Gussaidflatly.“Whatareyoudoing?”
“IthinkI’mholdingaviolin,”Ianswered.
“No,”hesaid.“No,Icansafelysayyouarenot.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes,seriously.Whyisyourleftarmstraightoutlikethat?Istheviolinsupposedtobalanceatopit?Youneedthathandontheneck.”
“You’rejusttryingtodistractmefromthetragedyofyourmissedhomecoming.”
Helaughed,rolledhiseyes,scootedforwardonhisbench.“Somehow,Isurvived,tenderhumanheartintact,”hesaid,repeatingmywordsfromthecarnival.
NowIrolledmyeyes.Gussmiledandbumpedmykneewithhisunderthetable.Ibumpedhisback.Wesatthereforaminute,grinningateachotheroverabasketofOliveGardenbreadsticks.Ifeltalittlebitliketherewaswaterboilinginmychest.Atonce,IcouldfeelhiscallousedhandsgatheringmyhairoffmyneckasIpukedintoacarnivaltrashcan.Icouldfeelthemonmyhipsandwaist,pressingmecloseraswedancedinthesweatyfrathousebasement.Icouldfeelthesideofhisjawscrapemytemple.
Hebrokeeyecontactfirst,checkedhisphone.“Twentyminuteslate,”hesaidwithoutlookingatme.“I’llgivehimtenmorebeforeIcall.”
ButDavedidn’tanswerGus’scall.Andhedidn’tanswerGus’stexts,orhisvoicemail,andsoonwewereanhourandtwentyminutesintothebottomlessbreadsticks,andourserver,Vanessa,hadstartedseriouslyavoidingourtable.
“Sometimesthishappens,”Gussaid.“Theygetspooked.Changetheirminds.Thinkthey’rereadytotalkaboutsomethingwhenthey’rereallynot.”
“Whatdowedo?”Iasked.“Shouldwekeepwaiting?”
Gusopenedoneofthemenusonthetable.Heflippedthroughitforaminute,thenpointedtoapictureofafrozenbluedrinkwithapinkumbrellasproutingoutofit.“That,”hesaid.“Ithinkthat’swhatwedo.”
“Well,shit,”Isaid.“IfwedrinkourfrozenbluethingsnowthenI’llhavetototallyrethinkmyplanfortomorrownight.”
Gusliftedaneyebrow.“Wow,IwaslivingthelifestyleofaromancewriterallalongandIdidn’tevenknowit.”
“See?Youwerebornforthis,AugustusEverett.”
Heshuddered.
“Whydoyoudothat?”
“What?”hesaid.
Irepeated,“AugustusEverett.”Hisshoulderslifted,althoughabitmorediscreetlythistime.“That.”
GusraisedthemenuasVanessawastryingtoboundpastandshescreechedtoastoplikeWileE.Coyoteattheedgeofacliff.“Couldwegettwoofthesebluethings?”heasked.
Hiseyesweredoingthesexy,intimidatingX-raything.Colorrushedintohercheeks.OrmaybeIwasprojectingwhatwashappeningtomeontoher.“Surething.”Shespedaway,andGuslookedbackatthemenu.
“Augustus,”Isaid.
“Shit,”hesaid,flinchingagain.
“Youreallydon’tlikesharingthingsaboutyourselfwithotherpeople,doyou?”
“Notparticularly,”hesaid.“Youalreadyknowaboutthevomit-phobia.Anythingmorethanthatandyou’llhavetosignanondisclosure.”
“Happily,”Isaid.
Gussighedandleanedforward,forearmsrestingonthetable.Hiskneegrazedminebeneaththetable,butneitherofusmovedaway,andalltheheatinmybodyseemedtofocusthere.“Theonlypersonwhocalledmethatwasmyfather.”Heshrugged.“Thatnamewasusuallysaidwithadisapprovingtone.Orscreamedinarage.”
MystomachtwistedandasourtastecreptacrossthebackofmymouthasIgraspedforsomethingtosay.Icouldn’thelpsearchinghispupilsforsignsofthehistoryhe’dbeenpiecingtogetherfordays.Hismotherhadstayedwithhisfather,nomatterthecost,andpartofthathadbeenhersonlearningtohatehisownname.
Gus’sgazeliftedfromthemenu.Helookedcalm,serious.Butitwasapracticedlook,unlikethealluringopennessthatsometimesovertookhisfacewhenhewasdeepinthought,workingtounderstandsomenewinformation.
“I’msorry,”Isaidhelplessly.“Thatyourdadwasanasshole.”
Gusgaveabreathlesslaugh.“Whydopeoplealwayssaythat?Youdon’tneedtobesorry.It’sinthepast.Ididn’ttellyousoyou’dbesorry.”
“Well,youtoldmebecauseIasked.Soatleastletmebesorryforthat.”
Heshrugged.“It’sfine.”
“Gus,”Isaid.
Helookedmeintheeyeagain.Itfeltlikeawarmtiderushingoverme,feettohead.Hisexpressionhadshiftedtoopencuriosity.“Whatwereyoulike?”hesaid.
“What?”
“Youknowenoughaboutmychildhood.IwanttoknowaboutbabyJanuary.”
“Oh,God,”Isaid.“Shewasalot.”
Hislaughvibratedthroughthetable,andmyinsidesstartedfizzinglikechampagne.“Letmeguess.Loud.Precocious.Roomfullofbooks,organizedinawaythatonlyyouunderstood.Closewithyourfamilyandacoupleoftight-knitfriends,allofwhomyouprobablystilltalktoregularly,butcasualfriendswithanyoneelsewithapulse.Asecretoverachiever,whohadtobethebestatsomethingevenifnooneelseknew.Oh,andpronetojugglingortap-dancingforattentioninanycrowd.”
“Wow,”Isaidalittlestunned.“Youbothnailedandroastedme—thoughthetaplessonsweremymom’sidea.Ijustwantedtheshoes.Anyway,youmissedthatIbrieflyhadashrinetoSinéadO’Connor,becauseIthoughtitmademeseemInteresting.”
Helaughedandshookhishead.“Ibetyouwereanadorablelittlefreak.”
“Iwasafreak,”Isaid.“Ithinkbeinganonlychilddidthat.MyparentstreatedmelikealivingTV.LikeIwasjustthishilarious,interestingbabygenius.Iseriouslyspentmostofmylifedelusivelyconfidentinmyselfandmyfuture.”
Andthatnomatterwhatelse,homewouldalwaysbeasafeplace,whereallthreeofusbelonged.Aburningsensationflaredinmychest.WhenIlookedupandmetGus’seyes,IrememberedwhereIwas,whoIwastalkingto,andhalfexpectedhimtogloat.Thebright-eyedingenuewithallthehappyendingshadfinallygottenchewedup,therose-coloredglassesgroundtodust.
Instead,hesaid,“Thereareworsethingstobethandelusivelyconfident.”
Istudiedhisdark,focusedeyesandlax,crookedmouth:alookofcompletesincerity.IwasmoreconvincedthaneverthatIwasn’ttheonlyonewho’dchangedsincecollege,andIwasn’tsurewhattosaytothisnewGusEverett.
Atsomepointthefrozenbluecocktailshadappearedonthetable,asifbymagic.Iclearedmythroatandliftedmyglass.“ToDave.”
“ToDave,”Gusagreed,clinkinghisplasticcuptomine.
“Thegreatestdisappointmentofthiseveningbyfar,”Isaid,“isthattheydidn’tactuallyincludethepaperumbrellas.”
“See,”Gussaid.“It’sshitlikethisthatmakesitimpossibleformetobelieveinhappyendings.Younevergetthepaperumbrellasyouwerepromisedinthisworld.”
“Gus,”Isaid.“Youmustbethepaperumbrellasyouwishtoseeinthisworld.”
“Gandhiwasawiseman.”
“Actually,Iwasquotingmyfavoritepoet,Jewel.”
Hiskneepressedintomine,andheatpooledbetweenmylegs.Ipressedback.Hisroughfingertipstentativelytouchedmyknee,slidupuntilhefoundmyhand.Slowly,Iturnedmypalmuptohim,andhisthumbdrewheavycirclesonitforaminute.
WhenIsliditcloser,hefoldedhisfingersintomine,andwesatthere,holdinghandsunderthetable,pretendingweweren’t.Pretendingweweren’tactingsixteenyearsoldandalittlebitobsessedwitheachother.
God,whatwashappening?WhatwasIdoingandwhycouldn’tImakemyselfstop?Whatwashedoing?
Whenthecheckcame,Gusjerkedbackfrommeandpulledhiswalletout.“Igotit,”hesaid,withoutlookingatme.13TheDream
IDREAMEDABOUTGUSEverettandwokeupneedingashower.14TheRule
I’DHADSATURDAYplannedforthreedays,whichfreedmeuptospendthemorningworkingonthebook.Itwasslowgoing,notbecauseIdidn’thaveideas,butbecauseitrequiredsuchpainstakingresearchtoconfirmthateachscenewashistoricallypossible.
I’dstartedworkingateightandhadmanagedtowriteaboutfivehundredwordsbythetimeGuscametositathiskitchentable,facingmine.Hewrotehisfirstnoteofthedayandhelditup.Isquintedtoread.
SORRYIGOTWEIRDLASTNIGHT.
Mynotebookandmarkerwerealreadyready.Theyalwayswere.Ididn’tknowexactlywhathemeant,butIimaginedithadsomethingtodowithbeingadultswhoweren’tdatingbutwereholdinghandsunderatableatOliveGarden.Ifoughtasinkingfeelinginmystomach.Yes,ithadbeenweird.
Ihadalsolovedit.
FromwatchingShadi’slovelife,Iknewhowrelationship-phobeslikeGusEverettreactedwhenboundariesbrokedown,whenthingswentfromfriendlytointimate,orfromsexualtoromantic.GuyslikeGuswerenevertheonestopumpthebrakeswhentheemotional-entanglementtrainstartedmoving,andtheywerealwaystheonestojumpoutandrollclearofthetracksoncetheyrealizedthey’dreachedtopspeed.
Ineededtokeepmyheadstraightandeyesclear—noromanticizingallowed.Assoonasthingsgotcomplicated,Guswouldbegone,andinthismoment,IwasrealizinghownotreadyforthatIwas.Hewasmyonlyfriendhere.Ihadtoprotectthat.Besides,therewasthebet,whichIcouldn’tfullybenefitfromifheghostedmebeforeIevenwon.
Iwroteback:
DON’TBERIDICULOUS,GUS.YOUWEREALWAYSWEIRD.
Thecornerofhismouthtwitchedintoasmile.Heheldmygazeforabeattoolong,thenturnedhisfocusbacktothenotebook.Whenhehelditupnext,itshowcasedaseriesofnumbers.Irecognizedthefirstthreeasthelocalareacode.
Mystomachflipped.Iscribbledthenumbersdownsmallatthetopofthepage,thenwrotemyownphonenumbermuchlargerbeneathit,followedby,I’MSTILLGOINGTOWRITETHESENOTES.
Gusreplied,GOOD.
Iwroteanotherfivehundredwordsbythreethirtyintheafternoon,atwhichpointIdroveovertoGoodwilltodropofftheloadofboxesI’dfilledfromtheupstairsguestroomandbath.WhenIgotback,Iscrubbedtheupstairsbathroomclean,thenpaddedbackdownstairstoshowerinthebathroomI’dbeenusingforthepasttwoweeks.ThepictureofmydadandSonyastillhungonthewall,photofacing
I’dfelttooguiltytodestroyit,butIfigureditwasonlyamatteroftimeuntilIworkedupthecourage.Fornowitwasableakreminderthatthehardestworkwasstillaheadofme:thebasementIhadn’tevenpeekedintoandthemasterbedroomI’dthoroughlyavoided.
Istillhadn’treallybeendowntothebeach,whichseemedlikeashame,soafterI’dmadeapotofmacaronitotidemeoveruntiltonight,Ipickedmywaydownthewoodedtrailtothewater.Thelightbouncingoverthewavesfromthesettingsunwasincredible,allredsandgoldsblazingoverthelake’sback.Islippedoutofmyshoesandcarriedthemtotheedgeofthewater,gaspingoutaswearastheicytiderushedovermyfeet.Iscrambledback,laughingbreathlesslyfromthesheershockofit.
Theairwaswarmbutnotevenclosetohotenoughtomakethechillpleasant.Mostofthepeopleleftonthebeachhadpulledsweatshirtsonorwrappedthemselvesintowelsandblankets.Everyone,allthosewind-beatenandsunburnedfaces,allthatlake-tangledhair,thoseeyessquintingintothefiercelight.Lookingatthesamesettingsun.
Itmademeache.Ifeltsuddenlymorealonethanever.Therewasnofloppy-haired,romanticJacqueswaitingformeinQueens—noonetocookmearealmealorwhiskmeawayfromthecomputer.NomissedcallsorWasjustthinkingaboutKarynandSharynandalmostpeedagaintextsfromMom,andnowayformetosendherapictureofthesunlightdrippingontothelakewithoutopeningthewoundthatwasthelakehouse.
I’donlyseenShaditwicesincethefuneral,andwithherworkschedule,mosttextsfromhercameinlongafterI’dgonetobed,andmostofmyreplieswentoutlongbeforeshe’dwakeup.
Mywriterfriendshadstoppedcheckingintoo,asifsensingthateverynotefromthem,everycallandtext,wasjustonemorereminderofhowterriblyfarbehindIhadfallen.Wasfalling.Everymomentofeveryday,Iwastrippingbackwardwhiletherestoftheworldmarchedforward.
Honestly,IevenmissedSharynandKaryn:sittingontheircolorfulragrugdrinkingthenasty-assbathtubmoonshinetheyweresoproudofwhiletheyhawkedhomemadeessentialoilsthatsmelledgreat,eveniftheydidn’tactuallycurecancer.
Myworldfeltempty.Liketherewasnooneinit,exceptsometimesGus,andnothinginitexceptthisbook,andthebet.Andnomatterhowmuchbetterthisbookfeltthaneveryiterationofitthathadcomeinthelasttwelvemonths,itwasn’tenough.
Iwasonabeautifulbeach,inabeautifulplace,andIwasalone.Worse,Iwasn’tsureI’deverstopbeingaloneagain.Iwantedmymom,andImissedmylyingdad.
Isatdowninthesand,foldedmylegstomychest,restedmyforeheadagainstmyknees,andcried.Icrieduntilmyfacewashotandredandsoakingwet,andIwould’vekeptcryingifaseagulldidn’tshitonmyhead,butofcourse,itdid.
AndsoIstoodandturnedbacktothepathonlytofindsomeonefrozeninthemiddleofit,watchingmeuglycrylikeTomHanksinCastAway
Itwaslikesomethingoutofamovie,thewayGuswasstandingthere,exceptthattherewasnothingromanticormagicalaboutit.EventhoughI’dbeensobbingaboutbeingalone,hewasoneofthelastpeopleIwould’vechosentoseemelikethis.Momentarilyforgettingthepileofbirdexcrementonmyhead,Iwipedatmyfaceandeyes,tryingtomakemyselflookmore…something.
“Sorry,”Gussaid,visiblyuncomfortable.Heglancedsidelongdownthebeach.“Isawyoucomedownhere,andIjust…”
“Abirdpoopedonmyhead,”Isaidtearily.Apparentlytherewasnothingmoretosaythanthat
Hislookofpainfulempathycrackedunderasoundlesslaugh.Heclosedthegapbetweenusandpulledmeroughlyintoahug.Theactionseemeduncomfortable,ifnotpainful,forhimatfirst,butevensoitwassomethingofarelieftobeheld.
“Youdon’thavetotellme,”hesaid.“Butjustsoyouknow…youcan.”
Iburiedmyfaceinhisshoulder,andhishands’clumsypattingagainstmybacksettledintoslow,gentlecircles,beforetheystoppedmovingatall,justcurledinagainstmyspine,easingmecloser.Iletmyselfsinkintohim.Thecryinghadstoppedasfastasithadstarted.AllIcouldthinkaboutwasthepressofhishardstomachandchest,thesharpridgesofhishipsandthealmostsmokysmellofhim.Theheatofhisbodyandhisbreath.
Itwasabadideatostandherelikethiswithhim,touchhimlikethis,butitwasalsointoxicating.Idecidedtocounttothreeandthenletgo.
Igottotwobeforehishandslidintomyhair,cradlingthebackofmyhead,thenjerkedsuddenlyclearashetookanabruptstepback.“Wow.That’salotofshit.”
Hewasstaringathishandandthegoopdrippingoffofit.
“Yeah,Isaid‘bird’butitverywellcouldhavebeenadinosaur.”
“Nokidding.Iguessweshouldgetcleanedupbeforewetakeoffforthenight.”
Isniffedandwipedtheresidualtearsawayfrommyeyes.“Wastakeoffanintentionalbirdpunor…?”
“Hellno,”Gussaid,turningbacktowardthetrailwithme.“IsaidthatbecauseIassumedwewouldbetakingahelicopterrideoverthelake.”
Arippleoftimidlaughterwentthroughme,breakinguptheresidualknotofemotionandheatinmychest.“Isthatyourfinalguess?”
Helookedmeupanddown,asifweighingmyoutfitagainstsomewidelyrecognizedhelicopter-dateuniform.“Yeah,Ithinkso.”
“Soooclose.”
“Really?”hesaid.“Whatisit,then?Tinyairplaneoverthelake?Tinysubmarineunderthelake?”
“You’llhavetowaitandfindout.”
Wepartedwaysbetweenourhouses,agreeingtomeetatmycarintwentyminutes.WhenI’dwashedmyhairforthesecondtimethatday,Ithrewitintoabunandputthesame(poop-free)outfitbackon.I’dpackedmostofthesuppliesforourtripearlierthatday,soallIhadlefttodowasgrabtherestoutofthefridgeandstuffitintothecoolerI’dfoundononeofthekitchen’sbottomshelves.
Itwas7:30whenGusandIfinallysetoutand8:40whenwefinallypulledintoMegRyanNightatBigBoyBobby’sDrive-In.
“OhmyGod,”GussaidaswedroveuptotheboothtohandovertheticketsI’dboughtonline.“Thisisatriplefeature.”Hewasreadingtheglowingmarqueetoourright:WhenHarryMetSally,SleeplessinSeattle,andYou’veGotMail.“Aren’thalfofthoseChristmasmovies?”
TheattendantraisedthegateandIpulledthrough.“Halfofthreeisoneandahalf,sono,halfofthesemoviesaren’tChristmasmovies.”
“HaveImentionedthatMegRyan’sfacepissesmeoff?”
Iscoffed.“One,no.Two,that’simpossible.Herfaceisadorableandperfect.”
“Maybethat’swhatitis,”Gussaid.“Icouldn’ttellyou,andIknowit’snotlogical,butI…justcan’tstandher.”
“Tonightthat’sallgoingtochange,”Ipromised.“Trustme.Youjusthavetoopenyourheart.Ifyoucandothat,yourworld’sgoingtobeamuchbrighterplacefromnowon.Andmaybeyou’llevenstandachanceatwritingasellablerom-com.”
“January,”hesaidsolemnlyasIbackedintoanopenparkingspot,“justimaginewhatyou’ddotomeifItookyoutoasix-hour-longJonathanFranzenreading.”
“IcannotandIwillnot,”Isaid.“AndifyouchoosetouseoneofourFridaynightsinsuchaway,there’snothingIcandotostopyou,butit’sSaturdayandthusI’mthecaptainofthisship.NowcomehelpmefigureoutwherewecanbuytheBigBobbyIceCreamSurpriseIreadaboutonline.Accordingtothewebsiteitis‘SOOOWorthIt!’”
“Ithadbetterbe.”Gussighed,climbingoutoftheKiatojoinme.Asthepreviewsflashedclunkilyacrossthescreen,wemadeourwaythroughthefieldtotheconcessionstands.Ibeelinedforthewoodensignpaintedtolooklikeanicecreamsundae,butGustouchedmyarm,stoppingmefromgettinginlinerightaway.“Willyoujustpromisemeonething?”
“Gus,Iwon’tfallinlovewithyou.”
“Onemorething,”hesaid.“Pleasejusttryyourhardestnottopuke.”
“IfIstartto,I’lljustswallowit.”
Guscuppedhishandoverhismouthandgagged.
“Kidding!Iwon’tpuke.Atleastnotuntilyoutakemetothatsix-hourreading.Nowcomeon.I’vespentallweeklookingforwardtoeatingsomethingotherthancoldPop-Tarts.”
“Idon’tthinkthisisgoingtobethevitamin-andnutrient-richsmorgasbordyouseemtobeimagining.”
“Idon’tneedvitamins.Ineednachocheeseandchocolatesauce.”
“Ah,inthatcase,youplannedtheperfectnight.”
BecauseI’dboughtthetickets,GuspaidforthepopcornandtheIceCreamSurprises($6each,decidedlyun-worthit),andhetriedtobuyussodasbeforeIcompletelyindiscreetlycuthimoff,doingmybesttosignalthatwehadotheroptionsinthecar.
Whenwegotback,Iopenedthetailgateandputthemiddleseatsflat,revealingthesetupofpillowsandblanketsI’dpackedearlier,alongwiththecoolerfullofbeer.“Impressed?”IaskedGus.
“Byyourcar’strunkspace?Absolutely.”
“Har-har-har,”Isaid.
“Har-har-har,”Gussaidback.
WeclimbedthroughtheopentrunkandIturnedthecaron,tuningtheradiototherightchanneltopickupthemovie’saudiobeforesettlinginbesideGusjustastheopeningcreditsbegan.Despitewhathe’dsaidabouttrunkspace,theKiawasn’texactlybig.Lyingonourstomachs,chinsproppeduponourhands,wewereverynearlytouchinginseveralplaces,andourelbowsweretouching.Thispositionwouldn’tbecomfortableforlong,andrearrangingwithbothofusinthecarwasgoingtobeachallenge.Beingthisclosetohimwasalsogoingtobeachallenge.
AssoonasMegRyanappearedonscreen,heleanedalittlecloserandwhispered,“Herfacereallydoesn’tbotheryou?”
“Ithinkyoushouldseeadoctor,”Ihissed.“That’snotanormalreaction.”AssoonasIgotmyfirstbookadvance,I’dboughtShadiandmyselfbothliketwentyMegRyanmoviessowecouldwatchthemtogetherlong-distancewheneverwewanted,startingthematthesameexactmomentsowecouldtextaboutwhatwashappeninginrealtimeandpausingwheneveroneofushadtopee.
“JustwaituntilyouhearhowMegRyanpronounceshorseswhenshesings‘SleighRide,’”IwhisperedtoGus.“Yourlifewillbeirrevocablychanged.”
GusgavemealooklikeIwasn’thelpingmycase.“Shejustlookssodamnsmug,”hesaid.
“AlotofpeoplehavetoldmeIlooklikeher,”Isaid.
“There’snowaythat’strue.”
“Okay,theyhaven’t,buttheyshouldhave.”
“That’sridiculous,”hesaid.“Youlooknothinglikeher.”
“Ontheonehand,I’moffended.Ontheother,I’mrelievedyouprobablydon’tloathemyface.”
“There’snothingtoloatheaboutyourface,”hesaidmatter-of-factly.
“There’snothingtoloatheaboutMegRyan’sfaceeither.”
“Fine,Itakeitback.Iloveherface.Doesthatmakeyouhappy?”
Iturnedtowardhim.Hisheadwasproppedinhishand,hisbodyangledtowardme,andthelightfromthescreenjustbarelycaughthiseyes,drawingliquidysliversofcolorinthem.Hisdarkhairwasasmessyasever,buthisfacialhairwasbackundercontrol,andthatsmokysmellstillhungonhim.
“January?”hemurmured.
Imaneuveredontomyside,facinghim,andnodded.“Itmakesmehappy.”
Hiskneebumpedmine.Ibumpedhisback.
Ashadowofasmilepassedoverhisseriousface,thereandgonesofastImight’veimaginedit.“Good,”hesaid
Westayedlikethatforalongtime,pretendingtowatchthemoviefromananglewhereneitherofuscouldpossiblyseemorethanhalfthescreen,ourkneespressedintooneanother.
Wheneveroneofusrearranged,theotherfollowed.Wheneveroneofuscouldnolongerbearthediscomfortofoneposition,webothshifted.Butweneverstoppedtouching.
Wewereindangerousterritory.
Ihadn’tfeltlikethisinyears—thatalmostpainfulweightofwanting,thatparalyzingfearthatanywrongmovewouldruineverything.
IglancedupwhenIfelthisgazeonme,andhedidn’tlookaway.Iwantedtosaysomethingtobreakthetension,butmymindwasmercilesslyblank.Nottheblinking-cursor-on-a-white-screenblankoftryingtoconcoctanovelfromthinair.Thecolor-popping-in-darknessblankofscrunchingyoureyesshut.Ofstaringatflamestoolong.
Thepulsingblankoffeelingsomuchyou’reincapableofthinkinganything.
Thestaringconteststretchedanuncomfortabledistancewithouteitherofusbreakingit.Hiseyeslookednearlyblack,andwhenthelightfromthescreenhitthem,theillusionofflamessparkedinthem,thenvanished.
Somewheredeepinmymind,aself-preservationinstinctwasscreaming,THOSEARETHEEYESOFAPREDATOR,butthatwasexactlywhynaturegavepredatorseyeslikethat.Sodumblittlerabbitslikemewouldn’tstandachance.
Don’tbeadumbbunny,January!
“Ihavetogotothebathroom,”Isaidabruptly.
Gussmiled.“Youjustwenttothebathroom.”
“Ihaveareallytinybladder,”Isaid.
“I’llgowithyou.”
“That’sokay!”Ichirpedand,forgettingIwasinacar,satupsofastIslammedmyheadintotheroof.
“Shit!”GussaidatthesametimeIhissedoutaconfused,“WHAT?”
HeboltedupandshuffledonhiskneestowardwhereIsat,clutchingmyhead.“Letmesee.”Hishandscradledthesidesofmyface,tiltingmyheaddownsohecouldseethecrownofmyskull.“It’snotbleeding,”hetoldme,thenangledmyfacebackupintohis,hisfingersthreadedgentlythroughmyhair.Hiseyeswandereddowntomymouth,andhiscrookedlipsparted.
Oh,damn.
Iwasabunny.
Ileanedtowardhim,andhishandswenttomywaist,drawingmeontohislapsothatIwasstraddlinghimwhereheknelt.Hisnosebrushedthesideofmine,andIliftedmymouthunderhis,tryingtoclosethegapbetweenus.Ourslowbreathspressedusintoeachotherandhishandssqueezedmysides,mythighstighteningagainsthiminreaction.
OnetimeonetimeonetimewasallIcouldthink.Thatwashispolicy,right?Woulditreallybesobadifsomethinghappenedbetweenus,justonce?Wecouldgobacktobeingfriends,neighborswhotalkedeveryday.CouldIdocasual,thisonetime,withmycollegecrushturnednemesis,sevenyearsafterthefact?Icouldn’tthinkclearlyenoughtofigureitout.Mybreathingwasshakyandshallow;hiswasnonexistent.
Wehoveredthereforaminute,likeneitherofuswantedtoaccepttheblame
Youtouchedmefirst!I’dsay.
Youleanedin!he’dfireback.
Andthenyouscoopedmeintoyourlap!
Andyouliftedyourmouthtowardmine!
Andthen—
Hismouthdraggedwarmbreathacrossmyjawandthenuptomylips.Histeethskatedacrossmybottomlip,andasmallhumofpleasurewentthroughme.Hismouthquirkedintoasmileevenasitsankhotandlightagainstmymouth,coaxingitopen.HetastedlikevanillaandcinnamonleftoverfromtheIceCreamSurprise,onlybetterthanthedessertitselfhad.Hisheatrushedintomymouth,intome,untilitwasfloodingthroughme,racinglikearivercurrentbakedhotbythesun.Wantdrippedthroughme,poolinginallthenooksthatformedbetweenourbodies.
Ireachedforahandfulofhisshirt,feelingthewarmthofhisskinthroughthethinmaterial.Ineededhimcloser,torememberhowitfelttobepressedagainsthim,tobewrappedaroundhim.Oneofhishandssweptupthesideofmyneck,hisfingerscurlingundermyhair.Isighedintohismouthashekissedmeagain,slower,deeper,rougher.Hetippedmymouthuptohimformore,andIgrabbedforhisribs,tryingtogetcloser.Heleanedintomeuntilmybackmetthesideofthecar,untilhepressedhardagainstme.
Astupidgaspescapedmeatthefeelofhischestunyieldingagainstmine,andIgroundmyhipsagainsthis.Hebracedonehandonthewindowbehindme,andhisteethcaughtmybottomlipagain,alittleharderthistime.Mybreathscamefastandshakyashishandswipeddownthecarwindowtomychest,feelingmethroughmyshirt.
Irakedmyhandsthroughhishair,archedintothepressofhishand,andalow,involuntarygroanliftedinhisthroat.Heleanedawayandflippedmeontomyback,andIgreedilypulledhimoverme.Apulsewentthroughmeatthefeelingofhimhardagainstme,andItriedtowillhimcloserthanclothesallowed.Thatsoundraspedoutofhimagain
Icouldn’trememberthelasttimeI’dbeenthisturnedon.
Actually,Icould.Itwassevenyearsagoinafrathousebasement.
Hishandslippedupbeneathmyshirt,histhumbscrapingupthelengthofmyhipboneandseemingtomeltitashewent.Hismouthgrazedhotanddampdownmyneck,sinkingheavilyagainstmycollarbone.Mywholebodywasbegginghimformorewithoutanysubtlety,liftingtowardhimasifpulledbyamagnet.Ifeltlikeateenager,anditwaswonderful,anditwashorrible,and—
Hetightenedovermeaslighthitus,ascoldandsoberingasifsomeonehaddumpedabucketoficewateronus.Wesprangapartatthesightofthesurlymiddle-agedwomanwiththeflashlightaimedourway.ShehadafrizzytriangleofgrayhairandabrightbluetrackjacketscreenprintedwiththeBIGBOYBOBBY’Slogo.
Sheclearedherthroat.
Guswasstillproppedupovermewithonehandtangledinthehemofmyshirt.
“Thisisafamilyestablishment,”thewomanhissed.
“Well,you’redoingagreatjob.”Gus’svoicewasthickandhusky.HecleareditagainandgavethewomanhisbestEvilsmile.“MywifeandIwerejustsayingweshouldbringthekidsheresometime.”
Shefoldedherarms,apparentlyimmunetothecharmsofhismouth.Mustbenice.
Guskneltbackontohisheels,andItuggedmyshirtdown.“Sorryaboutthat,”Isaid,mortified.
Thewomanjerkedathumbdownthedark,grassyaislebetweencars.“Out,”shebarked.
“Ofcourse,”Gussaidquicklyandjerkedthetailgateclosed,shuttingusofffromher.Iburstoutinhumiliated,derangedlaughter,andGusturnedtowardmewithafaintsmile,hislipsbruisedandswollen,hishairdisastrous.
“Thatwassuchabadidea,”Iwhisperedhelplessly.
“Yeah.”Gus’svoiceslippedbackintoitsdangerousrasp.Heleanedforwardthroughthedarkandcaughtmeinonelastviciouslyslow,dementedlyhotkiss,hisfingersspanningthesideofmyface.“Won’thappenagain,”hetoldme,andallthesparksawakeinmybloodstreamfizzledoutjustabit.
Onetime.Thatwashisrule.Butdidthiscount?Myguttwistedwithdisappointment.Itcouldn’t.Ithaddonenothingtosatisfyme.Ifanything,ithadleftmeworseoffthanbefore,andfromthewayGuswasstaringatme,Ithoughthemustfeelthesameway.
Thewomanbangedonthebackwindow,andwebothjumped.
“Weshouldgo,”Gussaid.
Iscrambledfromthebackofthecarintothefrontseat.Gusgotoutthebackdoorandbackintothepassengerseat.
Idroveushome,feelinglikemybodywasaheatmapandeverywherehe’dtouched,everywherehelookedwhenheglancedoverfromthepassengerseat,wasglowingred.
GUSDIDN’TAPPEARatthekitchentableatnoononSunday.Ifiguredthatwasabadsign—thatwhathadhappenedhaddestroyedtheonlyfriendshipIhadinthistown.Really,oneofonlyseveralfriendshipsIhadtheworldover,sinceJacquesandmycoupleoffriends,ithadturnedout,hadnouseforJustMe.
ItriedtoputGusoutofmymind,toworkonthebookwithsingularfocus,butIwentbacktojumpingeverytimemyphonebuzzed.
AtextfromAnya:Hey,love!Justwantedtocheckin.Thehousewouldreallyliketoseesomeinitialpages,togivesomeinput.
AnemailfromPete:Hello!Goodnews!Yourbookswillbeinstocktomorrow.Isthereadaythisweekyoucouldstopbytosign?
AnemailfromSonya,whichIdidnotopenbutwhosefirstsentenceIcouldsee:Please,pleasedon’tletmescareyouofffrombookclub.I’mtotallyhappytostayhomeonMondaynightsifyou’dliketokeep…
AtextfromShadi:January.Help.IcannotgetENOUGHofthathauntedhat.He’scomeoverthelastTHREEnightsandlastnightIlethimSTAY.
Itextedherback,Youknowexactlywherethisisgoing.You’reINTOhim!!
IHATEfallinginlove,shereplied.It’salwaysruiningmybad-boyreputation!!
Isentherasadface.Iknow,butyoumustpersevere.ForthegoodoftheHauntedHatandsoIcanlivevicariouslythroughyou.
Memoriesfromlastnightflashedacrossmymindasbrightandhotasfireworks,thesparkslandingandburningeverywherehe’dtouched.Icouldfeeltheghostofhisteethonmycollarbone,andmyshoulderbladewasalittlebruisedfromthecardoor.
Hungerandembarrassmentracedthroughmeinonetwistedbraid.
God,whathadIdone?Ishouldhaveknownbetter.Andthentherewasthepartofmethatcouldn’tstopthinking,AmIgoingtogettodoitagain?
Itdidn’thavetomeananything.Maybethiswasit:Iwouldfinallylearnhowtohaveacasualrelationship.
OrmaybethedealwasoffandIwouldliterallyneverhearfromGusEverettagain.
Iwasoutofbothcerealandramen,soafterI’dpainfullychurnedoutthreehundredwords,Idecidedtobreakforagrocerytripand,onmywayoutthedoor,sawthatGus’scarwasn’tinitsusualspotonthestreet.Iforcedthethoughtfrommyhead.Thisdidn’thavetobeabigdeal.
Atthegrocerystore,Icheckedmybankaccountagain,thenwanderedtheaisleswithmyphonecalculatoropen,addingupthepriceofFrostedMini-Wheatsandcansofsoup.I’dmanagedtoputtogetheradecenthaulforsixteendollarswhenIroundedthecornertothecheckoutandsawherthere.
Curlywhitehair,willowyframe,thatsamecrochetedshawl.
PaniccoursedthroughmesofastIfeltlikeI’dgottenanadrenalineshotintheheart.Iabandonedmycartrightthereintheaisleand,headdown,bookeditpasthertowardthedoors.Ifshesawme,shedidn’tsayanything.Orifshedid,myheartwaspoundingtooloudformetohearit.IjumpedbackintomycarfeelinglikeI’drobbedabankanddrovetwentyminutestoanothergrocerystore,whereIwassoshakenupandparanoidaboutanotherrun-inthatIbarelymanagedtogetanything.
BythetimeIgothome,Iwasstillshaky,anditdidn’thelpthatGus’scarhadn’treappeared.ItwasonethingtohavetododgeSonyainmybimonthlygrocerytrips.IfIwounduphavingtoavoidmynext-doorneighbor,IwasprettysurePlanB:MovetoDuluthwouldhavetotakeeffect.
BeforeIcrawledintobedthatnight,Ipeekedoutthefrontwindowsonemoretime,butGus’scarwasstillmissing.Dreadinflatedinmychestliketheworld’sleastfunballoon.I’dfinallyfoundafriend,someoneIcouldtalkto,who’dseemedtowanttobearoundmeasmuchasIwantedtobearoundhim,andnowhewasjustgone.Becausewe’dkissed.Angerrearedupinme,forcingmyhumiliationandlonelinessoutofthewayforjustawhilebeforetheybuoyedtothesurfaceagain.
Ithoughtabouttextinghim,butitseemedliketheweirdestpossibletimetostart,soinsteadIwenttosleep,asick,anxiousfeelingcoiledinmystomach.
ByMondaymorning,hestillwasn’tback.Tonight,Idecided.Ifhiscarwasn’talongthecurbtonight,Icouldtexthim.Thatwouldn’tbeweird.
Iputhimoutofmymindandpoundedouttwothousandfreshwords,thentextedAnya:Goingwell(actually(seriously(Imeanitthistime!)))butI’dliketogetalittlemoredonebeforeanyonereadsthepartial.Ithinkit’sgoingtobehardtotellwhereI’mgoingwiththiswithoutthecompletepictureandI’mafraidifIjumpforwardtooutlineitwillkillallmomentumI’vefinallybuiltup
Next,IrepliedtoPete:Great!HowdoesWednesdaywork?Thetruthwas,Icould’vecomeinonSundaywhenIgottheemail,oronMondaywhenIsentthereply.ButIdidn’twantanotherinvitationtotheRedBlood,WhiteRussians,andBlueJeansBookClub.PuttingoffmystopatthebookstoreuntilWednesdayeliminatedonemorepotentialweekofthatwholeexperiencewithouthavingtorejecttheinvitation.
Byeleventhatnight,Gus’scarstillwasn’tback,andI’dtalkedmyselfintoandoutoftextinghimfivetimes.Finally,Iputmyphoneinthedrawerofthesidetable,clickedoffthelamp,andwenttosleep.
TuesdayIawokesoakedinsweat.I’dforgottentosetmyalarm,andthesunwasstreakingthroughtheblindsinfullforce,bakingmeinitspalelight.Ithadtobeclosetoeleven.Islidoutfromunderthethickduvetandlaythereforanotherminute.
Istillfeltalittlesick.AndthenalittlefuriousthatIfeltsick.Itwassodumb.Iwasagrownwoman.Gushadtoldmeexactlyhowheoperated,exactlywhathethoughtaboutromance,andhe’dneversaidordoneanythingtosuggesthe’dchangedhismind.IknewthatnomatterhowattractedtohimIoccasionallyfelt,theonlyplaceourrelationshipcouldgowasthrougharevolvingdoorinandoutofhisbedroom.
Orthebackofmydeeplyuncoolcar.
Andevenifthingshadgonefurtherthatnight,itwouldn’thaveprecludedhimfromdisappearingfordays.TherewasexactlyonewaythatIcouldtheoreticallyhaveGusEverett,anditwouldleavemefeelingsicklikethisassoonasitwasover.
Ineededtogethimoutofmyhead.
Itookacoldshower.Or,atleast,Itookonesecondofacoldshower,duringwhichIscreamedthef-wordandalmostbrokemyanklelungingawayfromthestreamofwater.Howthehellwerepeopleinbooksalwaystakingcoldshowers?IturnedthewaterbacktohotandfumedasIwashedmyhair.
Iwasn’tmadathim.Icouldn’tbe.Iwasfuriouswithmyselfforwanderingdownthispath.Iknewbetter.Guswasn’tJacques.GuyslikeJacqueswantedsnowballfightsandkissesatthetopoftheEiffelTowerandsunrisestrollsontheBrooklynBridge.GuyslikeGuswantedsnarkybanterandcasualsexontopoftheirunfoldedlaundry.
Inthebackofyourdeeplyuncoolcaratafamilyestablishment.
AlthoughIcouldn’tbesurethathadn’tbeenmyidea.
ItwasconceivablethatI’dthrownmyselfathim.Itwouldn’tbethefirsttimeIwasseeingthroughrose-coloredglasses,assigningmeaningwheretherewasnone.
Iwasbeingstupid.Aftereverythingwithmydad,Ishouldhaveknownbetter.I’djustbarelystartedtoheal,andI’drunrightoutandgottenacrushontheonepersonwhowasguaranteedtoproverighteverysinglefearIhadaboutrelationships.
Ineededtoletthisgo.
Writing,Idecided,wouldbemysolace.Itwasslowgoingatfirst,everywordadecisionnottothinkaboutGusdisappearing,butafterawhileIfoundarhythm,almostasstrongasyesterday’s.
ThefamilycircuswoundupbackinOklahoma,closetowhereEleanor’sfather’ssecretsecondfamilylived.Aweek,Idecided.ThebulkofthisbookwasgoingtotakeplaceovertheweekthecircuswasparkedinTownTBD(Tulsa?),Oklahoma.Writinginadifferenterapresentedacompletelynewchallenge.IwasleavingalotofnotestomyselflikeFindoutwhatdrinkswerepopularthenorInserthistoricallyaccurateinsult
Whatmattered,though,wasthatIhadavision.
Allthesecretsweregoingtocometothesurface,almostwinout,andthenthey’dbepackedbackdownneatly.ThatwashowanAugustusEverettnovelwouldgo,wouldn’tit?HewouldsayithadanicecyclicalqualitywhenItoldhim.
(IfIgotthechancetotellhim.)
Iwantedthereaderstobecheering,beggingforEleanor’sfoundfamilytotellthetruthbytheend,whilewatchingthroughtheirfingers,afraidofhowthesituationwouldimplode.Someoneneededagun,Irealized,andareasontohaveahair-triggerreaction.Fear,ofcourse.Ineededtopressure-cookthesituation.
Buildandbuild,onlytotampitbackdownintimeforthecharacterstomovealongtotheirnextdestination.
Eleanor’sfatherwouldowemoneytodangerousmenbackinhishometown—ostensiblythereasonhe’dleftinthefirstplace,whyhe’dabandonedhisfamily.
Eleanor’smotherwouldhavethegun.Itseemedonlyfairtogivehersomethingtofightwith.Butwithit,she’dhavetoshouldertheweightofsomePTSD,remnantsofanoldemployerwholikedtogetviolentwiththegirlswhoworkedforhim.Sheneededtobewoundtight,readytosnap,likeI’dbeenfeelingthispastyear.
LikeIwantedMomtobeafterthefullextentofDad’sliescametolight.
Eleanor,forherpart,wasgoingtofallinlovewithalocal.Oratleastfancyherselfhavingdoneso,thenightoftheirfirstperformanceinTulsa.Shewouldspendtheweekmovingclosertoescapingthelifeshe’dgrownupin,onlytohaveahorriblelast-minuterevelationthatnomatterhowshemightsometimesdespisethisworld,itwastheonlyoneinwhichshebelonged.
Ormaybeshewouldrealizetheworldshe’dlustedafter,theoneshe’dwatchedfrombehindcircustentsandatoptightropes,thatfilteredpastwhileshewashardatwork,wasasmuchanillusionastheonesheknew.
Theboywouldfallinlovewithsomeoneelse,justasquicklyashehadwithher.
Ortheboywouldleaveforcollege,themilitary.
OrhisparentswouldfindoutaboutEleanorandpersuadehimofhisrecklessness.
Itwouldbeananti-romance.AndIwasentirelycapableofwritingit.15ThePast
“ANDTHERE’STHEauthorherself!”PetecalledwhenIsteppedintothecoffeeshop.“Apinkeyeforyou,hon?”
Probablyshemeantred-eye.Eitherway,Ishookmyhead.“Whatelsedoyourecommend?”
“Greentea’sgoodforyou,”Petemused.
“Well,signmeup.”Mybodycouldusesomeantioxidants.Orwhateverwasingreenteathatmadeit“goodforyou.”Momhadtoldme,butthepointhadbeenpleasingher,notcleansingmyself,soIdidn’ttotallyremember.
Petehandedmetheplasticcup,andthistimesheletmepay.Iignoredthesinkinginmystomach.HowmuchmoneydidIhaveleftinmybankaccount?HowlonguntilIhadtocrawlbacktomynow-ruinedchildhoodhomewithmytailbetweenmyknees?
IremindedmyselfthatFAMILY_SECRETS.docxwasrapidlygrowingintoabook-likething.EvenoneI’dbecurioustoread.SandyLowemightnotendupwantingit,butsurely,someonewould.
Okay,notsurely.Buthopefully.
Petetookofftheapronassheledthewayintothebookstore.
“MaybeyoushouldgetaClarkKenttrenchcoat,”Isaid.“Seemslikelesshasslethanbowsandknots.”
“Yes,andwhodoesn’twanttobuytheircoffeefromagalinatrenchcoat,”Petesaid.
“Touché.”
“Soherewego.”PetestoppedatTheRevelatoriesdisplay,whichwasnowonlyhalfwayapyramidofRevelatories.Theotherhalfwascomprisedofbubblegumpink,brightyellow,andskybluebooks.Petebeamed.“Thoughtitwouldbekindaneattodothislocal-authorsdisplay.Showcasethewholespectrumofwhatwe’vegotgoin’onhereinNorthBear.Whatdoyathink?Grabastack,bytheway.”Petewasalreadycarryinganarmloadovertothecounter,wherearollofAUTOGRAPHEDstickersandacoupleofSharpiesawaited.
“It’sgreat,”Isaid,followingherwithanotherstack.
“AndEverett?”shesaid.
“Great,”Ianswered,acceptingtheuncappedSharpieshewaspushingintomyhand.Shestartedflippingtotitlepagesandslidingbooksacrossformetosign,oneatatime.
“Soundslikeyoutwo’vebeenspendingalotoftimetogether.”
Ibalked.“Soundslike?”
Petethrewherbackintoherguffaw.“Youknow,asprivateasthatboyis,Ihavetopullalotfromcontextoutofourconversations.Butyes,I’vegatheredthecluesthatyoutwohaveformedafriendship.”
Itriedtohidemysurprise.“Youtalkoften?”
“Heprobablyanswersaboutathirdorsoofmycalls.Sure,IdrivehimbattycallingasmuchasIdo,butIworry.We’retheonlyfamilyeachother’sgothere.”
“Family?”Ilookedupather,nolongerhidingmyconfusion.
Herownfeaturesseemedtosnapupwardonherface,surprised.Shescratchedthebackofherhead.“Ithoughtyouknew.Inevercantellwhathethinksisprivateandwhatisn’t.Somuchofitshowsupinhisbooksyou’dthinkhe’dbecomfortablepeelingoffhisskinandparadingthroughTimesSquare.’Course,thatmightjustbemeprojecting.Iknowhowyouartisttypesare.Heinsistsit’sfiction,soIshouldreaditassuch.”
Iwasbarelytracking.Apparentlymyfacerevealedthat,becausePeteexplained,“I’mhisaunt.Hismotherwasmysister.”
Awaveofdizzinesshitme.Theshopseemedtorock.Thisdidn’tmakesense.Twoandahalfweeksofnear-constant(albeitnontraditional)communication,andGushadn’tevensharedthemostbasicpartsofhislifewithme.
“ButyoucallhimEverett,”Isaid.“You’rehisauntandyoudon’tusehisfirstname.”
Shestaredatmeforamoment,confused.“Oh!That.Anoldhabit.Whenhewasalittleguy,Icoachedhissoccerteam.Couldn’tshowfavoritism,calledhimbyhislastnamelikeanyotherplayer,anditstuck.HalfthetimeIforgethehasafirstname.Hell,I’veintroducedhimasEveretttohalfthetownbynow.”
IfeltlikeI’djustdroppedawoodendollonlytowatchsixmorefalloutanddiscoverithadbeenamatryoshka.TherewastheGusIknew:funny,messy,sexy.AndthentherewastheotherGus,whodisappearedfordays,whohadplayedsoccerasakidandlivedinthesametownashisaunt,whosaidnomorethanheabsolutelyhadtoabouthimself,hisfamily,hispastwhileIspilledwine,tears,andmygutsalloverhim.
Ibentmyheadandwentbacktosigninginsilence.Petekeptslidingbooksacrossthecountertome,stackingthesignedonesneatlyonmyotherside.Afterahandfulofsecondsshesaid,“Bepatientwithhim,January.Hereallylikesyou.”
Ikeptsigning.“Ithinkyou’remisunderstandingthe—”
“I’mnot,”shesaid.
Ilookedintoherfierceblueeyes,heldhergaze.“Hetoldmeaboutthedayyoumovedin.Notawonderfulfirstimpression.It’sarecurringissueofhis.”
“SoIhear.”
“Butofcourseyouhavetogivehimabreakonthatone,”shesaid.“Hisbirthday’sreallyhardforhimeversincethesplit.”
“Birthday?”Iparroted,lookingup.Split?Ithought.
Petelookedsurprised,thenunsure.“Shelefthimonit,youknow.Andeveryyearsincethen,hisfriendMarkhamthrowsthishugepartytotryandkeephismindoffit.Andofcourse,Gushatesparties,buthedoesn’twantMarkhamthinkinghe’supset,soheletsthepartyhappen.”
“Excuseme?”Ichokedout.Wasthissomekindofjoke?HadPetewokenupthismorningandthought,Hm,maybetodayIshallreleasesnippetsofshockinginformationaboutGustoJanuaryinarandomyetcrypticorder?
“Shelefthimonhisbirthday?”Irepeated.
“Hedidn’ttellyouthatwaswhathadgottenabeeinhisbonnetthatnightyoumovedin?”shesaid.“Now,thatreallydoessurpriseme.Ifhe’dtoldyouhe’dbeenthinkingabouthisdivorce,ofcourseitwould’veexplainedhowrudehewastoyou.”
“Divorce,”Isaid,mywholebodygoingcold.“Itwasabout…hisdivorce.”
Guswasdivorced.
Gushadbeenmarried
Peteshifteduncomfortably.“I’msurprisedhedidn’ttellyou.Hefeltsobadaboutbeingrude.”
Mybrainfeltlikeatopspinninginmyskull.Itdidn’tmakesense.None.Guscouldn’thavebeenmarried.Hedidn’tevendate.Thestoreseemedtowobblearoundme.
“Ididn’tmeantoupsetyou,”Petesaid.“Ionlythoughtitmightexplain—”
“No,it’sfine,”Isaid,andthenitwashappeningagain:theword-spilling.ThefeelingthatI’dheldeverythinginamomenttoolongandnowhadnochoiceoverhowmuchIletout.“I’mprobablyoverreacting.Ijust…Thisyear’sbeenweirdforme.Like,inmymindmarriagehasalwaysbeenthissacredthing,youknow?Liketheepitomeoflove,thekindthatcanweatheranything.AndIhatethinkingsomebadexperiencesjustifypeopleshittingontheentireconcept.”
Gusshittingontheconcept.Callingrelationshipssadomasochisticwithouteventellingmehe’dbeenmarried.Almostmakingmefeelstupidforwantingandbelievinginlastinglove,justbecausehisownattempthadn’tworked.Hidingthatattemptfromme.
Butevenso,whydidIcarewhathethought?Ishouldn’tneedeveryonetobelieveinorwantthethingsIbelievedinandwanted.
Whenitcamedowntoit,IresentedthefactthatsomepartofhimmustthinkIwasstupidforstillbelievinginsomethingmyownfatherhaddisproven.Andbeyondthat,Iresentedmyselffornotlettinggoofit.ForstillwantingthatloveI’dalwayspicturedformyself.
Andasmall,stupidpartofmeevenresentedthatGushadsecretlylovedsomeoneenoughtomarryher,whileonebriefmake-outsessionwithmehadapparentlybeenenoughtomakehimrelocatetoAntarcticawithoutsomuchasaSeeya!
“Idon’tknow,”Isaid,shakingmyhead.“Doesthatmakesense?”
“Ofcourseitdoes.”Petesqueezedmyarm.
Ihadafeelingshewouldhavesaidthatevenifitdidn’t.LikemaybeshejustknewitwaswhatIneededtohearrightthen.16ThePorchFurniture
THURSDAYATNOON,Guswasbackathiskitchentable,lookingless“sexilydisheveled”andmorelikehe’dbeendraggedbehindadumptruckwithaloosetailgate.Hesmiledandwaved,andIreturnedthegesture,despitethesickroilinginmystomach.
Hescribbledanote:SORRYI’VEBEENMIATHISWEEK.
Iwishedthathadn’treplacedthenauseawiththezero-gravityrushofarollercoasterloop.Ilookedaround:Ihadn’tbroughtmynotebookintoday.Iwentintothebedroomandgrabbedit,writing,NOTHINGTOBESORRYABOUTasIambledbackintotheroom.Iheldthenotealoft.Gus’ssmilewavered.Henodded,thenjerkedhisattentionbacktohislaptop.
ItwashardertofocusonwritingnowthathewasbackbutIdidmybest.Iwasaboutaquarterofthewaythroughthebook,andIneededtokeepup.
Aroundfive,I(discreetly,atleastIhoped)watchedGusgetupandmovearoundthekitchen,makingsomesemblanceofameal.Whenhe’dfinished,hesatbackdownathiscomputer.Atabouteightthirty,helookedupatmeandtippedhisheadtowardthedeck.Thishadbeenoursignal,asclosetoaninvitationaseitherofusgotbeforewemoseyedontoourrespectivedecksandnotquitehungoutatnight.
Nowthatseemedlikeablatantlyobviousmetaphor—hiskeepingaliteralgulfbetweenus,myreadilymeetinghimeachnight.NowonderI’dgottensoconfused.He’dbeenkeepingcarefulboundariesandI’dbeenignoringthem.Iwassobadatthis,sounpreparedtofindmyselfdrawntosomeonecompletelyemotionallyunavailable.
IshookmyheadtoGus’sinvitation,thenaddedawrittennotetomypass:SORRY—TOOMUCHTODO.ANYAONMYASS.
Gusnoddedunderstanding.Hestood,mouthingsomethingalongthelinesofIfyouchangeyourmind…thendisappearedfromsightforamomentandreappearedonhisdeck.
Hewalkedtoitsfarthestpointandleanedacrosstherailing.Thebreezeflutteredthroughhisshirt,liftinghisleftsleeveupagainstthebackofhisarm.AtfirstIthoughthe’dgottenanewtattoo—alargeblackcircle,solidlyfilledin—butthenIrealizeditwasexactlywherehisM?biusstriphadbeen,onlythathadbeenblottedoutentirelysinceIlastspottedit.Hestayedouttherelikethatuntilthesunhadgonedownandnightcloakedeverythinginrichblues,thefirefliescomingtolifearoundhim,amilliontinynight-lightsswitchedonbyacosmichand.
Heglancedoverhisshouldertowardmydeckdoors,andIlookedsharplytowardmyscreen,typingthewordsPRETENDINGTOBEBUSY,VERYBUSYANDFOCUSEDtocompletetheillusion.
Actually,I’dbeenatmycomputerfornearlytwelvehoursandI’donlytypedathousandnewwords.ThoughI’dmanagedtoopenfourteentabsonmywebbrowser,includingtwoseparateFacebooktabs.
Ineededtogetoutofthehouse.WhenGuslookedawayagain,Isneakedfromthetableouttothefrontporch.Theairwasdensewithhumidity,butnotuncomfortablyhot.Iperchedonthewickercouchandsurveyedthehousesacrossthestreet.Ihadn’tspentmuchtimeouthere,sincethewaterwasbehindGus’sandmysideofthestreet,butthecottagesanddollhousesontheothersidewerecuteandcolorful,everyporchpackedwithitsownvariationonthelawnfurnituretheme.NonewassohomeyoreclecticasthesetSonyahadchosen.
IfI’dhadnonegativetiestothisfurniture,I’dbesadtohavetosellit,butIfigurednowwasasgoodatimeasany.It’dbeonelessthingtoworryaboutlater.Istoodandflickedontheporchlight,snappingpicturesofeachindividualpiece,andsomeofthewholeset,thenpulledupcraigslistonmyphone.
Istaredatitforamoment,thenexitedthebrowserandopenedmyemail.IcouldstillseetheboldedwordsfromSonya’slastmessage.Ihadn’tdeletedanyofthem,butIdidn’twanttoreadthemeither.Iopenedanewemailandaddressedittoher.
SUBJECT:Porchfurniture.
Hi,
I’mbeginningtosortoutthingsatthehouse.Didyouwantthefurnitureontheporch,orshouldIsellit?
Itriedoutthreeseparatesignaturesbutnoneseemedright.Intheend,IdecidednottoleavesomuchasaJbehind.IhitSEND
Thatwasit.AlltheemotionallaborIhadinmefortheday.SoIwashedmyface,brushedmyteeth,andclimbedintobed,whereIwatchedVeronicaMarsuntilthesuncameup.
ONFRIDAY,THEknockingonmydoorcamehoursearlierthanI’dexpected.Itwastwothirtyintheafternoon,andasI’dfallenasleepatfivethatmorning,I’donlybeenawakeforacoupleofhoursbythen.
Igrabbedmyrobeoffthecouchandpulleditovermyoutfit(boxersstolenfromJacquesandmyworn-outDavidBowieshirtminusabra).IdrewbackthelinencurtainthatcoveredthewindowsetintothedoorandsawGuspacingontheporch,hishandslockedbehindhisheadandpullingitdown,asifstretchinghisneck.
Hestopped,wide-eyed,andspuntowardmeasIopenedthedoor.
“What’swrong?”Iasked.Inthatmoment,IsawthepartofhisgenepoolthatoverlappedwithPete’sinthewaythathisexpressionshiftedfromconfusiontosurprise.
Heshookhisheadquickly.“Dave’shere.”
“Dave?”Isaid.“Daveasin…Dave?OfOliveGardenfame?”
“It’sdefinitelynotWendy’sDave,”Gusconfirmed.“Hecalledmeaminuteagoandsaidhewasintown.Hedroveoutonanimpulse,Iguess—he’sinmyhouserightnow.Canyoucomeover?”
“Now?”Isaiddumbly.
“Yes,January!Now!Becausehe’sinmyhouse!Now!”
“Yes,”Isaid.“Justletmegetdressed.”
Ishutthedoorandranbacktothebedroom.I’dfallenbehindonlaundrythisweek.TheonlycleanthingIhadwasthestupidblackdress.SonaturallyIworeadirtyT-shirtandapairofjeans.
Gus’sdoorwasunlocked,andIletmyselfinwithoutthinking.WhenIsteppedinside,itallstruckme.We’dbeenfriendsalmostamonthandIwasfinallyinthehouseI’dpeeredcuriouslyintothatfirstnight.Iwastuckedbetweenthosedarkshelves,faroverstuffedwithbooks,Gus’ssmokyincensesmellintheair.Thespacewaslived-in—booksleftopenontables,stacksofmailontopofanthologiesandliteraryjournals,amughereorthereonacoaster—butcomparedtohisusuallevelofsloppiness,theroomwasmeticulouslyneat.
“January?”Thenarrowhallthatveeredstraightintothekitchenseemedtoswallowhisvoice.“We’reinhere.”
Ifolloweditasifitwerebreadcrumbsleadingtosomefantasticalplace.Thatoratrap.
Istoppedinthekitchen,amirrorimageofmine:ontheleftabreakfastnook,wherethetableI’dseenGussitbehindsooftenwaspushedalmostflushtothewindow,andthecountersandcupboardsontheright.Guswavedatmefromthenextroomover,alittleoffice.
Iwantedtotakemytime,toexamineeveryinchofthishousefullofsecrets,butGuswaswatchingmeinthatfocusedwaythatmadeitseemlikehemightbereadingmythoughts,soIhurriedintotheoffice.Aminimalistdesk,allsleekScandinavianlinesandutterlyfreeofclutter,waspushedagainstthebackwindow.
WhereGus’shousesat,hisdeckoverlookedthewoods,butthetreesfellawaybeforethefurthestrightsideofthebuilding,andheretheviewofthebeachwasunobstructed,thesilverylightfilteringthroughtheclouds,bouncingalongthetopsofthewaveslikeskippedstones.
DaveworearedT-shirtandamesh-backedhat.Bagshungunderhiseyes,givinghimthelookofasleepySaintBernard.HetookhishatoffandstoodasIenteredtheroombutdidn’tstretchouthishand,whichgavemethedisorientingfeelingofhavingwanderedintoaJaneAustennovel.
“Hi,”Isaid.“I’mJanuary.”
“Pleasure,”Davesaidwithanod.Therewasadeskchair(turnedawayfromthedesksoGuscouldfacetherestofthetinyroom),anarmchairwedgedintothecorner(whichDavehadevacuatedwhenhestood),andakitchenchairGushadclearlybroughtinespeciallyfortheoccasion.Davesatbackinthatone,gesturingformetotakethearmchair
“Thanks.”Isat,insertingmyselfintothetriangleofchairsandknees.“Andthankssomuchfortalkingtous.”
Daveputhishatbackonandswiveledthebillanxiously.“Iwasn’treadybefore.Sorryforwastingyouall’stime,drivingoutmyway.Feelawfullybad.”
“Noneed,”Gusassuredhim.“Weknowhowsensitiveallthisis.”
Henodded.“Andmysobriety—IjustwantedtobesureIcouldhandleit.Iwenttoameetingthatnight—whenweweresupposedtomeetattheOliveGarden,that’swhereIwas.”
“Totallyunderstandable,”Gussaid.“Thisisjustabook.You’reaperson.”
Justabook.ThephrasecaughtmeoffguardcomingfromGus’smouth.Gus“BookswithHappyEndingsAreDishonest”Everett.Gus“DrinkingtheGoddamnLiteraryKool-Aid”Everetthadsaidthewords“justabook,”andforsomereasonthatunraveledmeabit.
Gushasbeenmarried.
Hecaughtmestaring.Ilookedaway.
“That’sjustit,”Davesaid.“It’sabook.It’sachancetotellastorythatmighthelppeoplelikeme.”
ThecornerofGus’smouthtwisteduncomfortably.Istillhadn’treadmynewcopyofTheRevelatories—Iwasafraidofhowitmightdimorexacerbatemycrushonhim—butfromeverythingGushadsaid,Iknewhewasn’twritingtosavelivessomuchastounderstandwhathaddestroyedthem.
Gus’srom-comwassupposedtobedifferent,butIcouldn’timaginehimusinganythingDavehadsaidtotellastorywithameet-cuteandaHappilyEverAfter.Thecontentsofthisinterviewwouldbefarmoreathomeinhisnextliterarymasterpiece.
Thenagain,thiswasGus.Whenwe’dstarteddownthispath,I’dthoughtI’dbewritingbullshit,justmimickingwhatI’dseenotherpeopledo,butreally,mynewprojectwasasquintessentiallymeasanythingelseI’dwritten;maybeGus’srom-comreallywouldhaveaplacelikeNewEdenasabackdrop,allkindsofhorriblethingshappeningbetweenkissesandprofessionsoflove.
Maybehewasfinallygoingtogivesomeonethehappyendingtheydeserved,inabookaboutacult.
OrmaybeDavewasbarkingupthewrongtree.
“Itwillbehonest,”Gustoldhim.“Butitwon’tbeNewEden.Itwon’tbeyou.Itwill—hopefully—beaplaceyoucanimagineexisting,charactersyoubelievecouldbereal.”Hepaused,thinking.“Andifwe’relucky,maybeitwillhelpsomeone.Tofeelknownandunderstood,liketheirstorymatters.”
GusglancedatmesofastIalmostmissedit.MystomachsomersaultedasIrealizedhewasquotingme,somethingI’dsaidthatnightwe’dmadeourdeal,andIdidn’tthinkhewasteasingme.Ithoughthemeantit.
“Butevenifnot,”hewenton,focusingonDave,“justknowingyoutolditmighthelpyou.”
Davepulledatastraythreadpeelingoutoftheholeinthekneeofhisjeans.“Iknowthat.Ijusthadtomakesuremymaunderstood.Shestillfeelsbad.Likeshecould’vemaybetalkedmydadoutofstaying,gottenhimtoleavewithus.He’dstillbealive,shethinks.”
“Andyou?”Gusasked.
Davescruncheduphislips.“Doyoubelieveinfate,Augustus?”
Gushidhisgrimaceatthename.“Ithinksomethingsare…inevitable.”
Daveslumpedforward,tuggedonhishatbill.“Usedtosleepwalkasakid.Realbadhabit.Scarystuff.Once,beforewewenttoNewEden,mymomfoundmestandingattheedgeofourapartment’spoolwithabutterknifeinmyhand.Naked.Ididn’tevensleepnaked.
“TwoweeksbeforewejoinedNewEden,we’dbeenatapark,justMaandme,whenastormstartedup.Shealwayslikedtherain,sowestayedouttoolong.Thundergotgoing.Big,scaryclashes.Sowestartedrunninghome.Therewasachain-linkfencearoundthepark,andwhenwereachedit,sheyelledformetowait.Shewasn’tsurehowlightningworkedbutshefigureditwasabadideatolethersix-year-oldgrabafistfulofmetal.Shewrappedherhandinhershirtandopenedthegateforme.
“Wegotallthewayhome.Wewereonthefrontstepswhenithappened.Acracklikeagiantaxhadhittheworld.HonesttoGod,IthoughtthesunwascrashingintoEarth.That’showbrightthelightwas.”
“Whatlight?”Gussaid.
“Theboltoflightningthathitme,”Davesaid.“Weweren’treligiouspeople,Augustus.Especiallynotmydad.ButthatscaredMa.Shedecidedtomakeachange.Wewenttochurchthatnextweek—thestrictestoneshecouldfind—andonourwayout,someonehandedheraflier.NEWEDEN,itsaid.Godisinvitingyoutoanewbeginning.Willyouanswer?”
Guswaswritingnotes,noddingashewent.“Soshetookthatasasign?”
“ShethoughtGodhadsavedmylife,”Davesaid.“Justtogetherattention.Aweeklaterweweremovingintothecompound,andDadwentalongwithit.Hedidn’tbelieve,butheconsideredachild’s‘spiritualupbringing’tobethejobofthemother.Idon’tknowwhatgothim.Whatchangedhismind.ButoverthenexttwoyearshegotindeeperthanMaeverhad.Andthen,onenight,shewokeupinourtrailerwithabadfeeling.TherewasastormragingoutsideandshepeekedherheadintothelivingroomwhereIsleptandthefold-outwasempty,justabunchofrumpledblankets.
“Shetriedtowakemydad,buthesleptlikearock.Soshewentoutintothestorm.Foundmestandingthere,nakedascanbe,inthemiddleofthewoods,lightningtouchingdownaroundmelikefallingfireworks.Andyouknowwhathappenednext?”
Davelookedatme,paused.“Ithitthetrailer.Thewholethingwentupinflames.ThatwasthefirstfireatNewEden,anditwasn’tabadone,notliketheonethatkilledmydad.Theygotthatfirstoneoutbeforeitcoulddomuchdamage.Butmymomtookmeoutoftherethenextday.”
“Shetookitasanothersign?”Gusconfirmed.
“See,here’sthething,”Davesaid.“Mymombelievesinfate,indestiny—inthedivinehandofGod.Butnotsomuchthatthere’snoroomtoblameherselfforwhathappenedtomydad.Shewastheonewhobroughtusthere.Andshewastheonewhotookmeout.Shedidn’ttellhim,becausesheknewhewasintoodeep.Hewouldn’thavejustrefusedtoleave—hewould’veatonedforus.”
“Atoned?”Isaid.
“Lingo,”Daveexplained.“It’saconfessiononsomeoneelse’sbehalf.Theydidn’twantustothinkofitasreporting,keepingtabsonyourneighbors.Itwas‘atoning.’Itwasmakingtheselflesssacrificeofputtingawedgeinyourownrelationshipwithapersoninordertosavethemfromsin.DeepdownsheknewthatifshetoldDadshewantedout,webothwould’vebeenpunished.Shewould’vegottenatleasttwoweeksinisolation.Iwould’vebeenbeaten,thenstuckwithanotherfamilyuntilher‘waveringfaithhadbeenrestored.’Theysaidtheydidn’tliketheviolence.Thatitwastheirownsacrificetodisciplineusoutoflove.Butyoucouldalwaystelltheoneswhodid.
“Sheknewallthat.Sofatedornot,mymomsawthefuture.Shecouldn’thavesavedhim.Butshedidwhatshehadtodotosaveme.”
Guswassilent,thoughtful.Lostinthought,helookedsuddenlyyounger,alittlesofter.Ifeltarushofangerlowinmystomach.Whydidn’tsomeonesaveyou?Ithought.Whydidn’tsomeonescoopyouupandrunyououtinthemiddleofthenight?
Iknewitwascomplicated.Iknewtheremust’vebeenreasons,butitstillsentapangthroughme.Itwasn’tthestoryIwould’vewrittenforhim.Notatall.
GUSSHUTTHEdoorbehindDavewithaquietclickandturnedtofaceme.Foramomentwesaidnothing,bothexhaustedfromthefour-hourinterview.Wejustlookedateachother.
Heleanedagainstthedoor.“Hey,”hesaidfinally.
“Hey,”Ianswered.
Awispofsmilesneakedupthecornerofhismouth.“It’sgoodtoseeyou.”
“Yeah.”Ishiftedbetweenmyfeet.“Youtoo.”
Hestraightenedandwenttowardthewalnutsideboardinthecorner,pullingtwocrystalhighballglassesfrombelowandsettingthembesidethecarefularrangementofdarkliquorbottles.“Wantadrink?”
OfcourseIwantedadrink.I’djustheardaharrowingtaleofachildbeatenforimaginarycrimes,andasidefromthat,IwasalonewithGusforthefirsttimesinceourkiss.Evenfromacrosstheroom,theheatinthehousefeltlikeastand-inforourtension.Forthethornyjumbleoffeelingstodayhadstirredupinme.Angerwithallthebrokenparents,heartachethattheytoomust’vefeltlikekids—helpless,unsurehowtomaketherightdecisions,terrifiedofmakingthewrongones.IfeltsickforDaveandwhathe’dbeenthrough,sadformymotherandhowlostIknewshemustfeelwithoutDad,andstill,evenwithallthat,beinginthesameroomasGusmademefeelalittlewarmandheavy,likefromacrosstheroomhewasstillaphysicalforcepressingintome.
Iheardthesoftclinkoficeagainsttheglasses.(Hekepticeinabucketonatraywithhisliquor?HowMoneyedConnecticutianofhim.)
IwantedanswersaboutPete,andaboutGus’sparentsandhismarriage,butthosewerethesortsoftidbitsapersonhadtoofferup,andGushadn’t.Hehadn’tevenletmeintohishouseuntiloneofhisresearchsubjectshadshownuphereunannounced.Notthathe’dbeeninmyhouseeither,butmyhousewasn’tapartofme.Itwasn’tevenreallymine—itwasjustbaggage.Gus’shousewashishome
AndDavehadbeeninsidebeforeIhad
Gusturnedthentolookatme,browfurrowed.
“Yougotatattoo.”ItwasthefirstthingIcouldthinktosaywhenwe’dbeensilenttoolong.
Hiseyesdartedtowardhisarm.“Idid.”
Thatwasit.Noexplanation,noinformationaboutwherehe’dbeen.Iwaswelcometosithere,tohaveadrinkwithhimandtalkaboutbooksandmeaninglessmemoriesofgirlspukingonthebacksofourheads,butthatwasit.
Myheartsank.Ididn’twantthat,notnowthatI’dhadglimpsesofmore.IfIwantedcasual,surface-levelchitchatandconversationallandmines,I’dcallmymom.Withhim,Iwantedmore.ItwaswhoIwas.
“Scotch?”Gusasked.
“Ididn’tgetmuchdonetoday.Ishouldgetbacktoit.”
“Yeah.”Hestartednodding,slowly,distractedly.“Yeah,okay.Tomorrowthen.”
“Tomorrow,”Isaid.
ForonceIwasdreadingplanningourSaturdaynight.Helefttheglassesonthesideboardandcametoopenthedoorforme.Isteppedontotheporchbuthesitatedatthesoundofmyownname.WhenIlookedback,hislefttemplewasrestingagainstthedoorjamb.
Hewasalwaysleaningonsomething,likehecouldn’tbeartoholdallhisownweightuprightformorethanasecondortwo.Helounged,hesprawled,hehunchedandreclined.Heneversimplystoodorsat.Incollege,I’dthoughthewaslazyabouteverythingexceptwriting.NowIwonderedifhewassimplytired,iflifehadbeatenhimintoapermanentslouch,foldedhimoverhimselfsonoonecouldgetatthatsoftcenter,thekidwhodreamedofrunningawayontrainsandlivinginthebranchesofaredwood.
“Yeah?”Isaid.
“It’sgoodtoseeyou,”hesaid.
“Yousaidthatalready.”
“Yeah,”hereplied.“Idid.”
Ifoughtasmile,stifledaflutterinmystomach.Asmileandaflutterweren’tenoughforme.Iwasdonewithsecretsandlies,nomatterhowpretty.“Goodnight,Gus.”17TheDance
TUXTONIGHT?GUSwroteatnoononSaturday.
AnxietycreptupeverytimeIthoughtaboutbeingaloneinthecarwithhim,butI’dalsohadtonightplannedsincelastSaturday,andIwasn’treadytobowoutofourdeal,notwhenIwasfinallywritingforthefirsttimeinmonths.OH,DEFINITELY,Iwroteback.
SERIOUSLY?Gusasked.
NO,Iwrote.DOYOUHAVECOWBOYBOOTS?
WHATDOYOUTHINK?Gussaid.FROMEVERYTHINGYOUKNOWABOUTME,TAKEAWILDGUESSWHETHERIOWNCOWBOYBOOTS.
Istaredattheblankpagethenwentforit:YOU’REAMANOFMANYSECRETS.YOUCOULDHAVEAWHOLECLOSETFULLOFTEN-GALLONHATS.ANDIFYOUDO,WEARONE.6PM.
WhenGusappearedatmydoorthatnight,hewaswearinghisusualuniform,plusawrinklyblackbutton-up.Hishairwassweptuphisforeheadinawaythatsuggestedithadbeenforcedthereviahimanxiouslyrunninghishandthroughitwhilehewrote.“Nohat?”Isaid.
“Nohat.”Hepulledhisotherhandfrombehindhisback.Hewasholdingtwoflasks,thethin,foldablekindyoucouldtuckunderyourclothes.“ButIbroughttheseincaseyou’retakingmetoaTexanchurchservice.”
Icrouchedbythefrontdoor,tuggingmyembroideredanklebootson.“Andonceagain,yourevealthatyouknowmuchmoreaboutromancethanyou’vepreviouslyleton.”
EvenasIsaidit,mystomachclenched.
Gushasbeenmarried.
Gusisdivorced.
Thatwaswhyhewassosurelovecouldneverlast,andhe’dtoldmenoneofthesekeydetails,becausehehadn’treallyletmein.
Ifmycommentremindedhimofanyofthat,hedidn’tleton.“Justsoyouknow,”hesaid,“ifIactuallyhavetowearacowboyhatatsomepointtonight,Iwillprobablydie.”
“Cowboyhatallergy.”Igrabbedmykeysfromthetable.“Gotit.Let’sgo.”
Thisdatewould’vebeenperfect,ifithadbeenadate.
TheparkinglotoftheBlackCatSaloonwasjammedandtherough-hewninteriorwasjustaspacked.“Alotofflannel,”Gusmusedaswemadeourwayin.
“Whatdoyouexpectonline-dancingnight,Gus?”
“You’rekidding,right?”Gussaid,freezing.Ishookmyhead.“ThishasbeenanexactrecurringnightmareI’monlyjustrealizingwasactuallyapremonition.”
Onthelowstageatthefrontofthebarnlikeroom,thebandpickedupagain,andacrushofbodiesmovedpastonourleft,knockingmeintohim.Hecaughtmearoundtheribcageandrightedmeasthegrouppushedtowardthedancefloor.“Yougood?”heshoutedoverthemusic,hishandsstillonmyribs.
Myfacewashot,mystomachflippingtraitorously.“Fine.”
HeleanedinsoIcouldhearhim.“Thisseemslikeadangerousenvironmentforsomeoneyoursize.Maybeweshouldleaveandgo…literallyanywhereelse.”
Asheeasedbacktolookmeintheface,Igrinnedandshookmyhead.“Noway.Thelessondoesn’tevenstartforanothertenminutes.”
Hishandsslidoffme,leavingpulsingpointsbehindonmyskin.“IguessIsurvivedMegRyan.”
“Barely,”Iteased,thenblushedasflashesofmemorysearedacrossmymind.Gus’smouthtippingmineopen.Gus’steethonmyclavicle.Gus’shandstighteningagainstmyhips,histhumbscrapingoverthejutofbone.
Themomentstretchedoutbetweenus.Orrather,itseemedtotightenbetweenus,andsincewedidn’tmoveanycloser,theairgrewtaut.Thesongwaswindingdownnowandalankymanwithahorseyfaceboundedontothestagewithamicrophone,summoningbeginnerstothefloorforthenextsong.
IgrabbedGus’swristandcutapaththroughthecrowdtothedancefloor.Foronce,hischeekswereflushed,hisforeheaddentedwithworriedwrinkles.“Youhonestlyhavetowritemeintoyourwillforthis,”hesaid.
“Youmightnotwanttotalkthroughtheinstructions,”Ireplied,tippingmyheadtowardthehorse-facedcaller,whowasusingavolunteerfromthecrowdtodemonstrateafewkeymoves,allwhiletalkingwiththespeedofanauctioneer.“Ihaveafeelingthisguywon’tberepeatingmuch.”
“Yourlastwillandtestament,January,”Guswhisperedfiercely.
“AndtoGusEverett,”Iwhisperedback,“aclosetfulloften-gallonhats!”
Hislaughcrackledlikepoppingoil.Ithoughtofitssoundagainstmyearthatnightattheparty.Wehadn’tsaidanythingaswedancedinthatslickbasement,notasingleword,buthe’dlaughedagainstmyearandI’dknown,oratleastsuspected,thatitwasbecausehewasdimlyawarethatweshouldhavebeenembarrassedtobeallovereachotherlikethat.Weshouldhavebeenbutthereweremorepressingfeelingstobefeltthatnight.Justlikeatthedrive-in.
HeatfilledmyabdomenandIsuppressedthethought.
Onstage,thefiddlestartedup,andsoonthewholebandwasbouncingthroughthenotes.Theexpertsswarmedthefloor,fillinginthegapsbetweentheanxiouslywaitingbeginners,ofwhomwemadeupatleast20percent.Guspushedincloseatmyside,unwillingtobeseparatedfromthesentientsafetyblanketI’dbecomeassoonaswe’dwalkedthroughthemetaldoubledoors,andthecallershoutedintothemicrophone,“Youallready?Herewego!”
Athisfirstcommand,thecrowdjostledtotheright,carryingGusandmewithit.Hesnatchedmyhandasthemassofbootsandheelsreverseddirection.IsquealedasGusjerkedmeoutofthepathofamanonamissiontograpevinewhetheritmeantstompingonmyfootornot.
Therewerenosunglyrics,justthecaller’sinstructionswiththeirstrange,auctioneerrhythmandthesoundofshoesscuffingalongthefloor.IeruptedintolaughterasGuswentforwardinsteadofback,elicitinganastyglarefromthehair-sprayedblondehecollidedwith.“Sorry,”heshoutedoverthemusic,holdinguphishandsinsurrender,onlytogetbumpedintoherpinklace–coveredchestasthecrowdshiftedoncemore.
“Oh,God,”hesaid,stumblingback.“Sorry,I—”
“Godhasnothingtodowithit!”thewomansnapped,diggingherhandsintoherhips.
“Sorry,”Iinterceded,grabbingGusbythehand.“Can’ttakehimanywhere.”
“Me?”hecried,halflaughing.“Youknockedmeinto—”
Ipulledhimthroughthecrowdtothefarsideofthedancefloor.WhenIlookedovermyshoulder,thewomanhadresumedherboot-scoot-boogying,faceasstonyasasarcophagus’s.
“ShouldIgivehermynumber?”Gusteased,mouthclosetomyear.
“Ithinkshe’dratherhaveyourinsurancecard.”
“Oragoodpolicesketch.”
“Oracrowbar,”Ishotback.
“Okay.”Gus’ssmilespreadenoughforalaughtoslipout.“That’senoughfromyou.You’rejustlookingforanexcusenottodance.”
“I’mjustlookingforanexcuse?”Isaid.“Yougrabbedthatwoman’sboobstotrytogetkickedoutofhere.”
“Noway.”Heshookhishead,caughtmyarm,andtuggedmealongasheclumsilyfellbackintothesteps.“I’minthisforthelonghaulnow.You’dbetterclearyourSaturdayschedulesfromhereuntileternity.”
Ilaughed,trippingalongwithhim,butmystomachwasfightingaseriesofconcurrentrisesanddips.Ididn’twanttofeelthesethings.Itwasn’tfunanymore,nowthatIwasthinkingitallthrough,whereitwouldendup—withmeattachedandjealousandhimhavingsharedaboutasmuchabouthislifewithmeasyoumightwithahairdresser.
Butthenhewouldsaythingslikethat,ClearyourSaturdayschedulesfromhereuntileternity.HewouldgrabmearoundthewaisttokeepmefromsmashingintoasupportbeamIhadn’tnoticedinmydancingfuguestate.Laughing,hewouldtwirlmeintohim,andspinmearoundwhiletherestofthecrowdwaswalkingtheirfeetintotheirbodiesandbackout,farwiderthantheirhips,thumbshookedintorealandimaginedbeltloops.
ThiswasadifferentGusthanI’dseen(Theonewho’dplayedsoccer?TheGuswhoansweredonethirdofhisaunt’sphonecalls?TheGuswho’dbeenmarriedanddivorced?),andIwasn’tsurewhattomakeofitoritssuddenappearance.
Somethinghadchangedinhim,again,andhewas(whetherintentionallyornot)lettingitshow.Heseemedsomehowlighterthanhehad,lesstired.Hewasbeingwinsomeandflirty,whichonlymadememorefrustratedafterthepastweek.
“Weneedashot,”hesaid.
“Okay,”Iagreed.MaybeashotwouldtakethestrangeedgeIwasfeelingoff.Weswambacktothebarandhenudgedasideapoolofpeanutsstillintheirshellstoordertwodoublesofwhiskey.“Cheers,”hesaid,liftinghis.
“Towhat?”Iasked.
Hesmirked.“Toyourhappyendings.”
I’dthoughtwewerefriends,thatherespectedme,andnowIfeltlikehewascallingmeafairyprincessalloveragain,laughingtohimselfabouthownaiveandsillymyworldviewwas,holdinghisfailedmarriagelikeasecrettrumpcardthatproved,onceagain,heknewmorethanme.Afierce,angryfuselitinmystomach,andIthrewbackthewhiskeywithoutmeetinghisliftedshot.Gusseemedtothinkitwasanoversight.HewasstilldowninghiswhiskeyasIheadedbackouttothedancefloor.
Ihadtoadmittherewassomethingsingularlyhilariousaboutlinedancingangrily,butthatdidn’tstopmefromdoingit.Wefinishedtwomoresongs,tooktwomoreshots.
Whenwewentbackoutforthefourthsong—amorecomplexdancefortheproficienttoenjoywhilethecallerusedthetoiletandrestedhisvocalcords—wehadnohopeofkeepingupwiththechoreography,evenifwehadn’tbeentipsybythen.Duringadoubleturntotheright,myshoecaughtonanunevenfloorboardandGusgrabbedmebythewaisttokeepmefromgoingdown.Hislaughterfadedwhenhesawmyface,andheleaned(ofcourse)againstthesupportbeam,mynemesisfromearlier,drawingmeintowardhimbymyhips.HishandburnedthroughmyjeansintomyskinandIfoughttokeepaclearheadasheheldmelikethat.“Hey,”hemurmured,droppinghismouthtowardmyearsoIcouldhearhimoverthemusic.“What’swrong?”
Whatwaswrongwashisthumbstwirlingcirclesonmyhips,hiswhiskeybreathagainstthecornerofmymouth,andhowstupidIfeltforitseffectonme.Iwasnaive.
I’dalwaystrustedmyparents,neversensedthemissingpiecesbetweenJacquesandme,andnowI’dstartedgettingemotionallyattachedtosomeonewho’ddoneeverythinghecouldtoconvincemenotto.
Isteppedbackfromhim.Imeanttosay,IthinkIneedtogohome,ormaybeI’mnotfeelingwell
ButI’dneverbeengoodathidinghowIwasfeeling,especiallythispastyear.
Ididn’tsayanything.Ijustranforthedoor.
IburstintothecoolairoftheparkinglotandbeelinedtowardtheKia.Icouldhearhimshoutingmynameashefollowed,butIwastooembarrassed,frustrated,andIdidn’tknowwhatelse,toturnaround.
“January?”Gussaidagain,joggingtowardme.
“I’mfine.”Idugformykeysinmypocket.“Ijust—Ineedtogohome.I’mnot—Idon’t…”Itrailedoff,fumblingthekeyagainstthelock.
“Wecan’tgoanywhereuntilwe’vesoberedup,”hepointedout.
“ThenI’lljustsitinthecaruntilthen.”Myhandswereshakingandthekeyglancedoffthelockagain.
“Here.Letme.”Gustookitfrommeandslippeditin,unlockingthedriver’ssidedoor,buthedidn’tstepawaytoletmeopenit.
“Thanks,”Isaidwithoutlookingathim.
Iflinchedashishandbrushedatmyface,swipinghairfrommycheek.Hetuckeditbehindmyear.“Whateveritis,youcantellme.”
NowIlookedupathim,ignoringtheheavyflip-flopofmystomachasImethiseyes.“Why?”
Hiseyebrowslifted.“Whywhat?”
“WhycanItellyou?”Isaid.“WhywouldItellyouanything?”
Hismouthpressedclosed.Themuscleinhisjawleapt.“Whatisthis?WhatdidIdo?”
“Nothing.”Iturnedtowardthecar,butGus’sbodystillblockedthedoor.“Move,Gus.”
“Thisisn’tfair,”hesaid.“You’remadatmeandIcan’teventrytofixit?WhatcouldIhavepossibly—”
“I’mnotmadatyou,”Isaid.
“Youare,”heargued.Itriedagaintoopenthedoor.Thistimehemovedasidetoletme.“Pleasetellme,January.”
“I’mnot,”Iinsisted,voiceshakingdangerously.“I’mnotmadatyou.We’renotevencloseenoughforthat.I’mjustyourcasualacquaintance.It’snotlikewe’refriends.”
Twingroovesrosefromtheinsidesofhiseyebrowsandhiscrookedmouthtwisted.“Please,”hesaid,almostoutofbreath.“Don’tdothis.”
“Dowhat?”Idemanded.
Hethrewhisarmsouttohissides.“Idon’tknow!”hesaid.“Whateverthisis.”
“HowstupiddoyouthinkIam?”
“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”hedemanded.
“IguessIshouldn’tbesurprisedyoudon’ttellmeanything,”Isaid.“It’snotlikeyourespectmeormyopinions.”
“OfcourseIrespectyou.”
“Iknowyouweremarried,”Iblurted.“Iknowyouweremarriedandthatyousplituponyourbirthday,andnotonlydidyounottellmeanyofthat,butyoulistenedtomespillmygutsaboutwhyIdowhatIdoandwhatitallmeanstome,and—andtalkaboutmydadandwhathedid—andyousatthere,onyoursmuglittlehighhorse—”
Gusgaveanexasperatedlaugh.“‘Littlehighhorse’?”
“—thinkingIwasstupidornaive—”
“OfcourseIdon’t—”
“—keepingyourownfailedmarriageasecret,justlikeeverythingelseinyourlife,soyoucanlookdownonalltheclichépeoplelikemewhostillbelieve—”
“Stop,”hesnapped.
“—whileyou—”
“Stop.”Hejerkedbackfromme,walkeddownthelengthofthecar,thenturnedback,faceangry.“Youdon’tknowme,January.”
Ilaughedhumorlessly.“I’maware.”
“No.”Heshookhishead,stormedbacktowardme,andstoppednomorethansixinchesaway.“Youthinkmymarriageisajoketome?Iwasmarriedtwoyears.Twoyearsbeforemywifeleftmeforthebestmanatourwedding.How’sthatforcliché?Iknowgoldfishthatlivedlongerthanthat.Ididn’tevenwantthedivorce.Iwould’vestayedwithher,evenaftertheaffair,butguesswhat,January?Happyendingsdon’thappentoeveryone.There’snothingyoucandotomakesomeonekeeplovingyou.
“Believeitornot,Idon’tjustsitthroughhoursofconversationswithyousilentlyjudgingyou.Andifittakesmeawhiletotellyouthingslike‘Hey,mywifeleftmeformycollegeroommate,’maybeithasnothingtodowithyou,okay?Maybeit’sbecauseIdon’tlikesayingthatsentencealoud.Imean,yourmomdidn’tleavewhenyourdadcheatedonher,andmymomdidn’tleavemydadwhenhebrokemyfuckingarm,andyetIcouldn’tdoanythingtomakemywifestay.”
Mystomachbottomedout.Mythroatclenched.Painstabbedthroughmychest.Itallmadesenseatonce:thehesitancyanddeflection,themistrustofpeople,thefearofcommitment.
NoonehadchosenGus.Fromthetimehewasakid,noonehadchosenhim,andhewasembarrassedbythat,likeitmeantsomethingabouthim.Iwantedtotellhimitdidn’t.Thatitwasn’tbecausehewasbroken,butbecauseeveryoneelsewas.ButIcouldn’tgetanywordsout.Icouldn’tdoanythingbutstareathim—standingthere,outofsteam,hischestrisingandfallingwithheavybreaths—andacheforhimandhatetheworldalittleforchewinghimup.
Rightthen,Ihonestlydidn’tcarewhyhe’ddisappearedorwherehe’dgone.
Thehardglinthadlefthiseyesandhischindroppedasherubbedathisforehead.
ThereweremillionsofthingsIwantedtosaytohim,butwhatcameoutwas,“Parker?”
Helookedupagain,eyeswideandmouthajar.“What?”
“Yourcollegeroommate,”Imurmured.“DoyoumeanParker?”
Gus’smouthclosed,themusclesalonghisjawleaping.“Yeah,”hebarelysaid.“Parker.”
Parker,theartstudentwiththeeccentricclothes.Parker,who’dpickedmostofhislefteyebrowaway.He’dhadprettyblueeyesandacertainzaninessthatmyfriendsandIhadalwaysimaginedtranslatedtoagolden-retriever-esqueexcitabilitywhenitcametosex.Whichwewereallfairlysurehewasgettingalotof
Guswasn’tlookingatme.Hewasrubbinghisforeheadagain,lookingasbrokenandembarrassedasI’dfeltthirtysecondsago.
“Onyourbirthday.Whatanasshole.”
Ididn’trealizeI’dsaiditalouduntilheresponded:“Imean,thatwasn’therplan.”Helookedaway,staringvaguelythroughtheparkinglot.“Isortofdraggeditoutofher.Icouldtellsomethingwaswrongand…anyway.”
Stillanasshole,Ithought.Ishookmyhead.Ihadnoideawhatelsetosay.Isteppedforwardandwrappedmyarmsaroundhim,pressingmyfaceintohisneck,feelinghisdeepbreathspushagainstme.Afteramoment,hisarmsliftedaroundmeandwestoodthere,justoutofreachoftheparkinglot’slonefloodlight,holdingontoeachother.
“I’msorry,”Iwhisperedintohisskin.“Sheshouldhavepickedyou.”AndImeantit,evenifIwasn’tsureexactlywhichsheIwastalkingabout.
Hisarmstightenedaroundmyback.Hismouthandnosepressedagainstthecrownofmyhead,andinside,amournfulCrosby,Stills,Nash&Youngcoverpickedup,guitartwanginglikeitsstringswerecrying.Gusrockedmesidetoside.“Iwanttoknowyou,”Itoldhim.
“Iwantthat,”hemurmuredintomyhair.Westoodthereforanothermomentbeforehespokeagain.“It’slate.Weshouldgrabsomecoffeeinsidesowecangethome.”
Ididn’twanttogohome.Ididn’twanttopullawayfromGus.“Sure.”
Heeasedbackfrommeandhishandrandownmythroat,restingonthecrookbetweenmyneckandshoulder,hisroughthumbcatchingtheedgeofmycollarbone.Heshookhisheadonce.“I’veneverthoughtyouwerestupid.”
Inodded.Iwasn’tsurewhattosay,andevenifIhadbeen,Iwasn’tsureifmyvoicewouldcomeoutthickandheavy,likemybloodfelt,orshakyandhigh,likemystomachdid.
Gus’seyesdippedtomymouth,thenrosetomyeyes.“Ithought—thinkit’sbravetobelieveinlove.Imean,thelastingkind.Totryforthat,evenknowingitcanhurtyou.”
“Andwhataboutyou?”
“Whataboutme?”hemurmured.
IneededtoclearmythroatbutIdidn’t.Itwouldbetooobvious,whatIwasthinking,howIwasfeeling.“Youdon’tthinkyoueverwillagain?”
Gussteppedback,shoescracklingagainstthegravel.“Itdoesn’tmatterifIbelieveitcanworkornot,”hesaid.“Notbelievinginsomethingdoesn’tstopyoufromwantingit.Ifyou’renotcareful.”
Hisgazesentheatunfurlingoverme,thecoldsnappingpainfullybackintoplaceagainstmyskinwhenhefinallyturnedbacktowardthebar.“Comeon,”hesaid.“Let’sgetthatcoffee.”
Careful.CautionwassomethingIhadlittleofwhenitcametoGusEverett.
Caseinpoint:myhangoverthenextmorning.
Iawoketomyfirsttextfromhim.
ItsaidonlyOw18TheEx
THEREWERENOmorenightsonourseparatedecks.OnSundayGuscametomyhouselookinglikehe’dstartedgoingthroughatrashcompactoronlyforittospithimbackuphalfwaythrough.Ifeltatleastasbadashelooked.
Weputthechaiseloungesonthedeckflatandlayouttherewithicepacksonourheads,chuggingthebottlesofGatoradehe’dbroughtover.“Didyouwrite?”heasked.
“WheneverIpicturewords,Iliterallygag.”
Besideme,Guscoughed.“Thatword,”hesaid.
“Sorry.”
“Shouldweorderpizza?”heasked.
“Areyoukidding?Youalmostjust—”
“January,”Gussaid.“Don’tsaythatword.Justanswerthequestion.”
“Ofcourseweshould.”
ByMonday,we’dmostlyrecovered.Atleastenoughthatwewerebothworkingatourowntablesduringtheday(twothousandwordshammeredoutonmyend).Around1:40,Gusheldupthefirstnoteoftheday:ITEXTEDYOU.
IREMEMBER,Iwroteback.AHISTORICMOMENTINOURFRIENDSHIP
NO,hesaid.ITEXTEDYOUAMINUTEAGO
I’dleftmyphonechargingbythebed.IheldupmypointerfingerasIhurriedfromtheroomandgrabbedmyphone.Thetextjustsaid,Doyouknowhowtomakeamargarita?
Gus,Itypedback.Thisisfewerwordsthanthenotesyouwrotemetotellmeaboutthismessage.
Herespondedimmediately:Iwantedtoputinaformalrequest.Writingnotesisaverycasualformofcommunication.
Idon’tknowhowtomakeamargarita,Itoldhim.ButIknowsomeonewhodoes
JoseCuervo?heasked.
Ipulledopentheblindsandleanedoutthewindow,yellingtowardthebackofourhouses,wherethekitchenwindowswere.“GOOGLE.”
Myphonebuzzedwithhisresponse:Comeover.Itriednottonoticewhatthosewordsdidtome,thefull-bodyshiver,theheat.
Iwentbackformycomputerandwalkedoverbarefoot.Gusmetmeonhisporch,leanedagainstthedoorjamb.
“Doyoueverstandupright?”Iasked.
“Notifitcanbehelped,”heanswered,andledmeintohiskitchen.Isatonastoolattheislandashepulledoutthelimesthenwentintothefrontroomforhisshaker,tequila,andtriplesec.“Please,don’ttroubleyourselftohelp,”heteased.
“Don’tworry.Iwouldnever.”
Whenhe’dfinishedmakingourdrinkswewentoutontothefrontporchandworkeduntilthelaststreaksofsunshinehadvanishedintothatdeepMichiganblue,thestarsprickingthroughitlikepokedholes,oneatatime.Whenourstomachsstartedtogurgle,Iwentbacktomyhousefortherestofthepizzaandweateitcold,ourlegsoutstretched,feetrestingontheporchrailing.
“Look,”Gussaid,andpointedupatthedeepblueskyastwotrailsofsilverlightstreakedthroughthestars.Hiseyesweredoingthething,theGusthing,atthesightofthem,anditmademychestflutteralmostpainfully.Ilovedthatvulnerableexcitementwhenhefirstcaughtsightofsomethingthatmadehimfeelbeforehecouldcoveritup.
Helooksatmelikethatsometimes.
Ijerkedmyfocustothefallingstars.“Relatable,”Isaidflatly.
Gusletoutahalf-formedlaugh.“That’sbasicallyus.Onfireandjuststraightupdroppingoutofthesky.”
Helookedoveratmewithadark,ferventgazethatundidthecarefulcomposureI’dbeenrebuilding.Myeyesslippeddownhim,andIscrambledforsomethingtosay.“What’sthebigblackblobabout?”Itippedmychintowardtheupdatedtattooonthebackofhisbicep,wheretheskinwasabitpalerthanhisusualolive.
Helookedconfuseduntilhefollowedmygaze.“Yeah,”hesaid.“Itusedtobesomethingelse.”
“AM?biusstrip.Iknow,”Isaid,abittooquickly.
Hiseyesboredintomineforafewintimidatingbeatsashedecidedwhattosay.“NaomiandIgotthem.”Hernamehungintheair,theafterimageofalightningstrike.Naomi.ThewomanGusEveretthadmarried,Ipresumed.Hedidn’tseemtonoticemyshock.Maybeinhismindhesaidhernameoften.Maybehavingtoldmesheexistedfeltthesametohimasifhe’dshownmetheirphotoalbums.“Rightafterthewedding.”
“Ah,”Isaidstupidly.Mycheekswentevenhotterandstartedtoitch.Ihadaknackforbringingupthingshehadnointerestintalkingabout.“Sorry.”
Heshookhisheadonce,andhiseyeskepttheirsharp,fieryfocus.“ItoldyouIwantedyoutoknowme.Youcanaskmeanythingyouwant.”
Itsoundedsortoflike,Getontopofme!Now!
IhopedIlookedverypretty,foranoverripetomato.
Droppingthetopicwasthesmarteridea,butIcouldn’thelptestinghim,seeingifI,JanuaryAndrews,couldreallyaskthesecretiveGusEverettanythingatall.
Isettledon“Whatdiditmean?”
“Asitturnedout,verylittle,”hesaid.Disappointmentwriggledthroughmystomachathowquicklyouropen-bookpolicyhaddeteriorated.
Butthenhetookabreathandwenton.“IfyoustartatonepointonaM?biusstripandyoufollowitstraightaround,whenyou’vedonethefullloop,youdon’tendupbackwhereyoustarted.Youenduprightaboveit,butontheothersideofthesurface.Andifyoukeepfollowingitaroundforasecondtime,you’llfinallyendupwhereyoustarted.Soit’sthispaththat’sactuallytwiceaslongasitshouldbe.Atthetime,Iguesswethoughtitmeantthatthetwoofusaddeduptosomethingbiggerthanwewereonourown.”
Heshruggedoneshoulder,thenabsentlyscratchedtheblackblot.“Aftersheleft,itseemedmorelikeabadjoke.Oh,hereweare,trappedonoppositesidesofthissurface,allegedlyinthesameplaceandsomehownotatalltogether.Pinnedtogetherwiththesestupidtattoosthatarefivethousandpercentmorepermanentthanourmarriage.”
“Yikes,”Isaid.Yikes?Isoundedlikeagum-poppingbabysittertryingtorelatetoherfavoriteHotDivorcedDad.WhichwassortofhowIfelt.
Gusgavemeacrookedsmile.“Yikes,”heagreedquietly.
Westaredateachotherforabeattoolong.“Whatwasshelike?”Thewordshadjustslippedout,andnowaspurtofpanicwentthroughmeathavingaskedsomethingIwasn’tsureGuswouldwanttoanswer,orIwouldenjoyhearing.
Hisdarkeyesstudiedmeforseveralseconds.Heclearedhisthroat.“Shewastough,”hesaid.“Sortof…impenetrable.”
Thejokeswerewritingthemselves,butIdidn’tinterrupthim.I’dcomethisfar.NowIhadtoknowwhatkindofwomancouldcaptureGusEverett’sheart.
“Shewasthisincrediblevisualartist,”hesaid.“That’showwemet.IsawoneofhershowsinagallerywhenIwasingradschool,andlikedherworkbeforeIknewher.Andevenonceweweretogether,IfeltlikeIcouldneverreallyknowher.Likeshewasalwaysjustoutofreach.Forsomereasonthatthrilledme.”
WhatkindofwomancouldcaptureGusEverett’sheart?
Mypolaropposite.Notthekindwhowasalwaysrudewhenshewasgrumpy,cryingwhenshewashappy,sad,overwhelmed.Whocouldn’thelpbutletitallhangout.
“ButIalsojusthadthisthought,like…”Hehesitated.“Here’ssomeoneIcouldneverbreak.Shedidn’tneedme.Andshewasn’tgentlewithme,orworriedaboutsavingme,orreallylettingmeinenoughtohelpherworkthingsouteither.Maybeitsoundsshitty,butI’venevertrustedmyselfwithanyone…soft.”
“Ah.”MycheeksburnedandIkeptmyfocusonhisarminsteadofhisface.
“Isawthatwithmyparents,youknow?Thisblackholeandthisbrightlighthewasalwaysjusttryingtoswallowwhole.”
Mygazeflickeredtohisface,thesharplinesetchedbetweenhisbrows.“Gus.You’renotablackhole.Andyou’renotyourfathereither.”
“Yeah,Iknow.”Anunconvincingsmileflittedacrossonecornerofhismouth.“ButI’malsonotthebrightlight.”
Sure,hewasn’tabrightlight,buthewasn’tthecynicI’dthoughteither.Hewasarealistwhowasalittletooafraidofhopetoseethingsclearlywhenitcametohisownlife.Buthewasalsoexceptionallygoodatsittingwithpeoplethroughtheirshit,makingthemfeellessalonewithoutpromisesoremptyplatitudes.Me.Dave.Grace.
Hewasn’tafraidforthingstogetugly,toseesomeoneattheirweakest,andhedidn’tfalloverhimselftryingtotalkmeoutofmyownfeelings.Hejustwitnessedthem,andsomehow,thatletthemfinallygetoutofmybodyafteryearsofimprisonment.
“Whateveryouare,”Isaid,“it’sbetterthananight-light.Andforwhatit’sworth,asaformerfairyprincessandtheultimatesecretsoft-girl,Ithinkyou’replentygentle.”
HiseyesweresowarmandintenseonmethatIwassurehecouldreadallmythoughts,everythingIfeltandthoughtabouthim,writtenonmypupils.Theheatinmyfacerushedthroughmywholebody,andIfocusedonhistattooagain,nudgingitwithmyhand.“Andalso,forwhatit’sworth,Ithinkthegiantblackblobsuitsyou.Notbecauseyou’reablackhole.Butbecauseit’sfunny,andweird.”
“Ifyouthinkso,thenIhavenoregrets,”hemurmured.
“Yougotatattoo,”Isaid,stillalittleamazed.
“Ihaveseveral,butifyouwanttoseetheothers,youhavetobuymedinner.”
“No,Imean,yougotamarriagetattoo.”Ichancedaglanceathimandfoundhimstaringatme,asifwaitingforsomebigrevealaboutmymeaning.“That’ssomeCaryGrant–levelromanceshit.”
“Humiliating.”Hewenttorubitagain,butfoundmyfingersrestingthere
“Impressive,”Icountered.
Hiscallousedpalmslidontopofmine,dwarfingit.Instantly,Ithoughtofthathandtouchingmethroughmyshirt,glidingoverthebareskinofmystomach.Hisgravellyvoicedraggedmeoutofthememory:“WhatabouttheGoldenBoy?”
Ibalked.“Jacques?”
“Sorry,”Gussaid.“TheJacques.Sixyearsisalongtime.Youmusthavethoughtyou’dwindupwithmatchingtattoosandagaggleofchildren.”
“Ithought…”ItrailedoffasIsortedthroughthealphabetsoupinmybrain.Gus’sfingerswerewarmandrough,carefulandlightovermine,andIhadtoswimthrougharesistancepoolfullofthoughtslikeIbetscientistscouldexactlyreconstructhimfromthishandalonetogettoanymemoryofJacques.“Hewasaleadingman.Youknow?”
“ShouldI?”Gusteased.
“Ifyou’retakingourchallengeseriously,”Icountered.“Imeanthathewasromantic.Dramatic.Helitupeveryroomandhadanincrediblestoryforanyoccasion.AndIfellinlovewithhiminalltheseamazingmomentswehad.
“Butthen,wheneverwewerejustsittingtogether—likeeatingbreakfastinafilthyapartment,knowingwe’dhavetocleanupafterabigparty…Idon’tknow,whenweweren’tgleamingforeachother,Isortoffeltlikewejustworkedokaytogether.Likewewerecostarsinamovieandwhenthecamerasweren’ton,wedidn’thaveallthatmuchtotalkabout.Butwewantedthesamelife,youknow?”
Gusnoddedthoughtfully.“IneverthoughtabouthowNaomi’sandmyliveswouldworktogether,butIknewthat’swhatitwouldbe:twolives.Youchosesomeonewhowantedarelationship.Thatmakessenseforyou.”
“Yeah,butthat’snotenough.”Ishookmyhead.“Youknowthatfeeling,whenyou’rewatchingsomeonesleepandyoufeeloverwhelmedwithjoythattheyexist?”
Afaintsmileappearedinthecornerofhismouth,andhejustbarelynodded
“Well,IlovedJacques,”Isaid.“AndIlovedhisfamilyandourlifeandhiscooking,andthathewaspassionateabouttheERandreadalotofnonfictionlikemydadand—well,mymomwassick.Youknewthat,right?”
Gus’smouthpressedintoathin,seriouslineandhisbrowfurrowed.“Fromournonfictionclass,”hesaid.“Butshewasinremission.”
Inodded.“Only,afterIgraduated,itcameback.AndI’dconvincedmyselfshewasgoingtobeatitagain.Butapartofmewasreallycomfortedbythefactthat,ifshedied,shewouldhaveatleastmetthemanIwasgoingtomarry.ShethoughtJacqueswassohandsomeandamazing,andDadtrustedhimtogivemethelifeIwanted.AndIlovedallthat.ButwheneverIwatchedJacquessleep,Ifeltnothing.”
Gusshiftedonthesofabesideme,hisgazedropping.“Andwhenyourdaddied?Didn’tyouwanttomarryJacquesthen?Sinceyourdadhadknownhim?”
Itookadeepbreath.Ihadn’tadmittedthistoanyone.Itallfelttoocomplicated,toohardtoexplainuntilnow.“Inaway,Ithinkthatalmostsetmefree.Imean,firstly,mydadwasn’twhoIthoughthewas,sohisopinionofJacquesmeantless.
“Butmorethanthat,whenIlostmydad…Imean,mydadwasaliar,butIlovedhim.Reallylovedhim,somuchthatjustknowingheisn’tonthisplanetstilltearsmeinhalfwheneverIthinkaboutit.”EvenasIsaidit,thepainpressedintome,acrushingbutfamiliarweightoneverysquareinchofmybody.
“AndwithJacques,”Iwenton,“welovedthebestversionsofeachother,insideourpicturesquelife,butoncethingsgotugly,therewasjust…nothingleftbetweenus.Hedidn’tlovemewhenIwasn’tthefairyprincess,youknow?AndIdidn’tlovehimanymoreeither.TherewerethousandsoftimesI’dthought,Heistheperfectboyfriend.Butoncemydadwasgone,andIwasfuriouswithhimbutalsocouldn’tstopmissinghim,IrealizedI’dneverthought,Jacquesissoperfectlymyfavoriteperson.”
Gusnodded.“Itdidn’toverwhelmyoutowatchhimsleep.”
Itwasthekindofthingthat,ifhe’dsaiditevenafewweeksago,Imight’vetakenasmockery.ButIknewGusnow.Iknewthatheadtilt,thatseriousexpressionthatmeanthewasintheprocessofpuzzlingsomethingoutaboutme.
I’dseenitonhisfacethatdayoncampuswhenhepointedoutthatIgaveeveryonehappyendings.I’dseenitagaininPete’sbookstorewhenImadeajababouthimwritingHemingwaycircle-jerkfiction.
Thatday,inclass,he’dbeenworkingsomethingoutaboutwhoIwasandhowIsawtheworld.ThatdayatPete’she’dbeenrealizingIloathedhim.
Iwantedtotakeitback,showhimthatIunderstoodhimnow,thatItrustedhim.Iwantedtogivehimsomethingsecret,likewhathe’dgivenmewhenhetalkedaboutNaomi.Iwantedtotellhimanothertruestory,insteadofabeautifullie.
SoIsaid,“Once,formybirthday,JacquestookmetoNewOrleans.WewenttoalltheseamazingjazzbarsandCajunrestaurantsandwitchyshops.Andthewholetime,IwastextingShadiabouthowbadlyIwishedwecouldbetogether,drinkingmartinisandwatchingTheWitchesofEastwick.”
Guslaughed.“Shadi,”hesaidruefully.“IrememberShadi.”
“Yeah,well,sheremembersyou,”Isaid.
“Soyoutalkaboutme.”Gus’ssmileinchedhigherandhiseyesflashed.“Toyourperfectlyfavoriteperson,Shadi?”
“YoutalkaboutmetoPete,”Ichallenged.
Hegaveonenod,confirming.“Andwhatdoyousay?”
“You’retheonewhosaidIcouldaskanything,”Ishotback.“Whatdoyousay?”
“It’sstrictlyneedtoknow,”hesaid.“ThelastthingItoldhermust’vebeenthatwegotcaughtmakingoutatadrive-intheater.”
Ilaughedandpushedhimaway,coveringmyburningfacewithmyhands.“NowI’llneverbeabletoorderanotherpinkeye!”
Guslaughedandcaughtmywrists,tuggingthemfrommyface.“Didshecallitthatagain?”
“Ofcourseshedid!”
Heshookhishead,grinning.“I’mbeginningtosuspecthercoffeeexpertiseisnotwhatkeepsherinbusiness.”
Whenwefinallystoodtogotobedthatnight,Gusdidn’tsaygoodnight.Hesaid,“Tomorrow.”Andthatbecameournightlyritual.
Sometimeshecametomyhouse.SometimesIwenttohis.Thewallbetweenhimandtherestoftheworldwasn’tgone,butitwaslower,atleastbetweenus
OnThursdaynight,whilesittingonSonya’scouchandwaitingforourpadthaitobedelivered,hefinallytoldmeaboutPete.Notjustthatshewashisaunt—andhadbeenhiscoachforsoccer,whichheassuredmehewasterribleat—butalsothatshe’dbeenthereasonhe’dmovedherewhenNaomilefthim.“PetelivednearmewhenIwasakid,backinAnnArbor.Shenevercameover—didn’tgetalongwithmydad—butshewasalwaysinmylife.Anyway,whenIwasinhighschool,Maggiegotthejobteachinggeologyattheschoolhere,sotheymovedoutthiswayandthey’vebeenhereeversince.Shebeggedmetocome.Sheknewtheguywhowassellingthishouseandwentsofarastolendmeadownpayment.JustletmeknowIcouldpayherbackwhenever.”
“Wow,”Isaid.“I’mstillcaughtonthefactthatMaggie’sageologyprofessor.”
Henodded.“Nevermentionarockinfrontofher.Imeanit.Never.”
“I’lltry,”Isaid.“Butthat’sgoingtobeextremelyhard,whatwithhowoftenrockscomeupineverydayconversation.”
“You’dbeshocked,”hepromised.“Shockedandappalledand,moreimportantly,boredtothebrinkofdeath.”
“SomeoneshouldinventaboredomEpiPen.”
“Ithinkthat’sessentiallywhatdrugsare,”Gussaid.“Anyway,January.Enoughaboutrocks.Tellmewhyyoumovedhere,really.”
Thewordstangledinmythroat.Icouldonlygetoutafewatatime.“Mydad.”
Gusnodded,asifthatwereenoughofanexplanationifIcouldn’tforcemyselftogoon.“Hedied,andyouwantedtogetaway?”
Ishiftedforward,leaningmyelbowsonmyknees.“Hegrewuphere,”Isaid.“Andwhenhepassed,I—Ifoundouthe’dbeenbackhere.Kindofalot.”
Gus’seyebrowspinchedinthemiddle.Heranhishandbackthroughhishair,whichwas,asusual,pushedmessilyoffhisforehead.“‘Foundout’?”
“Thiswashishouse,”Isaid.“Hissecondhouse.With…thewoman.”Icouldn’tbringmyselftosayhername.Ididn’twantGustoknowher,tohaveanopiniononhereitherway,anditwasasmallenoughtownthatheprobablydid.
“Oh.”Heranhishandthroughhishairagain.“Youmentionedher,kindof.”Hesatbackintothecouch,thebeerbottleinhishandhangingalongtheinsideofhisthigh.
“Didyouevermeethim?”Iblurted,beforeI’ddecidedwhetherIevenwantedtheanswer,andmyheartbegantoraceasIwaitedforhimtorespond.“You’vebeenherefiveyears.Youmust’veseen…them.”
Gusstudiedmewithliquidy,darkeyes,hisbrowtense.Heshookhishead.“Honestly,I’mnotreallyintotheneighborthing.Mostofthehousesonthisblockarerentals.IfIsawhim,Iwould’veassumedhewasonvacation.Iwouldn’tremember.”
Ilookedawayquicklyandnodded.Ontheonehand,itwasarelief,knowingGushadneverwatchedthetwoofthembarbecuingonthedeck,orpullingweedssidebysideinthegarden,ordoinganyothernormalcouplethingstheymight’vedonehere—andthathedidn’tseemtoknowwhoThatWomanwas.Butontheother,Ifeltasinkinginmystomachandrealizedapartofmehadbeenhoping,allthistime,thatGushadknownhim.Thathe’dhavesomestorytotellthatI’dneverheard,anewpieceofmyfatherrighthere,andthemiserablythinenvelopetauntingmefromtheginboxwasn’treallyallIhadtolookforwardtoofhim.
“January,”Gussaidgently.“I’msosorry.”
Ihadbeguntocrywithoutgivingmyselfpermissionto.Ipressedmyfaceintomyhandstohideit,andGusshiftedcloser,putanarmaroundmyshoulders,andgatheredmetohim.Gently,hepulledmeacrosshislapandheldmethere,onehandknottedintomyhair,cradlingthebackofmyhead,astheothercurledaroundmywaist.
Oncethetearshadstarted,Icouldn’tstopthem.Theangerandfrustration.Thehurtandbetrayal.TheconfusionthathadbeencloggingmybraineversinceIfoundoutthetruth.Itallheavedoutofme.
Gus’shandmovedsoftlythroughmyhair,turningslowcirclesagainstthebackofmyneck,andhismouthpressedintomycheek,mychin,myeye,catchingtearsastheyfelluntil,gradually,Isettled.Ormaybejustranoutoftears.MayberealizedIwassittinginGus’slaplikeatoddler,havingmytearskissedaway.Orthathismouthhadpaused,pressedintomyforehead,hisfulllipsslightlyparted.
Iturnedmyfaceintohischestandbreathedhimin,thesmellofhissweatandtheincenseInowknewheburnedwhenhefirststartedwritingeachday,hislonepreworkritual,andtheoccasionalstresscigarette(thoughhe’dlargelyquitsmoking).Hecrushedmetohim,armstightening,fingerscurlingagainstthebackofmyhead.
MywholebodyheateduntilIfeltlikelava,burningandliquid.Guspulledmecloser,andImoldedtohim,pouredmyselfintoeverylineofhim.Eachofhisbreathsbroughtuscloseruntilfinallyhestraightened,pullingmeoverhimsomykneesstraddledhiships,hisarmtightacrossmyback.Thefeelingofhimunderneathmesentafreshrushofheatupmythighs.Hishandgrazedalongmywaistaswestaredateachother
Itwasthatnightatthedrive-intimesten.BecausenowIknewhowhefeltontopofme.NowIknewwhatthescrapeofhisjawagainstmyskindidtome,howhistonguewouldtestthegapsbetweenourmouths,tastethesoftskinatthetopofmychest.Iwasjealoushe’dhadmoreofmethanI’dhadofhim.Iwantedtokisshisstomach,sinkmyteethintohiships,digmyfingersintohisbackanddragthemdownthelengthofhim.
Hishandsslidtowardmyspine,skiddingupitasIfoldedoverhim.Mynoseskateddownhis.Icouldalmosttastehiscinnamonbreathfromhisopenmouth.Hisrighthandcamebacktothesideofmyface,roaminglightlydowntomycollarbone,thenbacktomymouth,wherehistensefingerspressedintomybottomlip.
Ihadnothoughtsofcautionorwisdom.Ihadthoughtsofhimontopofme,underme,behindme.Hishandssettingfiretomyskin.Iwasbreathinghard.Sowashe.
Thetipofmytonguebrushedhisfinger,whichcurledreflexivelyintomymouth,tuggingmecloseruntilourlipswereseparatedonlybyaninchofelectric,buzzingair.
Hischintippedup,theedgeofhismouthbrushingmineinfuriatinglylightly.Hiseyeswereasdarkasoil,slickandhotastheypoureddownme.Hishandsskateddownmysides,outalongmycalves,andbackupmythighstocupmybutt,griptightening.
Idrewashudderingbreathashisfingersclimbedbeneaththehemofmyshorts,burningintomyskin.“Fuck,January,”hewhispered,shakinghishead.
Thedoorbellrangandallthemotion,themomentum,crashedintoawallofreality.
Westaredateachother,frozenforamoment.Gus’seyesdippeddownmeandbackupagain,andhisthroatpulsed.“Takeout,”hesaidthickly.
Ijumpedup,thefuzzclearingfrommyhead,andsmoothedmyhair,wipingmytearyfaceasIcrossedtothefrontdoor.Isignedthecreditcardslip,acceptedthebagfulloffoamcontainers,andthankedthedeliveryguyinavoiceasthickandmuddledasGus’shadbeen.
WhenIclosedthedoorandturnedback,Guswasstandinguneasily,hishairmessyandhisshirtstickingtohimwhereI’dcriedonit.Hescratchedthecrownofhisheadandhisgazeflickedtentativelytowardmine.“Sorry.”
Ishrugged.“Youdon’tneedtobe.”
“Ishouldbe,”hesaid.Weleftitatthat.19TheBeach
ONFRIDAY,WEdrovetoDave’shouseforthesecondpartoftheinterview.ThefirsthadbeensothoroughGushadn’tplannedtohaveasecond,butDavehadcalledhimthatmorning.Afterthinkingitover,hismotherhadthingstosayaboutNewEden.
Thehousewasasmallsplit-level,probablybuiltinthelatesixties,anditsmelledlikesomeonehadbeenchain-smokinginsideiteversince.Despitethat,anditsshabbydecor,itwasextremelytidy:blanketsfoldedoncoucharms,pottedplantsinaneatlinebythedoor,potshangingfromhooksonthewall,andthesinkscrubbedtosparkling.
DaveSchmidthadtoberightaroundourage,giveortakeafewyears,butJulie-AnnSchmidtlookedagoodtenyearsolderthanmymother.Shewastiny,herfaceroundandsoftwithwrinkles.Iwonderedifitwasalifetimeofbeingtreatedasifsheweresweet,becauseofherfigureandface,thathadgivenherthealmosttoothyhandshakesheoffered.
ShelivedtherewithDave.“Iownthehouse,buthemakesthepayments.”Sheguffawedatthatandpattedhisback.“He’sagoodboy.”IwatchedGus’seyesnarrow,appraisingthesituation.Ithoughthemightbelookingforhintsofviolencesomewhereintheirinteractions,butDavewasmostlyhunchedandsmilinginembarrassment.“Hewasalwaysagoodboy.Andyoushouldhearhimonthepiano.”
“CanIgetyouanythingtodrink?”Davehurriedtoask.
“Waterwouldbegreat,”Ianswered,moretogiveDaveanexcusetohidethanbecauseIwasactuallythirsty.Ashedisappearedintothekitchen,Iambledaroundthelivingroom,studyingallthewalnutpictureframesmountedtothewall.ItwaslikeDavehadbeenfrozenatabouteightyearsold,inaV-necksweatervestanddullgreenT-shirt.Hisfatherwasinmostoftheshots,butevenintheoneshedidn’tinhabit,itwaseasytoimaginehe’dbeenbehindthecamera,snappingthetinysmilingwomanandthebabyonherhip,thetoddlerholdingherhand,thegawkychildstickinghistongueoutnexttothegorillaexhibitatthezoo.
Dave’sdadhadbeenlankyandbrown-hairedwithbushyeyebrowsandarecedingchin.Davelookedjustlikehim.
“SoIunderstandyouhadmoretosay,”Gusbegan.“ThingsyouthoughtDavecouldn’toffer.”
“OfcourseIdo.”Julie-Anntookaseatontheblueplaidloveseat,andGusandIperchedbesideeachotherontheroughlywoventancouch.“I’vegotawell-roundedlook.Daveonlysawwhatwelethim,andthenwhenweleftlikewedid—well,I’mafraidhisopinionoftheplaceprobablyswungfromoneextremetotheother.”
GusandIlookedateachother.Ileanedforward,tryingtokeepanopen,friendlyposturetocombatherdefensiveone.“Heseemedprettyfair,actually.”
Julie-Annpulledacigarettepackoffthetableandlitup,thenofferedusthebox.Gustookone,andIknewitwasmoretoputherateasethanbecausehetrulywantedone,whichmademesmile.Eventhoughwhatwewroteandsaidwebelievedwassodifferent,I’dstartedtofeellikeIwascapableofknowingGus,readinghim,betterthananyoneelseI’devermet.Becauseeverydaywespenttogether,thispeculiarfeelingwasgrowinginme:Youarelikeme.
Julie-Annlitthecigaretteforhim,thensatback,cross-legged.“Theyweren’tbadpeople,”shesaid.“Notmostofthem.AndIcouldn’tletyougothinkingtheywere.Sometimes—sometimesgood,oratleastdecent,peopledobadthings.Andsometimestheyactuallybelievethey’redoingwhat’sright.”
“Andyoudon’tthinkthat’sjustanexcuse?”Gusasked.“Youdon’tbelieveinanykindofinternalmoralcompass.”
Thewayhesaiditmadeitseemasifhehimselfdidbelieveinsuchathing,whichwould’vesurprisedmeafewweeksago,butnowmadeperfectsense.
“Maybeyoustartoutwiththat,”shesaid,“Butifyoudo,itgetsshapedasyouage.Howareyousupposedtobelieveright’srightandwrong’swrongifeveryonearoundyousaystheopposite?You’resupposedtothinkyou’resmarterthanallofthem?”
Davereturnedwiththreewaterglassesbalancedbetweenhishandsandpassedthemoutonebyone.Julie-Annseemedreluctanttogoonwithhersonintheroom,butneithershenorGussuggestedheleave.ProbablybecauseDavewasapproximatelythirtyyearsoldandpayingforthehousewewerein.
“Alotofthesepeople,”Julie-Annwenton,“didn’thavemuch.Idon’tjustmeanmoney,althoughthatwastruetoo.Therewerealotoforphans.Peopleestrangedfromtheirfamilies.Peoplewho’dlostspousesandchildren.Atfirst,NewEdenmademefeellike…likethereasoneverythinghadgonewronginmylifeuptothatpointwasthatIhadn’tbeenlivingquiteright.Itwasliketheyhadtheanswers,andeveryoneseemedsohappy,fulfilled.Andafteralifetimeofwanting—sometimesnotevenwantinganythingspecificbutjustwanting,feelingliketheworldwasn’tbigenoughorbrightenough—well,IfeltlikeIwasfinallypushingbackthecurtain.
“Iwasgettingmyanswers.Itwaslikethisgreatbigscientificequationthey’dsolved.Andyouknowwhat?Toanextent,itworked.Atleastforawhile.Youfollowedtheirrules,didtheirrituals,woretheirclothes,andatetheirfoodanditwaslikethewholeworldwasstartingtolightupfromwithin.Nothingfeltmundane.Therewereprayersforeverything—whileyouweregoingtothebathroom,whileyouwereshowering,payingbills.Forthefirsttime,Ifeltgratefultobealive.
“That’swhattheycoulddoforyou.Sothenwhenthepunishmentsstarted,whenyoubegantoslipupandfail,itfeltliketherewasagianthandonthebathtubplug,justwaitingtoyankitupandripitallawayfromyou.Andmyhusband…Hewasagoodman.Hewasagood,lostman.”HergazeskitteredtowardDaveandshetookaslowpuff.
“Hewasgoingtobeanarchitect.Buildsportsstadiumsandskyscrapers.Helovedtodrawandhewasdamngoodatit.Andthenwegotpregnantinhighschool,andheknewallthathadtogo.Wehadtobepractical.Andheneveroncecomplained.”Againhereyesgesturedtowardherson.“Ofcoursehedidn’t.Wewerelucky.Blessed.Butsometimeswhenlifethrowsawrenchinyourplans…Idon’tknowhowtoexplainit,butIjusthadthissensewhenwewerethere.Like…likemyhusbandwasclingingtowhateverhecouldgrabholdof.Likebeingrightmatteredlessthanbeing…okay.”
IthoughtaboutmyfatherandSonya.Aboutmymomstayingwithhim,evenknowingwhathe’ddone.Herinsistencethatshe’dthoughtitwasover.
Well,whydiditeverstart?I’ddemandedinthecarbeforeshehadtakenuphermantra:Ican’ttalkaboutit;Iwon’ttalkaboutit.
Butthetruthwas,Ihadagoodguessrightaway.
Intheseventhgrade,myparentshadseparated.Briefly—justacoupleofmonths—buthe’dgoneasfarastostaywithsomefriendsoftheirswhileheandMomwaitedtoseeiftheycouldworkthingsout.Ididn’tknowthewholestory.They’dnevergottentothatscreaming-matchlevelmostofmyfriends’divorcedparentshadreached,butevenatthirteen,Ihadseenthechangeinmymother.Asuddenwistfulness,aproclivityforstaringoutwindows,escapingtobathroomsandreturningwithpuffyeyes.
ThenightbeforeDadmovedout,I’dcrackedmybedroomdoorandlistenedtotheirvoicescarryingupfromthekitchen.“Idon’tknow,”Momkeptsayingtearfully.“Idon’tknow,Ijustfeellikeit’sover.”
“Ourmarriage?”Dadhadaskedafteralongpause.
“Mylife,”she’dtoldhim.“I’mnothingbutyourwife.January’smother.I’mnothingelse,andIdon’tthinkyoucanimaginehowthatfeels.Tobeforty-twoandfeellikeyou’vedoneeverythingyou’regoingtodo.”
Ihadn’tbeenabletowrapmymindarounditthen,andobviouslyDadhadn’teither,becausethenextmorningthey’dexplainedeverythingtomewhilethethreeofussatinarowontheedgeofmybedandthenI’dwatchedhiscarpullawaywithonesuitcaseinitsbackseat.
I’dbelievedlifeasIknewitwasover.
Then,suddenly,Dadwasbackinthehouse:proofthatnothingwasunfixable!Thatlovecouldconqueranychallenge,thatlifewouldalways,alwaysworkout.SowhenheandMomsatmedowntotellmeaboutherdiagnosis,andeverythingelseinourliveschanged,Iknewitwouldn’tbepermanent.Thiswasjustanotherplottwistinourstory.
Afterthat,thetwoofthemseemedmoreinlovethanever.Therewasmoredancing.Morehand-holding.Moreromanticweekendgetaways.MoreofDadsayingthingslike,“YourmotherhasbeenalotofpeopleinthetwentyyearsI’veknownher,andI’vehadachancetofallinlovewitheverysingleoneofthem,Janie.That’sthekeytomarriage.Youhavetokeepfallinginlovewitheverynewversionofeachother,andit’sthebestfeelinginthewholeworld.”
Theirlove,Ihadthought,hadtranscendedtime,midlifecrises,cancer,allofit.
Butthatseparationhadhappened,andwhenI’dyelledatmymotherthatday,I’dwondered.Ifthosethreemonthswerewhenithadbegun.WhenDadandSonyahadreconnected.If,whenhe’dfoundher,he’djustneededtobelieveeverythingcouldbeokayagain.If,whenMomhadtakenhimbackafterward,she’djustneededtopretenditalreadywasokay.
Julie-Annshookherheadslightlywhenhergazesettledonmine.
“Doesthatmakesense?”sheasked.“Ijustneededtobeokay,andIcoulddothewrongthingifithadtherightend.”
IthoughtaboutJacquesandourdeterminationtohaveabeautifullife,mydesperationtoendupwithsomeoneMomhadknownandloved.Ithoughtaboutmymother’sdiagnosisandmyfather’sinfidelity,andthestoryI’dbeentellingmyselfsinceagetwelvetokeepfrombeingterrifiedaboutwhatmightreallyhappen.IthoughtabouttheromancenovelsI’ddevouredwhenthecancercamebackandIlostmyshotatgradschoolandthoughtmylifewasfallingapartagain.Thenightsspentwritinguntilthesuncameupandmybackhurtfromneedingtopeebutnotwantingtostopworkingbecausenothingfeltmoreimportantthanthebook,thangivingthesefictionalloverstheendingtheydeserved,givingmyreaderstheendingtheydeserved.
Peopleclingingtowhateversteadfastthingtheycouldfind?
Yes.Yes,thatmadesense.Itmadeperfectsense.
Whenweleftthatnight,Itextedmymother,somethingIhadn’tdonemuchofinmonths:Iloveyou.Evenifyoucannevertalkabouthimagain,I’llalwaysloveyou,Mom.ButIhopeyoucan.
Twentyminuteslatersheresponded:Metoo,Janie.Allofit.
ONSATURDAYWEwalkeddowntothebeach.“It’snotverycreative,”Isaidaswepickedourwayovertheroot-ladenpath.GusopenedhismouthtoreplyandIcuthimoff.“Don’tyoudaremakeajokeaboutmygenreofchoicebeingunoriginal.”
“Iwasgoingtosayit’sstupidwehaven’tcomedownheremore,”Gusanswered.
“Iassumedyou’dgottensickofit,Iguess.”
Gusshookhishead.“I’vebarelyusedthisbeach.”
“Seriously?”
“Root,”hewarnedasIlookedupathim,andIsteppedcarefullyoverit.“I’mnottheworld’sbiggestbeachguy.”
“Well,ofcoursenot,”Isaid.“Ifyouwere,you’dbewearingaT-shirtorahatthatadvertisedthat.”
“Exactly,”heagreed.“Anyway,Iactuallypreferthisbeachinwinter.”
“Really?Becauseinwinter,I’djustprefertobedead.”
Gus’slaughrattledinhisthroat.HesteppedoffthewoodedpathontothesandandofferedmeahandasIhoppedofftheslightledge.“It’samazing.Haveyoueverseenit?”
Ishookmyhead.“WhenIwasatUofM,IprettymuchstayedatUofM.Ididn’tdomuchexploring.”
Gusnodded.“AfterPeteandMaggiemovedhere,I’dvisitthemformywinterbreak.They’dbuymyplaneorbusticketsaspresents,andI’dcomefortheholidays.”
“I’mguessingyourdaddidn’tmind.”AsuddenburstofangeratthethoughtofGusasakid,alone,unwanted,hadforcedthewordsoutofmebeforeIcouldstop.Iglancedcautiouslyathim.Hisjawwasclenchedabit,butotherwisehisfacewasimpassive.
Heshookhishead.We’dfallenintostepalongthewaterandhelookedsidelongatme,thenbacktothesand.“Youdon’thavetoworryaboutbringinghimup.Itwasn’tthatbad.”
“Gus.”Istoppedandfacedhim.“Justthefactthatyouhavetosayitmeansitwaswayworsethanitshould’vebeen.”
Hehesitatedasecond,thenstartedwalkingagain.“Itwasn’tlikethat,”hesaid.“Aftermymomdied,Icould’vegottenout.PetewantedmetocomelivewithherandMaggie.Shewasalwaystryingtogetmeto—totalkaboutthefightsheandIwouldgetinto,soshecouldgetcustody,butIchosenotto.Hehadallthisheartmedication.Dailypills.He’donlytakethemifIaskedhim,like,threetimes,butGodforbidIaskedafourth.He’dpickafight.Anactualfight.SometimesIthought…”Hetrailedoff.“Iwonderedifhewantedmetokillhim.Orlike,gethimselfsoworkeduphisheartwouldgiveout.Idroppedoutofschooltoworksowecouldaffordhisprescriptions,butwhenIwasout,hestoppeddoinganythingforhimself.Eating,bathing.Icouldbarelykeephimalive.Maybehethoughtthatwouldbemypunishment.”
“Yourpunishment?”Ichokedout.“Forwhat?”
Gusshrugged.“Idon’tknow.Maybebeingonhersideallthetime.”
“Yourmom’s?”
Henodded.“IthinkhefeltlikeitwasUsagainstHim.ItwasUsagainstHim.He’dblameherforeverythingthatwentwrong—dumbshit,like,she’dforgettoputgasinthecaronenightandhe’drealizeheneededtostopforitonhiswaytowork,sohe’dbelate.Orshe’dthrowawayareceipthewantedtokeep,dumpleftoversoutofthefridgeafewhoursbeforehefinallydecidedhewantedthem.
“Hewasbadwithmetoo,butitwasalittlemorerandom.Ifthephonerangandwokehimup,he’dhitme,orifhehadplanstogooutbuthadtocancelforsnow,he’dknockmearoundtoburnoffhisanger.Iwasalwayslookingforthesecretcode,therulesIcouldfollowsohewouldn’tfreakout.That’showyoukeepyourselfsafe,youknow?Youpayattentiontohowtheworldworks.Buttherewasnosecretcodeforhim.Itwaslikeouractionswereentirelydetachedfromhisreactionstous.HeactedlikeIwasthislazy,selfishbratnothing,andthenwhenhe’dreallyhurther,orme,he’dapologize.Backoffforafewdays.
“Evenwithallthat,Ithinklosingherbrokewhateverwasleftinhim.Idon’tknow.”Hepaused,thinking.“Maybeitwasn’tlove.Maybetreatingherlikeshitmadehimfeellikehehadpower.Hedidn’thavethatwithmeasIgotolder.”
“Makingyoukeephimalivewastheonlywaylefttomanipulateyou,”Isaid.
“Idon’tknow,”headmitted.“Maybe.ButifI’dleft,hewould’vediedsooner.”
“Andyouthinkthatwould’vebeenyourfault?”
“Itdoesn’tmatterwhosefaultitwould’vebeen.Hewould’vebeendead,andIwould’veknownIcould’vestoppedit.Plus,shedidn’tleave.HowcouldI,knowingitwasn’twhatshewouldhavewanted?”
“Youdon’tknowthat,”Isaid.“Youwereakid.”
“PetelikestosayIwasneverakid.”
“That’sthesaddestthingI’veeverheard.”
“Don’tactlikeI’mpitiful,”hesaid.“It’sinthepast.It’sover.”
“Youknowwhatyourproblemis?”Iasked,andthistimewhenIstopped,hedidtoo.
“I’mawareofseveral,yes.”
“Youdon’tknowthedifferencebetweenpityandsympathy,”Isaid.“I’mnotpityingyou.Itmakesmesadtothinkofyoubeingtreatedlikethat.Itmakesmemadtothinkyoudidn’thavethethingsallkidsdeserve.Andyeah,itmakesmemadandsadthatalotofpeoplegothroughthethingsyouwentthrough,butit’sevenmoreupsettingbecauseit’syou.AndIknowyouandIlikeyouandIwantyoutohaveagoodlife.That’snotpity.That’scaringaboutsomeone.”
Hestaredatmeintently,thenshookhishead.“Idon’twantyoutothinkaboutmelikethat.”
“Likewhat?”Iasked.
“Likeanangry,brokenpunchingbag,”hesaid,hisfacedarkandtense.
“Idon’t.”Itookastepcloser,searchingfortherightwords.“IjustthinkofyouasGus.”
Hestudiedme.Thecornerofhismouthtwitchedintoanunconvincingsmile,thenfaded,leavinghimlookingburned-out.“Iam,though,”hesaidquietly.“Iamangryandmessedup,andeverytimeItrytogetclosertoyou,it’slikeallthesewarningbellsgooff,andItrytoactlikeanormalperson,butIcan’t.”
Mystomachflip-flopped.Closertoyou.IglancedatthelakewhileIgotmybearings.“Ithoughtyouunderstoodthatthere’snosuchthingasanormalperson.”
“Maybenot,”Gussaid.“Butthere’sstilladifferencebetweenpeoplelikemeandpeoplelikeyou,January.”
“Don’tinsultme.”Ilookedsharplybackathim.“Don’tyouthinkI’mangry?Don’tyouthinkIfeelalittlebitbroken?It’snotlikemylife’sbeenperfecteither.”
“Ihaveneverthoughtyourlifewasperfect,”hesaid.
“Bullshit.Youcalledmeafairyprincess.”
Hecoughedoutalaugh.“Becauseyou’rethebrightlight!Don’tyougetit?”Heshookhishead.“It’snotaboutwhat’shappened.It’sabouthowyoucopewiththings,whoyouare.You’vealwaysbeenthisfiercefuckinglight,andevenwhenyou’reatyourworst,whenyoufeelangryandbroken,youstillknowhowtobeaperson.Howtotellpeopleyou—youlovethem.”
“Stopit,”Isaid.Hestartedtowalkaway,butIgrabbedhimbytheelbowsandheldhiminfrontofme.“You’renotgoingtobreakme,Gus.”
Hestilled,hislipspartingandhiseyessearchingmyfaceforsomething.Hisheadjustslightlytiltedandthosegroovesrosefromtheinsidecornersofhisbrows.
IhopedthatwhathewasunderstandingrightthenwasthatIsawhim.Thathedidn’thavetodoanythingspecial,figureoutamysteriouscodetounlockthesecretpartsofhim.Thathejusthadtokeepbeingherewithme,lettingmediscoverhimbitbybitlikehe’dbeendoingwithmesincewemet.
“Idon’tneedyoutotellmeyoucareaboutme,”Isaidfinally.“TwonightsagoyouheldmewhileIsobbed.IthinkIblewmynoseonyourshirt.I’mnotaskingyouforanythingexcepttoreturnthefavorinwhateverunderwhelmingandmildequivalentoflap-weepingyouneed.”
Heletoutalongbreathandleanedforward,buryinghisfaceintothesideofmynecklikeanembarrassedkidevenashishotbreathwokesomethingupbeneathmyskin.Myhandsskimmeddownthecurvedmuscleofhisarmsandknottedintohisroughfingers.Thesunwaslowonthehorizon,thethinblanketsofcloudsstreakedapaletangerine.TheylookedlikemeltedDreamsiclesfloatinginaseaofdenimblue.Gusliftedhisfaceandlookedmeintheeyeagain,thelightleapingingreatlicksthroughthegapsinthemovingcloudstopainthimwithcolor.
Itwasanunabashedmoment,acomfortablesilence.Thekindofthingthat,ifIhadbeenwritingit,Imight’vethoughtIcouldskiprightover.
ButIwouldbewrong.Becausehere,inthismomentwhennothingwashappeningandwe’dfinallyrunoutofthingstosay,IknewhowmuchIlikedGusEverett,howmuchhewasstartingtomeantome.We’dletsomuchoutintotheopenoverthelastthreedays,andIknewmorewouldbubbleupovertime,butforthefirsttimeinayear,Ididn’tfeeloverstuffedwithtrappedemotionsandbitten-backwords.
Ifeltalittleempty,alittlelight
Happy.Notgiddyoroverjoyed,butthatlow,steadylevelofhappinessthat,inthebestperiodsoflife,ridesunderneatheverythingelse,abufferbetweenyouandtheworldyouarewalkingover.
Iwashappytobehere,doingnothingwithGus,andevenifitwastemporary,itwasenoughformetobelievethatsomedayI’dbeokayagain.MaybenottheexactsamebrandofitI’dbeenbeforeDaddied—probablynot—butanewkind,nearlyassolidandsafe.
Icouldfeelthepaintoo,thelow-gradeacheI’dbeleftwithifandwhenthisthingbetweenGusandmeimploded.Icouldperfectlyimagineeverysensation,inthepitofmystomachandthepalmsofmyhands,thesharppulsesoflossthatwouldremindmeofhowgooditfelttostandherewithhimlikethis,butforonce,Ididn’tthinklettinggowastheanswer.
Iwantedtoholdontohim,andthismoment,forawhile.
Asifinagreement,Gussqueezedmyhandsinhis.“Ido,youknow,”hesaid.Itwasalmostawhisper,atender,ruggedthinglikeGushimself.“Careaboutyou.”
“Ido,”Itoldhim.“Knowthat,Imean.”
Thetangerinelightglintedoverhisteethwhenhesmiled,deepeningtheshadowsinhisrarelyseendimples,andwestayedthere,lettingnothinghappenallaroundus.20TheBasement
IHAVEBADNEWSandbadnews,Shaditextedmethenextmorning.
WhichshouldIhearfirst???Ireplied.Isatupslowly,carefulnottorouseGus.Tosaywe’dfallenasleeponthecouchseemedlikeamisrepresentationofthetruth.I’dhadtoactivelydecidetogotosleepthenightbefore.
Forthefirsttimesincewe’dstartedhangingout,we’dventuredtotheworldofmoviemarathonsandbinge-watching.“YouchooseoneandthenI’llchooseone,”he’dsaid.
Thatwashowwe’dendedupwatching,ortalkingthrough,WhileYouWereSleeping,AStreetcarNamedDesire,PiratesoftheCaribbean3(aspunishmentformakingmewatchAStreetcarNamedDesire),andMariahCarey’sGlitter(aswedescendedfurtherintomadness).Andevenafterthat,I’dbeenwideawake,wired.
GushadsuggestedweputonRearWindow,andhalfwaythrough,notlongbeforethefirsthintsofsunwouldskatethroughthewindows,we’dfinallystoppedtalking.We’dlainverystillonouroppositeendsofthecouch,everythingbelowourkneestangledupinthemiddle,andgonetosleep.
Thehousewaschilly—I’dleftthewindowsopenandthey’dfoggedasthetemperaturebegantoinchbackupwiththemorning.Guswasscrunchednearlyintothefetalposition,onethrowblanketwrappedaroundhimself,soIdrapedthetwoblanketsI’dbeenusingoverhimasIcreptintothekitchentoturntheburneronbeneaththekettle.
Itwasastill,bluemorning.Ifthesunhadcomeup,itwascaughtbehindasheetofmist.AsquietlyasIcould,IpulledthebagofgroundcoffeeandtheFrenchpressfromthelazySusan.
Theritualfeltdifferentthanithadthatfirstmorning,moreordinaryandthussomehowmoreholy.
Somewhereinthelastweekorso,thishousehadstartedtofeellikemyown
Myphonevibratedinmyhand.
Ihavefalleninlove,Shadisaid.
Withthehauntedhat?Iasked,heartthrilling.Shadiwasalwaystheverybest,butShadiinlove—therewasnothinglikeit.Somehow,shebecameevenmoreherself.Evenwilder,funnier,sillier,wiser,softer.Lovelitmybestfriendupfromwithin,andevenifeveryoneofherheartbreakswasutterlydevastating,shestillneverclosedherselfoff.Everytimeshefellinloveagain,herjoyseemedtooverflow,intomeandtheworldatlarge.
Ofcourseyouhave,Ityped.TellmeEVERYTHING
WELL,Shadibegan.Idon’tknow!!We’vejustspenteverynighttogether,andhisbestfriendLOVESmeandIlovehim,andtheothernightwejustlike,stayedupliterallyuntilsunriseandthenwhilehewasinthebathroom,hisfriendwaslike“Becarefulwithhim.He’scrazyaboutyou”andIwaslike“lolsame.”Inconclusion,Ihavemorebadnews.
Soyoumentioned,Ireplied.Goon.
Hewantsmetovisithisfamily…
Yes,that’sterrible,Iagreed.Whatifthey’reNICE?WhatiftheymakeyouplayUnoanddrinkwhiskey-Cokesontheirporch???!
WELL,Shadisaid.Imean.Hewantsmetogothisweek.ForFourthofJuly
Istareddownatthewords,unsurewhattosay.Ontheonehand,I’dbeenlivingonanislandofGusEverettforamonthnow,andIhadcomedownwithneitherprairiemadnessnorcabinfever.
Ontheother,ithadbeenmonthssinceI’dseenShadi,andImissedher.GusandIhadthatintoxicatingrapid-releaseformoffriendshipusuallyreservedforsleepawaycampsandorientationweekofcollege,butShadiandIhadyearsofhistory.Wecouldtalkaboutanythingwithouthavingtobackupandexplainthecontext.NotthatGus’sstyleofcommunicationcalledformuchcontext.Thebitsoflifehesharedwithmewerebuildingtheirframeworkaswewent.Igotaclearerpictureofhimeveryday,andwhenIwenttosleepeachnight,Ilookedforwardtofindingmoreofhiminthemorning.
Butstill.
Iknowit’sterribletiming,Shadisaid,butIalreadytalkedtomyboss,andIgetoffagainformybdayinAugustandIPROMISEIwillpacktheentiresexdungeonupmyself.
ThekettlebegantowhistleandIsetmyphoneasideasIpouredthewateroverthegroundsandputthelidonthepresstoletitsteep.MyphonelitupwithanewmessageandIleanedoverthecounter.
ObviouslyIdon’tHAVEtogo,shesaid.ButIfeellike???IHAVEto.Butlike,Idon’t.Ifyouneedmenow,Icancomenow
Icouldn’tdothattoher,dragherawayfromsomethingthatwasclearlymakingherhappierthanI’dseenherinmonths.
IfyoucomeinAugust,howlongwillyoustay?Iasked,openingnegotiations.
AnemailpingedintomyinboxandIopeneditwithtrepidation.Sonyahadfinallyrepliedtomyqueryabouttheporchfurniture:
January,
IwouldlovetheporchfurniturebutI’mafraidIcan’taffordtobuyitfromyou.Soifyouwereofferingtogiveittome,letmeknowwhenIcouldbringatruck&friendstopickitup.Ifyouwereofferingtosellittome,thankyoufortheoffer,butI’munabletotakeyouuponit.
Eitherway,isthereatimewecouldtalk?Inpersonwouldbegood,I—
“Hey.”
IclosedmyemailandturnedaroundtofindGusshufflingintothekitchen,theheelofhishandrubbingathisrighteye.HiswavyhairstuckuptoonesideandhisT-shirtwascreasedlikeapieceofancientparchmentbehindglassatamuseum,oneofthesleevestwisteduponitselftorevealmoreofhisarmthanI’dseenbefore.Ifeltsuddenlygreedyforhisshoulders.
“Wow,”Isaid.“ThisiswhatGusEverettlookslikebeforeheputsonhisface.”
Eyesstillsleepilyscrunched,heheldhisarmsouttohissides.“Whatdoyouthink?”
Myheartfluttered.“ExactlywhatIpictured.”IturnedmybacktohimasIdugthroughthecabinetsforacoupleofmugs.“Inthatyoulookexactlyhowyoualwaysdo.”
“I’mchoosingtotakethatasacompliment.”
“That’syourright,asanAmericancitizen.”Ispunbacktohimwiththemugs,hopingIappearedmorecasualthanIfeltaboutwakingupinthesamehouseashim.
Hishandswerebracedagainstthecounterasheleaned,likealways,intoit,hismouthcurledintoasmile.“ThanksbetoJackReacher.”
Icrossedmyheart.“Amen.”
“Thatcoffeeready?”
“Verynearly.”
“Porchordeck?”heasked.
Itriedtoimaginecabinfever.Itriedtoimaginethisgettingold:thatsmile,thoserumpledclothes,thelanguageonlyGusandIspoke,thejokingandcryingandtouchingandnottouching.
AnewmessagecameinfromShadi:I’llstayatLEASTaweek.
Itextedherback.Seeyouthen,babe.Keepmepostedonthehauntingsofyourheart.
ITWASWEDNESDAY,andwe’dspentthedaywritingatmyhouse(Iwasnowasolid33percentintothebook)whilewewaitedforthebuyertocomepickupthefurniturefromtheupstairsbedroom.I’dheldoffonsellingtheporchfurniturenowthatGusandIhadgotteninthehabitofusingitsomenights.I’dstartedboxingupknickknacksfromtheentiredownstairsanddroppingthemoffatGoodwillandevensellingoffthelessnecessaryfurnituredownstairs.Theloveseatandarmchairfromthelivingroomweregone,theclockfromthemantelwasgone,theplacematsandtaperedcandlesandvotivesinthearmoirebythekitchentablealldonated.
Maybebecauseitwasstartingtofeellesslikeahomethanadollhouse,ithadbecomeourdefactooffice,andwhenwe’dfinishedworkthatday,we’drelocatedtoGus’s.
Hewasinthekitchen,gettingmoreice,andItooktheopportunitytoperuse(snoopthrough)hisbookshelvesasthoroughlyasI’dwantedtoeversincethenightImovedinandsawthemlitupthroughmylivingroomwindow.Hehadquitethecollection,classicsandcontemporaryalike.ToniMorrison,GabrielGarcíaMárquez,WilliamFaulkner,GeorgeSaunders,MargaretAtwood,RoxaneGay.Forthemostparthe’darrangedtheminalphabeticalorder,butheobviouslyhadn’tkeptuponshelvingnewpurchasesforawhile,andthesesatinstacksinfrontofandontopofotherbooks,thereceiptsstillpokingoutfromundertheircovers.
Icrouchedtogetabetterlookatthebottomrowontheshelffurthestfromthedoor,whichwasentirelyoutoforder,andaudiblygaspedatthesightofathinspinereadingGREGORYL.WARNERHIGHSCHOOL
IopenedtheyearbookandflippedtotheEsurnames.Alaughburstoutofmeasmyeyesfellontheblack-and-whiteshotofashaggy-hairedGusstandingwithonefootoneithersideofadilapidatedsetoftraintracks.“OhmyGod.Thankyou.Thankyou,Lord.”
“Oh,comeon,”Gussaidashesteppedbackintotheroom.“Isnothingsacredtoyou,January?”Hesettheicebucketonthesideboardandtriedtoprythebookfrommyhands.
“I’mnotdonewiththis,”Iprotested,pullingitback.“Infact,IdoubtI’lleverbedonewiththis.IwantthistobethefirstthingIseewhenIwakeupandthelastthingIlookatbeforeIgotobed.”
“Okay,pervert,sticktoyourunderwearcatalogues.”Hetriedagaintopluckitfrommyhands,butIturnedawayandclutchedittomychest,forcinghimtoreacharoundmeoneitherside.
“Youcantakemylife,”Iyelped,dodginghishands,“youcantakemyfreedom,butyou’llnevertakethisgoddamnyearbookfromme,Gus.”
“Iwouldmuchratherjusthavetheyearbook,”hesaid,lungingforitagain.Hecaughteithersideofthebook,hisarmswrappedaroundme,butstillIdidn’treleaseit.
“Iwasnotkidding.Thisistoobrightalighttohideunderabusheloralampshade.TheNewYorkTimesneedstoseethis.GQneedstoseethis.YouneedtosubmitthistoForbes’ssexiestmencontestforconsideration.”
“Andagain,I’mseventeeninthatpicture,”hesaid.“Pleasestopobjectifyingchild-me.”
“Iwould’vebeenobsessedwithyou,”Itoldhim.“YouliterallylooklikeyouboughtthatoutfitinapackagedTeenRebelcostumefromaHalloweenshop.Wow,it’struewhattheysay.Somethingsreallydon’teverchange.Iswearyou’rewearingtheexactsameoutfittodayasyouareinthatpicture.”
“Thatisonehundredpercentuntrue,”heargued,stillpressedupagainstmyback,hisarmsfoldedaroundmetorestonthebook.I’dmanagedtokeepthepagemarkedwithmyfinger,andasIopenedthebookagain,hisgriprelaxed.Heleanedovermyshouldertogetabetterlook,hishandsscrapingdownmyarmstorestonmyhips.
Asifforbalance.Asiftokeepfromfallingovermyshoulder.
Howmanytimescouldwepossiblyendupinsituationslikethis?AndhowlonguntilIlostwhatlittleself-controlI’dmanagedtomaintain?
Assoonassomethingconcretehappenedbetweenus,thatwouldbeit.Iwasgoingtolosehim.He’dbefreakedout,afraidthatIwastoointohim,wantedtoomuchfromhim,thathewasboundtodestroyme.AndmeanwhileI’dbe…toointohim,boundtobedestroyed.
Iwastoomuchofaromanticforanythingtostaycasual,andevenifweweretotallyincompatible,IwasalreadyindeeperwithGusthanapurelyphysicalattraction.
Anditseemedlikeneitherofuscouldstoppushingtheboundaries.
Aswestaredattheyearbook,orpretendedto,hishandsranlightlybackandforthalongmyhips,pullingmeintohimthenpushingmeaway,inaterriblyappropriatemetaphor.Icouldfeelthetightnessofhisstomachagainstmyback,andIchosetofocusonhisphotoinstead.
Myinitialgiddinessfaded,andthepicturestruckmeanew.Probably30percentoftheboysinmyownhighschoolyearbookhadgoneforthesameangstylook,butGus’swasdifferent.Thecrookedlineofhismouthwastenseandunsmiling.Thewhitescarthatbisectedhistoplipwasdarker,fresher,andhiseyeswereringedwithtiredcircles.EvenifGuswasconstantlysurprisingmeinsmallways,therewasalsoaninstinctuallevelatwhichIfeltIknewhim,recognizedhim.Atbookclub,Gushadknownthatsomethinghadchangedme,andlookingatthisphoto,Iknewsomethinghadhappenedtohimnotlongbeforethepicturewastaken.
“Wasthisafteryourmom…”Itrailedoff,unabletogetthewordsout.
Gus’schinnoddedagainstmyshoulder.“ShediedwhenIwasasophomore.That’smyseniorphoto.”
“Ithoughtyoudroppedout,”Isaid,andhenoddedagain.
“Mydad’sbrotherwasagroundskeeperatthishugecemetery.Iknewhewasgoingtohiremefull-timethesecondIwaseighteen—insuranceandeverything—butmyfriendMarkhaminsistedwetakethephotoandsubmititanyway.”
“Thankyou,Markham,”Iwhispered,tryingtokeepthingslight,despitethesadnesswellinginmychest.Iwonderedifmyeyeslookedlikethatnow,solostandempty,ifafterDad’sfuneralmyfacehadbeenthishollowedout.“IwishI’dknownyou,”Isaidhelplessly.Icouldn’thavechangedanything,butIcouldhavebeenthere.Icouldhavelovedhim.
Mydadmight’vebeenaliar,aphilanderer,andatravelingbusinessman,butIdidn’thaveasinglememoryoffeelingtrulyaloneasakid.Myparentswerealwaysthere,andhomewasalwaysmysafeplace.
NOWONDERI’DseemedlikeafairyprincesstoGus,skippingthroughlifewithmyglitteryshoesanddeeptrustintheuniverse,myinsistencethatanyonecouldbewhotheywanted,havewhattheywanted.Itmademeache,notbeingabletogobackandseehimclearly,bemorepatient.Ishould’veseenthelonelinessofGusEverett.Ishould’vestoppedtellingmyselfastoryandactuallylookedaroundattheworld.
Hishandskeptmoving.IrealizedIwasmovingwiththem,likehewasawaveIwasrockingwith.Wheneverhepulledmetowardhim,Ifoundmyselfpressingbackagainsthim,archingtofeelhimagainstme.Hishandssliddowntomylegs,curledintomyskin,andIdideverythingIcouldtokeepmybreathingeven.
Wewereplayingagame:howfarcanwegowithoutadmittingwe’vegone?
“Ihadathought,”hesaid.
“Really?”Iteased,thoughmyvoicewasstillthickwithahalfdozenconflictingemotions.“Doyouwantmetograbthevideocameratodocument?”
Gus’shandstightenedagainstme,andIleanedbackagainsthim.“Hilarious,”hesaidflatly.“AsIwassaying,Ihadanidea,butitaffectsourresearch.”
Ah.Research.Thereminderthatwestillhadtocouchwhateverthiswasinthetermsofourdeal.That,ultimately,thisstillwassomekindofgame.
“Okay,what’sup?”Iturnedtohim,andhishandsskiddedacrossmyskinasIshifted,buthedidn’tletgo.
“Well.”Hegrimaced.“ItoldPeteandMaggieI’dgototheirFourthofJuly,butthat’sonFriday.”
“Oh.”Isteppedbackfromhim.Therewassomethingdisorientingaboutrememberingtherestoftheworldexistedwhenhishandswereonme.“Soyouneedtoskiponeofourresearchnights?”
“Well,thethingis,IalsoreallyneedtogetouttoseeNewEdensoonifI’mgoingtokeepdrafting,”hesaid.“SosinceIcan’tgoonFriday,IwashopingIcoulddoitonSaturday.”
“Gotit,”Isaid.“SoweskipRom-Com101thisweekandtakeaLitFicfieldtrip?”
Gusshookhishead.“Youdon’thavetogo—Icandothisoneonmyown.”
Iraisedaneyebrow.“Whywouldn’tIgo?”
Gus’steethworriedathisbottomlip,thescarbesidehiscupid’sbowgoingevenwhiterthanusual.“It’sgoingtobeawful,”hesaid.“Yousureyouwanttoseeit?”
Isighed.Thisagain.Theoldfairy-princess-can’t-handle-this-cruel-worldsonganddance.“Gus,”Isaidslowly,“ifyou’regoing,I’mgoingtoo.That’sthedeal.”
“EventhoughI’mskippingoutonRomanceHerobootcampfortheweek?”
“Ithinkyou’vedonemorethanenoughlinedancingthismonth,”Isaid.“YoudeserveabreakandaFourthofJulyparty.”
“Whataboutyou?”hesaid.
“Ialwaysdeserveabreak,”Isaid.“Butmybreakslargelyconsistoflinedancing.”
Heclearedhisthroat.“ImeantFriday.”
“Fridaywhat?”
“DoyouwanttogotoPete’sonFriday?”
“Yes,”Iansweredimmediately.Gusgavehistrademarkclosed-mouthedsmile.“Wait.Maybe.”HisexpressionfellandIhurriedtoadd,“Isthereawayto…”Ithoughtandrethoughthowtophraseit.“Pete’sfriendswithmydad’smistress.”
“Oh.”Gus’smouthjudderedopen.“I…wishshe’dmentionedthatwhenIaskedherifIcouldinviteyou.Iwouldn’thaveagreedifI’drealized…”
“I’mnotsuresheknows.”
“Orshewastryingtogetapromisefrommebyomittingimportantinformation,”hesaid.
“Well,youshouldgo,”Isaid.“I’mjustnotsureifIcan.”
“I’llfindout,”Gussaidquickly.“Butifshe’snot?”
“I’llcome,”Isaid.“ButI’mdefinitelybringinguprockstoMaggie.”
“You’resickandtwisted,JanuaryAndrews,”Gussaid.“That’swhatIloveaboutyou.”
Mystomachdippedandrosehigherthanithadstartedout.“Oh,that’swhatitis.”
“Well,”hesaid.“Onething.Itseemedtoocrasstoinviteyoutomyaunts’houseandthenbringupyourass.”
USUALLYWHENIwenttoaparty,Iuseditasanexcusetobuyathematicallyappropriateoutfit.Oratleastnewshoes.Butevenaftersellingagoodamountoffurniture,whenIloggedintomybankaccountonFridaymorning,thesitepracticallyfrownedatme.
ItextedGus.Idon’tthinkIcancometothepartyasIhaverecentlydiscoveredIcannotaffordtobringevenasingleservingofpotatosalad.
Iwatchedthe“…”appearonscreenashetyped.Hestopped.Startedagain.Afterafullminute,thesymbolvanishedandIwentbacktostaringthebasementdoordown.
I’dheldoffsortingthroughthemasterbedroomandbathandtakendownprettymucheverything(includingthethingsnailedtothewall)onthefirstfloor,andthatleftthebasement.
Inhalingdeeply,Iopenedthedoorandgazeddownthedarkstaircase.Cementatthebottom.Thatwasgood—noreasontosuspectitwasfinished,fullofmorefurniturewhoseremovalI’dhavetocoordinate.Iflickedtheswitch,butthebulbwasdead.Itwasn’tpitch-blackbyanymeans—therewereglassblockwindowsI’dseenfromoutsidethatmust’veletinsomenaturallight.Ibrandishedmyphonelikeaflashlightanddescended.Afewredandgreenplastictubswerestackedalongthewallbesideametalrackfulloftoolsandastand-alonefreezer.Iwanderedtowardtherack,touchingadust-coatedboxoflightbulbs.Myfingersfurledaroundthelid,tuggeditopen.
Oneofthelightbulbshadalreadybeentaken.
Maybetheonethathadburnedoutonthebasementstairs.
MaybeDadhadcomedownheretodosomethingelseandrealized,likeIhad,thattheswitchwasn’tworking.He’dtakenthebulboutandclimbedhalfwaybackupthestairstowherehecouldreplaceitwithoutgoingontotiptoes.
Thistimetheachewaslikeaharpoon.Wasn’tthepainsupposedtogetbetterovertime?WhenwouldhandlingsomethingmydadhadtouchedstopmakingmychesthurtsobadlyIcouldn’tgetagoodbreath?Whenwouldtheletterintheginboxstopfillingmewithdread?
“January?”
Ispuntowardthevoice,trulyexpectingtofindaghost,amurderer,oramurderousghostthathadbeenhidingdownhereinthebellyofthehouseallalong.
InsteadIfoundGus,backlitfromthehalllightspillingdownthestairsasheleaneddowntoseemefromunderthepartialwallthatlinedthetophalfofthesteps.
“Shit,”Igasped,stillthrummingwithadrenaline.
“Thedoorwasunlocked,”hesaid,paddingdownthesteps.“Kindoffreakedmeoutseeingthebasementdooropen.”
“Freakedmeouthearingsomeone’svoiceinthebasementwhenIthoughtIwasalone.”
“Sorry.”Helookedaround.“Notmuchdownhere.”
“Nosexdungeon,”Iagreed.
“Wasthateveronthetable?”heasked.
“Shadiwashopeful.”
“Isee.”Afterabeatofsilence,hesaid,“Youknow,youdon’thavetogothroughallthis.Youdon’thavetogothroughanyofit,ifyoudon’twantto.”
“Kindofweirdtosellahousewithdustytoolsandasingleboxoflightbulbsinit,”Ipointedout.“Fallsinthegrayzonebetweenfullyfurnishedandemptyasshit.Besides,Ineedthemoney.Everythingmustgo.It’safiresale,ofsorts.Inthatthisismyalternativetolightingthehouseonfireandtryingtoscoretheinsurancemoney.”
“That’sactuallywhatIcametotalktoyouabout,”hesaid.
Igapedathim.“Youweregoingtosuggestweburnmyhousedownaspartofanarsoninsurancescam?”
“Potatosalad,”hesaid.“Ishould’vementionedthatthereisabsolutelynoneedtobringanythingtoPeteandMaggie’sFourthofJulyparty.Infact,anythingyoubringwilljustendupsittingunderneathatablethat’salreadytoofullofeverythingthey’veprovidedandthenthey’llsendithomewithyouattheendofthenight.Ifyoutrytoleaveitasagesture,you’llfinditinyourpurse,hotandmoldy,threedaysfromnow.”
“They’llprovideeverything?”Isaid.
“Everything.”
“EvenWhiteRussians?”
Gusnodded.
“Whataboutrocks?Willthereberocks,orshouldIbringmyown?Justascasualconversationstarters.”
“Ijustrealizedsomething,”Gussaid.“You’renolongerinvited.”
“Oh,I’mdefinitelyinvited,”Isaid.“Theywon’tturnsomeonewithrocksaway.”
“Okay,inthatcase,I’mcomingdownwithsomething.You’llhavetogoalone.”
“Relax.”Igrabbedhisarm.“Iwon’tengageinrocktalk.Much.”
Hesmirkedandsteppedinclosertome,shakinghishead.“I’mnotgoing.Toosick.”
“You’llsurvive.”Myhandwasstillinthecrookofhisarm,hisskinburninghotundermyfingers.Whenmyhandtensedonhim,heedgedcloser,shakinghisheadagain.Mybackmetthecoldedgesofthetoolrack,andhiseyessweptdownmeandbackup,leavinggoosebumpsintheirwake.Ipulledhimcloser,andourstomachsmet,heavywantgatheringbehindmyribsandbellybuttonandalltheplacesweweretouching.
Helightlyheldmyhipsandeasedthemuptohis,andheatraceddownmelikeflamesonastreakofgasoline.Mybreathhitched.Mybloodfeltlikeitwasslowing,thickeninginmyveins,butmyheartwasracingasIwatchedhisexpressionchange,hissmileseemingtosingeoffatthecornersofhismouth,hiseyesdarkeningwithfocus.
Ifhecouldseeintomerightthen,Ididn’tcare.Ievenwantedhimto.
Onetimeonetimeonetimerushedthroughmybrainonrepeat,liketumbleweedsthroughadesert.
AndthenGusslowlybent,hisnosegrazingdownmineuntilhisbreathhitmylips,somehowpartingthemwithoutsomuchasatouch,andmyfingersburrowedintohisskinashislipscaughtmineroughly,sofierceandhotandslowIfeltlikeIwouldmeltagainsthimbeforethatfirstkisshadended.
HetastedlikecoffeeandthetailendofacigaretteandIcouldn’tgetenough.Myhandsknottedintohishairashistongueslippedintomymouth.Heflattenedmeintothetoolrackashishandsrosetomyjaw,anglingmymouthuptohisashekissedmeagain,evendeeper,likeweweredesperatetoplumbthedepthsofeachother.
Everykiss,everytouchwasroughandwarm,likehim.Hishandssliddownmychestandthentheywereundermyshirt,hisfingerslightasfallingsnowagainstmywaist,againstmybra,makingmyskintingleaswerockedintoeachother.Therackwhinedasheslowlypushedmebackagainstit,andGuslaughedintomymouth,whichsomehowmademefeelevenmoredesperateforhim.
Itwistedmyhandsintohisshirtandhismouthdrifteddownmythroat,slowandhungry.Oneofhishandsgraspedatmywaistwhiletheotherslippedbeneaththelaceofmybalconette,turningheavycirclesonme.Hewasgentleatfirst,everymovementlanguidandpurposeful,butasIarchedunderhistouch,hisgriptightened,makingmegasp.
Hepulledback,breathinghard.“DidIhurtyou?”
Ishookmyhead,andGustouchedthesideofmyfaceagain,gingerlyturnedittokisseachofmytemples.Icaughtthehemofhisshirtandlifteditoverhim,chestflutteringatthesightofhislean,hardlines.AssoonasI’ddroppedhisshirtonthegroundhegrabbedme,hiscallousedpalmsbrushingupmysides,gatheringfabricastheywent.Hetossedmyshirtaside,thenstudiedmeintensely.“God,”hesaid,voicedeep,raspy.
Ifoughtasmile.“Areyouprayingtome,Gus?”
Hisinkygazescrapedupmybodytomyeyes.ThemusclesinhisjawleaptandIarchedagainsthimashishandsskimmedaroundmybacktounhookmybra.“Somethinglikethat.”
Hemovedoneofmybrastrapsdownmyarm,hiseyestracingtheslowpathofhisfingersastheyskateddownthesideofmybreast,followingthecurveofit.Whentheyskatedbackup,hisroughpalmcuppedme,sendingchillsoutthroughme.Againhistouchwasinfuriatinglylight,buthisgazewassofuriouslydarkitseemedtodigintome,andI
Thecornerofhismouthtwitchedashiseyesmovedbacktomine.Hefreedmyotherbrastrapandthefabricfellaway.Theintensityofhisdarkeyesonmychest,drinkingmeinandtakinghistimedoingit,mademeshiftandsquirmasifIcouldgrindagainstit.Themuscleinhisjawpulsedandhetuggedmehardagainsthim.
Therewouldbeconsequences.Thishadtobeabadidea.
Hesteppedincloser,pinningmetotheshelf.Ireachedforhiships.21TheCookout
GUS’SHANDSTRACEDdownthesidesofmybody,feelingeveryexposedlineandcurve.
“You’resobeautiful,January,”hewhispered,kissingmemoretenderly.“You’resofuckingbeautiful,you’relikethesun.”
Hismouthmoveddownmybody,tastingalltheplaceshe’dtouched.Itwasn’tenough.Myfingernailsdugintohisbackandhejerkedmeawayfromtherackandguidedmeontothefreezerbesideit,fumblingwiththebuttononmyshorts.Iliftedmyselfsohecouldslidethemdownmythighs,andashestraightened,hishandscrawledbackupmylegs,slippedunderthesidesofmyunderweartoburrowintomyskin.Iarchedagainsthimandhepulledmythighsupagainsthiships,hismouthmovinghardagainstmine.“God,January,”hesaid.
MywantthrottledmyvoiceintoabreathygaspwhenItriedtoreply.Igroundmyselfagainsthimandhistouchsharpened.
Westoppedbeinggentlewitheachother.Icouldn’tslowmyselfdownenoughtobecarefulwithhim,andIdidn’twanthimtobecarefulwithme.Iundidhispantsandjerkedthemdown.Oneofhishandsslidbetweenmylegsandhegroaned.Theotherdugintomyhipashismouthtraileddownmystomach.Hishandssqueezedmythighs,andIgrippedthesidesofthefreezerasheloweredhimselfbetweenmylegs.Mybreathscamefaster,hisfingerssankintothecreasesofmyhipsandhisnameslippedbetweenmylips.Hecuppedmyhipsharder.Itwasn’tenough.Iwantedhim.IonlyrealizedIsaiditaloudwhenhesaiditbacktome—“Iwantyou,January.”
Hestraightenedandyankedmetotheedgeofthefreezer,liftingmyhipsagainsthimasItightenedmythighsagainstthesidesofhisbody.
“Gus,”Igaspedandhisgazerolledupme,heatpulsingundermyskin.“Doyouhaveacondom?”
Ittookhimaminutetoanswer,likehisbrainwastranslatingfromasecondlanguage.Hiseyeswerestilldarkandhungry,hishandswrappedtightaroundmythighs.“Here?”hesaid.“Inyourfather’ssparehouse’sbasement?”
“Iwasthinkingmorealongthelinesofinyourpocket,”Isaid,stilloutofbreath.
Helaughed,athroatyrattle.“HowwouldyoufeelifI’dbroughtcondomswithmetotellyouaboutthepotatosalad?”
“Thankful,”Isaid.
“Ididn’tknowthiswasgoingtohappen.”Gusranahandthroughhishairindistressastheothermaintaineditsnearlypainfulgriponme.“Nextdoor.Ihavesome.”
Westaredateachotherforamoment,thenstartedgrabbingourclothesoffthefloorandpullingthemon.Asweranupthestairs,Gusgrabbedmyass.“God,”hesaidagain.“Thankyouforthisday,Lord.AlsoJackReacher.”
Wedidn’tbotherwithshoes,justranoutthedoorandacrosstheyard.IreachedhisfrontdoorfirstandturnedbackjustasGuswascomingupthesteps.Heletoutagrufflaughatthesightofmeandshookhisheadasheseizedmebythehipsandkissedmeagain,flatteningmeagainstthedoor.
Ithreadedmyfingersthroughhishair,forgettingwherewewere,forgettingeverythingbuthishandsslidingoverme,dippingintomyclothes,histonguecoaxingmylipsapartasItouchedasmuchofhimasIcouldgetto.Asmall,dissatisfiednoiseslippedoutofme,andhereachedaroundmyhiptotwistthedoorknob,leadingmebackwardintothehouse.
Webarelymadeitthreefeetbeforehepulledmyshirtoffandpeeledoffhisagain.Inaflash,Iwasonhisconsoletable,hishandsundoingmyshorts,siftingdownovermyhipsandthighsashepulledthemdownmeandletthemfalltothefloor.Hewalkedinbetweenmyknees.
Iliftedmyselfagainsthimashedraggedhishandsdownmybreasts,catchingmynipples,massagingmeuntileverythinginmepinchedtight.HescoopedmeoffthetableasIwrappedmylegsaroundhimandspuntopinmeagainstthebookcase.Hishandstwistedintomythighs,andIarchedagainstthebookcasetoworkmyhipsagainsthis.
Notenough,notevenclose
Heundidhispantsandpulledthemdownfromrightunderme.Myhandscrapeddownhisfronttopushineffectuallyathisbriefs.Headjustedmeagainsttheshelfandpushedthemdown.
Itwasalmosttoomuchfeelinghimagainstme.AgaspescapedmeasIrolledmyhipsonhim.Heclutchedmewithonebroadhandandgroanedintomyskin,“Fuck,January.”
Therumbleofhisvoicesentgoosebumpsracingoverme.Hisfreehandreachedalongtheshelfatmyshoulderleveluntilitmetabluejarinmyperipheralvision.
Hefishedacondomoutofit,andIlaughed,despitemyself.“OhmyGod,”Imurmuredagainsthisear.“Doyoualwayshavesexagainstyourbookshelves?Areyourbooksbehindmerightnow?Isthisanegothing?”
Hedrewback,smilingwrylyashetorethewrapperwithhisteeth.“It’sforonmywayoutthedoor,smart-ass.”Hisgriploosenedandhedrewbackafewinches.“Thisisafirstforme,butifit’snotdoingitforyou,wecanalwayswaituntilwestumbleacrossagoodbeachcaveonarainyday.”
Igreedilygrabbedforhim,catchinghisbottomlipwithmyteeth,beforehecouldpullawayanyfurther.Heclosedthegapbetweenus,kissingmehungrilyasheworkedthecondomon.Hishandscamebacktomywaist,tenderandlightthistime,andhecoaxedmeintoaslow,sensualkissasItrembledwithanticipation.
Hisfirstthrustwasmind-meltinglyslow,andeverythinginmybodypulledtautaroundhimashesankdeepintome.Mybreathcaught,starspoppingbehindmyeyesandthewaveofpleasureracingthroughme.
“Oh,God,”Igaspedasherockedintome.
“Areyouprayingtome?”heteasedagainstmyear,sendingatingledownmyspine.Icouldn’ttakegoingthisslow.Ipushedagainsthim,fast,eager,andhematchedmyintensity.
Hepulledmeawayfromthebookshelvesandspunaroundtositonthecouch,drawingmeontopofhimashelayback.Igaspedhisnameashepushedintomeagain,hishandsspanningmyribs.Ileanedoverhim,myhandssplayedagainsthischestasItriedtokeepfromcomingundone.Hismouthrovedovermybreast,andanintoxicatingpulseofheat
“I’vewantedyouforsolong,”hehissed,handstighteningonmyass.
Athrillrippledthroughmychestattheraspofhisvoice.“Ihavetoo,”Iadmittedinahush.“Sincethatnightatthedrive-in.”
“No,”hesaidfirmly.“Beforethat.”
Mychestflutteredliketherewasaboxfanblowingglitteraroundinit,andeverythinginmemounted—tightrope-tautandquivering—asGuswentonwhisperingintomyskin:“Beforeyouansweredthedoorinthatblackdresswiththosethigh-highboots,andbeforeIsawyourhairallwetandfrizzyatthatbookclub.”
Gusloopedanarmaroundmywaistandflippedusover,andIwrappedmylegaroundhiship,myotherfootslidingdownthebackofhiscalfashemurmuredagainstmycheek,hishuskyvoiceshimmeringthroughmelikeelectriccurrent
Hebrushedakissacrossmyjaw.“Andbeforethatgoddamnfratparty.”
Mystomachsomersaulted,andItriedtosayitback,butoneofGus’shandshadwoundaroundthebackofmyneckandtheotherwastrailingdownmycenter,lancingthroughmythoughtslikeawarmknifethroughbutter.Weundulatedagainsteachother,lostourselvesineachother,everythingelseblurryandunnecessaryaroundus.
“Oh,”Ibitoutashethrustharder,deeper,andallatonce,Icameundone,rushafterrushofpleasureripplingoutthroughmeasIclutchedtightaroundhim.Hebracedhimselfoverme,buryinghismouthintomyneckasweunraveledtogether,breathhitching,musclesshivering
Hecollapsedbesideme,breathinghard,butkeptonearmdrapedoverme,fingerscurledagainstmyribs,andafaint,grufflaughroseoutofhimashethrewhisotherarmoverhiseyesandshookhishead.
“What?”Iasked,stillcatchingmybreath.IturnedontomysideandGusdidthesame,hishandfallingfrominfrontofhisfacetoraceupthesideofmythighandhip.Heleanedforwardandkissedmysweat-sheenedshoulder,nuzzlinghisfaceintothatsideofmynecknow.
“Ijustrememberedwhatyousaidaboutthebookshelf,”hesaidinagravellyvoice.“Youcan’tevenstoproastingmewhenI’mlosingmymindoveryourbody.”
Warmthfloodedthroughme—embarrassmentandgiddinessandsomethingsofterandhardertoname.Beforethat,Iheardhimwhisperinmymind.Ilayback,droppingmyheadontoathrowpillow.Gus’shandtrailedfrommyhipbonetomystomach,spreadingwideasheleanedoverandpressedaslowkisstoit.
Mylimbsfeltexhaustedandlimpbutmyheartwasstillracing.EvenifI’dknownsomethinghadtogivebetweenGusandme,Ineverwouldhaveimaginedhimlikethis,keepinghishandsonmeatalltimes,hiseyesonmymouthandbodyandeyes,kissingmystomachandlaughingintomyskinaswelaynaked,wrappedtogetherlikewe’ddonethisahundredtimes.
Whatdoesitmean?Ithought,followedby,Stoptryingtomakeeverythingmeansomething!Butmychestwaspullingtightasthefullforceofeverythingthathadjusthappenedsettledonme.IhadlovedtouchingGus,beingtouchedbyhim,likeI’dknownIwould,butthis…thiswasunexpected,anditwaspossibleIloveditevenmore.
Herestedhisheadonmychest,hishandtracingalazy,featherlightpathbackandforthintheslightvalleybetweenmyhipbones.Hekissedthegapbetweenmybreasts,thesideofmyribs,andeveninmystateofnear-totalrelaxation,ashiverwentthroughme.“Iloveyourbody,”hisvoicethrummedagainstme.
“I’mafanofyourstoo,”Isaid.Iproddedthescaronhislip.“Andyourmouth.”
Hebrokeintoasmileandproppedhimselfuponhiselbow,handstillsplayedacrossmybellybutton.“Ireallydidn’tshowuptoyoursexdungeontoseduceyou.”
Isatup.“HowdoyouknowIdidn’tseduceyou?”
Hissmilecrookedhigher.“Becauseyouwouldn’thavehadto.”
Hiswordsreverberatedthroughmeagain:I’vewantedyouforsolong.No.Beforethat.Myheartleaptinmychest,thenjoltedagainatthesuddensoundofaphoneringing.
“Shit.”Gusgroanedandkissedmystomachonelasttimebeforerollingoffthecouch.Hesnatchedhispantsfromthefloorandpulledhisphoneoutofhispocket.
Thesmilemeltedoffhisfaceashestaredatit,linesofconsternationrisingbetweenhisdarkbrows.
“Gus?”Isaid,suddenworrycoursingthroughme.
Whenhelookedup,heseemedalittleoffbalance.Hejammedhismouthshutandjerkedhisgazebacktothephone.“I’mreallysorry,”hesaid.“Ihavetotakethis.”
“Oh.”Isatup,immediatelyawareofhowthoroughlynakedIwas.“Okay.”
“Shit,”hesaid,thistimeunderhisbreath.“Thiswillonlytakeafewminutes.CanImeetyouatyourhouse?”
Istaredbackathim,fightingthehurtbuildinginmychest.
Sowhatifhewaskickingmeoutrightaftersextotakeamysteriouscall?
Thiswasfine.Ithadtobe.Ihadtobefine.
Hewasoutofmysystemnow.Thatwashowitwassupposedtoworkanyway.Ithadneverbeentheplantolienakedwithhimwhilehecataloguedeverypieceofmewithslow,carefulkisses.Still,mystomachwassinkingasIstoodandgatheredmyclothes.
“Sure,”Isaid.BeforeI’dgottenmyshirton,Guswashalfwaydownthehall.
“Hello?”Iheardhimsay,andthenabedroomdoorclosed,shuttingmeout.
ItwaselevenwhenIwalkedbackintomyhouse.GusandIweresupposedtoleaveforthecookoutsoon.PetehadtoldGusthatSonyacouldn’tmakeituntillateranywaysoourbestbetwastocomeforthefirsthalfoftheday-to-nightaffair(pununintended)andleavelongbeforedessertwineandfireworks.WhenGushadtoldme,I’dsuggestedIdriveseparatelysohecouldstayuntilthebitterend.
“Areyoukidding?”he’dsaid.“Youcan’tpossiblyimaginehowmuchcheek-pinchingyou’resavingmefrombycoming.I’mnotgoingtobealonewiththatcrowdformorethanthirtyseconds.”
“WhatifIhavetousethebathroom?”I’dasked.
Gushadshrugged.“I’llmakeagetawayandleaveyoubehindifIhaveto.”
“Aren’tyoulikefourhundredyearsold?”I’dreplied.“Thatseemsalittleoldforbothcheek-pinchingandsuchadeep-seatedfearofcheek-pinching.”
“Imaybefourhundred,butthey’vegotatleastathousandyearsonme,andthetalonsofvultures.”
Itwasstrangethatthatconversationhadonlyhappenedabouttwelvehoursbeforewhathadhappenedjustnow.Moregoosebumpsrosealongmyspine.
Thethoughtofneverbeingwithhimagainsentanewachepinballingthroughmybody,hittingeverypartofmehe’dstudiedwithhiseyesandmouthandhands.Thethoughtofneverseeinghimlikethat,nakedandvulnerableandwithoutanywalls,whisperingsecretsstraightintomybones,mademystomachdrop
Onetime,thatwasGus’srule.Andthiswoulddefinitelycount.
Hejusthadanimportantphonecall,Itoldmyself.It’snotabouttheruleoryouoranything.ButIcouldn’tbesure.
Ididn’thearfromGusagainuntil11:45,whenhetextedme,Readyin5?
Hardly.Evenburningoffenergywalkingbackandforth,Iwasstillthrummingwiththememoryofwhathadhappenedandanxietyaboutwhatcamenext.Ihadn’texpectedhimtojustdropit,textmelikeithadneverhappened,butprobablyIshouldhave.
Isighedandtextedback,sure,thenhurriedintothebedroomtochangeintoawhitesundressandapairofredsandalsI’dgottenduringmylastGoodwillrun.Ithrewmyhairup,thentookitbackdownbeforeputtingonasmuchmakeupasIcouldinthetwominutesIhadleft.
Gushadcleanedupabit.Hishairwasthesamemattedmess,buthe’dputonareasonablywrinkle-freebluebutton-up,thesleevesrolleduparoundhisrigid-veinedforearms.Anodwasmyonlygreetingbeforeheclimbedintothedriver’sseat.
Igotinbesidehim,feelingatleasttwiceasawkwardasI’dworriedIwouldwhenI’dimaginedsomeversionofthisscenario.Dumbbunny,dumbbunny,dumbbunny!Ichastisedmyself.
ButthenIthoughtaboutthewayhe’dkissedmystomach,sotenderly,sosweetly.Weretherereallyone-night—one-morningstandsthatfeltthat…real?
Ilookedoutthewindowandputonmybest(horriblyinaccurate;0/10)carefreevoice.“Everythingokay?”
“Mhm,”Gusanswered.
Itriedtoreadhisfeatures.TheytoldmeenoughtoknowIshouldbeworriedbutnomore.
BythetimewereachedPeteandMaggie’sstreet,itwasalreadycrowdedwithcars.Gusparkedaroundthecornerandledthewaythroughasidegatethatopenedontooneofthepathsthroughtheirgarden.
Webypassedthefrontdoor,insteadwindingaroundthehousetothebackyard
Achorusofvoicesroseup,callinghisname.Whenitended,Petesang,“Jaaaanuary!”andtherestofherguestsfollowedsuit.Therewereatleasttwentypeoplecrowdedaroundacoupleofcardtablesunderanivy-drapedtrellis.Beerbottlesandredcupslitteredthestar-spangledpapertableclothsand,aspromised,alongtableattheedgeofthepatiowasnotonlycrowdedbutstackedwithaluminumtraysoffoodandcansofbeer.
“Nowthere’smyhandsomenephewandhislovelycompanion.”Petewasstandingatthebarbecue,flippingburgersinaKISSTHECOOKapron.She’daddedinSharpie(JK!Happilymarried!)andMaggiewaswearingherownwhiteapron,whosemessagewasentirelyhandwritten:KISSTHEGEOLOGIST.Guestswerecrowdedaroundacardtableonthecedar-staineddeckinthecenteroftheirwhimsicalgarden,andpasttheedgeofthedeck,afewmoreweresplashingaroundinthegiantblueswimmingpool.
“Hopeyoukidsbroughtyoursuits!”PetetoldGusashebenttohugheraroundherspatula.Sheloudlykissedhischeekandpulledback.“Water’sjustperfecttoday.”
IglancedGus’sway.“DoesGusownabathingsuit?”
“Technicallyspeaking,”Maggiesaid,driftingforwardtokisshernephewonthecheek,“no,hedoesnot.”Sheturnedtoplantoneonmenext,thenwenton,“Butwekeeponehereforhimallthesame—hewasanabsolutefishwhenhewaslittle!We’dtakehimtotheYMCAandhavetosetatimertodraghimoutofthepool,tokeephimfrompeeinginit.Weknewhe’dnevergetoutofhisownvolition.”
“Thisstory’scompletelymadeup,”Gussaid.“Thatneverhappened.”
“Crossmyheart,”Maggiesaidinherwistful,airyway.“Youcouldn’thavebeenmorethanfive.Rememberthat,Gussy?Whenyouwerealittleguy,youandRosewouldcometothepoolwithusonceortwiceaweek.”
Gus’sfacechanged,somethingbehindhiseyes,likehewasslidingametaldoorclosedbehindthem.“Nope.Doesn’tringanybells.”
Rose?Pete’srealnamewasPosey,alittlebouquet.Rosemust’vebeenhersister,Gus’smom.
“Well,thefactremains,”Maggiewenton.“Youlovedtoswim,whetheryoudoitnowornot,andyoursuit’sjustwaitinginthespareroom.”Maggielookedmeupanddownnext.“I’msurewecouldfindsomethingthatwouldfityoutoo.It’dbelongintheupwarddirection.Andtheacrossdirection.You’reatinything,aren’tyou?”
“Ineverthoughtsountilthissummer.”
Maggierubbedmyarmandsmiledserenely.“That’swhatlivingamongtheDutchwilldotoyou.We’rehardystockoutthis-a-way.Comemeeteveryone.Gussy,yousayhitoo.”
Andwiththat,wewerespiritedthroughPeteandMaggie’sbackgarden.Guskneweveryone—mostlyfacultyandthepartnersandchildrenoffacultyfromthelocaluniversity,alongwithtwoofMaggie’ssisters—butseeminglyhadverylittletosaytoanyofthembeyondapolitegreeting.Darcy,Maggie’syoungestsister,wasagoodthreeinchestallerthanMaggiewithyellow,straw-likehairandgiantblueeyes,whileLollywasagoodfootshorterthanMaggiewithabluntgraybob.“She’sgothorriblemiddlechildsyndrome,”MaggiewhisperedtomeassheguidedmeandGustoanothernookinthegardenwherethey’dsetupabeanbagtoss.TwooftheLabradorsranamiablybackandforth,makinghalf-assedattemptstocatchthebeanbagsasthekidsthrewthem.
“I’msurethey’dletyoujoinin,”Maggietoldus,wavingtowardthegame.
Gus’ssmilesplitwideinthatrare,unrepentantwayasheturnedtowardher.“Ithinkwe’lljuststartwithadrink.”
Shepattedhisarmgently.“Oh,you’rePete’sgodsonallright,Gussy.Let’sgetyoutwosomeofmyworld-famousbluepunch!”
Shewentonahead,andaswefollowed,Guscastaconspiratoriallookmywaythatwarnedthedrinkwouldbeterrible,butafterourstraineddriveover,eventhatwasenoughtosendheatdownthroughmybody,allthewaytomytoes.“World-infamous,”hewhispered.
“Hey,doyouknowwhatkindofstonethispathismadeof?”Iwhisperedback.
Heshookhisheadindisbelief.“Justsoyouknow,askingthatquestionistheonethingIcanneverforgiveyoufor.”
We’dstoppedwalkingonthepath,inanookformedbylushfoliage,outofviewofboththebeanbagtossandthedeck.
“Gus,”Isaid.“Iseverythingokay?”
Foramoment,hisgazewasintense.Heblinkedandtheexpressionvanished,acarefulindifferencereplacingit.“Yeah,it’snothing.”
“Butthereisan‘it,’”Isaid.
Gusshookhishead.“No.There’sno‘it’exceptthebluepunch,andtherewillbealotofthat.Trytopaceyourself.”
Hestartedtowardthedeckagain,leavingmetofollow.Whenwereachedit,Maggiealreadyhadtwofull-to-the-brimcupsreadyforus.Itookasipanddidmybestnottocough.“What’sinthis?”
“Vodka,”Maggiesaidairily,tickingtheingredientsoffonherfingers.“Coconutrum.Bluecura?ao.Tequila.Pineapplejuice.Asplashofregularrum.Doyoulikeit?”
“It’sgreat,”Isaid.Itsmelledlikeanopenbottleofnailpolishremover.
“Gussy?”sheasked.
“Wonderful,”heanswered.
“Betterthanlastyear,isn’tit?”Petesaid,abandoningherpostatthegrilltojoinus.
“Atleastmorelikelytostripthepaintfromacarifspilled,”Gussaid.
Peteguffawedandsmackedhisarm.“Youhearthat,Mags?Itoldyouthisstuffcouldpowerajet.”
Maggiesmiled,unbotheredbytheirteasing,andthelightcaughtGus’sfacejustrighttorevealhissecretdimpleandlightenhiseyestoagoldenamber.Thoseeyescuttomeandhismildsmilerose.Hedidn’tlooklikeadifferentperson.Helookedmoreatease,moresure,likeallthistimeI’donlyevercomeface-to-facewithhisshadow.
Standingthereinthatmoment,IfeltlikeI’dstumbledonsomethinghiddenandsacred,moreintimateeventhanwhathadpassedbetweenusathishouse.LikeGushadpulledbackthecurtainsinthewindowofahouseI’dbeenadmiring,whoseinsidesI’dbeendreamingaboutbutevenso,underestimated.
IlikedseeingGuslikethis,withthepeopleheknewwouldalwayslovehim.
We’djusthadsexliketheworldwasburningdownaroundus,butifIevergottokissGusagain,Iwantedittobethisversionofhim.Theonewhodidn’tfeelsoweighteddownbytheworldaroundhimthathehadtoleanjusttostayupright.
“…MaybethatfirstweekendinAugust?”Petewassaying.She,Maggie,andGuswerealllookingrightatme,awaitingananswerwhosequestionIhadn’theard.
“Worksforme,”Gussaid.“January?”Hestillseemedrelaxed,happy.Iweighedmyoptions:agreetosomethingwithouthavinganyconceptofwhatthatsomethingwas,admitthatIhadn’tbeenlistening,orfishformoreinformationwithsome(possiblydamning)questions.
“What…whattime?”Isaid,hopingI’dchosentherightoption.Andaquestionthatmadeanysense.
“Onweeknights,weusuallydoseven,butgiventhatit’saweekend,wecoulddowhatevertimewelike.Eveningmightstillbebest—thisisabeachtown,afterall,andpeoplemightread,buttheydoitontheirbelliesinthesand.”
“Ithinkthiscouldjustbesointeresting,”Maggiesaid,clappingherhandstogethersoftly.“Whatyoutwodoseems—externally—tobesodifferent,butIimaginetheinternalmechanicsarestillverysimilar.It’slikelabradoriteand—”
“Blessyou,”Gussaid.
“No,Gussy,Iwasn’tsneezing,”Maggieofferedhelpfully.“Labradoriteisastone—justbeautiful—”
“Itreallyis,”Peteagreed.“Lookslikesomethingfromouterspace.IfIweretomakeasci-fimovie,I’dhavethewholeworldmadeoutoflabradorite.”
“Speakingof,”Gussaid.HiseyesflickedtowardmineandIknewhe’dfoundawaytodiverttheconversationfromrocks.“HaveanyofyouseenContactwithJodieFoster?That’sabatshitfuckingmovie.”
“Everett,”Petesaid.“Language!”
Maggiechortledbehindherhand.Hernailswerepaintedacreamyoff-whitespeckledwithlightbluestars.Today,Pete’swerepainteddarkred.IwonderedifmanicuresweresomethingMaggiehadgottenherinto,abitofherwifethathadrubbedoffonherovertheyears.Ialwayslikedthatthought,thewaytwopeoplereallydidseemtogrowintoone.Oratleasttwooverlappingparts,treeswithtangledroots.
“Backtotheevent,”Petesaid,turningtomeagain.“Maybesevenwouldbegood,sowe’renotcuttingintotoomuchbeachtime.”
“Soundsgreat,”Isaid.“Wouldyoumindemailingmeallthedetailstoconfirm?Icandouble-checkmycalendarwhenIgethome.”
“Idon’tknowaboutdetails.Allyoureallyneedtoknowiswhattimetoshowup!MaggieandIwillcomeupwithsomegoodquestions,”Petesaid.
Myhesitancymust’veshown,becauseGusleanedinabit.“I’llemailyou.”
“GusEverett,I’veseenevenlessproofthatyouhaveemailthanI’veseenthatyouownabathingsuit,”Isaid
Heshrugged,hiseyebrowsflickingupward.
“Well,I’mgladI’mnottheonlyone,”Petesaid.“Youcanonlysendsomanyunanswereddogvideosbeforeyoustartwonderingiftheaddresseeistryingtotellyousomethingwithhissilence!”
GushookedanarmaroundPete’sneck.“I’vetoldyou.Idon’tcheckmyemail.Thatdoesn’tmeanI’mincapableofsendingonewhenasked.Inperson.Foragoodreason.”
“Dogvideosareagoodreasonforjustaboutanything,”Maggiemused.
“Whatdoweneedwiththose,withyourowndogsrunningaround?”Gusasked
“SpeakingofLabradors,”Maggiesaid.“WhatIwassayingaboutlabradorite…”
Guslookedatme,grinning.Asitturnedout,hewasentirelyright.Weshouldhave,atallcosts,avoidedthetopicofrocks.Ilosttrackoftheconversationfairlyquicklyasshemovedfromonestonetothenext,spurredbyinterestingtidbitsofinformationthatremindedherofotherinterestingtidbits.Afterawhile,evenPete’s(mostlyadoring)gazeseemedtoglazeover.
“Oh,good!”shesaid,abitindiscreetly,assomeoneelsecamearoundthesideofthehouse.“I’dbettergreettheguests.”
“Ifyouwanttogosayhi,”GustoldMaggie,“don’tletusstopyou!”
Maggiemadeafaceofexaggeratedshock.“Never!”shecried,takingholdofGus’sarm.“Yourauntmaybefickle,buttome,nooneismoreimportantthanyou,Gussy!NoteventheLabradors—don’ttellthem,ofcourse.”
IleanedintoGusandwhispered,“Noteventhelabradorite.”Hisfaceturnedaninchtowardmineandhesmiled.Hewassoclosethatmostofhisfacelookedblurrytome,andthesmellofthebluepunchonhisbluelipsmademybloodfeellikeitwasspikedwithPopRocks.
“SoI’mrightaftertheLabradors?”amanatthetableteasedMaggie.
“No,don’tbesilly,Gilbert,”Petesaid,stridingbackwiththenewcomersandabeautifulbouquetinherhands.“You’retiedwiththeLabradors.”
Guslookeddownatmeandhissmilefadedintoacrooked,thoughtfulexpression.Iwaswatchinghimretreatintohimselfandfeltasuddendesperationtoscrabbleforpurchase,grabfistfulsofhimtokeephimthere.
Hiseyescuttome.“I’vegottogetsomeofthisbluepunchoutofmybody.Youokayherebyyourself?”
“Sure,”Isaid.“Unlessyou’reactuallygoinginsidetohidebabypicturesofyourself.Inwhichcase,no,Iamnotokayherebymyself.”
“I’mnotdoingthat.”
“Areyousure?”Ipressed,tryingtomakehimsmile,tobringHappySafeGusbacktothesurface.“BecausePetewilltellme.There’snohidingthem.”
Thecornerofhismouthhitchedup,andhiseyessparked.“Ifyouwanttofollowmeintothebathroomtobesure,that’syourprerogative.”
Mystomachsangupthroughmythroat.“Okay.”
“Okay?”hesaid.
Already,heatwasfloodingmybodyunderhissharpstare.“Gus,”Isaid,“wouldyoulikemetocometothebathroomwithyou?”
Helaughed,didn’tmove.Hiseyesskirteddownmeandbackup,thenflashedsidelongtowardPete.Whenhelookedbacktome,hissmilehadfallen,thegleaminhiseyesgonewithoutatrace.“That’sokay,”hesaid.“I’llberightback.”
Hetouchedmyarmgently,thenturnedandwentinside,leavingmemoremortifiedthanI’dbeeninalongtime.OratleastthanI’dbeensincethenightIdrankwineoutofmypurseatbookclub.Unfortunately,IimaginedIwouldnowbegoingthatrouteagain,tryingtoblotoutthememoryofwhathadjusthappened.
Gushadturnedmedown.Hoursafterhe’dhadmeagainstabookshelf,he’dturnedmedown.
Thiswassomehowsomuchworsethantheworst-casescenariomybrainhadconcoctedwhenI’dweighedtheprosandconsofstartingsomethingwithGus.
Whydidhesaythatthingaboutwantingmeforsolong?Ithadseemedsosexyinthemoment,butnowitmademefeellikeIwasalooseendhe’dfinallygottentotieup.Mystupidfatalflawhadstruckagain.
Iwaitedbesidetheslidingglassdoor,faceburningandburiedinmydrink,forafewminutes.IjumpedwhenmyphonebuzzedwithanemailfromGus.Myheartbegantorace,thensankmiserablywhenIopenedit.Therewasnothinginitexcept:EventatPete’sBooks,Aug2,7PM.
IthoughtbacktowhatMaggiehadsaid,abouthowwhatGusandIdidwassodifferentexternallythat“this”wouldbeinteresting.IwasfairlysureI’djustcommittedtodoingabookeventwithhim.
Dumbbunny,dumbbunny,dumbbunny.I’dspentamonthinnear-constantcontactwithGus.IfI’dspentamonthsolidwithnothingbutablood-drenchedvolleyball,IimaginedItoowouldbecryingasthetidesweptitouttosea.
Butno,thatwasn’ttrue.Itwasn’tjustlonelinessandatendencytoromanticizethathadgottenmehere.
IknewGus.Iknewhislifewasmessy.Iknewthathiswallsweresothickitwouldtakeyearstochiselthroughthemandthathismistrustoftheworldwentnearlycore-deep.IknewIwasnottheMagicalOnewhocouldfixitalljustbyBeingMe.
Whenitcamedowntoit,IknewexactlywhoGusEverettwas,anditdidn’tchangeathing.Becauseeventhoughhewouldprobablyneverlearntodanceintherain,itwasGusIwanted.OnlyGus.ExactlyGus.
IhadsetmyselfupforheartbreakandnowIsuspectedtherewasnothingIcoulddobutbracemyselfandwaitforittohit.22TheTrip
“OH,COMEON,Gussy.Getin!”Maggiesplashedwatertowardtheedgeofthepool,butGusmerelysteppedback,shakinghisheadandgrinning.
“What,areyouafraiditwillmessupyourperm?”Peteteasedfromthegrill.
“Andthenwe’llfindoutyouhaveaperm?”Iadded.Whenhiseyescuttome,athrillwentthroughme,followedbythedisappointingrealizationthatthesaggyone-pieceMaggiehadlentmemademelooklikeawaterloggedPopsicletangledintoiletpaper.
“MaybeI’mafraidthatonceIgetin,noonewillsetatimerandremindmetogetoutandusethebathroom,”Gussaid.
Atthefarendofthepool,astringylittleboyandgirlcannonballedinfromoppositesides,theirsplashsoakingus.Guslookedbacktome.“Andthenthere’sthat.”
“What?”Isaid.“Fun?Areyouafraidit’scontagious?”
“No,I’mafraidthepool’salreadytotallyfullofpee.Youtwoenjoybathinginit.”GuswentbackinsideandItriednottokeepcheckingeveryminuteorsowhetherhe’demergedagain.
Maggiefoundabeachball,andwestartedhittingitbackandforth.Soonenough,itwasfouro’clock,andsinceSonyawascomingatfive,Iexcusedmyselftochange.Maggiehoppedsprylyouttooandgrabbedtheyellowtowelswe’dleftonthecementaroundthepool.
ShedrapedoneovermyshouldersbeforeIcouldgrabitfromherandledthewayinside.“Youcanusetheupstairsbathroom,”shesaidwithasweetsmilethatseemedalmostlikeawink.
“Oh,”Isaiduncomfortably.“Okay.”Igatheredmyclothesandwenttothestairs.
Thestepswerecreaky,wooden,andnarrow.Theyturnedbackonthemselveshalfwaybeforedepositingmeintotheupstairshallway.Thebathroomsatattheend,apinktilemonstrositythatwassouglyitbecamecuteagain.Thereweretwodoorsononesideofthehallandathirdontheother,allofthemclosed.
Itwasalmosttimetoleave.IwasgoingtohavetoknockonthemuntilIfoundhim.Itriednottofeelembarrassedorhurt,butitwasn’teasy.
Fromyourfirstrealconversation,Gusmadeitclearhewasn’tthetypetoexpectanythingfrom,January.Thekindnotevenyouwerecapableofromanticizing.
Itoweledoffanddressedinthebathroom,thencameoutandknockedsoftlyonthefirstdoor.Noanswer,soImovedtotheoneacrossthehall.
Amumbled“Yeah?”camethroughit,andIeaseditopen.
Guswasonthetwinbedinthecorner,legsstretchedoutandbackproppedupbythewall.Tohisright,theblindswerepartlyopen,lettinginstreaksoflightbetweentheshadowsonthefloor.“Timetoheadout?”heasked,scratchingthebackofhishead.
Ilookedaroundtheroomatthemismatchedfurniture,thelackofplants.Onthebedsidetabletherewasalampthatlookedlikeasoccerball,andacrossfromthefootofthebed,thelittlebluebookcasetherewasfullofcopies,USeditionsandforeignones,ofGus’sbooks.“Comeheretoponderyourownmortality?”Iasked,tippingmyheadtowardthebookshelf.
“Justhadaheadache,”hesaid.IwenttowardthebedtositbesidehimbuthestoodbeforeIreachedit.“I’dbettersaybye.Youshouldtoo,ifyoudon’twantPetetoblacklistyou.”AndthenhewasleavingtheroomandIwaslefttherealone.Iwentclosertothebookshelf.Fourframedpicturessatalongthetop.Oneofababywithdarkeyessurroundedbyfluffyfakecloudsandunderasoftfocus.ThenextwasPeteandMaggie,agoodthirtyyearsyounger,withsunglassesontopoftheirheadsandalittleboyinsandalsstandingbetweenthem.Overhishead,betweenPete’sandMaggie’sshoulders,asliveroftheCinderellaCastlewasvisible.
Thethirdpicturewasmucholder,asepia-tonedportraitofagrinninglittlegirlwithdarkcurlsandonedimple.Thefourthwasateampicture,littleboysandgirlsinpurplejerseysalllinedupnexttoayounger,slimmerPete,wearingawhistlearoundherneckandacaplowoverhereyes.IfoundGusrightaway,thinandmessywithabashfulsmilethatfavoredoneside.
Voicesfilteredupfromdownstairsthen.“…sureyoucan’tstay?”Petewassaying.
Isetthephotodownandlefttheroom,closingthedooronmywayout.
Wewerequietforthefirstcoupleofminutesofthedrivehome,butGusfinallyasked,“Didyouhavefun?”
“PeteandMaggiearewonderful,”Ianswerednoncommittally.
Gusnodded.“Theyare.”
“Okay,”Isaid,unsurewheretogofromthere.
Hishardgazeshiftedmyway,softeningalittle,buthejammedhismouthshutanddidn’tlookmywayagain.
Istaredatthebuildingswhippingpastthewindow.Thebusinesseshadmostlyclosedfortheday,butthere’dbeenaparadewhilewewereatPete’s,andvendorcartsstilllinedeithersideofthestreet,familiescladinred,white,andbluemillingbetweenthemwithbagsofpopcornandAmerican-flagpinwheelsintheirhands.
Ihadsomanyquestionsbutallofthemwerenebulous,un-askable.Inmyownstory,Ididn’twanttobetheheroinewholetsomesillymiscommunicationderailsomethingobviouslygood,butinmyreallife,IfeltlikeI’dratherriskthatandkeepmydignitythankeeplayingeverythingoutforGusuntilhefinallycamerightoutandadmittedhedidn’twantmethewayIwantedhim.
Morethanonce,Ithoughtmiserably.Somethingreal,evenifalittlemisshapen.
Whenwereachedthecurbinfrontofourhouses(markedlylaterthanwewouldhave,duetotheincreasedpedestriantraffic),Gussaid,“Letmeknowabouttomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”Isaid.
“TheNewEdentrip.”Heunlockedthecardoor.“Ifyoustillwanttogo,letmeknow.”
Thiswasallithadtaken?Hewasnowtotallydisinterestedinme,evenasaresearchcompanion?
Heclimbedoutofthecar.Thatwasit.FivePM,andweweregoingourseparateways.OntheFourthofJuly,whenIknewnooneintownapartfromhimandhisaunts.
“Whywouldn’tIwanttogo?”Iasked,fuming.“IsaidIwantedto.”Hewasalreadyhalfwaytohisporch.Heturnedbackandshrugged.
“Doyouwantmeto?”Idemanded.
“Ifyouwant,”hesaid.
“That’snotwhatIaskedyou.Iaskedyouifyouwantmetocomewithyoutomorrow.”
“Iwantyoutodowhateveryouwantto.”
Ifoldedmyarmsovermychest.“Whattime,”Ibarked.
“Nine-ish,”hesaid.“It’llprobablytakeallday.”
“Great.Seeyouthen.”
Iwentintomyhouseandpacedangrily,andwhenthatdidn’tdothetrick,Isatatmycomputerandwrotefuriouslyuntilnightfell.WhenIcouldn’tgetoutanotherbitterword,Iwentontothedeckandwatchedthefireworksstreakoverthelake,theirglitterrainingdownonthewaterlikefallingstars.ItriednottolookGus’sway,buttheglowofhiscomputerinthekitchencaughtmyeyeeveryonceinawhile.
HewasstillworkingatmidnightwhenShaditextedme:Well,that’sit.I’minlove.RIPme.
Same.
IAWOKETOahouse-shakingboomofthunderandrolledoutofbed.Itwaseighto’clock,buttheroomwasstilldarkfromthestormclouds.
Shivering,Idraggedmyrobeoffthechairatthevanityandhurriedintothekitchentoputthewateron.Greatslashesoflightningleaptfromtheskytohitthechurninglake,thelightflutteringagainstthebackdoorslikeaseriesofcameraflashes.Iwatcheditinastupor.I’dneverseenastormoutoveramassivebodyofwater,atleastoutsideofamovie.IwonderedifitwouldaffectGus’splans.
Maybeit’dbebetterifitdid.Ifhecouldeffectivelyghostme.I’dcallandcanceltheeventatthebookstore,andwe’dneverseeeachother,andhecouldsticktohispreciousonce-onlynon-datingrule,andIcouldgotoOhioandmarryaninsuranceman,whateverthatmeant.
Behindme,thekettlewhistled.
Imademyselfsomecoffeeandsatdowntowork,andagainthewordspouredoutofme.Ihadreachedtheforty-thousand-wordmark.Thefamily’sworldwascomingapart.Eleanor’sfather’ssecondfamilyhadshownupatthecircus.Hermotherhadhadaroughencounterwithaguestandwasmoreonedgethanever.EleanorhadsleptwiththeboyfromTulsaandbeencaughtsneakingbackintohertent,onlyforthemechanic,Nick,tocoverforher.
Andtheclowns.They’dnearlybeenoutedafteratendermomentinthewoodsbehindthefairgrounds,andthey’dgottenintoahugeargumentbecauseofit.Oneofthemhadleftforthebarintownandwoundupsleepingitoffinaholdingcell.
Ididn’tknowhowthingsweregoingtocometogetherbutIknewtheyneededtogetworse.Itwasninefifteenbythen,andIhadn’theardfromGus.Iwentandsatontheunmadebed,staringoutthewindowtowardhisstudy.Icouldseewarmgoldenlightpouringfromlampshadesthroughhiswindow.
Itextedhim.Willthisweatherinterferewithresearch?
Itprobablywon’tbeacomfortabletrip,hesaid.ButI’mstillgoing.
AndI’mstillinvited?Iasked.
Ofcourse.Aminutelaterhetextedagain.Doyouhavehikingboots?
Absolutelynot,Itoldhim.
Whatsizedoyouwear?
7?,why?Doyouthinkwewearthesamesize?
I’llgrabsomefromPete,hesaid,then,Ifyoustillwanttocome.
DearGOD,areyoutryingtokickmeoutofthis?Itypedback.
Ittookhimmuchlongertoanswerthanusualandthewaitstartedmakingmefeelsick.Iusedthetimetogetdressed.Finallyhereplied,No.Ijustdon’twantyoutofeelobligated.
Iwaffled,debatingwhattodo.Hetextedmeagain:OfcourseIwantyoutocome,ifyouwantto.
Notofcourse,Ireplied,simultaneouslyangryandrelieved.Youhaven’tmadethatclearatall.
Isitclearnow?heasked.
Clear-ER.
Iwantyoutocome,hesaid.
Thengogettheshoes.
Bringyourlaptopifyouwant,hereplied.Imightneedtobethereforawhile.
Twentyminuteslater,Gushonkedfromthecurb,andIputonmyrainjacketandranthroughthestorm.HeleanedovertoopenthedoorbeforeI’devengottenthereandIslammeditshutagainbehindme,pullingthehooddown.Thecarwaswarm,thewindowswerefoggy,andthebackseatwasloadedwithflashlights,anoversizedbackpack,asmallerwaterproofone,andapairofmuddyhikingbootswithredshoelaces.Whenhesawmelookingatthem,Gussaid,“They’reeights—willthatwork?”
WhenIlookedbackathim,healmostseemedtostartle,butitwassuchasmallgestureImight’veimaginedit.“LuckyforyouIbroughtapairofthicksocks,justincase.”Ipulledtheballed-upsocksfrommyjacketpocketandtossedthemathim.Hecaughtthemandturnedthemoverinhishands.
“Whatwouldyouhavedoneifthebootsweretoosmall?”
“Cutoffmytoes,”Isaidflatly.
Finallyhecrackedasmile,lookingupatmefromunderhisthick,inkyeyelashes.HishairwassweptoffhisforeheadperusualandafewraindropshadsplatteredacrosshisskinwhenI’djumpedintothecar.Asheswallowed,thedimpleinhischeekappeared,thenvanishedfromsight.
Ihatedwhatthatdidtome.Atinycarrotshouldreallynotoverpowertheinstinctinmydumbbunnybrainscreaming,RUN.
“Ready?”Gussaid.
Inodded.Hefacedforwardinhisseatandpulledawayfromourhouses.Therainhadslowedenoughthatthewindshieldwiperscouldsqueakacrosstheglassataneasypace,andwefellintoafairlycomfortablerhythm,talkingaboutourbooksandtherainandthebluepunch.Wemovedoffthatlasttopicfairlyquickly,neitherofusapparentlywillingtobroachYesterday.
“Wherearewegoing?”Iasked,anhourin,whenhepulledoffthehighway.Frommyonlinesearch,IknewNewEdenwasatleastanotherhouroff.
“Notamurderspot,”hepromised.
“Isitasurprise?”
“Ifyouwantittobe.Butitmightbeadisappointingone.”
“Theworld’slargestballofyarn?”Iguessed.
Hisgazecuttowardme,narrowedinappraisal.“Thatwoulddisappointyou?”
“No,”Isaid,heartleapingtraitorously.“ButIthoughtyoumightthinkitwould.”
“Therearecertainwondersthatnomancanfacewithoutweeping,January.Agiantballofyarnisoneofthose.”
“Okay,youcantellme,”Isaid.
“We’regettinggas.”
Ilookedathim.“Okay,thatisdisappointing.”
“Muchlikelife.”
“Notthisagain,”Isaid.
Itwasanothersixty-threeminutesbeforeGuspulledoffthehighwayagainnearArcadia,andthenanotherfifteenmilesonwoodedtwo-laneroadsbeforehepulledoverontoamuddyshoulderandtoldmetostuffmycomputerinthedrybag.
“Nowthisisdefinitelyamurderspot,”Isaidwhenwegotout.AsfarasIcouldtelltherewasnothingherebutthesteepbanktoourrightandthetreesaboveit.
“It’sprobablysomeone’s,”Gussaid.Heleanedbackintothecar.“Butnotmine.Nowchangeyourshoes.Wehavetowalktherestoftheway.”
Guspulledonthebiggerbackpackandtookoneoftheflashlights,leavingmetograbtheotherbagonceI’dgottenthesocksandshoeson.“Thisway,”hecalled,climbingstraightupthemuddyridgetothewoods.Heturnedtooffermeahand,andafterIslippedinthemudthrice,hemanagedtohoistmeupontothepath.Atleast,itappearedtobeapath,althoughtherewerenosignsorvisiblereasonsforapathtostartthere.
Theforestwasquietapartfromourtrompingandourbreathsandtheunderlyingdrizzlingofrainspecklingtheleaves.Ikeptmyhoodup,butinhere,therainmostlymadeittousintheformoffinemist.I’dgottenusedtothebluesandgraysofthelake,theyellow-goldsofthesunspillingoverthewaterandthetopsofthetrees,butinhere,everythingwasrichanddark,everyshadeofgreenthemostsaturatedversionofitself.
ThiswasthemostatpeaceI’dfeltintwodays,ifnotallyear.WhateverweirdnesswasbetweenGusandmewasplacedonholdaswewanderedthroughthesilenttempleofthewoods.Sweatbuiltuparoundmyarmpits,alongmyhairline,andthroughmyunderwear,untilIstoppedandtookthejacketoff.Withoutaword,Gusstoppedandpeeledhisofftoo.Iwatchedanolivesliverofhisflatstomachappearashisshirtcaughtaroundhisshoulders.Ilookedawayashepulleditbackdown.
Wepickedourbackpacksupandkeptwalking.Mythighsbegantoburn,andthegatheringsweatandrainplasteredmytanktopandmyjeanstomyskin.Atonepoint,therainpickedupagain,andweduckedintoashallowpseudocaveforafewminutesuntiltheshowersletup.Thegrayskymadeithardtotellhowmuchtimehadpassed,butwemusthavespentatleastacoupleofhoursmarchingthroughthewoodsuntilthetreesfinallythinnedandthecharredskeletonofNewEdencameintosightahead.
“Holyshit,”Iwhispered,stoppingbesideGus.Henodded.“Haveyouseenitbefore?”
“Onlyinpictures,”hesaid,andstartedtowardthenearestsmoke-blackenedtrailer.Thesecondfire,unliketheonefromthelightningstrike,hadn’tbeenanaccident.Thepoliceinvestigationhadfoundthateverybuildinghadbeendousedingasoline.TheProphet,amanwhocalledhimselfFatherAbe,haddiedoutsidethelastbuildingtocatchflames,leadingauthoritiestospeculatethathe’dbeentheonetolighttheplaceup.
Gusswallowed.Hisvoicecameouthoarseashepointedtowardatrailerontheright.“Thatwasthenursery.Theywentfirst.”
Went,Ithought.
Burned,Ithought.IturnedtohidethatIwasgagging.
“Peopleareawful,”Gussaidbehindme.
Iswallowedmystomachbile.Myeyesstung.Thebackofmynoseburned.Gusglancedoverhisshoulderatme,andhisgazesoftened.“Wanttosetupthetent?”
Hemust’veseenthefaceImade,becauseheaddedquickly,“Sowecanuseourcomputers.”Henoddedtowardthedarklychurningskyasheslidhisbackpackoff.“Don’tthinkthisisgoingtoletupanytimesoon.”
“Notherethough,”Isaid.“Itfeelswrongtoputatentinallthis.”
Henoddedagreementandwekeptmoving,hikedoffuntilthesitewasnolongervisible.UntilIcouldalmostpretendwewereinadifferentforest,farawayfromwhathadhappenedatNewEden.AsGuspulledtentpolesfromthebag,Icameforwardtohelp.Myhandswereshaking,fromboththecoldandtheuneaseofbeinghere,andIpouredallofmyfocusintopiecingthetenttogether,blockingoutthememoryoftheburnedremnantsofthecult.
Thedistractiononlylastedafewminutes,andthenthetentwasfinished,allourstufftuckedsafelyinside,exceptthelittlenotepadandpencilGuspulledfromhispocketaswemadeourwaybacktothesite.
HeshotmeatentativelookIcouldn’tinterpret,thenstartedtowardoneofthetrailers,orratherthreethathadbeencobbledtogetherwithplywood-and-tarphallways.Iswallowedaknotandfollowed,butafterafewsteps,hestoppedandturnedbacktome.“Youcangobacktothetent,”hesaidgruffly.“Youdon’tneedtoseethis.”
Aknotroseinmythroat.ObviouslyIdidn’twanttoseethis.Butitbotheredmethathe’dsayIdidn’tneedtowhilestillplanningtoexploreithimself.Icouldtellhehatedbeingheretoo.Andyetherehewas,facingit.
Thatwashowitalwayswas.Heneverlookedawayfromanyofit.Maybehethoughtsomeonehadtobearwitnesstothedark,ormaybehehopedthatifhestaredintothepitch-blacklongenough,hiseyeswouldadjustandhe’dseeanswershidinginit.
Thisiswhybadthingshappen,thedarkwouldsay.Thisishowitallmakessense.
Icouldn’tgohidefromthis.Icouldn’tleaveGusherealone.Ifhewasdescendingintothedarkness,Iwasgoingtotiearopebetweenourwaistsandgodownwithhim.
Ishookmyheadandwenttostandbehindhim,hisdarkeyesdippingtostudyme,hisrain-speckledlashescurvedlowanddarkandheavyagainsthisolivecheeks.
TherewassomuchIwantedtosay,butallIcouldgetoutwas,“I’mhere.”
AndwhenIsaidit,hisbrowfurrowedandhisjawtensed,andhepeeredatmeinthatparticularGuswaythatmadetheknotinmythroatinchhigher.
Henoddedandturnedbacktothetrailer,tippinghischintowardit.“FatherAbe’splace.Apparentlyhe’dseekcounselfromagroupofangels,soheneededtheroom.”
ItoremygazefromGustothesootytrailer.Itinstantlymademefeelwoozyandunmoored,liketheairherewasstilloverloadedwithcarbondioxideandash.
Whydobadthingshappen?Ithought.Howwillitallmakesense?Butnogreattruthappearedtome.Therewasnogoodreasonthishorriblethinghadhappened,andnoreasonGus’slifehadbeenwhatitwaseither.Dammit,R.E.M.wasright:Everysinglepersonontheplanethadtotaketurnshurting.Sometimesallyoucoulddowasholdontoeachothertightuntilthedarkspatyoubackout.
Gusblinkedclearofhissolemnhazeandcrouched,balancinghisnotepadonhiskneeandscribblingnotes,andIstoodbesidehim,legswobblingbuteyesopen.I’mhere,Ithoughtathim.I’mhereandIseeittoo.
Wemovedaroundthesitelikethat,silentasghosts,Gusguardinghisnotesfromtherainasitsoakedthroughourclothesandskinrightdowntothebone.
Whenwe’dcircledthewholeplotoflandonce,heheadedbacktowardFatherAbe’sFrankensteinedtrailer,glancingatmeforthefirsttimeinthelasttwohours.“It’sfreezing,”hesaid.“Youshouldgobacktothetent.”
Itwasfreezing—thewindhadpickedup,andthetemperaturehadbegundroppinguntilmyjeansfeltlikeicepacksagainstmyskin.Butnopartofmethoughtthatwaswhyhewaspushingmeaway.
“Please,January,”Gussaidquietly,anditwasthepleasethatunraveledme.WhatwasIdoing?IcaredaboutGus,butifhedidn’twantmetoholdontohim,Ihadtoletgo.
“Okay,”Isaidthroughchatteringteeth.“I’llwaitinthetent.”
Gusnodded,thenturnedandtrudgedoff.Heartstung,Iwalkedbacktothetent,knelt,andcrawledinside.Icurledintothefetalpositiontowarmmyselfupandclosedmyeyes,listeningtothebarrageofrainonthefabricoverhead.Itriedtoletallmythoughtsandfeelingsslipawayfromme,butinsteadtheyseemedtoswellasIdriftedtowardsleep,adark,frothywaveofemotionspullingmetowardarestlessdream.
Andthenthewhineofthezipperwastuggingmeoutofit,andIopenedmyunfocusedeyestofindGusstoopedinthetent’sdoorway,dripping.
“Hey.”Myvoicecameoutgravelly.Isatup,smoothingmywethair.
“Sorrythattooksolong,”hesaid,climbinginandzippingthedoorupbehindhim.“Ineededtogetthoroughpictures,drawamap,allthat.”Hesatbesidemeandunzippedhisrainjacket,whichhe’dputbackonsincewepartedways.
Ishrugged.“It’sfine.Yousaiditwouldbeanall-daything.”
Hisgazeliftedtothetentceiling.“AndImeantthat,”hesaid.“Allday.Thetentwasjustaprecautionfortheweather.ToomanyyearsinMichigan.”
InoddedasifIunderstood.IthoughtImight.
“Anyway.”Helookedbacktowardmyfeet.“Ifyou’reready,wecanhikeback.”
Wesatinsilenceforamoment.“Gus,”Isaid,tired.
“Yeah?”
“Willyoujusttellmewhat’sgoingon?”
Hefoldedhislegsinandleanedbackonhispalms,staringsteadilyatme.Hetookadeepbreath.“Whichpart?”
“Allofit,”Isaid.“Iwanttoknowallofit.”
Heshookhishead.“Itoldyou.Youcanaskmeanything.”
“Okay.”Iswallowedafist-sizedknot.“Whatwasthedealwiththatphonecall?”
“Thedeal?”
“Don’tmakemesayit,”Iwhisperedmiserably.Buthestillseemedconfused.Igrittedmyteethandclosedmyeyes.“WasitNaomi?”
“No,”hesaid,butitwasn’tNo,howcouldyouthinkthat?ItsoundedmorelikeNo,butshestillcallsme.OrNo,butitwassomeoneelseIlove.
MystomachcinchedtightbutIforcedmyselftoopenmyeyes.
Gus’sbrowhadwrinkled,andaraindropsliddownhissharpcheekbone.“ItwasmyfriendKaylaMarkham.”
“Kayla?”Myvoicesoundedsoshaky,pathetic.Gus’sbestfriendsincehighschool,Markham,wasawoman?
SuddenunderstandingcrossedGus’sface.“It’snotlike—she’smylawyer.She’sfriendswithNaomitoo—she’shandlingourdivorce.”
“Oh.”Itsoundedsmallandstupid,exactlyhowIfelt.“Yourmutualfriendishandlingyourdivorce?”
“Iknowit’sweird.”Hemussedhishair.“Imean,it’slikeshe’stotallyimpartial.Shethrowsmethisbig-assbirthdaypartyeveryyearbutthenIhavetoseepicturesofherandNaomiinCancúnforaweek.Wenevertalkaboutit,andyetshe’shandlingthedivorce,andit’sjust…”
“Soweird?”Iguessed.
Heletouthisbreathinarush.“Soweird.”
Alittlebitofthepressureinmychestreleased,butregardlessofwhoKaylaMarkhamwastoGus,itdidn’tchangehowhe’dactedyesterday.“Ifit’snotabouther,thenwhyareyoutryingtogetridofme?”Iasked,voicetremblingandquiet.
Gus’seyesdarkened.“January.”Heshookhishead.“I’mnotdoingthat.”
“Youare,”Isaid.I’dbeentellingmyselfnottocry,butitwasnouse.AssoonasIsaidit,thetearswerewelling,voicewrenchingupward.“Youignoredmeyesterday.Youtriedtocanceltoday.YousentmebacktothetentwhenItriedtostaywithyouand—youdidn’twantmetocome.Ishouldhavelistened.”
“January,no.”Gusroughlycuppedthesidesofmyface,holdingmytear-filledgazetohis.“Notatall.”Hekissedmyforehead.“Itwasn’taboutyou.Notevenalittlebit.”Hekissedmytear-streakedleftcheek,caughtanotherfallingtearwithhismouthonmyright.
Hepulledmeinagainsthischestandwrappedhisarmsaroundme,coveringmewithrain-dampenedheatashenuzzledhisnoseandmouthagainstthetopofmyhead.
“Ifeelsostupid,”Iwhimpered.“Ithoughtyoureally—”
“Ido,”hesaidquickly,drawingbackfromme.“January,Ididn’twantyouheretodaybecauseIknewitwasgoingtobehard.Ididn’twanttobethereasonyouspentawholedayinatorched-outgraveyard.Ididn’twanttoputyouthroughthis.That’sall.”
Hebrushedsomehairbehindmyear,andthesweetnessofthegestureonlymademytearsfallfaster.“Butyoudidn’twantmeatPete’seither,”Isaid,voicebreaking.“Youinvitedme,andthenweslepttogetherandyouchangedyourmind.”
Hismouthjudderedintoalookofopenhurt.“Iwantedyouthere,”heallbutwhispered,andwhenafreshtearslippeddownmycheek,hecaughtitwithhisthumb.
“Look,”hesaid,“thisdivorcehasbeensostupidlydrawnout.Iwaitedforhertofile,andshejustdidn’t,andIdon’tknow—itdidn’tmattertome,soIdidn’tpursueituntilafewweeksago.Shetoldmeshe’dsignthepapersifImetherforadrink,soIwenttoChicagotoseeher,andwhenIleft,Ithoughtitwassettled.Yesterday,MarkhamcalledandtoldmeNaomichangedhermind.Shewants‘somedetailshammeredout’—Imean,theonlythingsweownedtogetherweresomeoverpricedcopperpots,whichshehas,andourcars.Itshouldn’tbecomplicated,butIputitofftoolong,and…”
Herubbedathisforehead.“AndthenMarkhamaskedwhatwasnewwithme,andItoldheraboutyou,abouthowyouwerehereforthesummer,andshethoughtitwasabadidea—”
“Badidea?”Mygutroiled.Thatdidn’tsoundimpartial.Itsoundedverypartial.
“Becauseyou’releaving,”Gussaidinarush.“Andsheknows—sheknowshowstupidIamwhenitcomestoyou,howcrazyIwasforyouincollege,and—”
“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”Ichallenged.“Youneverevenspoketome.”
Heletoutahumorlesslaugh.“Becauseyouhatedme!”heblurted.“I’dcomelatetoclasssoIcouldchoosemyseatbasedonwhereyousat,andI’drushoutafterwardsoIcouldwalkwithyou,asktoborrowpenseverydayforaweek,fuckingdropbooksThreeStooges–stylewhenyouhungbacksoitwouldjustbethetwoofus,andyou’dneverevenlookatme!EvenwhenwewereworkshoppingyourstoriesandIwastalkingrighttoyou,youwouldn’tlookatme.IcouldneverfigureoutwhatI’ddone,andthenIsawyouatthatparty,andyouwerefinallylookingatmeand—that’smypoint!I’manidiotwhenitcomestoyou!”
Iwasreelingwiththeinformation,replayingeveryinteractionIcouldrememberandtryingtoseethemhowhe’ddescribed.Butalmostallofthosehadjustbeenmestaringathim,lookingawaywhenhenoticed,burningwithjealousyandfrustrationandalittlelust.IcouldbelievethatmaybeGushadwantedmesincebeforetheinfamousfratparty,becauseI’dbeenattractedtohimtoo,butanythingmorethanthatdidn’tcompute.
“Gus,”Isaid,“youonlycritiquedmystories.Iwasajoketoyou.”
ItwaspossibleI’dneverseensuchablatantexpressionofshock.“BecauseIwasanasshole!”hesaid,whichdidn’texactlyexplainthings,butthenhewenton.“Iwasatwenty-three-year-oldelitistdickwhothoughteveryoneinourclasswaswastingmytimeexceptyou!IthoughtitwasobvioushowIfeltaboutyou,andyourwriting.That’sthepoint!Ineverknewwhatyouwerethinkingthen,andIstillhavenoidea—”
“Whatdoyouthinkmetakingyourpantsoffmeans?”Isaid.
Hetuggedatthehairatthecrownofhishead.“That’swhatI’mtryingtotellyou,whatI’vebeentryingtotellyousinceyougothere,”hesaidbreathlessly.“Idon’trememberhowanyofthisissupposedtoworkorwhatI’msupposedtodo.EvenbeforeNaomiandI—January,I’mnotlikeJacques.”
“Whatisthatsupposedtomean?”Iasked,stung.
“I’mnotthekindofguywomentrytodate,”hesaid,frustrated.“Ineverhavebeen.I’mtheonetheywanttohookupwithanddrunktextandhangoutwithforachangeofpacewhenthey’vejustgottenoutofseven-yearrelationshipswithdoctors,andthat’sfine,butIdon’twantthatwithyou,okay?Ican’tdothat.”
Mythroatsqueezedtight,stranglingmyvoiceintosomethingflimsyandweak.“That’swhatyouthink?Thatthisisallsomekindofidentitycrisisforme?”
Hiseyesfellheavilyonme,andforonceIfeltlikeIcouldseestraightthroughthem.Thatwasexactlywhathethought:thatlikeourbet,GuswassomethingIwastryingonforsizewhileItookabreakfromtherealme.LikeIwasonmyownreverseEat,Pray,Lovetearthatwouldfizzleoutasquicklyasithadflaredup.
“IwanttobeyourperfectfuckingFabio,January,butIcan’t,”Guswenton.“I’mnot.”
I’mnotlikeJacques,he’dsaid,andI’dthoughthewasinsultingJacquesormakingadigatmefordatingsomeonelikehim,butthatwasn’titatall.
Gusstillthoughthewasmissingsomething,somespecialpieceotherpeoplehad,thethingthatmadepeoplestay,anditbrokemyheartalittle.Itbrokemyheartthatwhenwewereyounger,he’dthoughtI’dneverevenlookedathim.
Ishookmyhead.“Idon’tneedyoutobeFabio,”Isaid,voicethickwithemotion,likeitwasn’tthesinglestupidestsentenceI’dutteredinmylife.
“Yes,youdo,”Gussaidurgently.“EverythingI’vedoneinthelasttwenty-fourhourshashurtyou,January.Youwantmetobeabletoreadyou,andIcan’t.Youwantmetoknowhowtodothis,andIdon’t.”
“No,”Isaid.“Ijustwantyoutotellmehowyoufeel.Iwanttoknowwhatitisyouwant.”
“I’mgoingtomessthisup,”hesaidhelplessly.
“Maybe!”Icried.“Butthat’snotwhatIasked.Tellmewhatyouwant,Gus.Notwhyyoucan’thaveit,orwhatyouthinkIwant,orwhyyoucan’tgivethattome.Justtellmewhatyouwantforonce.That’sallI’maskingyoutodo.”
“Iwantyou,”hesaidquietly.“Iwantyou,ineveryway.Iwanttotakeyouondatesandplaywithafuckingbeachballinapoolwithyou,butI’mawreck,January.
“I’mtrappedinamarriagewithawomanwholiveswithanotherman,justwaitingtobedone.I’monmedicine.I’mintherapy.I’mtryingtogiveupsmokingforgoodandeventolearnhowtomeditate—andwhilethat’sgoingon,whileI’mawalkingdumpsterfire,IwantyouinawayI’mnotsureeitherofuscanhandle.Idon’twanttohurtyouandIdon’twanttofeelwhatitwouldbeliketoloseyou.”
Hestoppedforabeat.Inthedimhalf-lightofthetenthisfacewasallstarkshadows,buthisliquidydarkeyesglintedasiflitfromwithin.Hetookafewbreaths,thensaidinasoftmurmur,“Itdoesn’tmeanIdon’twantyou,January—I’vealwayswantedyou.ItjustmeansIalsowantyoutobehappy,andI’mscaredIcouldneverbethepersonwhocouldgiveyouthat.”
Theintensityinhisgazesettled,likehe’dburnedthrougheverysparkhehad,andIlovedhiseyeslikethistoo,allwarmandrawandquiet.Itouchedthesidesofhisfaceandhelookedintomyeyes,stillbreathinghard.Warmthbubbledinmychest,spillingintomyfingersastheycurledaroundhissharpjaw.
“Thenletmebehappywithyou,Gus,”Isaidandkissedhimsoftly,liketherareandtenderthinghewas.
Hishandssweptacrossmyback,andhepulledmecloser.23TheLake
GUSLAIDMEgentlydown,hishandstilltuckedbeneathmyneck,fingerstanglinginmyhair.Ipulledhimovermeashishandscaughtthebottomedgeofmyshirtandlifteditaroundmyribs.Whenhe’dpeeledthedamptanktopovermyhead,hetosseditasideandcradledmyjaw,kissingmeagain,slowandheavy,thickandroughandperfectlyGus.Hispalmskatedupmycenterandbackdowntoundomywetjeans,andtogetherwemanagedtogetmyshoesandpantsoffbeforeheliftedmeacrosshislap.
“January,”hewhisperedthroughthedark,likeanincantation,likeaprayer.
Iwantedtosayhiswholenamebacklikethat.TomakeAugustusmeansomethingdifferenttohimthanithad.ButIknewthatwouldtaketime,andforGus,IthoughtIcouldbepatient.SoinsteadIjustkissedhim,slippedmyfingersuphiswarmstomachtolifthissoppingshirtoverhisheadanddiscarditintothepilewithmine.Wesatbackinthedark,lookingateachother,unhurriedandunembarrassed.
Inthebasementithadfeltlikewewereracingtodevoureachother.Thiswasdifferent.NowIcouldstudyGushowI’dalwayswantedto,savoringeveryhardlineandsharpedgeofhisI’deverstolenglancesof,andhishandstracedthecurvesofmyhipsandridgesofmyribswiththesamequietawe,hiswarmgazetrailingpurposefullyafterthem.Everypieceofmehelookedatseemedtolightupinresponse,allthebloodinmybodyrushingtothesurface,jostlingthere,eagertobedispelledbyhismouthorhands.
Hismouthsankagainstthesidemyneck,againatthefrontofmythroat,oncemoreinthegapbetweenmybreasts.“Perfect,”hewhisperedintomyskin.Hisfingertipsgrazedeveryplacehislipshadbeen,andhiseyesliftedtomine.“You’reperfect,”heraspedandbrushedakissovermylipssoslowandhotitseemedtomeltmefromwithin.
Heundidmybraandpulledmeflushagainsthim,aprickleofneedstartinglowinmybellyatthefeelofhischestagainstmine,hishandsrunningdownmysides.Wewerebothsoakedtothebone,andourmouthsandskinwereslickandwarmagainsteachotheraswewoundourselvestogether,fingersandlipsandtonguesandhipsslippingandcatching,tanglingandunraveling.
Hetastedliketheoutdoors,likepineanddewandcinnamonandhimself.Weuntwinedlongenoughtogethispantsandbriefsoffandthenhewasoverme,hismouthskirtinguptheinsideofmythighashishandstwistedintomyunderwearandhitchedthemdownmyhips.Hislipsnestledintomystomach,scrapeddownthecurveofit.Igaspedashismouthfinallymetme,andmyhandsfoundtheirwayintohishair,ontohisneck,ashecuppedmyhipstohismouth,everynerveinmybodyrushingtomeetit,everysensationgatheringinthatonepoint.
Idraggedhimupthelengthofme,andhishandscircledmybreastsasIwrappedmythighstightaroundhishipsandmovedagainsthim,feelinghimshiver.“Condom?”Iwhispered,andheleanedovertosnatchhisbackpack,diggingthroughitasIarchedunderhim.Hefoundthefoilpackageandtoreitopen,andthenwithinseconds,hewaspushingintome,hismouthunravelingmine,hishandsinmyhairandonmyskin,hisbreathagainstmyear,hisnamerollingthroughmelikeatide,hisvoicemurmuringmineintomyneckasherockeddeeper,sendingfull-bodypulsesofblissthroughme.
Therainfellallaroundus,andIletgoofeverythingthatwasn’tGus,wasn’tthismoment.Ilostmyselfinhim,andinsteadoftryingtoconvincemyselfthatsomedayeverythingwouldbeokay,Ifocusedonthefactthat,rightnow,italreadywas.
Gus’shandsfoundmineasthemountingpressureshudderedthroughus,andwelockedtogether,gaspingandclutchingandshivering.Whenwewerefinished,hedidn’tletgo.Welaybesideeachother,undertheblankethepulledoutofhisbackpack,ourhandsknottedtogetherandourheavybreathinsync.
Wehadsextwicemorethatnight—anhourorsolaterwhenheinterruptedourconversationabouttheeventatPete’stokissme,andthenagainlater,inadreamydaze,whenweawokestilltangledtogethernakedinthedark,mealreadyarching,himalreadyhard.
Whenwe’dfinished,hepulledabagoftortillachipsandacoupleofClifBarsoutofthepackalongwiththesametwoflaskshe’dtakentolinedancing.
Iproppedmyselfuponmyelbowtowatchhim,andheturnedoneofthelanternson,thelightcastinghiminredsandgolds.Heheldthechipsouttome.“Justaprecaution?”Isaid,noddingtowardtheprovisions.
Gus’sdimpledeepened.Hishandskimmedupthesideofmyarmanddownacrossmycollarbone.“Anoptimisticone.I’manoptimistnow.”Hisfingersdriftedtomychin,andhetiltedituptokissmythroatagain.Hisotherhandcameupandhecaughtbothsidesofmyjawashekissedmedeeply,slowly,drankmein.Whenhepulledback,hisfingersthreadedthroughmyhair,histhumbrovingovermybottomlip,heasked,“Areyouhappy,January?”
“Extremely,”Isaid.“Areyou?”
Hegatheredmeagainsthimandkissedmytemple.Hisvoicecrackledagainstmyear.“I’msohappy.”
INTHEMORNING,wepulledonourdampclothes,packedup,andwalkedbacktothecar.Theskieswereclearandbright,andGusturnedontheradio,thenheldmyhandagainstthegearshift,thelightdapplingusthroughthetreesandwindshield.
IfeltlikeIhadtheGusofPete’shouserightthen.AndIfeltalittlemoreliketheJanuaryofbeforetoo,theonewhocouldfallfearlessly.Isearchedmystomachforthattightfeeling,thesensationofwaitingfortheothershoetodrop.Icouldfindit,ifItriedhardenough,butforonce,Ididn’twantto.Thismomentfeltworthwhateverpainitmightbringlater,andItriedtorepeatthattomyselfuntilIwassureI’dbeabletorememberitifIneededto.
Gusliftedmyhandfromthegearshiftandpressedittohismouthwithoutlookingoveratme.
LastnightI’dknownallthiscouldslipaway,dissolvearoundme.I’dhalfexpectedittobythetimethefirstcoldstreaksofmorninglighthitthetentandGusrealizedwhathe’ddone,andmoreimportantly,everythinghe’dsaid.Butinstead,whenhiseyesopened,he’dgivenmeaclosed-mouthedsmileandpulledmeagainsthim,nuzzlinghisfaceintothesideofmyhead,kissingmyhair.
Instead,herewewereinthecar,GusEverettholdingontomyhandandnotlettinggo.
Whathappenedtwodaysagoinhisstudyhadseemedlikeaninevitability,acrashcoursewe’dbeensetonsincethebeginningofthesummer.This,however—thiswassomethingIhadn’tevenletmyselfdaydreamabout.Iwouldn’thaveknownhowto.Hedidn’tlooklikeanyonefromthestory.
Onthedriveback,westoppedforbreakfastatagreasyspoondineralongthehighway,atwhichpointIslippedawaytocallShadifromthebathroom.TheHauntedHat’s(Ricky’s—weweregoingtohavetostartcallinghimbyhisnamesoon,ifthiskeptup)littlesistersweresharingtheirroomwithShadi,attheirmothers’insistence,andshe’dsneakedawaytotalktomeatthebottomoftheircul-de-sacbutwasstillwhisperinglikethewholefamilywassleepinginapileontopofher.
“OhmyGod,”shehissed.
“Iknow,”Isaid.
“MyGOOOOOOOD,”sherepeated.
“Shad.Iknow.”
“Wow.”
“Wow,”Iagreed.
“Ican’twaittovisitandwatchhimbecompletelysmittenwithyou,”shesaid.
Thethoughtmademystomachfeellikeitwasfizzing.“We’llsee.”
“No,”shesaidwithfinality.“Howcouldhenotbe?NotevenSexy,EvilGuscouldbethatderanged,habibi.”Aladywasknockingonthebathroomdoorthen,sowesaidourquick“Iloveyou”and“Goodbye”andIwentbacktothestickyvinylboothandthepileofpancakesandGus.Sexy,disheveled,lazilysmilingGus,whogrippedmykneebeneaththetableagainandsentsparksdownmybellyandupmythighs.
Iwantedtogobacktothebathroom,himintow.
Ourbreakfaststopturnedintoatriptothebookstoreintown,wheretheyhadnoneofmybooksinstockexceptthefirst,andnospecialdisplayfortheirtwocopiesofTheRevelatories,andthatturnedintoastopatabarwithanoutdoorpatio.
“What’syourfavoritebadreview?”Iaskedhim.
Hesmiledtohimselfashethought,stirringthewhiskeyandgingeraleinfrontofhim.“Likeinamagazineorfromareader?”
“Readerfirst.”
“I’vegotit,”hesaid.“ItwasonAmazon.Onestar:‘Didnotorderbook.’”
Ithrewmyheadback,laughing.“Ilovetheoneswheretheyaccidentallyorderedthewrongbook,thenreviewbasedonhowdifferentitwasfromthebooktheymeanttoorder.”
Gus’slaughrattled.Hetouchedmykneebeneaththetable.“IliketheonesthatexplainwhatIwastryingtodo.Like,‘TheauthorwastryingtowriteFranzen,buthe’snoFranzen.’”
IpantomimedgaggingmyselfandGuscoveredhiseyesuntilIstopped.“Butwereyou?”
“TryingtowriteFranzen?”Helaughed.“No,January.I’mjusttryingtowritegoodbooks.ThatsoundlikeSalinger.”
Ieruptedintolaughter,andhegrinnedback.Wefellintoeasysilenceagainaswesippedonourdrinks.“CanIaskyousomething?”Isaid,afteraminute.
“No,”Gusanswered,deadpan.
“Great,”Isaid.“WhydidyoutrytokeepmeawayfromNewEden?Imean,Iknowyousaidyoudidn’twantmetohavetoseeit,andIgetthat.Exceptthatthewholepointofthisbetwasforyoutoconvincemetheworldwashowyousaiditwas,right?Andthatwastheperfectopportunity.”
Hewasquietforalongmoment.Heranhishandthroughhismessyhair.“Doyoureallythinkthatwaswhatthiswasabout?”
“Imean,Ihopeitwasatleastpartiallyanelaboraterusetosleepwithme,”Iteased,buttheexpressiononhisfacewasserious,evenalittleanxious.Heshookhisheadandglancedtowardthewindow.
“IneverwantedyoutoseetheworldlikeIseeit,”hesaid.
“Butthebet…”Isaid,tryingtoworkitout.
“Thebetwasyouridea,”heremindedme.“IjustthoughtmaybeifyoutriedtowritewhatIwrite—Idon’tknow,IguessIhopedyou’drealizeitwasn’trightforyou.”Hehurriedtoadd,“Notbecauseyou’renotcapable!Butbecauseit’snotyou.Thewayyouthinkaboutthings,it’snotlikethat.Ialwaysthoughtthewayyousawtheworldwas…incredible.”Afaintflushcreptintohisolivecheeksandheshookhishead.“Ineverwantedtoseeyoulosethat.”
Ajumbleofemotioncaughtinmythroat.“EvenifwhatI’mseeingisn’treal?”
Gus’sbrowandmouthsoftened.“Whenyoulovesomeone,”hesaidhaltingly,“…youwanttomakethisworldlookdifferentforthem.Togivealltheuglystuffmeaning,andamplifythegood.That’swhatyoudo.Foryourreaders.Forme.Youmakebeautifulthings,becauseyoulovetheworld,andmaybetheworlddoesn’talwayslookhowitdoesinyourbooks,but…Ithinkputtingthemoutthere,thatchangestheworldalittlebit.Andtheworldcan’taffordtolosethat.”
Hescratchedahandthroughhishair.“I’vealwaysadmiredthat.Thewayyourwritingalwaysmakestheworldseembrighter,andthepeopleinitalittlebraver.”
Mychestfeltwarmandliquidy,liketheblockoficethathadbeenlodgedtheresinceDaddiedwasbreakingup,justalittle,itshunksmeltingdown.Becausethetruthwas,learningthetruthaboutmydadhadmadetheworldseemdarkandunfamiliar,butdiscoveringGusbitbybithaddonetheopposite.“OrmaybeI’mjustright,”Isaidquietly.“Andsometimespeoplearebrighterandbraverthantheyknow.”
Afaintsmileflickeredacrosshislips,thenfellashethought.“Idon’tthinkI’veeverlovedtheworldlikeyoudo.Irememberbeingafraidofit.Andthenangrywithit.Andthenjust—decidingnottofeeltoostronglyaboutit.ButIdon’tknow.MaybewhenIdothisshit,whenItalktopeoplelikeDaveandwalkthroughburnedbuildings,there’sapartofmethat’shopingI’mgoingtofindsomething.”
“Likewhat?”Itcameoutasawhisper.
Heputhiselbowsonthetable.“Likethekindofworldyouwriteabout.Likeproof.Thatitisn’tasbadasitlooks.Orit’smoregoodthanbad.Likeifweaddedupallthe—alltheshitandallthewildflowers,theworldwouldcomeoutpositive.”
Ireachedforhishandandheletmetakeit,hisdarkeyessoftandopen.“WhenIfirstfoundoutaboutmydad’saffair,Itriedtodothatkindofmath,”Iadmitted.“Howmuchlyingandcheatingcouldhehavedoneandstillhavebeenagoodfather?HowdeepcouldhehavegottenhimselfinwithThatWomanandstilllovedmymom?Stilllikedhislife.Itriedtofigureouthowhappyhecould’vebeen,howmuchhecould’vemisseduswhenhewasaway,andwhenIwasfeelingparticularlybad,howmuchhemust’vehatedustobewillingtodowhathedid.AndInevergotmyanswers.
“AndsometimesIstillwantthem,andothertimesI’mterrifiedofwhatI’dfindout.Butpeoplearen’tmathproblems.”Igaveaheavyshrug.“Icanmissmydadandhatehimatthesametime.IcanbeworriedaboutthisbookandtornupaboutmyfamilyandsickoverthehouseI’mlivingin,andstilllookoutatLakeMichiganandfeeloverwhelmedbyhowbigitis.IspentalllastsummerthinkingI’dneverbehappyagain,andnow,ayearlater,Istillfeelsickandworriedandangry,butatmoments,I’malsohappy.Badthingsdon’tdigdownthroughyourlifeuntilthepit’ssodeepthatnothinggoodwilleverbebigenoughtomakeyouhappyagain.Nomatterhowmuchshit,therewillalwaysbewildflowers.TherewillalwaysbePetesandMaggiesandrainstormsinforestsandsunonwaves.”
Gussmiled.“Andsexonbookshelvesandintents.”
“Ideally,”Isaid.“Unlesstheworldfreezesoverinasecondiceage.Andinthatcase,therewillatleastbesnowflakes,untilthebitterend.”
Gustouchedthesideofmyface.“Idon’tneedsnowflakes.”Hekissedme.“Aslongasthere’sJanuary.”
HEYYYYY,BABYCAKES.JUSTwantedtomakesurewe’restillonforaSeptember1manuscriptdelivery.Sandykeepscheckingin,andIwillgladlybethehumanbarricadethatkeepsheroffyourback,butshe’sdesperatetobuysomethingfromyouandifIkeeppromisingherabook…well,thentherereallydoesneedtobeabookintheend.
Gushadspentthenight,andwhenIshiftedawayfromhimtoreachforthephone,herolledover,stillasleep,tofollowme,nestlinghisfaceintothesideofmyboob,hishandsprawledoutacrossmybarestomach.
Myheartbegantoracebothfromthestill-newthrillofhisbodyandfromAnya’stext.Icouldn’tsendhertheincompletebook.Itwasmiraculousshehadn’tdumpedmeyet,andIcouldn’tputherinaless-than-idealsituationwithSandyLowewithoutsomethingtosoftentheblow.IslidoutfromunderGus,ignoringhisgrumbles,andgrabbedmyrobeasIheadedintothekitchen,textingAnyaasIwent:Icandoit.Promise.
September1,shereplied.Harddeadlinethistime.
Ididn’tmesswiththecoffee.Iwaswideawakeasitwas.
Isatatthetableandbegantowrite.WhenGusgotup,heputthekettleon,thenwalkedbacktothetableandtookaswigfromthebeerbottlehe’dlefttherelastnight.
Ilookedupathim.“That’sdisgusting.”
Hehelditouttome.“Doyouwantsome?”
Itookaswig.“EvenworsethanIimagined.”
Hesmileddownatme.Hishandgrazedmyclavicleandskimmeddownme,partingmyrobeashewent.Hisfingerscaughtonthetie,andhetuggeditloose,lettingthefabricfallopen.Hereachedthroughtotouchmywaist,drawingmeontomyfeet.
Heturnedmeagainstthetableandeasedmeontoitashewalkedinbetweenmylegs.Hecaughtthecollarofmyopenrobeandsliditdownmyarms,leavingmebareonthetable.“I’mworking,”Iwhispered.
Heliftedoneofmythighsagainsthishipashepushedincloser.“Areyou?”Hisotherhandrolledacrossmybreast,catchingmynipple.“Iknowyouhaveabettowin.Thiscanwait.”
Idraggedhimcloser.“No.Itcan’t.”
FOCUSWASAproblem.Orrather,focusingonanythingbutGuswasaproblem.Wedecidedtogobacktowritinginourseparatehousesduringtheday,whichmight’vebeenamoresuccessfulsolutionifeitherofushadenoughself-controltonotwritenotesbackandforthallday.
Iwantyou,heoncewrote.
Whendidwritinggetsohard?Iwroteback.
Hard,hewrote.
Hewasn’talwaystheinstigator.OnWednesday,afterresistingaslongasIpossiblycould,Iwrote,Wishyouwerehereanddrewanarrowdowntowardmyself.
You’renottheonlyone,hewroteback.Then,Write2,000wordsandthenwecantalk
Thisprovedtobethekeytogettinganythingdone.Wechangedthegoalposts.Twothousandwordsandwecouldbeinthesameroom.Fourthousandwordsandwecouldtouch.
Ourwholearrangementwasseeminglesslikeasprintandmorelikeathree-leggedrace,fullofteamworkandencouragement.Ultimately,Iwasstilldeterminedtowin,thoughIwasnolongersurewhatIwastryingtoprove,ortowhom.
Atnight,wewentoutsometimes.TotheThairestaurantwe’dorderedfromsomanytimes,acutelittleplacewhereeverythingwasgildedandyousatoncushionsonthefloorandorderedfromamenuwhosecoverwasmockpapyrus.Tothepizzaplacewe’dorderedfromsomanytimes,alesscutelittleplacewithplastickyredboothsandinterrogation-roomlighting.WewenttotheTipsyFish,abarintown,andwhensomeoneGusknewfromtownwalkedin,henoddedhellowithoutjerkinghishandawayfromme.
Evenasweplayeddartsand,later,pool,westayedconnected,visiblytogether,Gus’shandcurledcasuallyaroundmyhipsorrestinggentlyundermyshirtatthesmallofmyback,myfingerslacedthroughhisorsnaggedonhisbeltloop.
Thenextnight,whenwewereleavingPizzaMyHeart,wewalkedpastPete’sBookShopandsawherandMaggieinside,havingaglassofwineinthearmchairsinthecafé.
“Weshouldsayhi,”Gussaid,andsoweduckedinside.
“It’souranniversary,”Maggieexplainedairily.
“WithNorthBear,”Peteadded.“Thedaywemovedhere.Notouranniversary—ouranniversary’sJanuarythirteenth.”
“Nokidding,”Isaid.“That’smybirthday.”
“Really?!”Maggieseemeddelighted.“Well,ofcourseitis!Thebestdayoftheyear—itonlymakessenseGodwouldpullthat.”
“Aperfectlygoodday,”Peteagreed
Maggienodded.“Andsoistoday.”
“I’dmoveherealloveragain,”Petesaid.“Bestthingweeverdid,apartfromfallinginlove.”
“AndadoptingtheLabradors,”Maggieaddedthoughtfully.
“Andextendingacertaininvitationtobookclub,whichseemstohaveworkedoutallright,”Peteaddedwithawink.
“Trickingus,youmean,”Gussaid,smiling.
Helookedatme,andIwonderedifwewerethinkingthesamething.Itmightnot’vebeenthebestthingIeverdid,movinghere,showingupatPete’shousethatnightforbookclub.Butitwasagoodone.Thebestinafewyearsatleast.
“Juststayforonequickglass,Gussy,”Maggieinsisted,alreadypouringintotheclearplasticcupstheyusedforicedcoffee.
Oneglassgrewtotwo,twogrewtothree,andGuspulledmeontohislapinthearmchairacrossfromthem.Theirhandsweredrapedlooselybetweentheirchairs,knottedtogether,andGus’swererubbingidlecirclesonmybackaswetalkedandlaughedintothenight.
Weleftatmidnight,whenPetefinallypronouncedthattheyshouldbegettinghometotheLabradorsandMaggiestartedwhiskingaroundtocleanup,butweweretootipsytodrive,sowewalkedthroughtheheatandmosquitoes.
Andaswedid,Ithoughtoverandoveragain,Ialmostlovehim.I’mstartingtolovehim.Ilovehim.
Andwhenwereachedourhouses,weignoredthemandfollowedthepathdowntothelakeinstead.ItwasaFriday,afterall,andwewerestillboundtoourdeal.
Westrippedoffourclothesandran,shrieking,intothecoldbiteofthewater,handinhand.Outuntilithitourthighs,ourwaists,ourchests.Ourteethwerechattering,ourskinwasalivewithchillsastheicywaterbattedusbackandforth.“Thisisterrible,”Gusgasped.
“Itwaswarmerinmyimagination!”Ishriekedback,andGuspulledmeinagainsthim,wrappinghisarmsaroundmybackandrubbingittobringwarmthintomyskin.
Andthenhekissedmedeeplyandwhispered,“Iloveyou.”Andthenagain,withhishandsinmyhairandhismouthonmytemplesandcheeksandjaw,asarattyplasticbagdriftedpastonthesurfaceofthewater.“Iloveyou,Iloveyou.”
“Iknow.”Isankmyfingersintohisbackasifmygripcouldstoptimeandkeepusthere.Usandthetoo-coldlakeandthelitterswimmingthroughit.“Iloveyoutoo.”
“Andtothink,”hesaid,“youpromisedyouwouldn’tfallinlovewithme.”24TheBook
“IDON’TWANTTOdothis,”Isaid.GusandIwerestandingatthetopofthestairsoutsidethemasterbedroom.
“Youdon’thaveto,”heremindedme.
“Ifyoucanlearnhowtodanceintherain—”
“Stillhaven’tdonethat,”heinterrupted.
“—thenIcanstaretheuglythingsdown,”Ifinished.
Iopenedthedoor.IttookmeafewbreathsbeforeIcouldcalmmyselfenoughtomove.ACaliforniaKingsatagainstthefarwall,flankedbymatchingturquoiseendtablesandlampswithblueandgreenbeadedshades.AframedKlimtprinthungoverthehighgrayheadboard.Oppositethebed,amid-century-styledresserstretchedalongthewall,andasmallroundtablesatinthecorner,drapedinayellowtableclothanddecoratedwithaclockandastackofbooks—mybooks
Theroomwasotherwiseordinaryandimpersonal.Gusopenedoneofthedrawers.“Empty.”
“She’salreadycleareditout.”Myvoiceshook.
Gusgavemeatentativesmile.“Isn’tthatagoodthing?”
Iwentforwardandopenedthedrawersonebyone.Nothinginanyofthem.Iwenttothesidetableontheleft.Nodrawers,justtwoshelves.Aporcelainboxsatonthetopone.
Thishadtobeit.ThethingI’dbeenwaitingfor.Thedeep,darkanswerthatI’dexpectedtospringoutatmeallsummer.Iopenedit.
Empty.
“January?”Guswasstandingbesidetheroundtable,holdingthetableclothup.Frombelow,anuglygrayboxstaredbackatme,completewithanumberedkeypadonitsface.
“Asafe?”
“Orareallyoldmicrowave,”Gusjoked.
Iapproacheditslowly.“It’sprobablyempty.”
“Probably,”Gusagreed.
“Orit’sagun,”Isaid.
“Wasyourdadtheguntype?”
“InOhio,hewasn’t.”InOhio,hewasallbiographiesandcozynightsin,dutifulhand-holdingatdoctors’appointments,andGrouponMediterraneancookingclasses.Hewasthefatherwhowokemeupbeforethesuntotakemeoutonthewaterandletmesteertheboat.AsfarasIknew,lettinganeight-year-olddrivethroughtheemptylakefortwentysecondsatatimewasthepeakofhisimpulsivenessandrecklessness.
Butanythingwaspossiblehere,inhissecondlife.
“Waitrighthere,”Gussaid.BeforeIcouldprotest,he’dfledtheroom.Ilistenedtohisstepsonthestaircase,andthenamomentlater,hereturnedwithabottleofwhiskey.
“What’sthatfor?”Iasked.
“Tosteadyyourhand,”Gussaid.
“What,beforeIpryabulletoutofmyownarm?”
Gusrolledhiseyesasheunscrewedthetop.“Beforeyoucrackthesafe.”
“Ifwedrankgreensmoothieslikewedrinkalcohol,wewouldliveforever.”
“Ifwedrankgreensmoothieslikewedrinkalcohol,wewouldneverleavethetoilet,andthatwoulddonothingtohelpyourightnow,”Gussaid.
Itookthebottleandsipped.Thenwesatonthecarpetinfrontofthesafe.“Hisbirthday?”Gussuggested.
Iscootedforwardandenteredthenumber.Thelightsflickeredredandthedoorstayedlocked.“Athomeallourcodesweretheiranniversary,”Isaid.“MomandDad’s.Idoubtthatapplieshere.”
Gusshrugged.“Oldhabitsdiehard?”
Ienteredthedatewithlowexpectationsbutmystomachstilljarredwhentheredlightsflashed.
Iwasn’tpreparedforthefreshwaveofjealousythathitme.Itwasn’tfairthatIhadn’tgottentoknowhimthroughandthrough.Itwasn’tfairSonyahadpartsofhimthat,now,Ineverwould.Maybethesafe’scodehadevenbeensomesignificantlandmarkforthem,ananniversaryorherbirthday.
Eitherway,shewouldknowthecombination.
Allitwouldtakewouldbeoneemail,butitwasn’toneIwantedtosend.
Gusrubbedthecrookofmyelbow,drawingmebacktothepresent.
“Idon’thavetimeforthisrightnow.”Istood.“Ihavetofinishabook.”Thisweek,Idecided.
THEIMPORTANTTHING,Itoldmyself,wasthatthehousecouldeasilybesold.Asafewasnothing,nobigcurveball.Thehousewaspracticallyempty.Icouldsellitandgobacktomylife.
OfcoursenowwhenIthoughtaboutthis,IhadtodoeverythingIcouldtoavoidthequestionofwherethatwouldleavemeandGus.Ihadcomeheretosortthingsoutandinsteadhadmadethemmessier,butsomehow,inthemess,myworkwasthriving.IwaswritingataspeedIhadn’treachedsincemyfirstbook.IfeltthestoryracingaheadofmeanddideverythingIcouldtokeeppace.
IbannedGusfromthehouseforallbutanhoureachnight(wesetaliteraltimer)andspenttherestofmytimewritinginthesecondbedroomupstairs,whereallIcouldseewasthestreetbelowme.Iwrotelateintothenight,andwhenIwokeup,IpickedupwhereIleftoff.
Ilivedinthegive-uppantsandevensworetostartcallingthemsomethingbetterifIcouldjustfinishthisbook,asifIwerebargainingwithagodwhowasdeeplyinvestedinmy(thoroughlynon-capsule)wardrobe.
Ididn’tshower,barelyate,chuggedwaterandcoffeebutnothingharder.
AttwointhemorningonSaturday,Augustsecond,thedayofoureventatPete’s,IreachedthefinalchapterofFAMILY_SECRETS.docxandstareddowntheblinkingcursor.
IthadallplayedoutmoreorlesshowI’dimaginedit.Theclowncouplewassafebutstilllivingwiththeirsecrets.Eleanor’sfatherhadstolenhermother’sweddingringandsoldittogivehisotherfamilythemoneytheyneeded.Eleanor’smotherstillhadnoideatheotherfamilyexisted,andshebelievedshehadonlymisplacedthering,thatperhapswhentheyunpackedintheirnexttown,itwouldfalloutofapocketorafoldoftowels.Inherheart,thebitofcolorfulyarnherhusbandhadtiedaroundherfingermorethanreplacedit.Love,afterall,wasoftenmadenotofshinythingsbutpracticalones.Onesthatgrewoldandrustedonlytoberepairedandpolished.Thingsthatgotlostandhadtobereplacedonaregularbasis.
AndEleanor.Eleanor’shearthadbeenthoroughlybroken.
Thecircuswasmovingon.Tulsawasshrinkingbehindthem,theirweektherefoggingoverlikeadreamuponwaking.Shewaslookingback,withanacheshethoughtwouldneverstopspearingthroughher.
There;therewaswhereIwassupposedtoleaveit.Iknewthat.
Ithadanicecyclicalqualitytoit.Atemporaryneatnessthatthereadercouldseeunravelingsomewherefaraheadoffthepage.Orperhapsnot.
Thereitwas,exactlyasitwasmeanttobe,andmychestfeltheavyandmybodyfeltchilledandmyeyesweredamp,althoughpossiblymorefromexhaustionandthefanoverheadthananythingelse.
ButIcouldn’tleaveitthere.Becausenomatterhowbeautifulthemomentwas,initsownsadway,Ididn’tbelieveit.Thiswasn’ttheworldIknew.Youlostbeautifulthings—yearsofyourmother’sgoodhealth,yourshotatthedreamcareer,yourfatherwaytoosoon—butyoufoundthemtoo:acoffeeshopwiththeworld’sworstespresso;abarwithaline-dancingnight;amessy,beautifulneighborlikeGusEverett.Isetmyhandsonthekeyboardandstartedtyping.
Whiteflurriesbegantodriftdownaroundher,snagginginherhairandclothes.Eleanorlookedupfromthedustyroad,marvelingatthesuddensnowfall.Ofcourseitwasn’tsnow.Itwaspollen.Whitewildflowershadsprunguponeithersideoftheroad,thewindshakingtheirbudsoutintoitself.
Eleanorwonderedwhereshewasgoingnext,andwhattheflowerswouldlooklikethere.
IsavedthedraftandemailedittoAnya.
Subject:SomethingDifferent.
Pleasedon’thateme.Love,J.
IGOTUPearlyanddrovetwentyminutestoprintthedraftatthenearestFedEx,justsoIcouldholditinmyhand.WhenIgotback,Guswaswaitingonmyporchforme,sprawledonthecouchwithhisforearmthrownoverhiseyes.Heliftedittopeeratme,thensmiledandsatup,makingroomformetosit.
Hepulledmylegsoverhislapandscootedmeclosertohim.“And?”hesaid.
Idroppedthestackofpaperinhislap.“NowIjusthavetowaitandseeifAnyafiresme.AndhowmadSandyis.AndwhetherwecansellthebookandIhavesomethingto‘lordoveryou.’”
“Anyawon’tfireyou,”Gussaid.
“AndSandy?”
“Willprobablybemad,”Gussaid.“Butyouwroteanotherbook.Andyou’llwritemore.Probablyevenoneshewants.You’llsellthebook,thoughnotnecessarilybeforeIsellmine,andeitherway,I’msureyou’llfindsomethingtolordoverme.”
Ishrugged.“I’lltrymybestanyway.Whataboutyou—areyouclosetodone?”
“Actually,yeah.Withadraftanyway.Anotherweekortwoshoulddoit.”
“ThatshouldbeabouthowlongittakesmetodothedishesI’veleftaroundthehousethisweek.”
“Perfecttiming,”Gussaid.“Lookatfate,takingcharge.”
“Fateiswonttodothat.”
Wepartedwaysbeforetheeventtogetready,andwhenmyhairwasdryafteramuch-neededshower,Ilayonmybed,exhausted,andwatchedthefantwirl.Theroomfeltdifferent.Mybodyfeltdifferent.IcouldhaveconvincedmyselfI’dsnatchedsomeoneelse’slimbsandlifeandfalleninlovewiththem.
Idriftedofftosleepandwokewithanhourtospare.Gusknockedonmydoorthirtyminuteslater,andweheadedtotheshoponfoot—normallyIwouldhatetogetsweatybeforeanevent,buthere,itseemedtomatterless.EveryonewasalittlesweatyinNorthBearShores,andthestiffblackeventdresshadn’tappealedtomeafterasummerinshortsandT-shirts,soI’dputthewhitethrift-storesundressonagain,withtheembroideredboots.
Atthebookstore,PeteandMaggietookusintotheofficetohaveaglassofchampagne.“Scareawayanyjitters,”Maggiesaidsunnily.
GusandIexchangedaknowinglook.We’dbothdoneenougheventstoknowthatintownslikethisone,theturnoutwasprettymuchlocalfriendsandfamily(atleastwhenitwasyourfirstbook;afterthat,mostofthemcouldn’tbebothered)andpeoplewhoworkedatthebookstore.MaggieandPetehadmovedthedisplaytableuptothecounterandsetupabouttenfoldingchairs,soclearly,theyhadsomeunderstandingofthistoo.
“Shameschool’snotinsession,”Petesaid,asifanticipatingmythoughts.“You’dgetafullhousethen.Theprofessorsliketomakethissortofthingmandatory.Oratleastextracredit.”
Maggienodded.“Iwould’vemadeitmandatoryformystudents.”
“Fromnowon,I’mputtinglabradoriteineverybook,”Ipromised.“Justtogiveyouagoodexcusetodothat.”
Sheclutchedherheartasifthatwasthesweetestthingshe’dheardinmonths.
“Gotime,kids,”Peteannouncedandledthewayout.Therewerefourmorechairslinedupbehindthecounter,andsheusheredGusandmeinbetweenherandMaggie,whowouldbe“interviewing”us.Laurenandherhusbandwereintheaudience,alongwithacoupleofotherwomenIrecognizedfromthecookout,andfivestrangers.
Generally,Ipreferrednottoknowsomuchofmyaudience.Actually,Ipreferrednottoknowanyone.Butthisfeltnice,relaxed.
Petewasstillstanding,welcomingeveryonetotheevent.IlookedoveratGusandknewrightawaysomethingwaswrong.
Hisfacehadgonepaleandhismouthwastense.Allthewarmthinhimwasgone,shutoffasifbyavalve.Iwhisperedhisnamebuthekeptstaringrightintothe“crowd.”Ifollowedhisgazetoatinywomanwithnearlyblackcurlsandblueeyesthattiltedupatthecorners,complementingherhighcheekbonesandheart-shapedface.Ittookmeafewsecondstopuzzleitout,afewblissfullyignorantsecondsbeforemystomachfeltlikeithaddroppedthroughmyfeetandintothefloor.
Myhearthadstartedracing,likemybodyunderstoodbeforemybraincouldadmitit.IlookedtowardMaggie.Herlipswerepursedandherhandswerefoldedinherlap.Shewasstiffandstill,completelyunlikeherself,andwhilePetewascarryingonconfidently,Icouldseethechangeinherbodylanguagetoo,somethingofamotherbear’sposture:aviciousprotectiveness,areadinesstospring.
Shesatandscootedherchairaroundwhileshereadiedherself.Itwasacasualenoughgesture,butIthoughtshemightbeshaken.
MyheartwasstillthuddingagainstmychestsohardIfiguredthewholeaudiencecouldhearit,andmyhandsstartedtosweat.
Naomiwasbeautiful.Ishould’veknownshewouldbe.Iprobablyhad.ButIhadn’texpectedtoseeher.Especiallynotalone,here,lookingatGuslikethat.
Apologetic,Ithought,then,hungry.
Mystomachlurched.Shehadcomeherewithintent.ShehadsomethingtosaytoGus.
God,whatifIthrewuphere?
Petehadkickedoffthequestioning.Somethingalongthelinesof,“Whydon’tyoustartbytellingusaboutyourbooks?”
Gusturnedinhischairtofaceher.Hewasanswering.Ididn’thearwhathesaidbutthetonewascalm,mechanical,andthenhewaslookingatme,waitingformetoanswer,andhisfacewasentirelyinscrutable.
ItwaslikethemasterbedroomofDad’shouse:impersonal,scrubbedclean.Therewasnothingformeinit.IreallyfeltlikeImightvomit.
Iswalloweditandstarteddescribingmylastbook.I’ddoneitenough—itwaspracticallyscripted.Ididn’tevenhavetolistentomyself;Ijusthadtoletthewordstrickleout.
Ireallyfeltsick.
AndthenPetewasaskinganotherquestionfromahandwrittenlistshehadinfrontofher(Tellusaboutyourbooks.What’syourwritingprocesslike?Whatdoyoustartwith?Whoareyouinfluencedby?etc.),andinbetweenthem,Maggiecontributedherownloftyfollow-ups(Ifyourbookwereabeverage,whatwoulditbe?Doyoueverimaginewhereyourbooksshouldberead?Whatistheemotionalprocessofwritingabooklike?Hasthereeverbeenamomentfromyourreallifeyoufoundyourselfunabletocapturethroughwordsalone?).
Thismomentwouldprobablybeprettydamnhard,Ithought.
Howmanydifferentwayscouldyouwrite,Eleanorwantedbadlytopukeupeverythingshe’deatenthatday?
Possiblyalot.Timewasinchingpast,andIcouldn’tdecidewhetherIwantedittomovemorequicklyorifwhatevercameafterwardwouldonlymakethingsworse.
Theveryquestionofthatseemedtobreakthecurse.Thehourwasover.Thehandfulofpeoplewho’dcomeweremillingforwardtotalktousandgetbookssigned,andIwasgrittingmyteethandtryingtosociallytap-dancewhileinside,tumbleweedswereblowingthroughmydesolateheart.
Naomihungbackfromtheothers,leaningagainstabookcase.Iwonderedifshe’dpickeduptheleaningfromGusortheotherwayaround.Iwasafraidtolookathertoolongandrecognizemoreofhimonher,whenI’dspentthelasthourtryingdesperatelytofindsometraceofmeonhim,proofthathehadwhisperedmynamefiercelyintomyskineventhatafternoon.PetehadcorneredNaomiandwastryingtoleadherfromthestore,butshewasarguing,andthenLaurenwasjoiningthem,tryingtokeepascenefrombreakingout.
Icouldn’thearwhatwasbeingsaid,butIcouldseehercurlsbobbingasshenodded.Thegrouparoundthetablewasdissolving.Maggiewasringingthemup,herowncleargazecuttingbetweentheregisterandtheconversationbythedoor.
Guslookedatmefinally.Heseemedpoisedtoofferanexplanationbuttheexpressiononmyfacemust’vechangedhismind.Heclearedhisthroat.“Ishouldseewhyshe’shere.”
Isaidnothing.Didnothing.Hestaredbackatmefornomorethantwoseconds,thenstoodandcrossedthestore.Myfacewashotbuttherestofmybodywascold,shivering.GussentPeteaway,andwhenshelookedatme,Icouldn’tmeethergaze.Istoodandhurriedthroughthedoortotheoffice,thenthroughtheofficetothebackdoorintoabackalleythatwasnothingmorethanacoupleofdumpsters.
Hehadn’tinvitedher.Iknewthat.ButIcouldn’tguesswhatseeingherdidtohim,orwhyshe’dcome.
Tough,beautifulNaomi,whoseunknowabilityhadthrilledGus.Naomiwhodidn’tneedhimortrytosavehim.Whohehadneverbeenafraidtobreak.Whohehadwantedtospendhislifewith.Whohewouldhavestayedwith,despiteeverything,ifgiventhechance.
IwantedtoscreambutallIcoulddowascry.I’dburnedthroughallmyanger,andfearwasallthatwasleft.Maybethatwaswhathadbeenthereallalong,maskedinthornieremotions.
Unsurewhatelsetodo,Istartedtowalkhome.ItwasdarkoutbythetimeIgotthere,andI’dforgottentoleavetheporchlighton,sowhensomeonestoodfromthewickercouch,Inearlyfelloffthesteps.
“I’msorry!”camethewoman’svoice.“Ididn’tmeantoscareyou.”
I’donlyheardittwice,butthesoundhadworngroovesintomybrain.Iwouldneverforgetit.
“Iwashopingwecouldtalk,”Sonyasaid.“No,morethanhoping.Ineedtotalktoyou.Please.Fiveminutes.There’salotyoudon’tknow.Thingsthatwillhelp,Ithink.Iwroteitalldownthistime.”25TheLetters
“IDON’TWANTTOhearit,”Itoldher.
“Iknow,”Sonyasaid.“ButI’llhavefailedyourfatherifIdon’tmakesureyoudo.”
Ilaughedharshly.“See,that’sthething.Youshouldn’thavehadmyfathertofail.”
“Shouldn’thave?Ifyoustartedatthebeginningofyourfather’slifeandpredictedthewholething,andhowitshouldhaveplayedout,basedonlyonwhereitstarted,hemightneverhavefoundyourmother.Youmightnotexist.”
Myinsidesthrummedwithanger.“Couldyougetoffmyporch,please?”
“Youdon’tunderstand.”Shepulledoutapieceofpaperfromherjeanspocketandunfoldedit.“Please.Fiveminutes.”
Istartedtounlockthedoor,butshebeganreadingbehindme.“ImetWaltAndrewswhenIwasfifteen,inmylanguageartsclass.Hewasmyfirstdate,myfirstkiss,myfirstboyfriend.Thefirstman—orboy—Isaid‘Iloveyou’to.”
Thekeystuckinthelock.I’dstoppedmoving,stunned.Iturnedtowardher,mybreathcaughtinmychest.Sonya’seyesflickedtomeanxiously,thenbacktothepage.
“Webrokeupseveralmonthsafterhewenttocollege.Ididn’thearfromhimfortwentyyears,andthenoneday,Iranintohimhere.He’dbeenonabusinesstripanhoureastandhaddecidedtoextendhisstayinNorthBearShoresacoupledays.Wedecidedtogetdinner.We’dbeentalkingforhoursbeforeheadmittedthathewasnewlyseparated.
“Whenwepartedways,webothbelievedwe’dneverseeeachotheragain.”Shelookedupatme.“Imeanthat.Butonhiswayoutoftown,yourfather’scarbrokedown.”Shestudiedthenoteagain.Thereweretearsinhereyes.“Wewerebothbrokenatthetime.Somedayswhatwehadwastheonlygoodthinginmylife.
“Westartedvisitingeachothereveryweekend.Heeventookaweekoffandcameuptolookforahouse.Thingsweremovingquickly.Effortlessly!I’mnotsayinganyofthistohurtyou.ButIgenuinelybelievedwehadoursecondchance.Ithoughtweweregoingtogetmarried.”Shestoppedtalkingforjustabeatandshookherhead.ShehurriedonbeforeIcouldstopher.
“HeputintotransfertotheGrandRapidsoffice.Heboughtthehouse.Thishouse.Itwasinterribleshapebackthen,justfallingtopieces,butIwasstillthehappiestI’dbeeninyears.He’dtalkaboutbringingyouup,aboutmovingtheboatuphereandspendingallsummeronit,thethreeofus.Ithought,I’mgoingtolivethereuntilIdie,withamanwholovesme.”
“Hewasmarried,”Iwhispered.Mythroatfeltlikeitwasgoingtocollapse.“Hewasstillmarried.”
Gusismarried,Ithought.
Theemotionwasballooningthroughme.Iwantedtohateher.Ididhateher,andIalsofeltherpainmixingwithmine.Ifeltalloftheexcitementofanewlove,ahealingone,asecondchancewithsomeoneyou’dalmostforgottenabout.Andthepainwhentheirreallifecametocall,theagonyofknowingtherewashistorywithsomeoneelse,arelationshipyourscouldn’ttouch.
Sonya’seyesscrunchedtight.“Thatdidn’tfeelrealtomeuntilyourmother’sdiagnosis.”
Thed-wordstillsentashockwavethroughme.Itriedtohideit.Wentbacktomessingwiththekey,thoughnowmyeyesweresothickwithtearsIcouldn’tsee.
Sonyakeptreading,fasternow.“Westayedintouchforafewmonths.Hewasn’tsurewhatwasgoingtohappen.Hejustknewheneededtobethereforher,andtherewasnothingIcoulddoaboutthat.Butthecallscamelessandless,andthennotatall.Andthenoneday,hesentanemail,justtoletmeknowthatshewasdoingmuchbetter.Thattheyweredoingbetter.”
I’dstoppedwiththedooragain,withoutmeaningto.Iwasfacingher,mosquitoesandmothswhizzingaroundme.“Butthatwasyearsago.”
Shenodded.“Andwhenthecancercameback,hecalledme.Hewasdevastated,January.Itwasn’taboutme,andIknewthat.Itwasabouther.Hewassoscared,andthenexttimehewaspassingthroughforwork,Iagreedtoseehimagain.Hewaslookingforcomfort,andI—I’dstartedsomethingwithafriendofMaggie’s,agoodman,awidower.Itwasn’tseriousyet,butIknewitcouldbe.Andperhapsthatfrightenedmeabit,orperhapsapartofmewouldalwaysloveyourfather,ormaybewewerejustselfishandweak.Idon’tknow.AndIwon’tpretendto.
“ButIwillsaythis:thatsecondtimearound,Ihadnoillusionsaboutwherethingsweregoing.Ifyourfatherhadlostyourmother,hewouldn’thavebeenabletostandthesightofme,andIwouldn’thavebeenabletobelievehetrulylovedmeanyway.Iwasadistraction,andImightevenhavebelievedIowedhimthatmuch.
“Andwhenhestartedfixingupthehouse,Iknew,withouthimevertellingme,itwasn’tforus.Andithappenedagain,asyourmomgotherhealthback.Thevisitscamefurtherandfurtherapart.Thecallsslowedandstopped.Andthattime,Ididn’tevengetanemail.Icanstandhereandtellyouthatwehadgoodenoughintentions.Therearenoeasyanswershere.IknowIshouldn’tbeallowedtobeheartbrokenrightnow,butIam.
“I’mheartbrokenandangrywithmyselfforgettingintothissituationandhumiliatedtobestandingherewithyou…”
“Thenwhyareyou?”Idemanded.Ishookmyhead,anotherfuriouswavecrashingoverme.“Ifitwasover,likeyousayitwas,thenhowdidyouhavethatletter?”
“Idon’tknow!”shecriedout,tearswellinginstantlyinhereyes,fallinginquick,steadydropletsdownherface.“Maybehewantedyoutohavethisplacebutdidn’tthinkyourmomwouldhavethestrengthtotellyouaboutit,ordidn’tthinkitwasrighttoaskherto.Maybehethoughtifhe’dsentthekeyandletterstraighttoyou,there’dbenoonetostandhereandconvinceyoutoforgivehim.Idon’tknow,January!”
Momwouldn’thaveevertoldme,Irealizedimmediately.EvenonceSonyahad,Momhadn’tbeenabletotalkaboutit,toconfirmorexplain.Shewantedtorememberallthegoodthings.Shewantedtoclingtothosesotighttheycouldn’tfade,notloosenhergripenoughtomakeroomforthepartsofhimthatstillhurttothinkabout.
Sonyahuffedafewtearybreathsandswipedatherdampeyes.“AllIknowiswhenhedied,hisattorneysentmetheletterandthekeyandanotefromWaltaskingmetopassalongbothtoyou.AndIdidn’twantto—I’vemovedon.I’mfinallywithsomeoneIlove,I’mfinallyhappy,buthewasgone,andIcouldn’tsayno.Nottohim.Hewantedyoutoknowthetruth,thewholething,andhewantedyoutostilllovehimonceyouknew.IthinkhesentmeheresoIcouldmakesureyouforgavehim.”
Hervoicequavereddangerously.“AndmaybeIcamebecauseIneededsomeonetoknowthatI’msorrytoo.ThatIwillalwaysmisshimtoo.MaybeIwantedsomeonetounderstandI’macompleteperson,andnotjustsomeoneelse’smistake.”
“Idon’tcarethatyou’reacompleteperson,”Ibitout,andrightthenIunderstoodthatwastrue.Ididn’thateSonya.Ididn’tevenknowher.Itwasn’taboutheratall.Thetearswerefallingfaster,makingmegaspforbreath.“It’sabouthim.It’sallthethingsIcanneverknowabouthimorevenaskhim.Whatheputmymomthrough!I’llneverknowhowtobuildafamily,orwhat—ifanything—IcantrustofwhatIlearnedfromthem.IhavetolookbackoneverymemoryIhaveandwonderwhatwasalie.Ican’tknowhimanybetternow.Idon’thavehim.Idon’thavehimanymore.”
Thetearswerereallypouringnow.Myfacewassoaked.ThedottedlineofpainI’dbeenlivingwithforayearfeltlikeithadfinallysplitopendownmycenter.
“Oh,honey,”Sonyasaidquietly.“Wecanneverfullyknowthepeoplewelove.Whenwelosethem,therewillalwaysbemorewecouldhaveseen,butthat’swhatI’mtryingtotellyou.Thishouse,thistown,thisview—itwasallapartofhimhewantedtosharewithyou.Andyou’rehere,allright?You’rehereandyou’vegotthehouseonabeachhelovedinatownheloved,andyou’vegotalltheletters,and—”
“Letters?”Isaid.“Ihaveoneletter.”
Shelookedstartled.“Youdidn’tfindtheothers?”
“Whatothers?”
Sheseemedgenuinelyconfused.“Youhaven’treadit.Thefirstletter.Youneverreadit.”
OfcourseIhadn’treadit.BecausethatwasthelastnewbitofhimIcouldeverhave,andIwasn’treadyforthat.Overayearsincehehaddied,andIstillwasn’treadytosaygoodbye.Iwasreadytosayalot,butnotgoodbye.Theletterwasatthebottomoftheboxwhereithadsatallsummer.
Sonyaswallowedandfoldedherlistoftalkingpoints,stuffingitinthepocketofheroversizedsweater.“Youhavepiecesofhim.You’rethelastpersononEarthwithpiecesofhim,andifyoudon’twanttolookatthem,that’syourcall.Butdon’tpretendheleftyounothing.”
Sheturnedtogo.Thatwasallshehadtosay,andI’dlethergetitout.Ifeltstupid,likeI’dlostsomegamewhoserulesnoonehadexplained.Butatthesametime,evenifIwasstillreelingfromthepainaftershe’ddrivenaway,Iwasstanding.
I’dhadtheconversationI’dbeendreadingallsummer.I’dgoneintotheroomsI’dkeptclosed.I’dfalleninloveandfeltmyheartbreak,andI’dheardmorethanIwantedtohear,andIwasonmyfeet.Thebeautifullieswereallgone.Destroyed.AndIwasstillupright.
Iturnedtothedoorwithnewpurposeandwentinside.Walkedstraightthroughthedarkhousetothekitchenandgottheboxdown.Alayerofdusthadcoatedtheenvelope.Iblewitawayandflippedtheloosetabuptopullouttheletter.Ireaditthere,standingoverthesinkwithoneyellowlightturnedonoverme.
Myhandsweretremblingsobadlyitwashardtomakeoutthewords.
Thisnight.Thisnighthadalmostbeenasbadasthenightwe’dlosthim,orthenightofhisfuneral.Inanyothersituation,allIwould’vewantedwouldhavebeenmyparents.
Dammit,Ididwantmyparents.IwantedDadinhisrattypajamapantsfoldedonthecouchwithabiographyofMarieCurie.IwantedMommovingaroundhiminLululemon,obsessivelydustingthepictureframesonthemantelasshehummedDad’sfavoritesong:It’sJuneinJanuary,becauseI’minlove
ThatwasthesceneI’dwalkedinonwhenI’dsurprisedthemthatfirstThanksgivingI’dbeenawayatUofM.Whenawickedwaveofhomesicknesshadpromptedmetomakethelast-seconddecisiontocomehomeforbreakafterall.WhenI’dunlockedthefrontdoorandsteppedthroughwithmyduffelbag,MomhadscreamedanddroppedthePledgeontheground.Dadhadswunghislegsoffthecouchandsquintedatmethroughthegoldenlightoftheirlivingroom.
“Canitbe?”hesaid.“Isthatmydarlingdaughter?Piratequeenoftheopenseas?”
They’dbothruntome,squeezedme,andI’dstartedtocry,likeIcouldonlyfullycomprehendhowbadlyI’dbeenmissingthemnowthatweweretogether.
Ifeltbrokenanewrightnow,andIwantedmyparents.Iwantedtositonthecouchbetweenthem,Mom’sfingersinmyhair,andtellthemI’dmessedup.ThatI’dfalleninlovewithsomeonewho’ddoneeverythinghecouldtowarnmenotto.
ThatI’dletmyselfgobroke.Thatmylifewasfallingapart,andIhadnoideahowtofixit.ThatmyheartwasmorebrokenthanithadeverbeenandIwasscaredIcouldn’tfixit.
Igrippedthenotebookpaperinmyhandstightlyandblinkedbackthetearsenoughtostartreadinginearnest.
Theletter,liketheenvelope,wasdatedformytwenty-ninthbirthday—Januarythirteenth,asolidsevenmonthsafterDadhaddied,whichmadeeverythingaboutthisfeeldreamyandsurrealasIstartedtoread.
DearJanuary,
Usually,thoughnotalways,Iwritetheselettersonyourbirthday,butyourtwenty-ninthisstillalongwaysoff,andIwanttobereadytogivethis,andalltheotherletters,toyouthen.SoI’mstartingearlythisyear.
Thisonecontainsanapology,andIhatetogiveyouareasontohatemejustbeforewecelebrateyourbirth,butI’mtryingtobebrave.SometimesIworrythetruthcan’tbeworththepainitcauses.Inaperfectworld,youwouldneverknowaboutmymistakes.Orrather,Iwouldn’thavemadethemtobeginwith.
ButofcourseIhave,andI’vespentyearsgoingbackandforthonwhattotellyou.IkeepcomingbacktothefactthatIwantyoutoknowme.Thismightsoundselfish,anditis.Butitisn’tonlyselfish,January.Ifandwhenthetruthcomesout,Idon’twantittorockyou.Iwantyoutoknowthatbiggerthanmymistakes,biggerthananythinggoodorbadI’veeverdone,andmostcompletelyunwaveringhasbeenmyloveforyou.
I’mafraidwhatthetruthwilldotoyou.I’mafraidyouwon’tbeabletolovemeasIam.Butyourmotherhadthechancetomakethatdecisionforherself,andyoudeservethattoo.
1401Queen’sBeachLane.Thesafe.Thebestdayofmylife.
Iranupthestairsandthunderedintothemasterbedroom.Thetableclothwasstilltuckedupundertheclocktorevealthesafe.Myheartwaspounding.Ineededtoberightthistime.Ithoughtmybodymightcrackinhalffromtheweightonmychest,ifIwasn’t.Itypedinthenumber,thesameonescrawledinthetoprightcorneroftheletter.Mybirthday.Thelightsflickeredgreenandthelockclicked.
Thereweretwothingsinthesafe:athickstackofenvelopes,wrappedinanoversizedgreenrubberband,andakeyonabluePVCkeychain.Inwhiteletters,thewordsSWEETHARBORMARINA,NORTHBEARSHORES,MIwereprintedacrossthesurface.
Ipulledthestackoflettersoutfirstandstaredatthem.Mynamewaswrittenoneach,inavarietyofpens,thehandwritinggettingsharperandmoreresolutethefurtherbackIflipped.Iclutchedtheenvelopestomychestasasobbrokeoutofme.Hehadtouchedthese.
I’dforgottenthataboutthehouse,somewherealongtheway.Butthiswasdifferent.Thiswasmyname,apieceofhimhe’dcarvedoutandleftbehindforme.
AndIknewIcouldsurvivereadingthembecauseofeverythingelseI’dsurvived.Icouldstareitallintheface.Istaggeredtomyfeetandgrabbedmykeysonthewayoutthedoor.
Myphone’sGPSfoundthemarinawithnotrouble.Itwasfourminutesaway.TwoturnsandthenIwasinthedarkparkinglot.Thereweretwoothercars,probablyemployees’,butasIwalkeddownthedock,noonerushedouttoshoomeaway.Iwasalone,withthequietsloshingofthewateragainstthedock’ssupports,thegentlethunkandshppofboatsrockingintothewood.
Ididn’tknowwhatIwaslookingfor,butIknewthatIwaslooking.IheldtheletterstightlyinmyhandasImoveddownthelengthofthedock,upanddowntheoff-shootingpathways.
Andthenthereitwas,purewhiteandletteredinblue,itssailsrolledup.January.
Iclimbedunsteadilyontoit.Satonthebenchandstaredoutatthewater.
“Dad,”Iwhispered.
Iwasn’tsurewhat,ifanything,Ibelievedabouttheafterlife,butIthoughtabouttimeandimaginedflatteningitoutsothateverymomentinthisspacebecameone.Icouldalmosthearhisvoice.Icouldalmostfeelhimtouchingmyshoulder.
Ifeltsolostagain.EverytimeIstartedtofindmyway,Iseemedtoslipfurtherdown.HowcouldItrustwhatGusandIhad?HowcouldItrustmyownfeelings?Peoplewerecomplicated.Theyweren’tmathproblems;theywerecollectionsoffeelingsanddecisionsanddumbluck.Theworldwascomplicatedtoo,notabeautifullyhazyFrenchfilm,butadisastrous,horriblemess,speckledwithbrillianceandloveandmeaning.
Abreezeruffledthelettersinmylap.Ibrushedthehairfrommytearyeyesandopenedthefirstenvelope.
DearJanuary,
Todayyouwereborn.Iknewtoexpectthatformonths.Itwasnotasurprise.YourmotherandIwantedyouverymuch,evenbeforeyoubegantoexist
WhatIdidn’tknowtoexpectisthattoday,IwouldfeellikeI’dbeenborntoo.
Youhavemademeanewperson:January’sfather.AndIknowthisiswhoIwillbefortherestofmylife.I’mlookingatyounow,January,asI’mwritingthis,andIcanbarelygetthewordsontothepage.
Iaminshock,January.Ididn’tknowIcouldbethisperson.Ididn’tknowIcouldfeelallthis.Ican’tbelievesomedayyouwillwearabackpack,knowhowtoholdapencil,haveopinionsonhowyouliketowearyourhair.I’mlookingatyouandIcan’tbelieveyouaregoingtobecomemoreamazingthanyoualreadyare.
Tenfingers.Tentoes.Andevenifyouhadnoneofthem,you’dstillbethegrandestthingI’veeverseen.
Ican’texplainit.Doyoufeelit?Nowthatyou’reoldenoughtoreadthis,andtoknowwhoyouare,doyouhaveawordforthethingthatevadesme?Thethingthatmakesyoudifferentfromanythingelse?
IguessIshouldtellyousomethingaboutmyself,aboutwhoIamatthisverymomentasIwatchyousleeponyourmother’schest.
Well,nicetomeetyou,January.I’myourfather,themanyoumadefromnothingbutyourtinyfingersandtoes.
ONEFOREVERYyear,alwayswrittenontheday.
January,todayyouareone.WhoamItoday,January?I’mthehandthatguidesyouwhileyoutakeyourclumsysteps.Today,yourmotherandImadespaghetti,soIguessyoucouldsayI’macheftoo.Yourpersonalone.Ineverusedtoliketocookmuch,butithastobedone.
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Happysecondbirthday,January.Yourhairhasgottensomuchdarker.Youwouldn’trememberbeingablonde,wouldyou?Ilikeitmorethisway.Itsuitsyouverymuch.Yourmothersaysyoulooklikehergrandmother,butIthinkyoutakeaftermymother.Shewouldhavelovedyou.I’lltrytotellyouabitabouthertoo.ShewasfromaplacecalledNorthBearShores.That’swhereI’mfromtoo.IlivedtherewhenIwasyourage.Iwasanastytwo-year-old,sheusedtotellme.IguessIscreameduntilIpassedout.ButthatwasprobablyatleastinpartduetoRandy,myoldestbrother.Abitofajackass,butalovableone.HelivesinHongKongnow,becauseheisFancy.
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January,Ican’tbelieveyou’refour.Youareperson-shapednow.Isupposeyoualwayswere,butyou’remoresonowthanever.WhenIwasfour,Iwreckedmytricycle.Iwasridingdownapiertowardthelighthouseattheend.MymotherhadgottendistractedbyafriendandIthoughtitwouldbeneattoriderightoffthepier,seeifIwasgoingfastenoughtostayatopthewater.LikeRoadRunner.Shesawmeatthelastminuteandscreamedmyname.WhenIturnedtolookather,Iyankedthehandlebarsandsmashedintothelighthouseitself.That’showIgotthatbigpinkscaronmyelbow.Isupposeitisn’tsobignow.Orelsemyelbowisquiteabitbigger.Lastweekyoucrackedyourheadonthefireplace.Itwasn’ttoobad—didn’tevenneedstitches,butyourmotherandIcriedallnightafteryou’dgonetosleep.
Wefeltsobad.Sometimes,January,beingaparentfeelslikebeingakidwhosomeonehasmistakenlyhandedanotherkid.“Goodluck!”thisunwisestrangercriesbeforeturninghisbackonyouforever.Wewillalwaysmakemistakes,I’mafraid.Ihopetheywillgetsmallerandsmalleraswegetbiggerandbigger.Older,really;we’reratherdonegrowing.
_____
Eight!Eightyearsoldandsmartasawhip!Youneverstopreading,January.IhatedreadingwhenIwaseight,butthenagain,Iwasterribleatit,andbothRandyandDouglasusedtoteasememercilessly,thoughthesedaysDouglasisasgentleasabutterfly.IimagineifI’dbeenbetteratreading,Iwouldhavelikeditmore.Ormaybeviceversa.Mydadwasabusymanbuthewastheonewhotaughtmehowtoread,January.Andsincehe’dstarted,Iwouldn’tletmypoormotherhaveanythingtodowithit.Well,whenthetimecomes,I’mteachingyoutodrive,sheusedtotellme.YourfavoritebookrightnowisTheGivingTree,butGod,January,thatbookbreaksmyheart.YourmotherisabitlikethattreeandIworryyouwillbetoo.Don’tgetmewrong.That’sagoodwaytobe.Butstill.Iwishyoucouldbeabitstonier,likeyouroldpop.Onlyforyourowngood.
Youknow,whenIwaseight,Ishopliftedforthefirsttime.Notcondoningit,ofcourse,butthegoalofthisishonesty.Istolegumfromtheold-fashionedcandystoreonthemaindraginNorthBearShores.Ilovedthatshop.Theyhadthesegreatbigfanstokeepthechocolatefrommeltinginthesummer,andondayswhenmymotherwasoccupied,mybrothersandIwouldstrolldowntheretogetoutoftheheat.Ineverfounditmuchfuntogotothebeachonmyown.PerhapsnowI’dfeeldifferent.Ihaven’tbeeninawhile.YourmotherandIhavebeentalkingabouttakingyousoon.
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January,youarethirteenandbraverthananythirteen-year-oldshouldhavetobe.Today,Idon’tknowwhoIam.Iamyourfatherstill,ofcourse.Andthehusbandofyourmother.ButJanuary,sometimeslifeisveryhard.Sometimesitdemandssomuchofyouthatyoustartlosingpiecesofyourselfasyoustretchouttogivewhattheworldwantstotake.Iamlost,January.RememberthatlighthouseItoldyouabout?IthinkItoldyouaboutit.SometimesIthinkaboutyouasthatlighthouse.KeepyoureyesonJanuary,Itellmyself.Shewon’tleadyouastray.IfyoufocusonJanuary,youwon’tgotoofaroffcourse.ButmaybeIwassofocusedIransmackdabintoyou.
Yourmothertoo.Iknowthisyearhasbeenfrighteningforyou,butpleaseknowthatsomewayoranother,yourmotherandIaregoingtofindourwaybacktoourselves,andbacktoeachother.Pleasedon’tbeafraid,mysweetbaby,mydaringpiratequeenoftheopenseas.Somehoweverythingwillbeokay.
_____
IgotmyfirstkisswhenIwassixteen,January.HernamewasSonyaandshewasstringyandserene.
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Yourbirthdayisn’tforafewmoremonths,butIhavetowritethisnow.Today,youareleavingforcollege,January,andI’mafraiditmightkillme.OfcourseIcan’ttellyouthat.Youwouldfeelsoguiltyandyoushouldn’t.Youare,byallaccounts,doingtherightthing.Youhavealwaysbeensosmart.Thisiswhereyoubelong.Andit’snotforever.Butwhenyouwakeupthismorning,andwestartdrivingnorth,Iwon’tbelookingatyouintherearviewmirror.Andwhenyoureadthis(???Whenwillthatbe???),thinkbacktothatday.WillyouevennoticethatIcan’tlookatyou?Probablynot.You’resonervousyourself.Butifyoudoremember,nowyou’llknowwhy.IworryImightturnaroundanddrivethethreeofusbackhomeifyoushowanyounceofhesitation.Iwanttokeepyouforever.WhoamIwithoutyou?
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Youshouldbeingraduateschool,andweallknowit.Fuckcancer,January.You’reanadultnowsothatmeansbythetimeyoureadthis,youshouldbewellacquaintedwiththewordFuckandwebothknowyou’realreadytoocloselyacquaintedwiththewordCancer.Well,fuckit.Ihavetobehonest,January.Ifeellikeourlivesareimplodingandapartofmewantstoshoveyoufar,farawayuntiltheimplosionstops.
ItoldyouI’dbehonestwithyou,sohereitis.IfIwriteithere,IknowIwillnotbeabletotakeitback.Somedayyouwillreadthis.Somedayyouwillknow.
Iamcheatingonyourmother.SometimesIfeellikeIamcomfortingmyselfandothertimesitfeelslikeapunishment.StillotherdaysIwonderifit’sallabigF-Utotheuniverse.“Ifyouwanttodestroymylife,Icandestroyitworse.”
SomedaysIthinkIaminlovewithSonya.Sonya,that’shername.Iwasinlovewithheronce,whenwewerekids.IthinkItoldyouinyoursixteenth-birthdayletter.ThatwastheyearIkissedher.I’msureyoudon’twanttohearthat.ButIthinkIneedtosayit.I’minlovewithaversionofmyselfthatcan’texistinthishell.DoyouthinkI’mterrible,January?It’sokayifyoudo.Ihavebeenterribleatmanydifferentmomentsinmylife.
Iwanttogobacktobeingthemanyourmothermademe:hernewhusband.Themanyoumademe:youradoringfather.I’msearchingforsomethingofmyselfIlost,andit’snotfairtoanyone.
IfIcouldhavethepastback,thosebeautifulyearsbeforethecancercameback,Iwouldpounce.I’mgoingtofixthis.Don’tgiveuponme,January.Itisn’ttheend.
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January,todayyouaretwenty-eight.
WhenIwastwenty-eight,mybeautifulwifegavebirthtoourchild.Onthisday.Januarythirteenth,widelyregardedasthebestdayinthehistoryofdays.SometimesIthinkaboutwhatyourchildrenwouldlooklike.NotyourandJacques’sspecifically,thoughthatwouldbefinetoo.
IpictureagirlwholookslikeJanuary.Maybeshehastenfingersandtentoes,butevenifshedoesn’t,shewillbeperfect.AndIthinkaboutthekindofwomanyouwillbeforher.Thekindofmother.
WhenIthinkaboutthis,January,Iusuallycry.BecauseIknowyouwilldobetterthanIdid,andIamsorelievedbythatthought.Butevenifyoudon’t,evenifyoumakethekindsofmistakesImade,Iknowyou,January.
Iknowyousomuchbetterthanyouknowme,andI’msorry,butiftherehadtobeanimbalance,Ican’tsayIregretitgoingthisway.
Rememberyourfirstbreakup?Imentioneditintheletterforyourseventeenthbirthday.Youweredevastated.YourmothercalledintoyourjobatTacoBellandpretendedtobeyou,toosicktocomein.
Inthatmoment,Iwassoinlovewithher.Sheknewjustwhattodo.Thewayshetookcareofyou.Therearenowords.
Sheknows,bytheway.SheknowseverythingI’vetoldyou.She’sletmetakemytimetellingyou.Iworryshe’sashamed,thatshethinkseveryonewillpityher,andyouknowhowshehatesthat.She’snotsureyouneedtoknow.Maybeyoudon’t.Ifthat’sthecase,I’msorry.ButIguessIwantedyoutoseethewholetruthsoyouwouldknow.
Ifyouthinkthestoryhasasadending,it’sbecauseit’snotoveryet.
SinceIstartedtheseletters,I’vebeenamilliondifferentthings,somegoodandsomeugly.
Buttoday,onyourtwenty-eighthbirthday,IfeellikethesamemanIwasallthoseyearsago.
Staringatyou.Countingyourfingers.Wonderingwhatitisthatmakesyousodifferentfromtherestoftheworld.Idon’tknowwhenithappened,butI’mhappyagain.Ithink,evenifthingsdon’tstaylikethis,Iwillalwayscarrythismomentinme.HowcouldIeverbesad,havingwatchedmybabygrowintothewomansheis?
January,youaretwenty-eight,andtodayIamyourfather.26TheBestFriend
ILAYBACKONthefloorandstaredupatthestars.Fluffy,darkcloudsweredriftingacrossthesky,blottingthemoutbitbybit,andIwaswatchingthemlikeacountdown,thoughtowhatIdidn’tknow.Theletterslayinaheaparoundme,allunfolded,allread.Twohourshadn’tgivenmeclosure,butitwastimeI’dneverexpectedtohavewithhim.Wordshehadn’tsaidtomefinallyspoken.IfeltlikeIhadtimetraveled.
Iwasawound,half-healed-overandscrapedrawagain.“EverybodyHurts”wasrunningthroughmymind.Icouldseetheconsolationofit,theideathatyourpainwasn’tunique.
Somethingaboutthatmadeitseembothbiggerandsmaller.Smallerbecausealltheworldwasaching.BiggerbecauseIcouldfinallyadmitthateveryotherfeelingI’dbeenfocusingonhadbeenadistractionfromthedeepesthurt.
Myfatherwasgone.AndIwouldalwaysmisshim.
Andthathadtobeokay.
IreachedformyphoneandopenedtheYouTubeapp.Ityped“EverybodyHurts”andIplayeditthere,frommyphonespeakers.Whenitended,Istarteditover.
Thepainsettledintoadeeprhythm.Itfeltalmostlikeexercising,amountingburnthroughmymusclesandjoints.Once,inabadseasonoftensionheadaches,mydoctorhadtoldmethatpainwasourbodydemandingtobeheard.
“Sometimesit’sawarning,”shesaid.“Sometimesit’sabillboard.”
Ididn’tknowwhatthispain’sintentwasbutIthought,IfIlistentoit,maybeitwillbecontenttoclosebackupforawhile.
Maybethisnightofpainwouldgivemeevenadayofrelief.
Thesongendedagain.Istarteditover.
Thenightwascold.IwonderedhowmuchcolderitwouldbeinJanuary.Iwantedtoseeit.IfIdid,Ithought,thatwouldbeonemorepartofhimIcouldmeet.
Igatheredthelettersandenvelopesintoaneatstackandstoodtogohome,butnowwhenIpicturedthehouseontheedgeofthelake,astrangenewvariationofthatsearingache—Gus,inDminor,Ithought—passedthroughme.
IfeltlikeIwascomingapart,liketheconnectivetissuebetweenmyleftandrightribshadbeenhackedawayandIwasgoingtosplit.
Ithadbeenhoursnowsincewe’dparted.I’dgottennocall,notevenatext.Ithoughtaboutthelookonhisfacewhenhe’dseenNaomi,likeaghostwasstandinginfrontofhiseyes.Atiny,beautifulghosthehadoncelovedsomadlyhe’dmarriedher.Somadlyhewantedtoworkthroughitwhenshetorehishearttopieces.
Istartedtocryagain,sohardIcouldn’tsee.
IopenedmytextswithShadiandtyped:Ineedyou.
Itwassecondsbeforesheanswered:Firsttrainout.
Istaredatmyphoneforasecondlonger.TherewasonlyoneotherpersonIreallywantedtotalktonow.Itappedthecontactinfoandheldthephonetomyear.
Itwasthemiddleofthenight.Ididn’texpectananswer,butonthesecondring,thelineclickedon.
“Janie?”Momwhisperedinarush.“Areyouokay?”
“No,”Isqueaked.
“Tellme,honey,”sheurged.Icouldhearhersittingup,therustleofsheetsdrawingbackandthefaintclickofherbedsidelampturningon.“I’mherenow,honey.Justtellmeeverything.”
MyvoicewrenchedupwardasIstartedatthebeginning.“DidItellyouJacquesbrokeupwithmeinahottub?”
Momgasped.“Thatlittleshit-weasel!”
AndthenItoldhertherest.Itoldhereverything.
SHADIARRIVEDATtenAMwithaduffelbaganNBAplayercould’vesleptcomfortablyinandaboxoffreshproduce.WhenIopenedthedoortofindheronthesunlitporch,Ileanedfirsttoseeintothecardboardboxandasked,“Nobooze?”
“Didyouknowyouhaveanamazingfarmer’smarkettwoblocksfromhere?”shesaid,whiskinginside.“AndthattheonlyUberdriverseemstobelegallyblind?”
Itriedtolaugh,butjustthesightofherherehadtearswellingupbehindmyeyes.“Oh,honey,”Shadisaid,andsettheboxdownonthecouchbeforeenvelopingmeinahugthatwasallrosewaterandcoconutoil.“I’msosorry,”shesaid,herhandtoyinginmyhairinagentle,motherlyway.
Shepulledbackandgrippedmyarms,examiningme.“Thegoodnewsis,”shesaidsoftly,“yourskinlookslikeanewbornbaby’s.Whathaveyoubeeneatingouthere?”
Itippedmyheadtowardtheboxofsquashandgreenery.“Noneofthat.”
“Draftingdiet?”shehazarded,andwhenInodded,shepattedmyarmandturnedtowardthekitchen,gatheringtheboxinherarmsasshewent.“Ifiguredasmuch.Beforetheboozeandthecrying,youneedavegetable.Andprobably,like,eggsorsomething.”Shestoppedshortasshereachedthekitchen,gaspingeitheratsize,scope,andstyleoratthedisgustingmessI’dmanagedtomakeofit.“Okayyyy,”shesaid,regroupingasshebegantounloadtheveggiesonthelonesparebitofcountertop.“Howaboutyouchangeoutofthosepants,andI’llstartonbrunch.”
“What’swrongwiththesepants?”Igesturedtomysweats.“Thesearemyofficialuniformnow,onaccountofI’veofficiallygivenup.”
Shadirolledhereyesanddrummedherbluenailsonthecounter.“Honestly,Janie,itdoesn’thavetobeaballgown,butIwillnotcookforyouuntilyouputonpantsthatinvolveabuttonorzipper.”
Mystomachgrumbledthen,asifpleadingwithme,andIturnedbacktothefirst-floorbedroom.TherewereahandfulofwrinkledT-shirtsGushaddiscardedinthepastcoupleofweeksonthefloor,nevertobepickedupagain,andIkickedthemintoapilebehindtheclosetdoorwhereIwouldn’thavetolookatthem,thendressedincutoffsandanEllaFitzgeraldT-shirt.
Makingbrunchwasanhour-and-a-half-longaffair,andthentherewasthefactthatShadiinsistedwefinishallthedishesbeforewetookabite.“Lookatthisstack,”Ireasonedwithher,gesturingattheleaningpileofcereal-crustedbowls.“ItcouldbeChristmasbythetimewe’vegottenthroughallofthese.”
“ThenI’mgladIpackedacoat,”Shadirepliedwithacasualshrug.
Intheend,itonlytookhalfanhourtoloadthedishwasherandhand-washeverythingthatdidn’tfit.Whenwe’dfinishedeating,Shadiinsistedoncleaningtheentirehouse.AllIreallywantedtodowaslieonthecouch,eatingapileofpotatochipsoffmychestandwatchingrealityTV,butitturnedoutshewasright.Cleaningwasamuchbetterdistraction.
Foronce,Ididn’tthinkaboutDad’sliesorSonyaapproachingmeatthefuneral.Ididn’treplaytidbitsofmyfightinthecarwithMomorpicturethepretty,apologeticsmileonNaomi’sfulllips.Ididn’tworryaboutthebook,orwhatAnyawouldthink,orwhatSandywoulddo.Ididn’treallythinkatall.
Deepcleaningputmeintoatrance;IwishedIcouldstayinanemotionalcryogenicchamberthatwouldallowmetosleepthroughtheworstofwhateverheartbreakIwasavoiding.
ThefirstphonecallfromGushadcomeatabouteleven,andIdidn’tanswer.Therewasn’tanotherfortwentyminutes,andwhenthatonefinallycamein,makingmyheartknotupintomythroat,heleftnovoicemailandsentnofollow-uptexts.
Iturnedmyphoneoffandstuckitinthedresserdrawerinmybedroom,thenwentbacktomoppingthebathroom.ShadiandIdecidednottotalkaboutit,aboutSEGortheHauntedHatoranythingelse,untilwe’dfinishedwithourwork,whichseemedlikeagoodpolicy,sincethecleaningwashelpingtonumbme,andanytimemybrainevengesturedtowardathoughtaboutGus,thenumbnessstartedtounravelfrommymiddle.
Atsix,Shadideterminedweweredoneandbanishedmetotheshowerwhileshestartedondinner.Shemaderatatouille,whichshe’dapparentlybeencravingeversinceshewatchedthemovieRatatouillewithRicky’slittlesistersduringFourthofJulyweekend.
“Youcantellmeabouthim,”Ipromised,aswesatoneithersideofthetable,mybackturnedtothewindowintoGus’shouse,despitethefactthatitanditsblindswerebothclosed.“Istillwanttohearaboutyoubeinghappy.”
“Afterdinner,”Shadisaid.Andagain,shewasright.ItturnedoutIneededthis,anothermeal,comprisedmostlyofvegetables,withnothingbutcomfortablesmalltalk.Thingswe’dseenouroldclassmatespostonline,booksshe’dbeenreading,showsI’dbeenwatching(onlyVeronicaMars).
Afterdinner,theskycloudedover,andasIwaswashingourplatesandsilverwareandShadiwasmakingusSazeracs,itbegantorainheartily,clapsofdistantthunderquiveringthroughthehouselikeminiearthquakes.WhenI’ddriedtheservingdishandputitawayinthecupboardtotherightoftheoven,shehandedmemyglassandwewenttothecouchI’dspentmyfirstnightonandcurledupinoppositecorners,ourfeettuckedunderablankettogether.
“Now,”shesaid.“Startatthebeginning.”27TheRain
WETALKEDALLnight,throughthestormsthatrolledinandoutlikewaves,alwayscarryingafreshbatchofthunderandlightninginjustwhenitseemedlikeitmightletup.Ourconversationtookthatlong,withallthebreaksforcryingandthetwoShaditooktomakeusfreshdrinks.
Inthetimewe’dbeenfriends,I’dwitnessedfiveofShadi’slife-shatteringbreakups.“It’sabouttimeyouthrewmeabone,”sheassuredme.“IneededyoutocrythismuchsoIcancometoyouifandwhenRickydestroysme.”
“Ishegoingto?”Iasked,throughsniffles,andShadiletoutadeepsigh
“Almostdefinitely.”
Shehadahabitoffallinginlovewithpeoplewhohadnointerestinfallinginlove.Italwaysstartedassomethingcasual,aflingthataccidentallyputdownroots.Intheend,therewasalwayssomethingstandingintheway,somethingthathadbeentherefromtheverybeginningbuthadn’tbeenanissuebackwhenthingshadbeentrulycasual.
Therewasthepillheadcook,thealcoholicskateboarder,theextremelypromisingmentorinanafter-schoolprogramfordisadvantagedyouthwho,ultimately,hadtoldShadihelovedherinthesamebreathhe’dadmittedhewantedtobesingleforafewmoreyears.
EverythingaboutmybestfriendwasmisleadingtothemenofChicago.Shewaseccentricandloud,pronetoheavydrinkingandall-nightpartying,comfortablewithcasualhookups,alwaysthefunniestandmostshockingpersoninanyroom,andshepostedmostlynudeselfieswithincreasingregularity.Shewasenigmatic,theclosesttothestereotypicalmalefantasyI’deverseenoutsideofamovie,butdeepdownshewas,completely,aromantic.
Whensheconnectedwithsomeone,sheopeneduplikearosetoexposethemosttender,pure,selfless,andloyalheartI’deverknown.Andwhenthemen-childrensheaccidentallywoundupdatingsawthatsideofher,theyoftenwoundupass-over-toesinlovewithher,asshedidwiththem.Dreamingofafuturethatneitherofthemhadsignedupforatthestartofitall.
“IwishtherewasliterallyanythingIcoulddotostopit,”shesaidthen
“Noyoudon’t,”Iteased,andaslowsmilespreadacrossherface.
“Ibothloveanddespisefallinginlove.”
“Same,”Isaid.“Menaretheworst.”
“Thewo-orst,”shesang.Forafewsecondsweweresilent.Thetearsonmycheekshaddriedandthesunhadstartedtorise,butthestormcloudswereblockingit,diffusingthestrangebluishlightthatcamethroughtheblindsacrossthecouch.“Hey,”shesaidfinally.“Ithinkitwastime.”
“Whatwas?”Iasked.
“Ithinkitwastimeforyoutofallinlove,”shesaid.“AllthistimeI’veknownyouandI’venevergottentoseeit.Ithinkitwastime.”
“YouknewmebeforeJacques.Youwatchedthathappen.”
“Yeah.”Shadigaveashrug.“IknowyoulovedJacques.Andmaybeintheend,it’sthesamethingyouwindupwith,butwithhim,youneverfell,Janie.Youmarchedstraightin.”
“Sofalling’sthepartthathurts?”Iaskedwithahumorlesslaugh.“Andifyouwindupinlovewithoutithurting,thenthere’snofalling?”
“No,”Shadisaidseriously.“Falling’sthepartthattakesyourbreathaway.It’sthepartwhenyoucan’tbelievethepersonstandinginfrontofyoubothexistsandhappenedtowanderintoyourpath.It’ssupposedtomakeyoufeelluckytobealive,exactlywhenandwhereyouare.”
Tearscloudedmyvision.IdidfeelthatwithGus,butI’dfeltitoncebefore.
“You’rewrongthatyouneversawthatwithme,”Isaid,andShadicockedherheadthoughtfully.“That’showIfeltwhenIfoundyou.”
Asmilebrokeacrossherface,andshetossedoneofthecouchcushionsatme.“Iloveyou,Janie,”shetoldme.
“Iloveyoumore.”
Afteramoment,hersmilefadedandshegaveonefrankshakeofherhead.“I’msurehelovesyoutoo,”shesaid.“Icanfeelit.”
“Youhaven’tevenseenustogether,”Ipointedout.“Youhaven’tevenreallymethim.”
“Icanfeelit.”Shewavedahandtowardthewalljustasanotherthunderousrumbleshookthehouse,lightningslashingacrossthewindows.“Waftingoffhishouse.Also,I’mpsychic.”
“Sothere’sthat,”Isaid.
“Right,”Shadisaid.“Sothere’sthat.”
ITMIGHT’VEBEENsecondsbetweenthemomentIfinallydriftedtosleeponthecouchandtheonewhenthepoundingonthedoorbegan,oritmight’vebeenhours.Thelivingroomwasstillmaskedinstormyshadows,andthunderwasstillshiveringthroughthefloorboards.
Shadishotuprightatthefarendofthecouchandclutchedtheblankettoherchest,hergreeneyesgoingwideatthesecondroundofpounding.Shehissedthroughthedark,“Arewebeingax-murdered?”
ThenIheardhisvoicecomingthroughthedoor.“January.”
Shadiscootedbackagainstthearmofthecouch.“That’shim,isn’tit?”
HepoundedagainandIstood,unsurewhatIwasdoing.WhatIshoulddo,whatIwantedtodo.IlookedatShadi,silentlyaskingherthesequestions.
Sheshruggedasanotherknocksounded.“Please,”Gussaid.“Please,January,Iwon’tkeepaskingifyoudon’twantmeto,butplease,talktome.”Hefellsilent,andthewhineofthewindstretchedoutlikeanellipsisbeggingtoaddmore.Mythroatfeltlikeithadcollapsed,likeIneededtoswallowdowntherubbleafewtimesbeforeIcouldgetthewordsout.
“Whatwouldyoudo?”IaskedShadi.
Sheletoutalongbreath.“YouknowwhatIwoulddo,Janie.”
She’dsaiditlastnight:IwishtherewasliterallyanythingIcoulddotostopit.Thejokebeingthatofcoursetherewassomethingshecoulddotostopitandyetsomehowshecouldneverbringherselftoletthetextmessagesandphonecallsgounanswered,nowayshecouldconvinceherselfnottovisitanewlover’sfamilyforanationalholiday,nochanceshecouldgiveuponthepossibilityoflove.
Ididn’t—couldn’t—knowwhatGuswasgoingtotellmeaboutlastnight,aboutNaomi,orwherewestood.Icouldn’tknow,butIcouldsurviveit.
IthoughtbacktothatmomentinthecarwhenI’dtriedtocarvethememoryintomymindsothatifandwhenIlookedbackoneverything,Icouldtellmyselfithadbeenworthit.
ThatforafewweeksIhadbeenhappierthanIhadallyear.
Yes,Ithought.Itwastrue.
Ilostmybreaththen,likeI’drunnakedintothecoldwavesofLakeMichiganoncemore.Iwasgratefultobealive,evenwithtrashfloatingpast.IwasgratefultohaveShadihere.IwasgratefultohavereadthelettersfromDad,andIwasgratefultohavemovedinnextdoortoAugustusEverett.
Whatevercamenext,Icouldsurviveitall,likeShadihadsomanytimes.
BythetimeIrealizedallthis,afullminutemusthavepassedwithoutanotherknockonthedoororanymoreshouts,andmyheartracedasIhurriedtowardthedoor,ShadiclappingfromthecouchasifshewerewatchinganOlympicracefromthestands.
Ithrewthedooropentothedark,stormyporch,butitwasempty.Iranout,barefoot,tothestepsandscouredtheyard,thestreetbelow,thestepsnextdoor.
Guswasnowhereinsight.Ijoggeddownthestepsrecklessly,andhalfwaydown,cutthroughthegrassinstead,toessquelchinginthemud.IhadreachedGus’sfrontyardwhenithitme:hiscarwasn’there.
Hewasgone.I’dmissedhim.Iwasn’tsurewhetherI’dstartedtocryagain,orifallmytearshadbeenusedup.Myribsached;everythingwithinthemhurt.Myshoulderswereshakingandmyfacewaswet,butthatmight’vebeenfromthedownpourblanketingourlittlebeachstreet.Thewholethingwasfloodednow,acurrentcarryingleavesandbitsoftrashawayinarush.
Iwantedtoscream.I’dbeensopatientwithGusallsummer.I’dtoldhimIwouldbe,andIhadbeen,andnowIhadclosedbackupinwhatwaslikelyourlast-chancemoment.
Iburiedthebackofmyhandagainstmymouthasaraggedsobworkeditswayoutofmychest.Iwantedtocollapseintothemarshygrass,beabsorbedintoit.IfIweretheground,Ithought,I’dfeelevenlessthanIdidwhenIwascleaning.
OrmaybeI’dfeeleverystep,everyfootprintwalkingoverme,butthatstillmightbebetterthanthedesolationIfeltnow.
BecauseIknewagain,forcertain,thatShadihadbeenright.I’dfinallyfallen.Ithadbeenimpossiblyfortuitous,fated,formetofindmyselfcrossingpathswithsomeoneIcouldlovelikeGusEverett,andIstillfeltluckyevenasIfeltmiserable.
Alightflickedoninthecornerofmyvision,andIturnedtowardit,expectingtofindShadionthefrontporch.Butthelightwasn’tcomingfrommyfrontporch.
ItwascomingfromGus’s.
Andthenthemusicstarted,asloudasithadbeenthatfirstnight.LikePitchforkorBonnaroowasunfoldingrighthereonourcul-de-sac.
SinéadO’Connor’svoicerangout,themournfulopeninglinesof“NothingCompares2U.”
Thedooropenedandhesteppedoutunderthelight,assoakedasIwas,thoughsomehow,againstallodds,hispeppered,wavyhairstillmanagedtodefygravity,stickingupatodd,sleepyangles.
Withthesongstillringingoutintothestreet,interruptedonlybytheoccasionaldistantrattleoftheretreatingstorm,Guscametowardmeintherain.HelookedasunsurewhetherheshouldlaughorcryasInowfelt,andwhenhereachedme,hetriedtosaysomething,onlytorealizethesongwastooloudforhimtospeakinanormalvoice.Iwasshakingandmyteethwerechattering,butIdidn’tfeelcoldexactly.IfeltmorelikeIwasstandingjustawaysoutsidemybody.
“Ididn’tplanthiswellatall,”Gusfinallyshoutedoverthemusic,jerkinghischintowardhishousemeaningfully.
Asmileflickeredovermyfaceevenasapangwentthroughmyabdomen.
“Ithought…”Heranhishandupthroughhishairandglancedaround.“Idon’tknow.Ithoughtmaybewe’ddance.”
Alaughleaptoutofme,surprisingusboth,andGus’sfacebrightenedatthesound.Assoonasitslasttracehadfaded,tearssprangbackintomyeyes,aburningstartingatthebackofmynose.“Youweregoingtodancewithmeintherain?”Iaskedthickly.
“Ipromisedyou,”hesaidseriously,takingmywaistinhishands.“IsaidIwouldlearn.”
Ishookmyheadandfoughttosteadymyvoice.“You’renotbeholdentoanypromises,Gus.”
Slowly,hepulledmeagainsthimandwrappedhisarmsaroundme,theheatofhimonlyslightlydimmedbythechilloftherain.“It’snotthepromisethatmatters,”hemurmuredjustabovemyrightearashestartedtosway,rockingmesidetosideinatenderapproximationofadance,theinverseofthatnightwe’dspentatthefratparty.“It’sthatItoldyou.”
SoftJanuary.Januarywhocouldneverhidewhatshewasthinking.Januarywhohe’dalwaysbeenafraidtobreak.
Mythroatknotted.Italmosthurt,beingheldbyhimlikethis,notknowingwhathewasabouttotellme,orwhetherthiswouldbethelasttimeheheldmeatall.Itriedtosaysomething,toagaininsisthewasn’tobligatedtome,thatIunderstoodthecomplicatedstateofthings.
Icouldn’tmakeasound.HishandwasinmydamphairandIclosedmyeyesagainstanotherstreamoftears,buryingmyfaceinhiswetshoulder.
“Ithoughtyouweregone.Yourcar…”Itrailedoff.
“…Isstuckonthesideoftheroadrightnow,”hesaid.“It’srainingliketheworldisending.”
Hegaveaforcedsmile,butIcouldn’tmatchit.
Thesonghadended,butwewerestillrocking,holdingontoeachother,andIwasterrifiedofthemomenthe’dletgo,allwhiletryingtoappreciatethisinstant,theonewhenhestillhadn’t.
“I’vebeencallingyou,”hesaid,andInodded,becauseIcouldn’tgetoutIknow
Isuckedabreathintomylungsandasked,“WasthatNaomi?”
Ididn’tclarifythatImeantthebeautifulwomanattheevent,butIdidn’tneedto.
“Yeah,”Gusansweredinahush.Forafewmoreseconds,neitherofusspoke.“Shewantedtotalk,”hefinallyoffered.“Wewentforadrinknextdoor.”
Iamstillstanding,Ithought.Well,notquite.Iwasleaning,lettinghimtakethebulkofmyweight.ButIwasalive.AndShadiwasinside,waitingforme.Iwouldbeokay.
“Shewantstogetbacktogether,”Ichokedout.I’dmeantitasaquestionbutitcameoutmoreproclamation.
Guseasedbackenoughtolookintomyeyes,butIdidn’treciprocate.Ikeptmycheekpressedintohischest.“IguesssheandParkersplitupawhileago,”Gussaid,restinghischinonmyheadagain.Hisarmstightenedacrossmyback.“She…shesaidshe’dbeenthinkingaboutitforalongtimebutshewantedtowait.TomakesureIwasn’therrebound.”
“Howcouldyoubeherrebound?”Iasked.“You’reherhusband.”
Hisgrufflaughrumbledthroughme.“Isaidsomethinglikethat.”
Mystomachsquirmed.
“She’snotabadperson,”Gussaid,likehewaspleadingwithme.
Myguttwisted.“Gladtohearit.”
“Really?”Gusasked,headtilting.“Why?”
“Youshouldn’tbemarriedtoanasshole,Iguess.Probablynooneshould,exceptmaybeotherassholes.”
“Well,that’sthething,”hesaidquietly.“SheaskedmeifIcouldeverforgiveher.AndIthinkIcould.Imean,eventually.”
Isaidnothing.
“AndthensheaskedifIcouldseemyselfbeingwithheragain,and—Icanimagineit.Ithinkit’spossible.”
IthoughtmaybeIshouldsaysomething.Oh?Good?Well,then?Thepaindidn’tseemcontenttohavebeenheard.Itroaredupinme.“Gus,”Iwhispered,andclosedmyeyesasmorehottearsstreamedoutofthem.Ishookmyhead.
“Sheaskedifwecouldmakeourmarriagework,”hemurmured,andmyarmswentlimp.Isteppedbackfromhim,wipingatmyfaceasIputdistancebetweenus.Istaredatthefloodedgrassandmymuddytoes.
“Ineverexpectedtohearhersaythat,”Gussaidbreathlessly.“AndIdon’tknow—Ineededtime,tofigureitallout.SoIwenthome,and…Ijuststartedtothinkitallthrough,andIwantedtocallyoubutitseemedsoselfish,tocallyoulikethatandmakeyouhelpmefigureitout.SoIjustspentalldayyesterdaythinkingaboutit,”hesaid.“AndatfirstIthought…”Hestoppedagainandshookhisheadsortofmanically.“IcoulddefinitelybewithNaomiagain,butevenifwecouldbetogether,Ididn’tthinkIcouldeverbemarriedagain.Itwasalltoomessyandpainful.AndthenIthoughtaboutthatmore,andrealizedIdidn’tmeanit.”
Itightenedmyeyesasmoretearspushedout.Please,Iwantedtobeghim.Stop.ButIfeltstuckinmyownbody,heldprisonerthere.
“January,”hesaidsoftly.“Lookatme.”
Ishookmyhead.
Ilistenedtohisstepsmovingthroughthegrass.Heslippedmylifelesshandsintohis.“WhatImeantis,Ididmeanit,aboutherandme.Ididn’tmeanitaboutyou.”
Iopenedmyeyesandlookedupintohisface,blurredbehindmytears.Histhroatshifted,jawflexed.“I’venevermetsomeonewhoissoperfectlymyfavoriteperson.WhenIthinkaboutbeingwithyoueveryday,nopartofmefeelsclaustrophobic.AndwhenIthinkabouthavingtohavethekindsoffightswithyouthatNaomiandIusedtohave,there’snothingscaryaboutit.BecauseItrustyou,morethanI’veevertrustedanyone,evenPete.
“WhenIthinkaboutyou,January,andIthinkaboutdoinglaundrywithyouandtryingterriblegreenjuicecleansesandgoingtoantiquesmallswithyou,Ionlyfeelhappy.TheworldlooksdifferentthanIeverthoughtitcouldbe,andIdon’twanttolookforwhat’sbrokenorwhatcouldgowrong.Idon’twanttobracemyselffortheworstandmissoutonbeingwithyou.
“Iwanttobetheonewhogivesyouwhatyoudeserve,andIwanttosleepnexttoyoueverynightandtobetheoneyoucomplainaboutbookstuffto,andIdon’tthinkIevercoulddeserveanyofthat,andIknowthisthingbetweenusisn’tasurething,butthat’swhatIwanttoaimforwithyou.BecauseIknownomatterhowlongIgettoloveyou,itwillbeworthwhatevercomesafter.”
ItwassoclosetothesamethoughtI’dhadearliertonight,andbeforethat,aswedrovebackfromNewEden,ourhandsclutchingeachotheragainstthegearshift,butnowitsoundeddifferent,feltalittlesourinmystomach.
“Itwillbeworthit,”hesaidagain,morequietly,moreurgently.
“Youcan’tknowthat,”Iwhispered.Isteppedbackfromhimslowly,swipingthetearsfrommyeyes.
“Fine,”Gusmurmured.“Ican’tknowit.ButIbelieveit.Iseeit.LetmeproveI’mright.LetmeproveIcanloveyouforever.”
Myvoicecameoutthinandweak.“We’rebothwrecks.It’snotjustyou.Iwantedtothinkitwas,butit’snot.I’madisaster.IfeellikeIneedtorelearneverything,especiallyhowtobeinlove.Wherewouldweevenstart?”
Guspulledmyhandsawayfrommytear-streakedface.Hissmilewasfaint,buteveninthecloudylightofmorning,Icouldseethedimplecreasinghischeek.Hishandsskatedontomyhips,andhepulledmesoftlyagainsthim,tuckinghischinonmyhead.“Here,”hewhisperedintomyhair.
Myheartskippedabeat.Wasthatpossible?Iwanteditsobadly,wantedhimineverypartofmylife,justlikehe’dsaid.
“WhenIwatchyousleep,”hesaidshakily,“Ifeeloverwhelmedthatyouexist.”
Thetearsrushedfullforceintomyeyesagain.“Whatifwedon’tgetahappyending,Gus?”Iwhispered.
Hethoughtitover,hishandsstillslidingandtighteningandpushingagainstmeliketheycouldn’tsitstill.Hisdarkeyeshomedinonmine.AsIlookedupathim,hisgazewasdoingthesexy,evilthing,butnowitseemedlesssexy-evilandmore…justGus.
“Thenmaybeweshouldenjoyourhappy-for-now,”Gussaid.
“Happyfornow.”Itastedthewords,rolledthemoverthebackofmytonguelikewine.Theonlypromiseyoueverhadinlifewastheonemomentyouwereliving.AndIwas.
Happyfornow.
Icouldlivewiththat.Icouldlearntolivewiththat.
Slowly,hebegantoswaymebackandforthagain.Iwrappedmyarmsaroundhisneckandlethiscirclemywaistandwestoodthere,learningtodanceintherain.28NineMonthsLater
“READY?”GUSSAID.
IclutchedtheadvancecopyofTheGreatFamilyMarconiagainstmychest.IsuspectedIwouldneverbeready.Notforthisbookandnotforhim.Handingitovertotheworldwasgoingtofeellikefallingheadfirstoutofanairplane,andIcouldonlyhopethatsomethingbelowdecidedtoriseupandcatchme.IaskedGus,“Areyou?”
Hisheadtiltedasheconsidered.Hehadjustfinishedthelineeditsphaseofeditinghisbook,sohismanuscriptwasheldtogetherbybinderclips,ratherthanthecheapopaperbackbindingusedfortheadvancecopies,whichwouldarriveanydaynow.
Intheend,mybookhadsoldthreeweeksbeforehis,buthishadsoldforalittlemoremoney,andbothofushaddecidedtoditchthepennames.We’dwrittenbookswewereproudof,andeveniftheyweredifferentfromwhatweusuallydid,theywerestillours.
Itwasstrangenottoseethelittlesunoverwaves,SandyLowe’slogo,onthespinewhereithadbeenforallmyotherbooks.ButIknewmynextbook,Curmudgeon,wasgoingtohaveit,andthatfeltgood.
Curmudgeon,myreaderswouldlove.Ilovedittoo.NomoreorlessthanIlovedFamilyMarconi.ButperhapsIfeltmoreprotectiveoftheMarconisthanIdidmyotherprotagonists,becauseIdidn’tknowhowthey’dbejudged.
Anyahadinsistedthatanyonewhodidn’twanttoswaddletheMarconisinthesoftestsilkandhand-feedthemgrapesisjustswinewithnoneedforpearls.Don’tyouworry.Ofcourse,she’dsaidthatwhenforwardingthefirsttradereviewthismorning,whichhadbeenlargelypositiveapartfromdescribingthecastas“unwieldy”andEleanorherselfas“rathershrill.”
“IthinkIam,”Gusansweredandhandedhisstackofpagestome.Hehadnoreasontoworry,andItoldmyselfIdidn’teither.Inthepastyear,I’dreadbothofhisbooks,andhe’dalreadyreadallthreeofmine,andsofar,eachother’swritinghadn’tlefteitherofusrepulsedbytheother.
Infact,readingTheRevelatorieshadfeltabitlikeswimmingthroughGus’smind.Itwasheartbreakingandbeautifulbutvery,veryfunnyinsomemoments,andextremelyoddinmany.
Ipassedhimmybookandhegrinneddownattheillustratedcover,thestripesofthetentswoopingdownintocurlsatthebottom,tyingknotsaroundthesilhouettedfiguresofthecharacters,bindingthemtogether.
“It’sagoodday,”Gussaid.Sometimeshesaidthat,usuallywhenwewereinthemiddleofsomethingmundane,likeloadingthedishwasherordustingthefrontroomofhishouseinournastycleaningclothes.SincesellingDad’shouseinFebruary,I’dspentalotoftimeinthebeachhousenextdoor,butGuscametomyapartmentintowntoo.Itwasoverthemusicstore,andduringtheday,whilewewereworkinginmybreakfastnook,wecouldhearstraycollegestudentsstoppingbytotestoutdrumsetstheycouldneverhavefitintheirdorms.Evenwhenitbotheredus,itwassomethingweshared.
Truthfully,sometimesGusandIlikedtobegrumpstogether.
Atnight,aftertheshopclosed,theowners,amiddle-agedbrotherandsisterwithmatchingbonegaugesintheirears,alwaysturnedtheirmusicup—DylanorNeilYoungandCrazyHorseortheRollingStones—andsatontheirbackstoop,smokingonesharedjoint.GusandIwouldsitonmytinybalconyabovethemandletthesmellsandsoundsfloatuptous.“It’sagoodday,”he’dsay,orifhe’daccidentallyshutthebalconydoorwithitlockedagain,he’dsaysomethinglike,“Whatafuckingday.”
Andthenhe’dclimbdownthefireescapetotheweed-smokingsiblingsandaskifhecouldcutthroughthestoretothesecondstairwellinsidethebuilding,andthey’dsay,“Sure,man,”andaminutelater,he’dappearbehindmewithafreshbeerinhand.
SometimesImissedthekitchenintheoldhouse,thathand-paintedwhiteandbluetile,butthesepastfewweeksassummerbegananew,I’dheardtheclamorandlaughterofthesix-personfamilythatwasstayinginit,andIimaginedtheyappreciatedthetouchasmuchasIeverhad.Maybesomeday,oneofthefourkidswoulddescribethosecarefuldesignstohisownchildren,apieceofmemorythatmanagedtostaybrightaseverythingelsegrewvagueandfuzzy.
“Itisagoodday,”Iagreed.TomorrowwastheanniversaryofthedayNaomileftGus,thenightofhisthirty-thirdbirthday,andhe’dfinallytoldMarkhamhe’dprefernottohavethebigparty.
“Ijustwanttositonthebeachandread,”he’dsaid,sothathadbeenourplanforthelasttwoweeks.Wewouldfinallyswapourlatestbooksandreadthemoutside.
Iwas,ofcourse,surprisedhe’dsuggestedit.Whilewebothlovedtheview,I’dseeninthelastyearthatGuswasn’tlyingabouthowlittletimehespentonthebeach.Hethoughtitwastoocrowdedduringtheday,andatnight,itwastoocoldtoswimanyway.We’dspentmuchmoretimedownthereinJanuaryandFebruary,walkingoutalongthefrozenwaves,holdingourarmsoutaswestoodontheedgeoftheworld,squintingintothedyinglight,ourjacketsrippling.
Thelakefrozesofaroutthatwecouldevenwalkonitpastthelighthousemyfatherhadonceriddenhistricycleinto.Andwhatwasmore,thewaterfrozesohighandthesnowpiledontopofitsuchthatwecouldwalkrightuptothetopofthelighthouse,standonitlikeitwaspartofsomelostcivilizationunderneathus,Gus’sarmhookedaroundmyneckashehummed,It’sJuneinJanuary,becauseI’minlove
I’dhadtobuyabiggercoat.Onethatlookedlikeasleepingbagwitharms.Afur-linedhoodandringsofdown-stuffedGore-Texallthewaytomyankles,andstillIsometimeshadtolayersweatshirtsandlong-sleevedT-shirtsunderit.
Butthesun—fuck,thesunwasbrilliantonthosewinterdays,glancingoffeverycrystaledgesharperthanwhenithadfirsthit.Itwaslikebeingonanotherplanet,justGusandme,closertoastarthanwe’deverbeen.Ourfaceswouldgosonumbwecouldn’tfeelthesnotdrippingdownthem,andwhenwegotbackinside,ourfingerswouldbepurple(glovesorno)andourcheekswouldbeflushed,andwe’dflickonthegasfireplaceandcollapseontothecouch,shiveringandchatteringandtoonumbtoundressandtangleupbeneathblanketswithanysemblanceofgrace.
“January,January,”Guswouldsing,histeethclackingfromthecold.“Eveniftherearen’tanysnowflakes,we’llhaveJanuaryallyearlong.”
Ihadneverlikedwinterbefore,butnowIunderstood.Sittingonablanketonthesandtonightwasnice,butweweresharingthesparklingwaveswiththreedozenotherpeople.Itwasadifferentkindofbeauty,hearingshrieksandsquealsrisebetweenthecrashingofwateronshore,morelikethosenightsI’dsatoutinmyparents’backyardlisteningtotheneighborkidschasingfireflies.IwasgladGuswasgivingitallatry.
Wereadforacoupleofhours,thenstaggeredhomeinthedark.Isleptathishousethatnight,andwhenIwoke,hewasalreadyoutofbed,theburbleofthecoffeepotcomingfromthekitchen.
Wewentbacktothebeachthatafternoonandsatsidebyside,readingeachother’sbooksagain.Iwonderedwhathewouldthinkoftheendingtomine,whetheritwouldfeeltoocontrivedtohimorifhe’dbedisappointedIhadn’ttrulycommittedtoanunhappyending.
ButhisbookwasshorterandIfinishedfirst,withaburstoflaughterthatmadehimlookup,startled,fromthepage.“What?”heasked.
Ishookmyhead.“I’lltellyouwhenyou’redone.”
Ilayonthesandandstaredupintothelavendersky.Thesunhadstartedsettingandwe’dlongsinceeatenoursnacks.Mystomachgrowled.Istifledanotherlaugh.
Gus’snewbook,tentativelytitledTheCupIsAlreadyBroken,wasnothingclosetoarom-com,althoughitdidhaveastrongromanticthreadwovenintotheplotandhadcomeextremelyclosetoahappyending.
Theprotagonist,Travis,hadleftthecultwithalltheevidenceheneeded.He’deventalkedDorisintoleavingwithhim.Theywerehappy,extremelyhappy,butfornomorethanapageortwobeforetheworld-endingmeteortheprophethadbeenpredictinghittheEarth.
Theworldhadn’tended.Infact,TravisandDorisweretheonlytwohumancasualties.Ithadmissedthecompoundandhitthewoodsjustofftheroadthetwoweretravelingon.Ithadn’tevenbeenthemeteortokillthem—ithadbeenthedistractionofit,Travis’seyesskirtingofftheroadhe’dworkedsohardtogetonto.
Therighttirehadrunofftheshoulder,andwhenhe’dcrankeditbacktoohard,he’dhitasemitruckthatwasflyingpastintheotherdirection.Cometoascreaminghalt,crumpledlikeastomped-oncan.
Iclosedmyeyesagainsttheduskyskyandswallowedmylaughterdown.Ididn’tknowwhyIcouldn’tstop,butsoonthefeelinghardenedinmybellyandIrealizedIwasn’tlaughing.Iwascrying.Ifeltbothdefeatedandunderstood.
Angrythatthesecharactershaddeservedbetterthanthey’dgottenandsomehowcomfortedbytheirexperience.Yes,Ithought.Thatishowlifefeelstoooften.Likeyou’redoingeverythingyoucantosurviveonlytobesabotagedbysomethingbeyondyourcontrol,maybeevensomedarkerpartofyourself.
Sometimes,itwasyourbody.Yourcellsturningintopoisonandfightingagainstyou.Orchronicpainsproutingupyourneckandwrappingaroundtheoutsidesofyourscalpuntilitfeltlikefingernailssinkingintoyourbrain.
Sometimes,itwaslustorheartbreakorlonelinessorfeardrivingyouofftheroadtowardsomethingyou’dspentmonthsoryearsavoiding.Activelyfightingagainst.
Atleastthelastthingthey’dseen,themeteorstreamingtowardEarth,haddistractedthembecauseofitsbeauty.Theyhadn’tbeenafraid.They’dbeenmesmerized.Maybethatwasallyoucouldhopeforinlife.
Ididn’tknowhowlongI’dbeenlyingthere,tearstricklingquietlydownmycheeks,butIfeltaroughthumbcatchoneandopenedmyeyestoGus’sgentleface.Theskyhaddarkenedtoabrutalblue.Seeingthatcoloronsomeone’sskinwouldmakeyourstomachturn.Itwasgorgeousinthiscontext.Strangehowthingscouldberepellentinsomesituationsandincredibleinothers.
“Hey,”hesaidtenderly.“What’swrong?”
Isatupandwipedmyfacedry.“Somuchforyourhappyending,”Isaid.
Gus’sbrowfurrowed.“Itwasahappyending.”
“Forwho?”
“Forthem,”hesaid.“Theywerehappy.Theyhadnoregrets.They’dwon.Andtheydidn’tevenhavetoseeitcoming.Forallweknow,theyliveinthatmomentforever,happylikethat.Togetherandfree.”
Chillscrawleddownmyarms.Iknewwhathemeant.I’dalwaysfeltgratefulDadhadgoneinhissleep.Ihopedthenightbefore,heandMomhadwatchedsomethingonTVthatmadehimlaughsohardhehadtotakeoffhisglassesandgetthetearsoutofhiseyes.Maybesomethingwithaboatinit.Ihopedhe’dhadafewtoomanyofMom’sinfamousmartinistofeelanyworrywhenhecrawledintobed,apartfromthathemightnotfeelsohotinthemorning.
IhadtoldMomthiswhenI’dgonehometovisitatChristmas.Shehadcriedandheldmeclose.“Itwassomethinglikethat,”shepromised.“Somuchofourlivesweresomethinglikethat.”Talkingabouthimcameinfitsandstarts.Ilearnednottopressit.Shelearnedtoletitout,bitbybit,andthatsometimes,itwasokaytoletalittleuglinessintoyourstory.Thatitwouldneverrobyouofallthebeauty.
“It’sahappyending,”Gussaidagain,bringingmebacktothebeach.“Besides,whataboutyourending?Everythingtiedupperfectly.”
“Hardly,”Isaid.“TheonlyboyEleanorhadeventhoughtshe’dlovedismarriednow.”
“Yeah,andsheandNickareobviouslygoingtogettogether,”Gussaid.“Youcouldsensethatthroughthewholebook.Itwasobvioushewasinlovewithher,andthatshelovedhimback.”
Irolledmyeyes.“Ithinkyou’reprojecting.”
“Maybeso,”hesaid,smilingbackatme.
“Iguesswebothfailed,”Isaid,climbingtomyfeet.
Gusfollowedme.Westartedupthecrooked,rootypath.“Idon’tthinkso.IthinkIwrotemyversionofahappyendingandyouwroteyourversionofasadone.Wehadtowritewhatwethinkistrue.”
“AndyoustillbelieveameteorhittingtheEarthisthebest-casescenarioinaromance.”
Guslaughed.
We’dforgottentoleavetheporchlighton,butusuallytherewasnothingtotripover.He’dneverhadporchfurniture,andwhenI’dgivenDad’stoSonya,we’ddecidedtosaveupandgetourown,thenpromptlyforgotten.Tonight,however,theporchwasn’tempty.Acardboardboxsatagainstthedoor,andGusscoopeditup,studyingtheshippinglabel.
“Mustbetheadvancedcopies,”hesaid.Hesoundedalittlenervousbutdidn’thesitatetobalancetheboxagainsthishipandusehiskeystosliceopenthetapealongthetop.Hesettheopenboxdown,withdrewacopyofthebook,andpassedittome.
“Don’tyouwanttoseeitfirst?”Iasked.
Heshrugged.“Youfirst.I’lljustwatchyourreactionforsignsthattheyaccidentallyprinteditupsidedown,orwiththewrongtitle.”
Buttheyhadn’tprinteditupsidedownormadeanyotherridiculousmistake.Itlookedgorgeous,withshadesofblueswirlingacrossitscover,thecleanwhiteletteringofthetitlesolargeIcouldreaditperfectlyeveninthedimlightofthestarsandmoon.“It’sperfect,”Isaid,runningmyfingersoverthewords.Iflippedtheflimsycoveropen,andthumbedthroughthefirstfewpages.“Thetypesettingisreallywonderfuland—”I’djusthitthededicationpage,andwhateverI’dbeenabouttosaydispersedfrommymindlikesmokeonabreeze.
TheboundmanuscriptI’dreadhadn’thadadedicationinit,orifithad,I’dsomehowmissedit.WhichseemedimprobablebothbecauseofhowcloselyIhadstudiedeveryword,asifeachwereapieceofGusIcouldbottleupandkeep,andbecausetherewasnowayIcouldhavemissedthosefirsttwowords.
ForJanuary,Idon’tcarehowthestoryendsaslongasIspenditwithyou
Ilookedupathim,hisperfectlyimperfectfaceobscuredbythepricklingtearsinmyeyes,themessofdarkhairturnedjetblackbythenight,thesoftgleaminthoseeyesIlovedsomuch.“Youjusthadtooutdothemostbeautifuldedicationyou’deverread,didn’tyou?”
Hesmiled.“Somethinglikethat.”
Hishandfoundthesideofmyface,andhiswarmmouthpressedintomine.Whenhepulledback,myhaircatchinginhisscruff,hesaidquietly,“Andtoansweryourquestionaboutthebest-casescenarioforalovestory,yes.IfIwerehitbyameteorwhileinthecarwithyou,IwouldstillthinkIwentoutonahighnote.”
Mycheeksstillheatedwhenhesaidthingslikethat.Thelava-likefeelingstillfilledmystomach.
“Iloveyou,AugustusEverett,”Isaid,andhedidn’tshudderatthesoundofhisname,justsmiledandranathumbovermyjaw.Somuchhadchangedinthelastyear.Somuchwouldchangenextyeartoo.
Inbooks,I’dalwaysfeltliketheHappilyEverAfterappearedasanewbeginning,butforme,itdidn’tfeellikethat.MyHappilyEverAfterwasastrandofstrung-togetherhappy-for-nows,extendingbacknotjusttoayearago,buttothirtyyearsbefore.Minehadalreadybegun,andsothisdaywasneitheranendingnorabeginning.
Itwasjustanothergoodday.Aperfectday.Ahappy-for-now,sovastanddeepthatIknew—orratherbelieved—Ididn’thavetoworryabouttomorrow.Acknowledgments
Behindeverybookthatmakesitswayintotheworldisawholevillageofadvocates,andthisbookcouldn’thavehadabettervillagefightingforiteverystepoftheway.Hugethanks,first,tomyamazingeditor,AmandaBergeron,whoseskill,passion,andkindnesshavemadeeveryminuteIspentworkingonthisbookpuredelight.NoonecouldhaveunderstoodnorrefinedtheheartofJanuaryandGus’sstoryquitelikeyou,andI’mforevergratefultohavehadyouintheircorner.I’mstilljuststarry-eyedovergettingtoworkwithyou.
ThankyoualsototherestoftheinimitableteamatBerkley:JessicaMcDonnell,ClaireZion,CindyHwang,GraceHouse,MarthaCipolla,andtherest.HugegratitudealsotothewholeteamatViking,especiallythebrilliantKatyLoftus,VikkiMoynes,GeorgiaTaylor,EllieHudson,EmmaRogers,andHollyOvenden,aswellastotheteamsatDroemerKnaur,Vulkan,LavenderLit,HarperItalia,LeChercheMidi,andTheHouseofBooks.Ifeelsoridiculouslyluckytohavefoundahomeandfamilyamongyou.
Tothefirstpersonwhoreadthisbookinanyform,LanaPopovic,thankyousomuchforalways,alwaysbelievinginmeandforinspiringtheworld’sbestfictionalagent,Anya.
Thanksalsotomyperfectdreamofanagent,TaylorHaggerty.Youhavebeenaguidinglighttomethroughthiswholeprocess,andIknowonadeepbone-levelthatBeachReadcouldnothavemadeitherewithoutyouandtherestoftheincrediblepeopleatRootLiterary:HollyRoot,MelanieCastillo,andMollyO’Neill.Hugethanksalsotomyridiculouslysavvyforeignrightsagent,HeatherBaror,andtherestofBarorInternational,aswellasMaryPenderofUTA,whohasbeenanincrediblesupporttomesincethebeginningofthisjourney.
IalsomustthankmydearfriendLizTingue,oneofthefirstpeopletotakeabigchanceonmeandmywriting.Truly,noneofthiswouldhavebeenpossiblewithoutyou.I’mforevergratefultobothyouandMarissaGrossmanforbeingonmyteamsincethebeginning.
Therearesomanyotherpeoplewhohavebeenessentialtomygrowthasbothawriterandperson,butIespeciallyneedtothankBrittanyCavallaro,ParkerPeevyhouse,JeffZentner,RileyRedgate,KerryKletter,AdrianaMather,DavidArnold,JanetMcNally,CandiceMontgomery,TehlorKayMejia,andAnnaBreslawforbeingsuchwonderfulfriendsandgivingmesuchalovely,vibrantwritingcommunity.Youareallsparkly,fierce,hilarious,andridiculouslytalented.Nottomention,like,reallypretty.
Andofcourse,Icouldn’twriteaboutfamily,friendship,andloveifnotforthespectacularfamily,friends,andpartnerthathavebeengiventome.
Thankyoutothegrandparents,parents,brothers,sisters,andwholelotofdogswhohavealwayssurroundedmeinlove.ToMeganandNoosha,thewomenwhosefriendshiphastaughtmehowtowriteaboutbestfriends.Andtotheloveofmylife,myperfectlyfavoriteperson,Joey.Everymomentwithyouisthevastest,deepesthappy-for-nowIcouldhavedreamtof.Withyouinmylife,it’shardnottobearomantic.Hejustwantedadecentbooktoread…
Nottoomuchtoask,isit?Itwasin1935whenAllenLane,ManagingDirectorofBodleyHeadPublishers,stoodonaplatformatExeterrailwaystationlookingforsomethinggoodtoreadonhisjourneybacktoLondon.Hischoicewaslimitedtopopularmagazinesandpoor-qualitypaperbacks–thesamechoicefacedeverydaybythevastmajorityofreaders,fewofwhomcouldaffordhardbacks.Lane’sdisappointmentandsubsequentangerattherangeofbooksgenerallyavailableledhimtofoundacompany–andchangetheworld.
‘Webelievedintheexistenceinthiscountryofavastreadingpublicforintelligentbooksatalowprice,andstakedeverythingonit’SirAllenLane,1902–1970,founderofPenguinBooks
Thequalitypaperbackhadarrived–andnotjustinbookshops.LanewasadamantthathisPenguinsshouldappearinchainstoresandtobacconists,andshouldcostnomorethanapacketofcigarettes.
Readinghabits(andcigaretteprices)havechangedsince1935,butPenguinstillbelievesinpublishingthebestbooksforeverybodytoenjoy.Westillbelievethatgooddesigncostsnomorethanbaddesign,andwestillbelievethatqualitybookspublishedpassionatelyandresponsiblymaketheworldabetterplace.
Sowhereveryouseethelittlebird–whetherit’sonapieceofprize-winningliteraryfictionoracelebrityautobiography,politicaltourdeforceorhistoricalmasterpiece,aserial-killerthriller,referencebook,worldclassicorapieceofpureescapism–youcanbetthatitrepresentstheverybestthatthegenrehastooffer.
Whateveryouliketoread–trustPenguin.