Book Lovers-Amazon Kindle

PraiseforBOOKLOVERS
“BookLoversisarom-comlover’sdreamofabook.Itisrazorsharpandmodern,featuringafierceheroinewhodoesnotapologizeforherambitionandheartfeltdiscussionsofgrief.ReadersknowthatEmilyHenryneverfailstodelivergreatbanterandaromancetoswoonover,butthismayjustbeherbestyet.Abreathoffreshair.”
—TaylorJenkinsReid,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofMalibuRising
“IwouldfollowEmilyHenryanywhere.Asmalltown,aliteraryenterprise,abookstoretorescue,andsexinmoonlitstreams?Yes,please!BookLoversissexy,funny,andsmart.AnotherperfectlysatisfyingreadfromtheunstoppableEmilyHenry.”
—EmmaStraub,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofAllAdultsHere
“EmilyHenry’sbooksareagift,theperfectbalancebetweensteamyandsweet.Theproseiseffortless,thecharacterscharming.Theonlydownsideisreachingtheend.”
—V.E.Schwab,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofTheInvisibleLifeofAddieLaRue
“YouKNOWIloveabook—andawriter—whenIbustoutmytrustyballpointandabsolutelymaulthepages…andthat’sexactlywhatIjustdidtothedivineEmilyHenry.IcouldnotdevourBookLoversfastenough.EmilyHenryispuredelight.I’mutterlyenchantedbyherwry,self-awaresenseofhumor,therelishthatshebringstoeverycleverlycraftedsentence,andherirrepressibleloveforlove.”
—KatherineCenter,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofThingsYouSaveinaFireandHowtoWalkAway
“Charming,earnest,andclever,BookLoversisSchitt’sCreekforbooknerds.Atotaldelightforanyonewho’seversecretlyrootedforthecareergirlinaHallmarkmovie.NobodydoesitquitelikeEmilyHenry.”
—CaseyMcQuiston,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofOneLastStop
PRAISEFOR#1NEWYORKTIMESBESTSELLINGAUTHOREMILYHENRY
“Henry’swritingtrulysings.”
—TheNewYorkTimesBookReview
“EmilyHenryismynewestautomatic-buyauthor.”
—JodiPicoult,#1NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofWishYouWereHere
“IthinkEmilyHenrymightbeourgeneration’sanswertoNoraEphron.”
—SophieCousens,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofJustHaven’tMetYouYet
“WhatHenryisespeciallyskilledatiswritingdialogue.ThebanterbetweenPoppyandAlexissonatural,quick,andwittythatitwouldmakeShondaRhimesdoaslowclap.”
—TheAssociatedPressonPeopleWeMeetonVacation
“ThatHenrycanmanagetobothpackafierceemotionalwallopandspearliteraryposturinginonegoisatestamenttoherimmenseskill.”
—EntertainmentWeekly
“Theperfectpoolsidecompanion.”
—RealSimpleonPeopleWeMeetonVacation
“ThestrengthofPeopleWeMeetonVacation[is]thecleverobservations,thedialogue(whichislaugh-out-loudfunny),and,mostparticularly,thecharacters.Funnyandfumblingandlovable,they’remostdecidedlyworththetrip.”
—TheWallStreetJournalTITLESBYEMILYHENRY
BookLovers
PeopleWeMeetonVacation
BeachReadBERKLEY
AnimprintofPenguinRandomHouseLLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright?2022byEmilyHenry
ReadersGuidecopyright?2022byEmilyHenry
PenguinRandomHousesupportscopyright.Copyrightfuelscreativity,encouragesdiversevoices,promotesfreespeech,andcreatesavibrantculture.Thankyouforbuyinganauthorizededitionofthisbookandforcomplyingwithcopyrightlawsbynotreproducing,scanning,ordistributinganypartofitinanyformwithoutpermission.YouaresupportingwritersandallowingPenguinRandomHousetocontinuetopublishbooksforeveryreader.
BERKLEYandtheBERKLEY&BcolophonareregisteredtrademarksofPenguinRandomHouseLLC.
TheLibraryofCongresshascataloguedtheBerkleyhardcovereditionofthisbookasfollows:
Names:Henry,Emily,author.
Title:Booklovers/EmilyHenry.
Description:NewYork:Berkley,[2022]
Identifiers:LCCN2021039728(print)|LCCN2021039729(ebook)|ISBN9780593440872(hardcover)|ISBN9780593334843(ebook)
Classification:LCCPS3608.E5715B662022(print)|LCCPS3608.E5715(ebook)|DDC813/.6—dc23
LCrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/2021039728
LCebookrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/2021039729
CoverdesignandillustrationbySandraChiu
BookdesignbyAlisonCnockaert,adaptedforebookbyCoraWigen
Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitheraretheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously,andanyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,businessestablishments,events,orlocalesisentirelycoincidental.
pid_prh_6.0_139875639_c0_r0Contents
Cover
PraiseforBookLovers
TitlesbyEmilyHenry
TitlePage
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
Chapter8
Chapter9
Chapter10
Chapter11
Chapter12
Chapter13
Chapter14
Chapter15
Chapter16
Chapter17
Chapter18
Chapter19
Chapter20
Chapter21
Chapter22
Chapter23
Chapter24
Chapter25
Chapter26
Chapter27
Chapter28
Chapter29
Chapter30
Chapter31
Chapter32
Chapter33
Chapter34
Chapter35
Chapter36
Chapter37
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
ReadersGuide
AbouttheAuthorNoosha,thisbookisn’tforyou.Ialreadyknowwhichonewillbeforyou,soyouhavetowait.
ThisbookisforAmanda,Dache’,Danielle,Jessica,Sareer,andTaylor.Thisbookwouldnotexistwithoutyou.Andifsomehowitdid,thennoonewouldbereadingit.Thankyou,thankyou,thankyou.PROLOGUE
WHENBOOKSAREyourlife—orinmycase,yourjob—yougetprettygoodatguessingwhereastoryisgoing.Thetropes,thearchetypes,thecommonplottwistsallstarttoorganizethemselvesintoacatalogueinsideyourbrain,dividedbycategoryandgenre.
Thehusbandisthekiller.
Thenerdgetsamakeover,andwithoutherglasses,she’ssmokinghot.
Theguygetsthegirl—ortheothergirldoes.
Someoneexplainsacomplicatedscientificconcept,andsomeoneelsesays,“Um,inEnglish,please?”
Thedetailsmaychangefrombooktobook,butthere’snothingtrulynewunderthesun.
Take,forexample,thesmall-townlovestory.
ThekindwhereacynicalhotshotfromNewYorkorLosAngelesgetsshippedofftoSmalltown,USA—to,like,runafamily-ownedChristmastreefarmoutofbusinesstomakeroomforasoullesscorporation.
ButwhilesaidCityPersonisintown,thingsdon’tgotoplan.Because,ofcourse,theChristmastreefarm—orbakery,orwhateverthehero’sbeensenttodestroy—isownedandoperatedbysomeoneridiculouslyattractiveandsuitablyavailableforwooing.
Backinthecity,theleadhasaromanticpartner.Someoneruthlesswhoencourageshimtodowhathe’ssetouttodoandruinsomelivesinexchangeforthatbigpromotion.Hefieldscallsfromher,duringwhichsheinterruptshim,barkingheartlessadvicefromtheseatofherPelotonbike.
Youcantellshe’sevilbecauseherhairisanunnaturalblond,slickedbackàlaSharonStoneinBasicInstinct,andalso,shehatesChristmasdecorations.
Astheherospendsmoretimewiththecharmingbaker/seamstress/treefarm.person,thingschangeforhim.Helearnsthetruemeaningoflife!
Hereturnshome,transformedbytheloveofagoodwoman.Thereheaskshisice-queengirlfriendtotakeawalkwithhim.Shegapes,sayssomethinglike,IntheseManolos?
Itwillbefun,hetellsher.Onthewalk,hemightaskhertolookupatthestars.
Shesnaps,YouknowIcan’tlookuprightnow!IjustgotBotox!
Andthenherealizes:hecan’tgobacktohisoldlife.Hedoesn’twantto!Heendshiscold,unsatisfyingrelationshipandproposestohisnewsweetheart.(Whoneedsdating?)
Atthispoint,youfindyourselfscreamingatthebook,Youdon’tevenknowher!What’shermiddlename,bitch?Fromacrosstheroom,yoursister,Libby,hushesyou,throwspopcornatyourheadwithoutliftinghergazefromherowncrinkly-coveredlibrarybook.
Andthat’swhyI’mrunninglatetothislunchmeeting.
Becausethat’smylife.Thetropethatgovernsmydays.Thearchetypeoverwhichmydetailsaresuperimposed.
I’mthecityperson.Nottheonewhomeetsthehotfarmer.Theotherone.
Theuptight,manicuredliteraryagent,readingmanuscriptsfromatopherPelotonwhileaserenebeachscenescreensaverdrifts,unnoticed,acrosshercomputerscreen.
I’mtheonewhogetsdumped.
I’vereadthisstory,andlivedit,enoughtoknowit’shappeningagainrightnow,asI’mweavingthroughlate-afternoonfoottrafficinMidtown,myphoneclutchedtomyear.
Hehasn’tsaidityet,butthehairsonthebackofmyneckarerising,thepitopeninginmystomachashemaneuverstheconversationtowardacartoon-styledropoffacliff.
GrantwasonlysupposedtobeinTexasfortwoweeks,justlongenoughtohelpcloseadealbetweenhiscompanyandtheboutiquehoteltheyweretryingtoacquireoutsideSanAntonio.Havingalreadyexperiencedtwopost–worktripbreakups,Ireactedtothenewsofhistripasifhe’dannouncedhe’djoinedthenavyandwasshippingoutinthemorning.
LibbytriedtoconvincemeIwasoverreacting,butIwasn’tsurprisedwhenGrantmissedournightlyphonecallthreetimesinarow,orwhenhecuttwoothersshort.Iknewhowthisended.
Andthen,threedaysago,hoursbeforehisreturnflight,ithappened.
AforcemajeureintervenedtokeephiminSanAntoniolongerthanplanned.Hisappendixburst.
Theoretically,Icould’vebookedaflightrightthen,methimatthehospital.ButIwasinthemiddleofahugesaleandneededtobegluedtomyphonewithstableWi-Fiaccess.Myclientwascountingonme.Thiswasalife-changingchanceforher.Andbesides,Grantpointedoutthatanappendectomywasaroutineprocedure.Hisexactwordswere“nobigdeal.”
SoIstayed,anddeepdown,IknewIwasreleasingGranttothesmall-town-romance-novelgodstodowithwhattheydobest.
Now,threedayslater,asI’mpracticallysprintingtolunchinmyGoodLuckheels,myknuckleswhiteagainstmyphone,thereverberationofthenailinmyrelationship’scoffinrattlesthroughmeintheformofGrant’svoice.
“Saythatagain.”Imeantosayitasaquestion.Itcomesoutasanorder.
Grantsighs.“I’mnotcomingback,Nora.Thingshavechangedformethispastweek.”Hechuckles.“I’vechanged.”
Athudgoesthroughmycold,city-personheart.“Issheabaker?”Iask.
He’ssilentforabeat.“What?”
“Issheabaker?”Isay,likethat’saperfectlyreasonablefirstquestiontoaskwhenyourboyfrienddumpsyouoverthephone.“Thewomanyou’releavingmefor.”
Afterabriefsilence,hegivesin:“She’sthedaughterofthecouplewhoownthehotel.They’vedecidednottosell.I’mgoingtostayon,helpthemrunit.”
Ican’thelpit:Ilaugh.That’salwaysbeenmyreactiontobadnews.It’sprobablyhowIwontheroleofEvilVillainessinmyownlife,butwhatelseamIsupposedtodo?Meltintoacryingpuddleonthispackedsidewalk?Whatgoodwouldthatdo?
Istopoutsidetherestaurantandgentlykneadatmyeyes.“So,tobeclear,”Isay,“you’regivingupyouramazingjob,youramazingapartment,andme,andyou’removingtoTexas.Tobewithsomeonewhosecareercanbestbedescribedasthedaughterofthecouplewhoownthehotel?”
“There’smoreimportantthingsinlifethanmoneyandafancycareer,Nora,”hespits.
Ilaughagain.“Ican’ttellifyouthinkyou’rebeingserious.”
Grantisthesonofabillionairehotelmogul.“Raisedwithasilverspoon”doesn’tevenbegintocoverit.Heprobablyhadgold-leaftoiletpaper.
ForGrant,collegewasaformality.Internshipswereaformality.Hell,wearingpantswasaformality!Hegothisjobthroughsheernepotism.
Whichispreciselywhatmakeshislastcommentsorich,bothfigurativelyandliterally.
Imustsaythislastpartaloud,becausehedemands,“What’sthatsupposedtomean?”
Ipeerthroughthewindowoftherestaurant,thencheckthetimeonmyphone.I’mlate—I’mneverlate.NotthefirstimpressionIwasaimingfor.
“Grant,you’reathirty-four-year-oldheir.Formostofus,ourjobsaretieddirectlytoourabilitytoeat.”
“See?”hesays.“ThisisthekindofworldviewI’mdonewith.Youcanbesocoldsometimes,Nora.ChastityandIwantto—”
It’snotintentional—I’mnottryingtobecutting—whenIcackleouthername.It’sjustthat,whenhilariouslybadthingshappen,Ileavemybody.Iwatchthemhappenfromoutsidemyselfandthink,Really?Thisiswhattheuniversehaschosentodo?Abitonthenose,isn’tit?
Inthiscase,it’schosentoguidemyboyfriendintothearmsofawomannamedaftertheabilitytokeepahymenintact.Imean,itisfunny.
Hehuffsontheotherendoftheline.“Thesepeoplearegoodpeople,Nora.They’resaltoftheearth.That’sthekindofpersonIwanttobe.Look,Nora,don’tactupset—”
“Who’sacting?”
“You’veneverneededme—”
“OfcourseIdon’t!”I’veworkedhardtobuildalifethat’smyown,thatnooneelsecouldpullaplugontosendmeswirlingdownacosmicdrain.
“You’veneverevenstayedoveratmyplace—”hesays.
“Mymattressisobjectivelybetter!”Iresearcheditfornineandahalfmonthsbeforebuyingit.Ofcourse,that’salsoprettymuchhowIdate,andstill,Ienduphere.
“—sodon’tpretendyou’reheartbroken,”Grantsays.“I’mnotsureyou’reevencapableofbeingheartbroken.”
Again,Ihavetolaugh.
Becauseonthis,he’swrong.It’sjustthatonceyou’vehadyourhearttrulyshattered,aphonecalllikethisisnothing.Aheart-twinge,maybeamurmur.Certainlynotabreak.
Grant’sonarollnow:“I’veneverevenseenyoucry.”
You’rewelcome,Iconsidersaying.HowmanytimeshadMomtoldus,laughingthroughhertears,thatherlatestbeauhadtoldhershewastooemotional?
That’sthethingaboutwomen.There’snogoodwaytobeone.Wearyouremotionsonyoursleeveandyou’rehysterical.Keepthemtuckedawaywhereyourboyfrienddoesn’thavetotendtothemandyou’reaheartlessbitch.
“I’vegottogo,Grant,”Isay.
“Ofcourseyoudo,”hereplies.
ApparentlymyfollowingthroughwithpriorcommitmentsisjustmoreproofthatIamafrigid,evilrobotwhosleepsinabedofhundred-dollarbillsandrawdiamonds.(Ifonly.)
Ihangupwithoutagoodbyeandtuckmyselfbeneaththerestaurant’sawning.AsItakeasteadyingbreath,Iwaittoseeifthetearswillcome.Theydon’t.Theyneverdo.I’mokaywiththat.
Ihaveajobtodo,andunlikeGrant,I’mgoingtodoit,formyselfandeveryoneelseatNguyenLiteraryAgency.
Ismoothmyhair,squaremyshoulders,andheadinside,theblastofair-conditioningscrubbinggoosebumpsovermyarms.
It’slateinthedayforlunch,sothecrowdisthin,andIspotCharlieLastraneartheback,dressedinallblacklikepublishing’sownmetropolitanvampire.
We’venevermetinperson,butIdouble-checkedthePublishersWeeklyannouncementabouthispromotiontoexecutiveeditoratWhartonHouseBooksandcommittedhisphotographtomemory:thestern,darkbrows;thelightbrowneyes;theslightcreaseinhischinbeneathhisfulllips.Hehasthekindofdarkmoleononecheekthat,ifhewereawoman,woulddefinitelybeconsideredabeautymark.
Hecan’tbemuchpasthismidthirties,withthekindoffaceyoumightdescribeasboyish,ifnotforhowtiredhelooksandthegraythatthoroughlypeppershisblackhair.
Also,he’sscowling.Orpouting.Hismouthispouting.Hisforeheadisscowling.Powling.
Heglancesathiswatch.
Notagoodsign.RightbeforeIlefttheoffice,myboss,Amy,warnedmeCharlieisfamouslytesty,butIwasn’tworried.I’malwayspunctual.
ExceptwhenI’mgettingdumpedoverthephone.ThenI’msixandahalfminuteslate,apparently.
“Hi!”IstickoutmypalmtoshakehisasIapproach.“NoraStephens.Sonicetomeetyouinperson,finally.”
Hestands,hischairscrapingoverthefloor.Hisblackclothes,darkfeatures,andgeneraldemeanorhavetheapproximateeffectontheroomofablackhole,suckingallthelightoutofitandswallowingitentirely.
Mostpeoplewearblackasaformoflazyprofessionalism,buthemakesitlooklikeacapital-cChoice,thecombinationofhisrelaxedmerinosweater,trousers,andbroguesgivinghimtheairofacelebritycaughtonthestreetbyapaparazzo.IcatchmyselfcalculatinghowmanyAmericandollarshe’swearing.Libbycallsitmy“disturbingmiddle-classpartytrick,”butreallyit’sjustthatIloveprettythingsandoftenonlinewindow-shoptoself-sootheafterastressfulday.
I’dputCharlie’soutfitatsomewherebetweeneighthundredandathousand.Rightintherangeofmine,frankly,thougheverythingI’mwearingexceptmyshoeswaspurchasedsecondhand.
Heexaminesmyoutstretchedpalmfortwolongsecondsbeforeshakingit.“You’relate.”Hesitswithoutbotheringtomeetmygaze.
Isthereanythingworsethanamanwhothinkshe’sabovethelawsofthesocialcontractjustbecausehewasbornwithadecentfaceandafatwallet?Granthasburnedthroughmydailytoleranceforself-importantasshats.Still,Ihavetoplaythisgame,formyauthors’sakes.
“Iknow,”Isay,beamingapologeticallybutnotactuallyapologizing.“Thankyouforwaitingforme.Mytraingotstoppedonthetracks.Youknowhowitis.”
Hiseyeslifttomine.Theylookdarkernow,sodarkI’mnotsurethereareirisesaroundthosepupils.Hisexpressionsayshedoesnotknowhowitis,re:trainsstoppingonthetracksforreasonsbothgrislyandmundane.
Probably,hedoesn’ttakethesubway.
Probably,hegoeseverywhereinashinyblacklimo,oraGothiccarriagepulledbyateamofClydesdales.
Ishuckoffmyblazer(herringbone,IsabelMarant)andtaketheseatacrossfromhim.“Haveyouordered?”
“No,”hesays.Nothingelse.
Myhopessinklower.
We’dscheduledthisget-to-know-youlunchweeksago.ButlastFriday,I’dsenthimanewmanuscriptfromoneofmyoldestclients,DustyFielding.NowI’msecond-guessingwhetherIcouldsubjectoneofmyauthorstothisman.
Ipickupmymenu.“Theyhaveagoatcheesesaladthat’sphenomenal.”
Charliecloseshismenuandregardsme.“Beforewegoanyfurther,”hesays,thickblackbrowsfurrowing,hisvoicelowandinnatelyhoarse,“Ishouldjusttellyou,IfoundFielding’snewbookunreadable.”
Myjawdrops.I’mnotsurewhattosay.Foronething,Ihadn’tplannedonbringingthebookup.IfCharliewantedtorejectit,hecould’vejustdonesoinanemail.Andwithoutusingthewordunreadable
Butevenasidefromthat,anydecentpersonwouldatleastwaituntiltherewassomebreadonthetablebeforethrowingoutinsults.
Iclosemyownmenuandfoldmyhandsonthetable.“Ithinkit’sherbestyet.”
Dusty’salreadypublishedthreeothers,eachofthemfantastic,thoughnonesoldwell.Herlastpublisherwasn’twillingtotakeanotherchanceonher,soshe’sbackinthewater,lookingforanewhomeforhernextnovel.
Andokay,maybeit’snotmyfavoriteofhers,butithasimmensecommercialappeal.Withtherighteditor,Iknowwhatthisbookcanbe.
Charliesitsback,theheavy,discerningqualityofhisgazesendingapricklingdownmybackbone.Itfeelslikehe’slookingrightthroughme,pasttheshinypolitenesstothejaggededgesunderneath.Hislooksays,Wipethatfrozensmileoffyourface.You’renotthatnice.
Heturnshiswaterglassinplace.“HerbestisTheGloryofSmallThings,”hesays,likethreesecondsofeyecontactwasenoughtoreadmyinnermostthoughtsandheknowshe’sspeakingforbothofus.
Frankly,Glorywasoneofmyfavoritebooksinthelastdecade,butthatdoesn’tmakethisonechoppedliver.
Isay,“Thisbookiseverybitasgood.It’sjustdifferent—lesssubdued,maybe,butthatgivesitacinematicedge.”
“Lesssubdued?”Charliesquints.AtleastthegoldenbrownhasseepedbackintohiseyessoIfeellesslikethey’regoingtoburnholesinme.“That’slikesayingCharlesMansonwasalifestyleguru.Itmightbetrue,butit’shardlythepoint.ThisbookfeelslikesomeonewatchedthatSarahMcLachlancommercialforanimalcrueltypreventionandthought,Butwhatifallthepuppiesdiedoncamera?”
Anirritablelaughlurchesoutofme.“Fine.It’snotyourcupoftea.Butmaybeitwouldbehelpful,”Ifume,“ifyoutoldmewhatyoulikedaboutthebook.ThenIknowwhattosendyouinthefuture.”
Liar,mybrainsays.You’renotsendinghimmorebooks.
Liar,Charlie’sunsettling,owlisheyessay.You’renotsendingmemorebooks.
Thislunch—thispotentialworkingrelationship—isdeadinthewater.
Charliedoesn’twanttoworkwithme,andIdon’twanttoworkwithhim,butIguesshehasn’tentirelyabandonedthesocialcontract,becauseheconsidersmyquestion.
“It’soverlysentimentalformytaste,”hesayseventually.“Andthecastiscaricatured—”
“Quirky,”Idisagree.“Wecouldscalethemback,butit’salargecast—theirquirkshelpdistinguishthem.”
“Andthesetting—”
“What’swrongwiththesetting?”ThesettinginOnceinaLifetimesellsthewholebook.“SunshineFallsischarming.”
Charliescoffs,literallyrollshiseyes.“It’scompletelyunrealistic.”
“It’sarealplace,”Icounter.DustyhadmadethelittlemountaintownsoundsoidyllicI’dactuallygoogledit.SunshineFalls,NorthCarolina,sitsjustalittlewaysoutsideAsheville.
Charlieshakeshishead.Heseemsirritable.Well,thatmakestwoofus.
Idonotlikehim.IfI’mthearchetypicalCityPerson,heistheDour,UnappeasableStick-in-the-Mud.He’stheGrowlyMisanthrope,OscartheGrouch,second-actHeathcliff,theworstpartsofMr.Knightley.
Whichisashame,becausehe’salsogotareputationforhavingamagictouch.SeveralofmyagentfriendscallhimMidas.Asin,“Everythinghetouchesturnstogold.”(Thoughadmittedly,someothersrefertohimastheStormCloud.Asin,“Hemakesitrainmoney,butatwhatcost?”)
Thepointis,CharlieLastrapickswinners.Andheisn’tpickingOnceinaLifetime.Determinedtobolstermyconfidence,ifnothis,Icrossmyarmsovermychest.“I’mtellingyou,nomatterhowcontrivedyoufoundit,SunshineFallsisreal.”
“Itmightexist,”Charliesays,“butI’mtellingyouDustyFieldinghasneverbeenthere.”
“Whydoesthatmatter?”Iask,nolongerfeigningpoliteness.
Charlie’smouthtwitchesinreactiontomyoutburst.“YouwantedtoknowwhatIdislikedaboutthebook—”
“Whatyouliked,”Icorrecthim.
“—andIdislikedthesetting.”
Thestingofangerracesdownmywindpipe,rootingthroughmylungs.“Sohowaboutyoujusttellmewhatkindofbooksyoudowant,Mr.Lastra?”
Herelaxesuntilhe’sleanedback,languidandsprawlinglikesomejunglecattoyingwithitsprey.Heturnshiswaterglassagain.I’dthoughtitwasanervoustic,butmaybeit’salow-gradetorturetactic.Iwanttoknockitoffthetable.
“Iwant,”Charliesays,“earlyFielding.TheGloryofSmallThings.”
“Thatbookdidn’tsell.”
“Becauseherpublisherdidn’tknowhowtosellit,”Charliesays.“WhartonHousecould.Icould.”
Myeyebrowarches,andIdomybesttoschoolitbackintoplace.
Justthen,theserverapproachesourtable.“CanIgetyouanythingwhileyou’reperusingthemenu?”sheaskssweetly.
“Goatcheesesaladforme,”Charliesays,withoutlookingateitherofus.
Probablyhe’slookingforwardtopronouncingmyfavoritesaladinthecityinedible
“Andforyou,ma’am?”theserverasks.
Istifletheshiverthatrunsdownmyspinewheneveratwentysomethingcallsmema’am.Thismustbehowghostsfeelwhenpeoplewalkovertheirgraves.
“I’llhavethattoo,”Isay,andthen,becausethishasbeenonehellofadayandthereisnooneheretoimpress—andbecauseI’mtrappedhereforatleastfortymoreminuteswithamanIhavenointentionofeverworkingwith—Isay,“Andaginmartini.Dirty.”
Charlie’sbrowjustbarelylifts.It’sthreep.m.onaThursday,notexactlyhappyhour,butgiventhatpublishingshutsdowninthesummerandmostpeopletakeFridaysoff,it’spracticallytheweekend.
“Badday,”Isayundermybreathastheserverdisappearswithourorder.
“Notasbadasmine,”Charliereplies.Theresthangsintheair,unsaid:IreadeightypagesofOnceinaLifetime,thensatdownwithyou
Iscoff.“Youreallydidn’tlikethesetting?”
“IcanhardlyimagineanywhereI’dlessenjoyspendingfourhundredpages.”
“Youknow,”Isay,“you’reeverybitaspleasantasIwastoldyouwouldbe.”
“Ican’tcontrolhowIfeel,”hesayscoolly.
Ibristle.“That’slikeCharlesMansonsayinghe’snottheonewhocommittedthemurders.Itmightbetrueonatechnicallevel,butit’shardlythepoint.”
Theserverdropsoffmymartini,andCharliegrumbles,“CouldIgetoneofthosetoo?”
Laterthatnight,myphonepingswithanemail.
Hi,Nora,
FeelfreetokeepmeinmindforDusty’sfutureprojects.
-Charlie
Ican’thelprollingmyeyes.NoNicemeetingyou.NoHopeyou’rewell.Hecouldn’tevenbebotheredwithbasicniceties.Grittingmyteeth,Itypeback,mimickinghisstyle.
Charlie,
IfshewritesanythingaboutlifestyleguruCharlieManson,you’llbethefirsttoknow.
-Nora
Ituckmyphoneintomysweatpants’pocketandnudgeopenmybathroomdoortostartmyten-stepskincareroutine(alsoknownasthebestforty-fiveminutesofmyday).MyphonevibratesandIpullitout.
N,
Joke’sonyou:verymuchwanttoreadthat.
-C
Hell-bentonhavingthelastword,Iwrite,Night.
(GoodnightisdecidedlynotwhatImean.)
Best,Charliewritesback,likehe’ssigninganemailthatdoesn’texist.
Ifthere’sonethingIhatemorethanshoeswithnoheels,it’slosing.Iwriteback,x.
Noreply.Checkmate.Afteradayfromhell,thissmallvictorymakesmefeellikeallisrightintheworld.Ifinishmyskincareroutine.Ireadfiveblissfulchaptersofagrislymysterynovel,andIdriftoffonmyperfectmattress,withoutathoughttospareforGrantorhisnewlifeinTexas.Isleeplikeababy.
Oranicequeen.1
TWOYEARSLATER
THECITYISbaking.Theasphaltsizzles.Thetrashonthesidewalkreeks.Thefamilieswepasscarryicepopsthatshrinkwitheverystep,meltingdowntheirfingers.Sunlightglancesoffbuildingslikealaser-basedsecuritysysteminanout-of-dateheistmovie,andIfeellikeaglazeddonutthat’sbeenleftoutintheheatforfourdays.
Meanwhile,evenfivemonthspregnantanddespitethetemperature,Libbylookslikethestarofashampoocommercial.
“Threetimes.”Shesoundsawed.“Howdoesapersongetdumpedinafulllifestyle-swapthreetimes?”
“Justlucky,Iguess,”Isay.Really,it’sfour,butInevercouldbringmyselftotellherthewholestoryaboutJakob.It’sbeenyearsandIcanstillbarelytellmyselfthatstory.
Libbysighsandloopsherarmthroughmine.Myskinisstickyfromtheheatandhumidityofmidsummer,butmybabysister’sismiraculouslydryandsilky.
Imight’vegottenMom’sfivefeetandeleveninchesofheight,buttherestofherfeaturesallfunneleddowntomysister,fromthestrawberrygoldhairtothewide,MediterraneanSea–blueeyesandthesplashoffrecklesacrosshernose.Hershort,curvystaturemust’vecomefromDad’sgenepool—notthatwewouldknow;heleftwhenIwasthreeandLibbywasmonthsfrombeingborn.Whenit’snatural,myhairisadull,ashyblond,andmyeyes’shadeofblueislessidyllic-vacation-waterandmorelast-thing-you-see-before-the-ice-freezes-over-and-you-drown.
She’stheMariannetomyElinor,theMegRyantomyParkerPosey.
Sheisalsomyabsolutefavoritepersonontheplanet.
“Oh,Nora.”Libbysqueezesmetoheraswecometoacrosswalk,andIbaskinthecloseness.Nomatterhowhecticlifeandworksometimesget,it’salwaysfeltlikethereweresomeinternalmetronomeskeepingusinsync.I’dpickupmyphonetocallher,anditwouldalreadyberinging,orshe’dtextmeaboutgrabbinglunchandwe’drealizewewerealreadyinthesamepartofthecity.Thelastfewmonths,though,we’vebeenshipspassinginthenight.Actually,morelikeasubmarineandapaddleboatinentirelyseparatelakes.
ImisshercallswhileI’minmeetings,andshe’salreadyasleepbythetimeIcallback.ShefinallyinvitesmetodinneronanightI’vepromisedtotakeaclientout.Worsethanthatisthefaint,uncannyofffeelingwhenwe’reactuallytogether.Likeshe’sonlyhalfwayhere.Likethosemetronomeshavefallenintodifferentrhythms,andevenwhenwe’rerightnexttoeachother,theynevermanagetomatchup.
AtfirstI’dchalkedituptostressaboutthenewbaby,butastimehaswornon,mysister’sseemedmoredistantratherthancloser.We’refundamentallyoutofsyncinawayIcan’tseemtoname,andnotevenmydreammattressandacloudofdiffusedlavenderoilareenoughtokeepmefromlyingawake,turningoverourlastfewconversationslikeI’mlookingforfaintcracks.
ThesignhaschangedtoWALK,butaslewofdriversrushesthroughthenewlyredlight.Whenaguyinanicesuitstridesintothestreet,Libbypullsmealongafterhim.
It’satruthuniversallyacknowledgedthatcabdriverswon’tclippeoplewholooklikethisguy.Hisoutfitsays,Iamamanwithalawyer.OrpossiblyjustIamalawyer
“IthoughtyouandAndrewweregoodtogether,”Libbysays,seamlesslyreenteringtheconversation.Aslongasyou’rewillingtooverlookthatmyex’snamewasAaron,notAndrew.“Idon’tunderstandwhatwentwrong.Wasitworkstuff?”
Hereyesflickertowardmeonthewordsworkstuff,andittriggersanothermemory:meslippingbackintotheapartmentduringBea’sfourthbirthdaypartyandLibbygivingmealooklikeaninjuredPixarpuppyassheguessed,Workcall?
WhenIapologized,shebrusheditoff,butnowIfindmyselfwonderingifthatwasthemomentI’dstartedtoloseher,theexactsecondwhenourdivergingpathspulledjustalittletoofarfromeachotherandtheseamsstartedsplitting.
“Whatwentwrong,”Isay,recoveringmyplaceintheconversation,“isthat,inapastlife,Ibetrayedaverypowerfulwitch,andshe’sputacurseonmylovelife.He’smovingtoPrinceEdwardIsland.”
Wepauseatthenextcrossstreet,waitingfortraffictoslow.It’saSaturdayinmid-Julyandabsolutelyeveryoneisout,wearingasfewclothesaslegallypossible,eatingdrippingicecreamconesfromBigGayorartisanalicepopsfilledwiththingsthathavenobusinessbeinganywherenearadessert.
“Doyouknowwhat’sonPrinceEdwardIsland?”Iask.
“AnneofGreenGables?”Libbysays.
“AnneofGreenGableswouldbedeadbynow,”Isay.
“Wow,”shesays.“Spoiler.”
“HowdoesapersongofromlivingheretomovingtoaplacewherethehottestdestinationistheCanadianPotatoMuseum?Iwouldimmediatelydieofboredom.”
Libbysighs.“Idon’tknow.I’dtakealittleboredomrightaboutnow.”
Iglancesidelongather,andmyhearttripsoveritsnextbeat.Herhairisstillperfectandherskinisprettilyflushed,butnownewdetailsjumpoutatme,signsImissedatfirst.
Thedrawncornersofhermouth.Thesubtlethinningofhercheeks.Shelookstired,olderthanusual.
“Sorry,”shesays,almosttoherself.“Idon’tmeantobeSad,DroopyMom—Ijust…Ireallyneedsomesleep.”
Mymindisalreadyspinning,searchingforplacesIcouldpickuptheslack.BrendanandLibby’severgreenconcernismoney,butthey’verefusedhelpinthatdepartmentforyears,soI’vehadtofindcreativewaysofsupportingthem.
Actually,thephonecallshemayormaynotbepeevedaboutwasaBirthdayPresentTrojanHorse.A“client”“canceled”“atrip”and“theroomattheSt.Regis”was“nonrefundable”so“itonlymadesense”tohaveamidweekslumberpartywiththegirlsthere.
“You’renotSad,DroopyMom,”Isaynow,squeezingherarmagain.“You’reSupermom.You’retheregulationhottieinthejumpsuitattheBrooklynFlea,carryingherfivehundredbeautifulchildren,agiantbouquetofwildflowers,andabasketfulloflumpytomatoes.It’sokaytogettired,Lib.”
Shesquintsatme.“Whenwasthelasttimeyoucountedmykids,Sissy?Becausetherearetwo.”
“Nottomakeyoufeellikeaterribleparent,”Isay,pokingherbelly,“butI’meightypercentsurethere’sanotheroneinthere.”
“Fine,twoandahalf.”Hereyesdarttowardmine,cautious.“Sohowareyou,really?Aboutthebreakup,Imean.”
“Wewereonlytogetherfourmonths.Itwasn’tserious.”
“Seriousisthenatureofhowyoudate,”shesays.“Ifsomeonemakesittoathirddinnerwithyou,thenhe’salreadymetfourhundredandfiftyseparatecriteria.It’snotcasualdatingifyouknowtheotherperson’sbloodtype.”
“Idonotknowmydates’bloodtypes,”Isay.“AllIneedfromthemisafullcreditreport,apsycheval,andabloodoath.”
Libbythrowsherheadback,cackling.Asever,makingmysisterlaughisashotofserotoninstraightintomyheart.Orbrain?Probablybrain.Serotonininyourheartisprobablynotagoodathing.Thepointis,Libby’slaughmakesmefeelliketheworldisundermythumb,likeI’mincompletecontrolofTheSituation.
Maybethatmakesmeanarcissist,ormaybeitjustmakesmeathirty-two-year-oldwomanwhoremembersfullweekswhenshecouldn’tcoaxhergrievingsisteroutofbed.
“Hey,”Libbysays,slowingassherealizeswhereweare,whatwe’vebeensubconsciouslymovingtoward.“Look.”
Ifwegotblindfoldedandair-droppedintothecity,we’dprobablystillenduphere:gazingwistfullyatFreemanBooks,theWestVillageshopweusedtoliveover.ThetinyapartmentwhereMomspunusthroughthekitchen,allthreeofussingingtheSupremes’“BabyLove”intokitchenutensils.Theplacewherewespentcountlessnightscurleduponapink-and-creamfloralcouchwatchingKatharineHepburnmovieswithasmorgasbordofjunkfoodspreadacrossthecoffeetableshe’dfoundonthestreet,itsbustedlegreplacedbyastackofhardcovers.
Inbooksandmovies,characterslikemealwaysliveincement-flooredloftswithbleakmodernartandfour-footvasesfilledwith,like,scragglyblacktwigs,forsomeinexplicablereason.
Butinreallife,Ichosemycurrentapartmentbecauseitlookssomuchlikethisone:oldwoodenfloorsandsoftwallpaper,ahissingradiatorinonecornerandbuilt-inbookshelvesstuffedtothebrimwithsecondhandpaperbacks.Itscrownmoldinghasbeenpaintedoversomanytimesit’slostitscrispedges,andtimehaswarpeditshigh,narrowwindows.
Thislittlebookstoreanditsupstairsapartmentaremyfavoriteplacesonearth.
Evenifit’salsowhereourlivesweretorninhalftwelveyearsago,Ilovethisplace.
“Ohmygosh!”Libbygripsmyforearm,wavingatthedisplayinthebookstore’swindow:apyramidofDustyFielding’srunawayhit,OnceinaLifetime,withitsnewmovietie-incover.
Shepullsoutherphone.“Wehavetotakeapicture!”
ThereisnoonewholovesDusty’sbookasmuchasmysister.Andthat’ssayingsomething,since,insixmonths,it’ssoldamillioncopiesalready.Peoplearecallingitthebookoftheyear.AManCalledOvemeetsALittleLife
Takethat,CharlieLastra,Ithink,asIdoeverysooftenwhenIrememberthatfatefullunch.OrwheneverIpasshisshut-tightofficedoor(allthesweetersincehemovedtoworkatthepublishinghousethatputoutOnce,wherehe’snowsurroundedbyconstantremindersofmysuccess).
Fine,IthinkTakethat,CharlieLastraalot.Oneneverreallyforgetsthefirsttimeacolleaguedrovehertoextremeunprofessionalism.
“I’mgoingtoseethismoviefivehundredtimes,”Libbytellsme.“Consecutively.”
“Wearadiaper,”Iadvise.
“Notnecessary,”shesays.“I’llbecryingtoomuch.Therewon’tbeanypeeinmybody.”
“Ihadnoideayouhadsucha…comprehensiveunderstandingofscience,”Isay.
“ThelasttimeIreadit,IcriedsohardIpulledamuscleinmyback.”
“Youshouldconsiderexercisingmore.”
“Rude.”Shewavesatherpregnantbelly,thenstartsustowardthejuicebaragain.“Anyway,backtoyourlovelife.Youjustneedtogetbackoutthere.”
“Libby,”Isay.“Iunderstandthatyoumettheloveofyourlifewhenyouweretwentyyearsold,andthushavenevertrulydated.Butimagineforamoment,ifyouwill,aworldinwhichthirtypercentofyourdatesendwiththerevelationthatthemanacrossthetablefromyouhasafoot,elbow,orkneecapfetish.”
Itwastheshockofmylifewhenmywhimsical,romanticsisterfellinlovewithanine-years-older-than-heraccountantwhoisveryintoreadingabouttrains,butBrendan’salsothemostsolidmanI’veevermetinmylife,andI’velongsinceacceptedthatsomehow,againstallodds,heandmysisteraresoulmates.
“Thirtypercent?!”shecries.“Whatthehellkindofdatingappsareyouon,Nora?”
“Thenormalones!”Isay.
Intheinterestoffulldiscretion,yes,Ioutrightinquireaboutfetishesupfront.It’snotthatthirtypercentofmenannouncetheirkinkstwentyminutesaftermeeting,butthat’smypoint.Thelasttimemyboss,Amy,wenthomewithanun-vettedwoman,sheturnedouttohavearoomthatwasentirelydolls.Floor-to-ceilingceramicdolls.
Howinconvenientwoulditbetofallinlovewithapersononlytofindouttheyhadadollroom?Theansweris“very.”
“Canwesitforasecond?”Libbyasks,alittleoutofbreath,andwesidestepagroupofGermantouriststoperchontheedgeofacoffeeshop’swindowsill.
“Areyouokay?”Iask.“CanIgetyousomething?Water?”
Sheshakesherhead,brushesherhairbehindherears.“I’mjusttired.Ineedabreak.”
“Maybeweshouldhaveaspaday,”Isuggest.“Ihaveagiftcertificate—”
“Firstofall,”shesays,“you’relying,andIcantell.Andsecondofall…”Herteethworryoverherpink-glossedlip.“Ihadsomethingelseinmind.”
“Twospadays?”Iguess.
Shecracksatentativesmile.“Youknowhowyou’realwayscomplainingabouthowpublishingprettymuchshutsdowninAugustandyouhavenothingtodo?”
“Ihaveplentytodo,”Iargue.
“Nothingthatrequiresyoutobeinthecity,”sheamends.“Sowhatifwewentsomewhere?Gotawayforafewweeksandjustrelaxed?Icangoadaywithoutgettinganyoneelse’sbodilyfluidsonme,andyoucanforgetaboutwhathappenedwithAaron,andwecanjust…takeabreakfrombeingtheTiredSupermomandFancyCareerLadywehavetobetheotherelevenmonthsoutoftheyear.Maybeyoucaneventakeapageoutofyourexes’booksandhaveawhirlwindromancewithalocal…lobsterhunter?”
Istareather,tryingtoparseouthowserioussheis.
“Fisher?Lobsterfisher?”shesays.“Fisherman?”
“Butwenevergoanywhere,”Ipointout.
“Exactly,”shesays,araggededgecreepingintohervoice.Shegrabsformyhand,andInotethewayhernailsarebittendown.Itrytoswallow,butit’slikemyesophagusisinsideavise.Because,rightthen,I’msuddenlysurethere’smoregoingonwithLibbythanrun-of-the-millmoneyproblems,lackofsleep,orirritationwithmyworkschedule.
Sixmonthsago,I’dhaveknownexactlywhatwasgoingon.Iwouldn’thaveevenhadtoask.Shewould’vestoppedbymyapartment,unannounced,andfloppedontomycouchdramaticallyandsaid,“Youknowwhat’sbotheringmelately,Sissy?”andIwouldpullherheadintomylapandteasemyfingersthroughherhairwhileshepouredoutherworriesoveraglassofcrispwhitewine.Thingsaredifferentnow.
“Thisisourchance,Nora,”shesaysquietly,urgently.“Let’stakeatrip.Justthetwoofus.ThelasttimewedidthatwasCalifornia.”
Mystomachplummets,thenrebounds.Thattrip—likemyrelationshipwithJakob—ispartofthetimeinmylifeIdomybestnottorevisit.
PrettymucheverythingIdo,actually,istoensureLibbyandIneverfindourselvesbackinthatdarkplacewewereinafterMomdied.ButtheundeniabletruthisIhaven’tseenherlooklikethis,likeshe’satherbreakingpoint,sincethen.
Iswallowhard.“Canyougetawayrightnow?”
“Brendan’sparentswillhelpwiththegirls.”Shesqueezesmyhands,herwideblueeyespracticallyburningwithhope.“Whenthisbabygetshere,I’mgoingtobeanemptyshellofapersonforawhile,andbeforethathappens,Ireally,reallywanttospendtimewithyou,likeitusedtobe.AndalsoI’mlikethreesleeplessnightsawayfromsnappingandpullingaWhere’dYouGo,Bernadette,ifnotthefullGoneGirl.Ineedthis.”
Mychestsqueezes.Animageofaheartinatoo-smallmetalcageflashesovermymind.I’vealwaysbeenincapableofsayingnotoher.NotwhenshewasfiveandwantedthelastbiteofJunior’scheesecake,orwhenshewasfifteenandwantedtoborrowmyfavoritejeans(theseatofwhichneverrecoveredfromhersuperiorcurves),orwhenshewassixteenandshesaidthroughtears,Ijustwanttonotbehere,andIsweptherofftoLosAngeles.
Sheneveractuallyaskedforanyofthosethings,butshe’saskingnow,herpalmspressedtogetherandherlowerlipjutted,anditmakesmefeelpanickyandbreathless,evenmoreoutofcontrolthanthethoughtofleavingthecity.“Please.”
Herfatiguehasmadeherlookinsubstantial,faded,likeifItriedtobrushherhairawayfromherbrow,myfingersmightpassthroughher.Ididn’tknowitwaspossibletomissapersonthismuchwhileshewassittingrightnexttoyou,sobadlyeverythinginyouaches.
She’srighthere,Itellmyself,andshe’sokay.Whateveritis,you’llfixit.
Iswalloweveryexcuse,complaint,andargumentbubblingupinme.“Let’stakeatrip.”
Libby’slipssplitintoagrin.Sheshiftsonthewindowsilltowrigglesomethingoutofherbackpocket.“Okay,good.BecauseIalreadyboughttheseandI’mnotsurethey’rerefundable.”Sheslapstheprintedplaneticketsinmylap,andit’slikethemomentneverhappened.Likeinthematterofpointfiveseconds,Igotmycarefreebabysisterback,andI’dtradeanynumberoforganstocementusbothintothismoment,toliveherealwayswhereshe’sshiningbright.Mychestloosens.Mynextbreathcomeseasy.
“Aren’tyouevengoingtolookwherewe’regoing?”Libbyasks,amused.
Itearmygazefromherandreadtheticket.“Asheville,NorthCarolina?”
Sheshakesherhead.“It’stheairportclosesttoSunshineFalls.Thisisgoingtobea…once-in-a-lifetimetrip.”
Igroanandshethrowsherarmsaroundme,laughing.“We’regoingtohavesomuchfun,Sissy!Andyou’regoingtofallinlovewithalumberjack.”
“Ifthere’sonethingthatmakesmehorny,”Isay,“it’sdeforestation.”
“Anethical,sustainable,organic,gluten-freelumberjack,”Libbyamends.2
ONTHEAIRPLANE,LibbyinsistsweorderBloodyMarys.Actually,shetriestopressuremeintotakingshots,butshesettlesforaBloodyMary(andaplaintomatojuiceforherself).I’mnotabigdrinkermyself,andmorningalcoholhasneverbeenmything.Butthisismyfirstvacationinadecade,andI’msoanxiousIchugthedrinkinthefirsttwentyminutesofourflight.
Idon’tliketraveling,Idon’tliketimeoffwork,andIdon’tlikeleavingmyclientsinthelurch.Or,inthiscase,oneratherindispensableclient:Ispenttheforty-eighthourspre-takeoffalternatingbetweentryingtotalkDustydownandpumpherup.
We’vealreadybumpedthedeadlineforhernextbookbacksixmonths,andifshecan’tstartgettinghereditorpagesthisweek,thewholepublishingschedulewillbethrownoff.
She’ssosuperstitiousaboutthedraftingprocessthatwedon’tevenknowwhatshe’sworkingon,butIfireoffanotherencouragingyou-can-do-itemailonmyphoneanyway.
Libbyshootsmeapointedlook,browarched.Isetmyphonedownandholdupmyhands,hopingtosignalI’mpresent
“So,”shesays,appeased,anddragshercartoonishlylargepurseontothefoldingtraytable,“Ifigurenowisasgoodatimeasanytogoovertheplan.”Shefishesoutanactual,full-sizedfolderandflopsitopen.
“Ohmygod,whatisthat?”Isay.“Areyouplanningabankrobbery?”
“Heist,Sissy.Robberysoundssodéclassé,andwe’regoingtobewearingthree-piecesuitsthewholetime,”shesays,notmissingabeatasshepullsouttwoidenticallaminatedsheetswiththetypedheadingLIFE-CHANGINGVACATIONLIST
“Whoareyouandwheredidyouburymysister?”Iask.
“Iknowhowmuchyouloveachecklist,”shesaysbrightly.“SoItookthelibertyofcraftingonetocreateourperfectsmall-townadventure.”
Ireachforoneofthesheets.“Ihopenumberoneis‘danceatopaCoyoteUglybar.’ThoughI’mnotsureanymanagerworthhersaltwillallowthatinyourcondition.”
Shefeignsoffense.“AmIshowingmuch?”
“Noooo,”Icoo.“Notatall.”
“You’resobadatlying.Itlookslikeyourfacemusclesarebeingcontrolledbyahalfdozenamateurpuppeteers.Now,backtothebucketlist.”
“Bucketlist?Whichofusisdying?”
Shelooksup,eyessparkling.I’dsayit’stheglintofmischief,buthereyesareprettymuchalwayssparkly.“Birthisakindofdeath,”shesays,rubbinghertummy.“Deathoftheself.Deathofsleep.Deathofyourabilitynottopeeyourselfalittlewhenyoulaugh.ButIguessit’smorelikeasmall-townromancenovelexperiencelistthanabucketlist.It’showwe’rebothgoingtobetransformedviasmall-townmagicintomorerelaxedversionsofourselves.”
Ieyethelistagain.BeforeLibbygotpregnantthefirsttime,shebrieflyworkedforatop-tiereventsplanner(amongmany,many,manyotherthings),sodespitehernaturaltendencytowardspontaneity(read:chaos),she’dmadesomestridesinorganization,evenpre-motherhood.Butthislevelofplanningissoextremely…me,andI’mweirdlytouchedshe’sputsomuchthoughtintothis.
AlsoshockedtodiscoverthefirstitemonthelistisWearaflannelshirt.“Idon’townaflannelshirt,”Isay.
Libbyshrugs.“Meneither.We’llhavetothriftsome—maybewecanfindsomecowgirlbootstoo.”
Whenwewereteenagers,we’dspendhourssortingthroughjunkforgemsatourfavoriteGoodwill.I’dgoforthesleekdesignerpiecesandshe’dbeelinetowardanythingwithcolor,fringe,orrhinestones.
AgainIfeelthatheart-pinchsensation,likeI’mmissingher,likeallourbestmomentsarebehindus.That,Iremindmyself,iswhyI’mdoingthis.Bythetimewegetbacktothecity,whateverlittlegapshavecroppedupbetweenuswillbestitchedclosedagain.
“Flannel,”Isay.“Gotit.”TheseconditemonthelistisBakesomething.Continuingthetrendofusbeingpolaropposites,mysisterlovescooking,butsinceshe’susuallybeholdentothetastebudsofafour-andthree-year-old,she’salwayssavedhermoreadventurousrecipesforournightsintogether.Myeyesskimdownthelist
Generalmakeover(lethairdown/getbangs?)
Buildsomething(literal,notfigurative)
ThefirstfouritemsalmostdirectlycorrelatetoLibby’sGraveyardofAbandonedPotentialCareers.Beforeherevent-planningjob,she’dbrieflyrunanonlinevintagestorethatcuratedthriftstorefinds;andbeforethat,she’dwantedtobeabaker;andbeforethat,ahairstylist;andforoneverybriefsummer,she’ddecidedshewantedtobeacarpenterbecausethereweren’t“enoughwomeninthatfield.”Shewaseight.
Soeverythingsofarmakessense—atleastasmuchasthisentirethingmakessense(whichistosay,onlyinLibby’sbrain)—butthenmygazecatchesonnumberfive.“Ummm,whatisthis?”
“Goonatleasttwodateswithlocals,”shereads,visiblyexcited.“Thatone’snotforme.”Sheliftshercopyofthelist,onwhichnumberfiveisstruckthrough.
“Well,thatdoesn’tseemfair,”Isay.
“You’llrecallthatI’mmarried,”shesays,“andfivetrillionweekspregnant.”
“AndI’macareerwomanwithaweeklyhousekeepingservice,asparebedroomIturnedintoashoecloset,andaSephoracreditcard.Idon’timaginemydreammanisalobsterhunter.”
Libbylightsupandscoochesforwardinherseat.“Exactly!”shesays.“Look,Nora,youknowIloveyourbeautiful,Dewey-decimal-organizedbrain,butyoudatelikeyou’reshoppingforcars.”
“Thankyou,”Isay.
“Anditalwaysendsbadly.”
“Oh,thankgod.”Iclutchmychest.“Iwasworriedthatwouldn’tcomeupsoon.”
Shetriestoturninherseatandgrabsmyhandsonthearmrestbetweenus.“I’mjustsaying,youkeepdatingtheseguyswhoareexactlylikeyou,withallthesamepriorities.”
“Youcanreallyshortenthatsentenceifyoujustsay‘menI’mcompatiblewith.’?”
“Sometimesoppositesattract,”shesays.“Thinkaboutallyourexes.ThinkaboutJakobandhiscowgirlwife!”
Somethingcoldlancesthroughmeatthementionofhim;Libbydoesn’tnotice.
“Thewholepointofthistripistostepoutsideourcomfortzones,”sheinsists.“Togetachanceto…tobesomeonedifferent!Besides,whoknows?Maybeifyoubranchoutalittle,you’llfindyourownlife-changinglovestoryinsteadofanotherwalkingchecklistofaboyfriend.”
“Ilikedatingchecklists,thankyouverymuch,”Isay.“Checklistskeepthingssimple.Imean,thinkaboutMom,Lib.”Shewasconstantlyfallinginlove,andneverwithmenwhomadeanysenseforher.Italwayscamecrashingdownspectacularly,usuallyleavinghersobrokenshe’dmissworkorauditions,ordosobadlyateitherthatshe’dgetfiredorcut
“You’renothinglikeMom.”Shesaysitflippantly,butitstillstings.I’mwellawarehowlittleItakeafterourmother.Ifeltthoseshortcomingseverysecondofeverydayafterwelosther,whenIwastryingtokeepusafloat.
AndIknowthat’snotwhatLibby’ssaying,butitstilldoesn’tfeelalltoodifferentfromeverybreakupIcanremember:along-windedmonologueendingwithsomethingalongthelinesofFORALLIKNOW,YOUDON’TEVENHAVEFEELINGS.
“Imean,howoftendoyougettojustletlooseandnotworryabouthowitfitsintoyourperfectlittleplan?”Libbygoeson.“Youdeservetohavesomelow-pressurefun,andfrankly,Ideservetolivevicariouslythroughyou.Ergo,thedates.”
“SoamIallowedtotaketheearpieceoutafterdinner,or…”
Libbythrowsupherhands.“Youknowwhat,fine,forgetnumberfive!Eventhoughitwouldbegoodforyou.EventhoughIbasicallydesignedthiswholetripforyoutohaveyoursmall-townromancenovelexperience,Iguess—”
“Okay,okay!”Icry.“I’lldothelumberjackdates,butthey’dbetterlooklikeRobertRedford.”
Shesquealsexcitedly.“Youngorold?”
Istareather.
“Right,”shesays.“Gotit.So,movingon.Numbersix:Goskinny-dippinginanaturalbodyofwater.”
“Whatiftherearebacteriathataffectthebabyorsomething?”Iask.
“Damnit,”shegrumbles,frowning.“Ireallydidn’tthinkallofthisthroughaswellasIthought.”
“Nonsense,”Isay.“It’sanamazinglist.”
“You’lljusthavetogoskinny-dippingwithoutme,”shesays,distracted.
“Alonethirty-two-year-oldwoman,nakedinthelocalswimminghole.Soundslikeagoodwaytogetarrested.”
“Seven,”shereads.“Sleepunderthestars.Eight:Attendatownfunction—i.e.localweddingorfestivalofsomekind.”
IfindaSharpieinmybagandaddfuneral,bris,ladies’nightatthelocalrollerrink
“TryingtomeetahotERdoctor,arewe?”Libbysays,andIscratchoutthepartabouttherollerrink.ThenInoticenumbernine.
Rideahorse
“Again.”IwavevaguelytowardLibby’sstomach.Icrossoutrideandchangeittopet,andshegivesaresignedsigh.
Startafire(controlled)
Hike????(Worthit???)
Whenshewassixteen,Libbyhadannouncedshe’dbefollowingherboyfriendouttoworkatYellowstoneforthesummer,andMomandIhadhowledwithlaughter.IftherewasonethingallStephensgirlshadincommon—asidefromourloveofbooks,vitamin-Cserums,andprettyclothes—itwasouravoidanceofthegreatoutdoors.TheclosestweevercametohikingwasabriskwalkinCentralPark’sRamble,andeventhen,therewereusuallypaperbowlsfilledwithfoodtruckwafflesandicecreaminvolved.Notexactlyroughingit.
Needlesstosay,Libbydumpedthatguytwoweeksbeforeshewassupposedtoleave.
Itapthefinallineonthelist:Savealocalbusiness.“Youdorealizewe’reonlyhereforamonth.”Threeweeksofjustthetwoofus,andthenBrendanandthegirlswilljoin.We’vegottenasteepdiscountbystayingsolong,thoughhowI’llmakeitpastweekone,Ihavenoidea.
ThelasttimeItraveled,Iwenthomeaftertwodays.EvenlettingmymindwandertowardthattripwithJakobisamistake.Ijerkmyfocusbacktothepresent.Thiswon’tbelikethat.Iwon’tletit.Icandothis,forLibby.
“Theyalwayssavealocalbusinessinsmall-townromances,”she’ssaying.“Weliterallyhavenochoice.I’mhopingforadown-on-its-luckgoatfarm.”
“Ooh,”Isay.“Maybewecangettheritualisticsacrificecommunitytobandtogetherindramaticfashiontosavethegoats.Fornow,Imean.Eventually,they’llhavetodieonthealtar.”
“Well,ofcourse.”Libbytakesaswigoftomatojuice.“That’sthebiz,baby.”
OurtaxidriverlookslikeSantaClaus,downtotheredT-shirtandthesuspendersholdinghisfadedjeansup.Buthedriveslikethecigar-smokingcabbiefromBillMurray’sScrooged
LittlesqueakskeepsneakingoutofLibbywhenhetakesacornertoofast,andatonepoint,Icatchherwhisperingpromisesofsafetytoherbelly.
“SunshineFalls,eh?”thedriverasks.Hehastoshout,becausehe’smadetheunilateraldecisiontorollallfourwindowsdown.MyhairisflappingsoviolentlyacrossmyfaceIcanbarelyseehiswateryeyesintherearviewmirrorwhenIlookupfrommyphone.
Inthetimethatweweredeplaningandcollectingourluggage—afullhour,despitethefactthatourflightwastheonlyarrivalinthedinkyairport—thenumberofmessagesinmyinboxhasdoubled.ItlookslikeIjustgotbackfromaneight-weekstrandingonadesertisland.
Nothingmakesacoterieofalreadyneuroticauthorsquitesoneuroticaspublishing’sannualslowseason.EverydelayedreplytheygetseemstotriggeranavalancheofDOESMYEDITORHATEME??????DOYOUHATEME??DOESEVERYONEHATEME???
“Yep!”Ishoutbacktoourdriver.Libbyhasherheadbetweenherkneesnow.
“Youmusthavefamilyintown,”hescreamsoverthewind.
Maybeit’stheNewYorkerinme,ormaybeit’sthewoman,butI’mnotabouttoannouncethatwedon’tknowanyonehere,soIjustsay,“Whatmakesyousaythat?”
“Whyelsewouldyoucomehere?”Helaughs,whippingaroundacorner.
Whenweslowtoastopafewminuteslater,it’sallIcandotokeepfromburstingintoapplauselikesomeonewhoseplanejustmadeanemergencylanding.
Libbysitsupwoozily,smoothinghergleaming(miraculouslyuntangled)hair.
“Where…wherearewe?”Iask,lookingaround.
There’snothingbutshaggy,sun-blanchedgrassoneithersideofthenarrowdirtroad.Ahead,itendsabruptly,andameadowslopesupward,riddledwithspraysofyellowandpurplewildflowers.Adeadend.
Whichbegsthequestion:areweabouttobemurdered?
Thedriverduckshisheadtopeeruptheslope.“Goode’sLilyCottage,justoverthathill.”
LibbyandIduckourheadstoo,tryingtogetabetterlook.Halfwayupthehill,astaircaseappearsoutofnowhere.Maybestaircaseistoogenerousaword.Woodenslatscutapathintothegrassyhillside,likeaseriesofsmallretainingwalls.
Libbygrimaces.“Thelistingdidnoteitwasn’twheelchairaccessible.”
“Diditalsomentionwe’dneedaskilift?”
Santahasalreadygottenoutofthecartowrestleourluggagefromthetrunk.Iclamberoutafterhimintothebrilliantsunlight,theheatinstantlymakingmyall-blacktraveluniformfeelstiflinglythick.Wherethedirtroadends,there’sablackmailbox,Goode’sLilyCottagepaintedincurlywhiteonit.
“Thereisn’tanotherway?”Iask.“Aroadthatgoesallthewayup?Mysister’s…”
IswearLibbysucksin,tryingtolookasun-pregnantaspossible.“I’mfine,”sheinsists.
Ibrieflyconsiderwavingtowardmyfour-inchsuedeheelsnext,butIdon’twanttogivetheuniversethesatisfactionofleaningintothecliché.
“?’FraidIcan’tgetyouanycloser,”herepliesasheclimbsbackintothecar.“AnacreortwobackisSally’splace.That’sthesecond-closestroad,butstillagoodwaysfurther.”Heholdshisbusinesscardoutthewindow.“Ifyouneedanotherride,usethisnumber.”
Libbyacceptsthescrapofpaper,andoverhershoulder,Iread:HardyWeatherbee,TaxiServicesandUnofficialOnceinaLifetimeTours.HerbarkoflaughterislostbeneaththeroarofHardyWeatherbee’scarreversingdowntheroadlikeabatoutofhell.
“Well.”Shewinces,hunchinghershoulders.“Maybeyoushouldtakeyourshoesoff?”
Withallourluggage,it’sgoingtotakemorethanonetrip,especiallybecausethere’snowayLibby’scarryinganythingheavierthanmyheels.
Theclimbissteep,theheatsweltering,butwhenwecrestthehillandseeit,itisperfect:awindingpaththroughshaggy,overgrowngardenstoasmallwhitecottage,itspeakedroofalovelyburntsienna.Itswindowsareancient,single-paneled,andshutterless,andtheonlyaccentonthewallvisibletousisapalegreenarcofvinespaintedoverthefirst-floorwindow.Atthebackofthehouse,gnarledtreespressclose,forestextendingasfarasIcansee,andofftotheleft,inthemeadow,agazebotwinedwithwildgrapestandswithinasmallercopseoftrees.Sparklingglass-shardwindchimesandcutesybirdfeedersswayinthebranches,andthepathcutspastarowoffloweringbushes,curvingontoafootbridgeandthendisappearingintothewoodsonthefarside.
It’slikesomethingoutofastorybook
No,it’slikesomethingoutofOnceinaLifetime.Charming.Quaint.Perfect.
“Ohmygosh.”Libbyjutsherchintowardthenextfewsteps.“DoIhavetokeepgoing?”
Ishakemyhead,stillcatchingmybreath.“Icouldtieabedsheetaroundyourankleanddragyouup.”
“WhatdoIgetifImakeittothetop?”
“Tomakemedinner?”Isay.
Shelaughsandloopsherarmthroughmine,andwestartupthefinalsteps,inhalingthesoftlysweetsmellofwarmgrass.Myheartswells.Thingsalreadyfeelbetterthantheyhaveinmonths.Itfeelsmoreus,beforethingsampedupwithmycareerandLibby’sfamilyandwefellintoseparaterhythms.
Inmypurse,Ihearmyphonechimewithanemailandresisttheurgetocheckit.
“Lookatyou,”Libbyteases,“stoppingtosmelltheliteralroses.”
“I’mnotCityNoraanymore,”Isay,“I’mlaid-back,go-with-the-flowN—”
Myphonechimesagain,andIglancetowardmypurse,stillkeepingpace.Itchimestwicemoreinquicksuccession,andthenathirdtime.
Ican’ttakeit.Istop,dropourbags,andstartdiggingthroughmypurse.
Libbygivesmealookofwordlessdisapproval.
“Tomorrow,”Itellher,“I’llstartonbeingthatotherNora.”
Asdifferentasweare,thesecondwestartunpacking,itcouldnotbemoreobviousthatwe’recutfromthesamecloth:books,skincareproducts,andveryfancyunderwear.TheStephensWomenTrifectaofLuxury,aspasseddownfromMom.
“Somethingsneverchange,”Libbysighs,awistfullyhappysoundthatfoldsovermelikesunshine.
Mom’stheorywasthatyouthfulskinwouldmakeawomanmoremoney(trueinbothactingandwaitressing),goodunderwearwouldmakehermoreconfident(sofar,sotrue),andgoodbookswouldmakeherhappy(universaltruth),andwe’veclearlybothpackedwiththistheoryinmind.
Withintwentyminutes,I’vesettledin,washedmyface,changedintofreshclothes,andbootedupmylaptop.Meanwhile,Libbyputhalfherstuffaway,thenpassedoutonthekingbedwe’resharing,herdog-earedcopyofOnceinaLifetimefacedownbesideheronthequilt.
BythenI’mdesperatelyhungry,andittakessixmoreminutesofgoogling(theWi-Fiissoslow,Ihavetousemyphoneasahotspot)toconfirmthattheonlyplacethatdelivershereisapizzaparlor.
Cookingisn’tanoption.Backhome,Ieatfiftypercentofmymealsout,andanotherfortypercentcomefromamixoftakeoutanddelivery.
MomusedtosayNewYorkwasagreatplacetohavenomoney.There’ssomuchfreeartandbeauty,somuchincredible,cheapfood.ButhavingmoneyinNewYork,Irememberhersayingonewinteraswewindow-shoppedontheUpperEastSide,LibbyandIhangingontoherglovedhands,nowthatwouldbemagical.
Sheneversaiditwithbitterness,butinsteadwithwonder,like,Ifthingsarealreadythisgood,thenhowmusttheybewhenyoudon’thavetoworryaboutelectricbills?
Notthatshewasintheactingbusinessforthemoney(shewasoptimistic,notdeluded).Mostofherincomecamefromwaitressingtipsatthediner,whereshe’dsetmeandLibbyupwithbooksorcrayonsforthelengthofhershift,ortheoccasionalnannyingjoblaxenoughtolethertoteusalonguntilIwasaboutelevenandshetrustedmetostayhomeoratFreemanBookswithLibby,underMrs.Freeman’swatch.
Evenwithoutmoney,thethreeofushadbeensohappyinthosedays,wanderingthecitywithstreetcartfalafelordollarpizzaslicesasbigasourheads,dreamingupgrandfutures.
ThankstothesuccessofOnceinaLifetime,mylifehasstartedtoresemblethatimaginedfuture.
Buthere,wecan’tevengetanorderofpadthaibroughttothedoor.We’llhavetowalkthetwomilesintotown.
WhenItrytoshakeLibbyawake,sheliterallycussesmeoutinhersleep.
“I’mhungry,Lib.”Ijoghershoulderandshefallsontoherside,buryingherfaceinapillow.
“Bringmesomethingback,”shegrumbles.
“Don’tyouwanttoseeyourfavoritelittlehamlet?”Isay,tryingtosoundenticing.“Don’tyouwanttoseetheapothecarywhereOldManWhittakeralmostoverdoses?”
Withoutlookingup,sheflipsmeoff.
“Fine,”Isay.“I’llbringyousomethingback.”
Hairscrubbedintoabluntlittleponytail,sneakerson,Itakeoffbackdownthesunnyhillsidetowardthedirtroadhemmedinbyscragglytrees.
WhenthenarrowlanefinallyT-bonesintoaproperstreet,Iturnleft,followingthecurvingroaddownward.
Aswiththecottage,thetowncomesintoviewallatonce.
Oneinstant,I’monacrumblingroadonthesideofamountain,andthenext,SunshineFallsisspreadoutbeneathmelikethesetfromanoldWestern,tree-coveredridgesjuttingupatitsbackandanendlessblueskydomedoverit.
It’salittlegrayerandshabbierthanitlookedinpictures,butatleastIspotthestonechurchfromOnce,alongwiththegreen-and-white-stripedawningoverthegeneralstoreandthelemon-yellowumbrellasoutsidethesodafountain.
Thereareafewpeopleout,walkingtheirdogs.Anoldmansitsonagreenmetalbenchreadinganewspaper.Awomanwaterstheflowerboxesoutsideahardwarestore,throughwhosewindowIseeexactlyzerocustomers.
Ahead,Ispotanoldwhitestonebuildingonthecorner,perfectlymatchedtothedescriptionofMrs.Wilder’soldlendinglibraryinOnce,myfavoritesettinginthebookbecauseitremindsmeofrainySaturdaymorningswhenMomparkedmeandLibbyinfrontofashelfofmiddlegradebooksatFreeman’sbeforehurryingacrosstownforanaudition.
Whenshegotback,she’dtakeusforicecreamorforglazedpecansinWashingtonSquarePark.We’dwalkupanddownthepaths,readingtheplaquesonthebenches,makingupstoriesaboutwhomight’vedonatedthem.
Canyouimaginelivinganywhereelse?Momusedtosay.
Icouldn’t.
Once,incollege,agroupofmytransplantfriendshadunanimouslyagreedthey“couldneverraisekidsinthecity,”andIwasshocked.Itisn’tjustthatIlovedgrowingupinthecity—it’sthateverytimeIseekidssleepilyshufflingalongenmasseattheMet,orsettingtheirboomboxdownonthetraintobreak-dancefortips,orstandinginaweinfrontofaworld-classviolinistplayingbeneathRockefellerCenter,Ithink,Howamazingitistobeapartofthis,togettosharethisplacewithallthesepeople.
AndIlovetakingBeaandTalatoexplorethecitytoo,watchingwhatmesmerizesafour-and-a-half-year-oldandanewlythree-year-oldandwhichtrappingsofthecitytheywalkrightpast,acceptingascommonplace.
MomcametoNewYorkhopingforthesetofaNoraEphronmovie(mynamesake),buttherealNewYorkissomuchbetter.Becauseeverykindofpersonisthere,coexisting,sharingspaceandlife.
Still,myloveforNewYorkdoesn’tprecludemefrombeingcharmedbySunshinefalls.
Infact,I’mbuzzingwithexcitementasInearthelendinglibrary.WhenIpeerintothedarkwindows,thebuzzingcutsout.ThewhitestonefacadeofthebuildingisexactlyhowDustydescribedit,butinside,there’snothingbutflickeringTVsandneonbeersigns.
It’snotlikeIexpectedthewidowedMrs.Wildertobeanactualperson,butDustymadethelendinglibrarysovividIwassureitwasarealplace.
Theexcitementsours,andwhenIthinkofLibby,itcurdlesentirely.Thisisnotwhatshe’sexpecting,andI’malreadytryingtofigureouthowtomanageherexpectations,oratleastpresentherwithafunconsolationprize.
IpassafewemptystorefrontsbeforeIreachtheawningofthegeneralstore.Oneglanceatthewindowstellsmetherearenoracksoffreshbreadorbarrelsofold-fashionedcandywaitinginside.
Theglasspanesaregrimywithdust,andbeyondthem,whatIseecanonlybedescribedasrandomshit.Shelvesandshelvesofjunk.Oldcomputers,vacuumcleaners,boxfans,dollswithrattyhair.It’sapawnshop.Andnotawell-keptone.
BeforeIcanmakeeyecontactwiththebespectacledmanhunchedatthedesk,IpushonuntilIcomeevenwiththeyellow-umbrellaedpatioonthefarsideofthestreet.
Atleasttherearesignsoflifethere,peoplemillinginandout,acouplechattingwithcupsofcoffeeatoneofthetables.That’spromising.Ish.
Icheckbothwaysfortraffic(none)beforerunningacrossthestreet.Thegold-embossedsignoverthedoorsreadsMUG+SHOT,andtherearepeoplewaitinginsideatacounter.
Icupmyhandsaroundmyeyes,tryingtoseethroughtheglareontheglassdoor,justasthemanonthefarsideofitstartstoswingitopen.3
THEMAN’SEMERALDgreeneyesgowide.“Sorry!”hecriesasIswiftlysidestepthedoorwithoutanydamage.
It’snotoftenthatI’mstunnedintosilence.
Now,though,I’mstaring,silentandagog,atthemostgorgeousmanI’veeverseen.
Golden-blondhair,asquarejaw,andabeardthatmanagestoberuggedwithoutlookingunruly.He’sbrawny—thewordpopsintomyhead,suppliedbyalifetimeofpickingoverMom’soldHarlequinpaperbacks—his(flannel)shirtsnug,thesleevesrolleduphistanforearms
Withasheepishsmile,hestepsaside,holdingthedoorforme.
Ishouldsaysomething.
Anything.
Oh,no,myfault!Iwasintheway.
I’devensettleforastrangledHello,goodsir
Unfortunately,it’snothappening,soIcutmylosses,forceasmile,andslippasthimthroughthedoor,hopingIlooklikeIknowwhereIamandhavedefinitelycomehereonpurpose.
IneverlovedMom’ssmall-townromancenovelsthewayLibbydoes,butI’veenjoyedenoughthatitshouldn’tsurprisemethatmynextthoughtis,Hesmellslikeevergreensandimpendingrain
Exceptitdoes,becausemendon’tsmelllikethat.
Theysmelllikesweat,barsoap,oralittletoomuchcologne.
Butthismanismythic,thetoo-shinyleadinarom-comthathasyoushouting,NODAIRYFARMERHASTHOSEABS
Andhe’ssmilingatme.
Isthishowithappens?Pickasmalltown,takeawalk,meetanimpossiblygood-lookingstranger?Weremyexesontosomething?
Hissmiledeepens(matchingdimples;ofcourse)ashenodsandreleasesthedoor.
AndthenI’mwatchinghimthroughthewindowashewalksaway,myheartwhirringlikeanoverheatedlaptop.
Whenthestarsinmyeyesfade,IfindmyselfnotatopMountOlympusbutinacoffeeshopwithexposedbrickwallsandoldwoodenfloors,thesmellofespressothickintheair.Atthebackoftheshop,adooropensontoapatio.Thelightstreaminginhitsaglassdisplaycaseofpastriesandplastic-wrappedsandwiches,andIbasicallyhearangelssinging.
Igetintolineandscopeoutthecrowd,amixofhip,outdoorsytypesinstrappyhikingsandalsandpeopleinworn-outjeansandmesh-backedhats.Towardthefrontoftheline,though,there’syetanothergood-lookingman.
Twoinmyfirsthourhere.Anexceptionalratio.
He’snotasstrikingasthedoor-holdingAdonis,butgood-lookinginthewayofameremortal,withcoarse,darkhairandaleanelegance.He’saroundmyheight,maybeahairtallerorshorter,dressedinablacksweatshirtwhosesleevesarepushedupandolivetrouserswithblackshoesIhavenochoicebuttodescribeassexy.Icanonlyseehisfaceinprofile,butit’saniceprofile.Fulllips,slightlyjuttedchin,sharpnose,eyebrowshalfwaybetweenCaryGrantandGrouchoMarx.
Actually,hekindoflookslikeCharlieLastra.
Like,alotlikehim.
Themanglancessidelongatthedisplaycase,andthethoughtpopsacrossmybrainlikeaseriesofbottlerockets:It’shim.It’shim.It’shim.
Mystomachfeelslikesomeonetiedittoabrickandthrewitoverabridge.
There’snoway.It’sweirdenoughthatI’mhere—there’snowayheistoo.
Andyet.
ThelongerIstudyhim,themoreunsureIam.Likewhenyouthinkyouspotacelebrityinpersonbutthelongeryougawk,themoresureyoubecomethatyou’veneveractuallylookedatMatthewBroderick’snosebefore,andforallyoucanremember,hemightnothaveoneatall.
OrwhenyoutrytodrawacarduringagameofPictionaryandfindoutyouhavenoideawhatcarslooklike.
Thepersonatthefrontofthelinepays,andthequeueshiftsforward,butIduckout,tuckingmyselfonthefarsideofabookshelffilledwithboardgames.
IfitreallyisCharlie,itwouldbemortifyingforhimtoseemehidinghere—likeseeingyourstodgiestteacheroutsideateens-onlyclubwhilewearingacroptopandfakebellybuttonring(notthatIhadthatexperience[Idid])—butifit’snot,Icanputthistoresteasily.Maybe.
Igetoutmyphoneandopenmyemailapp,searchinghisname.Asidefromourfirstheatedemailexchange,there’sonlyonemorerecentmessagefromhim,themassemailhesentwithhisnewcontactinformationwhenhemovedfromWhartonHousetobecomeaneditor-at-largeatLoggiasixmonthsback.Itapoutaquickemailtothenewaddress.
Charlie,
NewMSintheworks.Tryingtorecall:howdoyoufeelabouttalkinganimals?
Nora
It’snotlikeIexpectanout-of-officereplytodetailwherehe’straveling,orwhatprecisecoffeeshophe’slikelytobein,butatleastI’llknowifhe’sawayfromwork.
Butmyphonedoesn’tbeepwithanauto-reply.
Ipeeraroundtheshelf.Themanwhomayormaynotbemyprofessionalnemesisslideshisphonefromhispocket,headbowingandlipsthinningintoanunimpressedline.Onlythey’restilltoofull,sobasicallyhe’spouting.Hetypesforaminute,thenputshisphoneaway.
Anhonest-to-godchillslithersdownmyspinewhenmyphonebuzzesinmyhand.
It’sacoincidence.Ithastobe.
Iopenthereply.
Nora,
Terrified.
Charlie
Thequeuemovesforwardagain.He’snextuptoorder.Idon’thavelongtomakemyescapewithoutbeingseen,withevenlesstimetoconfirmordispelmyfears.
Charlie,
WhataboutBigfooterotica?Havesomequeriesinmyslushpile.Goodfitforyou?
Nora
AssoonasIhitsend,Isnaptomysenses.Why,ofallthewordsavailabletome,isthiswhatIsaid?MaybemybrainisorganizedbytheDeweydecimalsystem,butrightnowalltheshelvesseemtobeonfire.EmbarrassmentcoursesthroughmyveinsatthesuddenimageofCharlieopeningthatemailandinstantlygainingtheprofessionalhighground.
Themanpullshisphoneout.Theteenageboyinfrontofhimhasjustfinishedpaying.ThebaristasummonsMaybeCharlieforwardwithacheerysmile,buthemumblessomethingandstepsoutofline.
He’shalfwayfacingmenow.Hegiveshisheadafirmshake,thecornerofhismouthtwistingintoagrimace.It’sgottobehim.I’msureofitnow,butifIrunforthedoor,I’llonlydrawhiseye.
Whatcouldhepossiblybedoinghere?Mymiddle-classpartytricktallieshimupfromheadtotoe:fivehundreddollarsofneutraltones,butifhewasgoingforcamouflage,it’snotworking.Hemightaswellbestandingunderamovie-theatermarqueeadvertisingTHEOUT-OF-TOWNERwithanarrowpointedstraightathispepperyhair.
Ifacethebookshelf,puttingmybacktohimandpretendingtoperusethegames.
Consideringhowshort,nottomentionasinine,mymessagewas,hetakesasurprisinglylongtimetoreply.
Ofcourse,hecouldbereadinganynumberofemailsotherthanmine.
Inearlydropmyphoneinmyfrenzytoopenthenextmessage.
Nofirmopinionsasofyet,butextremecuriosity.Feelfreetoforwardtome.
Icheckovermyshoulder.Charliehasrejoinedthequeue.
HowmanytimescanIkeepmakinghimgetoutofline?Iwonderwithathrill.Iunderstandbeinggluedtoyourphonewhenitcomestoimportantwork-relatedthings,butI’msurprisedtheinstinctrunssodeepthathethinksamessageaboutBigfooteroticarequiresanimmediateresponse
IdoactuallyhaveaBigfooteroticasubmissioninmyinbox.Sometimeswhenmybossishavingarockyday,I’lldoadramaticreadingfromBigfoot’sBigFeettocheerherup.
Itwouldbeunethicaltosharethemanuscriptoutsidetheagency.
Buttheauthoractuallyincludedalinktohiswebsite,whereahandfulofself-publishednovellasareavailableforpurchase.IcopythelinktooneandsendittoCharliewithoutcontext.
Iglancebacktoseehimscowlingdownathisphone.Areplybuzzesin.
Thiscosts99cents……
Ireply,Iknow—suchabargain!Ifmyprofessionalismisagelmanicure,thenCharlieLastraisapparentlytheindustrial-gradeacetonecapableofburningrightthroughit.
IsearchhisnameonVenmoandsendhimninety-ninecents.Anotheremailcomesinasecondlater.He’ssentthedollarbacktome,withthenote,I’magrownman,Nora.IcanbuymyownBigfooterotica,thankyouverymuch.
Thecashiergreetshimagain,andthistimeheshoveshisphoneintohispocketandstepsuptoorder.Whilehe’sdistracted,Itakemychance.
Iamfamished.
Iamdesperatetoknowwhathe’sdoinghere.
AndIamhalfrunningtowardthedoor.
“Nofreakingway!”Libbycries.We’resittingattherough-hewnwoodentableinthecottage,devouringthebreadsticksandsaladsweorderedfromAntonio’sPizza.Ihadtotrekbackdowntothemailboxtocollecttheorderwhenthedeliveryguysaidhewasn’tallowedtoclimbthestairs“forinsurancereasons.”
Soundsmade-up,butokay.
“TheguywhowassorudeaboutDusty’sbook?”Libbyclarifies.
Inodandstabasurprisinglyjuicytomatointhesalad,poppingitintomymouth.
“What’shedoinghere?”sheasks.
“Idon’tknow.”
“Ohmygosh,”shesays,“whatifhe’saOnceinaLifetimesuperfan?”
Isnort.“Ithinkthat’stheonepossibilitywecanruleout.”
“Maybehe’slikeOldManWhittakerinOnce.Justafraidtoshowhistruefeelings.Secretly,helovesthistown.Andthebook.AndthewidowedMrs.Wilder.”
I’mactuallyunbearablycurious,butwe’renotgoingtosolvethemysterybyguessing.“Whatdoyouwanttodotonight?”
“Shallweconsultthelist?”Shedigsthesheetoutofherbagandsmoothsitonthetable.“Okay,I’mtootiredforanyofthis.”
“Tootired?”Isay.“Topetahorseandsavealocalbusiness?Evenafteryournap?”
“YouthinkfortyminutesisenoughtomakeupforthethreeweeksofBeacrawlingintobedwithusafteranightmare?”
Iwince.Thosegirlsmusthaveaninternalbodytemperatureofatleastthreehundreddegrees.Youcan’tsleepnexttothemwithoutwakingupdrenchedinsweat,withatiny,adorablefootdiggingintoyourribcage.
“Youneedabiggerbed,”ItellLibby,pullingmyphoneouttostartthesearch.
“Oh,please,”Libbysays.“Wecan’tfitabiggerbedinthatroom.Notifweplanoneveropeningourdresserdrawers.”
Ifeelasparkofreliefrightthen.BecausethechangeinLibby—thefatigue;thestrange,intangibledistance—suddenlymakessense.Ithasacause,whichmeansithasasolution.
“Youneedabiggerplace.”EspeciallywithBabyNumberThreeontheway.Onebathroom,forafamilyoffive,ismyideaofpurgatory.
“Wecouldn’taffordabiggerplaceifitwereparkedontopofatrashbargeforty-fiveminutesintoJersey,”Libbysays.“LasttimeIlookedatapartmentlistings,everythingwaslike,One-bedroom,zero-bathcrawlspaceinsideaserialkiller’swall;utilitiesincludedbutyouprovidethevictims!Andeventhatwasoutsideourpricerange.”
Iwaveahand.“Don’tworryaboutthemoney.Icanhelpout.”
Sherollshereyes.“Idon’tneedyourhelp.Iamawholeadultwoman.AllIneedisanightin,followedbyamonthofrestandrelaxation,okay?”
She’salwayshatedtakingmoneyfromme,butthewholereasontohavemoneyistotakecareofus.Ifshewon’tacceptanotherloan,thenI’lljusthavetofindheranapartmentshecanafford.Problemhalfwaysolved.
“Fine,”Isay.“We’llstayin.Hepburnnight?”
Shegivesagenuinegrin.“Hepburnnight.”
WheneverMomwasstressedorheartbroken,sheusedtoallowherselfonenighttoleanintothatfeeling.
She’dcallitaHepburnnight.ShelovedHepburn.Katharine,notAudrey,notthatshehadanythingagainstAudrey.That’showIwoundupwiththenameNoraKatharineStephens,whileLibbygotElizabethBabyStephens,the“Baby”partbeingaftertheleopardinBringingUpBaby
OnHepburnnights,thethreeofuswouldeachpickoutoneofMom’sover-the-topvintagerobesandcurlupinfrontoftheTVwitharootbeerfloatandapizza,ordecafandchocolatepie,andwatchanoldblack-and-whitemovie.
Momwouldcryduringherfavoritescenes,andwhenLibbyorIcaughther,she’dlaugh,wipingawayhertearswiththebackofonehand,andsay,I’msuchasofty
Ilovedthosenights.Theytaughtmethatheartbreak,likemostthings,wasasolvablepuzzle.Achecklistcouldguideapersonthroughmourning.Therewasanactionableplanformovingon.Mommasteredthat,butneverquitegottothenextstep:weedingouttheassholes.
Marriedmen.Menwhodidn’twanttobestepfathers.Menwhohadabsolutelynomoney,orwhohadlotsofmoneyandfamilymembersalltoowillingtowhispergolddigger
Menwhodidn’tunderstandheraspirationstobeonstage,andmenwhoweretooinsecuretosharethespotlight.
Shewassaddledwithkidswhenshewaslittlemorethanoneherself,butevenaftereverythingshewentthrough,shekeptherheartopen.Shewasanoptimistandaromantic,justlikeLibby.Iexpectedmysistertofallinloveadozentimesover,besweptoffherfeetoverandoveragainfordecades,butinsteadshefellinlovewithBrendanattwentyandsettleddown.
I,meanwhile,hadapproximatelyoneromanticboneinmybody,andonceitshatteredandIpinnedmyselfbacktogether,Idevelopedarigorousvettingprocessfordating.SoneitherLibbynorIhaveneedforourold-fashionedHepburnnights.Nowthey’reanexcusetobelazy,andawaytofeelclosetoMom.
It’sonlysixo’clock,butwechangeintoourpajamas—includingoursilkrobes.WedragtheblanketsoffthebedintheloftanddowntheironspiralstaircasetothecouchandpopinthefirstDVDfromtheBestofKatharineHepburnboxsetLibbybroughtwithher.
Ifindtwospeckledbluemugsinthecabinetandputthekettleonfortea,andthenwesinkintothecouchtowatchPhiladelphiaStory,matchingcharcoalsheetmasksplasteredtoourfaces.Mysister’sheaddropsagainstmyshoulder,andsheheavesahappysigh.“Thiswasagoodidea,”shesays.
Myhearttwinges.Inafewhours,whenI’mlyinginanunfamiliarbed,sleepnowheretobefound—ortomorrow,whenLibbyseesthelacklustertownsquareforthefirsttime—myfeelingsmightchange,butrightnow,allisrightintheworld.
Anythingbrokencanbefixed.Anyproblemcanbesolved.
Whenshedriftsoff,Ipullmyphonefrommyrobeandtypeoutanemail,bcc’ingeveryrealestateagent,landlord,andbuildingmanagerIknow.
Youareincontrol,Itellmyself.Youwon’tletanythingbadhappentohereveragain.
Myphonechirpswithanewemailaroundtenp.m.
EversinceLibbyshuffleduptobedanhourago,I’vebeensittingonthebackdeck,willingmyselftofeeltiredandnursingaglassofthevelvetypinotSallyGoode,thecottage’sowner,leftforus.
AthomeI’manightowl.WhenI’maway,I’mmorelikeaninsomniacwhojustmixedabunchofcocaineintosomeRedBullandtookaspinonamechanicalbull.Itriedtowork,buttheWi-Fi’ssobadthatmylaptopisaglorifiedpaperweight,soinsteadI’vebeenstaringintothedarkwoodsbeyondthedeck,watchingfirefliespopinandoutofview.
I’mhopingtofindamessagefromoneoftherealestateagentsIreachedoutto.InsteadCHARLIELASTRAisboldedatthetopofmyinbox.Itapthemessageopenandbarelyavoidaspittake.
Iwouldhavepreferredtogomywholelifewithoutknowingthisbookexisted,Stephens.
Eventomyownears,mycacklesoundslikeanevilstepmother.YouboughttheBigfooterotica?
Charliereplies,Businessexpense.
PleasetellmeyouchargedittoaLoggiacreditcard.
ThisonetakesplaceatChristmas,hewrites.There’soneforeveryholiday.
Itakeanothersip,contemplatingmyreply.PossiblysomethinglikeDrinkanyinterestingcoffeelately?
MaybeLibby’sright:MaybeCharlieLastrawassecretlyascharmedastherestofAmericabyDusty’sportrayalofSunshineFallsandplannedavisitduringpublishing’sannuallate-summerhibernation.Ican’tbringmyselftobroachthesubject.
Instead,Iwrite,Whatpageareyouon?
Three,hesays.AndIalreadyneedanexorcism.
Yes,butthathasnothingtodowiththebook.Again,assoonasI’vesentit,Ihavetomarvel-slash-panicatmyownunprofessionalism.Overtheyears,I’vedevelopedafinelytunedfilter—withprettymucheveryoneexceptLibby—butCharliealwaysmanagestodisarmit,topresstheexactrightbuttontoopenthegateandletmythoughtschargeoutlikevelociraptors.
Forexample,whenCharliereplies,I’lladmitit’samasterclassinpacing.OtherwiseIremainunimpressed,myinstantreactionistotype,“OtherwiseIremainunimpressed”iswhatthey’llputonyourheadstone.
Idon’tevenhavethethoughtIshouldn’tsendthisuntilIalreadyhave.
Onyours,hereplies,they’llput“HereliesNoraStephens,whosetastewasoftenexceptionalandoccasionallydisturbing.”
Don’tjudgemebasedontheChristmasnovella,Ireply.Ihaven’treadit.
WouldneverjudgeyouonBigfootporn,Charliesays.WouldentirelyjudgeyouforpreferringOnceinaLifetimetoTheGloryofSmallThings
ThewinehasslippedoneJengapiecetoomanyloosefrommybrain:Iwrite,IT’SNOTABADBOOK!
“IT’SNOTABADBOOK.”—NoraStephens,Charliereplies.IthinkIrememberseeingthatendorsementonthecover.
Admityoudon’tthinkit’sbad,Idemand.
Onlyifyouadmityoudon’tthinkit’sherbesteither,hesays.
Istareatthescreen’sharshglow.Mothskeepdartinginfrontofit,andinthewoods,Icanhearcicadashumming,anowlhooting.Theairisstickyandhot,eventhislongafterthesunhassunkbehindthetrees.
Dustyissoridiculouslytalented,Itype.She’sincapableofwritingabadbook.Ithinkforamomentbeforecontinuing:I’veworkedwithherforyears,andshedoesbestwithpositivereinforcement.Idon’tconcernmyselfwithwhat’snotworkinginherbooks.Ifocusonwhatshe’sgreatatWhichishowDusty’seditorwasabletotakeOncefromgoodtooutrageouslyunputdownable.That’sthethingthatmakesworkingonabookexciting:seeingitsrawpotential,knowingwhatit’stryingtobecome.
Charliereplies,SaysthewomantheycalltheShark.
Iscoff.Noonecallsmethat.Idon’tthink.
SaysthemantheycalltheStormCloud.
Dothey?heasks.
Sometimes,Iwrite.Ofcourse,Iwouldnever.I’mfartoopolite.
Ofcourse,hesays.That’swhatsharksareknownfor:manners.
I’mtoocurioustoletitgo.Dotheyreallycallmethat?
Editors,hewritesback,areterrifiedofyou.
Notsoscaredtheywon’tbuymyauthors’books,Icounter.
Soscaredtheywouldn’tifthebookswereanylessfuckingfantastic.
Mycheekswarmwithpride.It’snotlikeIwrotethebookshe’stalkingabout—allIdoisrecognizethem.Andmakeeditorialsuggestions.Andfigureoutwhicheditorstosendthemto.Andnegotiatethecontractsotheauthorgetsthebestdealpossible.Andholdtheauthor’shandwhentheygeteditlettersthesizeofTolstoynovels,andtalkthemdownwhentheycallmecrying.Etcetera.
Doyouthink,Itypeback,ithasanythingtodowithmytinyeyesandgiganticgrayhead?ThenIshootoffanotheremailclarifying,Thenickname,Imean.
Prettysureit’syourbloodlust,hesays.
Ihuff.Iwouldn’tcallitbloodlust.Idon’trevelinexsanguination.Idoitformyclients.
Sure,Ihavesomeclientswhoaresharksthemselves—eagertofireoffaccusatoryemailswhentheyfeelneglectedbytheirpublishers—butmostofthemaremorelikelytogetsteamrolled,ortokeeptheircomplaintstothemselvesuntiltheirresentmentboilsoverandtheyself-destructinspectacularfashion.
ThismightbethefirstI’mhearingofmynickname,butAmy,myboss,callsmyagentingapproachsmilingwithknives,soit’snotatotalshock.
They’reluckytohaveyou,Charliewrites.Dustyespecially.Anyonewho’dgotobatfora“notbad”bookisasaint.
Indignationflamesthroughme.Andanyonewho’dmissthatbook’sobviouspotentialisarguablyincompetent.
Forthefirsttime,hedoesn’trespondrightaway.Itipmyheadback,groaningatthe(alarminglystarry;isthisthefirsttimeI’velookedup?)skyasItrytofigureouthow—orwhether—tobacktrack.
Aprickdrawsmygazetomythigh,andIslapawayamosquito,onlytocatchtwomorelandingonmyarm.Gross.Ifoldupmylaptopandcarryitinside,alongwithmybooks,phone,andmostlyemptywineglass.
AsI’mtidyingup,myphonepingswithCharlie’sreply.
Itwasn’tpersonal,hesays,thenanothermessagecomesin.I’vebeenknowntobetooblunt.ApparentlyIdon’tmakethebestfirstimpression.
AndI,Ireply,amactuallyknowntobeverypunctual.Youcaughtmeonabadday.
Whatdoyoumean?heasks.
Thatlunch,Isay.Thatwashowitallstarted,wasn’tit?Iwaslate,sohewasrude,soIwasrudeback,sohehatedme,soIhatedhim,andsoonandsoforth.
Hedoesn’tneedtoknowI’djustgottendumpedinafour-minutephonecall,butitseemsworthmentioningthosewereextenuatingcircumstances.I’djustgottensomebadnews.That’swhyIwaslate.
Hedoesn’treplyforafullfiveminutes.Whichisannoying,becauseI’mnotinthehabitofhavingreal-timeconversationsoveremail,andofcoursehecouldjuststopreplyingatanymomentandgotobed,whileI’llstillbehere,staringatawall,wideawake.
IfIhadmyPeloton,Icouldburnoffsomeofthisenergy.
Ididn’tcarethatyouwerelate,hesaysfinally.
Youlookedatyourwatch.Pointedly,Iwriteback.Andsaid,ifIrecall,“You’relate.”
IwastryingtofigureoutifIcouldcatchaflight,Charliereplies.
Didyoumakeit?Iask.
No,hesays.Gotdistractedbytwoginmartinisandaplatinumblondsharkwhowantedmedead.
Notdead,Isay.Lightlymauled,maybe,butIwould’vestayedawayfromyourface.
Didn’trealizeyouwereafan,hewrites.
Azinggoesdownmyspineandrightbackupit,likemytopvertebraejusttouchedalivewire.Isheflirting?AmI?I’mbored,yes,butnotthatbored.Neverthatbored.
Ideflectwith,Justtryingtowatchoutforyoureyebrows.Ifanythinghappenedtothosethings,itwouldchangeyourentirestormyscowl,andyou’dneedanewnickname.
IfIlostmyeyebrows,hesays,somehowIthinktherewouldbenoshortageofnewnicknamesavailabletome.I’mguessingyou’dhavesomesuggestions.
I’dneedtimetothink,Isay.Wouldn’twanttomakeanyrashdecisions.
No,ofcoursenot,hereplies.Secondslater,anotherlinefollows.I’llletyougetbacktoyournight.
AndyoutoyourBigfootnovella,Itype,thenbackspaceandforcemyselftoleavethemessageunanswered.
Ishakemyhead,tryingtocleartheimageofgrowlyCharlieLastrascowlingathise-readerinahotelsomewherenearby,hisfrowndeepeningwheneverhereachessomethingsalacious.
Butthatimage,itseems,isallmybrainwantstodwellon.TonightwhenI’mlyinginbed,wideawakeandtryingtoconvincemyselftheworldwon’tendifIdriftoff,thisiswhatI’llcomebackto,myownmentalhappyplace.4
IWAKE,HEARTRACING,skincoldanddamp.Myeyessnapopenonadarkroom,jumpingfromanunfamiliardoortotheoutlineofawindowtothesnoringlumpbesideme.
Libby.Thereliefisintenseandimmediate,anicebucketdumpedovermeallatonce.Thewhirringofmyheartstartsitssignaturepost-nightmarecooldown.
Libbyishere.Everythingmustbeokay.
Ipiecetogethermysurroundings.
Goode’sLilyCottage,SunshineFalls,NorthCarolina.
Itwasonlythenightmare.
Maybenightmareisn’ttherightword.Thedreamitselfisnice,untiltheend.
ItstartswithmeandLibbycomingintotheoldapartment,settingdownkeysandbags.SometimesBeaandTalaarewithus,orBrendan,smilinggood-naturedlywhilewefillupeverygapwithfranticchatter.
Thistime,it’sjustthetwoofus.
We’relaughingaboutsomething—aplaywejustsaw.Newsies,maybe.Fromdreamtodream,thosedetailschange,andassoonasIsitup,breathinghardinthedarkofthisunfamiliarroom,theyfritterofflikepetalsonabreeze.
Whatremainsisthedeepache,theyawningcanyon.
Thedreamgoeslikethis:
Libbytossesherkeysintothebowlbythedoor.Momlooksupfromthetableinthekitchenette,legscurledunderher,nightgownpulledoverthem.
“Hey,Mama,”Libbysays,walkingrightpasthertowardourroom,theonewesharedwhenwewerekids.
“Mysweetgirls!”Momcries,andIbendtosweepakissacrosshercheekonmywaytothefridge.Imakeitallthewaytherebeforethechillsetsin.Thefeelingofwrongness.
Iturnandlookather,mybeautifulmother.She’sgonebacktoreading,butwhenshecatchesmestaring,shebreaksintoapuzzledsmile.“What?”
Ifeeltearsinmyeyes.ThatshouldbethefirstsignthatI’mdreaming—Inevercryinreallife—butInevernoticethisincongruity.
Shelooksthesame,notadayolder.Likespringtimeincarnate,thekindofwarmthyourskingulpsdownafteralongwinter.
Shedoesn’tseemsurprisedtoseeus,onlyamused,andthenconcerned.“Nora?”
Igotowardher,wrapmyarmsaroundher,andholdtight.Shecirclesmeinherstoo,herlemon-lavenderscentsettlingovermelikeablanket.Herglossystrawberrywavesfallacrossmyshouldersassherunsahandoverthebackofmyhead.
“Hey,sweetgirl,”shesays.“What’swrong?Letitout.”
Shedoesn’trememberthatshe’sgone.
I’mtheonlyonewhoknowsshedoesn’tbelong.Wewalkedinthedoor,andshewasthere,anditfeltsoright,sonatural,thatnoneofusnoticeditrightaway.
“I’llmaketea,”Momsays,wipingmytearsaway.Shestandsandwalkspastme,andIknowbeforeIturnthatwhenIdo,shewon’tbethereanymore.
Iletheroutofmysight,andnowshe’sgone.Icanneverstopmyselffromlooking.Fromturningtothequiet,stillroom,feelingthatpainfulemptinessinmychestlikeshe’sbeencarvedoutofme.
Andthat’swhenIwakeup.Likeifshecan’tbethere,there’snopointindreamingatall.
Icheckthealarmclockonthebedsidetable.It’snotquitesix,andIdidn’tfallasleepuntilafterthree.Evenwithmysister’ssnoresshiveringthroughthebed,thehousewastooquiet.Cricketschirpedandcicadassanginasteadyrhythm,butImissedtheone-offhonkofanannoyedcabdriver,orthesirensofafiretruckrushingpast.Eventhedrunkguysshoutingfromoppositesidesofthestreetastheyheadedhomeafteranightofbarhopping.
Eventually,Idownloadedanappthatplayscityscapesoundsandsetitinthewindowsill,turningitupslowlysoitwouldn’tjarLibbyawake.OnlyonceI’dreachedfullvolumedidIdriftoff
ButI’mwideawakenow.
Mypangofhomesicknessformymotherrapidlyshape-shiftsintolongingformyPeloton.
Iamaparodyofmyself.
Ipullonasportsbraandleggingsandtripdownstairs,thentugonmysneakersandstepoutintothecooldarknessofmorning.
Misthoversacrossthemeadow,andinthedistance,throughthetrees,thefirstspraysofpurplypinksstretchalongthehorizon.AsIcrossthedewygrasstowardthefootbridge,Iliftmyarmsovermyhead,stretchingtoeachsidebeforepickingupmypace.
Onthefarsideofthefootbridge,thepathwindsintothewoods,andIbreakintoaneasyjog,theair’smoisturepoolinginallmycreases.Gradually,thepost-dreamachestartstoease.
Sometimes,itfeelslikenomatterhowmanyyearspass,whenIfirstwakeup,I’mnewlyorphaned.
Technically,Iguesswe’renotorphans.WhenLibbygotpregnantthefirsttime,sheandBrendanhiredaprivateinvestigatortofindourfather.Whenhedid,LibbymaileddearoldDadababyshowerinvitation.Sheneverheardback,ofcourse.Idon’tknowwhatsheexpectedfromamanwhocouldn’tbebotheredtoshowuptohisownkid’sbirth.
HeleftMomwhenshewaspregnantwithLibby,withoutsomuchasanote.
Sure,healsoleftaten-thousand-dollarcheck,buttohearMomtellit,hecamefromsomuchmoneythatthatwashisideaofpettychange.
They’dbeenhighschoolsweethearts.Shewasasheltered,homeschooledgirlwithnomoneyanddreamsofmovingtoNewYorktobecomeanactress;hewasthewealthyprepschoolboywhoimpregnatedheratseventeen.HisparentswantedMomtoterminatethepregnancy;herswantedthemtogetmarried.Theycompromisedbydoingneither.Whentheymovedintogether,bothsetsofparentscutthemoff,buthisturnedoverhisinheritanceasapartinggift,asliverofwhichhe’dbequeathedtousonhiswayoutthedoor.
SheusedthenesteggtomoveusfromPhillytoNewYorkandneverlookedback
Ipushthethoughtsawayandlosemyselfinthedeliciousburnofmymuscles,thethuddingofmyfeetagainstpine-needle-dustedearth.TheonlytwowaysI’veevermanagedtogetoutofmyheadarethroughreadingandrigorousexercise.Witheither,Icanslipoutofmymindanddriftinthisbodilessdark.
Thetrailcurvesdownaforestedhillside,thenturnstofollowasplit-railfence,beyondwhichapasturestretchesout,glowinginthefirstspearsoflight,thehorsesdottingthefieldbacklit,theirtailsswishingatthegnatsandfliesthatfloatandglimmerintheairlikegolddust.
There’samanouttheretoo.Whenheseesme,heliftsahandingreeting.
Isquintagainstthefiercelight,mystomachrisingasIplacehimasthecoffeeshopAdonis.Thesmall-townleadingman.
DoIslowdown?
Ishegoingtocomeoverhere?
ShouldIcalloutandintroducemyself?
InsteadIchooseafourthoption:Itripoverarootandgosprawlinginthemud,myhandlandingsquarelyinsomethingthatappearstobepoop.Alotofit.Like,maybeawholefamilyofdeerhasspecificallymarkedthisspotastheirshitpalace.
Iclamberontomyfeet,gazesnappingtowardRomanceNovelHerotofindthathe’smissedmydramaticperformance.He’slookingat(talkingto?)oneofthehorses.
Forasecond,Icontemplatecallingouttohim.Iplaythefantasyouttoitslogicalconclusion,thisgloriouslyhandsomemanreachingtoshakemyhand,onlytofindmypalmthoroughlysmearedwithdeerpellets.
Ishudderandturndownthepath,pickingupmyjog.
If,eventually,Imeettheexceptionallyhandsomehorsewhisperer,thengreat,maybeIcanmakeprogressonthelistandcheckoffnumberfive.Ifnot…well,atleastIhavemydignity.
Ibrushastrandofhairoutofmyface,onlytorealizeI’veusedthescat-hand.
Scratchthatpartaboutdignity.
“Iforgothowpeacefulitisgroceryshoppingwithoutafour-year-old,like,lyingonthegroundandlickingthetile,”Libbysighs,moseyingdownthetoiletriesaislelikeanaristocrattakingaturnaboutthegardeninRegency-eraEngland.
“Andallthespace—thespace,”Isay,farmoreenthusiasticallythanIfeel.I’vebeenabletoforestallLibbyseeingthedroopycitycenterofSunshineFallsbyinsistingonhavingHardydriveustothePublixafewtownsover,butI’mstillinpreemptivedamage-controlmode,asevidencedbythefifteenminutesIspentpointingoutvarioustreesontherideover.
Libbystopsinfrontoftheboxeddyes,abrilliantsmileovertakingherface.“Hey,weshouldchooseeachother’smakeoverlooks!Likehaircolorandcut,Imean.”
“I’mnotcuttingmyhair,”Isay.
“Ofcourseyou’renot,”shesays.“Iam.”
“Actually,you’renot.”
Shefrowns.“It’sonthelist,Sissy,”shesays.“Howelsearewesupposedtotransformviamontageintoournewselves?It’llbefine.Icutthegirls’hairallthetime.”
“ThatexplainsTala’sDorothyHamillphase.”
Libbysmacksmeintheboob,whichiscompletelyunfair,becauseyoucan’thitapregnantlady’sboob,evenifshe’syourlittlesister.
“Doyoureallyhavetheemotionalresiliencetoleaveachecklistunchecked?”shesays.
Somethinginmetwitches.
Ireallydofuckingloveachecklist.
Shepokesmeintheribs.“Comeon!Livealittle!Thiswillbefun!It’swhywe’rehere.”
ItisdecidedlynotwhyI’mhere.ButthereasonI’mhereisstandingrightinfrontofme,amelodramaticlowerlipjuttedout,andallIcanthinkaboutisthemonthaheadofus,maroonedinatownthat’snothingliketheoneshe’sexpecting.
Andevenasidefromthat,historically,Libby’scrisescanbetrackedbydramaticchangesinappearance.Asakid,sheneverchangedherhaircolor—MommadeabigdealabouthowrareandstrikingLib’sstrawberryblondwaveswere—butLibbyshoweduptoherownweddingwithapixiecutshehadn’thadthenightbefore.Acoupledayslater,shefinallyopeneduptomeaboutit,admittedshe’dhadaburstofcold-feet-bordering-on-terrorandneededtomakeanotherdramatic(thoughlesspermanent)decisiontoworkthroughit.
Ipersonallywould’vegonewithacolor-codedpro-conlist,buttoeachherown.
Thepointis,Libby’sclearlyreckoningwiththearrivalofthisnewbabyandwhatitwillmeanforherandBrendan’salreadystrainedfinancesandtightquarters.IfIpushhertotalkaboutitnow,she’llclamup.ButifIrideitoutwithher,she’lltalkaboutitwhenshe’sready.Thataching,pulsingspacebetweenuswillbesealedshut,aphantomlimbmadewholeagain.
That’swhyI’mhere.That’swhatIwant.BadlyenoughthatI’llshavemyheadifthat’swhatittakes(thenorderaveryexpensivewig).
“Okay,”Irelent.“Let’sgetmadeover.”
Libbyletsoutasquealofhappinessandpushesuponhertiptoestokissmyforehead.“Iknowexactlywhatcoloryou’regetting,”shesays.“Nowturnaround,anddon’tpeek.”
ImakeamentalnotetoscheduleahairappointmentforthedayIflyhometoNewYork.
Bythetimewereturntothecottagethatafternoon,thesunishighinthecloudlessbluesky,andaswehikethehillside,sweatgathersineveryinconvenientplace,butLibbychattersalong,unbothered.“I’msocuriouswhatcoloryoupickedforme,”shesays.
“Nocolor,”Ireply.“We’rejustgoingtoshaveyourhead.”
Shesquintsthroughthelight,herfrecklednosewrinkling.“Whenwillyoulearnthatyou’resobadatlyingthatit’snotwortheventrying?”
Inside,shesitsmedowninakitchenchairandslathersmyhairindye.ThenIdothesame,neitherofusshowingourhand.Atthetime,Ifeltsoconfidentinmychoice,butseeinghoweye-burninglyvibrantthecolorlookscakedoverherhead,I’mlesssure.
Onceourtimersareset,Libbystartsonbrunch.
She’sbeenavegetariansinceshewaslittle,andafterMomdied,Ibecameonetoo,bydefault.Financially,itdidn’tmakesensetobuytwodifferentversionsofeverything.Also,meat’sexpensive.Fromapurelymathematicalstandpoint,vegetarianismmadesensefortwonewlyorphanedgirlsoftwentyandsixteen.
EvenafterLibbymovedinwithBrendan,itstuck.Duringheraspiring-chefphase,shewonhimovertoaplant-baseddiet.Sowhileit’stempehfryinginthepanbesidetheeggsshe’sscramblingforus,itsmellslikebacon.Oratleastenoughlikebacontoappealtosomeonewhohasn’thadtherealthingintenyears.
Whenthetimergoesoff,Libbyshoosmeofftorinse,warningmenottolookinthemirror“orelse.”
BecauseI’msobadatlying,Ifollowherorders,thentakeoverthejoboftransferringbrunchintotheoventokeepwarmwhilesherinsesherdye.
Withherhairwrappedinatowel,shetakesmeontothedecktotrimmine.Everyfewseconds,shemakesaninauspicious“huh”sound.
“Reallyinstillingconfidenceinme,Libby,”Isay.
Shesnipssomemoreatthefrontofmyface.“It’sgoingtobefine.”
Itsoundsalittletoomuchlikeshe’sgivingherselfapeptalkformyliking.AfterI’vechoppedherhairintoalongbob—mostofitair-driedbynow—wegoinsideforthebigreveal.
Aftermatchingdeepbreaths,preparingouregosforahumbling,westepinfrontofthebathroommirrortogetherandtakeitin.
She’sgivenmefeatherybangssomewherebetweenfringeandcurtain,andsomehowtheymaketheash-browncolorreadmoreLaurelCanyonfreespiritthandirtydishwater.
“Youreallyaresickeninglygoodateverything,youknowthat,right?”Isay
Libbydoesn’treply,andwhenmygazecutstowardhers,aweightplummetsthroughme.She’sstaringatthereflectionofherPepto-Bismol-pinkwaveswithtearswellinginhereyes.
Shit.Ahugeandobviousmisfire.Libbymaygenerallyfavoraboldlook,butIforgottofactorinhowpregnancytendstoaffectherself-image.
“It’llstartrinsingoutinafewwashes!”Isay.“Orwecangobacktothestoreandgetadifferentcolor?OrfindagoodsaloninAsheville—mytreatReally,thisisaneasyfix,Lib.”
Thetearsarereachingtheirbreakingpointnow,readytofall.
“IjustrememberedyoubeggingMomtoletyougetpinkhairwhenyouwereinninthgrade,”Igoon.“Remember?Shewouldn’tletyou,andyouwentonthathungerstrikeuntilshesaidyoucoulddodip-dye?”
Libbyturnstome,lipquivering.Ihaveasplitsecondtowonderifshe’sabouttoattackmebeforeherarmsflingaroundmyneck,herfaceburyingintothesideofmyhead.“Iloveit,Sissy,”shesays,hersweetlemon-lavenderscentengulfingme.
Theroaringpanic-stormsettlesinme.Thetensiondissolvesfrommyshoulders.“I’msoglad,”Isay,huggingherback.“Andyoureallydidanamazingjob.Imean,I’mnotsurewhatwouldeverpossessapersontochoosethiscolor,butyoumadeitwork.”
Shepullsback,frowning.“It’sasclosetoyournaturalcolorasIcouldfind.Ialwayslovedyourhairwhenwewerekids.”
Myheartsqueezestight,thebackofmynosetinglinglikethere’stoomuchofsomethingbuildinginmyskullandit’sstartingtoseepout.
“Ohno,”shesays,lookingbackintothemirror.“Itjustoccurredtome:whatamIsupposedtosaywhenBeaandTalaasktodyetheirsintounicorntails?Orshavetheirheadsentirely?”
“Yousayno,”Isay.“Andthen,thenexttimeI’mbabysitting,I’llhandoverthedyeandclippers.AfterwardI’llteachthemhowtorollajoint,likethesexy,cool,funauntIam.”
Libbysnorts.“Youwishyouknewhowtorollajoint.God,Imissweed.Thematernitybooksneverprepareyouforhowbadlyyou’regoingtomissweed.”
“Soundslikethere’saholeinthemarket,”Isay.“I’llkeepaneyeout.”
“ThePothead’sGuidetoPregnancy,”Libbysays.
“MarijuanaMommy,”Ireply.
“Anditscompanion,DoobieDaddies.”
“Youknow,”Isay,“ifyoueverneedtocomplainaboutyourlackofweed,orpregnancy—oranythingelse—I’mhere.Always.”
“Yep,”shesays,eyesbackonherreflection,fingersbackinherhair.“Iknow.”5
MYPHONEBUZZESwithanincomingemail,andCharlie’snameisboldedacrossthescreen.Thewordsdistractedbytwoginmartinisandaplatinumblondsharkflashacrossmymindlikeacasino’sneonsign,partthrill,partwarning.
Idon’twantmyworkemailtogetflagged,buttherearesomanyexcerptsofthisbookIcan’tunread.I’minahorrormovieandIwon’tbefreedofthiscurseuntilI’veinflicteditonsomeoneelse.
Technically,Charliealreadyhasmyphonenumberfrommyemailsignature;thequestioniswhethertoinvitehimtouseit.
Pro:Maybethere’dbeanaturalopeningtomentionI’minSunshineFalls,thusloweringtheriskofanawkwardrun-in.
Con:DoIreallywantmyprofessionalnemesistextingmeBigfooterotica?
Pro:YesIdo.I’mcuriousbynature,andatleastthisway,theexchangeofinformationishappeningoverprivatechannelsratherthanprofessionalones.
Itypeoutmyphonenumberandhitsend
Bythenit’stimeformycheck-incallwithDusty,atwenty-minuteconversationthatmightaswelljustbemeplayingjockjamsandrunningcirclesaroundher,chantinghername.Ithrowthewordgeniusoutahalfdozentimes,andbythetimewehangup,I’veconvincedhertoturninthefirstchunkofhernextbook—evenifit’srough—sohereditor,Sharon,cangetstartedwhileDustyfinisheswriting.
Afterward,IrejoinLibbywhereshe’sprimpinginthebathroom,curlingherfreshlypinkhairintosoftringlets.“Let’swalktodinner,”shesays.“Myneckissorefromthatlastcabride.Alsoitmademepeemyself.”
“Iremember,”Isay.“Itmadeyoupeemetoo.”
Sheglancesovermyoutfit.“Yousureyouwanttowearthoseshoes?”
I’vepairedmyblackbacklesssheathwithblackmules,mywidestheels.She’sinadaisy-printsundressfromtheninetiesandwhitesandals.
“IfyouoffertolendmeyourCrocsagain,I’mgoingtosueyouforemotionaldamages.”
Shebalks.“Afterthatcomment,youdon’tdeservemyCrocs.”
Onthehikedownthehillside,Iattempttohidemystruggle,butbasedonLibby’sgleefulsmirk,shedefinitelynoticesthatmyheelskeeppuncturingthegrassandspikingmeintoplace.
Thesunhasgonedown,butit’sstilloppressivelyhot,andthemosquitopopulationisraging.I’musedtorats—mostrunawayatthesightofaperson,andtherestbasicallyjustholdouttinyhatstobegforbitsofpizza.Mosquitoesareworse.I’vegotsixnewredweltsbythetimewereachtheedgeofthetownsquare.
Libbyhasn’tgottenbittenonce.Shebatsherlashes.“Imustbetoosweetforthem.”
“Ormaybeyou’repregnantwiththeAntichristandtheyrecognizeyouastheirqueen.”
Shenodsthoughtfully.“Icouldusetheexcitement,Iguess.”Shepausesattheveryemptycrosswalkandscanstheequallydesolatecitycenter,hermouthshrinkingassheconsidersit.“Huh,”shesaysfinally.“It’s…sleepierthanIexpected.”
“Sleepyisgood,right?”Isay,abittooeagerly.“Sleepymeansrelaxing.”
“Right.”Shesortofshakesherself,andhersmilereturns.“Exactly.That’swhywe’rehere.”Shelooksmorequizzicalthandevastatedwhenwepassthegeneral-store-turned-pawnshop,andImakeabigdealofpointingoutMug+Shottodistracther.
“Itsmelledamazing,”Iinsist.“We’llhavetogotomorrow.”
Shebrightensfurther,likeshe’sonadimmerswitchpoweredbymyoptimism.Andifthat’sthecase,I’mpreparedtobeoptimisticashell.
Next,wepassabeautyparlor.(“Okay,definitelyshould’vejustgottenourhaircuthere,”Libbysays,thoughIsilentlydisagree,basedonthedripping-blood-stylelettersonthesignandthefactthattheyspelloutCurlUpNDye.)Afteracouplemoreemptystorefronts,there’sagreasy-spoondiner,anotherdivebar,andabookshop(whichwepledgetoreturnto,despiteitsdustyandlacklusterwindowdisplay).Attheendoftheblock,there’sabigwoodenbuildingwithrustymetallettersreading,mysteriously,POPPASQUAT
Bythen,Libby’sdistractedbyherphone,textingBrendanassheshufflesalongbesideme.She’sstillsmiling,butit’sarigidexpression,anditalmostlookslikeshe’sonthevergeoftears.Herstomachisgrowlingandherfaceispinkfromtheheat,andIcanimaginehertextsaresomethingalongthelinesofMaybethiswholethingwasamistake,andasuddendesperationswellsinme.Ineedtoturnthisaround,fast,startingwithfindingfood.
Istopabruptlybesidethewoodenbuildingandpeerintoitstintedwindows.Withoutlookingupfromherphone,Libbyasks,“Areyouspyingonsomeone?”
“I’mlookingintothewindowofPoppaSquat’s.”
Hereyesliftslowly.“What…thehell…isapoppasquat?”
“Well…”Ipointupatthesign.“It’seitheraverylargepublicbathroomorabarandgrill.”
“WHY?”Libbyscreamsinamixofdelightanddismay,anyremnantofherdisappointmentvanishing.“Whydoesthatexist?!”Sheplastersherselfagainstthedarkwindow,tryingtoseein.
“Ihavenoanswersforyou,Libby.”Isidesteptohauloneoftheheavywoodendoorsopen.“Sometimestheworldisacruel,mysteriousplace.Sometimespeoplebecomewarped,twisted,soillatasoullevelthattheywouldnameadiningestablishment—”
“WelcometoPoppaSquat!”acurly-hairedwaifofahostesssays.“Howmanyareinyourparty?”
“Two,butwe’reeatingforfive,”Libbysays.
“Oh,congratulations!”thehostesssaysbrightly,eyeingeachofourstomachswhilsttryingtoperformaninvisiblemathproblem.
“Idon’tevenknowthiswoman,”Isay,tippingmyheadtowardLibby.“She’sjustbeenfollowingmeforthreeblocks.”
“Okay,rude,”mysistersays.“It’sbeenmuchmorethanthreeblocks—it’slikeyoudon’tevenseeme.”
Thehostessseemsuncertain.
Icough.“Two,please.”
Shehesitantlywavestowardthebar.“Well,ourbarisfull-service,butifyou’dlikeatable…”
“Thebar’sfine,”Libbyassuresher.Thehostesshandsuseachamenuthat’sabout…oh,fortypagestoolong,andweslideontopleather-toppedstools,settingourpursesonthestickybarandscanningoursurroundingsinasilencedrivenbyeithershockorawe.
ThisplacelookslikeaCrackerBarrelhadababywithahonky-tonk,andnowthatbabyisateenagerwhodoesn’tshowerenoughandchewsonhissweatshirtsleeves.
Thefloorsandwallsalikearedark,mismatchedwoodenplanks,andtheceilingiscorrugatedmetal.PicturesoflocalsportsteamsareframedalongsideHOMEISWHERETHEFOODISneedlepointsandglowingCoorssigns.Thebarrunsalongtheleftsideoftherestaurant,andinonecorneracoupleofpooltablesaregathered,whileinthecorneropposite,ajukeboxsitsbesideashallowstage.TherearemorepeopleinthisonebuildingthanI’veseenintherestofSunshineFallscombined,butstill,theplacemanagestolookdesolate.
Iflipopenthemenuandstarttoperuse.Easilythirtypercentofthelisteditemsarejustvariousdeep-friedthings.Younameit,PoppaSquatcanfryit.
Thebartender,apreternaturallygorgeouswomanwiththick,darkwavesandahandfulofconstellationtattoosonherarmscomestostandinfrontofme,herhandsbracedagainstthebar.“WhatcanIgetyou?”
Likethecoffeeshop/horsefarmguy,shelookslesslikeabartenderthanlikesomeonewhowouldplayabartenderonasexysoapopera.
What’sinthewaterhere?
“Dirtymartini,”Itellher.“Gin.”
“Sodawaterandlime,please,”Libbysays.
Thebartendermovesoff,andIgobacktoskimmingpagefiveofthemenu.I’vemadeittosalads.Oratleastthat’swhatthey’recallingthem,thoughifyouputranchdressingandDoritosonabedoflettuce,Ithinkyou’retakinglibertieswiththeword.
Whenthebartenderreturns,ItrytoordertheGreek.
Shewinces.“Yousure?”
“Notanymore.”
“We’renotknownforoursalads,”sheexplains.
“Whatareyouknownfor?”
ShewavesahandtowardtheglowingCoorsLightsignbehindhershoulder.
“Whatareyouknownfor,withregardtofood?”Iclarify.
Shesays,“Tobeknownisn’tnecessarilytobeadmired.”
“Whatdoyourecommend,”Libbytries,“otherthanCoors?”
“Thefriesaregood,”shesays.“Burger’sokay.”
“Veggieburger?”Iask.
Shepursesherlips.“Itwon’tkillyou.”
“Soundsperfect,”Isay.“I’llhaveoneofthose,andsomefries.”
“Same,”Libbyadds.
Despiteherinsistencethattheburgerwon’tkillus,thebartender’sshrugreads,Yourfuneral,bitches!
Libbyseemstotallyfine,happyeven,butthere’sstillakernelofanxietyinmygut,andIaccidentallydrinkmyentiremartinibeforeourfoodarrives.I’mtipsyenoughthateverything’stakingmelongerthanitshould.LibbyscarfsherburgerdownandhopsuptousethebathroombeforeI’vemadeadentinmine.
Myphonevibratesonthestickycounter,andI’monehundredpercentexpectingittobeCharlie.
It’sazilliontimesbetter.
Dustyhasfinallyturnedinpartofhermanuscript,andnotaminutetoosoon—hereditorgoesoutonmaternityleaveinamonth.
Thankyouallsomuchforyourpatience—Iknowthisschedulehasn’tbeenidealforyou,butitmeanssomuchthatyoutrustmeenoughtoletmeworkinthewaythatservesmebest.Ihaveacompletefirstdraft,buthaveonlyhadachancetocleanandtightenthisfirstbit.Ihopetohaveseveralmorechapterstoyouwithintheweek,buthopefullythisgivesyouanideaofwhattoexpect.
Itapopentheattacheddocument,titledFrigid1.0
ItstartswithChapterOne.Alwaysagoodsignthatanauthorhasn’tgonefullJack-Torrance-locked-up-with-his-typewriter-in-the-Overlook.Iresisttheurgetoscrollthroughtotheend,aticI’vehadsinceIwasakid,whenIrealizedthereweretoomanybooksintheworldandnotenoughtime.I’vealwaysuseditasalitmustestforwhetherIwanttoreadabookornot,butgiventhatthisisaclient’swork,I’mgoingbereadingthewholethingnomatterwhat.
Soinsteadmyeyesskimoverthefirstline,andithitslikeagutpunch.
TheycalledhertheShark.
“Whatthefuck,”Isay.Anoldermanattheendofthebarjerkshisheadupfromhiswaterysoupandscowls.“Sorry,”Igrumble,andtrainmyeyesonthescreenagain.
TheycalledhertheShark,butshedidn’tmind.Thenamefit.Foronething,sharkscouldonlyswimforward.Asarule,NadineWintersneverlookedback.Herlifewaspredicatedonrules,manyofwhichservedtoeaseherconscience.
Ifshelookedback,she’dseethetrailofblood.Movingforward,alltherewastothinkaboutwashunger.
AndNadineWinterswashungry.
ForaminuteI’mactuallyhopingtodiscoverthatNadineWintersisaliteralshark.ThatDustyhaswrittenthetalking-animalstoryofCharlieLastra’snightmares.Butfourlinesdown,awordjumpsoutasif,ratherthanTimesNewRoman,it’swritteninCurlUpNDye’sbloodcurdlingfont.
AGENT.
Dusty’smaincharacter,theShark,isanagent.
IbacktracktothewordrightbeforeitFilm.
Filmagent.Notliteraryagent.Thedifferentiationdoesnothingtoloosentheknotinmychest,ortoquiettherushofbloodinmyears.
Unlikeme,NadineWintershasjet-blackhairandbluntbangs.
Likeme,sheonlyskipsheelswhenshe’sworkingout.
Unlikeme,shetakesKravMagaeverymorninginsteadofvirtualclassesonherPeloton.
Likeme,sheordersasaladwithgoatcheeseeverytimesheeatsoutwithaclientanddrinksherginmartinisdirty—nevermorethanone.Shehatesanylossofcontrol.
Likeme,sheneverleavesthehousewithoutafullfaceofmakeupandgetsbimonthlymanicures.
Likeme,shesleepswithherphonenexttoherbed,soundturnedtofullvolume.
Likeme,sheoftenforgetstosayhelloatthestartofherconversationsandskipsgoodbyeattheend.
Likeme,shehasmoneybutdoesn’tenjoyspendingitandwouldratherscrollthroughNet-A-Porter,fillinguphercartforhours,thenleaveitthatwayuntileverythingsellsout.
Nadinedidn’tenjoymostthings,Dustywrites.Enjoymentwasbesidethepointoflife.Asfarasshecouldtell,stayingalivewasthepoint,andthatrequiredmoneyandsurvivalinstincts.
Myfaceburnshotterwitheverypage.
ThechapterendswithNadinewalkingintotheofficerightintimetoseehertwoassistantsgiddilycelebratingsomething.Withacuttingglare,shesays,“What?”
Herassistantannouncesshe’spregnant
Nadinesmileslikethesharksheis,sayscongratulations,thengoesintoheroffice,whereshestartsthinkingthroughallthereasonssheshouldfireStaceythepregnantassistant.Shedoesn’tapproveofdistractions,andthat’swhatpregnancyis.
Nadinedoesn’tdeviatefromplans.Shedoesn’tmakeexceptionstorules.Sheliveslifebyastrictcode,andthere’snoroomforanyonewhodoesn’tmeetit.
Inshort,sheisapuppy-kicking,kitten-hating,money-drivenrobot.(Thepuppy-kickingisimplied,butgiveitafewmorechapters,anditmightbecomecanon.)
AssoonasIfinishreading,Istartover,tryingtoconvincemyselfthatNadine—awomanwhomakesMirandaPriestlylooklikeSnowWhite—isn’tme.
Thethirdreadthroughistheworstofall.BecausethisiswhenIacceptthatit’sgood
Onechapter,tenpages,butitworks.
Istandwoozilyandheadtowardthedarknookwherethebathroomsare,rereadingasIgo.IneedLibbynow.Ineedsomeonewhoknowsme,wholovesme,totellmethisisallwrong.
Ishould’vebeenlookingwhereIwasgoing.
Ishouldn’thavewornsuchhighheels,orhadamartinionanemptystomach,orbeenreadingabookthat’sgivingmeasurrealout-of-bodyexperience.
Becausesomecombinationofthosepoordecisionsleadstomebarrelingintosomeone.Andwe’renottalkingacasualOh,Iclippedyouontheshoulder—howadorablyclumsyIam!We’retalking“Holyshit!Mynose!”
WhichiswhatIhearinthemomentthatmyankleswobble,mybalanceisthrownoff,andmygazesnapsuptoafacebelongingtononeotherthanCharlieLastra.
RightasIgodownlikeasackofpotatoes.6
CHARLIECATCHESMYforearmsbeforeIcantumbleallthewaydown,steadyingmeasthewords“Whatthehell?”flyoutofhim.
Afterthepainandshockcomesrecognition,followedswiftlybyconfusion.
“NoraStephens.”Mynamesoundslikeaswear.
Hegapesatme;Igapeback.
Iblurt,“I’monvacation!”
Hisconfusiondeepens.
“Ijust…I’mnotstalkingyou.”
Hiseyebrowsfurrow.“Okay?”
“I’mnot.”
Hereleasesmyforearms.“Moreconvincingeverytimeyousayit.”
“Mysisterwantedtotakeatriphere,”Isay,“becauseshelovesOnceinaLifetime.”
Somethingfluttersbehindhiseyes.Hesnorts.
Icrossmyarms.“Onehastowonderwhyyou’dbehere.”
“Oh,”hesaysdryly,“I’mstalkingyou.”Atmyeyebulge,hesays,“I’mfromhere,Stephens.”
Igawkathiminshockforsolongthathewavesahandinfrontofmyface.“Hello?Areyoubroken?”
“You…arefrom…here?Likeherehere?”
“Iwasn’tbornonthebarofthisunfortunateestablishment,”hesays,lipcurled,“ifthat’swhatyoumean,butyes,nearby.”
It’snotcomputing.Partlybecausehe’sdressedlikehejuststeppedoutofaTomFordspreadinGQ,andpartlybecauseI’mnotconvincedthisplaceisn’tamoviesetthatproductionabandonedhalfwaythroughconstruction.“CharlieLastraisfromSunshineFalls.”
Hisgazenarrows.“Didmynosegodirectlyintoyourbrain?”
“YouarefromSunshineFalls,NorthCarolina,”Isay.“AplacewithonegasstationandarestaurantnamedPoppaSquat.”
“Yes.”
Mybrainskipsoverseveralmorerelevantquestionsto:“IsPoppaSquataperson?”
Charlielaughs,asurprisedsoundsoroughIfeelitasascrapeagainstmyribcage.“No?”
“What,then,”Isay,“isaPoppaSquat?”
Thecornerofhismouthticksdownward.“Idon’tknow—astateofmind?”
“Andwhat’swrongwiththeGreeksaladhere?”
“Youtriedtoorderasalad?”hesays.“Didthetownspeoplecircleyouwithpitchforks?”
“Notananswer.”
“It’sshreddediceberglettucewithnothingelseonit,”hesays.“Exceptwhenthecookisdrunkandcoversthewholethingincubedham.”
“Why?”Iask.
“Iimaginehe’sunhappyathome,”Charliereplies,deadpan.“Mighthavesomethingtodowiththekindsofthwarteddreamsthatleadapersontoworkinghere.”
“Notwhydoesthecookdrink,”Isay.“Whywouldanyonecoverasaladincubedham?”
“IfIknewtheanswertothat,Stephens,”hesays,“I’dhaveascendedtoahigherplane.”
Atthispoint,henoticessomethingonthegroundandduckssideways,pickingitup.“Thisyours?”Hehandsmemyphone.“Wow,”hesays,readingmyreaction.“Whatdidthisphonedotoyou?”
“It’snotthephonesomuchasthesociopathicsuper-bitchwholivesinsideit.”
Charliesays,“MostpeoplejustcallherSiri.”
Ishovemyphonebacktohim,Dusty’spagesstillpulledup.Thefurrowinhisbrowre-forms,andimmediately,Ithink,WhatamIdoing?
Ireachforthephone,buthespinsawayfromme,thecreasebeneathhisfullbottomlipdeepeningashereads.Heswipesdownthescreenimpossiblyfast,hispoutshiftingintoasmirk.
WhydidIhandthisovertohim?Istheculpritherethemartini,therecentheadinjury,orsheerdesperation?
“It’sgood,”Charliesaysfinally,pressingmyphoneintomyhand.
“That’sallyouhavetosay?”Idemand.“Nothingelseyoucaretocommenton?”
“Fine,it’sexceptional,”hesays.
“It’shumiliating,”Iparry.
Heglancestowardthebar,thenmeetsmyeyesagain.“Look,Stephens.Thisistheendofaparticularlyshittyday,insideaparticularlyshittyrestaurant.Ifwe’regoingtohavethisconversation,canIatleastgetaCoors?”
“Youdon’tstrikemeasaCoorsguy,”Isay.
“I’mnot,”hesays,“butIfindthemercilessmockeryfromthebartenderheredampensmyenjoymentofaManhattan.”
IlooktowardthesexyTVbartender.“Anotherenemyofyours?”
Hiseyesdarken,hismouthdoingthatgrimace-twitch.“Isthatwhatweare?DoyousendallyourenemiesBigfooterotica,orjustthespecialones?”
“Ohno,”Isay,feigningpity.“DidIhurtyourfeelings,Charlie?”
“Youseemprettypleasedwithyourself,”hesays,“forawomanwhojustfoundoutshewastheinspirationforCruelladeVil.”
Iscowlathim.Charlierollshiseyes.“Comeon.I’llbuyyouamartini.Orapuppycoat.”
Amartini.ExactlywhatNadineWintersdrinks,whenevershedoesn’thaveeasyaccesstovirgin’sblood.
Forsomereason,myex-boyfriendJakobflitsintomymind.Ipicturehimdrinkingbeerfromacanonhisbackporch,hiswifecurledunderhisarm,swiggingonherown.
Evenfourkidsin,she’slaid-backandabsurdlygorgeous,yetsomehow“oneoftheguys.”
TheAnti-Nora.
Theyalwaysare,thewomenIgetdumpedfor.Prettyhardtolearntobe“oneoftheguys”whenyourentireexperiencewithmengrowingupwaseither1)themmakingyourmothercryor2)yourmother’sdancerfriendsteachingyouhowtostep-ball-change.Icanbeoneoftheguys,aslongastheguysinquestionhaveafavoritesongfromLesMis.OtherwiseI’mhopeless.
“I’llhaveabeer,”IsayasIpassCharlie,“andyou’rebuying.”
“Like…Isaid?”hemurmurs,followingmetothepeanut-shell-strewnbar.
Ashe’sexchangingpleasantrieswiththebartender(definitelynotenemies;there’savibe,bywhichImeanhe’sfifteenpercentlessrudethanusual),Iglancebacktowardthebathroom,butLibbystillhasn’temerged.
Idon’tevenrealizeI’vegonebacktorereadingthechaptersuntilCharlietugsmyphonefrommyhands.“Stopobsessing.”
“I’mnotobsessing.”
Hestudiesmewiththatblack-holegaze,theonethatmakesmewanttoscrabbleforpurchase.“I’msurprisedthisissuchaproblemforyou.”
“AndI’mshockedyourartificialintelligencechipallowsyoutofeelsurprise.”
“Well,hello.”IflinchtowardLibby’svoiceandfindhersmilinglikeacartooncatwhosemouthisstuffedwithmultiplecanaries.
“Libby,”Isay.“Thisis—”
BeforeIcanintroduceCharlie,shepipesup,“Justwantedtoletyouknow,Icalledacab.I’mnotfeelingwell.”
“What’swrong?”Istarttorisebutshepushesmyshoulderbackdown,hard.
“Justexhausted!”Shesoundsanythingbut.“Youshouldstay—you’renotevendonewithyourburger.”
“Lib,I’mnotgoingtojustletyou—”
“Oh!”Shelooksatherphone.“Hardy’shere—youdon’tmindgettingthebill,doyou,Nora?”
I’mnottraditionallyablusher,butmyfaceisonfirebecauseI’vejustrealizedwhat’sgoingon,whichmeansCharlielikelyhastoo,andLibby’salreadyretreating,leavingmewithhalfaveggieburger,anunpaidbill,andadeepdesirefortheearthtoswallowmewhole.
Shethrowsalookoverhershoulderandcallsloudly,“Goodluckcheckingoffnumberfive,Sissy!”
“Numberfive?”Charlieasksasthedoorswingsshut,vanishingmysisterintothenight.
Ireallydon’tliketheideaofherhikingupthosestepsalone.Isnatchmyphonebackupandtexther,LETMEKNOWTHESECONDYOUMAKEITUPTOTHECOTTAGEORELSE!!!!
Libbyreplies,LetmeknowthesecondyoumakeittothirdbasewithMr.Hottman.
Overmyshoulder,Charliesnorts.Iturnmyphoneaway,squaringmyshoulders.“Thatwasmysister,Libby,”Isay.“Ignoreeverythingshesays.She’salwayshornywhenshe’spregnant.Whichisalways.”
His(trulymiraculous)eyebrowslift,hisheavy-liddedgazehomingin.“Thereis…somuchtounpackinthatsentence.”
“Andsolittletime.”Ibiteintomyburgerjusttofocusonsomethingotherthanhisface.“Ishouldgetbacktoher.”
“Sonotimeforthatbeer.”Hesaysitlikeachallenge,likeIknewit.Hisbrowisarched,thetiniestshredofasmirkhidinginonecornerofhismouth.Somehowthisdoesn’ttotallyextinguishhispout.Itjustmakesitasmout.
Thebartenderreturnswithoursweatingglassbottlesthen,andCharliethanksher.Forthefirsttime,Iseeherstaggeringlyincandescentsmile.“Ofcourse,”shesays.“Ifyouneedanything,justsaytheword.”
Assheturnsaway,Charliefacesme,takingalongsip.
“Whydoyougetasmile?”Idemand.“I’mathirty-percent-minimumtipper.”
“Yeah,well,youshouldtryalmostmarryingherandseeifthathelps,”hereplies,leavingmesostunnedI’mbacktogawping.
“Speakingofsentenceswithalottounpack.”
“Iknowyou’reabusywoman,”hesays.“I’llletyougetbacktosharpeningyourknivesandorganizingyourpoisoncabinet,NadineWinters.”
Hesayseverythingsoevenly,it’seasytomissthejokeinit.Butthistimetheunmistakablycajolingnoteinhisvoiceback-combsovermeuntilIfeellikeadogwithitshacklesup.
“Firstofall,”Isay,“it’sapantry,notacabinet.Andsecondofall,thebeer’salreadyhere,andit’safterworkhours,soImightaswelldrinkit.”
BecauseIamnotNadineWinters.Igrabmybottleandchug,feelingCharlie’sowlisheyesheavyonme.
Hesays,“It’sfuckinggood,right?”Foronce,heletsalittleexcitementintohisvoice.Hiseyesflashlikelightningjustcrackledthroughtheinsideofhisskull.
“Ifyou’reintocatpeeandgasoline.”
“Thechapter,Nora.”
MyjawtightensasInod.
AsfarasI’veseen,Charlie’seyebrowshavethreemodes:brooding,scowling,andportrayingsomethingthat’seitherconcernorconfusion.That’swhatthey’reuptonow.“Butyou’restillupsetaboutit.”
“Upset?”Icry.“JustbecausemyoldestclientthinksI’dfiresomeoneforgettingpregnant?Don’tbesilly.”
Charlietucksonefootontherungofhisstool,hiskneebumpingmine.“Shedoesn’tthinkthat.”Hetipshisheadbackforanotherswig.Abeadofbeersneaksdownhisneck,andforamoment,I’mhypnotized,watchingitcutatrailtowardthecollarofhisshirt.
“Andevenifshedoes,”Charliesays,“thatdoesn’tmakeittrue.”
“Ifshewroteawholebookaboutit,”Isay,“itmightmakeotherpeoplethinkit’strue.”
“Whocares?”
“Thisguy.”Ipointtomychest.“Thepersonwhoneedspeopletoworkwithherinordertohaveajob.”
“HowlonghaveyoubeenrepresentingDusty?”heasks.
“Sevenyears.”
“Shewouldn’tbeworkingwithyou,aftersevenyears,ifyouweren’tagreatagent.”
“IknowI’magreatagent.”That’snottheproblem.Theproblemis,I’membarrassed,ashamed,andalittlehurt.Because,asitturnsout,Idohavefeelings.“It’sfine.I’mfine.”
Charliestudiesme.
“I’mfine!”Isayagain.
“Clearly.”
“You’relaughingnow,but—”
“I’mnotlaughing,”heinterjects.“WhendidIlaugh?”
“Goodpoint.I’msurethat’sneverhappened.Butjustyouwaituntiloneofyourauthorsturnsinabookaboutanamber-eyedassholeeditor.”
“Amber-eyed?”hesays.
“Inoticeyoudidn’tquestiontheassholepartofthatsentence,”Isay,andchugsomemore.Clearly,thefilterhasmeltedawayagain,butatleastthat’sproofI’mnotthewomaninthosepages.
“I’musedtopeoplethinkingI’manasshole,”hesaysstiffly.“Lessusedtothemdescribingmyeyesas‘amber.’?”
“That’swhatcolortheyare,”Isay.“It’sobjective.I’mnotcomplimentingyou.”
“Inthatcase,I’llabstainfrombeingflattered.Whatcolorareyours?”Heleansinwithoutanyhintofembarrassment,onlycuriosity,hiswarmbreathfeatheringovermyjaw.That’sprettymuchwhenIrealizeIthinkhe’shot.
Imean,IknowIthoughthewashotinMug+ShotwhenIthoughthewassomeoneelse,butthisiswhenIrealizeIthinkhe—specificallyCharlieLastra,notjustsomeonewholookslikehim—ishot
Itakeanothersip.“Red.”
“Reallybringsoutthecolorofyourforkedtailandhorns.”
“You’retoosweet.”
“Nowthat,”hesays,“issomethingI’veneverbeenaccusedof.”
“Ican’timaginewhynot.”
Hearchesabrow,thathoney-goldringaroundhisblack-holepupilsglinting.“AndI’msurepeoplelineuptorecitesonnetsaboutyoursweetness?”
Iscoff.“Mysister’sthesweetone.Ifshepeesoutside,flowergardensburstupfromit.”
“Youknow,”hesays,“SunshineFallsmightnotbethebigcity,butyoushouldletyoursisterknow,wedohaveindoorplumbing.PrettymuchtheonlythingDustygotright.”
“Shoot!”Igrabmyphone.Dusty.She’sinavulnerableplace,andshe’susedtomebeingonehundredpercentaccessible.WhetherthisbookmakesmelookliketheCountessBáthoryornot,Ioweittohertodomyjob.Istarttypingareply,usinganuncharacteristicexcessofexclamationpoints.
Charliecheckshiswatch.“Nineo’clock,onvacation,inabar,andyou’restillworking.NadineWinterswouldbeproud.”
“You’reonetojudge,”Isay.“IhappentoknowyourLoggiaPublishingemailaccounthashadplentyofactionthisweek.”
“Yes,butIhavenoproblemwithNadineWinters,”hesays.“Infact,Ifindherfascinating.”
MyeyescatchonthewordI’mtyping.“Oh?What’ssointerestingaboutasociopath?”
“PatriciaHighsmithmighthavesomethingtosayaboutthat,”hereplies.“Butmoreimportantly,Nora,don’tyouthinkyou’rejudgingthischaracteralittletooharshly?It’stenpages.”
Isignthemessage,hitsend,andswivelbacktohim,mykneeslockingintoplacebetweenhis.“Becauseasweallknow,reviewersarenotoriouslykindtofemalecharacters.”
“Well,Ilikeher.Whothefuckcareswhetheranyoneelsedoes,aslongastheywanttoreadabouther?”
“Peoplealsoslowdowntogawkatcarwrecks,Charlie.Areyoucallingmeacarwreck?”
“I’mnottalkingaboutyouatall,”hesays.“I’mtalkingaboutNadineWinters.Myfictionalcrush.”
Afeelinglikeascorching-hotSlinkydropsthroughme.“Bigfanofjet-blackhairandKravMaga,huh?”
Charlieleansforward,faceserious,voicelow.“It’smoreabouttheblooddrippingfromherfangs.”
I’munsurehowtorespond.Notbecauseit’sgross,butbecauseI’mprettysurehe’smakingareferencetotheSharkofitall,andthatfeelsdangerouslyclosetoflirting.
AndIshoulddefinitelynotbeflirtingwithhim.ForallIknow,hehasapartner—oradollroom—andthenthere’sthefactthatpublishingisasmallpond,andonewrongmovecouldeasilypolluteit.
God,evenmyinternaldialoguesoundslikeNadine.Iclearmythroat,takeasipofbeer,andforcemyselfnottooverthinkthewayI’msittingtuckedbetweenhisthighs,orhowmyeyeskeepzeroinginonthatcreasebeneathhislip.Idon’tneedtooverthink.Idon’tneedtobeincompletecontrol.
“Sotellmeaboutthisplace,”Isay.“What’sinterestinghere?”
“Doyoulikegrass?”Charlieasks.
“Bigfan.”
“We’vegotlots.”
“Whatelse?”Iask.
“WemadeaBuzzFeedlistofthe‘Top10MostRepulsivelyNamedRestaurantsinAmerica.’?”
“Beenthere.”Iwavetoourgeneralsurroundings.“Donethat.”
Hetipshischintowardme.“Youtellme,Nora.Doyouthinkthisplaceisinteresting?”
“It’scertainly…”Isearchfortheword.“Peaceful.”
Helaughs,ahusky,jaggedsound,onethatbelongsinacrammedBrooklynbar,thestreetlightsbeyondtherain-streakedwindowtintinghisgoldenskinreddish.Nothere.
“Isthataquestion?”hesays.
“It’speaceful,”Isaymoreconfidently.
“Soyoujustdon’tlike‘peaceful.’?”He’ssmirkingthroughhispout.Smirting.“You’dratherbesomewhereloudandcrowded,wherejustexistingfeelslikeacompetition.”
I’vealwaysconsideredmyselfanintrovert,butthetruthisI’musedtohavingpeopleonallsidesofme.Youadapttolivinglifewithaconstantaudience.Itbecomescomforting.
MomusedtosayshebecameaNewYorkerthedaysheopenlyweptonthesubway.She’dgottencutinthefinalroundofanaudition,andanoldladyacrossthetraincarhadhandedheratissuewithoutevenlookingupfromherbook.
ThewaymymindkeepsspringingbacktoNewYorkseemstoprovehispoint.Onceagain,I’munnervedbythefeelingthatCharlieLastraseesrightthroughmycarefullypressedoutermostlayers.
“I’mperfectlyhappywithpeaceandquiet,”Iinsist.
“Maybe.”Charlietwiststograbhisbeer,themovementpressinghisoutsidekneeintominejustlongenoughforhimtotakeanothersipbeforehefacesmeagain.“Ormaybe,NoraStephens,Icanreadyoulikeabook.”
Iscoff.“Becauseyou’resosociallyintelligent.”
“Becauseyou’relikeme.”
Azingshootsupfromwherehiskneebrushesmine.“We’renothingalike.”
“You’retellingme,”Charliesays,“thatfromthemomentyousteppedofftheairplane,youhaven’tbeenitchingtogetbacktoNewYork?Feelinglike…likeyou’reanastronautoutinspace,whiletheworld’sjustturningatanormalspeed,andbythetimeyougetback,you’llhavemissedyourwholelife?LikeNewYorkwillneverneedyoulikeyouneedit?”
Exactly,Ithink,stunnedfortheforty-fifthtimeinasmanyminutes.
Ismoothmyhair,likeIcantuckanyexposedsecretsbackintoplace.“Actually,thelastcoupleofdayshavebeenarefreshingbreakfromallthesurly,monochromaticNewYorkliterarytypes.”
Charlie’sheadtilts,hislidsheavy.“Doyouknowyoudothat?”
“Dowhat?”Isay.
Hisfingersbrushtherightcornerofmymouth.“Getadivothere,whenyoulie.”
Islaphishandoutoftheair,butnotbeforeallthebloodinmybodyrushestomeethisfingertips.“That’snotmyLyingDivot,”Ilie.“It’smyAnnoyedDivot.”
“Onthatnote,”hesaysdryly,“howaboutagameofhigh-stakespoker?”
“Fine!”Itakeanotherslugofbeer.“It’smyLyingDivot.Sueme.ImissNewYork,andit’stooquiethereformetosleep,andI’mverydisappointedthatthegeneralstoreisactuallyapawnshop.Isthatwhatyouwanttohear,Charlie?Thatmyvacationisnotofftoanauspiciousstart?”
“I’malwaysafanofthetruth,”hesays.
“Noone’salwaysafanofthetruth,”Isay.“Sometimesthetruthsucks.”
“It’salwaysbettertohavethetruthupfrontthantobemisled.”
“There’sstillsomethingtobesaidforsocialniceties.”
“Ah.”Henods,eyesglintingknowingly.“Forexample,waitinguntilafterlunchtotellsomeoneyouhatetheirclient’sbook?”
“Itwouldn’thavekilledyou,”Isay
“Itmight’ve,”hesays.“AswelearnedfromOldManWhittaker,secretscanbetoxic.”
Istraightenassomethingoccurstome.“That’swhyyouhatedit.Becauseyou’refromhere.”
Nowheshiftsuncomfortably.I’vefoundaweakness;I’veseenthroughoneofCharlieLastra’soutermostlayers,andthescalestipeversoslightlyinmyfavor.Bigfan—huge
“Letmeguess.”Ijutoutmybottomlip.“Badmemories.”
“Ormaybe,”hedrawls,leaningin,“ithassomethingtodowiththefactthatDustyFieldingclearlyhasn’tevengoogledSunshineFallsinthelasttwentyyears,letalonevisited.”
Ofcourse,hehasapoint,butasIstudytheirritablerigidityofhisjawandthestrangelysensualthoughdistinctlygrimsetofhislips,Iknowmysmile’ssharpening.BecauseIseeit:thehalf-truthofhiswords.Icanreadhimtoo,anditfeelslikeI’vediscoveredalatentsuperpower.
“Comeon,Charlie,”Iprod.“Ithoughtyouwerealwaysafanofthetruth.Letitout.”
Hescowls(stillpouting,soscowting?).“SoI’mnotthisplace’sbiggestfan.”
“Wooooow,”Ising.“AllthistimeIthoughtyouhatedthebook,butreally,youjusthadadeep,darksecretthatmadeyoucloseofffromloveandjoyandlaughterand—ohmygod,youareOldManWhittaker!”
“Okay,maestro.”CharlieplucksthebeerbottleI’dbeengesticulatingwithfrommyhand,settingitsafelyonthebar.“Chill.I’vejustneverlikedthose‘everythingisbetterinsmalltowns’narratives.My‘darkestsecret’isthatIbelievedinSantaClausuntilIwastwelve.”
“Yousaythatlikeitisn’tincredibleblackmail.”
“Mutuallyassureddestruction.”Hetapsmyphone,anallusiontotheFrigiddocument.“I’mjusteveningthefieldforyouafterthosepages.”
“Hownoble.Nowtellmewhyyourdaywassobad.”
Hestudiesmeforamoment,thenshakeshishead.“No…Idon’tthinkIwill.Notuntilyoutellmewhyyou’rereallyhere.”
“Ialreadytoldyou,”Isay.“Vacation.”
Heleansinagain,hishandcatchingmychin,histhumblandingsquarelyonthedivotatthecornerofmylips.Mybreathcatches.Hisvoiceislowandraspy:“Liar.”
Hisfingertipsfallawayandhegesturestothebartenderfortwomorebeers.
Idon’tstophim.
BecauseIamnotNadineWinters.7
HOWABOUT,”CHARLIEsays,“agameofpool.IfIwin,youtellmewhyyou’rereallyhere,andifyoudo,I’lltellyouaboutmyday.”
Isnortandlookaway,hidingmylyingdimpleasItuckmyphoneintomybag,havingconfirmedLibbymadeithomesafely.“Idon’tplay.”
OrIhaven’tsincecollege,whenmyroommateandIusedtosharkfratboysweekly.
“Darts?”Charliesuggests.
Iarchabrow.“Youwanttohandmeaweaponaftertheturnmynighthastaken?”
Heleansclose,eyesshininginthedimbarlighting.“I’llplayleft-handed.”
“MaybeIdon’twanttohandyouaweaponeither,”Isay.
Hiseyerollissubtle,moreofatwitchofsomekeyfacemuscles.“Left-handedpool,then.”
Istudyhim.Neitherofusblinks.We’rebasicallyhavingasixth-grade-stylestaringcontest,andthelongeritgoeson,themoretheairseemstothrumwithsomemetaphysicalbuildupofenergy.
Islinkoffmystoolanddrainmysecondbeer.“Fine.”
Wemakeourwaybacktotheonlyopentable.It’sdarkeronthissideoftherestaurant,thefloorstickierwithspilledbooze,andthesmellofbeeremanatesfromthewalls.Charliegrabsapoolcueandarackandstartsgatheringtheballsinthecenterofthefelttable.“Youknowtherules?”heasks,peeringupatmeasheleansacrossthegreensurface.
“Oneofusisstripesandoneofusissolids?”Isay.
Hetakesthebluechalkcubefromtheedgeofthetableandworksitoverthepoolcue.“Youwanttogofirst?”
“You’regoingtoteachme,right?”I’mtryingtolookinnocent,tolooklikeLibbybattinghereyelashes.
Charliestaresatme.“Ireallywonderwhatyouthinkyourfaceisdoingrightnow,Stephens.”
Inarrowmyeyes;henarrowshisbackexaggeratedly.
“WhydoyoucarewhyI’mhere?”Iask.
“Morbidcuriosity.Whydoyoucareaboutmybadday?”
“Alwayshelpfultoknowyouropponent’sweaknesses.”
Heholdsthecueout.“Youfirst.”
Itakethestick,flopitontotheedgeofthetable,andlookovermyshoulder.“Isn’tnowthepartwhereyou’resupposedtoputyourarmsaroundmeandshowmehowtodoit?”
Hismouthcurves.“Thatdepends.Areyoucarryinganyweapons?”
“Thesharpestthingonmeismyteeth.”Isettleoverthecue,holdingitlikeI’venotonlyneverplayedpoolbeforebuthavequitepossiblyonlyjustdiscoveredmyownhands.
Charlie’ssmell—warmanduncannilyfamiliar—invadesmynoseashepositionshimselfbehindme,barelytouching.Icanfeelthefrontofhissweatergrazemybarespine,myskintinglingatthefriction,andhisarmsfoldaroundmineashismouthdropsbesidemyear.
“Loosenyourgrip.”Hislowvoicevibratesthroughme,hisbreathwarmonmyjawashepriesmyfingersfromthecueandreadjuststhem.“Thefronthand’sforaiming.You’renotgoingtomoveit.Themomentum”—hispalmscrapesdownmyelbowuntilhecatchesmywristanddragsitbackalongthecuetowardmyhip—“willcomefromhere.Youjustwanttokeepthestickstraightwhenyou’restartingout.Andaimasifyou’reliningupperfectlywiththeballyouwanttosink.”
“Gotit,”Isay.
Hishandsslideclearofme,andIwillthegoosebumpsonmyskintosettleasIlineupmyshot.“OnethingIforgottomention”—Isnapthestickintothecueball,sendingthesolidblueoneacrossthetableintothepocket—“isthatIdidusedtoplay.”
IwalkpastCharlietolineupmynextshot.
“AndhereIthoughtIwasjustareallygoodteacher,”hesaysflatly.
Ipocketthegreenballnext,andthenmisstheburgundyone.WhenIchanceaglanceathim,helooksnotonlyunsurprisedbutdownrightsmug.LikeI’veprovenapoint.
Hepullsthecuefrommyhandsandcirclesthetable,eyeingseveraloptionsforhisfirstshotbeforechoosingthegreen-stripedballandgettingintoposition.“AndIguessIshould’vementioned”—hetapsthecueball,whichsendsthegreen-stripedballintoapocket,thepurple-stripedballsinkingrightbehindit—“I’mleft-handed.”
Ijammymouthclosedwhenhelooksatmeonhiswaytolineuphisnextshot.Thistime,hepocketstheorange-stripedball,thentheburgundyone,beforefinallymissingonhisnextturn.
HestickshislipoutlikeIdidwhenIteasedhimaboutbadmemories.“WouldithelpthestingifIboughtyouanotherbeer?”
Iyankthestickfromhishand.“Makeitamartini,andgetyourselfonetoo.You’regoingtoneedit.”
Charliewinsthefirstgame,soonegamebecomestwo.Iwinthatone,andhe’sunwillingtotie,soweplayathird.Whenhewins,hepullsthecueoutofmyreachbeforeIcandemandafourthmatch.
“Nora,”hesays,“wehadadeal.”
“Ineveragreedtoit.”
“Youplayed,”hesays.
Itipmyheadback,groaning.
“Ifithelps,”hesayswithhissignaturedryness,“I’mwillingtosignanNDAbeforeyoutellmeaboutwhateverdeep,dark,twistedfantasybroughtyouhere.”
Islitmyeyes.
HemovesmyglassoffthecocktailnapkinandfeelsaroundinhispocketsuntilhefindsaPilotG2,admittedlymyownpenofchoice,thoughIalwaysuseblackinkandhe’sgotthetraditionaleditorred.Heleansoverandscribbles:
I,CharlesLastra,ofsoundmind,doswearIwillkeepNoraStephens’sdark,dirty,twistedsecretunderpenaltyoflaworfivemilliondollars,whichevercomesfirst.
“Okay,you’veabsolutelyneverseenacontract,”Isay.“Maybeneverbeeninthesameroomasone.”
Hefinishessigninganddropsthepen.“That’safinefuckingcontract.”
“Pooruninformedbookeditors,withtheirwhimsicalnotionsofhowagreementsaremade.”Ipathishead.
Heswatsmyarmaway.“Whatcouldpossiblybesobad,Nora?Areyouontherun?Didyourobabank?”Inthedark,thegoldofhiseyeslooksstrangelylightagainsthisoversizedpupils.“Didyoufireyourpregnantassistant?”heteases,voicelow.Theallusionisashocktomysystem,ajoltofelectricityfromheadtotoe.
Miraculously,I’dforgottenaboutDusty’spages.NowhereNadineisagain,tauntingme.
“What’ssowrongwithbeingincontrolanyway?”Idemand,oftheuniverseatlarge.
“Beatsme.”
“Andwhat,justbecauseIdon’twantkids,Iwouldsupposedlypunishapregnantwomanformakingadifferentdecisionthanme?Myfavoriteperson’sapregnantwoman!AndI’mobsessedwithmynieces.Noteverydecisionawomanmakesissomegrandindictmentonotherwomen’slives.”
“Nora,”Charliesays.“It’sanovel.Fiction.”
“Youdon’tgetit,becauseyou’re.you.”Iwaveahandathim.
“Me?”hesays.
“Youcanaffordtobeallsurlyandsharpandpeoplewilladmireyouforit.Therulesaredifferentforwomen.Youhavetostrikethisperfectbalancetobetakenseriouslybutnotseenasbitchy.It’saconstanteffort.Peopledon’twanttoworkwithsharkywomen—”
“Ido,”hesays.
“Andevenmenexactlylikeusdon’twanttobewithus.Imean,sure,someofthemthinktheydo,butnextthingyouknow,they’redumpingyouinafour-minutephonecallbecausethey’veneverseenyoucryandmovingacrossthecountrytomarryaChristmastreeheiress!”
Charlie’sfulllipspressintoaknot,hiseyessquinting.“…What?”
“Nothing,”Igrumble.
“Averyspecific‘nothing.’?”
“Forgetit.”
“Notlikely,”hesays.“I’mgoingtobeupallnightmakingdiagramsandcharts,tryingtofigureoutwhatyoujustsaid.”
“I’mcursed,”Isay.“That’sall.”
“Oh,”hesays.“Sure.Gotit.”
“Iam,”Iinsist.
“I’maneditor,Stephens,”hesays.“I’mgoingtoneedmoredetailstobuyintothisnarrative.”
“It’smyliterarystockcharacter,”Isay.“I’mthecold-blooded,overlyambitiouscityslickerwhoexistsasafoiltotheGoodWoman.I’mtheonewhogetsdumpedforthegirlwho’sprettierwithoutmakeupandlovesbarbecueandsomehowmakesdestroyingakaraokestandardseemadorable!”
Andforsomereason(mylowalcoholtolerance),itdoesn’tstopthere.Itcomesspillingout.LikeI’mjustpukingupembarrassinghistoryontothepeanut-shell-litteredfloorforeveryonetosee.
AarondumpingmeforPrinceEdwardIsland(and,confirmedvialightsocialmediastalking,aredheadnamedAdeline).GrantbreakingupwithmeforChastityandherparents’littleinn.LucaandhiswifeandtheircherryfarminMichigan.
WhenIreachpatientzero,Jakobthenovelist-turned-rancher,Icutmyselfoff.Whathappenedbetweenhimandmedoesn’tbelongattheendofalist;itbelongswhereIleftit,inthesmokingcraterthatchangedmylifeforever.“Yougettheidea.”
Hiseyesslit,anamusedtilttohislips.“…DoIthough?”
“Tropesandclichéshavetocomefromsomewhere,right?”Isay.“Womenlikemehaveclearlyalwaysexisted.Soit’seitheraveryspecifickindofself-sabotageoranancientcurse.Cometothinkofit,maybeitstartedwithLilith.Tooweirdtobecoincidence.”
“Youknow,”Charliesays,“I’dsayDustywritingawhole-assbookaboutmyhometownandthenmerunningintoheragentinsaidtownistooweirdtobeacoincidence,butaswe’vealreadyestablished,you’re‘notstalkingme,’socoincidencesdooccasionallyhappen,Nora.”
“Butthis?Fourrelationshipsendingbecausemyboyfriendsdecidedtowalkoffintothewildernessandnevercomeback?”
He’sfightingasmirkbutlosingthebattle.
“I’mnotridiculous!”Isay,laughingdespitemyself.Okay,becauseofmyself.
“Exactlywhatanot-ridiculouspersonwouldsay,”Charlieallowswithanod.“Look,I’mstilltryingtofigureouthowyourshittyJackLondon–wannabeex-boyfriendsfactorintowhyyou’rehere.”
“Mysister’s…”Iconsiderforamoment,thensettleon,“Thingshavebeenkindofoffbetweenusforthelastfewmonths,andshewantedtogetawayforawhile.Plusshereadstoomanysmall-townromancenovelsandisconvincedtheanswertoourproblemsishavingourowntransformativeexperiences,likemyexesdid.Inaplacelikethis.”
“Yourexes,”hesaysbluntly.“Whogaveuptheircareersandmovedtothewilderness.”
“Yes,thoseones.”
“So,what?”hesays.“You’resupposedtofindhappinesshereandditchNewYork?Quitpublishing?”
“Ofcoursenot,”Isay.“Shejustwantstohavefun,beforethebabycomes.Takeabreakfromourusuallivesanddosomethingnew.Wehavealist.”
“Alist?”
“Abunchofthingsfromthebooks.”AndthisiswhyIdon’tdrinktwomartinis.Becauseevenatfiveeleven,mybodyisincapableofprocessingalcohol,asevidencedbythefactthatIstartlisting,“Wearflannel,bakesomethingfromscratch,getsmall-townmakeovers,buildsomething,datesomelocals—”
Charlielaughsbrusquely.“She’stryingtomarryyouofftoapigfarmer,Stephens.”
“Sheisnot.”
“Yousaidshe’stryingtogiveyouyourownsmall-townromancenovel,”hesayswryly.“Youknowhowthosebooksend,don’tyou,Nora?Withabigweddinginsideofabarn,oranepilogueinvolvingbabies.”
Iscoff.OfcourseIknowhowtheyend.NotonlyhaveIwatchedmyexeslivethem,butwhenLibbyandIstillsharedanapartment,I’dreadthefinalpagesofherbooksalmostcompulsively.Thatneverreallytemptedmetoturnbacktopageone.
“Look,Lastra,”Isay.“MysisterandIareheretospendtimetogether.Youprobablydidn’tlearnthisinwhateverlabspawnedyou,butvacationsareafairlytypicalwayforlovedonestobondandrelax.”
“Yes,becauseifanything’sgoingtorelaxapersonlikeyou,”hesays,“it’sspendingtimeinatownconvenientlysituatedbetweentwoequidistantDressbarns.”
“Youknow,I’mnotasmuchofanuptightcontrolfreakaseitheryouorDustyseemtothink.Icouldhaveaperfectlynicetimeonadatewithapigfarmer.Andyouknowwhat?Maybeit’sagoodidea.It’snotlikeI’vehadanyluckwithNewYorkers.MaybeIhavebeenfishinginthewrongpond.Or,like,thewrongstreamofnuclearwasterunoff.”
“You,”hesays,“aresomuchweirderthanIthought.”
“Well,forwhatit’sworth,beforetonight,Iassumedyouwentintoabroomclosetandenteredpowersavingmodewheneveryouweren’tatwork,soIguesswe’rebothsurprised.”
“Nowyou’rebeingridiculous,”hesays.“WhenI’mnotatwork,I’minmycoffininthebasementofanoldVictorianmansion.”
Isnortintomyglass,whichmakeshimcrackareal,humansmile.Itlives,Ithink.
“Stephens,”hesays,tonedryoncemore,“ifyou’rethevillaininsomeoneelse’slovestory,thenI’mthedevil.”
“Yousaidit,notme,”Ireply.
Heliftsabrow.“You’rescrappytonight.”
“I’malwaysscrappy,”Isay.“TonightI’mjustnotbotheringtohideit.”
“Good.”Heleansin,droppinghisvoice,andanelectriccurrentchargesthroughme.“I’vealwayspreferredtohavethingsoutintheopen.ThoughthepigfarmersofSunshineFallsmightnotfeelthesameway.”
Hisgazeflickssidelongtowardmine,hisscentvaguelyspicyandfamiliar.Anunwelcomeheavinesssettlesbetweenmythighs.Ireallyhopemychindivothasn’tfoundawaytoannouncethatI’mturnedon.
“Ialreadytoldyou,”Isay.“I’mhereformysister.”
AndasmuchanxietyasIfeelbeingawayfromhome,thetruthis,IspendthelengthofLibby’spregnanciesinalow-gradepanicanyway.AtleastthiswayIcankeepaneyeonher.
Ineverdreamedofhavingmyownkids,butthewayIfeltduringLibby’sfirstpregnancyreallysealedthedeal.Therearejusttoomanythingsthatcangowrong,toomanywaystofail.
Ipitchmyselfontoastoolatthecornerofthebarandalmostfalloverintheprocess.
Charliecatchesmyarmsandsteadiesme.“Howaboutsomewater?”hesays,slidingontotheemptystoolbesidemine,thatsuppressedsmirk/pout/what-even-is-thistugginghisfulllipsslightlytoonesideashesignalstothebartender.
Isquaremyshoulders,tryingfordignified.“You’renotgoingtodistractme.”
Hisbrowlifts.“From?”
“Iwononeofthosegames.Youowemeinformation.”EspeciallygiventhehorrifyingamountIjustblurtedout.
Hisheadtilts,andhepeersdownhisfaceatme.“Whatdoyouwanttoknow?”
Ourlunchtwoyearsagopopsintomyhead,Charlie’sirritatedglanceathiswatch.“Yousaidyouweretryingtocatchaflightthedaywemet.Why?”
Hescratchesathiscollar,hisbrowfurrowing,jawetchedwithtension.“ThesamereasonI’mherenow.”
“Intriguing.”
“Ipromiseit’snot.”Watershaveappearedonthebar.Heturnsoneinplace,hisjawtensing.“Mydadhadastroke.Onebackthen,andanotherafewmonthsago.I’mheretohelp.”
“Shit.I—wow.”Immediately,myvisionclearsandsharpensonhim,mybuzzburningoff.“Youwereso…together.”
“Imadeacommitmenttobethere,”hesays,withadefensiveedge,“andIdidn’tseehowtalkingaboutitwouldbeproductive.”
“Iwasn’tsaying—look,I’dgottendumpedlikeforty-sixsecondsearlier,andIstillsatdownforamartiniandasaladwithaperfectstranger,soIgetit.”
Charlie’seyessnagonmine,sointenseIhavetolookawayforasecond.
“Washe—isyourdadokay?”
Heturnshisglassagain.“Whenwehadlunch,Ialreadyknewhewasn’tindanger.Mysisterhadjusttoldmeaboutthestroke,butitactuallyhappenedweeksearlier.”Hisfacehardens.“HedecidedIdidn’tneedtoknow,andthatwasthat.”Heshiftsonhisstool—thediscomfortofsomeonewho’sjustdecidedhe’sovershared.
Evenfactoringintheginandbeersloshingaroundinmybody,I’mshockedtohearmyselfblurt,“Ourdadleftuswhenmymomwaspregnant.Idon’treallyrememberhim.Afterthat,itwasprettymuchaparadeofloserboyfriends,soI’mnotreallyanexpertondads.”
Charlie’sbrowspinch,hisfingersstillingonhisdampglass.“Soundsterrible.”
“Itwasn’ttoobad,”Isay.“Sheneverletmostofthemmeetus.Shewasgoodaboutthat.”Ireachformyglass,tryinghistic,turningitinaringofitsownsweat.“Butoneday,she’dbefloatingonacloud,singingherfavoriteHello,Dolly!songsandfluffingembroideredthrift-storepillowslikeSnowWhiteinNewYork,andthenext—”
Idon’ttrailoffsomuchasjustoutrightcutmyselfoff.
I’mnotashamedofmyupbringing,butthemoreyoutellapersonaboutyourself,themorepoweryouhandover.AndIparticularlyavoidsharingMomwithstrangers,likethememoryofherisanewspaperclippingandeverytimeItakeitout,shefadesandcreasesalittlemore.
Charlie’sthumbslidesovermywristabsently.“Stephens?”
“Idon’tneedyoutofeelsorryforme.”
Hispupilsdilate.“Iwouldn’tdare.”Adareisexactlywhathisvoicesoundslike.
Atsomepoint,we’vedrawntogether,mylegstuckedbetweenhisagain,anendless,buzzingfeedbackloopeverywherewe’retouching.Hiseyesareheavyonme,hispupilsalmostblottingouthisirises,alustrousringofhoneyaroundadeep,darkpit.
Heatgathersbetweenmythighs,andIuncrossandrecrossmylegs.Charlie’seyesdroptofollowthemotion,andhiswaterglasshitchesagainsthisbottomlip,likehe’sforgottenwhathewasdoing.Inthatmoment,heisonehundredpercentlegibletome.
Imightaswellbelookingintoamirror.
Icouldleanintohim.
Icouldletmykneesslidefurtherintothepocketbetweenhis,ortouchhisarm,ortipmychinup,andinanyofthosehypotheticalscenarios,weendupkissing.Imaynotlikehimallthatmuch,butanotinsignificantpartofmeisdyingtoknowwhathisbottomlipfeelslike,howthathandonmywristwouldtouchme.
Justthenitstartstorain—pour—andthecorrugatedmetalrooferuptsintoafeverishrattle.IjerkmyarmoutfromunderCharlie’sandstand.“Ishouldgethome.”
“Shareacab?”heasks,hisvoicelow,gravelly.
Theoddsoffindingtwocabsatthishour,inthistown,aren’tgreat.Theoddsoffindingonethatisn’tdrivenbyHardyareterrible.“IthinkI’llwalk.”
“Inthisrain?”hesays.“Andthoseshoes?”
Igrabmybag.“Iwon’tmelt.”Probably.
Charliestands.“Wecansharemyumbrella.”8
WEMAKEOURwayoutofPoppaSquat’shuddledunderCharlie’sumbrella.(I’dcalleditfortuitous,butitturnsouthechecksaweatherappobsessively,soapparentlyI’vefoundsomeoneevenmorepredictablethanIam.)Thesmellofgrassandwildflowersisthickinthedampair,andit’scooledconsiderably.
Heasks,“Whereareyoustaying?”
“It’scalledGoode’sLilyCottage,”Isay.
Hesays,almosttohimself,“Bizarre.”
Heatcreepsupmyneckfromwherehisbreathhitsit.“What,Icouldn’tpossiblybehappyanywherethatisn’tablackmarblepenthousewithacrystalchandelier?”
“ExactlywhatImeant.”Hecastsalookmywayaswepassunderabarofstreetlight,therainsparklinglikesilverconfetti.“Andalsoit’smyparents’rentalproperty.”
Mycheeksflush.“You’re—SallyGoode’syourmom?Yougrewupnexttoahorsefarm?”
“What,”hesays,“Icouldn’tpossiblyhavebeenraisedanywherebutablackmarblepenthousewithacrystalchandelier?”
“Justhardtoimagineyoubelonginganywhereinthistown,letalonesoclosetoamanurepyramid.”
“Belongingmightbeoverstatingthings,”hesaysacidly.
“Sowhereareyoustaying?”
“Well,Iusuallystayatthecottage,”hesays.Anothersidelongglanceatmethroughthedark.“Butthatwasn’tanoption.”
Hissmellissouncannilyfamiliar,butIstillcan’tplaceit.Warm,withaslightlyspicyedge,faintenoughthatIkeepcatchingmyselftryingtoinhalealungfulofit.“Thenwhere?”Iask.“Yourchildhoodbedroom?”
Wepauseatthedead-endstreetthecottagesitson,andCharliesighs.“I’msleepinginaracecarbed,Nora.Areyouhappy?”
Happydoesn’tbegintocoverit.Theimageofstern-browed,highlypolishedCharlietuckedintoaplasticCorvetteandscowlingathisKindlemakesmelaughsohardit’sastruggletostayupright.He’sprobablythelastpersonIcouldpictureinaracecarbed,asidefrommyself.
CharliehooksanarmaroundmywaistasIkeelover.“Littlereminder,”hesays,keepingmemovingdownthegravellane.“Thatisfarfromthemostembarrassingthingoneofushassaidtonight.”
Igetout,“Wereyou,like,aNASCARkid?”
“No,”hesays,“butmydadneverstoppedtrying.”
Idevolveintoanotherfitoflaughterthatthreatenstotipmeover.Charliepullsmeagainsthisside.“Onefootinfrontoftheother,Stephens.”
“Mutuallyassureddestructionindeed,”Icry.
Hestartstoleadmeupthehillside,andimmediatelymyheelsinksintothemud,pinningmetotheground.Itakeanotherstepandtheotherheelpuncturesthemudtoo.Anindignanthalfshriekrisesoutofme.
Charliestops,sighingheavilyasheeyesmyshoes.“AmIgoingtohavetocarryyou?”
“Iamnotlettingyougivemeapiggybackride,Lastra,”Isay.
“AndI,”hereplies,“amnotlettingyoudestroythosepoor,innocentshoes.I’mnotthatkindofman.”
Ilookatmymules,andamiserablypetulantsoundsqueaksoutofme.“Fine.”
“You’rewelcome.”HeturnsandhunchesasIhikeupmydressandsayafondfarewelltothelastremnantsofmydignity,thenhookmyarmsoverhisshouldersandhopontohisback.
“Allgood?”hesays.
“I’mgettingapiggybackride,”Ireply,adjustingtheumbrellaoverus.“Doesthatansweryourquestion?”
“PoorNora,”heteases,hishandssettlingagainstmythighsashestartsupthesteps.“Icanonlyimaginewhatyou’regoingthrough.”
Arealizationclangsthroughme,chaoticandemphaticaschurchbells:thereasonhissmellissofamiliar.It’sthesamesubtlegender-neutralcologneIwear.AcedarwoodandamberblendcalledBOOK,meanttosummonimagesofsunbathedshelvesandwornpages.WhenIfoundoutthecompanywasgoingunder,IputinabulkordersoIcouldstockpileit.
Iwould’veplaceditsooner,butitsmellsdifferentonhim,thewayMom’ssignaturelemon-lavenderscenthitsdifferentonLibby,anoteofvanilladrawnoutthatwasnevertherebefore.Charlie’srenditionofBOOKisspicier,warmerthanmine.
“Awfullyquietbackthere,Stephens,”hesays.“AnythingIcandotomakeyourjourneymorecomfortable?Aneckpillow?SomeofthosetinyDeltacookies?”
“I’dtakesomespursandaridingcrop,”Isay.
“Should’veseenthatcoming,”hegrumbles.
“I’dalsoacceptaswornaffidavitthatwe’llneverspeakofthisagain.”
“Afterthewayyoudisparagedmylastcontract?Idon’tthinkso.”
Whenwereachthefrontsteps,IslideoffCharlie’sbackandtrytopullmydressbackintoplace,whichisastrugglebecauseIdidn’tdoanamazingjobofkeepingtheumbrellaoverus,andwe’rebothfairlydrenched,mydressplasteredtomythighsandbangsstucktomyeyes.
Charliereachesouttobrushthemaway.“Nicehaircut,bytheway.”
“Straightmenlovebangs,”Isay.“Theymakewomenapproachable.”
“Nothingmoreintimidatingthanaforehead,”hesays.“AlthoughIsortofmisstheblond.”
Andthereitis:thatmushroomcloudofwantlowinmybelly,atwingebetweenmythighs.“It’snotnatural,”Iannounce.
“Didn’tthinkitwas,”hesays,“butitsuitsyou.”
“Becauseitlooksvaguelyevil?”Iguess.
Hesplitsintoarare,fullgrin,butonlyforasecond.Justlongenoughtosendmystomachflipping.“I’vebeenthinking.”
“I’llcallanewscrewimmediately.”
“Youshouldscratchnumberfive.”
“Numberfive?”
“Onthelist.”
Ipalmmyface.“WhydidItellyouaboutthat?”
“Becauseyouwantedsomeonetostopyoufromgoingthroughwithit,”hesays.“Thelastthingyouneedistogetmixedupwithsomeonewholiveshere.”
Idropmyhandandnarrowmyeyesathim.“Dotheyeatoutsiders?”
“Worse,”hesays.“Theykeepthemhereforever.”
Iscoff.“Lastingcommitment.Howterrible.”
“Nora,”hesays,tonelowandchiding.“YouandIbothknowyoudon’twantthatepilogue.Someonelikeyou—inshoeslikethat—couldneverbehappyhere.Don’tgetsomepoorpigfarmer’shopesupfornothing.”
“Okay,rude,”Isay.
“Rude?”Hestepsincloser,thesearingfluorescentlightoverthedoorcastinghiminstarkrelief,etchingoutthehollowsbeneathhischeekbonesandmakinghiseyesgleam.“RudeisdeclaringtheentiredatingpoolofNewYorkCitytaintedjustbecauseyoumanagedtopickfourassholesinarow.”
Mythroatwarms,alumpoflavaslidingdownit.“Don’ttellmeIhurtyourfeelings,”Imurmur.
“Youofallpeopleshouldknow,”hesays,gazedroppingtomymouth,“we‘surly,monochromaticliterarytypes’don’thavethose.”
Inmyhead,NadineWinters’svoiceisscreaming,Abort,abort!Thisfitsintonoplan!Butthere’salotofrushingbloodandtinglingskinforthewordstocompetewith.
Idon’trememberdoingit,butmyfingersarepressedagainsthisstomach,hismusclestighteningunderthem.
Badidea,IthinkinthesplitsecondbeforeCharlietugsmyhipsflushtohis.Thewordsbreakapartlikealphabetsoup,letterssplinteringoffineverydirection,utterlymeaninglessnow.Hismouthcatchesmineroughlyasheeasesmebackintothecottagedoor,coveringmybodywithhis.
Ihalfmoanatthepressure.Hishandstightenonmywaist.Mylipspartforhistongue,thetangofbeerandtheherbaledgeofgintanglingpleasantlyinmymouth.
Itfeelslikemyoutlineisdissolving,likeI’mturningtoliquid.Hismouthskatesdownmyjaw,overmythroat.Myhandsscrapethroughhiscoarse,rain-soakedhair,andheletsoutalowgroan,hishandtrailingtomychest,fingersbrushingovermynipple.
Atsomepoint,theumbrellahasclatteredtotheground.Charlie’sshirtisplasteredtohim.Hepalmsmethroughmydampdress,makingmearch.Ourmouthssliptogether.
Thelastdregsofbeerandginevaporatefrommybloodstream,andeverythingishappeninginhighdefinition.Myhandsskimupthebackofhisshirt,fingernailssinkingintohissmooth,warmskin,urginghimcloser,andhispalmmovestothehemofmydress,shuckingitupmythigh.Hisfingersglidehigher,sendingchillsripplingovermyskin,andsomethinglikeWaitjustbarely,half-heartedlyslipsoutofme.
I’mnotevensurehowheheardit,butCharliejerksback,lookinglikeamanfreshlyoutofatrance,hairmussed,lipsbee-stung,darkeyesblinkingrapidly.“Shit!”hesays,hoarse,steppingback.“Ididn’tmeanto…”
Clarityhitsmewithacold-watershock
Shitisright!
Asin,Idon’tshitwhereIeat.OrkisswhereIwork.It’sbadenoughthatinayearandahalf,everyoneIworkwithisgoingtothinkofmeasNadineWinters—Idon’tneedtoaddanymorepotentialfueltomyreputation’sfuneralpyre.
Hesays,“Ican’treallygetinvolved—”
“Idon’tneedanexplanation!”Icuthimoff,yankingthehemofmydressbackdownmythighs.“Itwasamistake!”
“Iknow!”Charliesays,soundingvaguelyoffended.
“Well,Iknowtoo!”
“Fine!”hesays.“Thenweagree!”
“Fine!”Icry,continuingrecordedhistory’sstrangestandleast-productiveargument.
Charliehasn’tmoved.Neitherofushas.Hiseyesarestillinkydarkandhungry,andthankstothelightbulboverthedoor,hishard-onmightaswellbeinadisplaycaseataparticularlylasciviousmuseum.
Itakeabreath.“Let’sjustactlike—”
Atthesametime,hesays,“Weshouldpretenditneverhappened.”
Inod.
Henods.
It’ssettled.
Hegrabshisumbrellaofftheground,andneitherofusbotherswith“goodnight.”Hejustnodsagainstifflyandturnsandwalksaway.
Itneverhappened,Ithinkwithsomeforce.
Whichisgood,becausemyrecklessdecisionsalwayshavedisastrousconsequences.9
WHENIWAStwelve,mymotherwascastinacrimeprocedural.Shehititoffwiththeshowrunner.Beforelong,shewasseeinghimnightly.
Fourepisodesintofilming,hereconciledwithhisestrangedwife.Mom’spluckyyoungdetectivecharacterwasswiftlykilledoff,herbodydiscoveredinameatlocker.
I’dneverseenMomquitesodistraught.Weavoidedwholeswathsofthecityafterward,dodginganyplaceshemightrunintohim,orberemindedofhim,orofthejobshe’dlost.
Afterthat,itwasaneasydecisionformetoneverfallinlove.
Foryears,Istuckbyit.ThenImetJakob.
Hemadetheworldopenuparoundme,liketherewerecolorsI’dneverseen,newlevelsofhappinessIcouldn’thaveimagined.
MomwasecstaticwhenItoldherIwasmovinginwithhim.Aftereverythingshe’dbeenthrough,shewasstillaromantic.
He’sgoingtotakesuchgoodcareofyou,sweetgirl,shesaid.Hewasacoupleofyearsolderthanmeandhadawell-payingbartendingjobandatinyapartmentuptown.
Aweeklater,IhuggedMomandLibbygoodbyeandschleppedmystufftohisplace.Twoweeksafterthat,Momwasgone.
Thebillscamedueallatonce.Rent,utilities,acreditcardwe’dopenedinmynamewhenthingsgotparticularlytight.Mom’screditwasshot,andIwantedtohelppullmyweight.
I’dbeenworkingatFreemanBookssinceIwassixteen,butImademinimumwageandcouldonlymanagepart-timewhileIwasincollege,andsomeday,thestudentloansI’dtakenoutwouldcomebacktohauntme.
Mom’sactorfriendsdidafundraiserforus,announcingafterthefuneralthatthey’draisedoverfifteenthousanddollars,andLibbycriedhappytears,becauseshehadnoideahowlittleofadentthatwouldmake.
She’dbeenonafashiondesignkickandwantedtogotoParsons,andIdebateddroppingoutofmyEnglishprogramtofundhertuition,thoughI’dalreadysunktensofthousandsintomine.
ImovedoutofJakob’splaceandbackinwithLibby.
Ibudgeted.
Scouredtheinternetforthecheapest,mostfillingmeals.
Tookonotherjobs:tutoring,waitressing,outrightwritingclassmates’papers.
Jakobfoundouthe’dgottenacceptedintotheWyomingwritingresidencyandleft,andthentherewasthebreakup,theutterdesolation,thereminderofwhythepromiseI’dmadetomyselfyearsagostillmattered.
Istoppeddating,mostly.Firstdateswereallowed(dinneronly),andthoughI’dnevertellanyone,thereasonwasthatI’dhaveonelessmealtopayfor.TwoifIorderedenoughtobringLibbyleftovers.
Seconddateswereano-go.That’swhentheguiltkickedin—orthefeelingsdid.
Libbyplayfullyheckledmeabouthownoonewasgoodenoughforaseconddate.
Ilether.Itwoulddestroymetohearwhatshethoughtofthetruth.
Sheworkedtoo.WithoutMom’sincome,wehadtotightenourpursestrings,butLibbyneverwantedtospendmoneyonherselfanyway.
Sometimes,aftercomplainingtoheraboutaparticularlybaddate,though,I’dcomehomefromclassesoratutoringshifttofindheralreadyasleepinherroom(I’dmovedoutintothelivingroom,whereMomusedtosleep,soshecouldhavethebedroomtoherself)andabundleofsunflowerssittinginavasebesidethepulloutcouch.
IfIwerenormal,Imight’vecried.InsteadI’dsitthere,clutchingthevase,andjustfuckingshake.Liketherewereemotionsdeepinme,buttoomanylayersofashlayoverthem,deadeningthemtonothingbutatectonicmurmur.
ThereisaspotinmyfootIcan’tfeel.Isteppedonapieceofglassandthenervestherearedeadnow.Thedoctorsaidthey’dgrowback,butit’sbeenyearsandthatplaceisstillnumb.
Thatwashowmyhearthadfeltforyears.Likeallthecrackscallusedover.
Thatenabledmetofocusonwhatmattered.IbuiltalifeformeandLibby,ahomethatnobankorex-boyfriendcouldevertakefromus.
Iwatchedmyfriendsinrelationshipsmakecompromiseaftercompromise,shrinkingintothemselvesuntiltheywerenothingbutapieceofawhole,untilalltheirstoriescamefromthepast,andtheircareeraspirations,theirfriends,andtheirapartmentswerereplacedbyouraspirations,ourfriends,ourapartment.Halflivesthatcouldbetakenfromthemwithoutanywarning.
BythenI’dhadallthepracticeinfirstdatesthatapersoncouldget.Iknewwhichredflagstowatchfor,thequestionstoask.I’dseenmyfriends,coworkers,colleaguesgetghosted,cheatedon,boredintheirrelationships,andrudelyawakenedwhenpartnersturnedouttobemarriedorhavegamblingproblemsorbechronicallyunemployed.Isawcasualhookupsturnintomiserablycomplicatedhalfrelationships.
Ihadstandardsandalife,andIwasn’tabouttoletsomemandestroyitlikeitwasmerelythepaperbannerhewasmeanttocrashthroughasheenteredthefield.
SoonlyoncemycareerwasontrackdidIstartdatingagain,andthistimeIdiditright.Withcaution,checklists,andcarefullyweigheddecisions.
Ididnotkisscolleagues.IdidnotkisspeopleIknewnexttonothingabout.IdidnotkissmenIhadnointentionofdating,ormenIwasincompatiblewith.Ididn’tletrandomboutsoflustcalltheshots.
UntilCharlieLastra.
Itneverhappened.
IexpectedLibbytobegiddyaboutmyslipup.Instead,she’sasdisapprovingasIam.
“YourProfessionalNemesisfromNewYorkdoesnotcountfornumberfive,Sissy,”shesays.“Couldn’tyouhavemadeoutwith,like,arodeoclownwithaheartofgold?”
“Iwaswearingentirelythewrongshoesforthat,”Isay.
“YoucouldkissamillionCharliesbackinthecity.You’resupposedtobetryingnewthingshere.Webothare.”Shebrandishestheeggyspatulainmydirection.Growingup,ourapartmentwasayogurt-or-granola-bar-breakfasthome,butnowLibby’safullEnglishbreakfastkindofgal,andtherearealreadypancakesandveggiesausagesstackednexttotheeggpan.
Ifelloutofbedatnineafteranotherrestlessnight,tookarunfollowedbyaquickshower,thencamedownforbreakfast.Libby’sbeenupforhoursalready.Shelovesmorningnowevenmorethanshelovedsleepingasateenager.Evenonweekends,sheneversleepspastseven.Partly,I’msure,becauseshecanhearBea’shigh-pitchedsquealorTala’slittlepoundingfeetfromthreemilesandadoseofmorphineaway.
Shealwayssaysthetwoofthemareus,butbodyswapped.
Bea,theoldest,issweetascherrypielikeLibby,butwithmylankinessandash-brownhair.Talahashermother’sstrawberry-goldhairandisdestinedtobenotallerthanfivefour,butlikeherAuntNono,she’sabrute:opinionatedanddeterminedtoneverfollowanycommandwithoutathoroughexplanation.
“You’retheonewhoParent-Trappedmewithhim,”Ipointout,pullingthespatulafromLibby’shandandusheringhertowardachair.“Itneverwould’vehappenedifyouhadn’tditchedme.”
“Look,Nora,sometimesevenmommiesneedalonetime,”shesaysslowly.“Anyway,Ithoughtyouhatedthatguy.”
“Idon’thatehim,”Isay.“We’rejust,like,opposingmagnets,orsomething.”
“Opposingmagnetsaretheonesthatdrawtogether.”
“Okay,thenwe’remagnetswiththesamepolarity.”
“Twomagnetswiththesamepolaritywouldnevermakeoutagainstadoor.”
“Unlikeothermagnets,whichwoulddefinitelydothat.”Icarryoverourloadedplates,floppingintothechairacrossfromher.It’salreadyhellishlyhot.We’vegotthewindowsopenandthefanson,butit’sasmistyasalow-rentsauna.
“Itwasamomentofweakness.”ThememoryofCharlie’shandsonmywaist,hischestflatteningmeintothedoor,searsthroughme.
Libbyarchesaneyebrow.Withherbluntpinkbob,she’sclosertomasteringmyownEvilEye,buthercheeksarestill,ultimately,toosofttogetthejobdone.“Lestyouforget,Sissy,thattypeofmanhasnotworkedoutforyouinthepast.”
Personally,Iwouldn’tlumpCharlieinwithmyexes.Foronething,noneofthemevertriedtoravagemeoutside.Also,theyneverlurchedoutofakisslikeI’dshovedahotfirepokerdowntheirpants.
“I’mproudofyouforgoingoffbook—Ijustwouldn’thavechosenahard-coregropingbyCountvonLastraasTheMove.”
Idropmyfaceintomyforearm,newlymortified.“ThisisallNadineWinters’sfault.”
Libby’sbrowpinches.“Who?”
“Oh,that’sright.”Iliftmyhead.“Inyourdesperationtoseemebarefootandpregnant,youranoutbeforeIcouldtellyou.”IunlockmyphoneandopentheemailfromDusty,slidingitintoLibby’sfieldofvision.Shehunchesasshereads,andIshovelfoodintomymouthasfastasIcansoIcangetmyworkdaystarted.
Libby’snotastartlinglyfastreader.Sheabsorbsbookslikethey’rebubblebaths,whereasmyjobhasforcedmetotreatthemmorelikehot-and-fastshowers.
Hermouthshrinks,tighteningintoaknotasshereads,untilfinally,sheburstsintolaughter.“Ohmygod!”shecries.“It’sNoraStephensfanfiction!”
“Canitreallybecalledfanfictioniftheauthorclearlyisn’tafan?”Isay.
“Hasshesentyoumore?Doesitgetsmutty?Lotsoffanfictiongetssmutty.”
“Again,”Isay,“notfanfiction.”
Libbycackles.“MaybeDusty’sgotacrush.”
“Ormaybeshe’shiringahitmanaswespeak.”
“Ihopeitgetssmutty,”shesays.
“Libby,ifyouhadyourway,everybookwouldendwithanearth-shatteringorgasm.”
“Hey,whywaituntiltheend?”shesays.“Oh,right,becausethat’swhereyoustartreading.”Shepretendstodryheaveatthethought.
Istandtorinsemyplate.“Well,it’sbeenfun,butI’mofftotrackdownWi-Fithatdoesn’tmakemewanttoputmyheadthroughawall.”
“I’llmeetyoulater,”shesays.“First,I’mgoingtospendafewhourswalkingaroundnaked,shoutingcusswords.ThenI’llprobablycallhome—wantmetotellBrendanyousayhi?”
“Who?”
Libbyflipsmeoff.Iloudlykissthesideofherheadonmywaytothedoorwithmylaptopbag.“Don’tgoanywherefromOnceinaLifetimewithoutme!”shescreams.
IcutmyselfoffbeforeNotsurethoseplacesevenexistcanspewoutofme.Forthefirsttimeinmonths,wefeelliketheusofadifferenttime—fullyconnected,fullypresent—andthelastthingIwantissomeuncontrollablevariablemessingthingsup.“Promise,”Isay.10
AFTERPAYINGFORmyicedAmericanoatMug+Shot,IaskthechipperbaristawiththeseptumpiercingfortheWi-Fipassword.
“Oh!”Shegesturestoawoodensignbehindherreading,Let’sunplug!“NoWi-Fihere.Sorry.”
“Wait,”Isay,“really?”
Shebeams.“Yep.”
Iglancearound.Nolaptopsinsight.EveryoneherelooksliketheycamestraightfromclimbingEverestordoingdrugsinaCoachellayurt.
“Istherealibraryorsomething?”Iask.
Shenods.“Afewblocksdown.NoWi-Fithereyeteither—supposedtogetitinthefall.Fornowthey’vegotdesktopsyoucanuse.”
“IsthereanywhereintownwithWi-Fi?”Iask.
“Thebookstorejustgotit,”sheadmits,quietly,likeshe’shopingthewordsdon’ttriggerastampedeofcoffeedrinkerswhowouldverymuchliketobeun-unplugged.
Ithankherandemergeintothestickyheat,sweatgatheringinmyarmpitsandcleavageasItrektowardthebookstore.WhenIstepinside,itfeelslikeI’vejustwanderedintoamaze,allthebreezes,windchimes,andbirdchattergoingquietatonce,thatwarmcedar-and-sunned-papersmellfoldingaroundme
Isipmyice-colddrinkandbaskinthedouble-barreledserotonincoursingthroughme.Isthereanythingbetterthanicedcoffeeandabookstoreonasunnyday?Imean,asidefromhotcoffeeandabookstoreonarainyday.
TheshelvesarebuiltatwildanglesthatmakemefeellikeI’mslidingofftheedgeoftheplanet.Asakid,Iwould’velovedthewhimsyofit—afunhousemadeofbooks.Asanadult,I’mmostlyconcernedwithstayingupright.
Ontheleft,alow,roundeddoorwayiscutintooneoftheshelves,itsframecarvedwiththewordsChildren’sBooks
Ibendtopeerthroughittoasoftblue-greenmural,likesomethingoutofMadeline,wordsswirlingacrossit:Discovernewworlds!Offtheothersideofthemainroom,anaverage-sizeddoorwayleadstotheUsedandRareBookRoom.
Thismainroomisn’texactlybrimmingwithcrispnewspines.AsfarasIcantell,there’sverylittlemethodtothisstore’sorganization.Newbooksmixedwithold,paperbackswithhardcovers,andfantasynexttononfiction,anot-so-finelayerofdustlaidovermostofit.
Once,IbetthisplacewasatownjewelwherepeopleshoppedforholidaypresentsandpreteensgossipedoverFrappuccinos.Nowit’sanothersmall-businessgraveyard.
Ifollowthelabyrinthineshelvesdeeperintothestore,pastadoorwaytotheworld’smostdepressing“café”(acoupleofcardtablesandsomefoldingchairs),andaroundacorner,andIfreezeforamillisecond,midstep,onefoothoveringintheair.
Seeingthemanhunchedoverhislaptopbehindtheregister,anunimpressedfurrowinhisbrow,islikewakingupfromanightmarewhereyou’refallingoffacliff,onlytorealizeyourhousehasbeenscoopedupbyatornadowhileyouslept.
Thisistheproblemwithsmalltowns:oneminorlapseinjudgmentandyoucan’tgoamilewithoutrunningintoit.
AllIwanttodoisturnandhightailit,butIcan’tletmyselfdoit.Iwon’tletoneslipup,oranyman,startgoverningmydecisions.Thewholereasontoavoidworkplaceentanglementsistoprotectagainstthisscenario.Besides,theentanglementwasavoided.Mostly.
Isquaremyshouldersandrisemychin.Inthatmoment,fortheveryfirsttime,IwonderifImighthaveaguardianangel,becausedirectlyacrossfromme,onthelocalbestsellersshelf,sitsaface-outstackofOnceinaLifetime
Igrabacopyandmarchuptothecounter.
Charlie’sgazedoesn’tliftfromhislaptopuntilI’vesmackedthebookontothegougedmahogany.
Hisgolden-browneyesslowlyrise.“Well.Ifitisn’tthewomanwho‘isn’tstalkingme.’?”
Igrindout,“Ifitisn’tthemanwho‘didn’ttrytoravishmeinthemiddleofahurricane.’?”
Hissipofcoffeegoesspewingbackintohismug,andheglancestowardthetragiccafé.“Icertainlyhopemyhighschoolprincipalwasreadytohearthat.”
Ileansidewaystopeerthroughthedoorway.Atoneofthecardtables,astooped,gray-hairedwomaniswatchingTheSopranosonatabletwithonlyoneearbudin.“Anotheroneofyourexes?”
Thatdownwardtickinthecornerofhismouth.“Icantellyou’repleasedwithyourselfwhenyoureyesgoallpredatorylikethat.”
“AndIcantellyouarewhenyoudothatlip-twitchthing.”
“It’scalledasmile,Stephens.They’recommonhere.”
“Andby‘here,’youmustmeanSunshineFalls,becauseyoudefinitelyaren’treferringtothefive-footradiusofyourelectricfence.”
“Havetokeepthelocalsawaysomehow.”Hiseyesdroptothebook.“Finallybitingthebulletandreadingthewholething?”hesaysdryly.
“Youknow…”Igrabthebookandholditinfrontofmychest.“Ifoundthisonthebestsellersshelf.”
“Iknow.It’sshelvedrightnexttotheGuidetoNorthCarolina’sBikeTrailsmyolddentistself-publishedlastyear,”hesays.“Didyouwantoneofthosetoo?”
“Thisbookhassoldmorethanonemillioncopies,”Itellhim.
“I’maware.”Hepicksupthebook.“ButnowI’mwonderinghowmanyofthoseyoubought.”
Iscowl.Herewardsmewithanalmostgrin,andforthefirsttime,Iknowexactlywhatmybossmeanswhenshedescribesmy“smilewithknives.”
Ilookawayfromhisface,whichreallyjustmeansmyeyesskatedownhisgoldenthroatandoverhispristinewhiteT-shirttohisarms.They’regoodarms.Notinarippedway,justanattractivelyleanway.
Okay,they’rejustarms.Chill,Nora.Straightmenhaveittooeasy.Aheterosexualwomancanseeaverynormal-looking,nonsexualappendage,andbiology’slike,Stepaside,lastfourthousandyearsofevolution,it’stimetocontributetothecontinuationofthehumanrace.
Hebrusheshislaptopasideandstartsrearrangingthepens,pamphlets,andotherofficesuppliesonthedesk.MaybeI’mnothornyforhimsomuchashisclothesandhisorganizationalskills.“Iwasactuallyjustemailingyou.”
Ijoltbacktotheconversation,vibratinglikeasnappedrubberband.“Oh?”
Henods,hisjawset,hiseyesdarkandintense.“HaveyouheardfromSharonyet?”
“Dusty’seditor?”
Henods.“She’soutonleave—hadherbaby.”
Andjustlikethat,alltheleanarms,nicefingers,andperfectlyorganizedjarsofpensandhighlightersintheworldaren’tenoughtoholdmyattention.
“Butshe’snotdueforanothermonth,”Isay,panicked.“WehaveanothermonthtogetDustyedits.”
Anothersmalltick.“Wouldyoulikemetocallherandtellherthat?Maybesomethingcanbedone—wait,doyouhaveanyconnectionsatMountSinaiHospital?”
“Areyoudone?”Iask.“Oristhereasecondpunchlinetothishilariousjoke?”
Charlie’shandsbraceagainstthecounterandheleansforward,voicegoingraspy,eyescracklingwiththatstrangeinternallightning.“Iwantit.”
IfeellikeImissedastep.“Wh-what?”
“Dusty’sbook.Frigid.Iwanttoworkonit.”
Oh,thankGod.Iwasn’tsurewherethatwasgoing.Andalso:nowayinhell.
“Ifwewanttokeepthereleasedate,”Charliegoeson,“Sharonwon’tbebackintimetoedit.Loggianeedssomeonetostepin,andI’veaskedtodoit.”
Mymindfeelslesslikeit’sspinningthanlikeit’sspinningfifteenplatesthatareonfire.“ThisisDustywe’retalkingabout.Shy,gentleDusty,who’susedtoSharon’ssoothing,optimisticdemeanor.Andyou,who—nooffense—areaboutasdelicateasanantiquepickax.”
Hisjawmusclesflex.“IknowIdon’thavethebestbedsidemanner.ButI’mgoodatmyjob.Icandothis.AndyoucangetDustyonboard.Thepublisherdoesn’twanttobumpbackthereleasedate.Weneedtopushthisthingthrough,nodelays.”
“It’snotmydecision.”
“Dustywilllistentoyou,”Charliesays.“Youcouldsellsnakeoiltoasnakeoilsalesman.”
“I’mnotsurethat’showthesayinggoes.”
“Ihadtoreviseittoaccuratelyreflecthowgoodyouareatyourjob.”
Mycheeksareonfire,lessfromthecomplimentthanfromasuddenvividmemoryofCharlie’smouth.ThepartwherehestaggeredbackfrommelikeI’dshothimquicklyfollows.
Iswallow.“I’lltalktoher.That’sallIcando.”Byhabit,I’veunthinkinglyflippedtothelastpageofOnce.NowIthumbtotheacknowledgments,lettingmymusclesrelaxatthesightofmyname.It’sproof—thatIamgoodatmyjob,thatevenifIcan’tcontroleverything,there’salotIcanstrong-armintoshape.
Iclearmythroat.“Whatareyoudoinghereanyway,andhowlongdoyouhaveuntilthesunlightmakesyouburstintoflames?”
Charliefoldshisforearmsonthecounter.“Canyoukeepasecret,Stephens?”
“AskmewhoshotJFK,”Isay,adoptinghisowndeadpantone.
Hiseyesnarrow.“Farmoreinterestedinhowyougotthatinformation.”
“ThatoneStephenKingbook,”Ireply.“Now,whoarewekeepingsecretsfrom?”
Heconsiders,teethrunningoverhisfullbottomlip.It’sborderlinelewd,butnoworsethanwhat’shappeninginmybodyrightnow.
“LoggiaPublishing,”hereplies.
“Okay.”Iconsider.“IcankeepasecretfromLoggia,ifyoumakeitjuicy.”
Heleansincloser.Ifollowsuit.HiswhisperissoquietIalmosthavetopressmyeartohismouthtohearit:“Iworkhere.”
“You…work…here?”Istraightenup,blinkingclearofthehazeofhiswarmscent.
“Iworkhere,”herepeats,turninghislaptoptorevealaPDFofamanuscript,“whileI’mtechnicallyworkingthere.”
“Isthatlegal?”Iask.Twofull-timejobshappeningsimultaneouslyseemslikeitmightactuallyadduptotwopart-timejobs.
Charliedragsahanddownhisfaceashesighsexhaustedly.“It’sinadvisable.Butmyparentsownthisplace,andtheyneededhelp,soI’vebeenrunningtheshopforafewmonthswhileeditingremotely.”
Heswipesthebookoffthecounter.“Youreallybuyingthis?”
“Iliketosupportlocalbusinesses.”
“GoodeBooksisn’tsomuchalocalbusinessasitisafinancialsinkhole,butI’msurethetunnelinsidetheearthappreciatesyourmoney.”
“Excuseme,”Isay,“didyoujustsaythisplaceiscalledGoodeBooks?Asinyourmother’slastname,butalsogoodbook?”
“Citypeople,”hetuts.“Neverstoptosmelltheroses,orlookuptoseetheveryprominentlydisplayedsignsoverlocalbusinesses.”
Iwaveahand.“Oh,Ihavethetime.It’sjustthattheBotoxinmyneckmakesithardtogetmychinthathigh.”
“I’venevermetsomeonewhoisbothsovainandsopractical,”hesays,soundingjustbarelyawed.
“Whichwillbewhatactuallygoesonmyheadstone.”
“Whatashame,”hesays,“towasteallthatonapigfarmer.”
“You’rereallyhunguponthepigfarmer,”Isay.“WhereasLibbywon’tbesatisfiedwithmedatinganyonebutawidowedsinglefatherwhorejectedacountrymusiccareertorunabed-and-breakfast.”
Hesays,“Soyou’vemetRandy.”
Iburstoutlaughing,andthecornerofhismouthticks.
Oh,shit.Itisasmile.He’spleasedtohavemademelaugh.Whichmakesmybloodfeellikemaplesyrup.AndIhatemaplesyrup.
Itakeahalfstepback,aphysicalboundarytoaccompanythementaloneI’mtryingtorebuild.“Anyway,Iheardarumoryou’rehoardingtheentirecity’sinternethere.”
“Youshouldneverbelieveasmall-townrumor,Nora,”hechides.
“So…”
“Thepasswordisgoodebooks,”hesays.“Alllowercase,alloneword,withtheeongoode.”Hejerkshischintowardthecafé,browarched.“TellPrincipalSchroederhi.”
Myfaceprickles.Ilookovermyshouldertowardawoodenchairattheendofanaisleinstead.“Onsecondthought,I’lljustsetupthere.”
Heleansforward,droppinghisvoiceagain.“Chicken.”
Hisvoice,thechallengeofit,sendsgoosebumpsripplingdownmybackbone.
Mycompetitivestreakinstantlyactivates,andIturnonmyheelandmarchintothecafé,pausingbesidetheoccupiedtable.
“YoumustbePrincipalSchroeder,”Isay,addingmeaningfully,“Charlie’stoldmesomuchaboutyou.”
Sheseemsflustered,almostknockingoverherteainherrushtoshakemyhand.“Youmustbehisgirlfriend?”
Sheabsolutelyheardmycommentabouttheravishing,andthehurricane.
“Oh,no,”Isay.“Wejustmetyesterday.Butyoucomeupalotwithhim.”
IglanceovermyshouldertoseethelookonCharlie’sfaceandknow:Iwinthisround.
“Iwouldn’tcallspendingalldayonyourlaptoptenfeetfromyourNewYorknemesis‘tryingnewthings.’?”Libbyisabsolutelydelightedbythedustyoldshop,lesssobyitscashier.“Thelastthingyouneedistospendthiswholevacationimmersedinyourcareer.”
Iglancecautiouslytowardthedoorwayfromthecafé(whichsellsonlydecafandregularcoffee)tothebookstoreproper,makingsureCharlieisn’twithinearshot.“Ican’ttakeawholemonthoffwork.Afterfiveeveryday,IpromiseI’myours.”
“You’dbetterbe,”shesays.“Becausewehavealisttogetthrough,andthat”—shetipsherheadinCharlie’sgeneraldirection—“isadistraction.”
“SincewhenamIdistractedbymen?”Iwhisper.“Haveyoumetme?I’mhereusingtheWi-Fi,notgivingoutfreelapdances.”
“We’llsee,”shesaystartly.(Like,giveittwentyminutes,andIwill,infact,bedolingoutlapdancesinthelocalindependentbookstore?)
Shesurveysoursurroundingsagain,sighingwistfully.“Ihateseeingbookstoresempty.”Someofitmightbethepregnancyhormones,butshe’slegitimatelytearingup.
“It’sexpensivetokeepshopslikethisup,”Itellher.EspeciallywhensomanypeopleareturningtoAmazonandotherplacesthatcanaffordtosellatamassivemarkdown.Thiskindofstoreisalwaystheresultofsomeone’sdream,andaswithmostdreams,itappearstobedyingaslow,painfuldeath.
“Hey,”Libbysays.“Whataboutnumbertwelve?”Atmyblankstare,sheadds,eyessparkling,“Savealocalbusiness.Weshouldhelpthisplace!”
“Andleavethesacrificialgoatstofendforthemselves?”
Sheswatsme.“I’mserious.”
IchanceanotherglanceinCharlie’sgeneraldirection.“Theymightnotneedourhelp.”Orwantit.
Shesnorts.“IsawacopyofEveryonePoopsshelvedrightnexttoa1001ChocolateDessertscookbook.”
“Traumatizing,”Iagreewithashudder.
“It’llbefun,”Libbysays.“Ialreadyhaveideas.”Shepullsanotebookfromherpurseandstartsscribbling,teethsunkintoherbottomlip.
I’mnotthrilledbytheprospectofspendingevenmoretimewithinaten-footradiusofCharlieafterlastnight’shumiliatingblip,butifthisiswhatLibbyreallywantstodo,I’mnotgoingtoletonekiss—thatallegedly“neverhappened”anyway—scaremeoff.
JustlikeI’mnotgoingtoletitkeepmefromgettingsomeworkdonetoday.Peoplealwaystalkaboutcompartmentalizationlikeit’sabadthing,butIlovethewaythat,whenIwork,everythingelseseemstogetfoldedawayneatlyindrawers,thebooksI’mworkingonswellingtotheforefront,immersingmeeverybitaswhollyasreadingmyfavoritechapterbooksdidwhenIwasakid.Likethere’snothingtoworryover,plan,mourn,orfigureout.
I’msoengrossedIdon’tevennoticeLibby’spausedherbrainstormingtoslipaway,untilshecomesbacksometimelaterwithafreshicedcoffeefromacrossthestreetandathree-footstackofsmall-townromancenovelsshe’sculledfromtheGoodeBooksshelves.
“It’sbeenmonthssinceIreadmorethanfivepagesinasitting,”shesaysgiddily.Unlikeme,Libbydoesnotreadthelastpagefirst.Shedoesn’tevenreadthejacketcopy,preferringtogoinwithoutanypreconceivednotions.Probablywhyshe’sbeenknowntothrowbooksacrosstheroom.
“OnceItriedtolockmyselfinthebathroomwithaRebekahWeatherspoonnovel,”shesays.“Withinminutes,Beawetherself.”
“Youneedasecondbathroom.”
“Ineedasecondme.”Sheopensherbook,andIclickovertoanewbrowser,checkingfornewapartmentlistings.There’snothinginLibbyandBrendan’spricerangethatdoesn’tlooklikeanSVUcrimesceneset.
AnemailcomesinfromSharonthen,andItapovertoit.
She’sdoingwell,andsoisthebaby,thoughtheybothplantobeinthehospitalforabit,sincehearrivedprematurely.She’ssentmesomepicturesofhistinypinkfaceinitstinylittleknitcap.Honestly,allnewbornslookmoreorlessthesametome,butknowinghecamefromsomeoneIlikeisenoughtomakemyheartswell.
ItconstrictsagainwhenIreadonandgettothepartoftheemaildedicatedtoravingaboutFrigid.Forasecond,I’dalmostforgottenthat,injustoverayear,everyoneI’veeverworkedwithwillreadaboutNadineWinters.It’sthatin-school-in-your-underwearnightmaretimesonehundred
Evenso,IfeelawashofpridewhenIreadSharon’sconfirmationofwhatIalreadyknew:thisistherightbook.There’sanunquantifiablesparkinthesepages,asenseofclarityandpurpose.
Somebooksjusthavethatinevitabilityfromthebeginning,aneeriedéjàvu.Youdon’tknowwhat’sgoingtohappen,butyou’resurethere’snoavoidingit.
MuchliketherestofSharon’semail:
We’dliketobringinourverytalentedneweditor-at-largeCharlieLastratogetDustythroughthefirstroundofmajoredits.I’llsendoutanotheremailmakingtheintroductionbetweenthembutwantedtomentiontoyoufirstsoyoucouldprimethepump,sotospeak.
Charlie’sfantasticatwhathedoes.Frigidwillbeinexcellenthands.
FlashesofCharlie’sexcellenthandssizzleacrossmymind.Iexittheemailwiththeferocityofateenagerslammingadoorandscreaming,You’renotmyrealdad!
Ifthere’sanythingmoreembarrassingthanhavingathinlyveilednovelaboutyoupublished,it’sprobablyhavingthatbookeditedbyamanwhofeltyouupinathunderstorm.
Thisiswhytherulesexist.Toprotectagainstthisexact(okay,approximate)scenario.
There’sonlyonewaytohandlethis.Betheshark,Nora.
Istand,rollmyshouldersback,andapproachtheregister.
“Isshegoingtobuyanyofthose,”Charliedrawls,tippinghischintowardLibby’stowerofbooks,“orjustgetcoffeealloverthem?”
“Hasanyoneevertoldyouyou’reanaturalatcustomerservice?”Iask.
“No,”hesays.
“Good.Iknowhowyoufeelaboutliars.”
Hislipspart,butbeforehecanretort,Isay,“I’llgetDustyonboard—butIhaveastipulation.”
Charlie’smouthjamsshut,hiseyesgoingflinty.“Let’shearit.”
“Yournotesgothroughme,”Isay.“Dusty’sfirstpublisherdidarealnumberonherpsyche,andshe’sjustregainingherconfidence.Thelastthingsheneedsisyoubulldozingherself-esteem.”Heopenshismouthtoobject,andIadd,“Trustme.Thisistheonlywayitcanwork.Ifitcanworkatall.”
Afteralongmomentofconsideration,hestretcheshishandacrossthedesk.“Okay,Stephens,you’vegotyourselfadeal.”
Ishakemyhead.Iwon’tbemakingthemistakeoftouchingCharlieLastraagain.“Nothing’ssettleduntilItalktoher.”
Henods.“I’llhavemycocktailnapkinandpenwaitingforyoursignature.”
“Oh,Charlie,”Isay.“HowadorablethatyouthinkI’dsignacontractwithanyoneelse’spen.”
Thecornerofhismouthhitches.“You’reright,”hesays.“Ishould’veguessed.”11
BUTSHEWASN’Tdueuntilnextmonth,”Dustysays.
“Trustme:Itriedtellingherthat.”IpickatabitofpeelingpaintonthegazeboasIwatchaplumpbumblebeedrunkenlyspiralthroughtheflowerbeds.Thewoodsarethickwiththecreaking-doorchirpofcicadas,andthesky’sturningabruisedshadeofpurple,theheatthickasever.“ButCharlie’sreallyexcitedaboutthisbook,andfromwhatIhear,he’sgreatatwhathedoes.”
Dustysays,“Didn’twesubmitOncetohim?Andhepassed?”
Ituckmyphonebetweenmyshoulderandear,movingmyfrizzybangsaside.“That’sright,buteventhen,hewasadamantthathewouldlovetoseeyourfutureprojects.”
Alongpause.“Butyou’veneverworkedwithhim.Imean,youdon’tknowwhathiseditorialtastesarelike.”
“Dusty,he’sinlovewiththesepages.Imeanthat.Andlookingathisothertitles…IthinkFrigidmakessenseforhim.”
Shesighs.“Ican’treallysayno,canI?Imean,notwithoutseemingdifficult.”
“Look,”Isay.“We’vepushedthisdeadlinebackbefore,andifwehavetodoitagain,wewill.ButIthink,timingwise,withtheOncemoviecomingout,yourreleasecouldn’tbepositionedmuchbetter.AndI’llbethereeverystepoftheway.I’llruninterference—dowhateverIhavetodotomakesureyou’rehappywithhowthisbookturnsout.That’swhatmattersmost.”
“That’stheotherthing,”shesays.“WithOnce,therewasallthistime.Ihadyournotesbeforewesoldthebook,and—thisisallhappeningsofast,andIknewwithSharon,wecouldmakeitwork,but—Ifeelsortofpanicked.”
“Ifyouwantmynotes,I’llgetyounotes,”Ipromise.“WecanfoldthemintoCharlie’s,soyou’llhavetwosetsofeyesonit.Whateveryouneed,Dusty,I’vegotyou,okay?”
Sheletsoutabreath.“CanIthinkaboutit?Justforadayortwo?”
“Ofcourse,”Isay.“Takeyourtime.”
IfCharlieLastrahastosweat,Iwon’tcomplain.
Fourofmyclientshavedecidedtohavesimultaneousmeltdowns,abouteverythingfromoverzealouslineeditstolacklustermarketingplans.Twomoreclientshavesentmesurprisemanuscripts,mereweeksafterIreadtheirlastbooks.
IdomybesttohonormypromisetoLibby—tobefullypresentwithherafterfiveeveryday—butthatjustmeansIhardlycomeupforairduringtheworkday.
Asdifferentasweare,mysisterandIarebothcreaturesofhabit,andwefallintoarhythmalmostimmediately.
Shewakesfirst,showers,thenreadsonthedeckwithasteamingcupofdecaf.IgetupandrununtilIcanbarelybreathe,takeascorchingshower,andmeetheratthebreakfasttableasshe’sdishinguphashbrownsorricottapancakesorveggie-stuffedquiche.
ThenextfifteenminutesaredevotedtoadetaileddescriptionofLibby’sdreams(famouslygrisly,disturbing,erotic,orallthree).Afterward,weFaceTimewithBeaandTalaatBrendan’smom’shouse,duringwhichBearecountsherdreamswhileTalarunsaround,almostknockingthingsoverandshrieking,Look,Nono!I’madinosaur!
Fromthere,IheadtoGoodeBooks,leavingLibbytocallBrendananddowhateverelseshewantsduringhertreasuredalonetime.
CharlieandIexchangesharp-edgedpleasantriesandIpayhimforacupofcoffeeandthensettleintomyspotinthecafé,whereIrefusetogivehimthesatisfactionofglancinghiswaynomatterhowoftenIfeelhiseyesonme.
Bythethirdmorning,hehasmycoffeewaitingbytheregister.“Whatasurprise,”hesays.“Hereateightfifty-two,sameasyesterdayandthedaybefore.”
Igrabthecoffeeandignorethedig.“Dusty’sgivingmeheranswertonight,bytheway,”Isay.“Afreecoffeeisn’tgoingtochangeanything.”
Hedropshisvoice,leansacrossthecounter.“Becauseyou’reholdingouthopeforagiantcheck?”
“No,”Isay.“Itcanbeanormal-sizedcheck,justneedsalotofzeroes.”
“WhenIwantsomething,Nora,”hesays,“Idon’tgiveupeasily.”
Externally,I’munaffected.Internally,myheartlurchesagainstmycollarbonefromhisclosenessorhisvoiceormaybewhathejustsaid.Myphonebuzzeswithanemail,andItakeitout,gratefulforthedistraction.UntilIseethemessagefromDusty:I’min.
Iresistanurgetoclearmythroatandinsteadmeethiseyescoolly.“Lookslikeyoucanforgetthecheck.You’llhavepagesbytheendoftheweek.”
Charlie’seyesflashwithaborderlineviciousexcitement.
“Don’tlooksovictorious,”Isay.“She’saskedmetobeinvolvedeverystepoftheway.Youreditsgothroughme.”
“Isthatsupposedtoscareme?”
“Itshould.I’mscary.”
Hepitchesforwardoverthedesk,bicepstightening,mouthinasultrypout.“Notwiththosebangs.You’reextremelyapproachable.”
MostdaysIdon’tseeLibbyuntilafterwork.SometimesIevengetbacktothecottagebeforeher,andsheguardsheralonetimesojealouslythateverytimeIaskherhowshespentthoseninehours,shegivesmeanincreasinglyridiculousanswer(harddrugs;torridaffairwithadoor-to-doorvacuumsalesman;startedthepaperworktojoinacult).OnFriday,though,shejoinsmearoundlunchtimewithveggiesandwichesfromMug+Shotthatareabouteightypercentkale.Withafullmouth,shesays,“Thissandwichtastesexceptionallyunplugged.”
“Ijustgotabiteofpuredirt,”Isay.
“Lucky,”Libbysays.“I’mstillonlygettingkale.”
Afterweeat,IreturntoworkandLibbyturnsherfocustoaMhairiMcFarlanenovel,gaspingandlaughingsoregularlyandloudlythat,finally,Charlie’sgruffvoicecallsfromtheotherroom,“Couldyoukeepthatdown?Everytimeyougasplikethat,youalmostgivemeaheartattack.”
“Well,yourcaféchairsaregivingmehemorrhoids,soI’dsaywe’reeven,”Libbyreplies.
Aminutelater,Charlieappearsandthruststwovelvetthrowpillowsatus.“Yourmajesties,”hesays,scowl/poutingbeforereturningtohispost.
Libby’seyeslightupandsheleansovertostage-whispertome.“Didhejustbringusbuttpillows?”
“Ibelievehedid,”Iagree.
“CountvonLastrahasabeatingheart,”shesays.
“Icanhearyou,”hecalls.
“Theundeadhavefamouslyheightenedsenses,”ItellLibby.
Throughouttheweek,theringsaroundLibby’seyeshavefaded,hercolorreturningandcheeksplumpingsoquicklythatitfeelslikethosestrainedmonthswereadream.
Indirectcontrast,everydaydarkensthecirclesaroundCharlie’seyes.I’dguesshe’shavingtroublesleepingtoo—Ihaveyettofallasleepinourdead-silent,pitch-blackcottagebeforethreea.m.,andmostnightsIstartleawake,heartracingandskincold,atleastonce.
Atpreciselyfive,Iclosemylaptop,Libbyputsherbookaway,andweheadout.
MyconcernsaboutSunshineFallsdisappointingherhavelargelycometonaught.Libby’smoreorlesscontenttowander,poppingintomustyantiquestoresorpausingtowatchanimpressivelybrutalseniors’kickboxingclassinthetownsquare.
EverysooftenwepassaplacardproclaimingtobethesiteofapivotalscenefromOnce.Nevermindthatthreeseparatebuildingsclaimtobethesiteoftheapothecary,includinganemptyspacewhosewindowsareplasteredwithpostersreading,RENTTHEAPOTHECARYFROMHITNOVELONCEINALIFETIME!PRIMOLOCATION!
“Ihaven’theardanyonesayprimosincetheeighties,”Libbysays.
“Youweren’taliveintheeighties,”Ipointout.
“Precisely.”
Backatthecottage,shecooksabigdinner:sweetsummercornandcreamypotatosaladwithcrispchives,asaladtoppedwithshavedwatermelonandtoastedsesame,andgrilledtempehburgersonbriochebuns,withthickslicesoftomatoandredonion,allsmotheredwithavocado.
Ichopwhatevershetellsmeto,thenwatchherrechopittoherliking.It’sastrangereversal,seeingthethingsmybabysisterhasmasteredthatInevergotaroundto.Itmakesmeproud,butalsosortofsad.Maybethisishowparentsfeelwhentheirkidsgrowup,likesomepieceofthemhasbecomefundamentallyunknowable.
“Rememberwhenyouweregoingtobeachef?”IaskonenightwhileI’mchoppingbasilandtomatoforapizzashe’smaking.
Shegivesanoncommittalhmthatcouldmeanofcourseaseasilyasnotringinganybells
Shewasalwayssosmart,socreative.Shecould’vedoneanything,andIknowshelovesbeingamom,butIcanalsounderstandwhysheneededthissobadly,thechancetobealonepersonbeforeshe’sgotanewbornattachedtoherhipagain.
Likeeverynightsofar,weeatdinneroutonthedeck,andafterward,onceI’vewashedthedishesandputeverythingaway,wescourthetrunkfullofboardgamesandplaydominoesoutonthedeck,thestrandsofglobelightsouronlyillumination.
Alittleafterten,Libbyshufflestobed,andIgobacktothekitchentabletohuntthroughapartmentlistingsonline.SoonIhavetofacethefactofthewonkyinternetandgiveup,butI’mnotevenclosetotired,soIstuffmyfeetintoLibby’sCrocsandwanderoutintothemeadowatthefrontofthecottage.Themoonlightandstarsarebrightenoughtoturnthegrasssilvery,andthehumidityholdstheday’sheatclose,thesweet,grassysmellthickintheair.
Feelingsoentirelyaloneisunnerving,inthesamewayasstaringattheoceanatnight,orwatchingthundercloudsform.InNewYork,it’simpossibletoescapethefeelingofbeingonepersonamongmillions,asifyou’reallnerveendingsinonevastorganism.Here,it’seasytofeellikethelastpersononearth.
Aroundone,IclimbintobedandstareattheceilingforanhourorsobeforeIdriftoff.
OnSaturdaymorning,wefollowourusualschedule,butwhenIwalkintothebookstore,Icomeupshort.
“Hellothere!”Thetinywomanbehindtheregistersmilesasshestands,thescentsofjasmineandweedwaftingoffher.“CanIhelpyou?”
Shelookslikeawomanwho’sspentherlifeoutside,heroliveskinpermanentlyfreckled,thesleevesofherdenimshirtrolledupherdaintyforearms.Shehascoarse,darkhairthatfallstohershoulders;apretty,roundface;anddarkeyesthatcrinkleatthecornerstoaccommodatehersmile.Thecreasebeneathherlipisthegiveaway.
SallyGoode,theownerofourcottage.Charlie’smother.
“Um,”Isay,hopingmysmileisnatural.IhatewhenIhavetothinkaboutwhatmyfaceisdoing,especiallybecauseI’mneverconvincedit’stranslating.Iwasn’tplanningtostaylong,justanhourorsotoworkthroughsomemoreemailbeforemeetingLibbyforlunch,butnowIfeelguiltyusingtheWi-Fiforfree.
IgrabthefirstbookIsee,TheGreatFamilyMarconi,oneofthosebooksfatedtobehurledacrossaroombymysister,thenpickedupbyme.UnlikeLibby,IlovedthelastpagesomuchIreaditadozentimesbeforeflippingbacktothefront.“Justthis!”
“Mysoneditedthisone,”SallyGoodesaysproudly.“That’swhathedoes,foraliving.”
“Oh.”Someonegetmeapublicspeakingtrophy,I’monfire.OnlyspeakingtoLibbyandCharlieforaweekhasclearlydiminishedmycapacitytoslipintoProfessionalNora.
Sallytellsmemytotal,andwhenIhandovermycard,hereyesslideacrossit.“Thoughtthatmightbeyou!NotoftenIdon’trecognizesomeoneinhere.I’mSally—you’restayinginmycottage.”
“Oh,wow,hi!”Isay,onceagainhopingIcomeacrossasahuman,raisedbyotherhumans.“It’snicetomeetyou.”
“Youtoo—how’stheplaceworkingoutforyou?Youwantabagforthebook?”
Ishakemyheadandacceptthebookandcardback.“Gorgeous!Great.”
“Itis,isn’tit?”shesays.“Beeninmyfamilyaslongasthisshop.Fourgenerations.Ifwehadn’thadkids,wewould’velivedthereforever.Lotsofhappymemories.”
“Anyghosts?”Iaskher.
“NotthatI’veeverseen,butifyoumeetany,tellthemSallysayshi.Andnottoscareoffmyguests.”Shepatsthecounter.“Yougirlsneedanythingupatthecottage?Firewood?Roastingstakesformarshmallows?I’llsendmysonoverwithsomewood,justincase.”
Oh,Lord.“That’sokay.”
“He’sgotnothingtodoanyway.”
Excepthistwofull-timejobs,oneofwhichshejustmentioned.
“It’snotnecessary,”Iinsist.
Thensheinsists,sayingverbatim,“Iinsist.”
“Well,”Isay,“thanks.”Afterafewminutesofworkinthecafé,IthankheragainandslipoutintothedazzlinglysunnystreettocrossovertoMug+Shot.
Myphonegivesashort,snappyvibration.Atextfromanunknownnumber.
Whyismymothertextingmeabouthowhotyouare?
Thiscanonlybeoneperson.
Weird,Iwrite.ThinkithasanythingtodowiththefactthatIjustwenttothebookstoreinnothingbutapatentleathertrenchcoat?
Charliereplieswithascreenshotofsometextsbetweenhimandhismom.
Cottageguestisverypretty,Sallywrites,then,separately,Noring.
Charliereplied:Oh?ThinkingaboutleavingDad?
Sheignoredhiscommentandinsteadsaid,Tall.Youalwayslikedtallgirls.
Whatareyoutalkingabout,Charliewroteback,noquestionmark.
Rememberyourhomecomingdate?LilacWalter-Hixon?Shewaspracticallyagiant
Thatwastheeighth-gradeformal,hesaid.Itwasbeforemygrowthspurt.
Wellthisgirl’sveryprettyandtallbutnottootall.
Istiflealaugh.
TallbutnotTOOtall,ItellCharlie,canalsobeaddedtomyheadstone.
Hesays,I’llmakeanote.
Isay,Shetoldmeyouwouldbringwoodovertothecottageforme.
Hesays,Pleasesweartomeyoudidn’tmakea“toolateforthat”joke.
No,butPrincipalSchroederwasinthecafé,andI’veheardthegossipmovesfasthere,soit’sonlyamatteroftime.
Sally’sgoingtobesodisappointedinyou,Charliesays.
Me?WhataboutherSON,theRakeofMainStreet?
Theshipofherdisappointmentinmesetsailalongtimeago.I’dhavetodosomethingWAYsluttiertoletherdownnow.
WhenshefindsyourstashofBigfooteroticaunderyourracecarbed,maybetheshipwillcircleback.
OutsideMug+Shot,Ileanagainstthesun-warmedwindow,thetreesliningthelanerustlinginagentlebreezethatheightensthesmellofespressointheair.
Anothermessagecomesin.ApagefromtheBigfootChristmasbook,featuringaparticularlyegregioususeofdeckingthehalls,aswellasareferencetoasexmovecalledtheVoraciousYeti,whichdoesn’tsoundremotelyanatomicallypossible.
Libbywalksintomyperiphery.“AlreadydonewiththeWi-Fi?”
“Thoroughlyunplugged,”Ireply.“HaveyoueverheardoftheVoraciousYeti?”
“Thatachildren’sbook?”
“Sure.”
“I’llhavetolookitup.”
Myphonevibrateswithanothermessage:IfindtheVoraciousYetihighlyimplausible.
Ifindmyselfsmiling,possiblywithknives.Sodisappointing.Reallypullsthereaderoutofanotherwisestunningworkofrealism.12
ISITUP,GASPING,cold,panicked.
Libby.
WhereisLibby?
Myeyeszigzagacrosstheroom,searchingforsomethinggrounding.Thefirstraysofsunlightstreamingthroughawindow.Thesoundofpotsandpansclanking.Thesmellofbrewingcoffeedriftingthroughthedoor.
I’minthecottage.
It’sokay.She’shere.She’sokay.
Athome,whenI’manxious,Icycle.WhenIneedaboostofenergy,Icycle.WhenIneedtoknockmyselfout,Icycle.WhenIcan’tfocus,Icycle.
Here,runningismyonlyoption.
Idressquietly,pullonmymuddysneakers,andcreepdownthestairstosneakoutintothecoolmorning.IshiverasIcrossthefoggymeadow,pickingupmypaceatthewoods.
Ileapoveragnarledroot,thenthunderacrossthefootbridgethatarcsoverthecreek.
Mythroatstartstoburn,butthefearisstillchasingme.Maybeit’sbeinghere,feelingsofarawayfromMom,ormaybeit’sspendingsomuchtimewithLibby,butsomethingisbringingmebacktoallthosethingsItrynottothinkabout.
Itfeelslikethere’spoisoninsideofme.NomatterhowhardIrun,Ican’tburnthroughit.Foronce,IwishIcouldcry,butIcan’t.Ihaven’tsincethemorningofthefuneral.
Ipickupmypace.
“I’vefoundhim!”Libbysqueals,runningintothebathroomasI’mtryingtocoaxmycurtainbangsintosubmission,againsttheexpresswishesoftheunrelentinghumidity.
Shethrustsherphonetowardme,andIsquintataheadshotofanattractivemanwithshort,chocolatyhairandgrayeyes.He’swearingadownvestoveraplaidshirtandgazingacrossafoggylake.OverhispictureisBLAKE,36
“Libby!”Ishriek,realizationdawning.“Whythehellareyouonadatingapp?”
“I’mnot,”shesays.“Youare.”
“Iamdefinitelynot,”Isay.
“Imadeanaccountforyou,”shesays.“It’sanewapp.Verymarriageminded.Imean,it’scalledMarriageofMinds.”
“MOM?”Isay.“TheacronymfortheappisMOM?SometimesIworryabouttheseverelackofwarningbellsinyourbrain,Libby.”
“Blake’sanavidfishermanwho’sunsureifhewantskids,”shesays.“He’sateacher,andanightowl—likeyou—andextremelyphysicallyactive.”
Isnatchthephoneandreadformyself.“Libby.Itsaysherehe’slookingforadown-to-earthwomanwhodoesn’tmindspendingherSaturdayscheeringontheTarHeels.”
“Youdon’tneedsomeoneexactlylikeyou,Sissy,”Libbysaysgently.“Youneedsomeonewhoappreciatesyou.Imean,youobviouslydon’tneedanyone,period,butyoudeservesomeonewhounderstandshowspecialyouare!Oratleastsomeonewhocangiveyoualow-pressurenightout.”
She’slookingatmenowwiththathopefulLibbylookofhers.It’shalfwaybetweentheexpressionofacatwho’sdroppedamouseataperson’sfeetandthatofakidhandingoveraMother’sDaydrawing,blissfullyunawarethatMommy’s“snowhat”looksonlyandexactlylikeagiantpenis.
Blakeisthepenishatinthisscenario
“Couldn’twejusthavealow-pressurenightouttogether?”Iask.
Sheglancesawaywithanapologeticgrimace.“Blakealreadythinkshe’smeetingyouatPoppaSquat’sforkaraokenight.”
“Nearlyeverypartofthatsentenceisconcerning.”
Shewilts.“Ithoughtyouwantedtoswitchthingsup,notbeso…”
NadineWinters,avoiceinmymindsays.Ittakesmeasecondtorecognizeitasthehusky,teasingtimbreofCharlie.Isuppressagroanofresignation.
It’sonenight,andLibby’sgonetoalotoftroubleforthisveryweirdgift.
“IguessIshouldgooglewhataTarHeelisbeforehand,”Isay.
Agrinbreaksacrossherface.IfMom’ssmilewasspringtime,Libby’sisfullsummer.Shesays,“Noway.That’swhatwecallaconversationstarter.”
Libby(actingasme)didn’ttellBlakewherewewerestaying,andinsteadsuggestedI(secretlywe)meethimatPoppaSquat’saroundseven.Inherflowywrapdresswithherhairperfectlytousledandpinkglosssmudgedacrossherlips,you’dthinkshehadsomethingbettertodothannurseasodaandlimewhilewatchingmefromacrossthebar,butsheseemsperfectlyexcitedfortheunderwhelmingnightahead.
Normally,I’darrivetoadateearly,butwe’reoperatingonLibby’stimelineandthusarrivetenminuteslate.Outsidethefrontdoors,shestopsmebytheelbow.“Weshouldgoinseparately.Sohedoesn’tknowwe’retogether.”
“Right,”Isay.“Thatwillmakeiteasiertoknockhimoutandemptyhispockets.Whatshouldoursignalbe?”
Sherollshereyes.“Iwillgoinfirst.I’llscopehimoutandmakesurehe’snotcarryingasword,orwearingapin-stripedvest,ordoingclose-upmagicforstrangers.”
“Basicallythathe’snoneofthefourhorsemenoftheapocalypse.”
“I’lltextyouwhenit’ssafetocomein.”
Fortysecondsaftersheslipsinside,shesendsmeathumbs-up,andIfollow.
It’shotterinPoppaSquat’sthanitisoutside,probablybecauseit’spacked.
Thecrowdisdrunkenlysinging“SweetHomeAlabama”aroundandonthekaraokestageatthebackoftheroom,andthewholeplacesmellslikesweatandspilledbeer.
Blake,36,issittingatthefirsttable,facingthedoorwithhishandsfoldedlikehe’sherewithRuthfromHRtofireme.
“Blake?”Ioutstretchahand.
“Nora?”Hedoesn’tgetup.
“Yep.”
“Youlookdifferentthanyourpicture,”hereplies.
“Haircut,”Isay,takingmyseat,handunshaken.
“Youdidn’tsayhowtallyouwereinyourprofile,”hesays.Thisfromamanwholistedhimselfassixfeetandaninchbutcan’tbetallerthanfivenineunlesshe’swearingstiltsunderthistable.
SoatleastdatinginSunshineFallsisexactlythesameasinNewYork.
“Didn’toccurtomeitwouldmatter.”
“Howtallareyou?”Blakeasks.
“Um,”Istall,hopingthiswillgivehimtimetorethinkhisfirst-datestrategy.Nosuchluck.“Fiveeleven.”
“Areyouamodel?”Hesaysthishopefully,liketherightanswercouldexcuseamultitudeofheight-relatedsins.
Thereis,ofcourse,themisconceptionthatstraightmenuniversallylovetall,thinwomen.Beingsuchawoman,Icandebunkthis.
Manymenaretooinsecuretodateatallwoman.Manyofthosewhoaren’tareassholeslookingforatrophy.Ithaslesstodowithattractionthanstatus.Whichisonlyeffectiveifthetallpersonisamodel.Ifyou’redatingsomeonetallerthanyouandshe’samodel,thenyoumustbehotandinteresting.Ifyou’redatingsomeonetallerthanyouandshe’saliteraryagent,cuethejokesaboutherwearingyourballsonasilvernecklace.
Onthebrightside,atleastBlake,36,isn’taskingabout—
“Whatsizeareyourshoes?”Hisfaceispinchedasifinpain.Same,Blake.Same.
“Whatareyoudrinking?”Isay.“Alcohol?Alcoholsoundsgood.”
Thewaitressapproaches,andbeforeshecangetawordout,Isay,“Twoverylargeginmartinis,please.”Shemustseethefamiliarsignsoffirst-datemiseryonme,becausesheskipsherwelcomespeech,nods,andvirtuallysprintstoputinourorder.
“Idon’tdrink,”Blakesays.
“Noworries,”Isay,“I’lldrinkyours.”
Backbythepooltables,Libbygrinsandflashestwothumbsup.13
YOUWOULDTHINKhe’dbeinahurrytocallthisthingwhatitis:deadinthewater.
ButBlakeisnotacasualMOMuser.He’sontheprowlforawife,anddespitemyhulkingstature,giantessfeet,andindulgenceingin,he’snotwillingtoletmegountilhe’sindividuallyclarifiedthatIdon’tknowhowtomakeanyofhisfavoritefoods.
“Ireallydon’tcook,”Isay,whenwe’vemadeitthroughSuperBowlfingerfoodsandmovedontovariousfriedfish.
“Noteventilapia?”hesays.
Ishakemyhead.
“Salmon?”heasks.
“No.”
“Catfish?”
“LiketheTVshow?”Isay.
HebrieflypausestheinquestwhenthefrontdoorsswingopenandCharlieLastrastepsinside.Ifightanurgetosinkinmychairandhidebehindthemenu,butitwouldn’tmatter.Thesecondapersonwalksthroughthosedoorstheycomeface-to-facewithourtable,andCharlie’seyessnaprighttome,hisexpressionsomersaultingthroughsurprisetosomethinglikedistasteandthenwickedglee.
Itreallyislikewatchingastormbuildinginatime-lapsevideo,culminatinginthatflash-crackoflightning.
Henodsatmebeforebeeliningtowardthebar,andBlakeresumeshisfishlist.Justlikethat,Iloseanotherfifteenminutesofmylife.
Blakewashandsomeinhisphotographs,butItrulyfindthismanheinous.
Ipatthetableandstand.“Youneedanythingfromthebar?”
“Idon’tdrink,”heremindsme,soundingawfullyimpatientforamanwho’sheardthesentenceIdon’tcookseventeentimesinthelastthirtyminuteswithoutitmakinganylastingimpression.
Ican’tactuallyorderanotherdrink.AthirdcocktailandI’dprobablymakeBlakestandback-to-backwithmewhileourwaitressmeasuredus.OrmaybeI’dactuallyknockhimoutandstealhiswallet.
Eitherway,I’monamissiontofindLibbyratherthanbooze,butthisplaceisjammed.IwedgemyselfagainstthebarandpulloutmyphonetofindnotonebuttwomissedcallsfromDusty,alongwithatextmessageapologizingforcallingsolate.Ifireoffareplyaskingifshe’sallrightandwhetherIcancallherbackintwentyminutes,thenWHEREAREYOU?AsIhitsend,Ipushontomytiptoestoscanthecrowd.
“Ifyou’relookingforyourdignity,”someonesaysthroughtheroarofconversation(andthegirlsscreaming“LikeaVirgin”atthebackoftheroom),“youwon’tfindithere.”
CharliesitsaroundthecornerofthebarwithaglisteningbottleofCoors.
“What’ssoundignifiedaboutkaraokenight?”Iask.“Imean,you’rehere.”
Someonestepsbetweenustoorder.Charlieleansbehindhertocontinuetheconversation,andIdotoo.“Yes,butI’mnotherewithBlakeCarlisle.”
Iglanceovermyshoulder.Blakeisstaringlonginglyatabrunettewholooksaboutfourfootsix.
“Growuptogether?”Iguess.
“Veryfewpeoplewhoarebornhereeverescape,”hesayssagely.
“DoestheSunshineFallsTourismBureauknowaboutyou?”Iask.
Thewomanstandingbetweenusclearlyhasnoplanstoleave,butwejustkeeptalkingaroundher,leaninginfrontofandthenbehindherdependingonherposture.
“No,butI’msurethey’llwantanendorsementfromyouonceyou’vedoneyourwalkofshamefromBlake’shouse.I’vegotitongoodauthorityhehasacarpetedbathroom.”
“Joke’sonyou,becauseIhaven’tsleptoverataman’sapartmentinliketenyears.”
Charlie’seyesglint,anotherlightningstrikeacrossthedarkcloudsofhisface.“Iamdesperateformoreinformation.”
“Ihaveanintensenighttimeskincareroutine.Idon’tliketomissit,anditdoesn’tallfitinahandbag.”Mymomusedtosay,Youcan’tcontrolthepassageoftime,butyoucansoftenitsblowtoyourface.
Hisheadcockstoonesideasheconsidersmyhalf-truthofananswer.“Sohow’dyouendupherewithBlake?Throwadartataphonebook?”
“HaveyouheardofMOM?”
“Thatwomanwhoworksatthebookstore?”Charliedeadpans.“Ithinkso.Why?”
“Thedatingapp.”Ismackthebarastherealizationhitsme.“Doyouthinkthat’swhytheynameditthat?Soyoucouldbelike,Momsetmeup?”
Charliebalks.“IwouldnevergooutwithsomeoneSallysetmeupwith.”
“YourmomthinksI’mgorgeous,”Iremindhim.
“I’maware,”hesays.
“Iguesswe’vealreadyestablishedthatyouwouldn’tdatemethough,”Isay.
Hisbrowlifts,tuggingatonecornerofhismouth.“Oh,we’regoingtodothisnow?”Hefailstohideapoutysmirkbehindhisbeerbottle.Ashesips,thecreaseunderhislipdeepens,andmyinsidesstartfizzing.
“Dowhat?”
“ThethingwherewepretendIrejectedyou.”
“Youexactlyrejectedme,”Isay.
“Yousaidwait,”hechallenges.
“Yes,andyouapparentlyheardI’mgoingtotaseyouinthecrotch.”
“Yousaiditwasamistake,”hesays.“Fervently.”
“Yousaidthatfirst!”Isay.
Hesnorts.“Webothknow”—thewomanbetweenushasfinallyleft,andCharlieslidesontoherabandonedseat—“allthatwasforyouwasacheckedboxonyourextremelydepressinglist,andthat’snotagameI’minterestedinplaying,Nora.”
“Oh,please.Youdon’tevenqualifyforthelist.You’reascity-personasitgets.”ImmediatelyIregretsayingit.Icould’vepretendedthekisswascalculated;nowheknowsIjustwantedit.
Thewayhisbeerbottlepausesagainsthispartedlips,likeI’vecaughthimoffguard,almostmakesitworthit.Whatevergameweareplaying,I’vewonanotherround:theprizeishischagrinedexpression.
Hesetshisbottledown,scratcheshiseyebrow.“I’llletyougetbacktoyourdate.”
Icheckmyphone.Libbyhasreplied:Headedhome.Iwon’twaitupforyou.Shehadtheaudacitytoincludeawinkyface.
Ilookup,andCharlie’swatchingme.“Isthereawayoutofhere,”Iask,“thatdoesn’ttakemepastBlake?”
Hestudiesmeforabeatandsaysdryly,“NoraStephens,MOMisnotgoingtobehappywithyou.”Thenheholdshishandout.“Backdoor.”
Charlietugsmeawaythroughthecrowdandbehindthebar,andweduckthroughanarrowdoorintothekitchen,onlytobeimmediatelycutoff.
“Hey!Youcan’t—”theprettybartendercries,throwingherarmsouttohersides.SheclocksCharlieandflushes.Somehowitmakesherevenprettier.
“Amaya,”Charliesays.He’sgonealittlemorerigid,likehe’sjustrememberedhehasabodyandeverymuscleinithastightenedreflexively.
I’vebeenthinkingofAmaya’ssmile—andhertonewithCharlie—asflirty,butthatwasbeforeIknewtheirhistory.Nowwhenthatsmilemakesanappearance,Iparseoutshadesofhurtandhesitancy,awispybeamofhopeshiningthroughitall.
Charlieclearshisthroat,hisfingerstwitchingaroundmine.Amaya’sgazejudderstowardthemotion,andjustlikethat,myfaceisonfiretoo.
“Weneedthebackdoor,”Charliesays,apologetic.“BlakeCarlislethinkshe’sonadatewiththiswoman.”
Hereyesflickerbetweenusagain.Afteramomentofweighingheroptions,shesighsandstepsaside.“Justthisonce.We’rereallynotsupposedtoletanyonebackhere.”
“Thanks.”Henods,butdoesn’tmoveforasecond.Probablytoostunnedbythereturnofherbrilliant,hopeful,I-still-love-yousmile.“Thanks,”hesaysagain,andleadsthewaythroughthedoor.Outinthealleyway,theairfeelscoolanddry,andwiththesuddenrushofoxygentomybrain,Iremembertojerkmyhandfromhis.“Well,thatwasawkward.”
“What?”
Icuthimaglance.“YourjiltedloverandherX-rayvision.”
“Shewasn’tjilted.AndasfarasIknow,shehasnosuperpowers.”
“Well,maybeshewasn’tjilted,”Isay,“butshe’shungup.”
“You’remisinformed,”hesays.
“You’reclueless,”Isay.
“Trustme,”hesays,leadingmetothecrossstreet.“Thewaythingsendedleftnoroomforhang-ups.”
“Shelookedhaunted,Charlie.”
“SheheardBlakeCarlisle’sname,”hereplies.“Howelsewasshesupposedtolook?”
“SoBlakehasareputation.”
“It’sasmalltown,”Charliesays.“Everyonehasareputation.”
“What’syours?”
Hisgazeslicestowardme,browliftingandjawmusclesleaping.“Probablywhateveryouthinkitis.”
Ilookawaybeforethoseeyescanswallowmewhole.
AfewpeoplearesmokinginfrontofPoppaSquat’s,acouplemoreshufflingtowardanivy-wrappedredbrickItalianrestaurant,Giacomo’s.Untilnow,Ihaven’tseenitopen.
Tonight,thewindowsareaglow,theawningstwinkling,serversinwhitedressshirtsandblacktieswhizzingbackandforthwithtraysofwineglassesandpastas.
ItipmychintowardGiacomo’s.“Ithoughtthatplacewascloseddown.”
“It’sonlyopenonSaturdayandSundaynights,”Charliesays.“Thecouplewhorunitretiredalongtimeago,buteveryonetalkedthemintokeepingthingsgoingontheweekend.”
“Youmeanthewholetownbandedtogethertosaveabelovedestablishment?”Iprod.“Exactlylikethetrope?”
“Sure,”hesaysevenly,“ortheyshowedupwithpitchforksanddemandedtheirweeklycacioepepe.”
“Isitgood?”Iask.
“Actually,it’sverygood.”Hehesitatesforamoment.“Areyouhungry?”
Mystomachgrumbles,andhismouthtwitches.“Wouldyouliketohavedinnerwithme,Nora?”Heheadsoffmyresponsewith,“Ascolleagues.Oneswhocan’tfulfilleachother’schecklists.”
“Iwasn’tawareyouhadachecklist,”Isay.
“OfcourseIhaveachecklist.”Hiseyesglintinthedark.“WhatamI,ananimal?”14
WELL,IFITisn’tyoungCharlesLastra!”Anoldwomanwithapileofsilvery-grayhairontopofherheadandadresswhosenecklinetopsherchincomestowardus.“Andyou’vebroughtadate!Howlovely!”
HerhazeleyestwinkleasshegivesCharlieandmebothsqueezesonthearm.
Helooksdownrightadoring,byCharlie’sstandards.EvenAmayadidn’tgetthissmile.“Howareyou,Mrs.Struthers?”
Sheholdsoutherhands,gesturingtothebustlingdiningroom.“Can’tcomplain.Justthetwoofyou?”
Whenhenods,shetakesustoawhite-clothedtabletuckedagainstawindowlinedwithcandlesdrippingwaxdownwicker-wrappedwinebottles.
“Youtwoenjoy.”Shetapsthetablewithawink,thenreturnstothehoststand.
Thesmelloffreshbreadisthickandintoxicating,andwithinthirtyseconds,abottleofredwineappearsonthetable.
“Oh,wedidn’torderthat,”Itelltheserver,buthetipshisheadinMrs.Struthers’sdirectionandhurriesaway.
Charlielooksupfromtheglassofwinehe’spouringforme.“She’stheowner.Alsomyfavoriteformersubstituteteacher.GavemeanOctaviaButlerbookthatchangedmylife.”
Myheartgivesastrangeflutteratthethought.Ijutmychintowardthewine.“Youhavetodrinkallofthat.I’vealreadyhadtwodrinks,andI’malightweight.”
“Oh,Iremember,”heteases,slidingmyglasstowardme,“butthisiswine.It’sthegrapejuiceofalcohol.”
Ileanacrossthetable,grabbingthebottleandtippingitoverhisglassuntilit’sfulltothebrim.Asdeadpanasever,hehunchesandslurpsfromtheglasswithoutliftingit.
Iburstintolaughteragainstmywill,andhe’ssovisiblypleaseditgivesmeafull-bodytwingeofpride.Hewantstomakemelaugh.
“SohowbadshouldIfeel,”Iask,“aboutditchingBlake?”
Charlieleansbackinhischair,hislegsstretchingout,grazingmine.“Well,”hesays,“whenwewereinhighschool,heusedtotakemybooksoutofmygymlockerandputtheminthetoilettank,somaybeathreeoutoften?”
“Ohno.”Itrytostifleagiggle,butI’mslaphappy,highonadrenalinefrommyescape.
“Howmanydatesareleft?”heasks.“OnyourLife-RuiningVacationList.”
“Depends.”Itakeasip.“Howmanymorehighschoolbulliesdidyouhave?”
Hislaughislowandhoarse.Itmakesmethinkofthesatisfyingsnapsoundofatennisracketdeliveringaperfectreturn.
Hisvoice,hislaugh,hasatexture;itscrapes.Itakeanothersipofwinetodullthethought,thenswitchbacktowater.
“Doesthatmeanyouwanttodatemybullies,ortohumiliatethem?”Hegrabssomebreadfromthebasketonthetable,tearsoffapiece,andslipsitbetweenhislips.
Ilookawayastheheatcreepsupmyneck.“That’salldowntowhethertheyaskhowbigmyfeetarewithinthefirstfiveminutesofmeeting.”
Charliechokesoverthebread.“Wasit,like,afetishthing?”
“IthinkitwasmoreofaWow,didyouhavetofallinapitofradioactivewastetogetthattall?kindofthing.”
“Blakeneverdidhavethemostsecuresenseofself,”Charliemuses.
We’reinterruptedbyateenagewaiterwithanunfortunatebowlcuttakingourorder—twogoatcheesesaladsandcacioepepes.
Assoonashe’soutofearshot,Isay,“LibbypickedBlake.She’srunninganappforme.”
“Right.”Hisbrowsriseapprehensively.“MOM.”
“Twodatesonthelist.Blakeisthefirst.”
Charlie’seyesdoaboredallusion-to-an-eye-roll.“Saveyourselfthetroubleandusethisasnumbertwo.”
“Ialreadytoldyou.Youdon’tcount.”
“Thewordseverymandreamsofhearing.”
“Consideryourselfthegrapejuiceofdates.”
“Sonumberfiveisgoontwoshittydateswithmenyoucouldneverbeinto,inatownyoucouldn’tstandtolivein,”Charliesays.“What’snumbersixagain?Voluntarylobotomy?”
Islidehismostlyfullwineglasstowardhim.“I’mstillwaitingonyoursecrets,Lastra.”
Hepushestheglassbacktowardthemiddleofthetable.“Youalreadyknowmine.I’mtheuninvitedprodigalson,heretorunarapidlydyingbookstorewhilemydad’sbusywithphysicaltherapyandmymom’stryingtokeephimfromclimbingontherooftocleanthegutters.”
“That’s…alot,”Isay.
“It’sfine.”Histonemakesitclearthatsentenceendswithaperiod.
“AndLoggia’sbeengoodwithlettingyouworkremotely,”Isay.
“Fornow.”Whenhisgazemeetsmine,it’sstartlinglydark.ItfeelslikeI’vestumbledtowardtheedgeofsomethingdangerous.Andworse,likeI’mtrappedthereinviscoushoney,incapableofsteppingbackfromtheledge.
“Now,whatdoesLibbyhaveonyouthatyouwentoutwithBlake?”Charlieasks.“Didyousellstatesecrets?Commitamurder?”
“AndhereIthoughtyouhadayoungersister.”
Herelaxesbackinhischair.“Carina.She’stwenty-two.”
EventhoughI’vemethismother,it’shardtoimagineCharliewithafamily.Heseemsso…self-contained.Thenagain,that’sprobablywhatpeoplesayaboutme.
“AndCarinacan’tcompelyoutodosomethingsimplybyasking?”Isay.Orbydodgingyouformonths,keepingsecrets,andconsistentlylookinglikeshejustgotunhitchedfrombeingdraggedbehindatrain.
Charliehesitates.“Carina’swhyI’mhere.”
Ileanintothetable,itsedgediggingintomyribs.I’vegotthatfeelingofreadingamysterynovel,knowingarevealiscomingup,andfightingtheurgetoskipahead.
“Shewasplanningtocomebackandrunthebookstoreaftercollege,”hesays.“ThenshedecidedlastminutetojuststayinItalyforawhile.Florence.She’sapainter.”
“Wow,”Isay.“Peoplereallyjustdothat?MovetoItalytopaint?”
Charliefrowns,turnshiswaterglassinplace,thenreadjustshissilverwareintoatidyrow.It’ssatisfyingtowatch;feelslikehavingsomeonescratchthespotrightbetweenmyshoulderblades.“Thewomeninmyfamilydo.Mymomalsowenttheretopaintforacoupleweekswhenshewastwentyandendedupstayingforayear.”
“Thewhimsicalfreespiritbringingmagicintoeveryone’slives,”Isay.“I’mfamiliarwiththattrope.”
“Somepeoplecallitmagic,”hesays.“Iprefertothinkofitas‘ragingstresshives.’CarinawaslivinginanAirbnbownedbyaliteraldrugdealeruntilIbookedheranotherplace.”
Ishudder.“ThatisexactlyLibbyinaparalleluniverse.”
“Littlesisters,”hesays,thetwistofhismouthdeepeningthecreasebeneathhisbottomlip.
Istareatitforabeattoolong.Mybrainscramblesforpurchaseintheconversation.“Whataboutyourdad?What’shelike?”
Hetipshisheadback.“Quiet.Strong.Asmall-towncontractorwhosweptmymomsothoroughlyoffherfeetthatshedecidedtoputdownroots.”
Atmyself-satisfiedlook,heleansforward,matchingmyposture.“Fine,yes,theyarethequintessentialsmall-townlovestory,”headmits,eyessparkingasourkneespresstogether.Underthetablewe’replayingagameofchicken:whowillpullawayfirst?
Thesecondsstretchon,thickandheavyasmolasses,butwestaywhereweare,lockedtogetherbythechallenge.
“Allright,Stephens,”hesaysfinally.“Let’shearaboutyourfamily.Whereexactlydotheyfallinyourcatalogueoftwo-dimensionalcaricatures?”
“Easy,”Isay.“Libby’sthechaotic,charmingninetiesrom-comheroinewho’salwaysrunninglateandiswindblowninacuteandsexyway.Mydad’sthedeadbeat,absentfatherwho‘wasn’treadytohavekids’butnow,accordingtoapaidPI,takeshisthreesonsandwifeoutintheirboatonLakeErieeveryweekend.”
“Whataboutyourmom?”heasks.
“Mymom…”Irearrangemyownsilverware,likethey’rewordsinmynextsentence.“Shewasmagic.”Imeethiseyes,expectingasneerorasmirkorastormcloud,butinsteadfindingonlyasmallcreaseinsidehisbrows.“ShewasthestrugglingactresswhochasedherdreamstoNewYork.Weneverhadanymoney,butsomehow,shemadeeverythingfun.Shewasmybestfriend.Imean,notjustwhenwegotolder.AslongasIcanremember,she’dtakeuswithhereverywhere.Andyouknow,foralotofpeoplewhomovetothecity,itlosesitsglowinacoupleyears?ButwithMom,itwaslikeeverysingledaywasthefirstone.
“Shefeltsoluckytobethere.Andeveryonefellinlovewithher.Shewassucharomantic.That’swhereLibbygetsitfrom.ShestartedreadingMom’soldromancenovelswaytooyoung.”
“Youwereclosewithher,”Charliesaysquietly,halfwaybetweenobservationandquestion.“Yourmom?”
Inod.“Shejustmadethingsbetter.”Icanstillsmellherlemon-lavenderscent,feelherarmsaroundme,hearhervoice—Letitout,sweetgirl.Justonelookandthosefivewords,anditwouldallcomespillingout.IdomybestforLibby,butI’veneverhadthatkindoftendernessthatslipspastdefenses.
WhenIlookup,Charlieisn’twatchingmesomuchasreadingme,hiseyestravelingbackandforthovermyfacelikehecantranslateeachlineandshadowintowords.Likehecanseemescramblingforasegue.
Heclearshisthroatandhandsmeone.“Ireadsomeromancenovelsasakid.”
Myreliefatthetopicchangerapidlymorphsintosomethingelse,andCharlielaughs.“Youcouldn’tpossiblylookmoreevilrightnow,Stephens.”
“Thisismydelightedface,”Isay.“Didtheyteachyouanythinghelpful?”
Hemurmurs,“Icouldneversharethatinformationwithacolleague.”
Irollmyeyes.“Sothatwouldbeano.”
“Isthathowyougotintobooks?Yourmom’sloveofromance?”
Ishakemyhead.“Forme,itwasthisshop.FreemanBooks.”
Charlienods.“Iknowit.”
“Welivedoverit,”Iexplain.“Mrs.Freemanusedtorunalltheseprograms,thingsthatwerefreewiththepurchaseofabook,anditmadeiteasierforourmomtojustifyspendingmoney.Iwasneverstressedoutthere,youknow?I’dforgetabouteverything.ItfeltlikeIcouldgoanywhere,doanything.”
“Agoodbookstore,”Charliesays,“islikeanairportwhereyoudon’thavetotakeyourshoesoff.”
“Infact,”Isay,“it’sdiscouraged.”
“SometimesIthinkGoodeBookscoulduseasignaboutit,”hereplies.“It’sthereasonInevertellcustomerstomakethemselvesathome.”
“Right,becausethentheshoesandbrasgoflying,andtheMarvinGayestartsplayingattopvolume.”
“Foreverykernelofinformationyouoffer,Stephens,”hesays,“thereareahundrednewquestions.AndyetIstilldon’tknowhowyougotintoagenting.”
“Mrs.Freemanmadetheseshelf-talkercardsforustofillout,”Iexplain.“BookLoversRecommend,theysaid—that’swhatshecalledus,herlittlebooklovers.SoIguessIstartedtothinkaboutbooksmorecritically.”
Thecreviceunderhislipturnsintoanoutrightcrevasse.“Soyoustartedleavingscathingreviews?”
“Igotsuperstingywithmyrecommendations,”Ireply.“AndthenIstartedjustchangingthingsasIread;fixingendingsifLibbydidn’tlikehowtheyplayedout,orifallthemaincharacterswereboys,I’daddagirlwithstrawberryblondhair.”
“Soyouwereachildeditor,”Charliesays.
“That’swhatIwantedtodo.Istartedworkingattheshopinhighschoolandstayedthereallthroughundergrad,savingupforEmerson’spublishingprogram.Thenmymomdied,andIbecameLibby’slegalguardian,soIhadtoputitoff.Acoupleofyearslater,Mrs.Freemanpassedawaytoo,andhersonhadtocuthalfthestafftomakeendsmeet.Imanagedtogetanadminjobataliteraryagency,andtherestishistory.”
Therewasmoretoit,ofcourse.Theyearofbalancingtwojobs,nappinginthehoursbetweenshifts.TheknackIdiscoveredfortalkingdownpanickingauthorswhentheiragentswereoutofoffice.TheeventualbestsellingnovelsI’dpulledoutoftheslushpileandforwardedtomybosses.
Theoffertocomeonasajunioragent,andthelistofconsIwroteout:I’dhavetoleavemywaitressinggig;workingoncommissionwasrisky;therewasachanceI’dlandusintheexactholeI’dbeendiggingusoutofsinceMom’sdeath.
Andthen,inboththeproandconcolumns:nowthatI’dhadatasteofworkingwithbooks,howcouldIeverbehappywithanythingelse?
“Igavemyselfthreeyears,”ItellCharlie,“andadollaramountI’dneedtomake,andifIdidn’treachit,IpromisedI’dquitandlookforsomethingsalaried.”
“Howearlydidyoumakeyourdeadline?”
Ifeelmysmilecurveinvoluntarily.“Eightmonths.”
Hislipscurvetoo.Smilingwithknives.“Ofcourseyoudid,”hemurmurs.Oureyeslockforabeat.“Whataboutediting?”
IfeelthedentinmychinbeforeI’veevenlied.Thefirstfewyears,Icheckedjoblistingscompulsively.OnceIevenwenttoaninterview.ButIwasabouttopushthroughahugesale,andIwasterrifiedtobelockedintoalowersalarywithanentry-levelposition.Threedaysbeforemysecondinterview,Icanceledit.
“I’mgoodatagenting,”Ireply.“Whataboutyou?How’dyouendupinpublishing?”
Hescrubsonehandupthebackofhissalt-and-peppercurls.“IhadalotofproblemsinschoolwhenIwassmall,”hesays.“Couldn’tfocus.Thingsdidn’tclick.Gotheldback.”
Itrytoreininmysurprise.
“Youdon’thavetodothat,”hesays,amused.
“Dowhat?”
“TheShiny,PoliteNorathing,”hesays.“Ifyou’reaghastatmyfailure,thenjustbeaghast.Icantakeit.”
“It’snotthat,”Isay.“Youjustputoffthis…academicvibe.Iwould’veexpectedyoutobe,like,aRhodesscholar,withatattoooftheBodleianLibraryonyourass.”
“ThenwherewouldmyGarfieldthecattattoogo?”heaskssodrylythatIhavetospitmywinebackintotheglass.“One-one,”hesayswithafaintsmile.
“What’sthat?”
“Ourspittakescore.”
Itrytowipemygrinoff,butitsticks.Charlie’scommitmenttothetruthiscontagious,apparently,andthetruthis,I’mhavingfun.“Sowhatthen?”Isay.“Afteryougotheldback?”
Hesighs,straightenshissilverware.“Mymomwas—well,you’vemether.She’safreespirit.Shewantedtojustpullmeoutofschoolandcallmehelpingtendhermarijuanaplants‘homeschooling.’Mydad’sthemore…steadyofthetwoofthem.”Hissmileisdelicate,almostsweet.
“Anyway,hefiguredifIwasbadatschool,thenhejustneededtofigureoutwhatIwasgoodat.WhatIcouldfocuson.Triedamillionhobbiesoutwithme,thenfinally,whenIwaseight,hegotmethisCDplayer—probablyhopingI’dturnouttobethenextJacksonBrowneorsomething.InsteadIimmediatelytooktheCDplayerapart.”
Inodsoberly.“Andthat’showhediscoveredyourpassionforserialkilling.”
Charlie’seyessparkashelaughs.“It’showherealizedIwantedtolearnhowtoputthingstogether.Ithoughttheworldmadesense,andIwantedtofindthesense.Afterthat,mydadstartedaskingmetohelphimworkonthiscarhewasfixingup.Igotprettyintoit.”
“Ateight?”Icry.
“Asitturnsout,”hesays,“IhaveincrediblefocuswhenI’minterestedinsomething.”
Despitetheinnocenceofthecomment,itfeelslikemoltenlavaisrollingupmytoes,mylegs,engulfingme.
Ishiftmygazetomyglass.“Sothat’showyouendedupwitharacecarbed?”
“Alongwithatonofbooksaboutcarsandrestoration.Thereadingfinallyclicked,andIstoppedcaringaboutmechanicsovernight.”
“Diditcrushhim?”Iask.
NowCharlie’seyesdrop,stormcloudsrollinginacrosshisbrow.“Hejustwantedmetolovesomething.Hedidn’tcarewhat.”
Dads,asaconcept,havealwaysfeltasirrelevanttomydailylifeasastronauts.Iknowthey’reoutthere,butIrarelythinkaboutthem.Suddenly,though,Icanalmostimagineit.Icanalmostmissit,thisthingIneverhad.
“That’sreallynice.”Itfeelslikenotjustanunderstatement,butacompletemistranslationforsomethingvastandunruly.
“He’sasweetguy,”Charliesaysquietly.“Anyway,heletthecarstuffgoandstartedpickinguppaperbacksformeeverytimehestoppedbyagaragesale,oranewdonationboxcameintoMom’sshop.Hehasnoideahowmucheroticahe’sgivenme.”
“Andyouactuallyreadit.”
Charlieturnshiswineglassonehundredandeightydegrees,eyesboringintome.“Iwantedtounderstandhowthingsworked,remember?”
Iarchabrow.“How’dthatturnoutforyou?”
Hesitsforward.“Iwasslightlydisappointedwhenmyfirstseriousgirlfrienddidn’thavethreeconsecutiveorgasms,butotherwiseokay.”
Atorrentoflaughterripsthroughme.
“SoI’vefoundthekeytoNoraStephens’sjoy,”hesays.“Mysexualhumiliation.”
“It’snotthehumiliationsomuchasthesheeroptimism.”
Hislipspresstogether.“I’dsayI’marealist,butonewhodoesn’talwaysunderstandwhenwhathe’sseeingisn’trealism.”
“Sowhy’dyourunawaytoNewYork?”
“Ididn’trun,”hesays.“Imoved.”
“Isthereadifference?”Iask.
“Noonewaschasingme?”hesays.“Also,‘running’impliesspeed.Ihadtogotocommunitycollegeforacoupleyearshere,workconstructionwithmydadtosaveupsoIcouldtransferinmyjunioryear.”
“Youdon’tstrikemeasahardhatguy.”
“I’mnotahatguy,period,”hesays.“ButIneededmoneytogettoNewYork,andIthoughtallwriterslivedthere.”
“Ah,”Isay.“Thetruthcomesout.Youwantedtobeawriter.”MybrainflipsstraighttoJakob,likeabookwhosespineiscreasedtolandonafavoritepage.
“IthoughtIdid,”Charliesays.“Incollege,IrealizedIlikedworkshoppingotherpeople’sstoriesmore.Ilikethepuzzleofit.Lookingatallthepiecesandfiguringoutwhatsomething’stryingtobe,andhowtogetitthere.”
Ifeelapangoflonging.“That’smyfavoritepartofthejobtoo.”
Hestudiesmeforamoment.“ThenIthinkyoumightbeinthewrongjob.”
Editingmight’vebeenthedream,butyoucan’teat,drink,orsleepontopofdreams.Ilandedthenextbestthing.Everyonehastogiveuptheirdreamseventually.“YouknowwhatIthink?”
Hiseyesstaytrainedonme,hispupilsgrowinglikethey’resomehowabsorbingalltheshadowsfromtheroom.“No,butI’mdesperatetofindout,”hedeadpans.
“Ithinkyoudidrunawayfromthisplace.”
Herollshiseyesandleansbackinhischair,thepostureofajunglecat.“Ileftcalmly.Whereas,inoneweek,youwillrun,screaming,forthecitylimits,beggingeverypassingsemitruckdriverforalifttothenearestbagel.”
“Actually,”Isay,risingtothechallengeinhisvoice,“I’mhereforamonth.”
Hislipspresstogether.“Isthatso?”
“Itis,”Isay.“LibbyandIhavealotoffunthingsplanned.Butyoualreadyknowthat.You’veseenthelist.”
BecauseIamnotNadine.I’mcapableofspontaneity,andflannelwon’tmakemebreakoutinarash,andI’mgoingtofinishthatlist.
Hisgazenarrows.“You’regoingto‘sleepunderthestars’?Offeryourselftothemosquitoes?”
“Therearebodyspraysforthat.”
“Rideahorse?”hesays.“Yousaidyou’reterrifiedofhorses.”
“WhendidIsaythat?”
“Theothernight,whenyouwerethreesheetstothewind.Yousaidyouwereterrifiedofanythinglargerthanagroundhog.Andthenyoutookitbackandsaidevengroundhogsmakeyouuneasy,becausethey’reunpredictable.You’renotgoingtorideahorse.”
WechangedittoPetahorse,butnowI’munwillingtobackdown.“Wouldyouliketomakeabet?”
“Thatyouwon’t‘saveadyingbusiness’inamonth?”hesays.“Wouldn’tcallitagamble.”
“Whatwillyougiveme,whenIwin?”
“Whatdoyouwant?”hesays.“Avitalorgan?Myrent-stabilizedapartment?”
Islaphishandonthetable.“Youhavearent-stabilizedapartment?”
Hetugshishandback.“I’vehaditsincecollege.ShareditwithtwootherpeopleuntilIcouldafforditonmyown.”
“Howmanybathrooms?”Iask.
“Two.”
“Pictures?”
Hepullshisphoneoutandscrollsforabeat,thenhandsitover.Iwasexpectingphotoswheretheapartmentwasincidental.Thesewereobviouslytakenbyarealestatephotographer.It’sagorgeous,airy,tastefullyminimalistapartment.Also,it’sextremelyclean,which:hot.
Thebedroomsaresmall,buttherearethreeofthem,andthemainbathroomhasagiganticdoublevanity.It’sthestuffofNewYorkdreams.
“Whydoyoujust…havethese?”Isay.“Isthisyourversionofporn?”
“Apagecoveredinredinkismyversionofporn,”hesays.“IhavethepicturesbecauseIwasconsideringsublettingwhileI’mhere.”
“Libbyandherfamily,”Isay.“WhenIwinthisbet,theygettheapartment.”
Hescoffs.“You’renotserious.”
“I’vedonemoreunpleasantthingsforlessofareward.RememberBlake?”
Heconsidersforamoment.“Okay,Nora.Youdoeverythingonthatlist,andtheapartmentisyours.”
“Indefinitely?”Iclarify.“Yousubletittothemforaslongastheywant,andfindsomewhereelsetolivewhenyougoback?”
Hegivesakindofgrowlysnort.“Sure,”hesays,“butit’snotgoingtohappen.”
“Areyouinyourrightmindrightnow?”Isay.“Becauseifweshakeonthis,itishappening.”
Hisgazeholdsmineandhereachesacrossthetable.WhenItakehishand,thefrictionfeelslikeitcouldlightafire.Ashiverracesupbetweenmyshoulderblades.
Ionlyremembertoletgoofhishandbecause,atthatmoment,thesaladandcacioepepeshowupinacloudofthemostheavenlyscentimaginable,carriedbythebowl-cutserver,andCharlieandIstartleapartlikewejustgotcaughtinflagranteonthetable.
Afterthat,wewastenotimewithsmalltalk,insteadshovelinghandmadepastaintoourmouthsfortenminutesstraight.
Bythetimewefinish,mostofthetwo-toptableshavebeendraggedtogetherforlargergroups,theirchairsrearrangedsopartiescancombine,thelaughterswellingtoovertakethesoftItalianmusicandclinkofwineglasses,thesmellofbreadandbutterysaucesdenserthanever.
“IwonderwhereBlakeisnow,”Isay.“Ihopehefoundhappinesswiththatminusculehostess.”
“Ihopehe’sbeenmistakenforawantedcriminalandpickedupbytheFBI,”Charliesays.
“He’llbereleasedinforty-eighthours,”Iadd.“Butuntilthen,hewillnothaveagreattime.”Charlieoutrightsmiles,andIadd,“Ijusthopehisinterrogatorisn’tastallasme.That’sabridgetoofar.”
“Ithinkyoushouldknowsomething.”Charlie’svoicefadestoaraspasheleansacrossthetable,goosebumpsracingupmylegsashiscalfbrushesmine
Iscootforwardtoo,ourkneesfittingtogetherunderus,likeinterlockingfingersthistime:his,mine,his,mine.
Hewhispers,“You’renotthattall.”
Iwhisperback,“I’mastallasyou.”
“I’mnotthattall,”hesays.
Whatmybodyhearsis,Let’smakeout
“Yes,butformen,”Isay,“there’snosuchthingastootall.”
Heholdsmygazefartooseriouslyforthisveryunseriousconversation.Myskinbuzzes,likemybloodismadeofironfillingsandhiseyesaremagnetssweepingoverthem.
“Thereisn’tforwomeneither.There’sjusttallwomen,”hesays,“andthementooinsecuretodatethem.”15
WEAMBLEDOWNthedarkroadinnearsilence,buttheairhumswithanelectricchargebetweenus.
“Youdon’thavetowalkmeallthewaytothecottage,”Ifinallysay.
“It’sonmyway,”Charliesays.
Icasthimadisbelievinglook.
Hisheadtilts,streetlightlancinghisface.I’mnotsureanyoneontheplanethasnicereyebrowsthanthisman.Ofcourse,I’mnotsureI’veevernoticedaman’seyebrowsbefore,soitmightjustbethatmygeneralunder-stimulationduringpublishing’sslowseasonhasforcedmetofindnewinterests.“Fine,”herelents.“It’snotfaroutofmyway.”
Attheedgeoftown,thesidewalkgiveswaytoagrassyshoulder,buttonightI’mwearingsensibleshoes.Onourright,anarrowfootpathwindsintothefoliage.“What’sthroughthere?”
“Woods,”hesays.
“Igotthatmuch,”Isay.“Wheredoesitgo?”
Herunsahandoverhisface.“Tothecottage.”
“Wait,likeashortcut?”
“Moreorless.”
“Isthereareasonwe’renottakingit?”
Hearchesabrow.“Ididn’ttakeyouforthehiking-in-the-dead-of-nighttype?”
Ipushpasthim.
“Stephens,”hesays.“Youdon’thavetoproveanything.”Hisfaintlyspicyscentcatchesuptomebeforehedoes,sofamiliarandyetsurprising,notesofcinnamonandorangethataremuchstrongeronhimthantheyareonme.“Let’sjustgobackandfollowtheroad.”Overhead,anowlhoots,andheduckshisheadandthrowshisarmsoveritprotectively.
“Wait.”Icuthimaglance,stop.“Areyou…afraidofthedark?”
“Ofcoursenot,”hegrowls,startingdownthepathagain.“I’mjustsurprisedhowfaryou’retakingthissmall-town-transformationthing.Andjustsoyouknow,thosebangsdonotmakeyoumoreapproachable.Youjustlooklikeahotassassininanexpensivewig.”
“AllIjustheard,”Isay,“ishotandexpensive.”
“IfIshowedyouaRorschachblot,you’dfindhotandexpensivesomewhereinthere.”
Mygazecatchesoverhisshoulder.Justbeyondthetrail,astreamfunnelsoverasmallwaterfall,massiverocksjuttingupliketeethoneithersideofittoformaswimminghole.Abreakinthetreecoverletsmoonlightpoolonitscenter,turningthefrothywaterintoalandscapeofshimmeringsilverspirals
“Numbersix,”Iexhale.
Charliefollowsmygaze,hisbrowfurrowing.“Thereisabsolutelynoway.”
Theurgetosurprisehimsurgeslikeatidalwave.Butthere’ssomethingelsetoo.Incollege,IwasalwaysthePartyMom,theonewhomadesurenoonefelldownstairsordrankanythingtheyhadn’tseenpoured.WithLibby,I’mthedoting-slash-worryingoldersister.Formyclients,thehard-asswhoarguesandpressesandnegotiates.
Here,Irealizeabruptly,I’mnoneofthosethings.Idon’thavetobe,notwithobsessive,organized,responsibleCharlieLastra.SoIstepontothenearestboulderandkickoffmyshoes.
“Nora,”hegroans.“You’renotserious.”
Ipeelmydressovermyshoulders.“Whynot?Aretherealligators?”
Ilookbackathimintimetocatchhiseyescuttingupfrommyunderwear,instinctivelysnaggingonmybraforasplitsecondbeforelaunchingtomyfacewithaclenchofhisjaw.
“Sharks?”Iask.
“Onlyyou,”hesays.
“Leeches?Nuclearwaste?”
“Regularwasteisn’tbadenough?”hesays.
“I’mnotmakingyougetin,”Isay.
“Notuntilyoustartdrowning.”
Isitontherock,danglingmylegsintothecoolwater.Ashiverbreaksacrossmyshoulderblades.“I’maveryproficientswimmer.”Islipintothestream,suppressingayelp.
“Cold?”Charliesays,toneself-satisfied.
“Balmy,”Ireply,wadingdeeperuntilthewaterreachesmychest.“Iwouldhavetotryveryhardtodrowninthis.”
Hestepsuptotheledge.“Atleastthebacterialinfectionwillcomeeasily.”
“Iwould’vethoughtthiswassomekindofSunshineFallsriteofpassage,”Isay.
“DoIseemlikethekindofpersonwhowouldhonorlocalritesofpassage?”
“Well,yourbootsareSandroandI’veseenyouwearluxurycashmereatleastthrice,”Isay,“somaybenot.”
“Capsulewardrobe,”hesays,likethisexplainseverything.“IonlybuythingsthatcanbewornwitheverythingelseIalreadyown,andthatIknowIlikeenoughtowearforyears.It’saninvestment.”
“Suchacityperson,”Ising.
Herollshiseyes.“Youknowthisdoesn’tcountfornumbersix,right?MaybeinManhattantheyconsiderthisskinny-dipping,butinSunshineFallswe’dcallthatgetup‘aglorifiedbathingsuit.’?”
Anotherchallenge.
I’mawomanpossessed.Isinkbeneaththewater,unclaspmybra,andhurlitathim.Itthwacksagainsthischest.“Closer,”heallows,liftingthedaintyblacklacestraptoexamineitinthemoonlight.“Allthis,”hesaysseriously,“wastedonBlakeCarlisle.”
“Iexclusivelyownprettyunderwear,”Isay.“They’reboundtobewastedoccasionally.”
“Spokenlikeatrueladyofluxury.”
Idriftbackward,kneesbent,toesglidingalongthesmoothstonecreekbed.“Ithinkwe’veproventhat,ofthetwoofus,youarethearistocrathere.I’mskinny-dipping.Inalocalwateringhole.Whereasyoucan’tevenswim.”
Herollshiseyes.“Icanswim.”
“Charlie,”Isay.“It’sokay.There’snoshameinthetruth.”
“Rememberwhenyouusedtopretendtobepolite?”
“Doyoumissit?”
“Notatall.”Hetugshisshirtoverhisheadanddiscardsitontherocks.“You’rewaymorefunthisway.”Whenhispantsarehalfwayoff,Iremembertolookaway,andamomentlater,whenthewaterbreaks,Ispintofindhimwincingatthecoldsloshagainsthisstomach.
“Shit!”hegasps.“Shit-fuck!”
“Suchawaywithwords.”Iswimtowardhim.“It’snotthatbad.”
“Isitpossibleyoudon’thaveanypainreceptors?”hehisses.
“Notonlypossiblebutprobable,”Ireply.“I’vebeentoldIfeelnothing.”
Charliefrowns.“WhoeversaidthatclearlyonlymetProfessionalNora.”
“Mostpeopledo.”
“Poorassholes,”hesays,almostaffectionately.ThesamevoiceinwhichhesaidOfcourseyoudidwhenItoldhimImetmyagentinggoalseightmonthsearly.
Istopcloseenoughtoseehisskinprickling.Thedropletsonhisthroatandjawcatchthemoonlight,andmychestandthighstingleinresponse.
Idriftbackwardashewadestowardme,maintainingthegapbetweenus.“WhatotherSunshineFallsritesofpassagedidyouignore?”
Themusclesalonghisjawshadowashethinks.“Peoplearereallyintoboulderinghere.”
“Letmeguess,”Isay.“That’swhenyoustandatthetopofamountainandwaitforoneofyourenemiestowalkby,thenpusharockovertheledge.”
“Close,”hesays.“It’swhenyouclimbboulders.”
“For…whatreason?”
“Togettothetop,presumably.”
“Andthen?”
Hisgoldenshoulderliftsinashrug,watersluicingdownhischest.“Probablythere’sanotherboulder,andthenyouclimbtothetopofthatone.Humanbeingsareamysteriousspecies,Nora.Ioncewatchedabikecouriergethitbyacar,getup,andscreamIbecomeGodatthetopofhislungsbeforeridingoffintheoppositedirection.”
“What’smysteriousaboutthat?”Isay.“Hetestedthelimitsofhisownmortalityandfoundtheydidn’texist.”
Charlie’spoutymouthtugstoonesideinahalfsmirk.“That’swhatIloveaboutNewYork.”
“Somanybikecourierswithgodcomplexes.”
“You’renevertheweirdestpersonintheroom.”
“There’salwaysthatpersoninsilverbodypaint,”Iagree,“whoasksfordonationstorepairhisUFO.”
“He’smyQtrainfavorite,”Charliesays.
Myskinwarms.Iwonderhowmanytimeswe’vepassedeachotherinourcityofmillions.
“Ilikethatyou’reanonymousthere,”hecontinues.“You’rewhoeveryoudecidetobe.Inplaceslikethis,younevershakeoffwhatpeoplefirstthoughtaboutyou.”
Iswimcloser.Hedoesn’tretreat.“Andwhatdidtheythinkofyou?”
“Nothugefans,”hesays.
“Mrs.Struthersis,”Ipointout,“and—yourexistoo.”Ishoothimaglanceandsinklowerinthewatertohidethewaymybodylightsupunderhisgaze.
Idon’tfeellikeNadineWinterswhenhe’sthisclose.IfeellikeI’msugarunderablowtorch,likehe’scaramelizingmyblood.
“Mrs.StrutherslikedmebecauseIfuckinglovedschool,”hesays.“Imean,onceIfiguredouthowtoactuallyread.Didn’texactlymakemeahitwithotherkids,though.Inhighschool,thingsweren’tasbad,andtheneventually…”
“Yougothot,”Isaysomberly.
Hislaughgratesovermyskin.“Iwasgoingtosay‘ImovedtoNewYork.’?”
We’vestoppedmoving.Heatcorkscrewsthroughmyribcage,coilingtighterwitheachspiral.
Iclearmythroatenoughtojoke,“Andthenyougothot.”
“Actually,”hesays,“thatonlyhappenedfourorfiveweeksago.Therewasthisbigmeteorshower,andImadeawishand…”Charlieholdshisarmsoutashedriftscloser.
Myheartfeelslightandjitteryinmychest,mylimbsincongruentlyheavy.“Soyou’resayingAmaya’sexpressionwaslessaboutlongingthanoutrightshockoveryournewface.”
“Ididn’tnoticeAmaya’sexpression,”hesays.
Mymouthgoesdry,heavinessgatheringbetweenmythighs.Hecatchesabeadofwaterasittricklesovermycupid’sbow.Mylipspart,thepadofhisfingerlingeringonmybottomlip.
I’macutelyawareofhowflimsythespaceisbetweenusnow,slippery,finite,closable.Maybethisiswhypeopletaketrips,forthatfeelingofyourreallifeliquefyingaroundyou,likenothingyoudowilltugonanyotherstrandofyourcarefullybuiltworld.
It’safeelingnotunlikereadingareallygoodbook:all-consuming,worry-obliterating.
UsuallyIlivelikeI’mtryingtoseefourmovesaheadinachessgame,butrightnowIcan’tseemtothinkpastthenextfiveminutes.Ittakesalotofefforttosay,“Youprobablywanttogethome.”
Heshakeshishead.“Butifyoudo…”
Ishakemyhead.
Foramoment,nothinghappens.Itfeelslikethere’sasilentnegotiationhappeningbetweenus.Hishandcatchesmineunderthewater.Afterabeat,hedrawsmetowardhim,slowly—plentyoftimeforeitherofustopullaway.
Myfingersbrushhishipinstead,andthechessboardinmyminddisintegrates.
Hisotherhandfindsmywaist,closingthegapbetweenus.Thefeelingofbeingpressedagainsthimissomewherebetweenblissandtorture.Asmallsoundsighsoutofme.Hedoesn’tteasemeforit.Insteadhishandscutaslowpathdownmysides,tuckingeachinchofmeagainsthim:chest,stomach,hipsflush,allmysoftestpartsagainstallhishardest,mythighssettlingloosearoundhiships.Histhumbscatchonthecurvesofmyhips,andagravellyhumrumblesthroughhim.
Mynipplespinchagainsthisskin,andhisarmstightenacrossmyback.
We’rebothsilent,likeanywordcouldbreakthespellofthesilvermoonlight.
Ourlipscatchlightlyonce,thendrawapart,sliptogetheralittledeeper.Hishandsfollowthecurveofmybacklower,curlingaroundme,squeezingmetohim,rollinghishipsintomine.
Mymouthfeelslikeit’smeltingunderhis,likeI’mwaxandhe’stheburningwickdownmycenter.Oneofhishandscurlsaroundmyjaw,theothersweepinguptocupmybreastasmythighswraptightaroundhim.Mybreathcatchesagainsthismouthwhenhisthumbrollsacrossmynipple.Hehitchesmehigher,everythingtomybellybuttonabovethewaternow,exposedtothemoonlight,andhe’slooking,touching,tastinghiswayacrossme.
Mybraingrapplesforcontrolofmyshort-circuitingbody.“Shouldwethinkaboutthis?”
“Think?”Hesaysitlikehe’sneverheardtheword.Anotherhungry,stomach-flippingkisserasesitfrommyvocabularytoo.Myhandstwistintohishair.Hismouthmovesdownthesideofmythroat,teethsinkingintomycollarbone.
I’mtryingtothinkmywaythroughthis,butitfeelslikeI’mapassengerinaverywillingbody.
Charlieteasesagainstmyear,“Youshouldneverwearclothes,Nora.”Mylaughdiesinmythroatashepinsmeagainstoneoftheflatrocksattheedgeofthewater,myhipslockingaroundhis,sensationflamingthroughmythighsatthefrictionbetweenus,atthepushofhisstomachandhiserectionshiftingagainstmethroughourunderwear.
CharliekisseslikenooneI’veeverbeenwith.Likesomeonewhotakesthetimetofigureouthowthingswork.
Everytiltofmyhips,archofmyspine,shallowbreathguideshim,landmarksonamaphe’smakingofmybody.
Hehumsmynameintomyskin.ItsoundsasmuchlikeaswearaswhenIslammedintohimatPoppaSquat’s,hisvoicesizzlingthroughmeuntilIfeellikeastrucktuningfork.
Hislipsdragdownmythroattomychest,hisbreathraggedashedrawsmeintohismouth.Hisfingerscirclemywristsagainsttherock,ourhipsmovinginahungryrhythm.
“Shit,”hehisses,butatleastthistime,he’snotslingshottingawayfromme.Hishandsarestilleverywhere.Hismouthhasn’tleftmyskin.“Idon’twanttostop.”
Mymind’sstillhalf-heartedlywarringforcontrol.Mybodymakestheunilateraldecisiontosay,“Thendon’t.”
“Wehavetotalkaboutthisfirst,”hesays.“Thingsarecomplicatedformerightnow.”Andyetwe’restillclamoringforeachother.Charlie’shandsrazeovermythighs,squeezingsohardImightbruise.Mynailsareinhisback,urginghimclose.Hiswarmmouthskimsovermyshoulder,histongueandteethfindingmypulseatthebaseofmythroat
Inod.“Thentalk.”
Anothersharpkiss,histeethhardagainstmylip,hishandshardagainstmyass.“It’shardtothinkinwordsrightnow,Nora.”
Hishandswindintomyhair,hismouthslippingagainstthecornerofmine,hisbreathshallowandfrantic.Iliftmyselfagainsthimandoneofhishandscurlstightagainstmyspine,hisgroancracklingthroughmelikeadozenboltsoflightningheadingstraighttomycenter.
EverythingelseisbrieflyobliteratedasIrollmyselfagainsthim,andhereturnsthefavor,thefrictionbetweenuselectric.
“God,Nora,”hehisses.
SomethinglikeIknowslipsoutofme,rightintohismouth.Hisfingersdigunderthelaceatthesidesofmyhips,burrowingintomyskin.I’veneverfeltsomeoneelse’sfrustrationsopalpably;I’veneverbeensofrustrated.I’mseeingspots,everythinglostbehindawallofneed.
Andthenmyphoneringsfromtherocks.
Allatonce,realitycrashesinfromallsides,arockslideofthoughtsmylusthasbeenholdingback.IpushbackfromCharlie,gaspingout,“Dusty!”
Heblinksatmethroughthedark,chestheaving.“What?”
“Shit!No!No!”Iswimfortherocks,theringerechoingthroughthedark.
“What’swrong?”Charlieasks,closebehindme.
“IwassupposedtocallDusty.Hoursago.”Ihaulmyselfoutofthewaterandrushforthephone.Imissthelastringbyseconds,andwhenIdialback,itgoesstraighttovoicemail.“Shit!”
HowcouldIdothat?HowcouldIjustforgetaboutmyoldest,mostsensitive,highest-earningclient?HowcouldIletmyselfgetthisdistracted?
Idialagainandgethervoicemailmessage.“Hey,Dusty!”Isaybrightlyafterthebeep.“Sorryaboutthat.Ihada…”
WhatcouldIpossiblybebusywiththislateatnight?Norespectablemeeting,certainly.
“Somethingcameup,”Isay.“ButI’mfreenow,sogivemeacallback!”
Ihangup,thenskimLibby’sstringofmessages,increasinglyfranticrequestsformetoconfirmthatBlakehasn’tfedmetoawoodchipper.Myheartrocketsintomythroat,andhot,pricklingshamerisestothesurfaceofmyskin.Onmywayhome,ItextLibby.
“Everythingokay?”
IturnandfindCharliepullingonhispants,hisshirtbundledinonehand.“Whathappened?”heasks.
Iwasn’tthere,Ithink.TheyneededmeandIwasn’tthereJustlike—Icutmyselfoffbeforemymindcanboomerangbackthere,sayinstead,“Idon’tdothis.”
Charlie’sbrowarches.“Dowhat?”
“Everythingthatjusthappened,”Isay.“Allofit.Thisisn’thowIoperate.”
Hehalflaughs.“Andwhat,youthinkthisisapatternforme?”
“No,”Isay.“Imean,maybe.That’sthepoint!HowwouldIevenknow?”Hissmilefalls,andmycheststingsinresponse.Ishakemyhead.“It’sthisbook,Frigid,andthistrip—IstartedthinkingIcouldjustgowiththis,but…”Iliftmyphoneatmyside,likethisexplainseverything.Libby’spre-babycrisis,Dusty’sintenseinsecurity,nottomentionallmyotherclients,everyonewho’scountingonme.“Ican’taffordadistractionrightnow.”
“Distraction.”Herepeatsthewordemptily,likehe’sunfamiliarwiththeconcept.Probablyheis.Forasoliddecade,Iwas.
Prioritization.Compartmentalization.Qualification.Thesethingshavealwaysworkedformeinthepast,butnowjustonesprinkleofrecklessnesshasdistractedmefrombothmysisterandmyprizeclient.AfterwhathappenedwithJakob,Ishould’veknownIcouldn’ttrustmyself.
Iforcedownthehardknotinmythroat.“Ineedtobefocused,”Isay.“IowethattoDusty.”
WhenI’mdistracted,Imissthings.WhenImissthings,badthingshappen.
Charliestudiesmeforalongmoment.“Ifthat’swhatyouwant.”
“Itis,”Isay.
Hisbrowslightlylifts,hiseyesreadingtheobviouslie.Itdoesn’tmatter.Wantisnotagoodwaytomakedecisions.
“Andbesides,”Iadd,“thingsarecomplicatedforyouanyway,right?”
Afterabeat,hesighs.“Moreeverysecond.”
Still,neitherofusmoves.We’reinasilentstandoff,waitingtoseeifthedamholds,thepressurebuildingbetweenus,mycellsallstillvibratingunderhisgaze.
Charlielooksawayfirst.Herubsthesideofhisjaw.“You’reright.Idon’tknowwhyit’ssohardformetoacceptthiscan’tbeanything.”Hesnatchesmydressofftherockandholdsitout.
Mystomachsinks,butIacceptthedress.“Thanks.”
Withoutlookingatme,hesaysdryly,“Whatarecolleaguesfor?”16
ICRAWLOUTOFbedatnine,myheadpoundingandmystomachfeelinglikeahalf-wreckedboatlostatsea.ApparentlyIdrankenoughtopoisonmyself,withoutevengettingpasttipsy.Oneofthemanywaysthatbeingthirty-twoabsolutelyrules.
Libby’salreadymovingarounddownstairs,hummingtoherself.I’mnotsurprised—despiteherpanickymessageslastnight,shewasalreadyfastasleepandloudlysnoringbythetimeIgothome.Dustyhadfinallycalledmeback,andI’dpaced,damp,throughthemeadowforanhour,convincingherPartTwoofFrigidcouldn’tpossiblybeasbadasshewasconvinceditwas.Bleary-eyed,Icheckmyphone,andsureenough,thenewpagesarewaitinginmyinbox.
Iamnotreadyforthat.Afterpullingonleggingsandasportsbra,Istaggeroutside,rubbingheatintomyarmsasIcrossthemeadow.Ishamblethroughthewoods,clutchingmystomach,untilthenauseaeasesenoughtojog.
Okay,Ithink.Thisisgoingallright.It’smoreofapositiveaffirmationthananobservation.IfollowtheslopingpaththroughthewoodstothefenceandmakeitthreemorepacesbeforeThisisgoingallrightbecomesOh,god,no.Ipitchovermythighsandvomitintothemudjustasavoicecutsthroughthemorning:“Youokay,ma’am?”
Iwhirltowardthefence,swipingthebackofmyhandacrossmymouth.
Theblonddemigodisleaningagainstthefarsideofthefence,nomorethanfourfeetaway.
Ofcourseheis.
“Fine,”Iforceout.Iclearmythroatandgrimaceatthetaste.“Justdrankabathtub’sworthofalcohollastnight.”
Helaughs.It’sagreatlaugh.Probablyhisscreamofterrorisevenfairlypleasant.“I’vebeenthere.”
Wow,he’stall.
“I’mShepherd,”hesays.
“Likethe…job?”Iask.
“Andmyfamilyownsthestable,”hesays.“Goaheadandlaugh.”
“Iwouldnever,”Isay.“Ihaveaterriblesenseofhumor.”Istarttostretchoutmyhand,thenrememberwhereit’srecentlybeen(vomit)anddropit.“I’mNora.”
Helaughsagain,aclearsilver-bellsound.“YoustayingatGoode’sLily?”
Inod.“MysisterandIarevisitingfromNewYork.”
“Ah,big-cityfolk,”hejokes,eyessparkling.
“Iknow,we’retheworst,”Iplayalong.“ButmaybeSunshineFallswillconvertus.”
Thecornersofhiseyescrinkle.“It’llcertainlydothat.”
“Areyoufromhereoriginally?”
“Allmylife,”hesays,“minusashortstintinChicago.”
“Citylifewasn’tforyou?”Iguess.
Hishugeshoulderslift.“Northernwinterscertainlyweren’t.”
“Sure,”Isay.I’mpersonallypro-season—butit’safamiliarcomplaint.
PeoplebasicallyleaveNewYorkbecausethey’recold,claustrophobic,tired,orfinanciallyoverwhelmed.Overtheyears,mostofmycollegefriendsfritteredofftoMidwesterncitiesthatarelessexpensiveorsuburbswithhugelawnsandwhitepicketfences,orelseleftinoneofthemassexodusestoL.A.thatcomeseveryfewwinters.
Thereareeasierplacestolive,butNewYork’sacityfilledwithhungrypeople,theirsharedwantathrummingenergy.
Shepherdpatsthefence.“Well,I’llletyougetbacktoyour…”Iswearheglancestowardmyvomitpile.“…run,”hefinishesdiplomatically,turningtogo.“Butifyouneedatourguidewhileyou’rehere,NorafromNewYork,I’mhappytohelp.”
Icallafterhim.“HowshouldI…getaholdofyou?”
Helooksback,grinning.“It’sasmalltown.We’llrunintoeachother.”
Itakeitastheworld’smostgentlebrush-offrightupuntilthesecondheshootsmeawink,thefirsthotwinkI’veeverseeninreallife.
EversinceIfinishedrecountingwhathappened,Libby’sjustbeenstaringatme.
“What’shappeninginsideyourbrainrightnow?”Iask.
“I’mtryingtodecidewhethertobeimpressedyouwentskinny-dipping,annoyedyouwentwithCharlie,orjustgrovelinglysorryforsettingyouuponsuchaterribledate.”
“Don’tbesohardonyourself,”Isay.“I’msureifI’dcutoffthebottomsixinchesofmylegsatthetable,hewould’vebeenperfectlypleasant.”
“I’msosorry,Sissy,”shecries.“Iswearheseemednormalinhismessages.”
“Don’tblameBlake.I’mtheonewiththisgiantfleshsack.”
“Seriously,whatanasshole!”Libbyshakesherhead.“God,I’msorry.Let’sjustforgetaboutnumberfive.Itwasabadidea.”
“No!”Isayquickly.
“No?”Sheseemsconfused.
Afterlastnight,Iwouldlovetothrowthetowelin,butthere’salsoCharlie’sapartmenttothinkabout.IfIbackoutofourdealnow,theneverythingthathappenedwasfornothing.Atleastthisway,somethinggoodcancomeoutofit.
“I’mgonnastickwithit,”Isay.“Imean,wehaveachecklist.”
“Really?”Libbyclapsherhandstogether,beaming.“That’sgreat!I’msoproudofyou,Sissy,gettingoutofyourshell—whichremindsme!IspoketoSallyaboutnumbertwelve,andshe’dlovehelpsprucingupGoodeBooks.”
“Whendidyoueventalktoher?”Isay.
“We’veexchangedafewemails,”shesayswithashrug.“Didyouknowthatshepaintedthemuralinthechildren’ssectionoftheshop?”
ConsideringLibbybakeshergluten-intolerantmailcarrieraspecialpieeveryDecember,Ishouldn’tbesurprisedshe’salsohavingin-depthemailcorrespondencewithourAirbnbhost.
Mypulsespikesatthebuzzofmyphone.Mercifully,themessageisn’tfromCharlie.
It’sfromBrendan.Whichisrare.Whenyouscrollthroughourthread,it’sarivetingback-and-forthofHappybirthday!interspersedwithcutepicturesofBeaandTala.
Hi,Nora.Hopethetripisgoingwell.IsLibbyallright?
“What’sthisabout?”Iholdmyphoneout,andsheleansforwardtoread,herlipstighteningtoapurse.
“TellhimI’llcallhimlater.”
“Yes,ma’am,andwhichcallsdoyouwantforwardedtoyouroffice?”
Sherollshereyes.“Idon’twanttogoupstairsandgetmyphonerightnow.Theworldwon’tendifBrendandoesn’thearfrommeeverytwenty-fiveminutes.”
Theimpatienceinhervoicecatchesmeoffguard.I’veseenherandBrendanarguebefore,andit’sbasicallylikewatchingtwopeopleswingfeathersineachother’sgeneraldirection.Thisisrealirritation.
Aretheyfighting?Abouttheapartment,orthetrip,maybe?
Oristhistriphappeningbecausethey’refighting?
Thethoughtinstantlynauseatesme.Itrytoputitoutofmyhead—LibbyandBrendanareobsessedwitheachother.Imight’vemissedsomethingsoverthelastfewmonths,butIwould’venoticedsomethinglikethat
Besides,she’sbeencallinghimeveryday.
Exceptyou’veneverseenhercallhim.I’vejustassumedthatsomewhere,inthoseninehourswe’reaparteachafternoon,she’sbeentalkingtohim.
Acoldsweatbreaksalongthebackofmyneck.Mythroattwistsandtightens,butLibbydoesn’tseemtonotice.She’ssmilingcoollyasshehaulsherselfoutofherAdirondackchair.
You’reoverthinkingthisShejustleftherphoneupstairs.
“Anyway,let’sgo,”shesays.“GoodeBooksisn’tgoingtosaveitself.GoodeBooksaren’tgoingtosavethemselves?Whatever.Yougetit.”
ItypeoutaquickreplytoBrendan.Everything’sgood.Shesaysshe’llcallyoulater.Heanswersimmediatelywithasmileyfaceandathumbs-up.
Everything’sfine.I’mhere.I’mfocused.I’llfixit.
Iwouldliketosaythat,havingrealizedeverythingatstakeonthistrip,thespellofCharlieLastrainstantlylifted.Instead,everytimehiseyescutfromLibbytome,there’saflashinhisirisesthatmakesmewonderhowlongitwouldtaketopeeloffmyclothes.
“Youwant,”hedrawls,eyesbackonmysister,“togiveGoodeBooksamakeover?”
“We’regivingitahead-to-toerevitalization.”Libby’sfingertipspresstogetherinexcitement.Herskinissun-kissedandthebagsbeneathhereyesarealmostentirelygone.Shelooksnotonlyrestedbutdownrightexhilaratedbytheopportunitytomopadustybookstore.
Charlieleansintothecounter.“Thisisforthelist?”Hiseyesticktowardmine,flashingagain.Mybodyreactslikehe’stouchingme.Ourgazeshold,thecornerofhismouthcurvinglike,Iknowwhatyou’rethinking.
“Heknowsaboutthelist?”Libbyasks,then,toCharlie,“Youknowaboutthelist?”
Hefacesheragain,rubshisjaw.“Wedon’thaveabudgetfor‘revitalization.’?”
“Allthefurniturewillbesecondhand,”shesays.“Ihavethethrift-storemagictouch.Iwasgrowninalabforthis.Justpointusinthedirectionofyourcleaningsupplies.”
Charlie’seyesreturntome,pupilsflaring.IfIweretolookdown,I’mconfidentI’dfindmyclothesreducedtoapileofashatmyfeet.“Youwon’tevenknowwe’rehere,”Imanage.
“Idoubtthat,”hesays.
Another“universaltruth”Austencould’vestartedPrideandPrejudicewith:Whenyoutellyourselfnottothinkaboutsomething,itwillbeallthatyoucanthinkabout.
Thusly,whileLibby’srunningmeraggedcleaningGoodeBooks,scrubbingscuffmarksoffthefloor,I’mthinkingaboutkissingCharlie.AndwhileI’mreshelvingbiographiesinthenewlyappointednonfictionsection,I’mactuallycountinghowmanytimesandwhereIcatchhimlookingatme.
WhenI’mporingoverthenewportionofFrigidbackinthecafé,tuggingonitsplotstringsandnudgingatitstrapdoors,mymindinvariablyfindsitswaybacktoCharliepinningmeagainstaboulder,hisraspinmyear:It’shardtothinkinwordsrightnow,Nora.
It’shardtothink,period,unlessit’sabouttheonethingIshouldnotbethinkingabout.
Evennow,walkingbackintotownwithLibbyforthe“secretsurprise”sheplannedforus,I’monlytwo-thirdspresent.Determinedtowranglethatlastthirdintosubmission,Iask,“AmIdressedokay?”
Withoutbreakingstride,Libbysqueezesmyarm.“Perfect.Agoddessamongmortals.”
Ilookdownatmyjeansandyellowsilktank,tryingtoguesswhattheymightbe“perfect”for.
Outofthecornerofmyeye,Idoanotherquickauditofherbodylanguage.I’vebeenwatchinghercloselysincetheweirdtextfromBrendan,butnothing’sseemedamiss.
Whenwewerekids,sheusedtobegMrs.Freemantoletherreshelvebooks,andnowhereffortstoupdateGoodeBookshaveturnedherintobizarroBelle,rightdowntosingingthe“provinciallife”songintoherbroomhandlewhileCharlieshootsmefierymake-it-stopglares.
“Ican’thelpyou,”Ifinallytoldhim.“Ihavenojurisdictionhere.”
TowhichLibbyyelledfromacrosstheshop,“I’mawildstallion,baby!”
Whenwefinallyleftfortheday,sheforcedmeintoHardy’scabtoscoutfurnitureateverysecondhandshopingreaterAsheville.WheneverwedidfindsomethingperfectfortheGoodeBookscafé,Libbyinsistedon1)hagglingand2)talkingtoliterallyeveryone,aboutliterallyanything.
Theworkhasenergizedher,whereasI’mferventlyhopingtonight’ssurpriseexcursionendsatSunshineFalls’slonespa.ThoughitiscalledSpaaaahhh,whichgivesmepause.It’sunclearwhetherthat’smeanttobereadasasighorascream.Eitherthesamederangedpersonownsthat,Mug+Shot,andCurlUpNDye,orthere’ssomethingextremelypunnyintheSunshineFallswatersupply.
LibbypassesSpaaaahhhandweroundthecornertoawide,pink-brickbuildingwithtwo-storyarchedwindows,agabledroof,andabelltower.Ononesidesitsahalf-fullparkinglot,andontheother,afewkidswithdirt-smearedkneesplaykickballinanovergrownbaseballdiamondwithgnatsswarmingthefencebehindhomeplate.
“Hereforthebiggame?”IaskLibby.
Shetugsmeupthebuilding’sstepsandintoamustylobby.Ahordeofteensinballettightsrunspast,shriekingandlaughing,toraceupthestairwellonourright.Ahalfdozenyoungerkidsincolorfulleotardsaresprawledonthefloorwipingdownbluegymnasticsmats.
Libbysays,“Ithinkit’sthroughthere.”Westepoverandaroundthetinygymnastsandturnthroughanothersetofdoorsintoaspaciousroomfilledwithechoingchatterandfoldingchairs.Tomyrelief,nooneiswearingaleotard,soprobablywe’renothereforapregnantgymnasticsclass,whichdefinitelystrikesmeassomethingLibbywouldsignusupfor.
IspotSallynearthefront,grabbinganolderblondman’sshoulderasshelaughs(and,I’mprettysure,sucksonavapepen).AfewrowsbehindherarethehipMug+ShotbaristawiththeseptumringandAmaya,Charlie’sPrettyBartenderEx.
Libbypullsmeintothelastrow,wherewetaketwoseatsjustassomeonepoundsagavelatthefrontoftheroom.
There’sastagethere,butthepodiumsitsontheground,levelwiththechairs.Thewomanbehindithasthelargest,reddesthairI’veeverseen,theonlylightsonintheroomshiningonherlikeadiffusedspotlight.
“Let’sgetstarted,people!”shebarks,andthecrowdquietsaspianomusicseepsdownfromupstairs.
IleanintoLibby,hissing,“Didyoubringmetoawitchtrial?”
“Thefirstitemwe’reconsidering,”theredheadsays,“isacomplaintagainstthebusinessat1480MainStreet,currentlyknownasMugandShot.”
“Wait,”Isay.“Arewe—”
Libbyshushesmejustasthebaristaleapsoutofherseat,spinningtoabaldingmanafewseatsover.“We’renotchangingournameagain,Dave!”
“Itsounds,”Davebooms,“likeaplaceforvagabondsandcriminals!”
“Youweren’thappywithBeantoBeWild—”
“It’saweakpun,”Davereasons.
“YouthrewafitwhenwewereSomeLikeItHot.”
“It’spracticallypornographic!”
Theredheadpoundsthegavel.Amayapullsthebaristabackintoherseat.“We’llputittoavote.AllinfavorofrenamingMugandShot.”Afewhandsgoup,Dave’sincluded.Shepoundsthegavelagain.“Motiondismissed.”
“Thereisabsolutelynowayanyofthisholdsupinacourtoflaw,”Iwhisper,amazed.
“What’dImiss?”
IjumpinmyseatasCharlieslidesintothechairbesideme.“Notmuch.‘Dave’simplyfiledamotiontorenameeveryPeterintowntosomethinglesspornographic.”
“Didanyonecryyet?”Charlieasks.
“Peoplecry?”Iwhisper.
Hedropshismouthbesidemyear.“Nexttimetrynottolooksoexcitedatthethoughtofmisery.It’llhelpyoublendinbetter.”
“Consideringwe’reinthehecklers-onlysectionofthecrowd,I’mnotallthatworriedaboutblendingin,”Iwhisperback.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
“Mycivicduty.”
Ifixhimwithalook.
“There’savotemymom’sexcitedabout.I’mnothingbutahandintheair.I’mgladIcamenowthough—Ifinishedthenewpages.I’vegotnotes.”
Ispintowardhim,theendofmynosenearlybrushinghisinthedark.“Already?”
“IthinkweshouldtrystartingthebookatNadine’saccident,”hewhispers
Ilaugh.Severalpeopleintherowinfrontofusglareatme.Libbysmacksmeintheboob,andIsmileapologetically.Whenouraudiencereturnstowatchingthenewargumentatthefrontoftheroom,betweenamanandwomanwhosecombinedagemusttoptwohundred,IfaceCharlieagain,whosmirks.“Guessyouneededhelpblendinginafterall.”
“Theaccident’sfiftypagesin,”Ihissback.“Weloseallcontext.”
“Idon’tthinkwedo.”Heshakeshishead.“I’dliketoatleastsuggestittoDustyandseewhatshethinks.”
Ishakemyhead.“She’llthinkyouhatethefirstfiftypagesoftheonehundredshe’ssentyou.”
“YouknowhowbadlyIwantedthisbook,”hesays,“justbasedonthosefirstten.Isimplywantittobeitsbestversion,sameasyou.AndDusty.Bytheway,whatdidyouthinkaboutthecat?”
Iworryatmylipandgetashotofpure,undilutedsatisfactionatthewayhewatchestheaction.Iletthepausegolongerthanisstrictlynatural.“I’mworrieditfeelstoosimilartothedoginOnce.”
Charlieblinks.Iseethemomenthefindshisplaceintheconversationagain.“Mythoughtsexactly.”
“We’dhavetoseewheresheplanstotakeit,”Isay.
“Wejustmentionthesimilarityandlethermakethecall,”heagrees.
Theredheadpoundshergavel,buttheoldmanandwomanatthefrontkeepshoutingateachotherfortwentymoreseconds.Whenshefinallygetsthemtostop,they—nojoke—nod,takeeachother’shands,andheadbacktotheirseatstogether.“ThisislikesomethingoutofMacbeth,”Imarvel.
“Youshouldseehowholidayeventplanninggoes,”hesays.“It’sabloodbath.Bestdayoftheyear.”
Ismotheralaughwiththebackofmyhand.Hisfacetwitches,andmyheartfluttersattheextraordinarilypleasedlookonhisface.InmymindIhearhimsaying,You’rewaymorefunthisway.
Iturnawaybeforethelookcansinkanydeeperintomybloodstream.
“WhatdidyoumakeofNadine’smotivations?”hewhispers,managingtomakethewordssoundinnatelysexual.Fourdifferentpointsonmybodystarttingling.
Focus.“Forwhichpart?”
“RunningacrossthestreetbeforethesignchangedtoWALK,”heclarifies,thedecisionthatlandsNadineinthehospital,whenabusclipsher.
That’sright:myproxynearlydiesfiftypagesintothebook.Oronpageone,ifCharliehashisway.
“IwonderifhavingherbeinalegitimaterushunderminesDusty’sargument,”Iwhisper.“We’resupposedtothinkthiswomanisacold,selfishshark.Maybesheshouldberushingforrushing’ssake,becausethat’swhatshedoes.”
IswearCharlie’seyesflashinthedark.“Youwould’vemadeagoodeditor,Stephens.”
“Andbythat,”Isay,“youmeanyouagreewithme.”
“IthinkweneedtoseeNadineexactlyastheworldseesher,beforethecurtaingetspulledback.”
Istudyhim.He’sgotapoint.It’salwaysastrangething,workingwithonlyachunkofabook,notknowingforcertainwhatcomesnext—especiallyforsomeonewhodoesn’tevenlikereadingthatway—butIknowDusty’swritinglikemyownheartbeat,andIhaveasenseCharlie’srightonthisone.
“So,”hewhispers,“you’lltellheraboutthefirstfifty?”
“I’llaskher,”Iparry.Evenwhenwe’reagreeingwitheachother,ourconversationsfeellesslikewe’retakingturnscarryingthetorchandmorelikewe’replayingtabletenniswhilesaidtableisonfire.
Charlieholdsouthishandtoshakeonit.Ihesitatebeforeslidingmypalmintohis,thisonecarefultouchunravelingpiecesoftheothernightacrossmymindlikefilmreels.Hispupilsexpand,thegoldenwispsaroundthemsmoldering,andhispulseleapsatthebaseofhisthroat.
Beingabletoreadeachothersowellisgoingtomakethis“businessrelationship”complicated.
Wherehisthighnotquitetouchesmine,itfeelslikeapipinghotknifeheldagainstbutter.
Someonenearthefrontoftheroomgivesahackingstagecoughthatpopsthebubble.Allaroundus,armsareintheair—includingLibby’s.Sallyistwistedaroundinherchair,coughinginourdirection,herhandoverherhead.
Charliejerkshishandfreeandthrustsitup.Sally’seyescuttominenext,almostpleading.WhenIliftmyhand,shegrinsandspinsbackaroundinherchair.
Whilethered-hairedwomaniscountingthevotes,IleanintoaskLibby,“Whatexactlyarewevotingon?”
“Weren’tyoulistening?They’reputtingastatueinthetownsquare!”
“Ofwhat?”
Charliesnorts.Libbybeams.“Whatelse?”shesays.“OldManWhittakerandhisdog!”
AliteralstatuetoOnceinaLifetime
IturntoCharlie,readytotaunthim,buthemeetsmygazewithawickedsmile.“Goaheadandtry,Stephens;nothingisgoingtoruinmynight.”
Myadrenalinespikesatthechallenge,butthisistoodangerousagameformetoplaywithhim,whenmygriponself-controlisalreadysotenuous.InsteadIforceaplacid,professionalsmileandturnbacktofacethefrontoftheroom.
Ispendtherestofthemeetingstuckinaworsegamewithmyself:Don’tthinkabouttouchingCharlie’shand.Don’tthinkaboutthelightningstrikesinCharlie’seyes.Don’tthinkaboutanyofit.Focus.17
TOMYSURPRISE,Dusty’sonboardwiththecuts.Withinanhourofpromisingtogetherformalnotessoon,Charliesendsmeafive-pagedocumentonFrigid’sfirstact.
IexamineitinthecaféwhileLibby’sreorganizingthechildren’sbookroomandsinginganoff-keyrenditionof“MyFavoriteThings,”butreplacingallofthelistedthingswithherownpreferences:Bookswithnodogearsandshinynewcovers,cleaningandshelvingandreading’boutlovers!
IsendCharlie’sdocumentbackwithsixty-fourtrackedchanges,andhereplieswithinminutes,asifwearen’ttwenty-fivefeetapart,withhimattheregisterandmeinthecafé.
You’reabsolutelyvicious,Stephens.
Iwriteback,Ihaveareputationtouphold.
Ihearthelowlaughinthenextroomasclearlyasifhislipswerepressedtomystomach.
Intheusedandrarebookroom,Libby’ssinging,Shop-catsinwindowsandfull-caficedcoffee.
Isn’tthispraisealittleoverboard?Charlieemailsme.Perhapsreferringtotheforty-oddcomplimentsIinsertedintohisdocument.
Youlovethepages,Ireply.Ijustaddeddetails.
Itjustseemsinefficientandcondescendingtospendsomuchtimetalkingaboutthingsshedoesn’tneedtochange.
IfyoutellDustytocutabunchofstuff,butdon’tmakeitclearwhat’sworking,yourisklosingthegoodstuff.
Wevolleythedocumentbackandforthuntilwe’resatisfied,thensenditoff.Idon’texpecttohearfromDustyfordays.Herreplydingstwohourslater
Somanygreatideashere.Alottothinkabout,andI’llgettoworkonincorporatingthechanges.Onlythingis,weneedtokeepthecat.Inthemeantime,I’vefinishedcleaningthenexthundredpages(attached).
Shesendsmeaprivateemail,itssubjectreadingButseriouslyandthebodyreadingcanyoujustbemycoeditorforever?I’mactuallyexcitedtogetstarted.X
Ifeellikealit-uplightbulb,allhotandglowywithpride.Charliesendsmeanothermessage,andallthatheattightens,likeoneofthosesnakes-in-a-cangaggiftsbeingresetforanothergo
Ithinkwemightbegoodtogether,Stephens.
Averysmallstarlodgesitselfinmydiaphragm.Ireply,yes,togetherweadduptooneemotionallycompetenthuman,arealaccomplishment,thenlistenforhisgrufflaugh.
Butanothersounddrawsmyattentiontothewindow—Libby’svoice,muffledbytheglassbutstillhalfshouting,obviouslyfrustrated.Ifollowthemazeofshelvestowardthefrontofthestore,whereIcanseeherthroughthewindowoutonthesidewalk,herphonepressedtoherearandonehandshieldinghereyesagainstthesun.
Herpostureisdefensive,hershoulderslifted,elbowstuckedinagainsthersides.Shegivesafrustratedhuff,sayssomethingelse,andhangsup.Istarttowardthefrontdoortomeether,butshehitchesherpurseuphershoulderandtakesoffacrossthestreet,turningtotherightandbrisklymarchingoff.
Ifreezemidstep,mystomachbottomingout.
Whatjusthappened?
Myphonechirps,andIjumpatthesound.It’samessagefromLibby.Hadsomeerrandstorun!Shouldbehomearoundeight.
Iswallowafist-sizedgloboftensionandwriteback,AnythingIcanhelpwith?Notmuchworktodotodayafterall.Ablatantlie,butshe’snotheretoseethatinmyface.
Nope!shesays.EnjoyingtheMeTime—nooffense.Seeyoulater!
Iwalkbacktomycomputerinadaze.Itfeelslikeasortofbetrayal,butIdon’tknowwhatelsetodoatthispoint,weeksintothistripandnoclosertoanyanswers.ItextBrendan.
Hey,howarethingsbackhome?DidLibbyevergetbacktoyou?
Heanswersimmediately.Thingsaregood!Yep,wecaughtup!Allgoodthere?
ItryfourteendifferentversionsofWhat’swrongwithmysisterbeforeacceptingshe’ddefinitelybefuriouswithmeifshefoundoutI’daskedhim.Therulesthatgovernfamilydynamicsarenonsensical,butthey’realsorigid.Momknewexactlyhowtogetustoopenup,butI’mincreasinglyfeelinglikeI’minabooby-trappedcave,Libby’sheartonadaisinthecenter.EverystepItakerisksmakingthingsworse.
Allgood!IwritebacktoBrendanandturnmyfocustowork.Ortryto.
Therestoftheafternoon,customerscomeandgo,butforthemostpartCharlieandIaretheonlytwopeopleintheshop,andI’veneverbeenlessproductive.
Afterawhile,hetextsfromthedesk,Where’dJulieAndrewsgo?
Backtothenunnery,Iwrite.Shegaveup.Shecouldn’thelpyou.
Ihavethateffect,hesays.
NotonDusty,Iwrite.She’slovingyou.
She’slovingus,hecorrects.LikeIsaid,we’regoodtogether.
Icastaroundforaresponseandfindnone.TheonlythingIcanreallythinkaboutisthestrainedlookonmysister’sfaceandhersuddendeparture.Libbyhadsomemysteriousplans,Itellhim.
Hesays,MustbethegrandopeningoftheDunkin’Donutstwotownsover.
Aminutelater,headds,youokay?Likeevenfromseparaterooms,withmultiplescreensbetweenus,heisreadingmymood.Thethoughtsendsastrangehollowacheoutthroughmylimbs.Somethinglikeloneliness.SomethinglikeEbenezerScroogewatchinghisnephewFred’sChristmaspartythroughthefrostywindow.Anoutsidenessmadeallthemorestarkbytherevelationofinsideness
AllIreallywantistogoperchontheedgeofCharlie’sdeskandtellhimeverything,makehimlaugh,lethimmakemelaughuntilnothingfeelsquitesopressing.
Fine,Iwriteback.Afterward,Icatchmyselfrefreshingmyemailacoupleoftimesandforcemyselftoclickbackovertothemanuscript.I’msodistractedbytryingtodistractmyself,it’seightminutesafterfivewhenInextlookattheclock.
Theshopissilent,andIpackwiththecareofonetryingnottowakeaprideofhungrylions.Islingmybagovermyshoulderandrun-walkfromthecafé,stillunsurewhetherCharlieisthelioninthescenarioorifIam.
That’swhatI’mponderingwhenImakeitthroughthedoorwayandalmostcollidewithCharlieontheotherside,whichmightexplainwhyIshout,“LION!”
Hiseyesgowide.Hishandsflyinfrontofhisface(maybehethoughtImeant,Here’salion!Catch!),andmiracleofallmiracles,webothscreechtoahalt,landingalmosttoe-to-toeonthesidewalk,buttouchingabsolutelynowhere.
Myheartthrums.Mychestflushes.
“Ididn’tknowyouwerestillhere,”hesays.
“Iam,”Isay.
“Youalwaysleaveatfive.”Heshiftsthewateringcaninhislefthandtohisright.Behindhim,theflowersintheshop’swindowboxglisten,plumpdropletsclingingtotheirorangeandpinkpetalsandsparklingintheafternoonlight.“Exactlyfive,”Charlieadds.
“Thingsgotbusy,”Ilie.
Hiseyesdarttomychin.Myskinwarmstenmoredegrees.Quietly,hebegins,“Iseverythingokay?Youhaven’tseemedlike—”
“Hey!Charlie!”Alow,smoothvoicecutshimoff.Acrossthestreet,anangelicgiantofamanwithtwindimplesandgemstoneeyesisclimbingoutofamuddypickuptruck.
“Shepherd,”Charliesays,somewhatstiffly,hischindippingingreeting.It’snotliketherearedaggersinhiseyes,buthedoesn’tseemhappytoseeShepherdeither.History,subtext,backstory—whateveryouwanttocallit,thesetwopeoplehaveit.
“Sallyaskedmetodropthisby,”Shepherdsays,thrustingatotebaginCharlie’sdirectionashecrossesthestreettowardus.
Charliethankshim,butShepherd’sfacingmenow,hissmilewidening.“Well,well,well,ifitisn’tNorafromNewYork,”hesays.“Toldyouwe’drunintoeachotheragain.”
Ireadoncethatsunflowersalwaysorientthemselvestofacethesun.That’swhatbeingnearCharlieLastraislikeforme.TherecouldbearagingwildfireracingtowardmefromthewestandI’dstillbestrainingeastwardtowardhiswarmth.
SodespitebeingeightypercentsureShepherd’sflirtingwithme,ofcourseIlookstraighttowardCharlie.Orrather,totheshopdoorswingingclosedbehindhim.
“Hey,”Shepherdsays.“Anychanceyou’refreerightnow?Icouldgiveyouthattourwetalkedabout?”
“Um.”Icheckmyphone,buttherearestillnonewmessagesfromLibby.Forabeat,anxietyswellsoneverysideofme,ahundredfistsbangingonthedoorsofmymind,demandingtorunloose.Ishovemyphonebackintomybag.FocusonsomethingyoucancontrolThelist.Numberfive.
Resistingtheurgetoglancebackattheshopwindow,ImeetShepherd’seyes,smile,andliethroughmyteeth:“Atoursoundsperfect.”
Wedrivewiththewindowsdown,thesmellsofpineandsweatandsunbakeddirtbraidedintothewind.I’veneverseenanythingquiteliketheBlueRidgeParkway,thewayitseasycurvesareslicedintothesideofthemountainssothatshaggytreetopstoweroverusononesideandunfurlbeneathusontheother.Shepherd’sararesighttoo.Hehas
Aftertheinitialthrillofdoingsomethingspontaneous,thenervessetin.It’sbeenalongtimesinceI’vebeenoutwithanunvettedman.Settingasidethepossibilitythathe’sarapist,murderer,orcannibal,Ialsojustdon’tknowhowtotalktoamanIknownothingaboutandamnotconsideringasalong-termpartner.
Youcandothis,Nora.You’renotNadinetohim.Youcanbeanyone.Justsaysomething
Hefinallyputsmeoutofmymisery:“So,Nora,whatyoudo?”
“Iworkinpublishing,”Isay.“I’maliteraryagent.”
“Nokidding!”Hisgreeneyesflashfromtheroadtome.“SoyoualreadyknewCharlie,beforeyourvisit?”
Mystomachdrops,thensurgesupwardinmychest.“Notreally,”Isaynoncommittally.
Shepherdlaughs,aclear,boomingsound.“Uh-oh.Iknowthatlook—don’tjudgetherestofusbasedonhim.”
Ifeelaswellofprotectiveness—ormaybeit’sempathy,anunderstandingthatthismightbehowpeopletalkaboutme.Simultaneouslythough,I’mannoyedthatIliterallygotintoastranger’scarlikeitwasadeep-spaceescapepod,andsomehowthespecterofCharlieisstillhere.
“He’snotasbadasheseems,”Shepherdgoeson.“Imean,comingbackheretohelpSalandClint,whenprettymuchallheeverwantedwastogetawayfrom…”Hewaveshishandinasweepingarc,gesturingtowardthesun-dappledroadaheadofus.Heturnsupasidestreetthatwindsfurtherupthefoothillwe’vebeenclimbing.
“Sowhatdoyoudo?”Isay.
“I’minconstruction,”hesays.“AndIdosomecarpentryontheside,whenIhavetime.”
“Ofcourseyoudo,”Iaccidentallysayaloud.
“What’sthat?”heasks,eyestwinklinglikewell-litemeralds.
“Ijustmean,youlooklikeacarpenter.”
“Oh.”
Iexplain,“Carpentersarefamouslyhandsome.”
Hisbrowcrinklesashegrins.“Arethey?”
“Imean,carpentersaretheloveinterestsinalotofbooksandmovies.It’sacommontrope.It’showyoushowsomeone’sdown-to-earthandpatient,andhotwithoutbeingshallow.”
Helaughs.“Thatdoesn’tsoundtoobad,Iguess.”
“Sorry,it’sbeenawhilesinceI’vebeen…”Istopshortofsayingonadate—whichthisisdefinitelynot—andfinishwiththefarmoretragic“anywhere.”
Hegrins,likeithasn’tevenoccurredtohimthatImighthaverecentlyescapedadoomsdayhatchinthegroundafteryearsoflittletonosocialization.“Wellthen,NorafromNewYork,IknowexactlywhereI’mtakingyou.”
I’mnotmuchofagasper—dramatic,audiblereactionsaremoreLibby’sterrain—butwhenIclimboutofthetruck,Ican’thelpit.
“Betyoudon’thaveviewslikethatbackinNewYork,”Shepherdsaysproudly.
Idon’thavethehearttotellhimIwasn’tgaspingabouttheview.Thoughitisgorgeous,Iwasactuallystunnedbythethree-quarters-builthousethatsitsontheridge,overlookingthevalleybelowus.Atitsfarside,thesunsinkstowardthehorizon,coatingeverythinginahoneycombgoldthatmightjustbemynewfavoritecolor.
Butthehouse—amassivemodernranchwithabackwallmadeentirelyofglass—isblazinginthefierywashofthesunset.“Didyoubuildthis?”IlookovermyshouldertofindShepherdpullingacoolerfromthebedofhistrunk,alongwithabluemovingblanket.
“Ambuilding,”hecorrects,knockingthetailgateshut.“It’sforme,soit’stakingyears,betweenpayingjobs.”
“It’sincredible,”Isay.
Hesetsthecoolerdownandshakesouttheblanket.“I’vewantedtoliveupheresinceIwastenyearsold.”Hegesturesformetosit.
“Didyoualwayswanttobeinconstruction?”Ituckmyskirtagainstmythighsandlowermyselftotheground,justasShepherdpullstwocannedbeersfromthecooleranddropsdownbesideme.
“Structuralengineer,actually,”hesays.
“Okay,noten-year-oldwantstobeastructuralengineer,”Isay.“Theydon’tevenknowthat’sathing.Frankly,Ijustfoundoutitwasathinginthismoment.”
Hislow,pleasantlaughrumblesthroughtheground.Igetthatshotofadrenalinethatmakinganyonelaughsendsthroughme,butthedrunken-butterflies-in-the-stomachfeelingisobnoxiouslyabsent.Iadjustmylegssothey’realittleclosertohis,letourfingersbrushasIacceptabeerfromhim.Nothing.
“No,you’reright,”hesays.“WhenIwastenIwantedtobuildstadiums.ButbythetimeIwenttoCornell,I’dfigureditout.”
Ichokeonmybeer,andnotjustbecauseit’sdisgusting.
“Youokay?”Shepherdasks,pattingmybacklikeI’maspookedhorse.
Inod.“Cornell,”Isay.“That’sprettyfancy.”
Thecornersofhiseyescrinklehandsomely.“Areyousurprised?”
“Yes,”Isay,“butonlybecauseI’venevermetaCornellalumwhowaitedsolongtomentionthathewasaCornellalum.”
Hedropshisheadback,laughing,andrunsahandoverhisbeard.“Fairenough.IprobablyusedtobringitupalittlemorebeforeImovedhome,butnomatterwhereIwenttocollege,peopleherearestillmoreimpressedbymyyearsasthequarterback.”
“Thewhatnow?”Isay.
“Quarterback—it’sapositionin…”Hetrailsoffashetakesinmyexpression,asmileforminginthecornerofhismouth.“You’rejoking.”
“Sorry,”Isay.“Badhabit.”
“Notsobad,”hesays,aflirtatiousedgeinhisvoice.
Inudgehiskneewithmine.“Sohow’dyouendupbackhere?YousaidyoulivedinChicagoforawhile?”
“RightoutofschoolIgotajobthere,”hesays.“ButImissedhometoomuch.Ididn’twanttobeawayfromallthis.”
Ifollowhisgazeoverthevalleyagain,purplesandpinksswarmingacrossitasshadowunspoolsfromthehorizon.Trillionsofgnatsandmosquitoesdanceinthedyinglight,nature’sownsparklingballet.“It’sbeautiful,”Isay.
Uphere,thequietseemsmorecalmingthaneerie,andhewearsthethickhumiditysowellI’mableto(somewhat)believethatIalsodon’tlooklikeawaterloggedpapillon.Thehotstickinessisalmostpleasant,andthegrassyscentissoothing.Nothingfeelsurgent.
Inthebackofmymind,afamiliarlyhoarsevoicesays,You’dratherbesomewhereloudandcrowded,wherejustexistingfeelslikeacompetition.
Ifeeleyesonme,andwhenIglancesidelong,thesurpriseisdisorienting.LikeI’dfullyexpectedsomeoneelse.
“Sowhatbringsyouhere?”Shepherdasks.
Thesunisalmostentirelygonenow,theairfinallycooling.“Mysister.”
Hedoesn’tpressforinformation,butheleavesspaceformetogoon.Itry,buteverythinggoingonwithLibbyissointangible,impossibletoitemizeforanear-perfectstranger.
“Waithereasec,”Shepherdsays,jumpingup.Hewalksbacktohistruckanddigsaroundinthecabuntilcountrymusiccracklesoutofthespeakers,aslow,crooningballadwithplentyoftwang.Heleavesthedoorajarandreturnstome,stretchinghishanddownwithanalmostshygrin.“Wouldyouliketodance?”
Ordinarily,Icouldimaginenothingsomortifying,somaybethesmall-townmagicisreal.OrmaybesomecombinationofNadine,Libby,andCharliehasknockedsomethinglooseinme,becausewithouthesitating,Isetmybeerasideandtakehishand.18
ICANSEETHEsceneplayingoutlikeit’shappeningtosomeoneelse.LikeI’mreadingit,andinthebackofmymind,Ican’tstopthinking,Thisdoesn’thappen.
Only,apparentlyitdoes.Tropescomefromsomewhere,andasitturnsout,fromtimeimmemorial,womenhavebeenslow-dancingtostatickycountrymusicwithhotarchitect-carpentersasdeepshadowsunfurloverpicturesquevalleys,cricketssingingalonglikesomanyviolins.
ShepherdsmellshowIremembered.Evergreenandleatherandsunlight.
Andeverythingfeelsnice.LikeI’mlettinglooseinalltherightwaysandnoneoftheonesthatcouldcomebacktobiteme.
Takethat,Nadine.I’mpresent.I’msweaty.I’mfollowingsomeoneelse’slead,lettingShepherdspinmeout,thentwirlmein.Iamnotstiff,rigid,cold.Hedipsmelow,andinthehalf-lightheflashesthatmoviestarsmilebeforeswingingmebackontomyfeet.
“So,”hesays,“isitworking?”
“Iswhatworking?”Iask.
“Arewewinningyouover?”hesays.“ToSunshineFalls.”
Someonelikeyou—inshoeslikethat—couldneverbehappyhere.Don’tgetsomepoorpigfarmer’shopesupfornothing.
Imissastep,butShepherd’stoogracefulforittomatter.Hecatchesmyweightandmovesmethroughaquarterturn,alltroubleavoidedexceptwheremyheelsareconcerned.They’recakedindirt,smearedwithgrassstains,andIamfuriouswithmyselffornoticing.
ForflashingbacktoCharliecarryingmeupthehillsideafterourpoolgame.
Fromtheoutside,ShepherdandIstillformthatperfect,heart-squeezingscene,butIhavethatfeelingofoutsidenessagain.Likeit’snotreallyme,hereinShepherd’sarms.OrlikeI’mstillonthewrongsideofthewindow.
Theimageisimmediate,intense:Ouroldwindow.Ourapartment.Asticky-flooredkitchenandawaterloggedlaminatecountertop.MeandLibbyperchedonit,Momleanedupagainstit.Acartonofstrawberryicecreamandthreespoons.
Ithitsmelikeahorrormoviejump-scare.LikeIroundedacornerandfoundacliff.
ItightenmyfingersthroughShepherd’s,lethimdrawmecloser,myheartracing.Ibacktracktohisquestionandstammerout,“It’sdefinitelymakinganimpression.”
Ifhe’snoticedthechangeinme,hegivesnoindication.HesmilessweetlyandtucksastrandofhairbehindmyearThisisit,Irealize.I’mabouttokissanice,handsomemanonanunplanneddateinanunfamiliarplace.Thisishowthestory’ssupposedtogo,anditfinallyis.
Hisforeheadlowerstowardmine,andmyphonechimesinmybag.
Instantly,anotherwindowglowsbrightinmymind.Anotherapartment.Mine.
Thesquashyfloralcouch,theendlessstacksofbooks,myfavoriteJoMalonecandleburningonthemantel.Melounginginanantiquerobeandasheetmaskwithashinynewmanuscript,andonthefarsideofthecouch,amanwithafurrowedbrow,mouthinaknot,bookinhand.
Charlie,hittingmybrainlikeanAlka-Seltzertab,dispersingineverydirection.
Myfacejerkssideways.Shepherdstopsshort,hismouthhoveringaninchshyofmycheek.“Ishouldbegettingbacktomysister!”ItcomesoutunplannedandroughlysixtytimeslouderthanImeantforitto.ButIcan’tgothroughwiththis.Mybrainfeelstoomuddy.
Shepherddrawsback,vaguelypuzzled,andsmilesgood-naturedly.“Well,ifyoueverneedatourguideagain…”HereachesintohisshirtpocketandpullsoutascrapofpaperandablueBicpen,scribblingagainstitinhispalm.“Don’tbeastranger.”Hehandsmethenumber,thenhesitatesforasecondbeforesaying,“Orevenifyoudon’tneedatourguide.”
“Yeah,”Istammer.“I’llcallyou.”OnceIfigureoutwhat’sgoingoninmyhead.
Charliepushesmycoffeeacrossthecounter.“Preciselyontime,”hesays.“SoIguessShepherddidn’tbreakyourcity-personcurse.”
Forsomereason,hisconfirmationthathedidseemegettingintothetruckyesterdayrankles.Likeit’sproofthathepurposelyinvadedmythoughts.
Ituckmysunglassesatopmyheadandstopatthedesk.“Wehadaverynicetime.Thankssomuchforasking.”I’mmadathim.I’mmadatme.I’mjustgenerally,irrationallymad.
Charlie’sjawmusclesleap.“Where’dhetakeyou?TheCreamyWhipinthenexttownover?OrtheWalmartparkinglotforsometruck-bedstargazing?”
“Careful,Charlie,”Isay.“Thatsoundslikejealousy.”
“It’srelief,”hesays.“IexpectedyoutoshowupheretodayinDaisyDukesandpigtails,maybeaFordtattooonyourtailbone.”
IslidemyforearmsontothedeskandleanforwardinsuchawaythatIreallymightaswellhavebroughtasilverplatteroutandpresentedmycleavagetohimthatway.Thelackofsleepisreallygettingtome.Ifeelhauntedbyhim,andI’mdeterminedtohaunthimrightback.
“Iwouldbe”—Idropmyvoice—“adorableinDaisyDukesandpigtails.”
Hiseyessnapbacktomyface,flashing;hismouthtwitchesthroughthatgrimacingpout,apairasreliableasthunderandlightning.“NotthewordI’duse.”
Awarenesssizzlesdownmybackbone.Ileancloser.“Charming?”
Hiseyesstayonmyface.“Notthateither.”
“Sweet,”Isay.
“No.”
“Comely?”Iguess.
“Comely?Whatyearisit,Stephens?”
“Arealgirlnextdoor,”Iparry.
Hesnorts.“Whosedoor?”
Istraighten.“It’llcometome.”
“Idoubtit,”hesaysunderhisbreath.
Theself-satisfactionlastsaboutaslongasittakestosetupinthecaféandpullupmychecklistfortoday’stasks.ThereareproposalsIdidn’tfinishmarkingupyesterday,queriesIneedtosendondelayedpayments,andsubmissionslistsIneedtosolidifybeforetheslowseasonends.
Onceagainmyworkneedsmyfullattention,andonceagainIcan’tcompartmentalizeenoughtomakethathappen.Lastnight’sdinnerwithLibbykeepsspiralingthroughmymindlikeflamingbutterflies.Shewaseffusivelychipper,nosignofanythingwrong,untilIpressedheronhermysteriouserrands,atwhichpointherenergyflaggedandhereyes
“Can’tagrownwomanhavealittlealonetime?”shesaid.“IthinkI’veearnedtherighttoalittleprivacy.”Andthatwasthat.We’dbrushedtheawkwardnessaside,buttherestofthenight,someofthatdistancehadcomebackintohereyes,asecretloomingbetweenuslikeaglasswallorablockofice,moreorlessinvisiblebutdecidedlymaterial.
IopenDusty’spagesandpicturemyselfinasubmarine,sinkingintothem,urgingtheworldaroundmetodull.It’snevertakeneffort—that’swhatmademefallinlovewithreading:theinstantfloatingsensation,thedissolutionofreal-worldproblems,everyworrysuddenlysafelyontheothersideofsomemetaphysicalsurface.Todayisdifferent.
Thebellschimeatthefrontoftheshop,andafamiliar,femininepurrofavoicegreetsCharlie.Herespondswarmly,andshegivesasexylaugh.Ican’tmakeouteveryword,buteveryfewsentencesarepunctuatedbythatsamegravellysound.
Amaya,Irealize,asshe’ssayingsomethinglike,“ArewestillonforFriday?”
Charliesayssomethinglike,“Stillworksforme.”
Andmybrainsayssomethinglike,DOESN’TWORKFORME.NOTATALL.
Towhichthecareerwomanangelonmyshoulderreplies,Shutupandmindyourownbusiness.He’snotsupposedtooccupyanyofyourmentalrealestateanyway.
Iputonheadphonesandblastmycityscapesoundstomakemyselfstoplisteningin,butnoteventhedulcettonesofNewYorkCity’sfinestcabdriverscussingoneanotheroutisenoughtosootheme.
CharliesaidAmayawasn’tjilted,whichmorethanlikelymeansshebrokeupwithhim.Idon’twanttobefollowingthisthoughtouttoitslogicalconclusion,butmybrainisarunawaytrain,smashingthroughstationafterstationwithunrelentingspeed.
Charliedidn’twanttherelationshiptoend.
Amayaregretsherdecisionnow.
ThingsarecomplicatedforCharlie.Whatever’sgoingonbetweenhimandme“can’tbeanything.”
Charlie’skeepingthedooropentosomethingwithhisex.
Amayajustaskedhimout
Imean,that’sonlyonepossiblethroughline,butthat’showmybrainworks:itplots.
Thisiswhycrushesareterrible.Yougofromfeelinglikelifeisaflatpathoneneedsonlytocruiseovertospendingeverysecondonanincline,orcaughtinaweightless,stomach-in-your-throatdrop.It’sMomrunningouttocatchacab,haircurledandsmilinglipspainted,onlytocomehomewithstreaksofmascaradownherface.Highsandlows,andnothinginbetween.
WhenLibbyfinallyshowsup,I’mgratefulforthenumber-twelve-relatedtaskssheassignsme,evenifthey’reallofthedusting/scrubbing/organizingvariety.
Charliemostlyremainstuckedintheoffice,andwhenhedoescomeouttohelpcustomers,Iavoidlookingathimandsomehowstillalwaysknowrightwhereheis.
Afterourlunchbreak,LibbysetsoutsomeBookLoversRecommendcardsbytheregisterforcustomerstofillout,alongwithadecoupageshoeboxdrop-boxtoreturnthecardsto.Shehandsmethreecards“togetthemstarted,”andIwandertheshop,searchingforinspiration.IseetheJanuaryAndrewscircusbookIboughtmyfirstweekendhere,theoneSallytoldmeCharliehadedited,andpropmycardagainstthebookshelftoscribbleafewlines.NextIchooseanAlyssaColeromanceLibbyloanedmelastyear,whichImadethemistakeofopeningonmyphoneandendedupdevouringintwoandahalfhourswhilestandinginfrontofmyfridge.
NextIduckintothechildren’sbookroomandstraightentofindmyselfnosetonosewithCharlie.Magnets,Ithink.Hecatchesmyelbows,holdingmebackbeforewecancollide,butyou’dstillthinkweweresmasheduptoeachotherfrommouthtothighbasedontheinstantcrushofheatthatwellsinme.
“Ididn’tknowyouwereinhere!”Isayinarush.HugeimprovementoverLION!
Iseethesparkinhisburnt-sugareyesthesecondtheperfectresponsepopsintohisbrain,andIfeelthelurchingdropofdisappointmentwhenhedecidestosayinstead,“Inventory.”Hereleasesmeandliftstheclipboardfromtheshelf.Awhoppingthreepointfiveinchesseparatesus,andanelectricchargeleapsoffhim,buzzingthroughmyveins.“I’llletyougetbackto…”
Stillneitherofusmoves.
“SoyouandAmayaarehangingout.”Iadd,almostinvoluntarily:“Iwasn’teavesdropping—it’saquietshop.”
Hiseyebrowticks.“?‘Noteavesdropping,’?”heteasesinalowvoice.“?‘Notstalking.’I’msensingapatternhere.”
“Notjealous.”Ichallenge,steppingcloser.“Notadorable.”
Hiseyesdiptomymouthandslightlydilatebeforerising.“Nora…”hemurmurs,aheavinessinhisvoice,anapologyorahalf-heartedplea.
Mythroatsqueezesasourstomachsbrush,everynerveendingonhighalert.“Hm?”
Hesetshishandsonmyshoulders,histouchlightandcareful.“Ineedtogo,”hesaysquietly,avoidingmygaze.Hesidestepsmeandslipsfromtheroom
OnFridayanotherbatchofFrigidpageshitsourinboxes.Ispendthefirstcoupleofhoursreadingandrereading,gatheringmythoughtsintoadocumentandresistingtheurgetolive-textCharlieintheotherroom.Libby’sonlyaroundfromlunchtimetoaboutthree,atwhichpointsheleaveswiththereminderthatshehasanothersurpriseformetonight.
Itrytoconvincemyselfthat’swhatherdisappearancetheotherdaywasabout,butIcan’tescapethethoughtthatithadsomethingtodowithBrendan.I’vesuggestedwevideocallhimafewtimes,butshealwayshasanexcuse.
Atfive,Ipackupandleavetomeether.Onceagain,Charlie’snotattheregister,andnowI’mnotonlyannoyedandfrustrated,I’msad
Imisshim,andI’mtiredofushidingfromeachother.
Steelingmyself,Iduckintotheoffice.Helooksup,startled,fromwherehe’sleanedagainstthebulkymahoganydeskontherightsideoftheroom,reading.Hiseyes,hisposture,everythingreadsjunglecat.Ifbysomestrange,ancientcurse,ajaguarwasturnedintoaman,hewouldbeCharlieLastra.Afteraseconds-longstaringcontest,heremembershimselfandsays,“Didyouneedsomething?”
Lastyear,Iwould’vethoughthewasbeingsnotty.NowIrealizehe’scuttingtothechase.
“Weshouldscheduleatimetotalkthroughthenexthundredpages.”
Hiseyesboreintomeuntilthere’ssmokeliftingoffmyskin.I’manantbeneathhissunlitmagnifyingglass.Finally,helooksaway.“Wecanjustdoitoveremail.IknowLibby’skeepingyourunning.”
“Itneedstobeinperson.”Ican’ttakethistensionbetweenusanymore.Avoidinghimisonlymakingthisworse,andIhatefeelinglikeI’mhiding.WithLibby,thewaytogettotheheartofthingsmightbeaslow,cautiousobstaclecourse,butthisisCharlie,andCharlie’slikeme.Weneedtobulldozethroughtheawkwardness.Imisshim.Histeasing,hischallenges,hiscompetitiveness,hiscareformyoverpricedshoes,hissmell,and—
Shit,Ididn’texpectthelisttobesolong.I’mindeeperthanIrealized.“Unlessyou’retoobusy!”Iadd.
Heflasheshisfirstsmirk-poutoftheweek.“WhatcouldIpossiblybebusywith?”
HisplanswithAmayasurgetothefrontofmymind.Ipicturehimsweepingheroverapuddletosavehershoes,flickingopenanumbrellatoprotectherblown-outhair.
“MaybethatDunkin’Donutsgrandopening,”Isay.“Orthedivorceproceedingsforthatcouplewhofoughtattownhall.”
“Oh,they’llneversplitup,”hesaysseriously.“That’sjusttheCassidys’foreplay.”
Foreplay.NotawordIwould’vechosentointroducetothisconversation.
“Doestomorrowworkforyou?”Iask.“Latemorning?”
Hestudiesme.“I’llreserveusaroom.”Atmyexpression,helaughs.“Atthelibrary,Stephens.Astudyroom.Getyourmindoutofthegutter.”
Believeme,Ithink,I’vetried.19
LIBBYHOISTSMEoutofHardy’scab,towardthesoundofchatter,andpositionsmeforoptimaldrama.“Ta-da!”
Ipulldownthescarf-cum-blindfoldshemademewearandblinkagainstthepinkandorangeofdusk.I’mfacinganelementaryschool’smarquee.
TONIGHT,7P.M.
SUNSHINEFALLSCOMMUNITYTHEATERPRESENTS:
ONCEINALIFETIME
“Oh,”Isay.“My.God.”
Sheletsoutawordlessshriekofexcitement.“See?Localtheater!EverythingNewYorkhas,youcanfindrightheretoo!”
“Thatis…quitetheleap.”
Libbygiggles,hookinganarmaroundme.“Comeon.Theticketsaregeneraladmission,andIwanttogetpopcornandgoodseats.”
I’mnotsurethere’ssuchthingas“goodseats”whenyou’rechoosingfromrowsoffoldingchairsinaschoolgymnasium.Thestageiselevated,meaningwe’llbecraningournecksforthelengthoftheplay,butassoonasthehouselightsdrop,it’scleartheseatingarrangementistheleastofthisproduction’sissues.
“Ohmygod,”Libbywhispers,grippingmyarmasanactorshufflesoutinfrontofthepaintedapothecarybackdrop.Hewanderstothepropcounterandgazeswistfullyataframedpicturethere.
“No,”Iwhisper.
“Yes!”shehisses.
OldManWhittakerisbeingplayedbyachild.
“Whataboutthedrugabuse?!”Libbysays.
“Whatabouttheoverdose?!”Isay.
“Hecan’tevenbethirteen,right?”Libbywhispers.
“Hehasthevoiceofaten-year-oldchoirboy!”
Someoneharrumphsnearus,andLibbyandIsinkinourchairs,chastened.AtleastuntilMrs.Wilder—theownerofthelendinglibrary—comesontothestageandIhavetoturnmybarkoflaughterintoacough.
Libbywheezesbesideme.“Ohmygod,ohmygod,ohmygod.”She’snotlookingatthestage,juststaringatherfeetandtryingnottoexplode.
Idropmyvoicenexttoherear:“Whatdoyouthinktheagegapisbetweentheseactors?Sixty-eightyears?”
Sheclearsherthroattokeepahandleonherwould-belaughter.
ThewomanplayingMrs.WildercouldeasilybeOldManWhittaker’sgrandmother
Hell,maybesheis.“MaybelittleDelilahTylerwillbeplayedbythefamilyRottweiler,”Iwhisper.Libbyflingsherselfforwardoverherbelly,hidingherfaceashershouldersquakewithsilentlaughter.
Anotherdirtylookfromthewomantoourright.Sorry,Imouth.Allergies.Sherollshereyes,looksaway.
IntoLibby’sear,Iwhisper,“Uh-oh,Whittaker’smommyismad.”
Shebitesmyshoulder,likeshe’stryingnottoscream.Onstage,LittleBoyWhittakergrabshisbackandwincesouttheF-wordatthepainofhischaracter’schronicallypinchednerves.
Libbysqueezesmyhandsoharditfeelslikeshemightbreakit.
“Itisveryclear,”shewhispershaltingly,“thatsmall,beardedchildhasyettoexperiencephysicalpain.”
“Thatboyhasyettoexperiencethedroppingofhistesticles,”Ireply.
Asiftodisprovethis,hisnextlinesendshisvoicelurching,crackingintoasqueakthatmakesLibbyscrunchhereyesshutandcrossherlegs.“Iwillnotpeemyself!”
Westareatourfeet,eruptingintosilentshiversoflaughtereveryfewminutes.It’sthemostfunI’vehadinyears.
Whateverelseishappening,withBrendan,withtheapartment,withmysister,rightnow,we’reus,likewehaven’tbeenforalongtime.
Thesecondtheplayends,LibbyandIsprintout.We’rebothabouttoloseitandwouldratherdosoprivately.Halfwaytothemarquee,acheeryvoicestopsus.
“Nora!Libby?”SallyGoodecutsatrailtowardus,alongsideablondbehemothofamanusingawheelchair.HerdimpledsmileisCharlie-esque;thecloudofjasmineandmarijuanainwhichshearrivesisnot.It’shardtoimaginestructured,sharp-edgedCharliebeingraisedbythiswoodsy,freewheelingwaif.
“Fancyseeingyouhere!”Libbysings.
“Smalltownsandallthat,”Sallysays.“Idon’tthinky’allhavemetmyhusband?”
“Clint,”themanoffers.“Pleasuretomeetyou.”
“Nicetomeetyou,”LibbyandIsayinunison.
Heasks,“What’dyouthinkoftheplay?”
LibbyandIexchangeapanickedlook.
“Oh,don’tmakethemanswerthat.”Sallyswatshisarm,smiling.“Atleastnotbeforethesalon.Yougottacome—wealwayshavefriendsoverfordrinksandpieafterashow.”
“Thisisaregularoccurrence?”Mysisteralmostchokesoverthewords.We’restilltooslaphappytobehavingthisconversation.
“Theydofourshowsayear,”Sallysays.
Clint’sbrowlifts.“Isthatall?Seemslikealotmore.”
Libbyswallowsalaugh,butasqueakstillmakesitoutofherthroat.
“Pleasesayyou’llcome,”Sallypleads.
“Oh,wecouldn’tintrude—”Ibegin.
“Nonsense!”shecries.“There’snosuchthingasintrudinginSunshineFalls.Ordidyounotjustwatchthesameplayasus?”
“Wedefinitelywatchedit,”Libbymumbles.
Sallyhandsherpursetoherhusbandanddigsthroughitforascrapofpaperandapen,thenjotsdownanaddress.“We’rejustontheothersideofthewoodsandupthepathfromyou.”ShehandsthepapertoLibby.“Butthere’sastreetanddrivewaythatrunsrightuptoourhouse,ifyoudon’tfeelliketrompingthroughthedark.”
Shedoesn’twaitforanRSVPorevenareply.They’removingoff,thecrowdbottleneckingbehindus.
“Oh,Borisdidwonderfully,”anoldergentlemanissaying.“Andonlyelevenyearsold!”
Libbysqueezesmyhand,andwetakeoffdownthesidewalk,gigglinglikepreteenshighonMountainDew.
TheLastra-Goodehomesitsattheendofalongdrivelinedwithmatureoaks.It’sfarenoughoutsidetownthatthere’slittlelighttointerruptthesparklingblanketofnightskyoverheadorthemassesoffirefliesblinkingintheshrubs.
It’satwo-storycolonial,withwhitesidingandfreshlypaintedblackshutters.Intheoversizeddriveway,aroundtencarsarealreadyparked,withanotherpullinginbehindusasHardystopstoletusout.
Asweapproachthefrontdoors,Libbygazesupatthefrontofthecozyhouseandsaysdreamily,“IwouldpayamilliondollarstobehereonChristmas.”
“IguessthatexplainswhyBrendandoesthebudgeting.”
Libby’sarmstiffensthroughmine.Iglanceoverather.She’spaledabittoo.Ican’ttellifshelooksstressedorsick,orboth.Eitherway,theknotofdreadgivesasharppulsebehindmyribcage,areminderthateveninthosehourswhenitshrinks,itnevervanishes.
Ijogherarm.“Iseverythingokay,Lib?”
Hersurprisemeltsintoneutrality.“Ofcourse!Whywouldn’titbe?”
“Ijustmean,ifyouneedanything,”Isay,“youknowI’dalways—”
“Hello,hello!”Sallycalls,swingingthedooropen.“Comeonin!”Shehastoshouttobeheardassheushersusthroughthejasmine-scentedfronthalltowardthethunder-rolloflaughterandhumofoverlappingconversationsatthebackofthehouse.“Justsoyouknow,wetypicallypretendeverythingwasgood.”
“Excuseme?”Isay.
Hersmiledeepenshercrow’sfeet.Shelookseverybitlikeawomaninhersixties,andallthemorestrikingforit,inawoodsy,sun-beatenway.
“Theplay,”sheclarifies.“Orwhenit’saceramicsshow,oracraftmarket,orwhateverelse:Wepretendit’sgood.Atleastuntilwe’vehadacouplerounds.”Shepatsourshouldersandmovesoff,calling,“Makeyourselvesathome!”
“I’mgonnaneedeveryonetomakeitthroughacoupleroundsrealquick,”Libbysays.
“WhatIwassayingoutside,Lib—”
Shesqueezesmyarms.“I’mgood,Nora.I’vejustbeenoffbecauseI’mhavingthisrestlesslegthingthatinterruptsmysleep.Stopworryingandjust—enjoyourvacation,okay?”
Themoresheinsistseverything’sfine,themoresureIamthatit’snot.Butashasbeenthecaseforyears,she’sjustshutteredatthefirstsignofworry.
Thisishowitis.Sheneverasksforhelp,soIhavetofigureoutwhatsheneedsandhowtogetittoherinawayshefeelsokayaboutaccepting.
Evenwithherweddingdress,Ihadtopretendtotrackdownasamplesaleandgetadamageddressatadiscount,whenactuallyIputitonacardandsmudgedsomeconcealerinsidethebodicemyself.
Butwiththis—Idon’tevenknowwheretostart.
Ohgod.
Asudden,terrifyingclarityhitsmelikeasandbagtothestomach.Thelist.AllthesehomagestoLibby’salmost-futures:building,baking,bookstore…marketing.
Isthisallsomeforaybackintotheworkingworld?Orawaytoproveshecouldsurviveonherownifsheneededto?Threeweeksawayfromherhusband.Ishould’vethoughtthatwasstrange.Especiallywithhowstrangeshe’sbeenacting.Especiallymorethanfivemonthsalonginherpregnancy.
ShelovesBrendan,Iremindmyself.Evenifthey’regoingthroughsomething,bucklingunderthestressofanewbaby,thatcan’thavechanged.
Myclothesfeeltootight,toohot.Ilookaround,searchingforsomethingtofocuson,togroundmyselfwith.MygazecatchesonClint,standingwithawalkeracrossthecrowdedkitchen,thenovertotheequallytall,thoughfaryoungerandbrawniermanbesidehim.
“Wooow,”Libbysays,clockingShepherdatthesametimeIdo.
Hisgreeneyesfindmine,andhemurmurssomethingtoClintbeforeextricatinghimselfandsaunteringourway.
“Ohmygod,”Libbysays.“Isthatarchangelcomingtowardusrightnow?”
“Shepherd,”Isay,distractedbythehamsterwheelofworriesspinninginsidemyskull.
Libbyasks,“Isthatashepherdcomingtowardus?”
“No,hisnameis—”
“Ohhhh.Shepherd,”shesays,realizationdawning,rightashestopsinfrontofus.
“See,”hesays,beaming.“Thisiswhyyou’vegottalovesmalltowns.”20
DIDN’TSEEYOUattheplay,”Shepherdsays.“Youmust’veslippedoutquick.”
Libbygivesmealookthatreads:YouforgottomentionyourdatewasAdonis?
“Mysisterhadtopee,”Isay,whichonlymagnifiesherput-outexpression.“ThisisLibby.Libby,Shepherd.”
Libbysaysonly,“Wow.”
“Nicetomeetyou,Libby,”hereplies
Sheshakeshishand.“Stronggrip.Alwaysagreatqualityinaman,right,Nora?”Shelooksatmepointedly,simultaneouslytryingtobemywingwomanandtoembarrassme.
“ItseemstocomeinhandyinJamesBondmovies,”Iagree.Shepherdsmilespolitely.Noonesaysanything.Icough.“Becauseofallthepeopledanglingoffbuildings…”
Henods.“Gotit.”
Thetemporarymadnessormagicoftheothernighthaswornoff.Ihavenoideahowtointeractwiththisman.
Hesays,“CanIgrabeitherofyousomething?Beer?Seltzer?”
“I’dhavewine,”Isay.
“Youknowwhat?”Libbygrins.“Thisdarnbladder!Ialreadyhavetopeeagain.”
Shepherdgesturesdownthehall.“Restroom’srightdownthatway.”
“I’llbebackinasec,”Libbypromises,andasShepherdturnstopourmeaglassofwinefromanopenbottleonthecounter,shemakesabreakforit,mouthingoverhershoulder,NOIWON’T
Shepherdhandsmetheglass,andItipmychinatthe—approximately—fourteenthousandbottlesofwineontheisland.“Youallreallywanttoforgetthatplay.”
Helaughs.“Whatdoyoumean?”
Itakeabigsip.“Justjoking.Aboutthewine.”
Hescratchesthebackofhishead.“Myauntrunsthisinformalwineexchange.Everyonebringsone,andsheputsnumbersonthebottom.Attheend,sherafflesoffwhateverdoesn’tgetdrunk.”
“Soundslikemykindoflady,”Isay.“Isshehere?”
“Course,”hesays.“Shewouldn’tmissherownparty.”
Ialmostinhalemywineandhavetocoughtoclearmylungs.“Sally?Sally’syouraunt?CharlieLastra’syourcousin?”
“Iknow,right?”hesays,chuckling.“Totalopposites.Funnythingis,wewereprettycloseaskids.Grewapartaswegotolder,buthisbark’sworsethanhisbite.He’sagoodguy,underneathitall.”
Ineedtoeitherchangethetopicorscoutoutafaintingcouch.“IpromiseIwasgoingtocall,bytheway.”
“Noworries,”hesays,abashfuldimpleappearing.“I’llbearound.”
Isay,“Soyourfamilyownsthehorsefarm?”
“Stables,”hecorrectsme.
“Right.”Ihavenocluewhatthedifferenceis.
“It’smyparents’place.Whenconstructionstuffisslowformeandmyuncle,Istillhelpthemoutsometimes.”
Uncle.Construction.HeworkswithCharlie’sdad.
Shepherd’sphonebuzzes.Hesighsashereadsthescreen.“Didn’trealizeithadgottensolate.I’vegottaheadout.”
“Oh,”Isay,stillonasnappydialoguehotstreak.
“Hey,”hesays,brightening,“Ihopethisdoesn’tsoundtoopushy—becauseIunderstandifyou’renotinterested—butifyouwanttogoonatrailridewhileyou’rehere,I’dlovetotakeyou.”
Hiswarm,friendlyexpressionisasdazzlingasitwaswhenIfirstbumpedintohimoutsideMug+Shot.Heis,Iwholeheartedlybelieve,atrulyniceman.
“Maybeso,”Isay,thenrenewmypromisetocallhim.Ashispine-and-leatherscentretreatsacrosstheroom,Istayrootedtothespot,caughtinanendlessloopofShepherdisCharlie’scousin.IalmostkissedCharlie’scousin.
Itshouldn’tmatter,butitdoes.IcanhearCharliesaying,Thiscan’tbeanything,butIcan’tshakethefeelingthatitalreadyis.
Ifeelvaguelysick.Libbystillisn’tbackyet,andI’mtoodeepinmythoughtsforsmalltalkwithstrangers.Avoidingeveryattemptateyecontact,Iwanderthroughthecrowdtothefarendofthelivingroom.
Aseriesofthreemassivepaintingshangsinatriptych.Thewallsarecoveredinpaintings,actually,everycolorpaletteandsize,givingthehouseacozy,eclecticfeelingmismatchedtoitsold-fashionedexterior.
Thepaintingsaredefinitelynudes,thoughabstracted:allpinksandtansandbrowns,purplecurvesandshadows.TheyremindmeoftheMatisseCut-Outs,butwhereasthosealwaysstrikemeasromantic,evenerotic—allartfularchesandcurved,pretzelinglegs—thesefeelcasual,thekindofvulnerablenudityofwalkingaroundnakedinyourapartment,lookingforyourhairbrush.
Thescentofweedhitsmerightbeforehervoice,butIstillflinchwhenSallysays,“Areyouanartist?”
“Definitelynot.ButI’manappreciator.”
Sheliftsthewinebottleinherhandlikeit’saquestion.Inodandshetopsoffmyglass.
“Whomadethem?”Iask.
Sally’slipstightenintoanapple-cheekedsmile.“Idid.Inanotherlife.”
“They’rephenomenal.”Fromatechnicalstandpoint,Iknowverylittleaboutart,butthesepaintingsarebeautiful,calmingintheirearthycolorsandorganicshapes.They’redecidedlynotthekindofartthatmakesapersonsay,Myfour-year-oldniececouldpaintthis
“Ican’tbelieveyoumadethese.”Ishakemyhead.“It’ssostrangetoseesomethinglikethisandrealizeitjustcamefromanormalperson.Notthatyou’renormal!”
“Oh,honey,”shelaughs.“Therearefarworsethingstobe.NormalisabadgeIwearproudly.”
“Youcould’vebeenfamous,”Isay.“Imean,that’showgoodtheseare.”
Sheappraisesthepaintings.“Speakingofthose‘worsethingstobethannormal.’?”
“Famecomeswithmoney,”Ipointout.“Money’shelpful.”
“Famealsocomeswithpeopletellingyouwhatevertheythinkyouwanttohear.”
“Hellothere,”Libbycoos,slippingintoplacebesideus.Shegivesmeanindiscreetwaggleoftheeyebrows,andI’mgratefulSallymissesit,soIdon’thavetoexplainthemeaningbehinditisShewantsmetoscrewyournephew!Insteadofyourson!Whichwasalsobrieflyonthetable!
“Sallypaintedthese,”Isay.
Libbylookstoherforconfirmation.“Nofreakingway!”
Sallylaughs.“Soshocked!”
“Theseare,like,professional,Sally,”Libbysays.“Haveyouevertriedtosellany?”
“Iusedto.”Shelooksdispleasedatthethought.
“Wuh-oh,”Libbysays.“There’sclearlyastoryhere.Comeon,Sal.Letitout.”
“Notaveryinterestingone,”shesays.
“Luckyforyou,wejustsawaplaythatseverelyloweredourstandards,”Isay.
Sallyletsoutadevilishsnortandpatsmyarm.“Don’tletReverendMonicahearyousaythat.OldManWhittakerishergodson.”
“Ihopehe’llposeforthestatueinthetownsquare,”Isay.
“Thatstatuecouldlooklikemymailcarrier,Derek,forallIcare,”Sallysays.“LongastheplaquesaysWhittaker.Weneedthebusinessthatsortofthingcouldbringin.”
“Backtothestory,”Libbysays.“Youusedtosellyourpaintings?”
Shesighs.“Well,whenIwasagirl,Iwantedtobeapainter.SowhenIwaseighteen,IwenttoFlorencetopaintforafewweeks,whichturnedintomonths—ClintandIbrokeup,ofcourse—andafterayear,IcamebacktotheStatestotrytobreakintotheartsceneinNewYork.”
“Getout!”LibbylightlythwacksSally’sarm.“Where’dyoulive?”
“AlphabetCity,”shesays.“Long,longtimeago.Stayedforthenextelevenyears,workingmyassoff.Soldsomepaintings,appliedforshowsconstantly.Workedforthreeorfourdifferentartistsandspenteverynighttryingtonetworkingalleries.Workedmyselftothebone.Then,finally,whenI’dbeenatitforeightyears,Iwaspartofthisgroupshow.Andthisguywalksin,picksoutoneofmypaintings,andbuysit.Turnsouthe’sarenownedcurator.Mycareertakesoffovernight.”
“That’sthedream!”Libbysqueals.
“Ithoughtso,”Sallyreplies.“ButIrealizedthetruthprettyfast.”
“ThatClintwasyourtruelove?”Libbyguesses.
“Thatitwasallagame.Mypaintingshadn’tchanged,butsuddenlyalltheseplacesthathadturnedmedownwantedme.Peoplewho’dneverlookedmywaywerealloverme.HardlymatteredwhatImade.Myworkbecameastatussymbol,nothingmore,nothingless.”
“Or,”Isay,“youwereextremelytalented,andittookonepersonwithgoodtastetosaysobeforethemassescaughton.”
“Maybe,”Sallyallows.“ButbythenIwastired.Andhomesick.Andusuallyprettyhungryandbroke,andthecuratorcameontomewhenIwasjustlonelyenoughtofallintobedwithhim.Notlongaftermyfatherpassed,webrokeup,andIcamehometobewithmymother.WhileIwashere,sheaskedClinttocomecleanourgutters.”
“Thejokesjustwritethemselves,”Isay.
“Sothenyourealizedhewasyourtruelove?”Libbysays.
Sallysmiles.“Thattime,yes.Hewasengagedbythen.Didn’tstopmymother’smachinations.HermantrawasIt’snotofficialuntilthey’redowntheaisle.ThankGodshewasright.AssoonasIsawClintagain,IknewI’dmadeahugemistake.Threeweekslater,hewasengagedtome.”
“That’ssoromantic,”Libbysays.
“Butdidn’tyoumissit?”Isay.
“Misswhat?”Sallysays,clearlynottracking.
“Thecity,”Isay.“ThegalleriesinNewYork.Allofit.”
“Honestly,afterallthoseyearsoftoiling,itwasahugerelieftocomehereandjust…”Sheletsoutadeepbreath,herarmsfloatingupathersides.“Settle.”
“Nokidding,”Libbysays.“Wemovedtothecitysoourmomcouldtrytomakeitasanactress—themostchronicallyexhaustedpersonintheworld.”
“That’snotfair.”Shewasspreadthin,sure,butshewasalsofulloflife,ecstatictobechasingherdreams.
Libbyshootsmealook.“Rememberthattimeshewasanickelshortatthebodega?RightafterthatProducersaudition?Theclerktoldhertoputalimeback,andshebrokedown.”
Myheartsqueezes.IhadnoideaLibbyrememberedthat.She’djustturnedsix,andMomwantedtobakeLib’sfavoritecorn-limecookies.WhenMomstartedmeltingdownattheregister,IgrabbedtheextralimeinonehandandLibby’slittlefingersinmyotheranddraggedherbacktotheproduce,takingourtimezigzaggingbacktoMomwhileshegatheredherself.
Ifyoucouldhaveanytreat,fromanybook,Iaskedher,whatwouldyouchoose?
ShepickedTurkishdelight,likeEdmundateinNarnia.IpickedfrobscottlefromTheBFG,becauseitcouldmakeyoufly.Thatnight,thethreeofuswatchedWillyWonkaandcleanedouttheremainsofourHalloweencandy.
It’sahappymemory,thekindthatalmostsparkles.Moreproofthateveryproblemcouldbesolvedwiththerightitinerary.
Everythingturnedoutokay,Irememberthinking.Aslongaswe’retogether,italwaysdoes.
Wewerehappy.
Butthat’snotwhatLibby’stellingSally.She’ssaying,“Momwasbroke,tired,andlonely.Sheputhercareeraheadofabsolutelyeverythingandwasmiserablebecauseofit.”SheturnstoSally,conspiratorial.“Nora’sthesameway—workedtothebone.Notimeforareallife.SheoncerefusedaseconddatewithaguybecauseheaskedhertoputherphoneonDoNotDisturbduringdinner.Workalwayscomesfirstforher.That’swhyIdraggedherhere.Thistripisbasicallyanintervention.”
Shesaysitalllikeajoke,butthere’ssomethinghardandthornyunderneath,andherwordslandinmygutlikeapunch.Theroomhasstartedtopulseandwaver.Mythroatfeelsfull,myclothesitchyagainstmyskin,likesomethingisswellinginsideme.She’sstilltalking,butherwordsaregarbled.
Tired,lonely,noreallife,workalwayscomesfirst.
Forweeks,I’veworriedhowpeoplewillseemeonceFrigidhitsshelves,butLibby—Libby’stheonlypersonwho’severreallyknownme.Andthisishowsheseesme.
Likeashark.
Theshamehitshotandfast,adesperationtocrawloutofmyskin.Tobeanywhereelse.Tobesomeoneelse.
Ibreakaway,headingforthebathroominthefronthall,butit’slocked,andIbeelinetowardthefrontdoorinstead,onlytofindahandfulofpeoplecrowdingit.Idoubleback,dizzy.
Iwanttobealone.IneedtobesomewhereIcanvanishintoacrowd,oratleastwherenoonewillacknowledgewhat’shappeningtome.
Whatishappeningtome?
Thestairs.Itakethemtothesecondfloor.There’sabathroomattheendofthehall.I’malmosttoitwhenaroomontherightcatchesmyeye.Awallofbooksisvisiblethroughthecracked-opendoor.
It’sabeacon,alighthouseonafarshore.Istepinsideandclosethedoorbehindme,thepartyrecedingtoamuffle.Myshouldersrelaxalittle,thethudofmyheartsettlingasItakeinthecherry-redracecarbedagainstthewallonmyleft.
Notastore-boughtplasticmonstrosity,butahomemadewoodenframe,paintedtoglossyperfection.Thesightofitsendsapangthroughme.Asdothehomemadebookshelvesliningthefarwall.There’ssomuchcare,notjustintheconstructionbutintheorganization,Charlie’stouchandClint’sasvisibleasinkyfingerprints.
Thebooksaremeticulouslyorderedbygenreandauthor,butnotpretty.Notrowsofleather-boundtomes,justpaperbackswithcreasedspinesandhalf-missingcovers,bookswithfive-centthriftstorestickersonthem,andDeweydecimalindicatorsontheonesthatcamefromlibrarysales.
They’rethekindsofbooksMrs.Freemanusedtogiveus,theonesshe’dstickintheTakeaBook,LeaveaBookbin.
LibbyandIusedtojokethatFreemanBookswasourfather.Ithelpedraiseus,madeusfeelsafe,broughtuslittlepresentswhenwefeltdown.
Dailylifewasunpredictable,butthebookstorewasaconstant.Inwinter,whenourapartmentwastoocold,orinsummer,whenthewindowunitcouldn’tkeepup,we’dgodownstairsandreadintheshop’scovetedwindowseat.SometimesMomwouldtakeustotheMuseumofNaturalHistoryortheMettocooldown,andI’dbringmyshreddedcopyofFromtheMixed-UpFilesofMrs.BasilE.Frankweilerwithmeandthink,Ifwehadto,wecouldlivehere,liketheKincaidsiblings.Betweenthethreeofus,we’dbefine.It’dbefun.
Magic.That’swhatthosedaysfeltlike.NothowLibbymadeitsound.
Sure,therewereproblems,butwhataboutallthosedayslyingonourbelliesintheConeyIslandsandreadinguntilthesunset?Ornightsspentinarowonoursofa,eatingjunkfoodandwatchingoldmovies?
WhatabouttheRockefellerCentertreelighting,hotcocoakeepingourhandswarm?
LifewithMom,lifeinNewYork,waslikebeinginagiantbookstore:allthesetrillionsofpathsandpossibilitiesdrawingdreamersintothecity’sbeatingheart,saying,ImakenopromisesbutIoffermanydoors.
Youmaychasséacrossaspotlitstagewiththebestofthem,butyoumayalsoweepoveranunboughtlime.
Fourdaysafterthelimeincident,Mom’sfriendscameoverwithCook’schampagneandanenvelopeofcashthey’dpooledtohelpusout.
Yes,NewYorkisexhausting.Yes,therearemillionsofpeopleallswimmingupstream,butyou’realsoinittogether
That’swhyIputmycareerfirst.NotbecauseIhavenolife,butbecauseIcan’tbeartolettheoneMomwantedforusslipaway.BecauseIneedtoknowLibbyandBrendanandthegirlsandIwillallbeokaynomatterwhat,becauseIwanttocarveoutapieceofthecityanditsmagic,justforus.Butcarvingturnsyouintoaknife.Cold,hard,sharp,atleastontheoutside.
Inside,mychestfeelsbruised,tender.
It’sonethingtoacceptthatthepersonIlovemostisfundamentallyunknowabletome;it’sanothertoacceptthatshedoesn’tquiteseemeeither.Shedoesn’ttrustme,notenoughtosharewhat’sgoingon,notenoughtoleanonmeorletmecomforther.
AllthoseoldfeelingsbubbleupuntilIcan’tgetagoodbreath,untilI’mdrowning.
“Nora?”Avoicespearsthroughthemiasma,lowandfamiliar.Lightspillsinfromthehallway.Charliestandsinthedoorway,theonlyfixedpointintheswirl.
Hesaysmynameagain,tentative,aquestion.“Whathappened?”21
CHARLIE’SLAPTOPBAGslidestothefloorashecomestowardme.“Nora?”hesaysonemoretime.
WhenIcan’tgetanysoundout,hepullsmetowardhim,cuppingmyjaw,thumbsmovinginsoothingstrokesagainstmyskin.“Whathappened?”hemurmurs.
Hishandsrootmethroughthefloor,theroomstilling.“Sorry.Ijustneeded…”
Hiseyessearchmine,thumbsstillsweepinginthatgentlerhythm.“Anap?”heteasessoftly,tentatively.“Afantasynovel?Acompetitivelyfastoilchange?”
Theblockoficeinmychestcracks.“Howdoyoudothat?”
Hisbrowfurrows.“Dowhat?”
“Saytherightthing.”
Thecornerofhismouthquirks.“Noonethinksthat.”
“Ido.”
Hislashessplayacrosshischeeksashisgazedrops.“MaybeIjustsaytherightthingforyou.”
“IfeltlikeIwassuffocating.”Myvoicebreaksontheword,andhishandsslideintomyhair,hiseyesrisingtomineagain.“Like—likeeveryonewaslookingatme,andtheycouldallseewhat’swrongwithme.AndI’musedtofeelinglike…likeI’mthewrongkindofwoman,butwithLibbyit’salwaysbeendifferent.She’stheonlypersonI’veeverreallyfeltlikemyselfwith,sincemymomdied.ButitturnsoutDustywasrightaboutme.That’swhoIam,eventomysister.Thewrongkindofwoman.”
“Hey.”Hetipsmyfaceuptohis.“Yoursisterlovesyou.”
“ShesaidIhavenolife.”
“Nora.”Hejustbarelysmiles.“You’reinbooks.Ofcourseyoudon’thavealife.Noneofusdo.There’salwayssomethingtoogoodtoread.”
Aweakhalflaughwhisksoutofme,butthefeelingdoesn’tlast.“ShethinksIdon’tcareaboutanythingexceptmyjob.That’swhateveryonethinks.ThatIhavenofeelings.Maybethey’reright.”Ilaughroughly.“Ihaven’tcriedinafuckingdecade.That’snotnormal.”
Charlieconsidersforamoment.Hisarmsslidearoundmywaisttolockagainstthesmallofmyback,andthecontactcannonballsdirectlyintomythoughts,sendingthemzingingawayfromtheimpact.Idon’trememberdoingit,butmyarmsarearoundhimtoo,ourstomachsflush,heatgatheringbetweenus.“YouknowwhatIthink?”
Touchinghimfeelssogood,sostrangelyuncomplicated,likehe’stheexceptiontoeveryrule.“What?”
“Ithinkyouloveyourjob,”hesayssoftly.“Ithinkyouworkthathardbecauseyoucaretentimesmorethantheaverageperson.”
“Aboutwork,”Isay.
“Abouteverything.”Hisarmstightenaroundme.“Yoursister.Yourclients.Theirbooks.Youdon’tdoanythingyou’renotgoingtodoonehundredpercent.Youdon’tstartanythingyoucan’tfinish.
“You’renotthepersonwhobuysthestationarybikeaspartofaNewYear’sresolution,thenusesitasacoatrackforthreeyears.You’renotthekindofwomanwhoonlyworkshardwhenitfeelsgood,oronlyshowsupwhenit’sconvenient.Ifsomeoneinsultsoneofyourclients,thosefancykidglovesofyourscomeoff,andyoucarryyourownpenatalltimes,becauseifyou’regoingtohavetowriteanything,itmightaswelllookgood.Youreadthelastpageofbooksfirst—don’tmakethatface,Stephens.”Hecracksasmileinonecornerofhismouth.“I’veseenyou—evenwhenyou’reshelving,yousometimescheckthelastpage,likeyou’reconstantlylookingforalltheinformation,tryingtomaketheabsolutebestdecisions.”
“Andbyyou’veseenme,”Isay,“youmeanyou’vewatchedme.”
“OfcourseIfuckingdo,”hesaysinalow,roughvoice.“Ican’tstop.I’malwaysawareofwhereyouare,evenifIdon’tlook,butit’simpossiblenotto.Iwanttoseeyourfacegetsternwhenyou’reemailingaclient’seditor,beingahard-ass,andIwanttoseeyourlegswhenyou’resoexcitedaboutsomethingyoujustreadthatyoucan’tstopcrossinganduncrossingthem.Andwhensomeonepissesyouoff,yougettheseredsplotches.”Hisfingersbrushmythroat.“Righthere.”
Mynipplespinch,mythighssqueezingandskinshivering.Thetensioninhishandsmakeshisfingerscurlagainstthecurveinthesmallofmyback,gatheringthefabrictherelikehe’stalkinghimselfoutofrippingit.
“You’reafighter,”hesays.“Whenyoucareaboutsomething,youwon’tletanythingfuckingtouchit.I’venevermetanyonewhocaresasmuchasyoudo.Doyouknowwhatmostpeoplewouldgivetohavesomeonelikethatintheirlife?”Hiseyesaredark,probing,hisheartbeatfast.“Doyouknowhowfuckingluckyanyoneyoucareaboutis?Youknow…”
Hehesitates,teethsinkingintohislip,eyeslow,fingerslooseningbutnotremovingthemselvesfrommyvertebrae.“WhenCarinaandIwerekids,mydadhadtoworkalot.Wedidn’thavemuchmoney,andthenmymom’smotherpassed,and—thebookstorestartedhemorrhagingmoney.
“Mymomisn’tabusinessperson.Sheisn’tevenreallyapersonwhokeepsaschedule.Sotheshop’shoursweretotallyunpredictable.SomeartisttalkwouldgetscheduledforthemiddleoftheweekinGeorgia,andshe’dtakemeandCarinaoutofschooltogotoit,withoutnotice.Orshe’dgetcaughtupwithapaintingandnotonlymisstheworkday,butforgettopickusupfromschool.Carinawasalwaysmorelikemyparents,laid-back,butIwasanxious.MaybebecauseI’dhadsuchahardtimewhenIfirststartedschool,ormaybejustbecauseIfinallyactuallylikedit,butIhatedmissingclass,andontopofthat—”
Hedrawsabreath.Myarmshavebeentwistingintothebackofhisshirt,keepinghimclose,connectedtomeatalltimes.
“—peopledidn’tapproveofmyfamily,”hegoeson.“Mydadwasalreadyengagedwhenheandmymomgottogether,andshewasalreadythreemonthspregnantwithme.”
Mymouthopensandcloses.“Oh.Clint’snot…”
Heshakeshishead.“Mybiologicalfather’sanartcurator,backinNewYork,actually.We’veexchangedacoupleemails,andthatwasenoughforus.AsfarasI’mconcerned,Clint’stheonlydadI’veeverhadorneeded,butasfarbackasIcanremember,IknewIwasn’tlikehim.Didn’tlooklikehim.Didn’tlikethesamethingsashim.”
Thewarmgoldandinkydarkofhiseyeslifttomineagain,andapainfulwantingbloomsbehindmysolarplexus.“IwasinfifthgradewhenIfoundoutthetruth.Fromsomekidsatschool.”
Theraggededgeofhisvoiceknocksthewindoutofme.Ifighttheimpulsetoreininmyshock,andthenitallclicks,thebitsofCharlieI’vebeencollectinglikepuzzlepiecesbecomingafullpicture.NottheDarcytrope.Nottheself-important,douracademicImetforoneveryunpleasantlunch.Amanwhocravescompletehonesty,therealistwhodoesn’talwaysunderstandwhenhe’snotseeingrealism.Charlie,whowantstounderstandtheworldbuthaslearnednottotrustit.
“I’msosorry,Charlie,”Iwhisper.
Heswallows.“Iknowhejustdidn’twantmetothinkIwasanythingbuthisson,”hesays.“Butitwasabadwaytofindout.Everyoneintownwasmoreorlessnicetomyparents’faces,butthosefirstfewyearsofschoolwerehell.Mymom’sapproachwastokillthemwithkindness,anditworked.Shewonthewholefuckingtownover.ButIcouldn’tdoit.Ican’tmakesmalltalkwithpeopleIknowhateme.Ican’tplaynicewithpeopleIthinkareassholes.CarinawasinthirdgradethefirsttimesomeonetoldhershewasprobablybornwithanSTDbecauseourmomwassuchawhore.”
“Holyshit,Charlie.”Iunknotmyarmsfromhisbackandtakehisfacebetweenmyhands,feelinglikemylungsareonfire,liketherearefeelingsmyvocabularyisn’tadvancedenoughtoputintowords.Iwanttodrapemyselfoverhimlikechainmail,orswallowsomegasoline,godownstairs,andspititoutasfire.
“Ispenthalfofmiddleschoolinthelibraryandtheotherhalfintheprincipal’sofficeforgettingintofights,andhonestlythoseweretheonlytwoplacesIfeltlikeIhadanycontrolovermylife.”Heshakeshishead,likehe’sclearingit.“Mypointis,beingthat‘magicfreespirit’youthinkisthismythicalperfectwoman?Itcomeswithitsownproblems.Justbecausenoteveryonegetsyoudoesn’tmeanyou’rewrong.You’resomeonepeoplecancounton.Reallycounton.Andthatdoesn’tmakeyoucoldorboring.Itmakesyouthemost…”Hetrailsoff,shakeshishead.“Youandyoursistermighthaveyourdifferences,andshemightnottotallyunderstandyou,butyou’renevergoingtoloseher,Nora.Youdon’thavetoworryaboutthat.”
“Howcanyoubesosure?”Iask.
Nowhiseyesareallliquidcaramel,hishandstender,movingbackandforthovermyhips,atidethatdrawsustogether,apart,together,eachbrushmoreintensethanthelast.
“Because,”hesaysquietly,“Libby’ssmartenoughtoknowwhatshehas.”
Iwanttopullhimdownintotheridiculouscarbedandwrapmyselfinthesmellofhisshampoo,tofeelthepressureofhisfingersgrowfranticonme,forthewarm,hardpressofhisstomachandoursteadyrockingtogetheranddrawingaparttomount.
“Untilyougothere,”herasps,“allthisplacehadeverbeenwasareminderofthewaysIwasadisappointment,andnowyou’rehere,and—Idon’tknow.IfeellikeI’mokay.Soifyou’rethe‘wrongkindofwoman,’thenI’mthewrongkindofman.”
Icanseealloftheshadesofhimatonce.Quiet,unfocusedboy.Precocious,resentfulpreteen.Broodyhighschoolerdesperatetogetout.Sharp-edgedmantryingtofithimselfbackintoaplaceheneverbelongedtobeginwith.
That’sthethingaboutbeinganadultstandingbesideyourchildhoodracecarbed.Timecollapses,andinsteadoftheversionofyouyou’vebuiltfromscratch,you’reallthehackneyeddraftsthatcamebefore,allatonce.
“You’renotadisappointment.”Itcomesoutfaint.“You’renotwrong.”
Charlie’seyessweepdownmyface.Hisfingersbrushthesmoothspotattherightcornerofmymouth,hisjawtightening.Whenhiseyeslifttomineagain,they’reblazing,atrickofthewarmlightcomingfromthebedsidelamp,butIstillIfeelheatrisingoffofhim.
“Andallthosepeoplewhomadeyoufeellikeyouwere,”hesayshuskily,“havefuckingterribletaste.”Theaffectioninhisvoicerushesmelikeawarmtide,fillingamilliontinytidepoolsinmychest.
Wereallyaretwoopposingmagnets,incapableofbeinginthesameroomwithoutdrawingtogether.Iwanttoscrapemyfingersthroughhishairandkisshimuntilheforgetswhereweare,andeverythingandeveryonethatevermadehimfeellikehewasadisappointment.Andhe’slookingatmelikeIcould,likethere’sanacheinhimonlyIcouldsoothe.
Iwanttotellhim,Youaresomeonewholooksforareasonforeverything.
Or,Youarethepersonwhopullsthingsapartandfiguresouthowtheyworkinsteadofsimplyacceptingthem.You’resomeonewhowouldratherhavethetruththanaconvenientlie.
Oreven,You’rethepersonwhoonlyhasfiveoutfits,buteachofthemisperfect,carefullychosen.
“Ithink,”Iwhisper,“you’reoneoftheleastdisappointingpeopleI’veevermet.”
Thelinebeneathhisbottomlipshadowsashislipspart,andhiswarm,mintybreathislightagainstmymouth.Forasecond,we’recaughtinapushandpull,tastingthespacebetweenus.Itfeelslikethere’snoairleftintheroom,butwhatIreallywantanywayistobreathehimin.
Allmyreasonsforkeepingthosewallsupbetweenusseemsuddenlyinconsequential.Becausethewallisn’tup.It’snot.Charlieseesme.He’stouchingme.Andforthefirsttimeinsolong—maybeevensincewelostMom—IfeellikeI’mnotoutsidethescene,watchingthroughglass,longingsobadlytofindawayin.
Myphonechirps,andallthatwarmheavinessevaporatesasCharliestraightens,joltedbacktoreality,tohisownreasonsfortryingtobuildabarricadebetweenus.
Heturnstofacetheshelves,andmythroatgoesdrywhenIrealizehe’sadjustinghimself.
Everythinginmeachestotouchhimagain,butIdon’t.Myfeelingsmayhavechanged,butthere’sstillCharlie’sendofthings:Thiscan’tbeanythingThingsarecomplicated.
MymindgoesstraighttoAmaya,andguilt,jealousy,andhurtwriggletogetherinthepitofmystomach.
AnothermessagecomesinfromLibby,andanother.
Whereareyou??
Whenyou’redoneintrovertinginadarkcorner,Ifoundusaridehome.
HELLO?Ualive????
“It’sLibby.”
Behindme,Charlieclearshisthroat,sayshoarsely,“Youshouldrescueherbeforetheknittingclubrecruitsher.They’retheSunshineFallsequivalentoftheMafia.”
Inod.“I’llseeyoutomorrow.”
“Goodnight,Stephens.”
IalmostcollidewithSallyatthebottomofthestairs.
“Iwasjustlookingforyoursister!”shesays.“Idugupthenumbersheaskedfor—couldyoupassitalong?”
Iacceptthescrapofpaper,andbeforeIcanaskforclarification,Sally’sscurryingafterawomanwithverythoroughlysprayedbangs.
ItextapictureofthephonenumbertoLibby.FromSally.Also:whereareyou?
Outfront,shesays.Hurry!GertieParktheAnarchistBaristaisgivingusaridehome!
Libbyisactingnormal,butinthebackofGertie’sheavilybumper-stickeredhatchback,Isiftthroughthelastfewweekslikeit’sallshreddedpaper.
WhatLibbysaidaboutMom,aboutme.Brendan’sstrangetexts,andLibby’sreactiontothem.Theargumentoutsidethebookstore,thelist,thewayshedisappearsandreappearsmysteriously,howherfatigueandpalenessseemtocomeandgo.
Iorganizeitallintopiles,intosolvableproblems,intoscenariosfromwhichIcandeviseescapeplans.Iambackinthethickofit,gazingoutacrossthechessboardandtryingtomitigatewhateverhappensnext.
Butforaminute,upstairs,withCharlie’sarmstightacrossmyback,everythingwasokay.
Iwasokay.
Driftinginacomforting,bodilessdark,wherenothingneededtobefixedandIcouldjust—IthinkofSally’sarmsliftingathersides—settle22
THELIBRARYATtheedgeoftownishulking:threestoriesofpinkbrickandgabledpeaks.WhileLibby’sdirectingfurnituredeliveriestoGoodeBooks,I’mmeetingCharlieforaneditsessioninStudyRoom3C,onthetopfloor.
Allmorning,thingsfeltstrainedbetweenLibbyandme.We’recaughtinafeedbackloopofvaguebadfeelings.
She’sfrustratedwithhowmuchIwork,andthat’screatingdistance.Thedistancehasherkeepingsecrets.Thesecretshavemefrustratedwithher.It’saself-fulfillingprophecy,keepinguslockedinaninvisible,unspokenargument,whereinwebothpretendnothing’swrong.
Thathollowache:You’relosingher,andthenwhatwasitallfor?
Assoonasthelibrary’sautomaticdoorswhooshopen,thatdeliciouswarm-papersmellfoldsaroundmelikeahug,andmychestloosensabit.Ontheright,somehighschoolersloungeatarowofancientdesktopcomputers,theirchattermuffledbytheindustrialbluecarpet.Ipassthemandtakethewidestaircasetothesecondfloor,andthenthethird.
Ifollowtherowofwindowedstudyroomsalongtheoutsidewallto3CandfindCharlieangledoverhislaptop,theoverheadlightoffanddiffuseddaylightpouringthroughthewindowtocasthimincoolblues.
Theroomistiny,withasteepledroof.Alaminatetableandfourmatchingchairstakeupthevastmajorityofthespace.
Forsomereason—thequiet,maybe,orwhathappenedlastnight—IfeelshyasIhoverinthedoorway.“AmIlate?”
Helooksup,eyesdarklyringed.“I’mearly.”Heclearsthegruffsleepinessfromhisvoice.“IeditheremostSaturdays.”
AnenormouscoffeefromMug+Shotsitsinfrontofanopenseat,waitingforme.Idropintothechair.“Thanks.”
Charlienods,buthe’shyper-focusedonhisscreen,onehandtuggingatthehairbehindhisear.
MyphonevibrateswithanothermessagefromBrendan:Yougirlsstillhavingfun?
Cordsofanxietyslitheroveroneanotherinmystomach.Libbytextedmefromtheshopfiveminutesago,soIknowshehasherphone.Whichmeansheeitherdidn’ttextherfirstorshejustdidn’trespond.
Yep!Itypeback.Why?Everythingokay?
Definitely!!!He’sreallysellingitwiththoseexclamationpoints.
Maybeit’stimetoresorttobeggingforanswers.
Fornow,though,Ifoldthatlineofthoughtintoacompartmentatthebackofmymind.Itgoeswithsurprisingease.“Didyouneedaminute?”IaskCharlieasIbootupmycomputer.
Hestartles,likehe’sforgottenI’mhere.“No.No,sorry.I’mgood.”Herunshishandoverhismouth,thenstandsanddragshischairaroundthecorner,wherehecanlookatmynoteson-screen.Histhighbumpsmineashesits,andforafewmomentsafter,there’ssomekindofavalanchehappeningbehindmyribcage.
Iask,“Shouldwestartwitheverythingweliked?”Charliestaresforabeattoolong;heabsolutelymissedthequestion.“Oh,comeon,Charlie,”Itease.“Youcanadmityoulikethings.DustyandIwon’ttellanyone.”
Heblinksafewtimes.It’slikewatchinghisconsciousnessswimtowardthesurface.“ObviouslyIlikethebook.Ibeggedtoworkonit,remember?”
“I’llrememberyoubegginguntilmylastdyingbreath.”
Helooksabruptlytothescreen,allbusiness,anditfeelslikemyheartistakingonwater.“Thepagesaregreat,”hesays.“TheperkyphysicaltherapistisagoodfoiltoNadine,butIthinkbytheendofthissection,sheneedsmoredepth.”
“Iwrotethattoo!”I’mimmediatelyself-consciousaboutmyteacher’spetI-just-aced-a-quizvoicewhenIseeCharlie’sface.“What?”
Hesquelcheshissmirk.“Nothing.”
“Not‘nothing,’?”Ichallenge.“That’saface.”
“I’vealwayshadone,Stephens,”hesays.“Fairlydisappointingyoujustnoticed.”
“Yourexpression.”
Heleansbackinhischair,hisredPilotbalancedoveroneknuckleandundertwo.“It’sjustthatyou’regoodatthis.”
“Andthat’sashock?”
“Ofcoursenot,”hesays.“AmInotallowedtoenjoyseeingsomeonebegoodattheirjob?”
“Technicallythisisyourjob.”
“Itcouldbeyourstoo,ifyouwanted.”
“Iinterviewedforaneditingjobonce,”Itellhim.
Hisbrowsflickup.“Andyoudidn’ttakeit?”
“Ididn’tdothesecondinterview,”Isay.“Libbyhadjustgottenpregnant.”
“And?”
“AndBrendangotlaidoff.”Myshoulderstighten,lockingintodefensivemode.“Iwasmakinggoodmoneyoncommission,andtakinganentry-leveljobwould’vemeantapaycut.”
Hestudiesmeuntilmyskinstartstothrum,thenlooksawayagain;we’recaughtinanendlessgameofchicken,takingturnslosing.“HowdidLibbyfeelaboutthat?”
“Ididn’ttellher.”Iturnbacktomynotes.“Nextup,wehaveJosephine.”
Afterabeat,Charliesays,“Don’tyouthinkshe’dbesadyougaveupyourdreamjobforher?”
“Shedoesn’texactlyadmiremydevotiontomycurrentjob,”Iremindhim.“Now,Josephine.”
Hesighs,givingin.“LoveJo.”
“IsshedifferentenoughfromOldManWhittaker,youthink?Imean,old,crotchetypersonwithnofamily?”
“Ithinkso.Wegetdepthtohercharacterquickly,andherbackstory,withtheexwhodroveheroutofHollywood,doesn’tringanyOncebells.OldManWhittakerlosthisfamily,butJosephineneverhadonetobeginwith.Andbesides,thediscussionofhowherbeingawomandictatedhowthemediaandworldtreatedheriskindofthisbook’swholedeal.”
“True,”Isay.“AndIlovethat,butitdoesbringmetomynextthought.Maybeweshouldpullbackontherevealaboutherconnectiontothefilmindustryuntillater.”
Charlie’seyestakeonaMacspinning-wheelquality,likehisthoughtsareloading.“Idisagree,”hesaysslowly.“WhatI’dpreferisifwedidn’tfindoutwhyNadineneverbecameanactressuntillater.Ithinkthere’sopportunityfortensionthere.LikemaybewhenNadinefindsJo’sOscar,itcomesoutthatNadineoriginallywantedtoactandJoaskswhatchangedhermind,andwegetsomeforeshadowing.”
“Shit,”Isay.
“What?”Charliesays.
“You’reright.”
“Mycondolences,”hesays.“Thishasclearlybeenveryhardonyou.”
Istarttypingtheupdateintomynotes
“Nadineshouldn’thavegivenuponacting,”Charliesays.
Thewordsfloatthereforaminute,anobvioustrap.“Shemakesalotofmoneyagenting,”Ireply.
“Shedoesn’tenjoyhermoney,”heremindsme.
Ikeeptyping.“Shelikesagenting.”
“Shelovedacting.”
“Ithoughtyouwereherbiggestfan.”
“Iam,”hesays.“That’swhyIwanthertogetherhappyending.”
“Idon’tthinkit’sthatkindofbook,Charlie.”
Hisshouldershrugsintandemwithaflickofhisfulllips.“We’llsee.”
Despitemycarefullyorganizeddocument,thewaywemovethroughoureditsfeelsmorelikethosedayswanderingtheCentralParkRamblewithMomandLibby.
Thedocumentballoonsandthenwepareitdown,Charliepullingmylaptopovertohimtoreducefoursentencesintoone,mepullingitbacktothreadthroughmorecompliments,until,hoursintotheprocess,Irealizewe’veswitchedroles.Nowhe’stheoneinsertingpraiseandI’mtheonetrimmingfat.
Ashewatchesme,hemurmurs,“I’vejustalwayswantedtoseeasharkattackupclose.Somuchblood.”
Facewarming,alongwithafewlessinnocuousplaces,Iturnbacktothedocument,overrunbytrackedchanges.“Iliketoseemyprogress.”
“Nora,”hesays.“It’sallprogressatthispoint.”Hereachesouttoselectthewholedocument,thenhoversthecursoroverAcceptAllChanges,hiselbownestlingagainstmineonthewoodlaminatetable.Helookstomeforapproval.
Inod,buthedoesn’tmove,andthelightcontactofhisarmpullsallthenervesinmybodytowardthatonespot.
Anysecondthewallswillgobackup,andIcan’ttakethat.IthoughtabouthowtobroachthesubjectforhoursasIlayawakelastnight,andsomehow,whatcomesoutisstilljust,“Iforgottomention,lastnightIranintoyourcousin.”
Isaythewordpurposefully.Charlieglancesawayashescratcheshisjaw.“Washerescuingakittenfromatree,orhelpinganoldladyacrossthestreet?”
“Neither,”Isay.“Hewasjustshirtlessandwashingacar.”
“Ihopeyoutippedhimforhistrouble.”Hisgazecomesbacktomine,acrackleofelectricityjumpingthegapbetweenus.
“Hey,buddy,”Isay,“here’satip:putonashirt.Thisisafamily-friendlyliterarysalon.”
ThecornersofhisCharlie’slipstwitchashestandsandleansagainstthetable,hiseyesfixingonthewindow.“Ifyou’dreallysaidthat,theladies’knittingclubwould’verunyououtoftown.ShirtlessShepherdisaSunshineFallsstaple.”
Ifighttokeepmyvoiceeven.“Ididn’tknowhewasyourcousin.OrIwouldn’thavegoneoutwithhim.”
Helooksaway.“Youdon’towemeanything,Nora.”
“Oh,Iknow.”Istandtoo.Ican’tdancearounditanylonger—it’snotworkinganyway.Ican’tdoanythingabouttheLibbypieceofthings,butthis—thiscanberesolved.Onewayoranother,thewalloftensioniscomingdowntoday.
Itakeabreathandgoon:“Especiallyifsomething’sgoingonwithyouandyourex.”
Hiseyesdartbacktomine.“It’snot.”
“Yousawherlastnight,didn’tyou?”
Hisjawflexes.“Iwasworking.Shejuststoppedby.”
Ifeelmygazenarrowskeptically.“Foraplannedvisit?”
Heshiftshisweight.“Yes,”headmits.
“Tobuyabook?”Isay.
Hisjawtightensagain.“Notexactly.”
“Tohangout?”
“Totalk.”
“Asex-fiancéssooftendo.”
“It’sasmalltown,”hesays.“Wecan’tavoideachother.Weneededtocleartheair.”
“Ah,”Isay.
“Don’tah,”hesays,soundingfrustratednow.“Nothinghappenedbetweenus,andit’snotgoingto.”
“It’snoneofmybusiness,”Isay.
“Exactly.”Somehowthisseemstomakehimmorefrustrated,whichmakesmemoreacutely,hungrilyawareofthespaceshrinkingbetweenus.“Justlikeit’snoneofmybusinessifyoudatemycousin.”
“WhomIhavenointentionofseeingagain,”Isay.“AndwithwhomIwouldn’thavegoneoutevenonceifI’dknownhewasyourcousin.”
“Youdidn’tdoanythingwrong,”Charlieinsists.
“Andyoudidn’teither,byspendingtimewithAmaya,”Ireply.Weareeithertoogoodortoobadatfighting.Weareviciouslytradingsupportforeachother’sromanticlives.
Heone-upsmewith,“Shepherd’sagreatguy.Mosteligiblebachelorintown.He’sperfectforyourlist,checksallyourboxes.”
“WhataboutAmaya?”Ithrowback.“How’sshemeasureuptoyours?”
“Doesn’tmakethecut,”hesays.
“Mustbeaprettylonglist.”
“Oneitem,”hereplies.“Veryspecific.”
Thewayhe’slookingatmewakesupmyskin,mybloodstream,mywant.“Toobadit’snotgoingtoworkoutforyouguys,”Isay.
“AndI’msorrytohearaboutyouandShepherd.”Hiseyesflash.“Ithoughtyoutwohadanicetime.”
“Oh,Idid,”Isay.“Justturnsoutanicetimeisn’twhatIreallywantrightnow.”
Hestaresatme,eyesblackening,andIhopeI’maslegibletohimnowasever,thatheknowsI’mdonebrushingoffthisthingbetweenus.Scratchily,hesays,“Andwhatisityouwant,Stephens?”
“Ijust…”Nowornever.IfeellikeI’mreadyingmyselfforaskydive.“Iwanttobeherewithyouandnotworryaboutwhatcomesnext.”
Hestepscloser,myheartwhirringasheinvadesmyspace.“Nora,”hesaysgently.
“It’sokayifyoudon’twantthat,”Isay.“ButI’mthinkingaboutyouwaytoomuch.AndthemorespaceItrytoputbetweenus,theworseitis.”
Hislipstwist;hiseyesglint.“Soyou’retryingtogetthisoutofyoursystem?”
“Maybe,”Iadmit.“ButmaybeIalsojustwantsomethingthat’seasyforonce.”
Hisbrowlifts,teasing.“NowI’measy?”
Yes,Ithink,tome,youaretheeasiestpersonintheworld.ButIsay,“God,Ihope.”
Charlielaughs,butitfadesquicklyandhisgazedropstotheside.“WhatifIalreadyknowthiscan’tgoanywhere,”hesays,“nomatterhowmuchwemightendupwantingitto?”
“Istheresomeoneelse?”
Hiseyeslift,widened.“No.It’snothinglikethat.It’sjustthat—”
“Charlie,”Isay.“Itoldyou.Idon’twanttothinkaboutwhatcomesnext.I’mnotevensureIcouldhandlethatrightnow.”
Hestudiesme,hisjawworking.“Areyousure?”
“Completely,”Isay,andmeanit.“Ifyouwant,I’llevensignanapkin.”
I’mnotsurewhichofusstartedit,buthismouthisonmine,warmandhungry,hishandsrunningdownmysidesandbackupmyfront,takinginasmuchofmeashecanatonce.Nohesitancy,nopoliteness,onlywant.Myfingerstwineintohisshirtashehaulsmeagainsthim,closingeverygapwecanfind.
Withinseconds,he’syankingmyblouseoutofmyskirtandhishandsareupthefrontofit,soperfectlyroughandwarmthatthesilkisunbearablebycomparison.Adesperatesoundtwiststhroughme,andhespinsusaround,pushingmeontothetable,hikingmyskirtupmythighssohecanstepinagainstme.
Ipullhimtome,archingintohistouch.Hisfingerscurlaroundthebackofmyneckandknotintomyhair,histeethonmythroat.
“Wecan’tdothisinalibrary,”Ihissintohismouth,thoughmyhandsarestillmoving,skimminguphisbackbeneathhisshirt,nailsscrapinghisskinandleavinggoosebumps.
Hemurmurs,tonechiding,“Ithoughtyoudidn’twanttoworryabouttherules.”
“Whenitcomestopublicindecency,it’slessofaruleandmoreofafederallaw,”Iwhisper.
Hislipsmovedownmythroat,onehandslidingundermetotiltmyhipsagainsthis,positioninghislengthagainstme.Oh,god.“Thatonlycounts,”hesays,“ifwetakeourclothesoff.”
ThesoundImakecouldn’tbemuchlesssexyormoredying-feral-animal.“Andtobeclear,”Igetout,“you’reokaywiththefactthatwe’reworkingtogether?”
Hekissesalongmycollarbone,hisvoiceallgravel.“Webothknowyouwon’tgoeasieronmeforit.”
“Andwhataboutyou?”It’scompletelyabsurdthatI’mkeepingupthecharadeofhavingatotallynormalconversationwhilemypalmsareflatteningonthetablebehindmeandmybodyisliftingunsubtly,makingiteasierforhismouthtobrushunderthecollarofmyshirt.
“Ihavenointerestingoingeasyonyou,Nora,”hesays.
Myfingerssnakeintohishair,dragdownhisneck,hispulsehummingundermytouch.Mymindfeelslikeitwentstraightthroughashredderandintoakaleidoscope.Hisfingersskimuptheinsideofmythighuntiltheycangonohigher,hiseyeswatchingtheprogresswithanalmostdrunkensheen.
Mykneesfallopenforhim.Hisjawtightensasherunshishandoverme,featherlightatfirstandthenwithmorepressure.Hisfingersslipunderthelace,myhipsliftingintothemotion,nosoundintheroombutourraggedbreath.
“Youhavetheredsplotches,Nora,”heteases,drawinghislipsovermythroat.“Areyoumadatme?”
“Furious,”Ipantashismouthdragslower,oneofhishandsworkingthetopbuttonsofmyblouseloose.Hetugsmybradownuntilthecoolairmeetsmyskin.
“TellmehowIcanmakeituptoyou,”hemurmursagainstmychest.
Iarchbacktogivehimmoreofme.“That’sastart.”
HedrawsmebetweenhislipsandItrynottocryoutwhenalowgroanrumblesthroughhim.Hishandisundermyskirtagain,hisbreathcatchingagainstmychest.“Youfuckingundome,”hesays.
Ipullhimcloser,needingmoreofhim.We’remoreorlessflatonthetablenow,theinsideofmythighagainsthiship.Iburymymouthagainsthisthroattostiflethesoundshe’sdrawingoutofme.
Ifeeltotallyoutofcontrol,andwhat’smore,Icanseehowmuchhelikesseeingmelikethis,andit’sonlyfanningtheflame.Iwanttobeoutofcontrol.Iwanthimtoseemelikethisandknowhe’sthereasonwhy.Hishandroamsdownmysideuntilitreachesthespikeofmyheel,hitchingmyleghigher,coilingitaroundhishipsaswetrytogetcloser.
Ifwehadanywheremoreprivatetogo,we’dalreadybegone.
“Iwanttogodownonyousobadly,”heraspsintomymouth,myheartspiking.
“Iwantgodownonyou,”Itellhim.
Hegivesalowlaugh.“Everything’sacompetitionwithyou.”
Islipmyhandsbeneathhiswaistband,allofmyfocusnarrowingtothefeelingofhim,thesoundofhisbreathturningjaggedwhenmygriptightens,hishipsshiftingtoletmehavemoreofhim.
Ihaveneverenjoyedthissomuch.I’mnotsureI’veeverenjoyedthis,period,butI’vealsoneverseenCharliesouninhibitedandI’mdrunkonthepower.
“God,”hesays,“Ineedtobeinsideyou.”
Everythinginmepullstaut.“Okay.”Inodfuriously,andhelaughsagain.
“No,you’reright,”hesays.“Nothere.”
“Wedon’thavemanyoptions,”Ipointout.
“Whenwefinallydothis,Nora,”hesays,straighteningawayfromme,hishandsslippingmybuttonsbackintobuttonholesaseasilyasheundidthem,“it’snotgoingtobeonalibrarytable,andit’snotgoingtobeonatimecrunch.”Hesmoothsmyhair,tucksmyblousebackintomyskirt,thentakesmyhipsinhishandsandguidesmeoffthetable,catchingmeagainsthim.“We’regoingtodothisright.Noshortcuts.”23
ILEAVETHELIBRARYonshakylegs,heartracinglikeI’mfortyminutesdeepintospinclass.I’vegonehourswithoutcheckingmyphone,andtheusualemailshaveaccumulated—onefrommyboss,whorarelyhonorstheconceptoftheweekend,andaslewfromclientswhofeelsimilarly—alongwithastringoftextsfromLibby.
Isquintagainstthesunlighttoseethepicturesshesentoftheprogressshemadetoday.TheGoodeBookscafénowlookssnugandcozy,andthewindowdisplayofSUMMERFAVORITESislinedintwinklylights.Inmostofthepictures,Sallystandsofftooneside,beaming,butinonewonkyshotthatincludesagoodportionofsomeone’sthumb,Libbystandswitharmsflungwideandahugesmileonherface,silkypinkbunlopsidedatopherhead.
Herheart-shapedfacelooksmoreorlessthesameaswhenshewasfourteenyearsoldandgotacceptedintothehighschoolartshow:proud,confident,capable.Evenwithalltheweirdnessbetweenus,itmakesmesohappytoseeherlikethat.
Looksamazing!Itellher.You’reawunderkind!!Can’teventellit’sthesameplace!!!
Thanks!shereplies.Everythingallright?Notlikeyoutobelate.
IwassupposedtomeetheratPoppaSquat’stenminutesago.Itypeback,Allgood.Bethereinaminute.
Ijusthaveacalltomakefirst.Istopatoneofthegreenbenchesalongthestreet,themetalhotfrombakinginthesun,anddigthroughmypurseforthephonenumberShepherdgaveme.Maybeit’sold-schoolofmetofollowupwithsomeonetolethimknowI’mnotinterested,butShepherd’saniceguy.Hedeservesbetterthanlong-formghosting.
Thelineringsthreetimesbeforesomeonepicksup,awoman’svoicesaying,“Dent,Hopkins,andMorrow.HowmayIhelpyou?”
Afterasecondofconfusion,Isay,“I’mlookingforShepherd?”
“I’msorry,”shesays,“there’snooneherebythatname.”
“Um,canI—whoisthis?”Isay.
“ThisisTyra,”shesays,“atthelawofficesofDent,Hopkins,andMorrow.”
“Imust…havethewrongnumber.”IhangupandfeelaroundinmypurseuntilIfindareceiptwithchicken-scratchnumbersonit.ThisistheoneShepherdgaveme.ThenumberIjustcalled…must’vebeentheoneSallygaveme.Foryoursister.Idugupthenumbersheaskedfor.
IcouldusesomefoodtosoakupthegallonofcoffeeIdranktoday,butit’snotjustover-caffeinationmakingmyhandsshakeasItypethenameofthelawofficeintoaGooglesearch.
Whentheresultsappear,it’slikesomeoneinjectediceintomyveins.
Dent,Hopkins&Morrow:FamilyLawAttorneys
LibbyaskedSally…forthenumberofadivorcelawyer?Foraninstant,thestreet,thestonewalkway,thepalebluesky,theworldfeelslikeit’sbeingshreddedintoribbons.Mylungsareoverinflated,somethinglargeandheavyblockinganythingfromgettinginorout.
I’mbackinouroldapartment,inthoseterribleweeksafterMomdied,watchingLibbyfallapart,holdinghertightwhileshesobs,untilshecan’tbreathe,untilshe’sgagging.
I’mdrowninginherpain,myownhardening,calcifyingintomyheart.
Idon’twanttobealone,shesometimesgasps,orelse,We’realone.We’reallalone,Nora.
I’mholdinghertight,buryingmymouthinherhairandpromisingshe’swrong,thatshe’llneverbealone.
Ihaveyou,Itellher.I’llalwayshaveyou.
AllthosenightsIjarredawakeandfounditallstilltherewaitingforme:Momgone.Nomoney.Libbybreaking.
Sometimesshecriedinhersleep.OthertimesIwokewhileshewasinthebathroom,andthecoldspotinthebedbesidemesentmeintoapanic.
Inthosedays,painwaitedlikeashadowymonster,toweringoverourbed,andinsteadofshrinkingnightbynight,itgrew,feedingonus,gettingfatwithourgrief.
Earlyonemorning,welaywrappedundertheblanketsandIsmoothedmysister’sstrawberryhair,andshewhispered,Ijustdon’twanttobehereanymore.Iwantittostop.
Andthatsamecoldpanicgrewtoobigformybody,swelling,throbbingangrily
WithoutthinkingaboutmoneyorworkorschooloranyofthemillionsofpracticalitiesforwhichI’dbecomeresponsible,Isaid,Thenlet’sgosomewhere.
Andwedid.
Boughtround-trip,middle-of-the-week,red-eyeticketstoLosAngeles.Checkedintoaseedymotelwhosedeadboltdidn’tworkandwedgedthedeskchairundertheknobwhileweslepteachnight.
Everymorning,wetookacabtothebeachandstayedthereuntildinner,alwayssomethingcheapandgreasy.WetooksomeofMom’sashesanddumpedthemintheoceanwhennoonewaslooking,thenranaway,shriekingandlaughing,unsurewhetherwe’djustbrokenalaw.
Later,we’dsplittherestoftheashesbetweentheEastRiverandtheHudson,bitsofMomoneithersideofourcity,hemmingusin,holdingus.Butweweren’treadytoletgoofthatmuchofheryet.
Foronewholeweek,Libbydidn’tcry,andthen,ontheplanehome,duringtakeoff,shelookedoutthewindow,watchingthewatershrinkbeneathus,andwhispered,Whenwillitstophurting?
Idon’tknow,Itoldher,knowingshe’dseeIwaslying.ThatIbelieveditwouldneverstop,notever.
Shedescendedintougly,wrenchingsobs,andtheotherpassengersshottiredglaresinourdirection.Iignoredthem,pulledLibbyintomychest.Letitout,sweetgirl,Imurmured,justlikeMomusedtosaytous.
Aflightattendanteitheroverestimatedouragesortookpityonus,anddiscreetlydroppedofftwominiatureliquorbottles.
Throughherhiccups,LibbychosetheBailey’s.Idrankthegin.
Eversincethatday,Icouldn’tsomuchassmellitwithoutthinkingaboutholdingtighttomysister,aboutmissingMomsomuchthatshefeltcloserthanshehadinweeks.
Maybethat’swhyit’stheonlythingIreallydrink.Feelingthatholeinyourheartisbetterthanfeelingnothingatall.
Iblinkclearofthememory,butthepaininmychest,theachedeepinmyhandsdon’tletup.Isinkontothehotmetalofthebenchandcountoutthesecondsofmyinhalations,matchingthemtomyexhalations.
ThatwasthelasttripLibbyandItook.ItwasthelasttripI’vetaken,period,asidefromthatoneill-fatedweekendinWyomingwithJakob.
OnceIgotourdebtundercontrol,IstartedsettingasidemoneyhereandtheresoIcouldtakeLibbysomewhereamazing,likeMilanorParis,whenshegraduatedfromcollege.Once,shehadallkindsofambition,butafterwelostMom,itseemedlikethatalldriedup.ShestoppedhelpingoutatFreeman’sandcycledthroughafewotherpotentialcareerpaths,butnoneofthemheldherattention.
Ispenthercollegeyearsoverhershoulder,pushingher,readingheressaysforher,makingherflashcards.Wefoughtmorethanbefore,ournewroleschafingonus,herendlessgriefwarpingfromangertoexhaustionandbackagain.Sometimes,evenyearslater,shestillcriedinhersleep.
AndthenshemetBrendan,andshedecidednottofinishschool.
Whenshetoldmetheywereengaged,Iwasn’tsurprised.AllIcouldthinkaboutwasthatteenagegirl,terrifiedofbeingalone.
Iworriedthatshewastooyoung,thatshewasmakingthedecisionmoreoutofaneedforsecuritythanbecauseitwaswhatshewanteddeepdown.Butthetruthis,sheseemedhappy.Forthefirsttimeinyears,Ihadmysisterback.
Brendansettledher.Ididn’tlikethatshe’dgivenuptheevent-planningjobI’dpulledstringstogether,butthehuntedlookleftmysister’seyes,andIcouldfinallybreathe.
Foryears,shewasfinallyokay,andallthework—allthemissedbirthdayparties,alltheearly-morningmeetings,alltherelationshipsthatnevergotoffthegroundbecauseofmyschedule—itwasallsofuckingworthit
Shewasokay
Nowshe’sdodgingherhusband’scallsandtalkingtoadivorceattorney.Spendingthreeweeksawayfromhim.Andmaybethat’swhyitsuddenlymatterssomuchthatI’maworkaholic.NotbecauseLibbydoesn’tapprovebutbecausesheneedsme.SheneedsmeandIhaven’tbeenthere.
Fearripsthroughmeasviolentasawildfire,butice-cold.
Hiddenthere,undermyrigidlymanufacturedsenseofcontrolandmychecklistsandmysteelexterior,thereisalwaysfear.
LibbywaswrongwhenshetoldSallyIamjustlikeMom.Momworkednonstoptochasesomethingshewanted.Forme,it’srunningendlesslytryingtoescapethepast.
Fearofthemoneyrunningoutagain.Ofhunger.Offailure.OfwantinganythingbadlyenoughthatitwilldestroymewhenIcan’thaveit.OflovingsomeoneIcan’tholdonto,ofwatchingmysisterslipthroughmyfingerslikesand.OfwatchingsomethingbreakthatIdon’tknowhowtofix.
Iamafraid,always,ofthekindofpainIknowwewon’tsurviveasecondtime.
Ifocusonthepressureofthegroundbeneathmysoles,diggingmyselfintoplace.
Onebyone,actionitemsslideintoatidycolumninmymind.
Findthebestdivorcelawyermoneycanbuy.
FindLibbyanapartmentshecanaffordonherown,orelseonewecansharewiththegirls.(CouldweallfitinCharlie’srent-stabilizedplace?)
Getacounselortohelpherthroughthis.
Possiblyhireahitman.Ormaybenotahitman,butatleastsomeonewhocanexactminorrevenge—drinksthrowninBrendan’sface,keysdraggedupthesideofhiscar—dependingonwhatexactlyhappened,hardasitistoimaginehimdoinganythingbutstaringlovinglyatLibbywhilerubbingherswollenfeet.
Andthenthefinalitemonthelistandthemostimmediate:BringLibbyasmuchhappinessaspossiblerightnow.Makeherfeelsafeenoughtoopenuptome.
Myshouldersdropbackintoplace.Mylungsrelax.NowthatIknowwhat’swrong,Icanfixit.
“Youknowyoucantellmeanything,”Isay.“Right?”
Libbylooksupfromthemayo-ketchupmixturewe’vebeendippingourPoppaSquat’sfriesinandsnorts.“Dude,”shesaysflatly.“Notthisagain.Focusonyourownlife,Sissy.”
Ratherthanthrowingabarbback,Iletitgo.“What’snextonthelist?”
Sherelaxes.“I’mgladyouasked,becauseIhaveanamazingidea.”
“HowmanytimesdoIhavetotellyou?”Isay.“Awaterparkmadeoutofalcoholisnotagoodidea.”
“Agreetodisagree.”Sheswipesherhandstogether,dustingthesaltoffherfingertips.“Butthat’snotwhatI’mtalkingabout.Ifiguredouthowtosavethebookstore.”
“Howmanybronzestatuescanonetownsquarehave?”
“Aball,”Libbysays.“ABlueMoonBall.LikeinOnce.”
Ifeelmybrowcreasing.“Isthereevenabluemoonthismonth?”
“Notthepoint.”
“Right,becausethepointis…”
“Ahugefundraisingopportunity!”shesays.“Sallyknowssomeonewhoownsaneventscompany.Hecangetusadancefloorandasoundsystem,andthenwegetvolunteerstodecorateandbringpiesforabakesale.Wedothewholethingoutinthetownsquare,justlikeinthebook.”
“Thisisalotofwork,”Isayhesitantly.
“Wewon’tbedoingitalone,”sheinsists.“Sallyalreadyputoutcallstoeveryoneinherwineexchange,andAmayawillworkthebar,andGertie—”
“Theanarchistbarista?”Iclarify.
“—offeredtomakeflyersforustospreadaroundAsheville.MugandShotwillturnintoapop-upsodafountain.Plustheyalreadyhavealiquorlicense,sotheycandoacoupleofhardsodadrinks.Halfthetown’salreadyonboard.”Shesnatchesmyhandagainstthestickybar.“It’llbeapieceofcake.Apieceofpie,really.Theonlythingis…”
“Uh-oh,”Isayatherwince.
“It’sfineifwecan’tmakeithappen!”shesaysquickly.“ButSallyandIthoughtitwouldbecooltodoavirtualQandAwithDusty.Andthenmaybehavesomesignedstockonhand,forhertopromote.Onlyifshewouldn’tmind!Andonlyifyoudon’tmindaskingher.”
Shepressesherpalmstogether,beggingorpraying.
“Thisishowyouwanttospendthenexttwoweeks?”Isay,skeptical.“Notresting?Notreadingandwatchingmoviesandlyingoutinthesun?”
“Desperately.”
Whetherit’sadistractionorawayforhertoexercisecontrolorachancetotryanewlife,thisiswhatshewants,sothisiswhatshegets.
“I’llaskDusty.”
Libbythrowsherarmsaroundmyneck,kissingmyheadadozentimesover.“We’redoingit!We’resavingalocalbusiness.”
I’mnotconvinced,butshe’shappy,andLibby’shappinesshasalwaysbeenmydrugofchoice.24
OFCOURSE,OFcourse!”Dustysays,inherDustyway,atonceabithyperactiveandvaguelyspacey.“I’dlovetohelp,Nora.But…I’veneveractuallybeentoSunshineFalls.Ijusthappenedtodrivethrough,yearsago.”
“Well,thepeoplehereloveyourbook,”Isay.Iglancebacktowardthesideofthecottage,whereLibby’sstretchedoutonapicnicblanket,sunningherselfwhilsteavesdropping.Sheflashesmetwoencouragingthumbsup,andIclearmythroatintothephoneandgoon.“Thewholetownhastheseplaquesaboutdifferentpartsofthestory.It’sreallycute.”
“Reallycute?”Sherepeatsthesewordswithawe.ProbablybecausetheysoundlikeanancientLatincursecomingoutofmymouth.
Myvoicewrencheshigher.“Yep!”
Ifeeloutofsorts,askingaclientforafavor,especiallysinceitrequiresadmittingIamhere,workinginpersonwithCharlie.
DustyisshockedtohearI’veleftthecity,andwhenIexplainIcameherewithmysister,sheisnearlyasshockedtolearnIhaveasibling.
Asitturnsout,allmylongest-standingclientreallyknowsaboutmeisIneverleaveNewYorkandI’malwaysreachablebyphone.
Soaftersomebackstory,IfillherinontheplightofGoodeBooksandlayouttheplanforthefundraiser:anonlinebookclubwithDustyherself,opentoanyandallwhoorderabookfromtheshop.
“It’sanhourofmylife,”shesays.“IthinkIcanmakeitwork.Fortheworld’sbestagent.”
“HaveItoldyoulatelyyou’remyfavoriteclient?”Isay.
“You’venevertoldmethat,”shereplies.“Butyouhavesentmesomeveryexpensivechampagneovertheyears,soIfigured.”
“WheneditsforFrigidaredone,I’msendingyouaswimmingpoolofchampagne.”
Libbystraightensuponherblanketandpointsafingeratme.SEE?ALCOHOLWATERPARK,shemouthsvictoriously,thenpitchesherselfontoherfeetandthundersinsidetocallSallywiththegoodnews.
YesterdayIbrokedownandtextedBrendantoaskifsomethingwasgoingonbetweenthem,andhesimplydidn’treply,butI’mtryingnottofocusonthat.
“CanIaskyousomething,Dusty?”Isay.
“Ofcourse!Askaway,”shesays.
“WhySunshineFalls?”
Shestopsandthinks.“Iguess,”shesays,“itjustseemedlikethekindofplacethatmightlookonewayontheoutside,andbesomethingtotallydifferentonceyougottoknowit.Likeifyouhadthepatiencetotakethetimetounderstandit,itmightbesomethingbeautiful.”
Sally,Gertie,Amaya,andaslewofothersemi-familiarfacesareinandoutoftheshopoverthenextfewdays,preppingfortheball.FinallyI’mabletoconcentrateonmywork.Libby,meanwhile,isatthecenteroftheplanningwhirlwind,constantlycomingandgoing,loudlytakingphonecallsuntilothercustomers’disgruntledlookssendherintoanapologytailspinonherwayoutthedoor.
CharlieandImostlyonlyworkoveremail.Ifwe’reinthesameroomfortoolong,I’mpositivethatLibby—andmaybeevenSally—willknowexactlywhat’sgoingon,andcomplicatedwillbeherefast.
I’vebeentakingLibby’sdisapprovalofCharlieatherword,butnowapartofmewondersifit’ssomethingelse.Ifmeusingthedatingappswasasortofsoftlaunchforher,justtoseewhat’soutthere.Eitherway,Idon’tneedtoputthisflingondisplaywhenshe’sdealingwithherownrelationship’simplosion.
MystomachroilseverytimeIletmyselfthinkaboutit,buthonestly,Charlie’sandmyemailcorrespondenceisthepictureofprofessionalism.Ourtextsarenot,andsometimesIhavetosneakoutofLibby’spop-upwarroominthecafétoreadthemsomeplacewherenoonecanseemeflush.
HalfthetimeCharlieinterceptsme,andwesneakaroundtheshop,stealingsecondsalonewhereverwecangetthem.Thebathroomhallway.Thechildren’sbookroom.Thedeadendinthenonfictionaisle.Placeswherewe’reoutofsight,butstillhavetobenearlysilent.Oncehepullsmethroughthebackdoorintothealleywaybehindtheshop,andwehaveourhandsoneachotherbeforethedoorswingsshut.
“Youlooklikeyouhaven’tsleptinyears,”Iwhisper.
Hispalmsroamdowntomyass,hoistingmeagainsthim,andhedropshismouthbesidemyear.“I’vehadalotonmymind.”Hishandsrangeupme,testingeachcurve.“Let’sgosomewhere.”
“Where?”
“Anywherethatmymotherandyoursisteraren’twithineyeshot,”hesays.“Orearshot.”
Iglancebackatthedoor,inthegeneraldirectionofLibby&Co.’sthousand-pointwhiteboardchecklist.
Allthoselittlesupergluedcracksinmyheartpulsewithpain,asensationlikeemotionalbrainfreeze.Iwantthis,him,butIcan’tforgetwhatI’mdoinghere.
Ilookbackintohishoneycombeyes,feelinglikeI’msinkingwaistdeepintothem,likethere’snohopeofgettingaway,inpartbecauseIlackanymotivationwhilehishandsareonme.“Anywhere?”Iask.
“Nameit.”
Libby’ssoimmersedinWorkMode,shedoesn’tinsistonjoiningourTargetrun,andinsteadforksoverthefundraiser’sshoppinglist.Sallyagreestoruntheregisterifanyonecomesin,andwesetoutintheoldbeat-upBuickCharlie’sborrowingwhilehe’sintown.
Theair-conditioningdoesn’twork,andthesunbeatsdownonushard,theblazing-hot,grass-scentedwindrippingmyhairfreefromitstiestrandbystrand.AllofthisjustmakesthecoolblastofairandcleanplastickysmellofTargetmorepleasant.Ididn’tthinkwe’dbeenspendinganinordinateamountoftimeoutside,butinthesurveillancecamerasattheself-checkout,myskinlooksbrowned,Libby-esquefrecklesaredappledacrossmynose,andthehumidityhasgivenmyhairaslightwave.
Charliecatchesmestudyingmyselfandteases,“Thinkingabouthow‘hotandexpensive’youlook?”
“Actually…”Igrabthereceipt.“I’mdaydreamingabouthowhardI’mabouttoworkyou.”
Hiseyesspark.“Icantakeit.”
Wedrivestraighttothecottage,andassoonaswestepintothecoolquiet,I’mkeenlyawarethatthisis,realistically,themostaloneCharlieandIhaveeverbeen,butwedon’thavelonguntilLibbywillbehere,andthereare,ostensibly,moreimportantthingstofocusonthantheplacesthatsweathashisshirtclingingtohim.
“Youcangetstartedoutback,”Isay,andheadforthestairstogathertherestofwhatwe’llneed.
BythetimeIkickopenthebackdoor,armsloadedwithbedding,Charlie’salreadygotthetentsetup.
“Well,”Isay.“You’vedoneit.You’vesurprisedme.”
“AndhereIthoughtthatifyouneededtostunashark,youweresupposedtojustsmackitbetweentheeyes.”
“No,”Isay.“Competencywithportablesheltersisthewaytodoit.”
HecrouchesinsidethetentandstartsunrollingtheairmattressweboughtatTarget—because,sure,LibbyandIaregoingtocamp,butwe’restillStephenswomen.“Howareyousuchaproatthis?”Iask.
“Icampedalotwithmydad,growingup.”Theintensedaylighthaseverysharplineofhisfaceshadowedtoblack,hiseyesmoremolassesthanhoney.
“Haveyougonesinceyou’vebeenback?”Iask.
Charlieshakeshishead.Afterafewseconds,hesays,“Hedoesn’twantmehere.”
Histone,hisbrow,hismouth—everythingabouthimhastakenonthatstonyquality,likehe’sjustrecitingfacts,objectivetruthsthatdon’taffecthim.“Theyweren’tthrilledwhenIdecidedtostayinthecityinsteadofcomingbacktoworkforoneofthem.”
Iwonderifpeoplefallforthat.If,everytimeCharlietalksaboutthethingsthatmeanthemosttohim,theworldseesacoldmanwithaclinicalviewofthings,ratherthansomeonegrapplingforunderstandingandcontrolinaworldwherethoserarelyappear.
Iswallowtheachingknotinmythroat.“I’msuretheywantyouhere,Charlie.Itsoundslikethat’swhattheywantedfromthebeginning.”
Hetipshischintowardthepatiotable,onwhichtheextensioncordsweboughtsit.“Mindpluggingintheairpump?”
Forthenextcoupleofminutes,we’resilentasthepumphowls.Isetupthefanswepulledfromtheclosetandplugthemintothepowerstrip.Charlieputsthebeddingontothemattress,andIhangthepaper-lanternlights,arrangingthemosquito-repellingcandlesatregularintervals.
We’requietuntilIcan’ttakeitanymore.“Charlie,”Isay,andhelooksoverhisshoulderatme,thenturnstositontheedgeoftheairmattress.
“I’msurehe’sgratefulyou’rehere,”Isay.“Theybothmustbe.”
Heusesthebackofhishandtocatchthesweatonhisbrow.“WhenItoldhimIwasstayingforawhile,hisexactwordswere,Son,justwhatdoyouthinkyoucando?Theemphasisonyouwashis,notmine.”
Isitonthedeckinfrontofhim,cross-legged.“Butaren’tyoutwoclose?”
“Wewere,”hesays.“Weare.He’sthebestpersonIknow.Andhe’sright,there’snotalotIcandotohelphim.Imean,Shepherd’stheonekeepingthebusinessgoing,keepingupwiththeworktheirhousealwaysneeds.AllIcandoisrunthebookstore.”
Myheartstings.Irememberthatfeeling,ofnotbeingenough.OfwantingsobadlytobewhatLibbyneededafterwelostMomandfailing,overandoveragain.Icouldn’tbetenderforher.Icouldn’tbringthemagicbackintoourlife.AllIhadonmysidewasbruteforceanddesperation.
ButIwastryingtoliveuptoamemory,thephantomofsomeonewe’dbothloved.
NowIseewhatImissedbefore.NotjustthatCharlieneverfeltlikehefit,butthathesawwhatitwould’velookedlikeifhedid.Ididn’tmakemuchofitatthetime,butseeingShepherdstandingwithClintatthesalon—itisn’tjustthattheyarecomparableheightsandbuilds,orthesametrope.Theylookalike.Thegreeneyes,theblondhair,thebeard.
Iclimbintothetentbesidehim,themattressdippingundermyweight.“You’rehisson,Charlie.”
Herunshishandsdownhisthighs,sighing.“I’mnotgoodatthisshit.”Hekneadshiseyebrow,thenleansbackonthemattress,staringupthroughthemosquito-nettedroof,aCharlie-suggestedcompromisethatstillcountsasLibbyandmesleepingunderthestars.“I’veneverfeltsouselessinmylife.Thingsarefallingapartforthem,andthebestIcandoisopenthestoreeverydayatthesametime.”
“Which,fromwhatyou’vetoldme,isavastimprovement.”Imovecloser,hiswarmsmellcurlingaroundme,thesuncoaxingitfromhisskin.Overhead,spun-sugarcloudsdriftacrossthecornflowerbluesky.“You’renotuseless,Charlie.Imean,lookatallthis.”
Hegivesmealook.“Iknowhowtosetupatent,Nora.It’snotNobel-worthy.”
Ishakemyhead.“Notthat.You’re…”Isearchfortherightword.It’srarethatmyvocabularyfailsmelikethis.“Organized.”
Hiseyescracklewithlightashelaughs.“Organized?”
“Extremely,”Ideadpan.“Nottomentionthorough.”
“Youmakemesoundlikeacontract,”hesays,amused.
“AndyouknowhowIfeelaboutagoodcontract,”Isay.
Hissmirkpullshigher.“Actually,Ionlyknowhowyoufeelaboutabadone,writtenonadampnapkin.”Heliesbackfullyonthemattress,andIdotoo,leavingahealthygapbetweenus.
“Agoodcontractis…”Ithinkforamoment.
“Adorable?”Charliesupplies,teasing
“No.”
“Comely?”
“Atbareminimum,”Isay.
“Charming?”
“Sexyashell,”Ireply.“Irresistible.It’salistofgreattraitsandworkingcompromisesthatwatchoutforallpartiesinvolved.It’s…satisfying,evenwhenit’snotwhatyouexpected,becauseyouworkforit.Yougobackandforthuntileverydetailisjusthowitneedstobe.”
IlooksidelongatCharlie.He’salreadylookingatme.Thehealthygaphasdevelopedafever.“What’sthedealwithAmaya?”It’soutbeforeIcansecond-guessit.
Thecornersofhismouthturndownward.“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Imean,”Isay,“youalmostmarriedher.Whatwentwrong?”
“Alotofthings,”hesays.
“Oh,likeyouweretooforthcoming?”Itease.
Hislipsdrawintotheirsmirk-pout.“Ormaybeshejustwasn’tenoughofasmart-assformytaste.”
Afterabeat,weturnourgazesbacktothecotton-candy-softcloudsandhesays,“Westarteddatinginhighschool.AndthenshewenttoNYU,andaftersometimeatcommunitycollege,Ifollowedher.”
“Yourfirstlove?”Iguess.
Henods.“Whenwefinishedschool,shewantedtolookatplacesbackinAsheville.Ithadneveroccurredtomethatshe’dwanttomoveback,andithadneveroccurredtoherthatIwouldn’t,andweweresobadatcommunicatingthatitdidn’tcomeupmuch.”
“Didyoutrylongdistance?”Iask.
“Forayear,”hesays.“Worstyearofmylife.”
“Itneverworks,”Iagree.
“Everydayfeelslikeabreakup,”hesays.“You’reconstantlylettingeachotherdown,orholdingeachotherback.Whenwefinallyendedthings,mymomwasprettybrokenhearted.ShetoldmeIwasmakingallthesamemistakesshedidandIwasgoingtoendupaloneifIdidn’tfigureoutmypriorities.”
“Shejustwantedyoutocomeback,”Isay.“AndAmayawasthefastestpath.”
“Maybe.”Heletsoutabreath,likehe’sresignedhimselftosomething.“Webarelyspokeforafewmonths,andthen…”Hehesitates.“Icamehomefortheholidays,andIfoundoutAmayahadbeendatingmycousinsinceafewweeksafterwesplit.That’swhatshewantedtocleartheairabout,theothernight.”
Isituponmyforearms,surprised.“Wait.Yourex-fiancéedatedyourcousin?Shepherd?”
Henods.“Myfamilybasicallyagreednottotellme,butIfoundoutanyway,andwehadanotherroughstretchafterthat.”
Andthereitis,anotherlittlepieceofCharliepoppedintoplace.
“Therearen’tatonofprospectshere,”hegoeson,“soIdidn’texactlyblamethem,butatthesametime…”
“Fuckthat?”Iguess.
Herunsahandupthebacksideofhishead,thentucksitthere.“Idon’tknow,shedeservestobehappy.Shepherdhadabetterchanceofgivingherthat.”
“Why?”Iask.Helooksatme,browpinched,likehedoesn’tunderstandthequestion.“Whydoeshehaveanybetterchanceatmakingsomeonehappythanyoudo?”
“Oh,comeon,Stephens,”hesayswryly.“YouofallpeopleknowwhatImean.”
“Idefinitelydon’t,”Iinsist.
“Yourarchetypes,”hesays.“Thetropes.He’stheguyeverywomanfallsfor.Thesonmyparentswanted,workingfull-timeatthejobmydadwantedmetohave,allwhilemaking,like,fuckingrockingchairsinhissparetime.Heevenwenttomytopchoiceforschool.”
“Cornell?”Isay.
“Wenttheretoplayfootball,”Charliesays,“buthe’sfuckingsmarttoo.Youwentoutwithhim—youknowwhathe’slike.”
“Ididgooutwithhim,”Isay,“whichiswhyI’mqualifiedtosay,you’rewrong.Imean,notabouthimbeingsmart.Buttheotherthing,thathe’smorequalifiedtomakesomeonehappy.”
Hissmilefades.Helooksbacktothesky.“Yeah,well,”hemurmurs.“AtleastforAmaya,itmadesense.Duringourbreakup,oneofthelastthingsshesaidtomewas,Ifwestaytogether,everysingledayfortherestofourlivesisgoingtobethesame.Wasn’teventhelasttimeIheardthatinabreakupspeech.”Heshakeshishead.“Anyway,that’swhyshewantedtomeetup.Toapologizeforhowthingsended.”
Ifeelmycheekscoloring.“It’scuteofyoutothinkthat,Charlie,”Isay.“Butbasedonhowshelooksatyou,I’mprettysureallthatsamenessisn’tsounappealingtoheranymore.”
“Itwasn’tjustthatIwastooboringforher.Shealsodecidedshewantedkids—or,Iguess,admittedshedid,andwasjustwaitingformetochangemymind.”
Iturnontomysideandfacehim.“Youdon’t?”
“Ihatedbeingakid.”Hefoldshisarmbeneathhisheadandlooksalmostfurtivelyinmydirection.“I’dhavenoideahowtogetsomeoneelsethroughit,andIdefinitelywouldn’tenjoyit.Ilikethem,butIdon’twanttoberesponsibleforany.”
“Agreed,”Isay.“Ilovemyniecesmorethananythingontheplanet,buteverytimeTalafallsasleepinmylap,herdadgetsallteary-eyedandislike,Doesn’titjustmakeyouwanttohavesomeofyourown,Nora?Butwhenyouhavekids,theycountonyou.Forever.Anymistakeyoumake,anyfailure—andifsomethinghappenstoyou…”
Mythroattwists.
“Peopleliketorememberchildhoodasallmagicandnoresponsibilities,butthat’snotreallyhowitis.Youhaveabsolutelynocontroloveryourenvironment.Itallcomesdowntotheadultsinyourlife,and…Idon’tknow.EverytimeLibbyhasanewkid,it’slikethere’sthismagichouseinmyheartthatrearrangestomakeanewroomforthebaby.
“Anditalwayshurts.It’sterrifying.Onemorepersonwhoneedsyou.”
Onemoretinyhandwithyourheartinitsgrip.
Idrawabreath,steelingmyself.“CanItellyousomething?Anothersecret?”
Heturnsontohisside,peeringatmethroughthelight.“ArewebackonwhokilledJFK?”
Ishakemyhead.“IthinkLibby’sgettingadivorce.”
Hisbrowcreases.“Youthink?”
“Shehasn’ttoldmeyet,”Iexplain.“Butshe’snotansweringBrendan’scalls,andshe’snotsleepingwell.Shehasn’thadtroublewiththatsince—”Charlie’spresencehasonceagainuncorkedme.Hewrapsmyfocusaroundhiminawaythatmakesithardtothinkforward,tobeonguardagainsteverypossiblescenario.
Ormaybeit’sbecausehereallyissoorganizedandthorough,it’seasytobelievethathecouldfixanythingwiththesheerforceofhiswill,soitfeelssafetounboltallthesechaoticfeelings.
“Sinceyourmompassedaway?”hefinishesmysentenceforme.
Inod,runmyfingersoverthecoolpillowbetweenus.“Theonlythingthat’severreallymatteredtomeisbeingsureshehaswhatsheneeds.Andnowshe’sgoingthroughsomethinglife-changingand—Ican’tdoanything.Imean,shehasn’teventoldmeaboutit.Soifanyone’suseless…”
Hishandglidesupmyback,alight,soothingtrailovermyspine,andsettlesbeneathmyhair.“Maybe,”hesays,“you’realreadydoingwhatsheneedsyoutodo.Justbybeingherewithher.”
Icuthimalook,feelingaliftandswellinmyheart.“Maybethat’sallyourdadneedsfromyoutoo.”
Hegentlysqueezesmyneck,thenletshishandfallaway.“Thedifference,”hesays,“isLibbyaskedyoutobehere.Heaskedmenotto.”
“Well,ifthat’sallyouneed,”Isayquietly,likeit’sasecret,“Charlie,willyoupleasebehere?”
Heleansforward,softlykissingme,hisfingersflutteringovermyjawasIbreatheinhismintybreathandwarmskin.Whenhedrawsback,hiseyesaremeltedgold,mynerveendingsquiveringunderthem.
“Yes,”hesays,andpullsmeintohim,hisarmcoilingaroundmeandchintuckingagainstmyshoulder.“Ialreadytoldyou,Nora,”hemurmurs,hisfingerssplayingonmystomach,justbeneathmyshirt.“I’llgoanywherewithyou.”
Sometimes,evenwhenyoustartwiththelastpageandyouthinkyouknoweverything,abookfindsawaytosurpriseyou.25
WHYDOYOURhandssmelllikethat?”LibbydemandsasIguideherthroughthebackdoor,palmspressedoverhereyes.
“Myhandsdonotsmell,”Isay.
“It’s,like,NewTVSmell,”shesays
“That’snotathing,”Itellher.
“Yeahitis.NewTVSmell.”
“YoumeanNewCarSmell.”
“No,”shesays.“It’slike,whenyouopentheTVboxandpulltheStyrofoampackingsheetout,anditsmellslikeaswimmingpoolinside.”
“Thenwhywouldn’tyoujustsayIsmelllikeaswimmingpool?”
“Didyoubuyusabig-assTV?”
“Youknowwhat,forgetthegrandreveal.”Ireleasemyholdonher,andshescreams.
Charliejoltslikeshejustchuckedapricelessvasehisway.“Sissy!”sheyelps,spinningtowardme,thenback.“Charlie!”Thentomeagain.“We’recamping?!”
Ishrug.“It’sonthelist.”
Shethrowsherarmsaroundmeandletsoutanotherhigh-pitchedshriek.“Thankyou,Sissy,”shemurmurs.“Thankyou.”
“Anythingforyou,”Itellher.Overhershoulder,IlockeyeswithCharlie.
Thankyou,Imouth.Hischindipsashesmiles.Anythingforyou,hemouths.Inmychest,somethingheavyturnsover.
Iwakeuptwice,gaspingforbreath.Thesecondtime,Libbyrollsover,floppingherarmaroundmeinhersleep,herlegtwitchingsothatshe’skindofkickingme.
Evenwiththestrategicallypositionedfans,it’suncomfortablywarm,butIdon’tshakeheroff.InsteadIlaymyhandoverhersandsqueezehertome.
Iwilltakecareofyou,Ipromiseher.
Iwon’tletanythinghurtyou.
Foronce,Igetupfirst.Iskipmyrunandheadstraightforashower,thenpreheattheoven.
Thecorn-limecookiesarereadybythetimeLibby’sup,andweeatthemforbreakfastwithcoffee.
“Youarejustfullofsurprises,”Libbysays,andpretendsnottonoticethatthecookiesarelumpyandburntattheedges.Inthisscenario,mycookiesaredefinitelythebaddrawingwiththepenishat,butIdon’tcare.She’shappyaboutthem.
OnmywalkintoGoodeBooks,Frigid’sfinalpagesarrive.Thelaststretchhasofficiallybegun.
WhenCharlieandIaren’tinthesameroom,we’reemailingaboutthemanuscript.Whenwe’renotemailingaboutthemanuscript,we’retextingabouteverythingelse.
OnTuesdaywhenIbitethebulletandorderasaladfromPoppaSquat’s,IsendhimapictureofthecubedhammonstrosityAmayadropsinfrontofme.
IthinkIunderestimatedyoursadomasochisticstreak,Stephens,hesays.
Thenextday,hesendsmeablurryshotofthebickeringgeriatriccouplefromtownhallcaughtinapassionateembraceoutsidethenewDunkin’Donuts.Loveconquersall,Iguess,hewrites.
Ireply,orshe’sfoundadiscreetwaytosuffocatehim.
Whatabeautiful,twistedbrainyouhave,Nora.
HestopsbyonenightwiththewoodSallypromisedus,alongwiths’moressupplies,andhelpsusbuildafirethenightistechnicallytoohotfor.Whilewesitaroundthedeckroastingmarshmallows,Libbyannounces,“I’vedecidedIlikeyou,Charlie.”
“I’mhonored,”hesays.
“Don’tbe,”Itellhim.“Shelikeseveryone.”
Shereachesintothebagofmarshmallowsandflingsoneatme.“Nottrue,”shecries.“WhataboutmyvendettaagainsttheguyintheTrivagocommercials?”
“Oneunpleasantsexdreamdoesnotavendettamake,”Isay.
“IoncehadasexdreamaboutthegreenM&M,”Charliesaysbluntly,andLibbyandIdescendintosnortinglaughter.
“Okay,”Libbysayswhensherecovers.“Butshecangetit.She’sfuckinggorgeous.”
“Fuckinggorgeous,”Charlieagrees,lockingeyeswithmeovertheflames.“Somuchbetterthanadorable.”
WemakeplanstofinishournotesonthefinalportionofthebookonSaturday.Everymomentuntilthenfeelslikepartofacountdown.SometimesallIwantistorundowntheclock.SometimesIwanttostuffsandbackupthroughthehourglass’sneck.
Hetextsmethingslikeholyshit,page340.
Andshe’sonfire.
Andthecat!
IwritebackthingslikeISCREAMED.
Herbestyet.
Andthecatstays.
Towhichhereplies,agreed.
Sometimeshesendsmetextsthatjustsay,Nora.
Charlie,Itypeback.
Thenhe’llsay,thisbook.
AndI’llsay,Thisbook.
It’skillingmenotknowinghowitends,Itellhim.
It’skillingmethatit’sgoingtoend,hewritesback.IfIweren’teditingit,Iwouldn’tfinishit.
Really?Iwrite.Youhavethatlevelofself-control?
Sometimes.Afteramoment,hesendsanothermessage.TherearefullseriesIlovewhoselastchapterI’veneverread.Ihatethefeelingofsomethingending.
Instantly,myheartfeelsraw,rug-burned,everyinchofitstinging.
Thisbook,thisjob,thistrip,thisnever-ending,days-spanningconversation.Iwanttomakeitalllast,andIneedtoknowhowitends.Iwanttofinishit,andIneedittogoonforever.
IfIthoughtIwassleepingbadlyourfirsttwoweekshere,weekthreeobliteratesthenotion.CharlieandItextuntilatleastmidnighteachnight,sometimesinterspersedwithquickcallstotalkthroughplotpointsthatleavemesoenergizedthatIhavetowalkaloopinthemeadowtocooldown.
AlltheseyearsspentthinkingthatIhadsuperhumanself-control,andnowIrealizeIjustneverputanythingIwantedtoobadlyinfrontofmyself.
ButI’vemadeittoThursdaynight,whichmeansthere’sonlytwodaysuntilwefinishtheeditletter.AweekandsomechangeuntilIgobacktothecity,whereTheFutureWe’veAgreedNottoDiscusswillbegin.Thisinterludewillbeover.Thefuturewillbethepresent,andthiswillbecomethepast.
Butnotyet.26
LIBBYANDIwalktothefencelinewithcelery,carrots,andsugarcubes,butevenwithourbestbabytalk,wecan’tcoaxthehorsesover.
“Youthinktheyknowwe’recitypeople?”Isay.
“TheycanstillsmellDrybaralloveryou,”shereplies.
Icupmyhandsaroundmymouthandshoutoutacrosstheduskypasture,“Thisisn’ttheend!We’llbeback!”Wehikebacktothecottage,thendecidewe’retoohungrytocookandinsteadtrekintotown,destinedforPoppaSquat’sloadedfriesandcauliflowerwings.
Onthewholewalk,Libby’salittleshaky.Beneaththestreetlamps,she’spasttherealmofpeakedandintotheterritoryofStraight-UpGhostly.
BehindtheglowofGoodeBooks’windows,Charlie’sclosingup.“Let’sinvitehimtodinner,”shecries,unlatchingherselffrommeandleadingthechargeacrossthestreet.
Despiteourearlyeffortsatdiscretion,I’mpositiveshe’snoticedthevibebetweenus,butshe’skeptanydisapprovaltoherselfeversinceCharliehelpedwiththesurprisecampout.
ShepoundsontheshopdoorwiththeferocityofanFBIagentonTVuntilCharliereappears,lookingexactlyhowhealwayslooks:tidy,overworked,welldressed,andlikehewantstobitemythigh.
“Wecametoinviteyoutodinner.”Libbypushesinside,beeliningtowardthebathroom,assheiswonttodothesedays,calling,“We’regoingtoPoppaSquat’s.”
“Maybeyou’veheardofit,”Isay.“ItwasonaveryexclusiveBuzzFeedlist.”
Slownod.Dark,gut-meltingeyes.Holdinghisgazefeelslikepublicindecency.“?‘PlacesThatSoundLikeThey’llDefinitelyGiveYouDiarrheaWhileReallyTheyOnlyJustMightGiveYouDiarrhea.’?”
“That’stheone,”Iagree.
Hewidensthedoorforme,butjustthenmyphonerings.Oninstinct,Icheckit.Sharon’scalling.Whileonmaternityleave.“Ishouldtakethis.”
Libbydoesacartoonscreech-to-haltandturnsbacktome.“Noworkcallsafterfive,”sheremindsme.
“Thisisdifferent,”Isay,theringingscritchingagainstmynerveslikefingernailsonachalkboard.“Itmightbeimportant.”
Libby’slipsfallintoastraightline.“Nora.”
“Justgivemeaminute,Libby,”Isay.Hereyesgowideatthesharpedgetomyvoice.“I’msorry—Ijust—Ihavetodothis.”
Itakeoffdownthedarkblock,heartthuddingasIanswerthecall.“Sharon?Iseverythingokay?”
“Hi,yes!”shesaysbrightly.“Everything’sfine—sorrytoworryyou.Ijusthadaquestion.”
Thetensioninmyshouldersdissolves.“Sure.HowcanIhelp?”
“Ican’tgivetoomanyconcretedetails,”shestarts.“But…Loggiamightbehiringaneweditorsoon.”
“Oh?”Thefloorofmystomachsinks.I’vegottenenoughofthesecallsovertheyearstoknowwherethisisgoing.Sharon’sleaving—or,rather,notcomingbackfromparentalleave.
“Yeah,”shegoeson.“Looksthatway.Andhey,Iknowyou’redoinggreatattheagency,sothismightnotbeinterestingtoyouatall,butI’vebeentalkingwithCharlie,andhesaysyou’rereallyhelpinggetDusty’sbookintoshape.”
“Hemakesiteasy,”Isay.“Andshedoestoo.”
“Ofcourse,”Sharonsays.“Butyou’vealsoalwayshadaknackforthiskindofthing.IguessI’mwonderingifthere’sanychanceyou’dbeinterested.”
“Interested?”
“Inediting,”shesays.“ForLoggia.”
ImustbestunnedintosilenceforlongerthanIrealize,becauseSharonsays,“Hello?DidIloseyou?”
Mymouth’sgonedry.Itcomesoutsmall.“Here.”
Thismustbehowpeoplefeelwhentheirwaterbreaks.Likethey’vebeencarryinganewfuturearoundinsidethemselfandsuddenlyit’sgushingout,readyornot.
“Youwantmetobeaneditor?”
“I’dlikeyoutointerview,yes,”shesays.“ButItotallyunderstandifyou’renotinterested.You’vemadeanameforyourselfasanagent—andyou’regreatatit.Thismightnotmakesenseforyou.”
Iopenmymouth.Nosoundcomesout.
I’mstumped.
“Idon’tneedaconcreteansweryet,”shesays,“butifyou’reatallinterested…”
Iexpecttohavetoswimthroughthesoupofmythoughtsandfeelings,tohavetogiveahackingcoughtogetoutsomewords.
Instead,Ihearmyvoiceasifthroughatunnel:“Yes.”
“Yes?”Sharonsays.“You’llmeetwithus?”
Isqueezethebridgeofmynoseaspressurerushesintomyskull.Thisisn’tthekindofdecisionyoujustmake.Leastofallwhenyoursister’sinthemiddleofapotentiallyveryexpensivecrisis.
“I’dliketothinkaboutit,”Ibacktrack.“CanIcallyouinacoupledays?”
“Ofcourse,”shesays.“Ofcourse!Thiswouldbeabigdecision.ButI’lladmit,whenCharliesaidyoumightbeinterested,Iwasveryexcited.”
Ibarelyheartherest.MymindhasbecomeoneofthoseFBIcorkboardswithzigzaggingredstringbetweeneverypushpinitcanfind,tryingtomakethingsaddup,tomakeallofitfitintooneuninterruptedpattern,proofthatthiscanwork,thatIcanhavethis,thatit’snottoogoodtobetrue.
WhenIhangup,Isitonabenchbeneathastreetlamp,waitingforthedazetofade.Aftersixfullminutes,IstillfeellikeI’minsideafishbowl,everythingsurreallybentanddistortedaroundme.WhenIfinallywalkback,thebellsovertheshopdoorseemtochimefrommilesoff,butLibby’svoiceiscloseandjarring.“Thereyouare,finally.”Withobviousannoyance,sheadds,“Canwegotodinnernow,ordoyouhaveaboardmeetingtogetto?”
Ifeelbrittle,stretchedtoofarintoomanydirections,andwhensherollshereyes,somethinginmefinallysnaps:“Canyounotdothat,Libby?Notrightnow.”
“Dowhat?”shesays.“Yousaidyou’dbefullypresentafterfive,and—”
“Stop.”Iliftahand,tryingtoholdoffthefreshonslaughtofredstringandpushpinsrainingdownonme,realitycrashinginfromeverydirection.
BecauseevenifIwantthisjob,Ican’thaveit.
JustlikeIcouldn’tlasttime.Butatleastthen,Libbytoldmewhatshewasgoingthrough.AtleastIwasn’tthrowingdartsinthedark,hopingthey’dpluguptheholesofasinkingship.
“What’sgoingonwithyou?”shedemands,browlifted,facetorquedwithdismay.
Anunstoppablewaverisesthroughme.“Me?”Irepeat.“I’mnottheonesneakingaround,disappearing,notansweringherhusband’stexts,keepingsecrets.I’vebeenfullypresent,Libby,allmonth,andyou’restillkeepingmeinthedark.”Mypulsefeelserratic.Myfingerstingle.“Ican’thelpifyoudon’ttellme!”
“Idon’twantyourhelp,Nora!”Shepalesatthethought,swaysbetweenherfeet.“IknowIusedtorelyonyoualot,andI’msorryforthat,butIdon’twanttobeanotherexcuseforyounottohavealife—”
“Oh,right,”Ifume.“Idon’thavealife!‘Theonlythingthatmatterstomeismycareer.’Guesswhat,Libby?Ifthatweretrue,I’dbeaneditorrightnow!Iwouldn’thavepassedonthejobIactuallywantedtomakesureyoucouldaffordthebestfuckingdoulainManhattan!”
Herfaceiswhitenow,herbrowdamp.“Wait…y-you…you…”Herbreathisshallow.Sheturns,settingonepalmonthecounter.Herotherhandrisestoherforehead,eyesflutteringclosed.Sheshakesherhead,gatheringherself.
“Libby?”Itakeahalfsteptowardher,myheartinmythroat.
That’swhenshecollapses.27
ICATCHHER,BUTI’mnotstrongenoughtoholdherup.“Help!”Iscreamasweslumptotheground,theworstofherfallsoftened.
Thedoortotheofficeflingsopen,butI’mstillshriekingHelp,screaminglikeit’sdoinganything,asifjustshoutingthewordhaspower.Actionoverinaction.Movementoverstagnation.Anillusionofcontrol.
Charliecomesrunning,crouchesbesideus.“Whathappened?”
“Idon’tknow!”Isay.“Libby.Libby.”
Hereyesslitopen,flutterclosedagain.God,she’spale.Wasshethatpaleallafternoon?Andherheartisracing.Icanfeelitshiveringthroughher.Herhandsareicy.Itakeonebetweenmine,rubbingit.“Libby.Libby?”
Hereyesopenagain,andthistimeshelooksmorealert.
“Let’sgethertothehospital,”Charliesays.
“I’mokay,”sheinsists,buthervoiceisshaky.Shetriestositup.
Ipullherbackintomylap.“Don’tmove.Justtakeasecond.”
Shenods,settlesintomyarms.
Charlie’sonhisfeetalready,headedforthedoor.“I’llpullmycarup.”
Charlieistheonewhotalkstothereceptionistincompletesentenceswhenwearrive.
CharlieistheonewhopullsmeawaywhenIstarthalfshoutingatthenursewhotellsuswe’renotallowedthroughthedoorsLibby’susheredthrough.He’stheonewhopushesmeintoachairinthewaitingroom,takesholdofmyface,andpromisesit’llbeokay.
Youcan’tknowthat,Ithink,buthe’ssosurethatIalmostbelievehim.
“Justsitrighthere,”hesays.“I’llfigurethisout.”
Sevenminuteslater,hereturnswithdecaf,aprepackagedapplefritter,andthenumberoftheroomLibby’sbeenmovedinto.“They’rerunningtests.Itshouldn’ttakelong.”
“Howdidyoudothat?”Iask,voicehoarse.
“Iwasonthehighschoolpaperwithoneofthedoctorshere,”hesays.“Shesayswecangoandwaitinherhalluntilthetestsareover.”
I’veneverfeltsouseless,orsogratefulnottobeincharge.“Thankyou,”Icroak.
Charlienudgesthefrittertowardme.“Youshouldeatsomething.”
Heferriesmethroughthehospital,stoppingbyanothervendingmachineforabottleofwater,thentoapairofhideouslyoutdatedchairsinahellishlylithallwaythatsmellslikeantiseptic.
“She’sinthere.Ifthey’renotoutinfiveminutes,I’llfindsomeonetotalkto,okay?”hesaysgently.“Justgivethemfiveminutes.”
WithintwentysecondsI’mpacing.Mychesthurts.Myeyesburn,butnotearscome.
Charliegrabsme,pullsmeinaroundhischest,andwrapsahandaroundthebackofmyhead.Ifeelsmall,vulnerable,helplessinawayIhaven’tforyears.
EvenbeforeMomdied,Iwasn’tmuchofacrier.ButwhenLibbyandIwerekidsandIwasupset,therewasnothingthatcouldmakemetearupfasterthanhavingMom’sarmswrappedaroundme.Becausethen—andonlythen—Iknewitwassafetocomeapart.
Mysweetgirl,she’dcoo.That’swhatshealwayscalledme.
SheneverdidtheYou’reokay,don’tcrything.AlwaysMysweetgirl.Letitout.
Atherfuneral,Iremembertearsglossingmyeyes,thepinpricksensationatthebackofmynose,andthen,besideme,thesoundofLibbybreaking,descendingintosobs.
Iremembercatchingmyselfholdingmybreath,likeIwaswaiting.
AndthenIrealizedIwaswaiting.
Forher.
ForMomtoputherarmsaroundus
Libbywascrumbling,andMomwasn’tcoming.
Itwaslikeacollapsedsandcastleleaptbackintoplaceinsideme,rearrangingmyheartintosomethingpassablysturdy.Iwrappedmyarmsaroundmysisterandtriedtowhisper,Letitout.Icouldn’tgetthewordspastmylips.
SoinsteadIdroppedmymouthbesideLibby’searandwhispered,“Hey.”
Shegaveastutteringbreath,like,What?
“IfMomhadknownhowhotthereverendhereis,”Isaid,“sheprobablywould’vemadeitdownheresooner.”
Libby’ssaucereyeslookedupatme,glazedwithtears,andmychestfeltlikeacanbeingcrusheduntilsheletoutascratchyjoltoflaughterloudenoughthatHotReverendstumbledoverhisnextfewwords.
Shelayherheadonmyshoulder,turnedherfaceintomyjacket,andshookherhead.“Thatissofuckedup,”shesaid,butshewasshakingwithtearylaughter.
Forthatsecond,shewasokay.Now,though,whenshereallyneedsme,I’museless.
“Whycouldn’twebeintheroomfortests?”Igetout.
Charlieinhales,shiftingbetweenhisfeet.“Maybetheythinkyou’llgivehertheanswers.”
Thereisabsolutelynoconvictioninhisjoke.WhenIdrawback,Irealizehe’snotdoingsohothimself.
“Areyouokay?Youlooklikeyou’regoingtobesick.”
“Justdon’tlikehospitals,”hesays.“I’mfine.”
“Youdon’thavetostay.”
Hetakesmyhands,holdsthembetweenourchests.“I’mnotleavingyouhere.”
“Icanhandleit.”
Hismouthshrinks,thecreasebeneathitdeepening.“Iknow.Iwanttobehere.”
Agroupofnursespasswithagurney,andanashencastseepsontoCharlie’sface.
Iscroungearoundforsomethingtosay,anythingelsetothinkabout.“Sharoncalledme.”
Hislipspressintoaknot.
“Shetoldmeyouputmeupforajob.”
Afterabeat,hemurmurs,“IfIoverstepped,I’msorry.”
“It’snotthat.”Myfaceprickles.“It’sjust…whatifI’mbadatit?”
Hishandsskimupmyarmsuntilhe’scradlingmyjaw.“Impossible.”
Mybrowarchesofitsownvolition.“BecauseIhelpededitonebook?”
Heshakeshishead.“Becauseyou’resmartandintuitive.Andgoodatgettingthebestwritingoutofpeople,andyouputtheworkbeforeyourego.Youknowwhentopushandwhentoletsomethinggo.You’retrustworthy—partlybecauseyou’resobadatlying—andyoutakecareofthethingsthatmattertoyou.
“IfIhadtopickonepersontobeinmycorner,it’dbeyou.Everytime.Youtakecareofshit.”
Withasharpthrobinmychest,mygazefallstothefloor.“Notalways.”
“Hey.”Charlie’sroughfingerscomebacktomine.Heliftsmyhand,brushinghismouthovermyknuckles.“We’llfigureoutwhat’swronganddoeverythingwecantofixit.”
“Thatfuckinglist.”Mychestistootighttoletanythingoutbutawhisper.“She’sbeendoingtoomuch.Ishouldn’thavelether.Wesleptoutintheheatand—we’vebeenworkingonthisfundraiser.Sheshould’vebeenresting.”
Charliesits,drawingmeintohislap,everythoughtofdiscretion,ofavoidingcomplicationgoneinaninstant.Ineedhim,andhe’shere,Irealize.Fully,notwithcaveatsorstipulations.Hishandslidesupthebackofmyneck,tuckedbeneathmyhair,andI’mwrappedupinhimlikehe’smypersonalstonefortress.LikeevenifIcameapart,nothingcouldgettome.
“LibbymakesLibby’sdecisions,”hesays.“Imaginehowyou’dreactifsomeonetriedtostopyoufromdoingwhatyouwant,Stephens.”Ahintofasmiletugsathispout.“Actually,don’timagineit.It’sinappropriatetogetturnedoninahospital.”
Ilaughweaklyintohischest,anotherknotunwindinginmyown.“Imissedsomething.I’mherewithher,andBrendanisn’t,and—”Myvoicecatches.Theresttumblesoutpainfully:“It’smyjobtowatchoutforher.”
“Iknowit’sscary,beinghere,”hesays.“Butthisisagoodhospital.Theyknowwhatthey’redoing.”Hisfingersmoveinsoothing,rhythmiccirclesagainstthenapeofmyneck.“Thisiswheremydadcame.”
Thewordssweetguysearthroughmymind,liketheafterimageleftbehindbythepopofacamera’sbulb.
That’swhatCharliecalledhisfather.Asweetguy.ThebestpersonIknow.
“Whathappened?”Iask.
Afteraprotractedsilence,hesays,“Thefirststrokewasn’tbad.Butthislastone…hewasinacomaforsixdays.”Hewatchestheprogressofhisthumbrunningbackandforthovermine.Hisbrowtightens.Thedaywemet,Imistookthisexpressionforsurliness,brooding,proofhewasaswarmandhumanasablockofmarble.
Nowallitdoesisbringoutthelostlookinhiseyes.“Thishuge,handyguywhocanfixanything,buildanything.Andinthathospitalbed,helooked—”Hebreaksoff.Itwinemyfreehandintothehairatthebaseofhisneck.
“Helookedold,”Charliesays,then,afterafraughtsilence,“WhenIwasakid,allIeverwantedwastobelikehim,andIwasn’t.ButhealwaysmademefeellikeitwasokaytobethewayIam.”
Icuphisjawandlifthisgaze.Iwonderifhecanseeeverywordinmyexpression,becauseIfeelthemtunnelingupfromthelowestpartofmygut.You’remorethanokay.
Heclearshisthroat.“Mydad’salivebecauseofwhattheywereabletodoforhimhere.Betweenthemandyou,Libby’sgoingtobeallright.Shehastobe.”
Asifoncue,thedoctor,abaldingmanwithaSalmanRushdiegoateeandbrow,walksoutoftheexamroom.“Issheokay?”Ilurchtomyfeet.
“She’sresting,”hesays.“Butshegavemepermissiontospeakwithbothofyou.”HenodstowardCharlie,whostands,tighteninghisgriponmyhand,anchoringme.
“Whathappened?”Iask.
Inaninstant,mymindcyclesthrougheveryailmentitknowsof.
Heartattack.
Stroke.
Miscarriage.
Andthenitsnags:PULMONARYEMBOLISM.
Thewordsrepeat.Theyecho.Theyreachbacktothebeginningofmylifeandforwardtotheendofit,thisoutstretchedSlinkyofaphrase,loopingthroughtime,fuckingwitheverything,warpingmylifeinplaces,rippingthroughitinothers.Pulmonaryembolism.
Thedoctorsays,“Yoursisterisanemic.”
Thewordsslamintoawall.Ormayberunoffacliff—that’showitfeels,likeI’vesteppedoffaledgeandamhoveringbeforethedrop.
“HerbodyislackinginironandB12,”heexplains.“Soshe’snotmanufacturingenoughhealthyredbloodcells.It’snotuncommonduringpregnancy,andespeciallyunsurprisingforsomeonewho’salreadydealtwiththisissueinapreviouspregnancy.”
“Libbyhasn’thadthisbefore.”
Hestudiestheclipboardinhishands.“Well,itwasn’tassevere,butherlevelsweredefinitelylow.Ispokewithherob-gyn,andapparentlyyoursisterwasabitmorestableinherfirsttrimester,butthey’vebeenkeepinganeyeonthissincethebeginning.”
Myfingersaretinglingagain.Mybrainworkstoclearthesmokeandstartachecklist,butit’sjustnothappening.
“Whatdoweneedtodo?”Charlieasks
“It’sprettysimple,”thedoctorsays.“She’llneedtotakeanironsupplement,andeatmoremeatandeggs,ifpossible.She’llalsowanttodothesamewithB12.We’llgetyouaprintoutonthebestsourcesforthose,thoughIassumeshe’llrememberfromlasttime.”
Lasttime.
Thishasalreadyhappened.Ididn’tjustmissitonce,buttwice.
“She’llpossiblyhavetodealwithnausea,buthavingmore,smallermealsthroughoutthedayshouldhelp.I’dliketoseehernextweek,tomakesureshe’sdoingbetter,andthenafterthat,she’llneedtohaveregularcheckupswithherdoctoruntildelivery.”
That’smanageable.It’sfixable.List-able.
“Thankyou.”Ishakehishand.“Thankyousomuch.”
“Mypleasure.”Hesmiles,aremarkablywarm,patientsmile.“Justgivehertimetorest.Thenursewillletyouknowwhenyoucanseeher.”
Assoonashe’sgone,Ifeelexhausted,likeathousand-poundweightjustliftedoffme,butonlyafterhoursofcarryingit.
“Youokay?”
WhenIlookatCharlie,he’sblurry;myvisionisdistorted.
“Breathe,Nora.”Hegripsmyshoulders,takinganexaggeratedinhale.Imatchit.Westayinsyncforafewbreathsuntilthepressurereleases.“She’sokay.”
Inod,lethimpullmeintohischest,wrappingmeuptightagainsthim.
ItrytotellhimI’mjustrelieved,butthere’snoroomforwords—forlogic,reason,arguments.Mybody’sdecidedwhattodo,andit’sthis:nothing,inCharlie’sarms.
Heburieshismouthagainstmytemple.Iclosemyeyes,lettingthewavesofreliefcrashoverme.
Gradually,theydrawback,andI’mleftfloating,driftinginacurrentofCharlie:hisfaintlyspicedscent,theheatofhisskin,thefinewoolofhislightsweater.
Apictureofmyapartmentflickersacrossmymind.Theyellowy-redstreetlightscatchingraindropsonmywindowpane,thesoundofcarsslushingpast,theradiatorhissingagainstmysockedfeet.Thesmellofoldbooksandcrispnewones,andthecolognewhosecedarwoodandambernotesaremeanttoconjureuptheimageofsun-soakedlibraries.Thecreakofoldfloorboards,theshuffleoffootsteps,half-drunkensingingasrevelersmaketheirwayhomefromthetequilabaracrossthestreet,stoppingfordollarslicesofpizzadrippingwithoil.
IcanalmostbelieveI’mthere.Inmyhome,whereit’ssafeenoughtorelax,toundothebracketsofsteelinmyspineandslipoutofmyharshoutlineto—settle
“You’renotuseless,Charlie,”Iwhisperagainsthissteadyheartbeat.“You’re…”
Hishandisstillinmyhair.“Organized?”
Ismileintohischest.“Somethinglikethat,”Isay.“It’llcometome.”
AtthecreakofLibby’sdoor,myeyesopen.
Thenursesmiles.“Yoursister’sreadyforyou.”28
LIBBYPERCHESONthebed,alreadychangedbackintoherpurplepolka-dottedsundressandlookingthoroughlychastened.
Ameeksmiletugsatherlips.“Hi.”
“Hi.”Iclosethedoorandgotositbesideher.
Afteramoment,shesays,“Areyouokay?”
Ibalk.“Libby,I’mnottheonewhopassedoutandnearlycrackedherskullonanold-timeycashregister.”
Herteethsinkintoherlip.“You’remad.”Shewringsherhandsinherlap.“ThatIdidn’ttellyouthishappenedbefore.”
“I’m…confused.”
Hereyesdartfurtivelytowardmine.“I’mconfusedwhyyoudidn’ttellmeyouhadachanceataneditingjob.”
“Itwasyearsago,”Isay.“Onthebottomrung,andthepaywasshit.Itwasn’tallaboutyou.Therewerealotofreasonstostayattheagency.”
Shelooksatmewithwaterysapphireeyes,awrinklebetweenherbrows.“Youshould’vetoldme.”
“Ishouldhave,”Iagreequietly.“Andyoushould’vetoldmeaboutallthis.”
Libbyheavesasigh.“NooneknewexceptBrendan.Andhewantedmetotellyou,butIknewitwouldfreakyouout.Andit’ssupercommon.Imean,mydoctorwasprettysureeverythingwouldbefine.Ididn’twanttoburdenyou.”
Ireachforherhand.“Libby,you’renotaburden.You’reit.Youcomefirst.”Iaddlightly,“Evenbeforemycareer.AndmyPeloton.”
Huffing,shepullsherhandfrommine.“Doyouknowwhatkindofguiltthatcomeswith,Sissy?Knowingyou’lldropeverythingtomanagemylife?Thatyou’dgiveuponyourdreamjobto—tomotherme?Itmakesmefeel…incapable.”
“Ijustwanttobethereforyou,”Ireason.
“Ishouldn’talwayscomefirst,Nora,”shesayssoftly.“Andneithershouldyourclients.”
“Fine,”Isay.“Fromnowonmybagelguycomesfirst,butyou’reaclosesecond.”
“I’mbeingserious.Momexpectedtoomuchfromyou.”
“WhatdoesMomhavetodowiththis?”Isay.
“Everything.”BeforeIcanargue,Libbycontinues,“I’mnotsayingIblameher—shewasinanimpossiblesituationandshedidafairlyamazingjobwithus.Butthatdoesn’tchangethefactthatsometimes,sheforgotwhosejobitwastotakecareofus.”
“Lib,whatare—”
“You’renotmydad,”shesays.
“Sincewhenhasthatbeenonthetable?”
Shehuffsagain,grabbingmyhands.“Shetreatedyoulikeherpartner,Nora.Shetreatedyoulikeyouwere—likeitwasyourjobtotakecareofme.AndIletyou,aftershedied,butyou’restilldoingit.Andit’stoomuch.Forbothofus.”
“That’snottrue,”Isay.
“Itis,”shereplies.“Ihavemyowndaughtersnow,andletmefuckingtellyou,Nora,therearedaysIgetintotheshowerandsobintoaloofahbecauseI’msooverwhelmed,andmaybekeepingithiddenfromthemisn’ttheanswereither,butIcan’timagineputtingmyworriesonTalaorBealikeMomdidtous.Especiallyyou.
“Shehaditreallyhard,butshewasouronlyparent,andthereweretimessheforgotthat.Thereweretimesshetreatedyoulikeyouwereanadult.”
Anicypanglancesthroughme.Guiltorhurtorrun-of-the-millhomesicknessforMom,orallofitbraidedintooneiciclerightthroughmyheart,burninglikeonlycoldcan.
Likethemostpreciousthing—theonlypreciousthing—inmylifehasfrozenoversodeeplythattherearespiderwebsoficeveiningthroughme.
“Iwantedtohelp,”Isay.“Iwantedtotakecareofyou.”
“Iknow.”Sheliftsmyhandsbetweenhers,holdingthemagainstherheart.“Youalwaysdo,andIloveyouforthat.ButIdon’twantyoutobeMom—andIdefinitelydon’twantyoutobemydad.WhenItellyousomething’sgoingon,sometimesIjustwantyoutobemysisterandsay,Thatsucks.Insteadoftryingtofixit.”
Thedistancebetweenus.Thetrip,thelist,thesecrets.I’veseenalloftheseaslittlechallengestoovercome,ormaybeteststoproveIcanbethesisterLibbywants,butCharlieisright.Allshereallywantsisasister.Nothingmore,nothingless.
“It’shardforme,”Iadmit.“IhatefeelinglikeIcan’tprotectyou.”
“Iknow.But…”Hereyesclose,andwhentheyopenagain,shestrugglestokeephervoicefromsplintering,ourhandstremblinginatightlygrippedmassbetweenus.“Youcan’t.AndIneedtoknowIcanbeokaywithoutyou.
“WhenwelostMom,Iwasgutted,butIwasneverscaredabouthowwe’dgetby.Iknewyou’dmakesurewedid,and—Sissy,IappreciateitmorethanIcouldeverputintowords.”
“Youcouldtry,”Ijokequietly.“Maybegetmeacardorsomething.”
Shelaughstearily,pullsonehandfreetoswipeathereyes.“Atsomepoint,IhavetoknowIcandothingsonmyown.NotwithBrendan’shelp,notwithyours.Andyouneedtomakeroominyourlifeforotherthings,otherpeopletomatter.”
Iswallowhard.“Noonewillevermatterlikeyoudo,Lib.”
“Noonewillevermatterlikeyoudoeither,”shewhispers.“Otherthanmybagelguy.”
Iwrapmyarmsaroundherneckanddragherintoahug.“Pleasetellmethenexttimeyoufindoutyouhaveanillnessorvitamindeficiency,”Isayintoherwispypink-blondhair.“EvenifallI’mallowedtodoissay,Thatsucks.Andthenshipsixcartonsofsupplementstoyourhouse.”
“Deal.”Shedrawsback,hersmileshiftingintoawince.“There’ssomethingelseyoushouldknow.”
Hereitis,Ithink,whatshe’sbeenkeepingfromme.
Shetakesadeepbreath.
“Ieatmeat.”
Myinstantreactionistojumpoffthebedlikeshe’sjusttoldmeshepersonallyslaughteredababycowheremomentsagoanddrankbloodstraightfromitsveins.
“Iknow!”shecriesthroughherhands.“ItstartedwhenIwaspregnantwithTala!Becauseoftheanemia.And,frankly,thisbizarreandconstantcravingforWhoppers.”
“Ew!”Isay.
“Istoppedassoonasshewasborn!”Libbysays.“ButthenIstartedagainwhenIfoundoutaboutNumberThree,andIdidn’tthinkacoupleweeksoffwouldmakeadifferenceformylevels,butIwasn’tbeingconscientiousenoughaboutfillinginthegaps.So.Whoops!Or…whops?”
“Ican’tbelieveyoutrickedmeintobeingavegetarian,foradecade,thencavedforaWhopper!”
“Howdareyou,”shesays.“Whoppersareamazing.”
“Okay,you’regettingtoogoodatlying.”
Sheguffaws.“Okay,notamazing,buttheheartwantswhatitwants.”
“Yourheartneedstherapy.”
“Canwegetsomeonthewayhome?”Shepushesoffthebed.“Whoppers,nottherapy.”
“Whoppers?Plural?”
“Theyhaveveggieburgers,youknow,”shesays.“Andwe’realreadysoclosetoAsheville,andthere’saBKthere.”
Istareather.“Sonotonlydidyoujustcallit‘BK’withoutahintofirony,butyou’retellingmeyoucheckedwherethenearestoneis.”
“Mysistertaughtmetobeprepared.IscouteditoutwhenSallyandIwenttohangfliersfortheBlueMoonBall.”
“That’snot‘prepared,’?”Isay.“It’sdisturbed.”Atherlaugh,Icave.“Whoppersitis.”
“Areyousureyou’reupforthis?”
Libbygivesmealook.“Congratulations.Youwentafulltwelvehours.”
“Right,”Isay.“You’reinchargeofyourself.Whoevencaresifyou’reupforit?Notme.”
Shegrinsandjogsherhugepurplepurse.“I’vegotbeefjerkyinhere,andalmonds,andoneofthosepeanutbutterdippingcupthings.PlusI’llbewithGertieandSallyandAmaya.Yougogetthoseeditsdonesoyoucantaketimeoffnextweekandparty.”Herphonebuzzes,andshechecksit.“Gertie’shere.Lookslikeitmightrain—wantustodropyouatthebookstore?”
CharlieagreedtotakeoverSally’sshiftsoshecouldfocusonnextweekend’sball,whichmeanswe’llbehammeringoutthefinalnotesintheshop.We’dplannedtofinishreadingpageslastnight,butthatwasshottohellwhenLibbypassedout,sowe’llbefinishingourreadstodaytoo.
“Whynot.”
Gertie’smuddyhatchbacksitsatthebottomofthehill,evenmorecoveredinbumperstickersthanwhenshedroveushomefromthesalon,andshe’sburningincenseonherdashboard.Ihavetoliterallybitemytonguetokeepfrommommingherabouthowdangerousthisis,notthatshe’devenhearitoverthedissonantindustrialmusicshe’sblasting.
ThethrummingmostlydrownsouttherumbleofthunderapproachingasIclimboutinfrontofGoode’s.Overhead,frothyblackcloudsareclumpingup,andthere’sabitetotheairasthehatchbackpeelsawayfromthecurb.
Throughtheyellowyglareonthewindowpanes,IspotCharliereshelvingatthenearestbookcase,castinredsandgolds.
Hislipsandjawareshadowedtoperfection,hisdarkhairhaloedbythesoftlight.Atthesightofhim,mystomachflipsandsomethingbloomslikeatime-lapseflowerbehindmyribcage.NowthatI’mhere,soclosetotheendofthisbook,thisedit,thistrip,anot-smallpartofmewantstoturnandrun.
Butthenhecatchessightofme,andhismouthsplitsintoafull,sensualCharliesmile,andmyfearblowsaway,likedustsweptfromabookjacket.
Heopensthedoor,leaningoutasthefirstfatdropletsofrainsplatthecobblestones.“Youreadytofinishthis,Stephens?”
“Ready.”It’strueandalie.Doesanyoneeverwanttofinishagoodbook?
Thebackofficelooksirresistiblycozyinthegloomofthestorm,thescarredmahoganydeskcoveredinpapersandknickknacksbutmeticulouslyarrangedinCharlie’ssignaturestyle.Besidethelumpysofa,thefireplace’smantelanditsthree-deeprowsoffamilypicturesarefreshlydusted,andvacuumstreaksarestillvisibleontheantiquerugs.
Hemovesastackofhardcoversoffthesofa,thencrossestheroomtotakethechairbehindthedesk.Hisexpressionseemstotease,See?I’mperfectlyharmlessoverhere.
Exceptnothingabouthimlooksharmlesstome.HelookslikeaSwissArmyknife.Amanwithsixdifferentmeanstoundome.
ThisCharlie,formakingyouspillyoursecrets.
Thisoneformakingyoulaugh.
Thisonecanturnyouon.
Thisistheonewhowillconvinceyouyou’recapableofanything.
HereistheCharliewhowillpullyouintohislaptoformyourhumanbarricadeatahospital.
Andtheonewiththepowertotakeyouapartbrickbybrick.
“How’sLibby?”heasks.
“Well,”Isay,“shehasabeefjerkypursenow.”
“SoIguessyou’resayingit’samixedbag.”
Myheadtipsback,averitablechortleleapingoutofme.“Whatisitwiththistownandwordplay?”
“Ihavenoideawhatyou’retalkingabout,”hedeadpans.
“SettleabetformeandLibby.”Ihunchforwardovermylaptop,thescreenfoldinghalfclosed.
“That’snotreallyfairtoLibby,”Charliesays.“I’malwaysbiasedtowardashark.”
Warmthfillsmychest,butIpresson,undeterred,ahammerheadtomycore.“IsSpaaaahhhmeanttobesaidasasighorascream?”
Charlierunsahandoverhiseyesashelaughs.“Well,Ihatetomuddythingsevenfurtherforyou,butbackwhenIlivedhere,itwascalledGSpa.SoIguessthepronunciationdependsonhowyouthinkanorgasmsounds.”
“You’remakingthisup,”Isay.
“Myimaginationisgood,”hesays,“butnotthatgood.”
“Whatgoesoninthosehallowedhalls,”Imarvel,“andisitlegal?”
“Honestly,”Charliesays,“Ithinkitwasjustafortuitousmistake.Theowner’snameisGladysGladbury,soIthinkthatwasthereferenceshewasaimingfor.”
“Shemight’vebeenaimingforthat,butshedefinitelyhittheGSpa.”
Hesmothershisfacewithhishand.“Yournightmarebrain,”hesays,“ismyabsolutefavorite,Stephens.”
Mybloodstartstosimmerasourgazeshold.“Iguessweshouldread.”
“Iguessweshould,”Isay.
Thistimehelooksawayfirst,movesthecursoronhislaptop.“Letmeknowwhenyou’vefinished,”hesays.
Withsomeeffort,IpivotmyattentiontoFrigid.Withinafewparagraphs,Dusty’shookedme.I’vesunkintoherwords,engulfedheadtotoebyherstory.
NadineandLola,theperkyphysicaltherapist,rushJosephinetothehospital,butaftertwenty-twohours,theswellingonJo’sbrainstillhasn’tgonedown.Nadinehastorunhometofeedtheferalcatshe’sbeenhousing,andbythen,thestormisampingup.
Here,inGoodeBooks,thewallsshiverwithourreal-lifethunderinagreement
Nadinecallsthecatasshewalksthroughherdarkapartment,buttheusualnonstopyowlingdoesn’tanswer.Sheseesthewindowoverthesink;she’dleftitcracked,andnowit’swideopen.
Sherunsoutintotherain,wishingshe’dgiventhecataname,becausescreamingYouasshole,comebackintothewinddoesn’tdothetrick.Finally,shespotsthemangytabbycowering,halfwayinthestormdrain.
Nadinestartsacrossthestreet,hearsthepealofrubberoverwetasphalt,seesthecarbarrelingtowardher.
Andthen—theairrushesfromherlungs
Hereyessnapclosed,painshootingthroughherribs.Whensheopenshereyes,she’sonthegrassyshoulder,Lolasprawledoverher.Astheycatchtheirbreath,thecatscramblesoutofthestormdrain,looksatherwarily,andtrotsoff.
“Shit,”Lolasays,scramblinguptochasethecat.
Nadinecatchesherarm.“Lethimgo,”shesays.“Ican’thelphim.”
Thehospitalcalls.
MychestachesasIscrolltothefirstpageofthelastchapter,takingabreathinpreparationbeforeIkeepreading.
NadineandLolastandtogetherinthesunlitcemetery.Nooneelsehascome,apartfromthepriest.Johadnooneexcept,overtheselastmonths,them.LolareachesforNadine’shand,andthoughsurprised,sheletshertakeit.
Later,athome,Nadinefindsafloralarrangementonherstep,acardfromherformerassistant:I’msorryforyourloss.Shecarriesitinsideandgetsavasedown.Lightstreamsinfromtheopenwindow,makingthewatersparkleasitsluicesfromthefaucet.
Fromtheotherroom,shehearsaferalyowl.Herheartlifts.
Whitespacestretchesoutdownthescreen,roomtositandbreathewithin.
Istareattheblankpage,emptiedout.
Inmyfavoritebooks,it’sneverquitetheendingIwant.There’salwaysapricetobepaid.
MomandLibbylikedthelovestorieswhereeverythingturnedoutperfectly,wrappedinabow,andI’vealwayswonderedwhyIgravitatetowardsomethingelse.
Iusedtothinkitwasbecausepeoplelikemedon’tgetthoseendings.Andaskingforit,hopingforit,isawaytolosesomethingyou’veneverevenhad.
Theonesthatspeaktomearethosewhosefinalpagesadmitthereisnogoingback.Thateverygoodthingmustend.Thateverybadthingdoestoo,thateverythingdoes.
ThatiswhatI’mlookingforeverytimeIfliptothebackofabook,compulsivelycheckingforproofthatinalifewheresomanythingshavegonewrong,therecanbebeautytoo.Thatthereisalwayshope,nomatterwhat.
AfterlosingMom,thoseweretheendingsIfoundsolacein.Theonesthatsaid,Yes,youhavelostsomething,butmaybe,someday,you’llfindsomethingtoo.
Foradecade,I’veknownIwillneveragainhaveeverything,andsoallI’vewantedistobelievethat,someday,again,I’llhaveenough.Theachewon’talwaysbesobad.Peoplelikemearen’tbrokenbeyondrepair.Noiceeverfreezestoothicktothawandnothornsevergrowtoodensetobecutaway.
Thisbookhascrushedmewithitsweightanddazzledmewithitstinybrightspots.Somebooksyoudon’treadsomuchaslive,andfinishingoneofthosealwaysmakesmethinkofascendingfromascubadive.LikeifIsurfacetoofastImightgetthebends.
Itakemytime,lettingeachrollofthunderushermecloser,closertothesurface.WhenIfinallylookup,Charlie’swatchingme.“Finished?”heaskssoftly.
Inod.
Neitherofusspeaksforamoment.
Finally,quietly,hesays,“Perfect.”
“Perfect,”Iagree.That’stheword.Iclearmythroat,trytothinkcriticallywhenallIwanttodoisbaskinthismoment.Settle.“Wouldthecatreallycomeback?”
Withouthesitation,Charliesays,“Yes.”
“It’snothercat,”Isay.It’sNadine’sconstantrefrainthroughoutthebook,thereasonshenevernamesthelittlestowaway.
“Sheunderstandsit,”hesays.“Everyonelooksatthatcatandseesitasalittlemonster.Itdoesn’tknowhowtobeapet,butshedoesn’tcare.That’swhyshesaysitisn’thers.Becauseit’snotaboutwhatthecatcangiveher.Itcan’tofferheranything.
“It’samean,feral,hungry,sociallyunintelligentlittlebloodsucker.”Theskyisblackbeyondthewindow,therainthickasasheeteverytimethelightningslashesthroughit.“Butitishercat.It’sneverbelongedtoanybody,butitbelongstoher.”
Ifeelanuncannyache.ThisiswhatlookingatCharlieislikesometimes.Likeagut-punchofasentence,likealinesosharpyouhavetosetthebookasidetocatchyourbreath.
Heopenshismouthtospeak,andanotherearthshakingcrackofthunderrendstherooms.Thelightssputterout.
Inthedark,Charlieclattersoutfrombehindthedesk.“Youokay?”
Ifindhishandandclingtoit.“Mm-hmm.”
“Ishouldlockthefrontdoor,”hesays,“untilthepower’sbackup.”
Attheedgetohisvoice,Isay,“I’llcomewithyou.”
Wecreepoutoftheoffice.Withtheshopinthedark,theemptinesstakesonaslightchill,andthehairalongmyarmspricksupasIwaitforCharlietoflipthesignandlockthedoor.“Thereareflashlightsintheoffice,”hetellsmeafterward,andweshufflebackthewaywecame.Hereleaseshisholdonmetorifflethroughthedeskdrawers.“Youcold?”
“Alittle.”Myteetharechattering,butI’mnotsurethat’swhy.
Hehandsmeaflashlight,flicksontheemergencylanterninhisotherhand,andcarriesittothehearth.Hisfaceandshouldersarerigidashepileslogsinthehearth,thesamewayheshowedmeandLibbytheothernight:anestoflogs,itsnooksfilledwithcrumplednewspaper.
“Youreallydon’tlikethedark,”Isay,kneelingontherugbesidehim.
“It’snotthedark,exactly.”Ittakesaminute,butthekindlingcatches,warmthandlightripplingoverus.“It’sjustsoquiethere,andwhenit’sdarktoo,it’salwaysmademefeelsortof…alone,Iguess.”
Thisclose,Icanseeallthefinedetailsofhisface,thedarkerbrownringinthemiddleofhisgoldirises,thecreaseunderhislipandtheindividualcurvesofhislashes.
Ipushmyselfontomyfeetandwalktowardthedesk.“Ineedtosaysomething.”
WhenIturn,he’sstandingagain,hisbrowgrooved,hishandsinhispockets.
“Maybe,forwhateverreason,youjustdon’twanttodaterightnow,”Isay,“andthat’sfine.Peoplefeelthatwayallthetime.Butifit’ssomethingelse—ifyou’reafraidyou’retoorigid,orwhateveryourexesmight’vethoughtaboutyou—noneofthat’strue.Maybeeverydaywithyouwouldbemoreorlessthesame,butsowhat?Thatactuallysoundskindofgreat.
“AndmaybeI’mmisreadingallofthis,butIdon’tthinkIam,becauseI’venevermetanyonesomuchlikeme.And—ifanypartofallthisisthatyouthink,intheend,I’llwantagoldenretrieverinsteadofameanlittlecat,you’rewrong.”
“Everyonewantsagoldenretriever,”hesaysinalowvoice.Asridiculousastatementasitis,helooksserious,concerned.
Ishakemyhead.“Idon’t.”
Charlie’shandssettleontheedgeofthedeskoneithersideofme,hisgazemeltingbackintohoney,caramel,maple.“Nora.”Myhearttripsathisrough,haltingtone:thevoiceofamanlettingsomeonedowneasy.
“Nevermind.”IavertmygazebutI’munabletoremovehimfromitentirely,notwithhimsoclose,hishandsoneithersideofmyhips.“Iunderstand.Ijustwantedtosaysomething,incase—”
“I’mnotgoingbacktoNewYork,”heinterrupts.
Myeyesreboundtohis.Everysharpedgeofhisexpressiontakesonnewmeaning.“That’swhy,”hesays.“ThereasonIcan’t…”
“Idon’t…”Ishakemyhead.“Forhowlong?”
Histhroatbobsasheswallows.“MysisterwassupposedtocomebackinDecembertotakeoverthestore.ButshemetsomeoneinItaly.She’sstayingthere.”
Myhearthasgonefromfeelinglikeanover-caffeinatedhummingbirdtoananvil,eachbeataheavy,achingthud.
“IalreadyemailedLibbyabouttheapartment,”hegoeson.“It’shersifshewantsit.Itwasalwaysgoingtobe.”
Myeyessting.Myheartfeelslikeaphonebookwhosepageshaveallcomeloose,andI’mtryingtostuffthemintoanorderthatmakessense,thatfixesthis.
“ThatfirstnightIranintoyouintown,”Charliesays,“I’djustfoundoutCarinawasstayingawhilelonger.Iwasn’tsurehowlong,but…sheandherboyfriendeloped.She’snotmovingback.”
Hiswordswashovermeinabuzzing,distantway.
“I’vebeentryingtofindawayout.Butthereisn’tone.Mydad’stheonewhoheldeverythingtogether.Theirhouseisold—itconstantlyneedsworkthatI’mtryingtofigureouthowtodo,becausehewon’tletmehiresomeone,andthestore’sworsethanever—mymom’strying,butshecan’tdoit.
“Thewaywe’regoing,theshophasmaybesixmonthsleft.Someoneneedstobethere,everyday,andmymomdidn’tevenmanagethatbeforeshehadtohelpmydadgetaround.Andfuck,he’sterribleatrelyingonpeople,soevenifwecouldaffordtohireanurse,hewouldn’tletus.Andifwecouldaffordtohireastoremanager,mymomwouldn’tallowit.It’salwaysbeeninherfamily.Shesaysitwouldbreakherhearttohavesomeoneelserunningthings.”
Themusclesinhisjawwork,shadowsflickeringagainsthisskin.“Andtheyweren’tperfect,butmyparentsgaveupalotforme.SoIcouldgototheschoolIwantedandhavethejobIwantedand—Ican’tkeepthisup.Loggiawantssomeonelocal,andmyfamilyneedsme.Theyneedsomeonebetterthanme,butI’mwhatthey’vegot.I’mleavingafterFrigid’sdone.That’sthejobopening,theoneIputyouupfor.”
Hisjob.Hisapartment.Likehe’sjusthandingoverthelifehe’sworkedsohardfor,wholesale.Givingupthecitywherehebelongs.Wherehefeelslikehimself.Wherehedoesn’tfeelwrongoruseless.
“Whataboutwhatyouwant?”Idemand.HelooksatmelikehebelievesIcouldgiveittohim,andIwantto,sobadly.“Who’smakingsureyou’rehappy,Charlie?Whataboutyourheart?”
Hetriestosmile;he’stoobadatlying.“Dopeoplelikeushavethose?”
Itouchhisface,tippinghiseyesuptomine.Ittakesmeabeattoswallowdownthejumbleofemotionrisingthroughme,totucktheshrapnelofmythoughtsawayandacceptthisnewreality.I’mtryingtomakealist,aplan,aplotlinethattakesusfromAtoB,butit’sonlythisonebulletpoint,thiscliff-hangerofachapter.
“Tonight,”Isay,“canIjusthaveyou,Charlie?Evenifitcan’tlast.Evenifwealreadyknowhowitends.”
Heholdsmyjawsogingerly.LikeI’msomethingdelicate.Ormaybelikeheis.Likewithonewrongmovewecouldcrackeachotheropen.Mychestsqueezeswiththatheart-crushingfinal-chapterfeeling,onlynowIknowthewordforit.IknowitevenifIcan’tbringmyselftothinkit.“Youdohaveme,Nora.Ineverstoodachance.”
Forthefirsttimeinmylife,IknowwhatthehellCathywastalkingaboutwhenshesaidIamHeathcliff.NotjustbecauseCharlieandIaresosimilar,butbecausehe’sright:webelong.InawayIdon’tunderstand,he’smine,andI’mhis.Itdoesn’tmatterwhatthelastpagesays.That’sthetruth.Here,now.
Hislipsbrushmine,light,careful,warm.Iopentohim,knowinghowitwillfeelwhenIturnthepagebutunwillingnottoturnitatall.29
HISFINGERSSNAKEintomyhair,histonguedippingbetweenmylips.Asoundrisesoutofme,andheeasesmeontothedesk.Inthepast,ourconnectionhasbeenfrantic,mindless,butnowhe’ssocarefulandtenderitmakesmeache.
Hisfingersbrushoneofmydress’sshoulderties,tuggingtheknotloosebeforemovingtotheotherone.Myhandsareunderhisshirt,feelinghissmooth,warmskinuntilit’salivewithgoosebumps.
Hetasteslikecoffee,withawintergreenedge.Histongueskatesovermybottomlipandhishandtrailsdownmyside
Ipullhimcloser,andhejerksmetotheedgeofthedesk,hismouthmoreurgentnow,histeethsinkingandreleasingaswepulltogetheranddrawapart,eachbreathygapmakingthenextkissmoreneedful.Hispalmrakesuptomychest,histhumbstrokingovermynipple,andIshiver.Hishearthammersagainstme,andminematchesitspace,twometronomesfallingintosync.
Lightningscreamsacrossthesky,followedbyalowboom.Thefiregutters,thenflares.Littlebylittle,Charliekissesawaytheacheofthesepastthreeweeks.Hislipsskimmyjaw,mythroat,hishandsmovingbacktofinishunknottingthetiesatmyshoulders.Thebodiceofmydressgapes,andmyheartspinslikeapinwheelbeneathhiswarmbreathashismouthmovesdownme.
Itipmyheadback,mylungscatchingwhenhistonguebrushestheinnercurveofmybreast.Charliepushesthefabricloweruntilwarmairmeetsmyskin.Hiseyeslifttomineashedropshislipstome,watchingmeashedrawsmynippleintohismouth.WhenIstarttoarch,histongueandteethcarefullyskimacrossmyskin.
Hisnameslipsoutofme.Ourmouthscollideagain,deeper,surer.Hishandfindsthehemofmydressandslipsuptheinsideofmythigh.Iwidenmyknees,hispalmgrazinghigheruntilitreachesthelacybandatmyhips.Hisotherhanddoesthesame,andIleanback,liftingmyselfsohecangatherthefabricandslipitdownmylegs.
Hiseyeslockwithmine,hisgriptighteningonthecreasesofmybarehips,ashekneelsandbringshislipstotheinsideofmyknee,kissinghigheruntilhismouthsinksbetweenmythighs.Ileanbackontomyhands,breathgoingshallowastheheatofhistonguemeltsagainstme.
Irollmyhipsintothepressureandhegroans,hishandslidingupovermystomach,pressingmebackuntilI’mlyingonthedesk.
Ithinkaboutsuggestingwemove.Ithinkaboutaskingifdoingthis,here,isdisrespectful.ButthenI’munabletothinkatall,becausehistonguehasfoundabreakerswitchinmybody,cuttingpowertomybrainentirely.
“Nora,”herasps.Asmallsoundofacknowledgmenthumsoutofme.“Weshouldn’thavewaited.Weshouldhavebeendoingthissincewemet.”
Myhandstangleinhishair.Hisareunderme,cuppingme,anglingmeuptohismouth.
Slow,hungry,purposeful.Foroncenothingbetweenusishappeningbyaccident
ThepressuregrowsuntilI’mshudderingunderhim,myhandstwistingintohishairasIarch,cryingout.Hestraightensandpullsmebacktotheedgeofthedesk,ourmouthsslidingtogether,ourhandsineachother’sclothes.Igethisshirtoff,undohispants.Hepeelsoffmydress,thenliftsmeandturnstolaymeonthecouch,histongueundermybra.
“Thisistheone,”hesays,almostreverently,“youworethenightweswam.”
Irakemyhandsdownhisback,takingineveryfirmcurveandhardline:myfirstchancetohaveasmuchofhimasIwant,andalsopossiblymylast.
Hekissesthebaseofmythroat.“Irememberexactlyhowyoufeel,Nora.Likefuckingsilk.”
Mymouthsoftensagainstthesideofhisneck,hispulseagainstmytongue.Myhandsrazedownhim,pushingpasthisloosenedpantsandbriefs,mynailsbitingintohisskinasIrockintohim.Ireachbetweenus,andwhenIwrapmyfingersaroundhim,aburstoftoo-brightlightflashesthroughme,turningeverythingtodark,shimmeringspotsforasecond.“Irememberhowyoufeeltoo.”
Hegroansashemoveshimselfwithinmyhand.Ipushhispantsbelowhiships.Hegoesonmovingslowly,heavilyagainstme,gettingcloserandclosertome.NomatterhowIshiftbeneathhim,heseemsalwaysjustbarelyoutofreach.
Untilhe’snot.Untilhismouthisrunningurgentlyoverme,andhishandsaretearingmybrastrapsdownmyarms,andthewholethingwindsupbunchedaroundmywaist.Thenwe’rebothhalf-crazedforeachother,hishandsonmythighs,mymouthonhisshoulder,histongueinmymouth,hiserectionmovingagainstmeuntilmyinsidesareviolin-stringtaut.
“Birthcontrol?”heasks.
“Obviously,but—”
“Gotit,”hesays.Ofcoursehedoes.He’sjustlikeme:evenwhenwe’rebothout-of-controlobsessedwitheachothertherearestillafew(dozen)threadsholdingreasoninplace.Charliemovesoffme,findshiswallet,andcomesbackwithacondom,nofurtherquestionsasked,nohuffing,nohintatfrustration,noimplieduptight,nag,orbore.HetuckshishandagainstmyjawandkissesmewithatendernessIfeelallthroughmybody,alltheselittlepocketsofwarmthnestledbetweenbonesandmuscleandcartilage:Charlie,diffusedintomybloodstream.Andthenfinally,he’spushingintome.
Slowly.Carefully.HedrawsbackbeforeI’vegottenanyrelief,andalaughrattlesoutofhimatthesoundImake.“Ihadnoideaitwaspossible,”hesays,“foryoutowantmeasmuchasIwantyou.”
“More,”Isay,toodeepintothisnowtosecond-guessadmittingsomethinglikethat.
“Now,that,”Charliesays,pushingdeeperthistime,“Iknowisimpossible.”Iliftmyselfup,drawinghimcloser.Hisheadtipsbackandagroanrisesinhisthroat.Aswemovetogether,theworldgoessoftanddark,everythingshrinkingtothepointswhereourbodiesmeet.Hishandsmassagingme,hismouthunravelingmine,mynailsdiggingintothecontoursofhimtourgehimcloserthanourbodiesletusget.
I’malreadysadatthethoughtofthisending.IfIcouldmakethefeelinglastfordays,Iwould.Iftheworldwasendingintwentyminutes,thisishowI’dwanttogoout.Hethrustsdeeper,harder.
“Fuck,Charlie.”
“Toohard?”heasks,slowing.
Ishakemyhead.Heunderstands.Nomorecautionorrestraint.
“Ithoughtaboutyoueverywhere,”hesays.“There’snowhereinthistownwehaven’tdonethis.”
HalflaughingevenasI’mwrappedaroundhim,ravenous,Iask,“Howwasit?”
“Myimagination’snotasgoodasIthought.”
Mybrainfeelslikefireworksacrossablacksky.Charliesitsupandpullsmeintohislap,pushingbackintome.Ibracemyhandsonthebackofthecouch,workingmyselfagainsthimharder,untileverytiltandrollofmyhipshashimswearingintomyskin.Oneofhishandswindsintomyhair,theotherflattensonmyback,holdingmewherehewantsme.
“Iwantmoreofyou,”Igaspintohismouth,feelingeachbeatofhisheartsurgingthroughme.Harder,faster,more,all.
“You’reperfect,”herasps.“That’stheword,Nora.You’refuckingperfect.”
Oh,God.Oh,God.Charlie,onrepeatinmymind.“Please,”Isay.
Afterthat,thereisnomoretalking.Ihaveneverbeensogladforsomeonetoseestraightthroughme,toreadmelikeabook,ashebringsmetotheedgeagain,andagain,and—yes,theromancegodswouldbeproud—again.30
WHENISITup,Charliecatchesmyarm,hiseyesheavyandwarm.“Stay,”hewhispers.
Myheartflutters.“Why?”
Hetucksmyhairbehindmyear,mouthquirking.“Somanyreasons.”
“Ijustneedone.”
Hesitsup,hishandsettlingbetweenmythighs,hismouthpressingtomyshouldertenderlyasthepressureofhisthumbmovesinaslowcircle.“One.”
“Inthatcase,”Isay,“maybetwo.”
Heleansinandkissesmedeeply,hishandgentleatmythroat,thumbnestlingintothedipatitsbase.“Because,”hesays,“Iwantyouto.”
“Idon’tstayoveratstrangemen’splaces,”Isay,bloodfizzing.
“Thenit’sluckythisisn’tmyplace.”
“Yes,becauseifitwere,yourparentswouldcomerunningin,bleary-eyedwithashotgun,thinkingyouwerebeingburglarized.”
“Butatleastwe’dalreadybeinsideagetawaycar,”hesays.
Ilaugh,andthecornerofhismouthhitcheshigher.
“Stay,Nora.”
Ifeelthatbloominginmychestagain,likepetalsuncurlingtoleavesomethingdelicateexposedinitscenter.Andthenastabofpanic,aneedleinmyunprotectedheart.
“Ican’t,”Ibarelywhisper.
Hisdisappointmentisvisible,onlyforamoment.ThenIwatchitdissolveasheacceptsit,anditfeelslikesomeofthosehealed-overstitchesinmyheartopenbackup.Hesitsup,searchingforhisdiscardedclothes,andItouchhisarm,stillinghim.MorethananyoneI’veevermet,Charliecraveshonesty,andhedoesn’tpunishanyoneforit.Hetakesitasimmutableandsynthesizesitintohisworld,andIdon’twanttobeanotherpersondealinginhalf-truthswithhim.
“Iwasstayingatmyboyfriend’splace.”Itactuallyhurtstosaythewords.I’veneverhadtobefore.Libbyalreadyknows,andIdon’ttalkaboutthiswithanyoneelse.I’veneverwantedtomakemyselfthatvulnerable,toseethepityinglooks,tofeelweak.
Charlie’seyesholdmine.
“Jakob,”Isay.“Iwaswithhimthenightmymomdied.”
Hisbrowsoftens.
Ihaven’tweighedoutprosagainstcons,costsversusbenefitsoftellinghim.Ijustwantitout.Wanttohandit—thisthingI’veneverbeenabletofix—tohimandseewhathappens.
“Hewasmyfirstseriousboyfriend.Maybemyonlyseriousone,inaway.Imean,Idatedothermenforlonger,buthewastheonlyoneIeverchoselikethat.”Overeverythingelse.OrmaybeitwasthatIdidn’tchoosehim.Justfellheadfirstintomyfeelingsforhim,withoutanycaution.
“Iwastwenty,andIwasalwaysoverathisplace,sowedecidedIshouldmovein.Andmymom—shewassucharomantic,shewasn’teventryingtotalkmeoutofit.Shewantedmetomarryhim.Ididtoo.”
Charliesaysnothing,justwatchesme,leavingspaceformetogoon,ortostop.
“Myphonediedatsomepointinthenight.”Myvoiceishoarsenow,likemythroatisclosingofftokeeptherestin.ButIcan’tstop.Ineedhimtoknow.Ineedtonotbealonewiththisforanothersecond.
“WhenIwaswithhim,I’djust…getsosweptup.Whenwewokeup,Ididn’tevenplugmyphoneinuntilafterwe’dmadebreakfast.”Eaten.Hadsex.Mademorecoffee.
Thebackofmynoseburns.“Libbyhadbeencallingmeforfourhours.Shewasaloneatthehospital,and…”Nothingcomesoutafterthat.Mymouthismoving,butthere’snosound.
Charliesitsforward,pullsmeinagainsthischest.Hismouthpresseshardagainstthetopofmyhead,histhumbbrushingovermyshoulder.
“Ican’timagine.”Hepullsmylegsoverhislap,crushesmetohischestagain,smoothingmyhairandkissingit.
Iclosemyeyes,focusingonthesesensations,inthismoment.I’mhere,Ipromisemyself.It’sover.Itcan’thurtmeanymore.
“Libbywouldwakeupscreaming.”Myvoiceiswetnow,thin.“FormonthsafterMomdied.AndIcouldn’tsleepatall.IwastooscaredIwouldn’tbethereifsheneededme.”
Ilearnedtowaituntilshewokeinapanic,tothrowmyblanketsasideandscoottothefarsideofmybedsoshecouldslipinbesidemeunderthequilt.I’dwrapmyarmsaroundheruntilshecriedherselfbacktosleep.
Inevertoldheritwouldbeokay.Iknewitwouldn’t.InsteadItookupMom’soldrefrainforcomfortingus:Letitout,sweetgirl.
“Jakobwasgreatatfirst,”Isay.“Ibarelysawhim,butheunderstood.Andthenhegotthechancetogotothisresidency,outinWyoming—hewasawriter.”
“Heleftyou?”Charliesays.
“Itoldhimtogo,”Iadmitweakly.“Ifeltlike…Ididn’thavethetimeortheenergyforhimanyway,andIdidn’twanttoholdhimback.”
“Nora.”Hischinnudgesmytempleasheshakeshishead.“Youshouldn’thavebeenalonethroughthat.”
“Hecouldn’thavedoneanything,”Iwhisper.
“Hecould’vebeenthere,”hesays.“Heshould’ve.”
“Maybe,”Isay.“Butitwasn’tjusthimfailingme.Ikeptmakingplanstovisitandthencanceling.Icouldn’tleaveLibby.Andthen…”
Hebrushesmysweat-dampenedbangsoutofmyeyes.“Youdon’thavetotellme.”
Ishakemyhead.
Allthistime,deepinthepitofmystomach,theshadowymonsterofgriefandfearandangerhasbeeninthecornerwhereIlockedit,butit’sbeengrowing,newropesofangryblacklashingoutineverydirection,starving,madwithhunger.
Ademonthat’sgoingtodevourmefromtheinsideout.
“Iplannedasurprisevisit.GotXanax,tookabusoutbecausethat’sallIcouldafford,leftLibbyalone.IcouldtellassoonasIsawhimthatthingshadchanged.Andthen,thefirstnightIwasthere,Iwokeupinapanic.Ididn’tknowwhereIwas,andIcouldn’tfindmyphone.AllIcouldthinkwas—thatsomethinghadhappenedtoLibby.Iwas…hallucinating,almost.MychesthurtsobadlyIthoughtIwasdying.
“JakobthoughtIwashavingaheartattack.HetookmetotheER,andtheysentmehomeacouplehourslaterwithahugebillandsomebreathingexercises.Ithappenedagainthenextnight,andthenext.ItoldJakobIneededtogohomeearly.Heboughtmeaplaneticketandtoldmehewasn’tcomingback.He’ddecidedtostay.
“Iwantedtofiguresomethingout.Libbyonlyhadayearofhighschoolleft,butIthoughtmaybeIcouldmoveherouttherewithus.AweekafterIgothome,hetoldmehe’dmetsomeoneelse.”
Liketheuniversewaspunishingme,forwantingtoomuch,forevenconsideringputtingLibbythroughthatwhenshewasatherbreakingpoint.Itstillmakesmesicktothinkabout.
Charlie’sfingersglideupanddownmyarm.“I’msosorry.”
“It’snotthatIamsurehewas‘theone’orsomething.”Iclosemyeyes,heartracing.“It’sjust…eversincethen,it’sbeenhardtoimaginelettinganyonecloselikethat.NotwhenI’msofuckingbrokenIcan’tsleepanywherebutmyownbed.Evenhereit’shard,withLibbyrightnexttome.I’vejustnevertrustedmyselfsincethen.”Ipressmyfaceintohiswarmskinasthatacheyawnswideinmychest.“I’msorry.I’mjust…”
“Don’tbesorry,”hesaysroughly.“Pleasedon’tapologizeforlettingmeknowyou.”
“It’sembarrassing,”Isay.“Tobesoobsessedwithbeingincontrolthatsleepingmakesmepanic.I’mafuckingmess.”
Heturnsmetofacehim,hishandslacedagainstmylowerback.“Everyone’samess,”hesays.
“You’renot.”
Hesmilesfaintly,thereflectionoftheembersinthefireplacecatchingtheflecksofgoldinhisirises.“I’mlivinginmychildhoodbedroom.”
“Becauseyou’rehelpingyourfamily,”Isay.“IthrewmineunderthebusthefirstchanceIgot.”
“Hey.”Hetouchesmychin,liftsit.“Yourexleftyouinthefuckingwilderness,Nora,onyourown,andyoudidyourbest.You’renotthevillaininhisstory.Heis—andnotbecausehefellforsomeoneelse,butbecauseheexitedyourrelationshipthesecondyouweretheonewhoneededsomething.”
Hecradlesmyfacebetweenhishands.“I’lltakeyouhomewheneveryouwant,”hesays.“Butifyouwanttostay,andyouwakeupscreaming,it’sokay.I’llmakesureyou’reokay.Andifyouwanttostay,andthenchangeyourmind,Idon’tminddrivingyoubackatfoura.m.”
Ireadoncethatnoteveryonethinksinwords.Iwasshocked,imaginingtheseotherpeoplewhodon’tuselanguagetomakesenseofeveryoneandeverything,whodon’tautomaticallyorganizetheworldintochapters,pages,sentences.
LookingintoCharlie’sface,Iunderstandit.Thewayacrushoffeelingandfeatheryimpressionscanmovethroughyourbody,bypassingyourmind.Howapersoncanknowthere’ssomethingworthsayingbuthavenoconceptofwhatexactlythatis.I’mnotthinkinginwords
It’safeelingofnotquiteThankyou,notjustYoumakemefeelsafe,butsomethingthatdancesinbetweenthose.
“Iwanttostay,”Isay.“ButIdon’tthinkIcan.”
Henods.“ThenI’lltakeyouhome.”
“Notyet.”
Hesmoothsmyhair,tucksitbehindmyear.“Notyet.”
Weliedowntogether,mybackpressedagainsthiswarmstomach,hisarmdrapedovermyhip,fingersbrushingalongmyribsliketinyskiersfollowingthegentleslopes,untilhe’shardagain,andI’mdrunkonthewayhe’stouchingme.Wehaveslow,dreamysex,andwhenit’sover,Isettleagainsthischest,feelinghisheartbeatthuddingsoftlyagainstme,ascalmingasthelightsandhumsofthecityblurringpastmyapartmentwindow,awholeworldthatkeepsspinningwhileyousleep.
IfIdon’tsayitaloud,Ithink,itdoesn’tcount.Maybeitwon’tevenbetrue.
Butitistrue,andI’mnotsureI’dwanttostopit,evenifIknewhow:IamfallinginlovewithCharlieLastra.
Inthemorning,Iskipmyrun.LibbyandIsitonablanketspreadinthemeadow,coffeeinhand,andItellhereverything.
Eyeslitupfromwithin,shesays,“He’sstaying?”andmyheartcrumplesinonitself.
“Whydon’tyoutellmehowyoureallyfeel?”
Shetuckshernoseintothesteamrisingfromhermug.“Sorry,Ididn’tmeanitlikethat.”
“LikeyouwouldlovenothingmorethantoputCharlieLastraonashipboundtopermanentlycircletheearth?”
“It’snotthat!It’sjust…”Shescootsaroundinherchair.“IguessitchangeshowIseehim.Hequalifiesforthelistnow.”
“Howhelpful.”
“Nora.”Shesetshermuginthegrass.“Ifyou’rereallythisexcitedabouthim,youshouldexploreit.Ican’trememberthelasttimeyouactuallywereexcitedaboutsomeone.No,wait,Ican.Itwasafulltenyearsago.”
Thedeeppain,likeapulsingphantomlimb,doesn’tfeelquitesosevereasitusuallydoeswhenIthinkaboutJakob.ImeantwhatItoldCharlie—thatitwasn’taboutmissingmyexsomuchasthelonelinessofbeingunabletotrustmyselfwithanyone.
“Itdoesn’tmatterwhatwe‘explore,’?”Isay.“Weknowhowthisends.”
Libbysqueezesmyarm.“Youdon’tknow.Youcan’t,untilyoutry.”
“Thisisn’tamovie,Libby,”Isay.“Loveisn’tenoughtochangethedetailsofaperson’slife,or—ortheirneeds.Itdoesn’tmakeeverythingfallintoplace.Idon’twanttogiveupeverything.”
Ican’tletmyselfdothat.
There’sstillnohappyendingforawomanwhowantsitall,thekindwholiesawakeachingwithfurioushunger,unspentambitionmakingherbonesrattleinherbody.
MycozyWestVillageapartmentwithitshugewindows.Thecaféonthecornerthatknowsmyorder.AllfourseasonsontheCentralParkmall.
ThejobatLoggia,Ithink,theimageoftheirgallery-whiteofficesandbalsawoodfloorsburningbrightinmymind.
Knowingmysisterisokay.WakingeverynightbelievingtomycorethatI’msafe.Thatnothingcangetme.
Howdoesavast,uncontrollablefeelinglikelovefitintothat?
It’saloosecoginadelicatemachine
WhenIlookbacktoLibby,herlipsareparted,herbrowsknittogether.“Love?”Sherepeatsthewordinasmallvoice.
Ilookbacktowardthecottage,gleaminginthesun,surroundedbylazilytwirlingbutterflies.“Hypothetically.”Ilietomysister.Sheletsme.
Intheearlyafternoon,BeaandTalacomeboundingupthehillside—BeainfrillypinkandTalainnavyoveralls.Myheartsoars,andtonoone’ssurprise,tearsrushtoLibby’seyesasIhelpherofftheblanket.TheyscreamMommyintheirimpossiblyhighvoicesandhurlthemselvesatherlegs,whereshepepperstheirtangledhairwithkisses.
“Imissedyouso,so,somuch,”shetellsthem.TalalooksgrumpyandresentfulasshewrapsherarmsaroundLibby’sleg,andBea,ofcourse,immediatelystartscryinglikeshe’sinbadneedofanap,andthenBrendancomeshuffingupbehindthem,lookingroughlytwenty-threetimesastiredasCharlieLastraeverhas.
WhenhisandLibby’seyescatch,theirsmilesarecalm.Notoverjoyed,butrelieved:likethey’veslippedbackintothecurrentanddon’thavetoworkquitesohard.
ThefinalouncesofanxietyI’vebeencarryingarounddissipateinaninstant.Thesetwopeopleloveeachother.WhateverIthoughtwasgoingonbetweenthem,they’reokay.
Theybelongtogether,insomemysteriousway,andtheybothseemtoknowit.
WhileLibbyfinishesherpenancewiththegirls,Brendanpullsmeintooneofhisfamouslyawkwardandexcruciatinglyearnestsidehugs.“Goodflight?”Iask.
“Thereweresometears,”hesayswarily.
“Oh,weretheyshowingMammaMia!ontheplaneagain?”Isay.“Youknowyoucan’thandleanythingwithMerylinitatthataltitude.”
Rightthen,thegirlsprythemselvesfromLibbyandbarrelatme,screaming,notquiteinunison,“Nono!”
“Myfavoritegirlsinthewholeworld!”Isay,catchingthem.
Talascreeches,“Weflewontheairplane!”
“Youdid?”IsweepherontomyhipandsqueezeBea’shand.“Whodrove?YouorBea?”
Beagiggles.Itis,verylikely,thesoundthattheearthmadethefirsttimeitsawthesuncomeup.
“Noooo.”Talashakesherhead,irritatedbymyincompetence.Honestly,whenshe’sgrumpy,it’sthecutestthingintheworld.Mayalloursourmoodsbesoadorable.
Iguidethemacrossthegrass,awayfromLibbyandBrendansotheycanhaveasecondalone.Brendanlookslikehecoulduseafewyearsinacryogenicchamber,whereasLibbyisgrabbinghisasslikethatisnotatallwhatsheneeds.
“Hey.Iforget,”Isay,leadingthegirlstowardtheflowersnestledaroundthefootbridge.“Howdoyoufeelaboutbutterflies?”
Theyhavealotofthoughts,andthey’resuretoscreamthemall.31
LIBBYCHOOSESAdinnerspotindowntownAsheville,achicCubanrestaurantwitharooftoppatio.Yesterday’sstormlefttheaircoolandbreezy,ahugereliefafterthelastthreesweatyweeks.
Thecityislitupbelowus,halfwaybetweenquaintvillageandbustlingmetropolis,andthefoodisdivine.BrendanandIsplitabottleofwineandLibbyevenhasacouplesips,moaningassheswishesthemaroundinhermouth.
“Itkindoffeelslikewe’reinNewYork,doesn’tit?”shesays,eyesmisty.“Ifyoucloseyoureyes,justthesoundsofallthesepeople,andthatfeelingintheair.”
Brendan’smouthscrewsuplikehe’sconsideringdisagreeingwithher,butIjustnodalong.Itdoesn’tfeellikeNewYork,butwithallofustogether,italmostfeelslikehome.
Ifeelanimprobablewaveofnostalgiaatthethoughtofrunningupordownthestairstoatrainplatform,hearingthatmetallicshriek,feelingthewindgustthroughthestairwell,andnotknowingifI’vearrivedinthenickoftimeorifmytrainjustwentscreamingpast.
What’stheweirdestthingyoumissaboutthecity?ItextCharlie.
Hewritesback,ItusedtobehavingaccesstoaDunkin’Donutswithinthreeblocksatalltimes.
Ismileatmyphone.TheDD-to-personratiotherehastobelikeonetofive.Whatelse?
ImissEataly,hesays,butIwouldn’tcallitweird.
Ifyoudidn’tmissEataly,wecouldneverspeakagain.Becauseyou’dbeinprison,whereyou’dbelong.
Relievedtohavedodgedthatbullet,hesays.AlsonotweirdbutIthinkalotaboutthefirstdayinspringthat’sactuallykindofwarm.Howeveryone’soutatonce,anditfeelslikewe’reallalmostdrunkfromthesun.Peopleintheparkinshortsandbikinitops,eatingPopsicles,eventhoughit’slikefiftydegreesout.
Charlie,Ireply.Thosethingsareallobjectivelyamazing.
Hetakesawhileonhisnextreply.Early-morningcommutemariachibands,hesays,oroperasingers,oranysinginggroupreally.Iknowit’snotapopularstance,butIfuckinglovewhenI’malmostasleeponthetrain,andsuddenlyfiveguysaresingingtheirheartsout.
Ilovewatchingeveryone’sreactions.Therearealwayssomepeoplewhoarekindoffeelingit,andsomewholooklikethey’replottingmurder,andthentheoneswhopretendit’snothappening.IalwaystipbecauseIdon’twanttoliveinaworldwherenoone’sdoingthat.
Ican’tthinkofagreatersymbolofhopethanapersonwho’swillingtodragthemselvesoutofbedandsingatthetopoftheirlungstoagroupofstrangerstrappedonatrain.Thattenacityshouldberewarded.
Ilove,Iwrite,yournightmarebrain.
AndhereIthoughtyouwereusingmeformynightmarebody.
Andthen,aminutelater,Iloveyourbraintoo.Andyourbody.Allofit.
I’vespenttenyearsguidingmylifeawayfromthisfeeling,thisterriblewant.AllittookwasthreeweeksandafictionalwomannamedNadineWinterstopullmerightback.
“Don’tmakeanyplansfortomorrowafternoon,”Libbysays,kickingmysandalunderthetable.“I’vegotasurpriseforyou.”
Brendan’slookingatthetable,almostguiltily.Eitherhe’snotconvincedI’lllikemy“surprise,”orLibby’sthreatenedhimwithmurderifhegivesitaway.
“Brendan,”Isay,fishing,“tellyourwifeshecan’tgoskydivingwhilepregnant.”
Helaughsandliftshishands,butstillavoidsmygaze.“NevertellaStephenswhatshecanandcannotdo.”
TheeditingjobatLoggiafluttersacrossmymind,andCharlie’svoicesaying,IfIhadtopickonepersontobeinmycorner,it’dbeyou.Everytime.
Onceagain,Libbyhasmetieasilkscarfovermyeyesforthelengthofourcabride—driven,unfortunately,byHardy,butluckilyitonlylastsfiveminutes,andthenLibby’swrenchingmefromthecar,singing,“We’reheeeere!”
“OnceUnofficialTownTour?”Iguess.
“Nope!”Hardysays,chuckling.“Thoughy’allreallygottadoone!You’remissingout.”
“FuneralforOldManWhittaker’sfictionaldog,”Iguessnext.
Libbyshutsthecardoorbehindme.“Colder.”
“FuneralfortheiguanathatplayedOldManWhittaker’sfictionaldoginthecommunitytheaterplay?”Ilistenforcluesastoourlocation,buttheonlysoundisthebreezethroughsometrees,whichcouldputusapproximately…anywhere.
“Therearetwostairs,okay?”Sheprodsmeforward.“Nowstraightahead,there’sasmallledge.”
Istretchmyfootout,feelingthroughspaceuntilIfindit.Ablastofcoldairhitsme,andmyshoesclickontohardwoodfloorsaswetakeafewmoresteps.
“Now.”Libbystops.“Givemeadrumroll.”
Islapmypalmsagainstmythighswhilesheuntiesthescarfandyanksitaway
We’restandinginanemptyroom.Onewithdarkwoodenfloorsandwhiteshiplapwalls.Alargewindowoverlooksathicketofblue-greenpinetrees,andLibbystepsinfrontofit,vibratingwithanxiousenergydespitehergrin.
“Imagineahugewoodentablerighthere,”shesays.“Andsomewickerplantstandsunderthiswindow.AndaScandinavianchandelier.Somethingsleekandmodern,youknow?”
“Okayyyy,”Isay,followingherintothenextroom.
“Adarkbluevelvetcouch,”shesays,“and,like,asmallcanvastentinonecornerforthegirls.Somethingwecanleaveup,stringsomelightsinside.”SheleadsmedownanarrowhallandthenIfollowherthroughanotherdoorwayassheflicksonthelightstorevealabutter-yellowbathroom:yellowfiftiestile,yellowwallpaper,yellowtub,yellowsink.
“This…needssomework,”shesays.“Butlookhowhugeitis!Imean,there’satub,andthere’sawholeotherbathroomwithawalk-inshower.Thatone’salreadybeenredone.”
ShelookstomeforsomesortofconfirmationthatI’mhearingher.
AndIam,butthere’sadullbuzzingrisinginmyskull,likeahordeofbeesgrowingmoreandmoreagitatedbytheuncannysenseofwrongnesscreepingupmyspine.
“There’sanensuite.Threewholebaths—canyouimagine?”Shegesturestowardasmearoflipstickonthecarpet,besideafull-pot-of-coffee-sizedstain.“Ignorethat.Ialreadycheckedandthere’shardwoodunderit.Therewillbesomedamagefromthespills,probably,butI’vealwayslovedagoodrug.”
Shestopsinthemiddleoftheroomandholdsherarmsaloftathersides.“Whatdoyouthink?”
“Aboutyoulovingrugs?”
Hersmilewavers.“Aboutthehouse.”
Thebloodrushingthroughmyeardrumsdimsmyvoice.“Thishouse?InthemiddleofSunshineFalls?”
Hersmileshrinks.
Thebuzzingswells.ItsoundslikeNo,likeamillionminiatureNorashumming,Thisisn’thappening.Thiscan’tbehappening.You’remisunderstanding.
Libby’shandscradleherstomach,herfrownlinesfirmingupbetweenherbrows.“Youwouldn’tbelievehowcheapitis.”
I’msureIwouldn’t.I’dprobablyfalldowndead,andthenmyghostwouldhauntthisplace,andeverynightwhenIroseoutofthefloorboards,I’dscaretheshitoutoftheownersbyasking,Now,howmanyclosetsdidyousayithas?
ButIdon’tseehowthat’simportant.
Ishakemyhead.“Lib,youcouldn’tlivesomewherelikethis.”
Herfacegoesslack.“Icouldn’t?”
“Yourlife’sinNewYork,”Isay.“Brendan’sjobisinNewYork.Thegirls’school—ourfavoriterestaurants,ourfavoriteparks.”
Me.
Mom.
Everylastbitofher.Everymemory.Everyspotwhereshestood,insomeotherlife,adecadeago.Everywindowwelookedinto,ourmittenedhandsfoldedtogether,thethreeofusinarowaswewatchedSanta’sanimatronicsleigharcoveraminiatureManhattanskyline.
EverystepacrosstheBrooklynBridgeonthefirstdayofspring,orthelastofsummer.
FreemanBooks,theStrand,BooksAreMagic,McNallyJackson,theFifthAvenueBarnes&Noble.
“You’velovedithere,”Libbysoundsuncertain,young.
Allthoseveinsoficeholdingmycrackedhearttogetherthawtoofast,brokenpiecesslidingofflikemeltingglaciers,leavingrawspotsexposed.“It’sbeenagreatbreak,butLibby—inaweek,Iwanttogohome.”
Sheturnsaway.Rightbeforeshespeaks,Ifeelthisthrobinmygut,awarning,achangeinbarometricpressure.Thebuzzingdropsout.
Hervoiceisclear.“Brendangotanewjob.InAsheville.”
Ifeltsomethingcoming,butitdidn’tpreparemeforthismissed-stepweightlessness,thesensationoffallingfromagreatheight,hittingeverystaironthewaydown.
Libby’slookingatmeagain,waiting.
Idon’tknowwhatfor.Idon’tknowwhattosay.
Whatisthecorrectcourseofactionwhentheplanet’sbeenpuntedoffitsaxis?
Ihavenoplan,nofix-itchecklist.I’mstandinginanemptyhouse,watchingtheworldunravel.
“ThisiswhatBrendankeptcheckinginabout,”Iwhisper,theroarofbloodinmyearsstartinganew.“Hewaswaitingforyoutotellme.”
ThemusclesinLibby’sjawflex,anadmissionofguilt.
“Thelist,”Ichokeout.“Thistrip.That’swhatthiswasallabout?You’releavingandthiswholeelaborategameofSimonSayswassomefucked-upgoodbye?”
“It’snotlikethat,”shemurmurs.
“Whataboutthelawyer?”Isay.“Howdoesshefitintothis?”
“Thewhat?”
Theworldsways.“Thedivorceattorney,theoneSallygaveyouthenumberfor.”
Understandingdawnsacrossherface.“Afriendofhers,”shesaysfeebly,“whoknewaboutagoodpreschoolhere.”
Ipressmyhandstothesidesofmyhead.
They’relookingatschools
They’relookingathouses
“Howlonghaveyouknown?”Iask.
“Ithappenedfast,”shesays.
“Howlong,Libby?”
Breathrushesoutbetweenherlips.“Sinceafewdaysbeforewemadetheplanstocomehere.”
“Andthere’snowayoutofit?”Irubmyforehead.“Imean,ifit’smoney—”
“Idon’twantoutofit,Nora.”Shecrossesherarmsoverherchest.“Imadethisdecision.”
“Butyoujustsaidithappenedfast.Youhaven’thadtimetothinkaboutthis.”
“AssoonaswedecidedBrendanwouldapplyforthejob,itfeltright,”shesays.“We’retiredofbeingontopofeachother.We’retiredofsharingonebathroom—we’retiredofbeingtired.Wewanttospreadout.Wewantourkidstobeabletoplayinthewoods!”
“BecauseLymediseaseissuchablast?”Idemand.
“Iwanttoknowthatifsomethinggoeswrong,we’renottrappedonanislandwithmillionsofotherpeople,alltryingtogetaway.”
“I’monthatisland,Libby!”
Herfacegoeswhite,hervoiceshattering.“Iknowthat.”
“NewYork’sourhome.Thosemillionsofotherpeopleare—areourfamily.Andthemuseums,andthegalleries,andtheHighLine,skatingatRockefellerCenter—theBroadwayshows?You’refinejustgivingallthatup?”
Givingmeup.
“It’snotlikethat,Nora,”shesays.“Wejuststartedlookingathousesandeverythingcametogether—”
“Holyshit.”Iturnaway,dizzy.Myarmsareheavyandnumb,butmyheartisclatteringaroundlikeabowlingballonarollercoaster.“Doyoualreadyownthishouse?”
Shedoesn’treply.
Ispinback.“Libby,didyoubuyahousewithouteventellingme?”
Shesayssoftly,“Wedon’tcloseuntiltheendoftheweek.”
Istepbackward,swallowing,likeIcanforceeverythingthat’salreadybeensaidbackdown,reversetime.“Ihavetogo.”
“Where?”shedemands.
“Idon’tknow.”Ishakemyhead.“Anywhereelse.”
Irecognizethisstreet:arowoffifties-stylerancheswithwell-tendedgardens,pine-coveredmountainsjuttingupattheirbacks.
Thesun’smeltingintothehorizonlikepeachicecream,andthesmellofrosesdriftsoverthebreeze.Afewyardsover,ahalfdozenkidsrun,shriekingandlaughing,throughasprinkler.
It’sbeautiful.
Iwanttobeanywhereelse.
Libbydoesn’tfollowme.Ididn’texpectherto.
Inthirtyyears,I’veneverwalkedawayfromafightwithher—she’sbeentheoneI’vehadtochase,whenthingswerebadatschoolorshe’dgonethroughaparticularlyroughbreakupinthosedark,endlessyearsafterwelostMom.
I’mtheonewhofollows.
IjustneverthoughtI’dhavetofollowhersofar,orloseherentirely.
It’shappeningagain.Thestinginginmynose,thespasmsinmychest.Myvisionblursuntiltheflowerbushesgoblearyandthekids’laughterwarbles.
Iheadtowardhome.
Nothome,Ithink.
Mynextthoughtissomuchworse:Whathome?
Itreverberatesthroughme,ringsofpanicripplingoutward.HomehasalwaysbeenMomandLibbyandme.
Homeisstripedblue-and-whitetowelsonthehotsandatConeyIsland.It’sthetequilabarwhereItookLibbyafterherexams,todanceallnight.CoffeeandcroissantsinProspectPark.
It’sfallingasleeponthetraindespitethemariachibandplayingtenfeetaway,CharlieLastradiggingthroughhiswalletacrossthecar.
Onlyit’snotthatanymore.BecausewithoutMomandLibby,thereisnohome.
SoI’mnotrunningtowardanything.Justaway.
UntilIseeGoodeBooksdowntheblock,lightsglowingagainstthebruisedpurplesky.
ThebellschimeasIstepinside,andCharlielooksupfromtheLOCALBESTSELLERS,hissurprisemorphingintoconcern.
“Iknowyou’reworking.”Myvoicecomesoutthrottled.“Ijustwantedtobesomewhere…”
Safe?
Familiar?
Comfortable?
“Nearyou.”
Hecrossestomeintwostrides.“Whathappened?”
Itrytoanswer.Itfeelslikefishingline’swoundaroundmyairway.
Charliepullsmeintohischest,armscoilingaroundme.
“Libby’smoving.”Ihavetowhispertogetthewordsout.“She’smovinghere.That’swhatthiswasallabout.”Therestwrenchesupward:“I’mgoingtobealone.”
“You’renotalone.”Hedrawsback,touchingmyjaw,hiseyesalmostviciousintheirintensity.“You’renot,andyouwon’tbe.”
Libby.Bea.Tala.Brendan.
Itknocksthewindoutofme.
Christmas.
NewYear’s.
Fieldtripstothenaturalhistorymuseum.
SittinginfrontofahugeJacksonPollockattheMet,askingthegirlstopleasemakeusrichbeyondourwildestdreamswiththeirfingerpainting.
LaughingatSerendipityuntilwhippedcreamcomesoutournoses.Allthememories,andallthosefuturemoments,alltogether,withMom’smemoryhoveringclose.
It’sslippingaway.
Thestinginginmynose.Theweightinmychest.Thepressurebehindmyeyes.
Charlietugsmebackintotheoffice.“I’vegotyou,Nora,”hepromisesquietly.“I’vegotyou,okay?”
It’slikeadamhasbroken.Ihearthestrangledsoundinmythroatandmyshouldersstarttoshake,andthenI’mcrying.
Tidalwaveshittingme,everywordobliteratedunderacurrentsopowerfulthere’snofightingit.
I’mdraggedunder.
“It’sokay,”hewhispers,rockingmebackandforth.“You’renotalone,”hepromises,andbeneathitIheartheunsaidrest:I’mhere.
Fornow,Ithink.
Becausenothing—notthebeautifulandnottheterrible—lasts.32
NOWIUNDERSTANDwhyIdidn’tcryforallthoseyears.Iwantittostop.Iwantthepaintampeddown,dividedintomanageablepockets.
AllthistimeIthoughtbeingseenasmonstrouswastheworstthingthatcouldhappentome.
NowIrealizeI’dratherbefrigidthanwhatIreallyam,deepdown,everysecondofeveryday:weak,helpless,sofuckingscaredit’sgoingtocomeapart.
Scaredoflosingeverything.Scaredofcrying.ThatonceIstart,I’llneverbeabletostop,andeverythingI’vebuiltwillcrumbleundertheweightofmyunrulyemotions.
Andforalongtime,Idon’tstop.
Icryuntilmythroathurts.Untilmyeyeshurt.Untiltherearen’tanytearsleftandmysobssettleintohiccups.
UntilI’mnumbandexhausted.Bythen,theofficehasgonedarkexceptfortheoldbanker-stylelamponthedesk.
WhenIclosemyeyes,theroaringinmyearshasfaded,leavingbehindthesteadythudofCharlie’sheartbeat.
“She’sleaving,”Iwhisper,testingitout,practicingacceptingitastruth.
“Didshesaywhy?”heasks.
Ishrugwithinhisarms.“Allthenormalreasonspeopleleave.Ijust—Ialwaysthought…”
Histhumbhooksmyjawagainandheanglesmyeyestohis.
“Allmyexes,allmyfriends—halfthepeopleIworkwith,”Isay.“They’veallmovedon.Andeverytime,itwasokay,becauseIlovethecity,andmyjob,andbecauseIhadLibby.”Myvoicewobbles.“Andnowshe’smovingontoo.”
WhenMomdiedandwelosttheapartment,itwaslikeourwholehistorygotswallowedup.Thecityandeachother,that’sallLibbyandIhaveleftofher.
Charliegivesonefirmshakeofhishead.“She’syoursister,Nora.She’snevergoingtoleaveyoubehind.”
I’mnotoutoftearsafterall:myeyesfloodagain.
Hishandsrunovermyshoulders,squeezingthebackofmyneck.“It’snotyoushedoesn’twant,Nora.”
“Itis,”Isay.“It’sme,it’sourlife.It’severythingItriedtobuildforher.Itwasn’tenough.”
“Look,”hesays,“wheneverI’mhere,itfeelslikethewallsareclosinginonme.Ilovemyfamily,Ido.ButI’vespentfifteenyearscominghomeasrarelyaspossiblebecauseit’sfuckinglonelytofeellikeyoudon’tfitsomewhere.Ineverwantedtorunthisstore.Ineverwantedthistown.AndwheneverI’mhereit’sallIthinkabout.Igetsofuckingclaustrophobicfromitall.
“Notfromthem.ButfromfeelinglikeIdon’tknowhowtobemyselfhere.From—gettinginmyheadaboutwhoI’msupposedtobe,orallthewaysIhaven’tturnedouthowtheywantedmeto.Andthenyoushowedup.”
Hiseyesflare,flashlightsracingoverthedark,searching.“AndIcouldfinallybreathe.”
Hisvoicetrembles,skatesdownmybackbone,andmyheartflipslikeit’sinsideabingocage.“There’snothingwrongaboutyou.Iwouldn’tchangeanything.”It’salmostawhisper,andafterapause,hesays,“You’veneverneededto.NotforyourshitheadexesandnotforBlakeCarlisle,anddefinitelynotforyoursister,wholovesyoumorethanfuckinganything.”
Freshtearsstingmyeyes.Hejustbarelysmiles.“Ihonestlythinkyou’reperfect,Nora.”
“EventhoughI’mtootall,”Iwhispertearily.“AndIsleepwithmyphonevolumeallthewayup?”
“Believeitornot,”hemurmurs,“Ididn’tmeanperfectforBlakeCarlisle.Imeant,tome,you’reperfect.”
Itfeelslikeheavymachineryisexcavatingmychest.Iknotmyhandsintohisshirtandwhisper,“DidyoujustquoteLove,Actually?”
“Notintentionally.”
“Youaretoo,youknow.”Ithinkaboutmydreamyapartment,sunpoolingonthearmchairunderthewindow,thesummerbreezewaftinginwiththesmellofbakingbread.Ithinkaboutschleppingoffthetrain,stickywithheat,paperbacksandtowelstuckedintoabag,orfreshlyprintedmanuscriptsandbrand-newPilotG2s.
Mycity.Mysister.Mydreamjob.Charlie.Allofit,exactlyright.ThelifeIwouldbuildifitwaspossibletohaveeverything.
“Exactlyright,”Itellhim.“Perfect.”
Hiseyesaredark,sheeningashestudiesme.
Myheartfeelslikeacrackedegg,nothingtoprotectitorholditinplace.“Icouldstay.”
Helooksaway.“Nora,”hesaysquietly,apologetically.
Justlikethat,thetearsareback.Charliebrushesthehairfrommydampcheek.“Youcan’tmakethisdecisionforme,orforLibby,”hesays,voicethickandrattling.
“Whynot?”
“Because,”hesays,“you’vespentyourlifemakingsureshehaseverythingsheneeds,andit’stimesomeonemadesureyoudid.YouwantthatjobatLoggia.Andyoufuckinglovethecity.Andifyouneedtosavemoney,takemyapartment.It’sprobablyhalfthepriceofyours.Ifthat’swhatyouwant,that’swhatyoushouldhave.Nothingless.”
Itrytoblinkthetearsback,insteadloosingthemdownmycheeks.
“Youshouldhaveeverything,”hesaysagain.
“Whatifit’snotpossible?”
Hetipsmyjawup,whispersalmostagainstmylips.“Ifanyonecannegotiateahappyending,it’sNoraStephens.”
Despite—ormaybebecauseof—thesensationofmychestcrackingclearinhalf,Iwhisperback,“IthinkoneofthoseonlycostsfortydollarsatSpaaaahhh.”
Helaughs,kissesthecornerofmymouth.“Thatbrain.”
Neitherofusleavestheshopthatnight.Idon’twanttoleavehim,andIdon’twanthimtofeelaloneinthedarkandquiet.Evenifitcan’tlast,evenifit’sjustfortonight,IwanthimtoknowthatI’vegothim,thewayhe’shadme.Thewayhehasme.
Foronce,Isleeplikearock.
Inthemorning,Istirawakeandpiecetogetherthenight.Thefight,findingCharlieatthebookstore,fallingintoeachotheragain.
Afterward,wetalkedforhours.Books,takeout,family.ItoldhimabouthowMom’snoseusedtocrinklejustlikeLibby’swhenshelaughed.Howtheyworethesameperfume,butitsmellsdifferentonLibbythanitdidonher.
ItellhimaboutMom’sbirthdayroutine.HoweveryDecembertwelfthatnoon,we’dgotoFreemanBooksandbrowseforhours,untilshepickedoutoneperfectbooktobuyatfullprice.
“LibbyandIstillgo,”Isaid.“Orweusedto.EveryDecembertwelfth,atnoon—twelve,twelve,attwelveo’clock.Momusedtomakeabigdealofthat.”
“Twelve’sagreatnumber,”Charliesaid.“Everyothernumbercangotohell.”
“Thankyou,”Iagreed.
Atsomepoint,wedriftedoff,andIwakenowtotherealizationthat,inoursleep,we’vebeguntomovetogetheragain.Ikisshimawake,andinaheadyfog,wegiveintoeachother,timegrindingtoahalt,theworldfadingtoblackaroundus.
Afterward,Ilaymyheadonhischestandlistentohisbloodmovethroughhisveins,thecurrentofCharlie,asheplayswithmyhair.Hisvoiceisthickandscratchywhenhesays,“Maybewecanfigureitout.”
Likeit’sananswertoaquestion,liketheconversationneverstopped.Allnight,allmorning,everytouchandkiss,allofitwasaback-and-forth,apushandpull,anegotiationorarevision.Likeeverythingisbetweenus.Maybethiscouldwork.
“Maybe,”Iwhisperinagreement.We’renotlookingintoeachother’sfaces,andIcan’thelpbutthinkthat’spurposeful:likeifwelooked,wecouldn’tpretendanylonger,andwe’renotreadytogiveupthegame.
Charliethreadshisfingersthroughmineandliftsthebackofmyhandtohislips.“Forwhatit’sworth,”hesays,“IdoubtIwilleverlikeanyoneelseintheworldasmuchasIlikeyou.”
Islipmyarmsaroundhisneckandclimbintohislap,kissinghistemples,hisjaw,hismouth.Love,Ithink,atremorinmyhandsastheymoveintohishair,ashekissesme.
Thelast-pageache.
Thedeepbreathinafteryou’vesetthebookaside.
Whenhewalksmetothedoorsometimelater,hetakesmyfaceinhishandsandsays,“You,NoraStephens,willalwaysbeokay.”33
LIBBYSITSONthefrontsteps,wrappedinoneofBrendan’soldsweatshirts,twocupsofcoffeesteamingonthestepbesideher.
NeitherofusspeaksasIclosethedistance,butIcantellshe’sspentthenightcrying,andIdoubtIlookanybetter.
Sheholdsoutamug.“Mightbecoldbynow.”
Itakeitand,afteranotherstrainedsecond,perchonthestep,dewseepingintomyjeans.
“ShouldIgofirst?”sheasks.
Ishrug.We’veneverbeenthisangrywitheachother—Idon’tknowwhatcomesnext.
“I’msorryIdidn’ttellyousooner,”shesays,likeshe’stryingtoshovethewordsthroughatoo-narrowdoorway.
Allthewayoverhere,Iwonderediflayingintoherwouldgivemesomesenseofcontrol.Butthere’snooutcometoforcehere.WhatIwantisslippery,uncatchable:thosedayswhentherewasnothingbetweenus,whenwebelongedtogethermorethanwebelongedanywhereelse.WhenitfeltlikeIbelonged.
“Whendidwestartkeepingthingsfromeachother?”
Shelookssurprisedandhurt,almostimpossiblysmall.“You’vealwayskeptthingsfromme,Nora,”shesays.“AndIknowyouweretryingtoprotectme,butitstillcountswhenyoupretendthingsareokayandthey’renot.Orwhenyoutrytofixthingswithoutmeknowing.”
“Soisthatwhatyou’redoing?”Iask.“Youkeptthefactthatyouweremovingawayfrommesothat—what?Itwouldn’thurtuntilthelastpossiblesecond?”
“That’snotwhatIwasdoing.”Freshtearsspringintohereyes.Sheburrowsherfistsagainstthem,shoulderstwitching.
“I’msorry.”Itouchherarm.“I’mnottryingtobemean.”
Shelooksup,wipinghertearsaway.“Iwastrying,”shesays,throughashudderingbreath,“towinyouover.”
“Libby,inwhatuniversedoyouneedtowinmeover?I’msorryformakingyoufeelincapable.Iwastryingtohelp,butIneverthoughtyouneededtobefixed.Never.”
“That’snotwhatImean,”shesays.“Iwantedtowinyouoverto…”Shewavestowardthemeadowandthesun-dappledfootbridges,thefloweringbushesswayinginthebreezeandthethickpineyforestcoveringtherollinghills.
Andthentherestofitclicks.Thelistwasn’taboutLibbytryingonhernewlife,anditwasn’taboutsayingsomespectaculargoodbyeormakingalast-ditchefforttosavemefromalifeofsleepingalonewithmylaptop.
Itwasasalespitch.
“Brendanwantedmetotellyourightaway,”shegoeson.“ButIthoughtthatmaybe—ifyoucamehere,ifyousawwhatitcouldbelike…Iwantedyoutocomewithus.”Hervoicecracks.“AndIthoughtifyourealizedwhatlifecouldbehere,maybeevenmetsomeone,youwouldwantthattoo.ButthenyoustartedspendingtimewithCharlie,and—god,it’sbeensolongsinceI’veseenyoulikethat,Nora.Iwasgoingtoletthewholethinggo,butthenyousaidhewasstaying…anditjustseemedlike…likeyoucouldwantthistoo.LikeIcouldhaveallthis—andyou.”
Ifeelsoempty,wrungout,likeI’vebeentreadingwaterforweeksonlytorealizetheshorewasamirage.
ThisisLibby,whoneveraskedforanythinguntilamonthago,admittingwhatshereallywants.
Formetofollowher.
AndIwanttogiveherwhatshewants.Ialwayswanthertohaveeverythingshewants.
Alltheorganizedcompartmentsinmymindcamecrashingdownlastnight,andforthefirsttimeIseeitallclearly.Notthetidy,controlledversionofthings,butthemessofit,whenitallspillsloose.
LibbyandIhavebeencaughtinaslowboilofchangeforalongtime,onepathsplittingintotwo.There’snolessroominmyheartforherthanthedayshefirstcamescreamingintotheworld.
Butthereislesstime.Lessspaceinourdailylives.Otherpeople.Otherpriorities.We’reaVenndiagramnow,insteadofacircle.Imight’vemadeallmydecisionsforher,butnowthatI’mhere,Ilovemylife.
“Iwasaskedtoapplyforanothereditingjob,”Igetout.
Libbyblinksrapidly,tearsclingingtohersparklyblueeyes.“Wh-what?”
Istareatthetreelinebeyondthemeadow.“Charlie’sjobatLoggia,”Isay.“Theywantsomeonelocal,andhe’sstayinghere.SohementionedittoDusty’seditor.I’dbetakingoversomeofhislist,andthenI’dstartacquiringmyowntoo.”
“It’syourdream,”Libbysaysbreathlessly.
Somethingaboutthatwordsetsofffireworksthroughmybody.“I…”Nothingelsecomesout.
Shereachesformyhands,squeezingthemhard,hervoicecracking:“Youhavetodoit.”
MychestcrampsasIstudyher,theonlyfaceIknowbetterthanmine.
“Youhaveto,”shesaysthroughtears.“It’swhatyouwant.It’swhatyou’vealwayswanted,and—don’tputitoffagain,Nora.It’syourdream.”
“It’snotsomethingI’ve…”Iwavemyhandinavaguespiral.
“Donebefore?”shesays.
“Andifitdidn’tworkout…”
“Youcandoit,”shetellsme.“Youcandoit,Nora.Andifyoufail,whocares?”
“Well,”Isay.“Me.”
Herarmscoilaroundmyneck.Sheshakeswithsomethinghalfwaybetweenmoresobsandgiggles.“You’regoingtohavetheworld’sbestguestroomhere,”shecries.“Andifeverythinggoestoshitthere,you’llcomestaywithus.I’lltakecareofyou,okay?I’lltakecareofyouhowyou’vealways,alwaystakencareofme,Nora.”
Iwanttotellherhowperfecttheselastthreeweekshavebeen.
IwanttotellherthisisthehappiestIcanrememberbeinginsolong,andit’salsotheworstpainI’veeverfelt.
Becauseallthosegapsbetweenusarefinallygone,buttheimpactofthecollisionhasshakeneverylastremnantoftheiceloose,leavingnothingbutasoft,pulpytenderness.
SoallIcandoiscrywithher.
Somehow,itneveroccurredtomethatthiswasanoption:thattwopeople,inthesamehug,couldbothbeallowedtofallapart.Thatmaybeit’sneitherofourjobstokeepasteelspine.
Thatwecanbothsurvivethispainwithouttheothershoulderingit.
“Idon’tknowhowtobewithoutyou,Nora,”Libbysqueaks.“IneverthoughtIwouldbe.AndIknowthisisrightformeandBrendan,but—fuck,IthoughtyouandIwouldalwaysbetogether.Howisitpossiblefortwopeoplewhobelongtogethertobelongintwodifferentplaces?”
“MaybeIwon’tevengetthejob,”Isay.
“No,”Libbyreplieswithforce.“Don’ttrytofixit.Don’tchoosemeoveryou,okay?We’vedonethisforyears,andit’salmostbrokenus.It’stimetojustbesisters,Nora.Don’tfixit.Justbeherewithme,andsayitfuckingsucks.”
“Itdoes.”Iscrunchmyeyestight.“Itfuckingsucks.”
Ididn’tknowthepowerofthosewords.Theyfixnothing,donothing,butjustsayingthemfeelslikeplantingastakeintotheground,pinningustogetheratleastforthismoment.
Itsucks,andIcan’tchangethat,butI’mhere,withmysister,andsomehowwe’llgetthroughit.
Youcantakethecitypersonoutofthecity,butthecitywillalwaysbeinthem.Ithinkit’sthesameforsisters.Anywherewego,wewon’tleaveeachother.Wecouldn’tevenifwewantedto.Andwedon’t.Weneverwill.
Brendanmeetsthehomeinspectoratthehouse,butLibbyandthegirlsstaybackwithme,givinghimsomemuch-neededquietafterhisweeksasasoloparent
They’renotmovinginearnestuntilNovember,amonthbeforeNumberThree’sduedate.Untilthen,Brendanwillbebackandforth,gettingthehouseready.
Twoandahalfmonths.That’showlongwehavelefttogether,andit’sgoingtocount.
Wespendthemorningwanderingthewoods,tryingtokeepthegirlsonthetrailandgoogling“whatdoespoisonivylooklike”everyforty-fiveseconds,nevergettinganyclosertoaconcreteanswer.
Wetakethemtothefence,andthehorsesclompovereagerlytobepetted,despiteourlackofbait.“IguessweknowwhereyouandIstand,”Libbyjokesasthegirls’littlefingersswipedownachestnutmare’spinksnout.
Afterward,wetakethetinbucketsfromthecottage’scabinetouttotheblackberrythicketattheedgeofthemeadowandpickandeatplumpberriesuntilourfingersandlipsarestainedpurpleandourshouldersaresunburnt.
Bythetimewearrivehome,ourkneessmudgedwithdirt,Talaisfullyasleepinmyarms,stickyandwarm,andwepourherontothecouchtokeepnapping.Bealeadsusintothekitchentoexplaintheartofblindbakingapiecrustfortheblackberries—sheandBrendanhavewatchedalotofGreatBritishBakingShowthismonth—andIstillfeellikeacityperson,throughandthrough,butmaybeit’spossibletohavemorethanonehome.Maybeit’spossibletobelonginahundreddifferentwaystoahundreddifferentpeopleandplaces.34
THEGIRLSAREtuckedintotheairmattressintheupstairsbedroom(I’vebeenrelocatedtothefoldoutcouch),butBrendan,Libby,andIstayuplate,pickingovertheleftoversofBea’sblackberrypie.
Someoneknocksonthedoor,andBrendankissesLibby’sforeheadonhiswaytoanswerit.“Nora?”hecalls.“Foryou.”
Charlie’sstandinginthedoorway,hishairdampandhisclothesperfectlywrinkle-free.Helookslikeamillionbucks.Actually,morelikesixhundred,butsixhundredverywell-appointeddollars.
“Upforawalk?”heasks.
Libbyshovesmeoutofmychair.“Shesureis!”
Outside,wewanderacrossthemeadow,ourhandscatchingandholding.It’sbeenyearssinceI’veheldanyone’shandotherthanLibby’sorBea’sorTala’s.Itmakesmefeelyoung,butnotinabadway.LesslikeI’mpowerlessinanuncaringworldandmorelike…likeeverythingisnew,shiny,undiscovered.ThewayMomsawNewYork—that’showIseeCharlie.
Whenwereachthemoonlitgazebo,hefacesme.“Ithinkweneedtoconsideranalternateending.”
Ibalk.“Wealreadysentthenotes.Dusty’sbeenworkingoneditsallweek.She’s—”
“NotforFrigid.”Heliftsourhands,holdsthemagainsthischest,whereIcanfeelhisheartspeeding.Hiseyesboreintome.Black-holeeyes.Sticky-trapeyes.Decadentdesserteyes.
“Wetaketurnsvisitingeachother,”hesaysseriously.“Onceamonth,maybe.Andwhenyou’reable,youcomehereforholidays.Andwhenyoucan’t,IgetmysisterandherhusbandtoflyoutandbewithmyparentssoIcangetuptoNewYork.Wevideocallandtextandemailasmuchaswe’reable—orifthat’stoomuch,Idon’tknow,maybeweskipallofthat.Whenyou’reinthecity,you’reworking,andwhenwe’retogether,we’retogether.”
Mystomachfeelslikeit’soverstuffedwithdrunken,glitteringfireflies.“Likeanopenrelationship?”
“No.”Heshakeshishead.“Butifthat’swhatyou’dprefer…Idon’tknow.Wecouldtryit.Idon’twantto,butIwill.”
“Idon’twantthateither,”Itellhim,smiling.
Hereleasesabreath.“Thankfuck.”
Myhearttwists.“Charlie…”
“Justconsiderit,”hepressesquietly.
Itdidn’tworkforSallyandClint.FormeandJakob.CharlieandAmaya.EvenifIcanovercomemytravelanxiety,evenifCharliedoesn’tmindtalkingmedowninthedeadofnight,howamIsupposedtodealwiththeconstantfearoflosinghim?Theanxietyeverytimehecancelsacalloravisitfallsthrough?Waitingfortheothershoetodrop,forthedayhefinallysays,Iwantsomethingdifferent
It’snotyou.
Iwantsomeonedifferent.
Aslow,excruciatingheartbreakunfoldingbitbybitforweeks.
I’dtakeaswiftbeheadingoverthatdeathbyathousandpapercuts,everytime.
“Longdistanceneverworks,”Isay.“Yousaidthatyourself.”
“Iknow,”hesays.“Butit’sneverbeenus,Nora.”
“Sowe’retheexception?”Isay,skeptical.“Thepeopleitjustworksoutfor.”
“Yes,”hesays.“Maybe.Idon’tknow.”
Hiseyesroveovermeasheregroups.“Whatelsecanwedo,Nora?I’mopentonotes.Tellmewhatyou’dchange.Getoutyourfuckingpen,andshreditallup,andtellmehowit’ssupposedtoend.”
Itactuallyhurtstosmile.Myvoicesoundslikeit’sscrapingoverbrokenglass.“Weenjoythisweek.Wespendasmuchtimetogetheraswewant,andwedon’ttalkaboutafter,andthenIleave,andIdon’tsaygoodbye.BecauseI’mnotgoodatthem.I’veneverreallysaidone,andIdon’twanttostartwithyou.SoinsteadwhenIkissyouforthelasttime,neitherofusdrawsattentiontoit.Andthen…Igetonaplaneandgohome,incrediblygratefulforthelife-ruininglyhotmanIoncespentamonthwithinNorthCarolina.”
Hestaresatme,hiseyesfocusedandbrowfurrowedasheabsorbswhatIsaid,hislipspouting.It’shisEditingExpression,andwhenitclears,heshakeshisheadandsays,“No.”
Ilaugh,surprised.“What?”
Hestraightens,stepsinclose.“Isaid,no.”
“Charlie.What’sthatevenmean?”
“Itmeans,”hesays,eyesglinting,“you’llhavetodobetterthanthat.”
Ismiledespitemyself,hopethrashingaroundinmybellylikeaverydeterminedbabybirdwithabrokenwing.
“I’llexpectnotesbyFriday,”hesays.
Therestoftheweek,we’rerunning.Libby’sworkingonthefundraiserball.Brendan’sfinishingthefinalphasesofthemortgageprocess.Charlie’sattheregister,andSally’sinandoutnonstop,gettingeverythingreadyforthevirtualbookclubwithDusty.
There’sanewsigninthewindow,readingMAKEGOODCHOICES,BUYGOODEBOOKS,andaposterofDusty’sfaceadvertisesboththebookclubandtheOnceinaLifetimeBlueMoonBall
Volunteerstransformthetownsquare,andtechnicallyI’vecalledofffortheweek,butsomethingswon’twait,soIdomybesttosqueezeinbitsofworkinbetweengivingthegirlspiggybackridesandcleaningupmyrésuméforLoggia.
I’vealwaysthoughtofmyselfasacreatureofsurvival,butlatelyI’vebeendaydreaming.Aboutanewjob.AboutCharlie.Abouthavingeverything,allatonce.
Sointhatway,maybethisplacedidtransformme.Justnotintoagirlwholovesflannelandpigtailbraids.
Whenwe’retogether,CharlieandIdon’tkeepourdistanceorcircleeachotherwarily.Wegiveintoeverymomentwecan,butwedon’ttalkaboutthefuture.Whenwe’reapart,though,wekeepthestorygoingovercallsandtexts.
You’llspendChristmasinSunshineFallsandI’llspendNewYear’sEveinthecity,hesays.
We’llgetupearlyandtrainhopuntilwefindamariachiband,Isay.
We’llgototownhallmeetingsandinvolveourselvesinpublicfeuds,thengobacktothecottageandhavesexallnight,hesays.And,We’lldoatastetestofallthedollarslicesinthecity.
We’llgettothebottomofthecubed-hamsaladatP.S.,Isay.
Ibelieveinyousodeeply,Nora,hesays,butnotevenyoucanunlockthesecretofthatgreatmystery.
I’llbesobusy,Iremindhim.ForthefirstcouplemonthswhenIgetback,I’llbecrammingintimewithLibbyandthegirls—and,ifIgettheLoggiajob,taperingoffmyagencywork,off-loadingmyclientstoanotheragent.Thentherewillbethelearningcurveofsteppingintoanewrole.
Busydoesn’tscareme,Charliesays.
This,Ithink,iswhatitistodream,andIfinallyunderstandwhyMomcouldnevergiveitup,whymyauthorscan’tgiveitup,andI’mhappyforthem,becausethiswanting,itfeelsgood,likeabruiseyouneedtopresson,areminderthattherearethingsinlifesovaluablethatyoumustriskthepainoflosingthemforthejoyofbrieflyhavingthem.
Sometimes,IwritetoCharlie,thefirstactisthefunpart,andtheneverythinggetstoocomplicated.
Stephens,hereplies,forus,it’sallthefunpart.
Ithurts,butIletthedreamgoonawhilelonger.
Noonewilleverconvincemethattimemovesatasteadypace.Sure,yourclockfollowssomeinvisiblecommand,butitfeelslikeit’srandomlyspoutingoffminutesatwhateverintervalssuitit,becausethisweekisablip,andthenFridaynightarrives.
Anotherheatwavebreaks,usheringinfallweather,andwesetupthetentandairmattressagain.WhileLibbyandBrendanwalkintotowntopickupquattrostagionipizza,thegirlsandIlieonourbacks,watchingtheskydarken.
BeatellsmeabouteverythingsheandBrendanhavebakedoverthelastfewweeks.TalaregalesuswithatalethatiseitherthenonsenseramblingsofatoddlerorafaithfulretellingofaKafkanovel.
Afterwe’veeaten,LibbysuggestsBrendantakethekingbedtohimselftonight,andhesays,mid-yawn,“Oh,thankGod.”
Whenhekissesthegirlsgoodnight,they’resosleepytheyhardlyreact,exceptforTalareachingherlittlearmsuptowardhisfaceforasecondbeforelettingthemflopdownonhertummy.
HekissesLibbylast,thengivesmeasidehug(world’sworsthugger),andIfeelabiggercrushofloveforhimthanIdidthedayhemarriedmysister.
“Whatthehell,”Libbywhispers,laughing.“Areyoucrying?”
“Shutup!”Itossapillowather.“Youbrokemyeyemuscles.Ican’tstopitnow.”
“You’recryingbecauseyouloveBrendansomuch,”sheteases.“Admitit.”
“IloveBrendansomuch,”Isay,laughingthroughthetears.“He’snice!”
Libby’slaughterescalates.“Dude,Iknow.”
Talagrumblesandrollsover,herarmflingingacrosshereyes.
LibbyandIliebacksidebysideandholdeachother’shandsaswestudytheimprobablenumberofconstellations.
“Youknowwhat?”Libbywhispers.
“Probably,”Isay,“buttryme.”
“Evenifyoucan’tseethembackinManhattan,allofthosestarswillbeoveryoutoo.Maybeeverynight,welookupattheskyatthesametime.”
“Everynight?”Isay,dubious.
“Oronceaweek,”shesays.“Wegetonthephone,andwelookupatthesky,andthenwe’llknowwe’restilltogether.Whereverwego.”
Iswallowarisinglump.“Momwillbewithyoutoo,”Isay.“Justbecauseyou’releavingNewYork,itdoesn’tmeanyou’releavingherbehind.”
Libbysnugglescloser,restingherheadonthedivotofmyshoulder,thesmellofcrushedblackberriesstilllingeringinherhair.“Thankyou.”
“Forwhat?”
“Just,”shesays,“thankyou.”
Foronce,Idon’tdreamaboutMom.35
THECENTEROFtownisawonderlandofstringlightsandbunting,longtablescoveredinprettyginghamclothsandloadedwithpies.Adancefloorsitsinthesquare,andabrandedCoorstrucksellsbeerbehindthegazebo.Nexttoit,AmayaandMrs.Struthershawkdonatedwine,everyglasspouredwithaheavyhand.Idoubttheyhavethepermitsformostofthisstuff,butthenagain,Libbymadeitsoundlikejustabouteveryoneatthattownhallmeetingwasinvolvedinonewayoranotherinmakingthishappen,sothere’sasmallchancethisisallaboveboard.
Brendan,Libby,thegirls,andIstopbyGoodeBookstocatchDusty’sevent,buttheplaceispackedandwedon’tlingerlong.CharlieandSallyarrangedallthenewfurniture—alongwiththeoldfoldingchairs—intorowsinthecafé,withDusty’svideoconferenceprojectedontothefarwallandheraudioplayingthroughtheshop’sspeakerssothateventheoverflowofvisitorscouldhearwhiletheyshopped.
Thegirlsarebouncingoffthewalls,sowetakethemovertoMug+Shot’spop-upsodashoppeforfrothypinkcows.
“Thisisahugemistake,”Libbynotesasshepassesthered-soda-and-ice-cream-plus-whipped-creamconcoctionstoBeaandTala.
“Adeliciousone,though,”Ipointout.
“And,”Brendanadds,droppinghisvoice,“theyalwayscrashafterasugarblitz.”
Backinthetownsquare,wegorgeourselves:onpopcorn,onchocolatepieandrhubarb,onsugar-dustedpecansthatmakemethinkofcoldmorningsinCentralPark,andononelocalwinethathastobetheworstI’veeverhad,alongwithanotherthat’sactuallyprettygood
WedancewiththegirlstopopsongsBeasomehowknowsbetterthanLibbyorI,andasthenightwearsonandtotaldarknessfalls,bringingaslightchillwithit,TalafallsasleepinBrendan’sarmswhileheandClintLastraaretalkingaboutcatch-and-releasefishingspots.
Brendan’sneverfishedinhislife,buthe’sdeterminedtotry,andClint’shappytogethimstarted.
Libby’sgoingtobehappyhere,IthinkasIwatchthemfromadistance.She’sgoingtobesofuckinghappy,andthatwillmakethedistancebearable,almost.
SheandBeaslipofftoseeiftheycanfindsomesweatshirtsorblanketsinBrendan’srentalcar,butIhangback,watchingGertieandhergirlfriend,thebickeringcouplefromtownhall,andadozenotherpairingssleepilyswayonthedancefloor.
IspotShepherdinagapinthecrowd,andhegivesmeasheepishsmileandwavebeforeamblingover.“Heythere,”hesays.
“Hey,”Isay.Afteranawkwardmoment,Ibegin,“I’msorryabout—”rightashe’ssaying,“Justwantedtosay—”
Hesmilesagain,thathandsome,leading-mansmile.“Yougofirst.”
“I’msorryifImisledyou,”Isay.“You’reagreatguy.”
Hegivesanotherwarm,albeitvaguelydisappointedsmile.“Justnotyourkindofgreatguy.”
“No,”Iadmit.“Iguessnot.Butifyou’reeverinNewYorkandyouneedatourguide—orawingman…”
“I’lllookyouup.”Hestiflesayawnwiththebackofhishand.“Notusedtobeingupthislate,”hesaysapologetically.“Ishouldturnin.”
Ofcoursehe’samorningperson.LifewithShepherdwouldbealotofslow,romanticsexwithintenselylovingeyecontact,followedbywatchingthesunriseoverthevalley.Hewill,nodoubt,bepartofsomeone’shappyending.Maybehebelongstosomeonealready,inawaythatcan’tbeexplained.
Forsomeoneelse,hewillbeeasyinthebestway.
Asifthethoughthasconjuredhim,CharlieappearsafewyardsbehindShepherd,andmyheartlifts,warmandreliableasOldFaithful.
Shepherdcatchesmelookingaway,asunflowerfindingitslightsource.HefollowsmygazestraighttoCharlieandsmilesknowingly.“Haveagoodflight,Nora.”
“Thanks,”Isay,blushingalittleatmyowntransparency.“Takecare,Shepherd.”
Hewalksoff,pausingforamomenttotalktoCharlieonhiswaytotheedgeofthetownsquare.Smilesareexchanged,Charlie’sabitwarybutnotsoguardedasthatdayoutsideGoodeBooks.Shepherdclapshimontheshoulderashesayssomething,andCharlielookstowardme,thatgeyserofaffectioneruptinginmychestagainathisfaintsmile.
Withafewmorewords,theypartways,ShepherdmakinghiswaytothefringesofthecrowdandCharliecomingtowardmewithhissmiletuggingwider.
“Iheardyoumightbecold,”hesaysquietly.Heholdsoutabundled-upflannelshirtIhadn’tnoticedhimcarrying.IglancetowardwhereLibbyandBeahaverejoinedBrendan,andLibbyflashesmeaquicksmile.
“Wow,”Isay.“Worddoestravelfasthere.”
“Once,inhighschool,”hesays,“Iwenttoabarberonawhimandgotmyheadshaved.MyparentsknewbeforeIgothome.”
“Impressive,”Isay.
“Demented.”HeholdstheflannelupandIturn,feelinglikeadelicatesocialiteinanoldblack-and-whitemovieasheslipsitovermyarms,thenturnsmebacktohimandstartsbuttoningit.
“Isthisyours?”Iask.
“Absolutelynot,”hesays.“Iboughtitforyou.”Atmysurprise,helaughs.“Itwasonyourlist.IgotLibbyonetoo.ShescreamedwhenIhandedittoher.Ithoughtshewasgoingintolabor.”
Forafewmoments,wejustsmileateachother.It’stheleastawkwardextendedeyecontactofmylife.Itfeelslikewe’vebothsignedonforthesameactivity,andthisisit:existing,ateachother.
“HowdoIlook?”Isay.
“Likeaveryhotwoman,”hesays,“inaveryunimpressiveshirt.”
“AllIheardwashot.”
Hismouthsplitsinto,quitepossibly,myfavoriteofhisvarioussmiles,theonethatmakesitlooklikethere’sasecrettuckedupinonecornerofhismouth.“Doyouwanttodance,Stephens?”
“Doyou?”Iask,surprised.
“No,”hesays,“butIwanttotouchyou,andit’sagoodcover.”
Itakehishandandpullhimoutontothedancefloor,beneaththetwinklinglights,whileJamesTaylor’s“CarolinainMyMind”playsliketheuniversejustwantstoteaseme.
CharliefoldsmyhandupinhiswarmpalmandIrestmycheekagainsthissweater,closingmyeyestofocusonhowthisfeels.Iimprinteverydetailofhimonmymind:thescentofBOOKandcitrus,withthealmostspicynotethat’sallhisown;thesoft,finewoolandfirmchestunderneathit;theeager,pulpythudofhisheart;hischeekbrushingmytemple;theindescribableshiveryfeelingwhenhenestleshismouthintomyhairandbreathesmein.
“Areyouexcitedtoeat?”hesaysquietly.
Iopenmyeyestostudyhisthick,seriousbrows.“Ialreadyate.IhadPieDinner.”
Hehalfshakeshishead.“Imeanwhenyougetbacktothecity.”
“Oh.”Ipressmycheekintohisshoulder,fingerscurlingin,tryingtokeephim,orme,hereawhilelonger.“Wedon’thavetotalkaboutthat.”
Hishandsgentlyincreasetheirpressureforamoment.“Idon’tmind.”
Iclosemyeyesagainsttears,andafterapausesay,“I’vebeencravingThai.”
“There’sagreatThairestaurantaroundthecornerfrommyapartment,”hesays.“I’lltakeyousomeday.”
Iletmyselfpictureitagain:Charlieinmyapartment,hislaptopinfrontofhim,hisfacesternashereadsonmysofa.Icehidinginthecornersofthewindowpanebehindhim,snowflakesmeltingacrosstheglass,Christmaslightswrappedaroundthelamppostsonthestreetbelow,peoplecarryingoversizedshoppingbagspast.
Iletmyselfimaginethisfeelinglasting.IimagineaworldwithinaworldjustforCharlieandme,movingthestonewallsbackafewfeettofithiminsidethem,andnotspendingeverysecondlookingforthecracks.
This,Ithinkagain,iswhatitistodream.
Andthen,becauseIhaveto—becauseifanyonedeserveshonesty,it’sCharlie—Iinvitethetruthforwardtoreplacethestory.
Meworkingtwelve-hourdays,tryingtooff-loadmyclients,thensettleintoanewjob.Charlieexhaustedfromlongdaysatthebookstore,weekendsatphysicaltherapyappointmentswithhisdad,hours’worthofgooglinghowtofixleakysinksandreplacelooseshingles.
Missedcalls.Unansweredtextspilingup.Hurt.Grief.Missingeachother.Visitscanceledforworkorfamilyemergencies.Bothofusstretchedtoothin,ourheartsspanningtoomanystates,thetensionunbearable.
Mychestsqueezessotightithurts.HetoldmesomeoneneededtomakesureIhavewhatIneed,buthedeservesthattoo.
Myheartracesandmybodyfeelslikeit’sonthevergeofcomingapart.“Charlie.”
There’salongsilence.Histhroatbobsasheswallows.Hisvoiceisahoarse,growlywhisper.“Iknow.Butdon’tsayityet.”
Wedon’tlookateachother.Ifwelook,we’llknowthisgameofmake-believeisover,sowejustholdontoeachother.
Hislong-distancerelationshipwastheworstyearofhislife.Minealmostbrokeme.He’srightthatit’sdifferent,thatit’susandweunderstandeachother,butthat’swhyIcan’tdoit.
“Aweekago,”Isay,“IlikedyousomuchIwouldhavewantedtotrytomakethiswork.”Iswallowajagged,fist-sizedlump,butstillmyvoicehastoscrapebytogetout.“ButnowIthinkImightloveyoutoomuchforthat.”
I’msurprisedtohearmyselfsayit.NotbecauseIwasunawareofhowIfelt—butbecauseI’veneverbeenthefirstpersontosaytheL-word.NotevenwithJakob.“Youdon’thavetosayanything,”Ihurrytoadd.
Hisjawflexesagainstmytemple.“OfcourseIloveyou,Nora.IfIlovedyouanyless,I’dbetryingtoconvinceyouthatyoucouldbehappyhere.YouhavenoideahowbadlyIwishIcouldbeenough.”
“Charlie—”Ibegin.
“I’mnotbeingself-deprecating,”hepromisessoftlyagainstmyear.“Ijustdon’tthinkthat’showitworksinreallife.”
“Ifanyonecouldbeenough,”Isay,“Ithinkitmightbeyou.”
Hisarmssqueezearoundme,hisvoicedroppingtoasoftscratch.“I’mgladwehadourmoment.Evenifitdidn’tlastaslongaswewanteditto.”
Thetearsaresothickinmyeyesthatthedancefloordissolvesintostreaksofcolorandlight.
“But,”Ifinallygetout,myeyesscrunchingshut,“itreallywasfuckingperfect.”
“You’regoingtobeokay,Nora,”hewhispersagainstmytemple,hishandsloosening.“You’regoingtobebetterthanokay.”
JustlikeIasked,there’snogoodbye.Whenthesongends,hepressesonelastkissagainstthecurveofmyjaw.Myeyesflutterclosed.
WhenIopenthem,he’sgone.
ButIstillfeelhimeverywhere.
IamHeathcliff.
AsIescapetowardthedarkedgeofthetownsquare,IfireoffatexttoLibbyandBrendan,tellingthemthatI’llmeetthemathome.
“Youtakingoff?”
Inotonlyyelpinsurprisebutthrowmypurse.Itcrashesintoaplanter.
“Didn’tmeantoscareyou.”ClintLastrasitsonabench,hiswalkerbesidehim,afewstraymothscirclingoverhead.
Iretrievemypurse,wipingatmyeyesasdiscreetlyasIcan.“Earlyflighttomorrow.”
Henods.“Iwouldn’tmindgettingtobedeither,butSalwon’tletmeoutofhersight.”Hecastsmeawrylook.“It’shardgettingold.Everyonetreatsyoulikeakidagain.”
“Iwould’vegivenanythingtoseemymomgetold.”It’soutbeforeIrealizeitwasn’tjustanoteinmybrain.
“You’reright,”Clintsays.“I’mlucky.Still,can’thelpbutfeellikeI’mfailinghim.”
Ifeelmybrowsflickup.“Who?Charlie?”
Thecornerofhismouthflinchesdownward.“Itwasn’tsupposedtobelikethis.Heshouldn’tbehere.”
Ibalk,tornforamomentabouthowmuch,ifanything,tosay.I’vebarelyspokentoClintintheweeksI’vebeenhere.
“Maybenot,”Isaytightly.“Butitmeansalottohim,togettobehereforyou.It’simportanttohim.”
Clintgazeswistfullytowardthecrowdonthedancefloor,whereCharlieandIstoodtogethermomentsago.“Hewon’tbehappy.”
I’mnotsureit’sthatsimple.It’snotlikeIwouldn’tbehappyifIwereherewithLibby.It’smorethatitwouldfeellikeIwasborrowingsomeone’sjeans.OrlikeIwastakingabreakfrommyownlife,likethiswasaperiodoftimewhenI’dsidesteppedoutofmyownpathforawhile.
I’vedonethatbefore,andI’veneverhadregrets,exactly.There’vealwaysbeenthingstobegratefulfor.
That’slife.You’realwaysmakingdecisions,takingpathsthatleadyouawayfromtherestbeforeyoucanseewheretheyend.Maybethat’swhyweasaspecieslovestoriessomuch.Allthosechancesfordo-overs,opportunitiestolivetheliveswe’llneverhave.“HewantstobehereforyouandSally,”Isay.“He’sworkingsohardtobewhathethinksyouneed.”
ConfirmedSweetGuyClintLastrawipesathischeek.Hishandsshakealittlewhentheyrestagainsthisleg.
“He’salwaysbeenspecial,”Clintsays.“Likehismom.Butsometimes…well,IthinkSally’salwaysenjoyedstandingoutabit.”
Hismouthtwists.“Ithinkmysonhasspentmostofhislifefeelinglonely.”Clintglancessidelongatme,appraising,thatsameX-raysensationhisson’ssogoodatevoking.“He’sbeendifferenttheselastfewweeks.”
Clintlaughstohimself.“Youknow,Iusedtotrytoreadabookamonthwithhim.Diditallthroughhighschool,andcollegetoo.I’daskforrecommendations—thelastthinghe’dreadandloved,sowe’dalwayshavesomethingtotalkabout,thatmatteredtohim.HewasprobablyfourteenyearsoldthefirsttimeIreadoneofhisbooksandthought,Shit.Thiskid’soutgrownme.”
WhenIstarttoargue,Clintliftsahand.“Idon’tmeanthatinaself-deprecatingway.I’masmartenoughman,inmyway.ButI’mamazedbymyson.Icouldlistentothatkidtalkforwaylongerthanheeverwould,aboutprettymuchanything.ThefirsttimeSalandIvisitedhiminNewYork,itallmadeperfectsense.Itwaslikehe’dbeenlivingathalfvolumeuntilthatmoment.That’snotwhataparentwantsfortheirkid.”
Halfvolume
“He’sbeendifferenttheselastfewweeks.”Inthetwitchofhismouth,Iseeshadesofhisson,biologicalornot.“Morecomfortable.Morehimself.”
I’vebeendifferenttoo.
IwonderifI’vebeenlivingathalfvolumetoo.Withagenting.Withdating.Tampingmyselfintoashapethatfeltsturdyandsafeinsteadofright.
“Youknow,”Isaycautiously,notwantingtooutCharlieinanywaybutalsoneedingtobeinhiscorner,tonotchoosepolitenessorlikabilityorwinningoveranyoneoverhim,“maybeyou’retryingtoproveyoudon’tneedhim,becauseyouthinkhedoesn’twanttobehere.Butdon’tactlikehe’snotdoinganygood,orlikehecan’thelp.Thisplacealreadygavehimenoughreasontofeellikehewasthewrongkindofperson,andtheverylastpersonheneedstogetthatfromisyou.”
Whiteringshiseyes.Heopenshismouthtoobject.
“Itdoesn’tmatterwhetherthat’showyoufeelornot,ifthat’showitlookstohim,”Isay.“Andifyoudolethimhelpyou,he’lldoit.Betterthanyoueverexpected.”
Withthat,Iturnandwalkawaybeforeanymoretearscanfall.36
WHENISTEPoutofthebuildingintothecrispSeptemberafternoon,aflurryofpinkandorangehurlsitselfatme.Libby’slemon-lavenderscentwrapsaroundmyshouldersasshesqueals,“Youdidit!”
“Ifbyit,”Isay,“youmean‘completedthefirststepofaninterviewprocessthatmightgonowhere,’thenIsuredid.”
Shepullsback,beaming.Herhairhasfadedalmostentirelybacktoblond,butherclothesareascolorfulasever.“What’dtheysay?”
“They’llbeintouch,”Ireply.
Shethreadsherarmthroughmineandturnsmeupthesidewalk.“You’vegotit.”
Nervesjostleinmystomach.“Ifeellikeit’sthefirstdayofschool,I’mnaked,andIforgotmylockercombination.Wait—no,it’sthelastdayofschool,andIneverwenttomath,plusallthoseotherthings.”
“Theuncertaintyisgoodforyou,”shesays.“Youreallywantthis,Sissy.That’sagoodthing.Nowlet’sgo,I’mfamished.Doyouhavethelist?”
“Oh,doyoumeanthislist?”Isay,producingthelaminatedsheetshemadeofeverythingweneedtoeat,drink,anddobeforesheleaves.
Mostdays,Iseeher.Forlunch,orawalktotheplaygroundbyherplace,ortositonthelivingroomfloorpackingstuffedanimalsandtinyoverallsintocardboardboxes.(SometimesIcryoverparticularlytinyonesiesthatusedtobelongtoBea,thentoTala,andwillsoonbeinheritedbyNumberThree.)
OneSaturday,wetakethegirlstotheMuseumofNaturalHistoryandspendtwoandahalfhoursintheroomwiththehugewhale.Anothernight,BrendanandLibbyandImeetatourfavoritepizzaplaceinDumboandwestayoutonthepatiotalkinguntilthestaffiscleaningupforthenight.
WeoverpaytohaveourcaricaturesdrawnatCentralPark.WeaskatouristtotakeourfamilypictureatBethesdaFountain.Wemeetforcrepes,SundayafterSunday,atLibby’sfavoritespotinWilliamsburg.
AndthenNovembercomes.
TheyleaveonaThursday,brightandearly.Thegirlsaresosleepythatwe’reabletoplopthemintotheU-Haulwithoutmuchfanfare,andsecretlyI’mdisappointed.ItkillsmetohearthemcryingoverthewordsAuntNono,buttonothearthemmightbeworse.
BrendanandIhuggoodbye,andthenheclimbsintotherentaltrucktogivemeandLibbysomeprivacy.
“Run!”Istage-whispertoLibby,andheshootsmeasmilebeforepullingthedoorshut.
Libby’salreadycrying.Shesaidshewokeupcrying.Ididn’t,butthenagain,I’mnotsureIslept.
ThethirdtimeIjoltedawake,Igotonlineandmadeappointmentswithbothatherapistandasleepspecialist,thenorderedfourbooksthatpromisedtohave“helpedmillionsin[my]exactsituation!”
Itwasalmostnicetohavesomethingelsetofocusoninthedeadofnight.
“We’lltalkallthetime,”Libbypromises.“You’regoingtobesickofme.”There’sanicinesstothewind,andIliftherchillyfingertipstobreathewarmthintothem.
Sherollshereyes,laughingtearily.“StillsuchanutterMom.”
“You’reonetotalk.”Ibenddowntokissherbelly.“Begood,NumberThree,andAuntieNonowillbringyouapresentwhenshevisits.Amotorcycle,maybe,orsomepartydrugs.”
“Idon’tknowwhattosay.”Libby’svoicecracks.
Ipullherintoahug.“Thissucks.”
Sherelaxesinmyarms.“Thisdoesindeedsuck.”
“Butitalsorules,”Ipointout.“You’regoingtohaveabig-asshouse,andwindowsthatdon’tfacethatoldguywhoneverwearspants,andyou’regoingtohaveagardenandyou’llwearthoseoverpricedprairiedresseswhenyouhostdinnerpartieswithfreshfloralarrangementsoneverysurface,andyourkidsaregoingtostayoutlatecatchingfireflieswiththeneighborkids,andBrendan’sprobablygoingtolearnhowto,like,chopwoodandgetrippedandcarryyouaroundlikeyou’reinaromancenovel.”
“Andthenyou’regoingtovisit,”Libbycutsin.“Andwe’regoingtostayupallnighttalking.We’regoingtodrinkonetoomanyginandtonics,andI’mgoingtoconvinceyoutosingSherylCrowwithmeatPoppaSquat’skaraokenight,andwe’regoingtogotoarealChristmastreefarm,notjustatentinanalleyway,andwe’regoingtoshowthegirlsPhiladelphiaStory,andthey’regoingtosay,Hey,amImistaken,orisCaryGrantkindofbeinganasshole?Whywouldn’tsheendupwithJimmyStewart?”
“Andwe’llhavetotellthemthatsomepeoplesimplyhavebadtaste,”Iagreesolemnly.
“Orthatsometimes,therearenotonebuttwohotmenvyingforyourheart,andyouhavetospininacircleandchooseoneatrandom,thenmarrytheotherofftohiscoworker.”
“Babe?”Brendancallsfromthetruck,grimacingapologetically.
Libbynodsinunderstandingandwedrawapart,stillgrippingeachother’sforearmslikewe’repreparingtospinincirclesatfullspeedanddon’twantinertiatopullusapart.Prettyaccurate,actually.
“Thisisn’tgoodbye,”shesays.
“Ofcoursenot,”Isay.“NadineWintersneverrememberstosayhelloorgoodbye.”
“Alsowe’resisters,”shesays.“We’restucktogether.”
“Thattoo.”
Sheletsgoofmeandclimbsupintothetruck.
Astheypullaway,myeyesfillup.Atleastthetearsheldoffthislong.AtleastIearnedthem.
ThewhiteandorangeoftheU-Haulmelttogetheruntilit’slikeI’mlookingatawatercolorpaintingthat’sbeenleftoutintherain,myfamilydisintegratingintocolorfulstreaks.Iwatchtheblurofthemshrinkaway.Oneblock.Thentwo.Thenthree.Thentheyturn,andthey’regone,anditfeelslikeI’maconcreteslabthat’sjustbeencrackedinhalf,onlytorealizemyinsidesneverquiteset.
I’mmush.
I’mcryinghardnow.Notcutelittlesniffs.Uglygaspingbreaths.Peoplewalkbyonthesidewalk.Somegivemeawideberth.Othersshootmesympatheticlooks.Asonewomanaroundmyagepasses,sheholdsoutatissuetomewithoutsomuchasslowingherpaceandIclutchitlikeababyblanket,unabletodoanythingbutcryharderandlaugh,myabdomenricochetingbetweenthetwo.
It’slikeMomusedtosay:You’renotatrueNewYorkeruntilyou’rewillingtofeelyouremotionsoutintheopen,andonlynow,havingmadeafirmdecisiontostay,haveIcrossedthatlastthreshold.
IdropontoLibby’sstoop—herformerstoop—laughingandcryingsohystericallyIcannolongerdiscernonefromtheother.OnlyoncemyphonestartstoringdoImanagetogetanykindofholdonmyself.
Isniff,clearingoutsomeofmytears,asIfreemyphonefrommypocketandreadthescreen.“Libby?”Ianswer.“Iseverythingokay?”
“What’sup?”shesays.
“Nothing?”Ismearthebacksofmyhandsacrossmyeyes.“You?”
“Notalot,”shesighs.“Ijustmissedyou.ThoughtI’dcallandsayhi.”
Warmthfillsmychest.Itcreepsintomyfingersandtoes,untilthereissomuchofit,ithurts.I’moverfilled.Noonepersonshouldeverhavequitesomuchloveintheirbodyatonetime.
“What’sNewYorklooklikerightnow?”sheasks.
They’vebeengoneeightminutes.“DidBrendan’sfootfalloffontothegaspedalorsomething?”
“Justtellme,”shesays.“Iwanttohearyoudescribeit.”
Ilookaroundatthehustleandbustle,thetreespushingouttheirfirstspurtsofredsandyellowsacrosstheirleaves.Amanunloadingcratesoffruitatthebodegaacrossthestreet.Anoldladywithjet-blackhairunderawhiterhinestonedcowboyhatpickingthroughtheDVDsforsaleonsomeguy’sfoldingtable.(LibbyandItookaglancebeforewepartedwaysandrealizedeighty-fivepercentofthecollectionfeaturedKeanuReeves,whichbegsthequestion:didthismanandKeanuReeveshavesomegreatfalling-out?)
Ismellkebabcookingdownthestreet,andinthedistancecarhornsblare,andawomanwhomayormaynotbeanactressI’veseenonSVUhurriespastinhugesunglasses,walkingatiny,prancingBostonterrier.
“Well?”Libbysays.
Itlookslikehome.“Sameold,sameold.”
“Iknewit.”Icanhearhersmiling.
Shewantedmetogowithher,butshe’shappythatI’mgettingwhatIwant.
Iwantedhertostay,butIhopeshefindseverythingshe’slookingforandmore.
Maybeloveshouldn’tbebuiltonafoundationofcompromises,butmaybeitcan’texistwithoutthemeither.
Notthekindthatforcestwopeopleintoshapestheydon’tfitin,butthekindthatloosenstheirgrips,alwaysleavesroomtogrow.Compromisesthatsay,therewillbeayou-shapedspaceinmyheart,andifyourshapechanges,Iwilladapt.
Nomatterwherewego,ourlovewillstretchouttoholdus,andthatmakesmefeellike…likeeverythingwillbeokay.37
ONDECEMBERTWELFTHateleventwenty,ImakemywayovertoFreemanBooks.
It’stheonedayayearI’vealwaystakenoffattheagency,andassoonasIstartedatLoggiaPublishing,Irequestedthetwelfthofftheretoo.
Thelearningcurveisbrutal,butaftersomanyyearsofknowingexactlyhowtodomyjob,thechallengeisexhilarating.Icombthrougheachofmynewlyinheritedauthors’manuscriptslikeanarchaeologistatanewlydiscovereddigsite.
Isitpossibletobeazealotforeditingbooks?
Ifso,that’swhatIam.
Ialmosthatedtomissworktoday,butifI’mgoingtobeoutoftheoffice,atleastI’llstillbesurroundedbywords.
Itakemytimewalking,enjoyingasurpriseboutofsunshinethatmeltsthesnowintoslushylumpsonthesidewalk,thefeeblewarmthseepingintomyfavoriteherringbonecoat.
AtthedinerwhereMomusedtowork,Ibuyacupofcoffeeandadanish.It’sbeenalongtimesinceanyonerecognizedmehere,butI’mprettysurethesamecashierrangupLibbyandmelastDecembertwelfth,andthat’senoughtofillmewithapleasantsenseofbelonging.
Andthenthesharpache,likeI’vebrushedupagainsttheblisteredpartofmyheart:Charlieshouldbehere.Idon’tavoidthinkingabouthim,likeIusedtodowithJakob.Evenifithurts,whenheshimmersacrossmymind,it’slikerememberingafavoritebook.Onethatleftyougutted,sure,butalsoonethatchangedyouforever.
Ipassaflowershopwithaheatedplastictentproppeduparounditsstorefrontandduckintobuyabouquetofdeepredpetalssprinkledwithsilverygreenleavesandtinywhiteblossoms.Idon’tknowflowertypes,butforthesetobebloominginwinter,theymustbehardy,andIrespectthemforthat.
Atelevenforty-five,I’mstilltwoblocksaway,andmyphonevibratesinmycoatpocket.Shiftingthebouquetintothecrookofmyarm,Ifisharoundinmypocket,thentugmygloveoffwithmyteethtoswipethephoneunlockedandreadLibby’smessage.
Happybirthday!shewrites,likeshe’ssendingthetextstraighttoMom.
Happybirthday,Iwriteback,mycheststinging.It’shardtobeaparttoday.It’sthefirsttimeI’vehadtodothiswithouther.
FaceTimelater?shewrites.
Ofcourse,Isay.
ShetypesforaminuteasIhurryacrossthelastblock.Didyougetmypresentyet?
SincewhendowedopresentsforMom’sbirthday?Iwrite.
Sincewehavetobeapartforit,shesays.
Well,Ididn’tgetyouanything.
That’sfine,shesays.Youcanoweme.Butyouhaven’tgottenyoursyet?
No,Iwrite.I’mout.
Ah,shesays.AtFreeman’salready?
Inaboutthreeseconds.Ishoulderthedooropenandstepintothefamiliardustywarmth.
I’llletyougo,shesays.Butsendapicwhenthepresentgetsthere,okay?
Ireplywithathumbs-upandaheart,thendropmyphoneandglovesintomypockets,freeingmyhandstobrowse.
Iheadstraightfortheromanceshelves.Thisyear,I’llbuytwocopiesofwhateverIchooseandmailonetoLibby.Or,betteryet,takeitwithmewhenIvisitherfortheholidaysandNumberThree’sbirth.
AsIwanderalongthehundredsofpristinespines,timeunspoolsaroundme,thecurrentslowing.Ihavenowheretobe.Nothingtodobutperusesummariesandpullquotesondustjackets,skimmingsomelastpagesandleavingothersunread.Againandagain,Iask,Whataboutthisone,Mom?Wouldyoulikethis?
Andthen,WouldIlikethis?Becausethatmatterstoo.
WheneverI’minfrontofarowofbooks,it’slikeIcanhearMom’sloudyelpofalaugh,smellherwarmlavenderscent.Ononeoccasion,LibbyandIweresoabsorbedinourDecembertwelfthprocessthat,forliketenminutes,wefailedtonoticethemaninthetrenchcoatnexttousdoinghislevelbesttoexposehimself.
(Whenthishappened,andIfinallynoticed,Iheardmyselfcalmly,disinterestedly,say—abookstillinmyhand—No.ThelookonhisfacegavemethegreatestsurgeofpowerI’vehadtodate,andLibbyandIlaughedforweeksaboutwhatotherwisemight’vebeenafairlytraumatizingexperience.)
SothoughI’mawareacoupleofotherpeoplearemillingaroundinmyperiphery,Idon’texactlyacknowledgeanyofthemuntilIreachforJanuaryAndrews’snovelCurmudgeon,onlytofindsomeoneelsereachingforitatthesamemoment.
Mostpeople,Iguess,wouldblurt,Sorry!Whatcomesoutofmymouthis,“Agh!”
Neitherofusletsgoofthebook—typicalcitypeople—andIspintowardmyrival,unwillingtobackdown.
Myheartstops.
Okay,I’msureitdoesn’t.
I’malivestill.
Butthis,Irealize,iswhattheymean,allthosethousandsofwriterswho’vetriedtodescribethesensationoffollowingthetrailofyourlifeforyears,onlytosmackintosomethingthatchangesitforever.
Thewaythesensationjarsthroughyou,fromthecenterout.Howyoufeelitinyourmouthandtoesallatonce,adozentinyexplosions.
Andthenanunfurlingofwarmthfromyourcollarbonetoyourribs,tothighs,topalms,likejustseeinghimhastriggeredsomekindofchrysalis.
Mybodyhasmovedfromwinterintospring,allthosescragglylittlesproutspushingupthroughacrushofsnow.Spring,aliveandawakeinmybloodstream.
“Stephens,”Charliesayssoftly,likeaswear,oraprayer,oramantra.
“Whatareyoudoinghere?”Ibreathe.
“I’mnotsurewhichanswertostartwith.”
“Libby.”Therealizationvaultsupthroughme.“You’re—you’remygift?”
Hismouthcurves,teasing,buthiseyesstaysoft,almosthesitant.“Inaway.”
“Inwhatway?”
“GoodeBooks,”hesayscarefully,“isundernewmanagement.”
Ishakemyhead,tryingtoclearthefog.“Yoursistercamethrough?”
Heshakeshishead.“Yoursdid.”
Mymouthopensbutnosoundcomesout.WhenIshutitagain,tearscloudmyeyes.“Idon’tunderstand.”
Butsomepartofmedoes.
Orwantstobelieveitdoes.
Ithopes.Andthathoperegisterslikeaburningknotofgolden,glowingthread,tootangleduptomakesenseof.
Charlieslidesthebookcaughtbetweenourhandsbackontotheshelf,thenstepsinclose,hishandstakingmine.
“Threeweeksago,”hesays,“Iwasattheshop,andourfamilyshowedup.”
“Ourfamily?”Irepeat.
“Sally,Clint,Libby,”hesays.“TheybroughtaPowerPoint.”
“APowerPoint?”Isay,mybrowwrinkling.
Thecornerofhismouthcurves.“Itwasveryorganized,”hesays.“Youwould’vefuckinglovedit.Maybethey’llemailyouacopy.”
“Idon’tunderstand,”Isay.“Howareyouhere?”
“Theyputtogetheralist,”hesays.“?‘TwelveStepstoReuniteSoulMates’—which,bytheway,involvedmultipleJaneAustenquotes.NotsureifthatwasLibbyorDad.ButwhatI’mgettingatis,theymadesomecompellingpoints.”
Tearsfloodintomyeyes,mynose,mychest.“Suchas?”
Afull,brightsmile;anelectricalstormbehindhiseyes.“SuchasI’mdesperatetoseeyourPelotoninreallife,”hesays.“AndIneedtoknowifyourmattressdeservesthehype.Andmostimportantly,I’msofuckinginlovewithyou,Nora.”
“But—butyourdad…”
“Graduatedearlyfromphysicaltherapy,”hesays.“ThePowerPointsaid‘withhonors,’butI’meighty-eightpercentsurethat’snotarealthing.AndLibbytookoverthestore.Thegirlsrunwildthereeveryday,andTalaarmwrestlesanyonewhotriestoleavewithoutbuyinganything.It’sbeautiful.LibbyalsosaidtotellyouthatsheandBrendanare‘ManhattanDestitutebutNorthCarolinaRich,’soafterthebabycomes,PrincipalSchroeder’sgoingtohelpoutwhileLibbytakesaleave,thenwhenshe’sreadytocomebacktowork,she’llhireananny,soyoushouldstopworryingbeforeyouevenstart.”
Ilaughwetly,shakemyheadagain.“Yousaidyourmomwouldneverletsomeoneoutsidethefamilyrunthestore.”
Hiseyessettleonmyface,hisexpressiongoingserious.“Ithinkshe’shopefulLibbywon’tbeoutsidethefamilyforever.”
That’sit.Thedambreaks,andIburstintosniffling,happytearsasCharlieframesmyfacewithhishands.“ItoldmyparentsIcouldn’tleavethemiftheyneededme,andyouknowwhattheysaid?”
“What?”Myvoicecracksaboutfourtimesonthatonesyllable.
“Theysaidthey’retheparents.”Hisvoiceisdamp,throttled.“Apparentlytheydon’tneed‘jackshit’frommeexceptformetobehappy.Andtheywouldn’tmindahot,sexydaughter-in-law.”
Idon’tknowwhethertolaughorcrysomemore,ormaybejustscreamatthetopofmylungs.Excitedscream,notscaredscream.(Isthathowyou’resupposedtosaySpaaaahhh?)
“ExactquotefromSally?”Isay.
Hegrins.“Paraphrasing.”
Theknotisunbraiding,unsnarlinginme,reachingupwardthroughmythroatandrootingdownthroughmystomachashegoeson.
“NoraStephens,”hesays,“I’verackedmybrainandthisisthebestIcancomeupwith,soIreallyhopeyoulikeit.”
Hisgazelifts,everythingaboutit,abouthisface,abouthisposture,abouthimmadeupofsharpedgesandjaggedbitsandshadows,allofitfamiliar,allofitperfect.Notforsomeoneelse,maybe,butforme.
“ImovebacktoNewYork,”hesays.“Igetanothereditingjob,ormaybetakeupagenting,ortrywritingagain.YouworkyourwayupatLoggia,andwe’rebothbusyallthetime,anddowninSunshineFalls,Libbyrunsthelocalbusinessshesaved,andmyparentsspoilyournieceslikethegrandkidstheysodesperatelywant,andBrendanprobablydoesn’tgetmuchbetteratfishing,buthegetstorelaxandeventakepaidvacationswithyoursisterandtheirkids.AndyouandI—wegoouttodinner
“Whereveryouwant,wheneveryouwant.Wehavealotoffunbeingcitypeople,andwe’rehappy.YouletmeloveyouasmuchasIknowIcan,foraslongasIknowIcan,andyouhaveitfuckingall.That’sit.That’sthebestIcouldcomeupwith,andIreallyfuckinghopeyousay—”
Ikisshimthen,likethereisn’tsomeonereadingoneoftheBridgertonnovelsfivefeetaway,likewe’vejustfoundeachotheronadesertedislandaftermonthsapart.Myhandsinhishair,mytonguecatchingonhisteeth,hispalmsslidingaroundbehindmeandsqueezingmetohiminthemostthoroughlypublicgropingwe’vemanagedyet.
“Iloveyou,Nora,”hesayswhenwepullapartafewinchestobreathe.“IthinkIloveeverythingaboutyou.”
“EvenmyPeloton?”Iask.
“Greatpieceofequipment,”hesays.
“ThefactthatIcheckmyemailafterworkhours?”
“JustmakesiteasiertoshareBigfooteroticawithouthavingtowalkacrosstheroom,”hesays.
“SometimesIwearveryimpracticalshoes,”Iadd.
“Nothingimpracticalaboutlookinghot,”hesays.
“Andwhataboutmybloodlust?”
Hiseyesgoheavyashesmiles.“That,”hesays,“mightbemyfavoritething.Bemyshark,Stephens.”
“Alreadywas,”Isay.“Alwayshavebeen.”
“Iloveyou,”hesaysagain.
“Iloveyoutoo.”Idon’thavetoforceitpastaknotorthroughtheviseofatightthroat.It’ssimplythetruth,anditbreathesoutofme,awispofsmoke,asigh,anotherfloatingblossomonacurrentcarryingbillionsofthem.
“Iknow,”hesays.“Icanreadyoulikeabook.”EPILOGUE
SIXMONTHSLATER
THEREAREBALLOONSinthewindow,achalkboardsignoutfront.Throughthesoftglareontheglass,youcanseethecrowdmillingaround,toastingwithchampagneflutes,talking,laughing,browsing.
Totheuninitiated,itmightlooklikeabirthdayparty.Thereis,afterall,alittlegirlwithstrawberryblondwaves—newlyfouryearsold—whohasstolenacupcakefromthetowerofthematthebackoftheshop,andnowrunsindizzyingfigureeightsaroundthelegsoftheadults,knockingintochairsandshelves,purpleicingsmearedaroundher
Orthecrowdcouldbecelebratingherlankyoldersister,withthestraight,ashybangs,whohasfinally,aftersomestruggle,learnedtoread.(Nowshespendsalmosteverydayfoldedupinthegreenbeanbagchairinsidethechildren’sbookroomwithabookinherlap.)Oritcouldallbeforthebabyonthepink-hairedwoman’ship.Shecrawledforthefirsttimejustninedaysago(albeitbackward,andonlyforasecond),andyou’dthinkshe’dwontheNobelPrize,fromthescreamingonhermomandaunt’svideocall.(“Doitagain,Kitty!ShowAuntieNonohowyou’rethemostagile,athleticbabyofalltime!”)
There’scausetocelebratethepink-hairedwoman’shusbandtoo.AfterweeksoftrailingalongwiththelocalCatch-and-ReleaseClub,hefinallycaughtsomethingearlythatmorning,whilethemistwasstillthickacrosstheriver—evenifitwasjustaverylargebra.
Thecupcake-thievingfour-year-olddartsthroughhislegsandrunssmackintothetalloldermanusingthecane.Shegigglesasherustlesherhair.Someonepatshisarmandcongratulateshimonfinallyretiring.“Moretimetocleantheguttersathome,”hesays.
Maybeeveryone’sheretohonorthewomanwiththesweet,crinklyeyes,whomovesinacloudofweedyjasmine—twoofherpaintingshavejustbeenacceptedintoagroupshow.
Ortheycouldbecelebratingthattheshophostingthepartyjusthaditsmostprofitablemonthineightyears.
Itcouldbethat,aftermonthsofworkingfreelance,thethick-browedmanwithapoutofasmilehasjustacceptedajobofferatWhartonHouseBooks,apositionseveralrungshigherthanwhenheworkedtherethefirsttime.Orthiscouldallhavesomethingtodowiththesmallvelvetboxhecan’tstopturningoverinhisjacketpocket.(There’snothinginsideit;shementionedoncethatifsheevergotmarried,she’dchoosetheringherself.)Orthattheice-blondwomanleaningagainsthimhasknownforweeksalreadywhatshe’sgoingtosay.(Shemadeapro-conlist,butonlyendedupwritinghisnameunderproandpossiblywearapieceofjewelryIdidn’tpickoutforlife????undercon.)
ThepartyinquestionmightalsobeforthewomanintheCoke-bottleglasses,clutchingachampagnefluteassheapproachesthemicrophoneinthecenterofthebookstore,astackofslate-graybooksarrangedonatablebesideher,aroomofreadersfallingquiet,rapt,waitingforhertospeak,tointroducethisnewstorytoaworldthathasbeenwaitingforit.
“Foranyonewhowantsitall,”shebegins,“mayyoufindsomethingthatismorethanenough.”
Shewonderswhetherwhatcomesnextcouldeverliveuptotheexpectations.
Shedoesn’tknow.Younevercan.
Sheturnsthepageanyway.ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
EverytimeIwriteabook,thelistofpeopleIneedtothankgrowswhiletheoddsofmehittingeveryonewhodeservesaheartfeltmentionshrinks.ButI’mgoingtotryanyway,becausethetruthis,Iwouldn’tbehereinthisbookyou’reholdingwithouttheessentialhelpofsomanypeople.
ThankyoufirstandforemosttomybelovedBerkleyfamily:Amanda,Sareer,Dache’,Danielle,Jessica,Craig,Christine,Jeanne-Marie,Claire,Ivan,Cindy,andeveryoneelse.Ilovebeingapartofthisteamsomuch,andgenuinelyfeelliketheluckiestwriterontheplanettohavelandedamongsuchsmart,talented,passionate,drivenbookloverslikeyou.HugeappreciationalsotoSandraChiu,AlisonCnockaert,NicoleWayland,MarthaCipolla,JessicaMcDonnell,andLindseyTulloch.
IalsohavetothankmyincredibleUKteamoveratViking,especiallyVikki,Georgia,Rosie,andPoppy.
ImmensegratitudetoTaylorandthewholeRootLiteraryteam—includingbutnotlimitedtoHolly,Melanie,Jasmine,andMolly.Youallarethemoreorganized,moresavvy,morepragmatichalfofmybrain,andIwouldbelostinthisbusinesswithoutyou.HugethanksalsotoHeatherandtherestofBarorInternationalforgettingmyworkintothehandsofreadersallovertheworld,andtomytirelessfilmagent,Mary,aswellasOrly,Nia,andtherestoftheUTAteam.
Publishinghasalotoffairygodparents,andIwanttothankafewofminefromthepasthandfulofyears:RobinKall,VilmaIris,ZibbyOwens,AshleySpivey,BeccaFreeman,GraceAtwood,andSarahTrue.
Additionally,Iwouldn’tbewhereIamtodaywithoutBookoftheMonthClubandmylocalindependentbookstoreJoseph-BethBooksellers,nottomentionalltheotherindieshopsacrosstheUSandbeyondwho’vesograciouslysupportedmeandhostedvirtualeventsovertheselasttwostrangeyears.You’veworkedsohardtofindwaystoconnectauthorsandreadersinthemidstofaglobalpandemic,andIcouldn’tbemoregrateful.
Oneofmyabsolutefavoritethingsaboutgettingtopublishinthisspaceishowmanykind,generous,funny,smart,empatheticpeopleI’vebeenluckyenoughtocrosspathswith.Some(butcertainlynotall)ofthoseincludeBrittanyCavallaro,JeffZentner,ParkerPeevyhouse,RileyRedgate,KerryKletter,DavidArnold,IsabelIba?ez,JustinReynolds,TehlorKayMejia,CamMontgomery,JodiPicoult,ColleenHoover,SarahMacLean,JenniferNiven,LanaPopovi?Harper,MegLeder,AustinSiegmund-Broka,EmilyWibberley,SophieCousens,LauraHankin,KennedyRyan,JaneL.Rosen,EvieDunmore,RoshaniChokshi,SallyThorne,Christina(and)Lauren,LauraJaneWilliams,JasmineGuillory,JosieSilver,SonaliDev,CaseyMcQuiston,LizzyDent,AmyReichert,AbbyJimenez,DebbieMacomber,LauraZigman,BethanyMorrow,AdrianaMather,KatieCotugno,HeatherCocks,JessicaMorgan,VictoriaSchwab,EricSmith,AdrianaTrigiani,and(myabsolutelyperfectaudiobooknarrator,friend,andfellowauthor)JuliaWhelan.
Therestofmyfriendsandmyfamily:Youknowwhoyouare,andIloveyousomuch.Thankyouforyourlove,support,andpatience.There’snooneI’dratherbequarantinedwith.
Andlastly,thebiggestthank-youevertoeveryonewho’sread,reviewed,bought,borrowed,lent,andpostedaboutmybooks.Youhavegivenmeanincrediblegift,andIwillneverstopappreciatingit.READERSGUIDE
BOOKLOVERS
EMILYHENRYBEHINDTHEBOOK
ILOVEHALLMARKMOVIES.Ilovethequaintsettings.Ilovetheexcessivenumberofsweatersandknee-highboots.Ilovetheaspirationallevelofcommitmenttoseasonaldécorineveryhome.Mostofall,Ilovethehappyendings.
Andhavingseenenoughoftheselow-angst,made-for-TVdelights(Hallmarkandotherwise),Ifoundmyselffascinatedwithoneparticulariterationofthesmall-townromance.Itgoeslikethis:anuptight,joyless,career-obsessedmaincharactergetsshippedofffromthebigcitytheycallhometoconductbusinessinMiddleAmerica.Theydon’twanttogo!Theydon’tevenhavetherightshoesforthiskindofsetting!Butoncethey’rethere,notonlydotheymanagetofallinlovewithoneofthesweet,small-townlocals,buttheyalsomanagetolearnthetruemeaningoflife.(Spoileralert:it’snotahigh-powercareerinamajormetropolis.)
Andeveryoneendsuphappy.Well,everyoneexceptfortheex.Thewoman(orman)leftbehindinthecity,whoseentireroleisusuallytocalltheleadcharacterandbarkatthemoverthephone,remindthemthattheywenttoSmalltown,USAforbusiness—toconductamasslayoff,ortocrushthelocaltoyemporiumsoBigToycanopenits667thlocationintheheartofthetown,whilemaybebulldozingagazeboortwoontheway.
Sheisanobstacletothereallovestory,themeanttoberelationship.Orshe’safoiltothelocalsweetheart,thereprimarilytoshowhowmuchbettertheotherwomanunderstandsthelead.Orshe’sthenot-evil-just-out-of-touchlittledevilonhisshoulder,tryingtoleadhimastrayfromthisnew,betterlife.
Again,ithastobesaid,Ilovethesemovies,andplentydon’tplayoutexactlylikethis,butenoughdothatIfoundmyselfasking,Whoisthiswoman?
Wheredoesherstorygofromhere?
Doesshegoontohaveherownsmall-townlife-changingexperience?
Doeseveryuptightcitypersonhavetoleavethecityandfallinlovewithacarpentertogettheirhappyending?
Ordoesherhappyendingevenlooklikeherex’sdoes?Whatdoesshecrave?
And,possiblymostexcitingtomeofall:whydoesshesobadlywantherboyfriendtotakecareofbusinessanddohisjobtobeginwith?
ThosewerethequestionsthatcreatedBookLovers,abookwhoseworkingtitlewas,infact,CityPerson
Itwasn’tjustanhomagetoallthosefish-out-of-waterstoriesIlovesomuch,butalsotothewomenwhofeellikefishoutofwater,theoneswhoaren’tsurewhetherthey’recuedupforahappyending.
TheDevilWearsPrada’sMirandaPriestly.
TheParentTrap’sMeredithBlake.
You’veGotMail’sPatriciaEden.
Thedesigner-wearing,stiletto-donning,red-pen-wielding,treadmill-using,salad-eatingwomenwithverylittletimefor,orinterestin,baking,camping,orwatchingsunrises.
Thiswasmyexplorationofwhothosewomenreallyare,andwhatahappyendingmightlooklikeforthem.Notaperfectending,butanaptone.Ahappilyeverafterthat’sasmessy,complicated,andultimatelyirresistibleasIfindBookLovers’city-dwelling,designer-wearing,Peloton-riding,red-pen-wieldingleadcharacters.
Sowhetheryou’reasmall-townsweetheart,anambitiouscareerperson,oradifferentkindofcharacterentirely,IhopeyouloveCharlieandNora.AndIhopetheirstoryremindsyouthereisnoonerightwaytobe,noone-size-fits-allhappyending,andnooneelseonearthwhocanbeexactlywhoyouare.DISCUSSIONQUESTIONS
Noraseesherselfalmostasthevillainessinsomeoneelse’slovestory.Whoaresomeofyourfavoritevillainesses—whomyoueitheroutrightloveorlovetohate?
Norareadsthelastpageofabookfirst.Libbylikestogoinknowingaslittleaspossible.Howdoyouprefertoread?
Whatwasthebookthatmadeyoufallinlove(orfallinloveagain)withreading?
WouldyouratherspendamonthinSunshineFalls,orinNora’sNewYorklife?Why?
Haveyoueverfeltlikedifferentplacesbroughtoutdifferentpartsofyou?
AsLibbyandNoragrow,theyhavetoacceptthatlifeiscarryingthemindifferentdirections.Haveyoueverbeenthroughsomethinglikethatwithafriendorfamilymember?
NoraandLibbygrewuptogether,andyettheyexperiencedtheirchildhoodsverydifferently.Whydoyouthinkthatis?Haveyoueverhadthishappenwithafamilymemberorfriend?
Charlieinitiallysetouttowriteandwoundupediting.Norawantedtoeditandbecameanagentinstead.Haveyoueverpursuedsomethingthatledyouinadifferentdirection?
Aschildren,NoraandLibbywouldchangetheendingsofstoriesiftheydidn’tlikethem.Ifyoucouldchangetheendingofonebook,whatwoulditbeandhowwouldyouchangeit?
AllofNora’sexeshaveendedupwithpartnerswhowereseeminglytotallydifferentthanthem.NoraandCharlie,however,arepeasinapod.Doyourfavoritefictionalcouplestendtofallinonecategoryortheother?Doyoufeelthe

Book Lovers

Post a comment after logging in