PraiseforTheSevenYearSlip
“IADOREDthisbook.Ashleyissuchatalent.Theworldsshecreatesaresowarmandspecificandbeautifullyrendered.TheSevenYearSlipisagorgeouslovestoryfromoneofthefinestromancewritersoutthere.Ilaughed,Icried,Ididn’twantittoend.ConsidermeAshleyPoston’sgreatestadmirer!”
—CarleyFortune,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofEverySummerAfter
“AshleyPostonhasagaincreatedaworldthatisoff-kilter,romantic,andirresistible.IfyouloveTheLakeHousebutalsowantsometopnotchmakeoutscenes,thisisthebookforyou.”
—EmmaStraub,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofThisTimeTomorrow
“Warm,funnyandheartbreakinglyhopeful,TheSevenYearSlipisamagicallovestory,adevastatingportraitofgrief,andalovingodetowhatitmeanstogrow,evolveandblossom.”
—SanguMandanna,bestsellingauthorofTheVerySecretSocietyofIrregularWitches
PraiseforTheDeadRomantics
“It’sWhileYouWereSleepingmeetsSixFeetUnder,andIneedtoyelltoeveryoneabouthowgooditis….Theresultisanantidotefordespair,aromancethatisfrankaboutthefactthatlifeendsandtimemarchesonbutthatneverthelessinsists:Wearen’tagothichorrornovel.We’realovestory.Thisisabooktomakeyoulaughduringthefuneralsceneandcrywhenthedancepartybegins.”
—TheNewYorkTimes
“Wecouldalluseagoodsummerghoststory,andyoucan’tgetmuchbetterthanAshleyPoston’sadultfictiondebut.”
—EntertainmentWeeklyOthertitlesbyAshleyPoston
TheDeadRomanticsBERKLEYROMANCE
PublishedbyBerkley
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Copyright?2023byAshleyPoston
ReadersGuidecopyright?2023byAshleyPoston
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LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationData
Names:Poston,Ashley,author.
Title:Thesevenyearslip/AshleyPoston.
Description:Firstedition.|NewYork:BerkleyRomance,2023.
Identifiers:LCCN2022054539(print)|LCCN2022054540(ebook)|ISBN9780593336502(tradepaperback)|ISBN9780593336526(ebook)
Classification:LCCPS3616.O8388S482023(print)|LCCPS3616.O8388(ebook)|DDC813/.6—dc23
LCrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/2022054539
LCebookrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/2022054540
CoverdesignandillustrationbyVi-AnNguyen
BookdesignbyDanielBrount,adaptedforebookbyEricTessen
Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitheraretheproductoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously,andanyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,businessestablishments,events,orlocalesisentirelycoincidental.
pid_prh_6.0_144052294_c0_r0Contents
Cover
PraiseforAshleyPoston
OtherTitlesbyAshleyPoston
TitlePage
Copyright
Dedication
ABeginning:MyDarlingClementine
1:PublishersLunch
2:Strauss&Adder
3:HomeSweetHome
4:StrangersinaStrangeTime
5:TheTime-Share
6:SecondChances
7:BetterAcquainted
8:RomanceinChocolate
9:FirstImpressions
10:(Sub)liminalSpaces
11:Burn,Baby,Burn
12:TheMoonandMore
13:BacktotheGrind
14:SevenYearsTooLate
15:Timeless
16:LifeGoesOn
17:LostandFound
18:AnotherYou
19:TheProposal
20:BerriedAlive
21:BrokenDoors
22:UnsolicitedAdvice
23:MainCourseofAction
24:AnUnwantedGift
25:BestinShow
26:WashingtonSquareArch
27:YoMama’sFajitas
28:TimeWellTraveled
29:BadTiming
30:WayBackWhen
31:LetterstotheDead
32:SecondandFinalBid
33:WhatNeverWas
34:AllTooWell
35:TwoWeeks’Notice
36:TouristSeason
37:TheLastGoodbye
38:Ghosts
39:IKnewYouWhen
40:ChasetheMoon
Epilogue:AndWeStay
Acknowledgments
ReadersGuide
Author’sNote
DiscussionQuestions
BookPairingsforTheSevenYearSlip
AbouttheAuthor
_144052294_Forallthefoodloversouttherewhoburnpopcorninthemicrowave:
we’dbetoostrongifwecouldcook,too
ABEGINNINGMyDarlingClementine
“Thisapartmentismagical,”AuntAnaleaoncesaid,sittinginherwingbackchairthecolorofarobin’segg,herhairtwistedupwithasilverdaggerhairpin.Shetoldmewithmischiefinhereyes,asifdaringmetoaskherwhatshemeant.IhadjustturnedeightandthoughtIkneweverything.
Ofcoursethisapartmentwasmagical.Myauntlivedinacentury-oldbuildingontheUpperEastSide,withstonelionsontheeaves,halfbrokenandclingingtothecorners.Everythingaboutitwasmagical—thewaythelightpouredintothekitcheninthemornings,goldenlikeeggyolk.Thewaythestudyseemedtofitmorebooksthanpossible,pouringofftheshelvesandpiledagainstthefarwindow,sohightheyalmostblockedoutallthelight.Ichartedforeignmapsinthebrickfaceofthefarlivingroomwall.Thebathroom,withitsperfecthighwindowandfrostedglassthatreflectedrainbowsagainstthesky-coloredwallsandornateclaw-foottub,wastheperfectplacetopaint.Mywatercolorscamealivethere,pigmentsdrippingfrommybrushesasIimaginedfar-offplacesI’dneverbeen.Andintheevenings,themoonlookedsoclosefromherbedroomwindowsIcouldalmostcatchit.
Theapartmentwasindeedmagical.Youcouldn’tconvincemeotherwise.Ijustthoughtitwasmyauntwhomadeitmagical—thewayshelived,wideandwild,thatinfectedeverythingshetouched.
“No,no,”shesaidwithawaveofherhand—theoneholdingalitMarlborocigarette.Thesmokewaftedoutoftheopenwindow,rufflingthetwopigeonscooingonthesill,andintothecloudlesssky.“Idon’tmeanmetaphorically,mydarlingClementine.Youmightnotbelievemeatfirst,butIpromiseit’strue.”
Thensheleanedcloser,andhermischiefturnedintoasmilethatshoneinherglitterybrowneyes,andshetoldmeasecret.1PublishersLunch
Myauntusedtosay,ifyoudon’tfitin,fooleveryoneuntilyoudo.
Shealsosaidtokeepyourpassportrenewed,topairredwineswithmeatsandwhiteswitheverythingelse,tofindworkthatisfulfillingtoyourheartaswellasyourhead,toneverforgettofallinlovewheneveryoucanfinditbecauseloveisnothingifnotamatteroftiming,andtochasethemoon.
Always,alwayschasethemoon.
Itmusthaveworkedforher,becauseitnevermatteredwhereshewasintheworld,shewashome.Shewaltzedthroughlifelikeshebelongedateverypartyshewasneverinvitedto,fellinlovewitheverylonelyheartshefound,andfoundluckineveryadventure.Shehadthatairabouther—touristsaskedherfordirectionswhenshewentabroad,serversaskedheropiniononwinesandfinewhiskeys,celebritiesaskedheraboutherlife.
Once,whenwewereattheTowerofLondon,myauntandIaccidentallyfoundourselvesatanexclusivepartyattheChapelRoyalofSt.PeteradVinculaandmanagedtostaywithawell-placedcomplimentandaknockoffstatementnecklace.There,wemetaprinceofWales,orNorwayorsomewhere,moonlightingastheDJ.Ididn’tremembermuchoftherestofthatnightsinceIoverestimatedmytolerancefortoo-expensivescotch.
Buteveryadventurewithmyauntwaslikethat.Shewasthemasterofbelonging.
Ifyouaren’tsurewhichforktouseatafancydinner?Goalongwiththepersonbesideyou.Lostinacityyou’velivedinformostofyourlife?Pretendyou’reatourist.Listeningtoanoperaafterneverhearingoneeverbefore?Nodandcommentonthechillingvibrato.SittinginaMichelin-starredrestaurantdrinkingabottleofredwinethatcostsmorethanyourmonthlyapartmentrent?Commentonthebodyandactlikeyou’vetastedbetter.
Which,inthiscase,Ihad.
Thetwo-dollarbottleofwinefromTraderJoe’stastedbetterthanthis,butthedelicioussmallplatesmadeupforit.Bacon-wrappeddatesandfriedgoatcheesedrizzledinlavenderhoneyandsmokedtroutfrittersthatmeltedinyourmouth.Allthewhilesittinginacharminglittlerestaurantwithsoftyellowlightning,thefrontwindowsopentoletinthesoundsofthecity,vinesofpothosplantsandevergreenfernshangingfromthesconcesaboveus,ascentralairbrushedacrossourshoulders.Thewallsweretrimmedinmahogany,theboothsasuppleleatherthat,inthisearlyJuneheat,wouldpeeltheskinoffmythighsifIwasn’tcareful.Theplacewasintimate,thetablesspacedjustfarenoughapartthatwecouldn’thearthehushedconversationsofanyoneelseintherestaurantovertheconstantsoftmurmurfromthekitchen.
Ifarestaurantcouldromance,Iwasutterlyenchanted.
Fiona,Drew,andIsatatasmalltableintheOliveBranch,aMichelin-starredrestaurantdowninSoHoDrewhadbeenbeggingtogotoforthelastweek.I’mnotusuallyoneforlonglunches,butitwasaFridayinthesummer,andtobefair,IowedFiona,Drew’swife,afavor,sinceI’dhadtobailonaplaylastweekthatDrewwantedtosee.DrewTorreswasaneditorandhungrytofinduniqueandtalentedauthors,soshe’ddraggedbothmeandFionaalongtotheweirdestconcerts,plays,andplacesI’deverbeento.Andthatwassayingalot,becauseI’dbeentoforty-threecountrieswithmyauntandsheexcelledatfindingweirdplaces.
This,however,wasvery—very—nice.
“ThisisofficiallythefanciestlunchI’veeverbeento,”Fionaannounced,poppinganotherbacon-wrappeddateintohermouth.Itwastheonlythingwe’dorderedsofarthatshecouldeat—therarewagyusliceswereoutofthequestionforapersonsevenmonthspregnant.Fionawastallandwaifish,withdyed-periwinklehairandpalewhiteskin.Shehaddarkfrecklesacrosshercheeksandalwaysworekitschyearringsshefoundatfleamarketsontheweekends.Today’sflavorwasmetalsnakeswithsignsintheirmouthsthatreadFuckOff.ShewasStrauss&Adder’sbestin-housedesigner.
BesidehersatDrew,spearinganotherwagyuslice.ShewasanewlymintedsenioreditoratStrauss&Adder,withlongcurlyblackhairandwarmbrownskin.ShealwaysdressedlikeshewasabouttogoonanexcavationinEgyptin1910—andtodaywasnodifferent:suppletantrousersandapressedwhitebutton-downandsuspenders.
Sittingwiththem,IfeltalittleunderdressedinmyfreeEggverythingCaféT-shirtfrommyparent’sfavoritediner,light-washjeans,andredflatsI’dhadsincecollege,ducttapeonthesolesbecauseIcouldn’tbeartopartwiththem.Iwasgoingonthreedayswithoutwashingmyhair,andthedryshampooonlydidsomuch,butI’dbeenlatetoworkthismorning,soIhadn’tthoughtalotaboutit.IwasaseniorpublicistatStrauss&Adder,aperpetualplanner,andsomehowIhadnotplannedforthisoutingintheslightest.Tobefair,itwasaSummerFriday,andIhadn’texpectedanyonetobeintheofficetoday.
“Itisreallyfancyinhere,”Iagreed.“It’smuchbetterthanthatpoetryreadingintheVillage.”
Fionanodded.“ThoughIdidenjoyhowalloftheirdrinkswerenamedafterdeadpoets.”
Imadeaface.“TheEmilyDickinsongavemetheworsthangover.”
Drewlookedincrediblyproudofherself.“Isn’tthisplacejustsonice?YouknowthatarticleIsentyou?TheoneinEater?Theauthor,JamesAshton,istheheadchefhere.Thearticleisafewyearsold,butit’sstillagreatread.”
“Andyouwanthimtodoabookwithus?”Fionaasked.“For—what—acookbook?”
Drewseemedgenuinelyhurt.“Whatdoyoutakemefor,aplebeian?Absolutelynot.Acookbookwouldbewastedonsomeonewhoissuchawizardwithwords.”
FionaandIgaveeachotheraknowinglook.DrewhadsaidthesameabouttheplayInarrowlyavoidedlastweekasImovedintomylateaunt’sapartmentontheUpperEastSide.FionatoldmeonSaturday,whileIheavedarecordplayerintotheelevator,thatshewouldnevergoswimmingintheoceanagain.
Withthatsaid,Drewdidhaveafantasticeyeforwhatapersoncouldwrite,notwhattheyhadalready.Shewasbrilliantatpossibilities.Shethrivedonthem.
Thatwaswhatmadeherauniquesortofpowerhouse.Shealwaystookintheunderdogs,andshealwayshelpedthembloom.
“What’sthatlookfor?”Drewasked,lookingpointedlybetweenthetwoofus.“MyinstinctswererightaboutthatmusicianwesawonGovernorsIslandlastmonth.”
“Sweetheart,”Fionarepliedpatiently,“I’mstillgettingovertheplayIsawlastweekaboutamanwhohadanaffairwithadolphin.”
Drewwinced.“Thatwas…amistake.Butthemusicianwasn’t!AndneitherwasthatTikTokerwhowrotethatamusementparkthriller.It’sgoingtobephenomenal.Andthischef…Iknowthischefisspecial.Iwanttohearmoreaboutthatsummerheturnedtwenty-six—healludedtoitinEater,butnotenough.”
“Youthinkthere’sastorythere?”Fionaasked.
“I’msurethereis.Right,Clementine?”
Thentheylookedatmeexpectantly.
“I…haven’treadit,actually,”Iadmitted,andFionatskedinthatwayofhersthatwillendupmakingtheirfuturechildincrediblycontrite.Iduckedmyheadinembarrassment.
“Well,youshould!”Drewreplied.“He’sbeenallaroundtheworld,justlikeyou.Thewayherelatesfoodtofriendshipandmemories—Iwanthim.”Sheturnedherhungrygazetowardthekitchen.“Iwanthimsobadly.”Andwhenevershehadthatkindoflookinhereyes,therewasnostoppingher.
Itookanothersipoftoo-drywineandpickedupthedessertmenutoscanit.Whileweusuallytooklunchestogether—itwasaperkofhavingbestfriendswhoallworkedinthesamebuildingasyou—wemostlystayedaroundMidtown,andtherestaurantsinMidtownwere…
Well.
I’deatenmoresandwichesandlobstermacandcheesesfromfoodtrucksthanIcaredtoadmit.Midtowninthesummerwastouristcentral,sotryingtofindalunchspotanywherethatwasn’tafoodtruckorthegreensatBryantParkwasnearlyimpossiblewithoutareservation.
“Well,whenyougethim,Ihaveaquestionaboutthisdessertmenu,”Isaid,pointingtothefirstitemthere.“Whatthehellisadeconstructedlemonpie?”
“Ooh,thatoneisthechef’sspecialty,”DrewinformedusasFionasnatchedthemenufrommetoreadaboutit.“Idefinitelywanttotryit.”
“Ifit’sjustasliceoflemonsprinkledwithsomegranularsugaronagrahamcracker,”Fionasaid,“I’mgoingtolaugh.”
Icheckedmyphoneforthetime.“Whateveritis,weshouldprobablyorderitandheadback.ItoldRhondaI’dbebackbyone.”
“It’sFriday!”Fionaargued,wavingthedessertmenuatme.“NooneworksonFridaysinthesummer.Especiallynotinpublishing.”
“Well,Ido,”Ireplied.RhondaAdderwasmyboss,thedirectorofmarketingandpublicity,andcopublisher.Shewasoneofthemostsuccessfulwomeninthebusiness.Iftherewasabestsellertobehadinabook,sheknewexactlyhowtosqueezeitout,andthatwasatalentinandofitself.Speakingoftalent,justsoFionaandDrewknewthesituation,Iadded,“Ihavethreeauthorsontourrightnow—andsomethingisboundtogowrong.”
Drewnoddedinagreement.“Murphy’sLawofPublishing.”
“Murphy’sLaw,”Iechoed.“AndJuliettecriedherselfsickthismorningbecauseofherboyfriend,soI’mtryingtolightenherloadtoday.”
“FuckRomeo-Rob,”Drewintoned.
“FuckRomeo-Rob,”Iagreed.
“Speakingofdating.”Fionasatupalittlestraighter,andputherelbowsonthetable.Oh,Iknewthatlook,andIinwardlysuppressedagroan.Sheleanedintolookatme,archinghereyebrows.“How’reyouandNatedoing?”
Suddenly,thewineglasslookedveryinteresting,butthelongershestaredatmewaitingforananswer,thelessresolveIhad,untilIfinallysighedandsaid,“Webrokeuplastweek.”
Fionagaspedlikeshe’dbeenpersonallyinsulted.“Lastweek?Beforeorafteryoumoved?”
“WhileIwasmoving.Thenightyouallwenttotheplay.”
“Andyoudidn’ttellus?”Drewadded,morecuriousthanherdistraughtwife.
“Youdidn’ttellus!”Fionaechoedinacry.“That’simportant!”
“Itreallywasn’tthatbigofadeal.”Ishrugged.“Itwasovertextmessages.Ithinkhe’salreadydatingsomebodyhemetonHinge.”Myfriendslookedatmewithutterpity,butIwaveditoff.“Really,it’sfine.Weweren’tthatcompatibleanyway.”
Whichwastrue,butIdidn’tincludethefightwehadbeforethetexts.Fightwasastrongwordforit,though.Itfeltmorelikeashrugandawhiteflagtossedontoanalready-abandonedbattlefield.
“Again?Youhavetoworklateagain?”he’dasked.“Youknowthisismybignight.Iwantyouherewithme.”
Tobefair,Ihadforgottenthatitwastheopeningnightofagallerywithhiswork.Hewasanartist—ametalworker,actually—andthiswasabigthingforhim.“I’msorry,Nate.Thisisimportant.”
Anditwas,Iwassureofit,eventhoughIcouldn’trememberwhattheemergencyhadbeentomakemestaylate.
Hewasquietforalongmoment,andthenheasked,“Isthishowit’sgoingtobe?Idon’twanttobesecondtoyourjob,Clementine.”
“You’renot!”
Hewas.Heabsolutelywas.Ikepthimatarm’slengthbecauseatleasttherehewouldn’tbeabletoseehowbrokenIwas.Icouldkeeplying.IcouldkeeppretendingIwasfine—becauseIwasfine.Ihadtobe.Ididn’tlikepeopleworryingaboutmewhentheyhadsomanyotherthingstoworryabout.Thatwasmyallure,right?Thatyoudidn’tneedtoworryaboutClementineWest.Shealwaysfigureditout.
Nateletoutthatheavy,body-heavingsigh.“Clementine,Ithinkyouneedtobehonest.”Andthatwasit—thenailintheproverbialcoffin.“You’resoclosedoff,youuseworkasashield.Idon’tthinkIevenreallyknowyou.Youwon’topenup.Youwon’tbevulnerable.Whateverhappenedtothatgirlinthosephotos?Withwatercolorunderherfingernails?”
Shewasgone,butthatmuchhealreadyknew.Hemetmeaftershewasalreadygone.Ithinkthatmighthavebeenwhyhedidn’tjustdumpmeafterIcanceledplansonhimthefirsttime,becausehekepttryingtofindthatgirlwithwatercolorsunderherfingernailsthathesawonceinaphotoinmyoldapartment.Thegirlfrombefore.
“Doyouevenloveme?”hewenton.“Ican’trememberyousayingitonce.”
“We’veonlydatedforthreemonths.It’salittleearly,don’tyouthink?”
“Whenyouknow,youknow.”
Ipursedmylips.“ThenIguessIdon’tknow.”
Andthatwasit.
Iwasattheendofthisrelationship.BeforeIsaidanythingI’dregret,Ihungupthephone,thentextedhimthatitwasover.I’dmailhistoothbrushbacktohim.GodknowsIwasn’tgoingtotakeatriptoWilliamsburgifIdidn’thaveto.
“Besides,”Iadded,grabbingthetoo-expensivebottleofwinetotopoffmyglass,“Idon’treallythinkIwanttobeinarelationshiprightnow.Iwanttoconcentrateonmycareer—Idon’thavetimetomesswithguysImightendupdumpinginatextmessagethreemonthslater.Thesexwasn’teventhatgood.”Itookalargegulpofwinetowashdownthathorridtruth.
Drewwatchedmeinawe,shakingherhead.“Lookatthat,notevenatear.”
“I’veneverseenhercryoveranyguy,”Fionasaidtoherwife.
Itriedtoarguethatno,Iactuallyhad,butthenclosedmymouthagainbecause…shewasright.Iseldomcried,anyway,andoversomeguy?Absolutelynot.Fionaalwayssaiditwasbecauseallmyrelationshipshadboileddowntocallingthemsomeguy—apersonnotevenworthyofanameinmymemory.“Becauseyou’veneverbeeninlove,”sheoncesaid,andmaybethatwastrue.
“Whenyouknow,youknow,”Natehadsaid.
Ididn’tevenknowwhatlovewassupposedtofeellike.
Fionawavedherhand.“Well,whatevertohim,then!Hedidn’tdeserveafinanciallystablegirlfriendwhoiskickingassatworkandownsanapartmentontheUpperEastSide,”shewenton,andthenthatseemedtoremindheroftheotherthingIreallydidn’twanttotalkabout.“Howisit?Theapartment?”
Theapartment.SheandDrewhadstoppedcallingitmyaunt’sapartmentbackinJanuary,butIstillcouldn’tkickthehabit.Ishrugged.
Icouldtellthemthetruth—thateverytimeIwalkedthroughthedoor,Iexpectedtoseemyauntthereinherwingbackchairthecolorofrobin’seggs,butthechairwasgone.
Sowasitsowner.
“It’sgreat,”Idecided.
FionaandDrewbothgaveeachotherthesameglance,asiftheydidn’tbelieveme.Fairenough;Iwasn’taverygoodliar.
“It’sgreat,”Irepeated.“Andwhyarewetalkingaboutme?Let’sfindthisfamouschefofyoursandwoohimtothedarkside.”Ireachedoverthetableforthelastdateandateit.
“Sure,sure,wejustneedtoflagdownourserver…”Drewmuttered,lookingaroundtoseeifshecouldcatchanyone’seye,butshewasmuchtoopoliteandtoomeektodoanythingmorethangivethemameaningfullook.“DoIjustraisemyhandor—whatdoyoudoatexpensiverestaurants?”
Drewhadbeenalotmoreproactiveaboutfindingauthorstobuildherlistoverthelastfewmonths,butIhadtowonderifsomeoftheseexcursions—theconcertonGovernorsIsland,theplayIregrettablycouldn’tmake,theoperalastmonth,theTikTokinfluencerwemetatabookstoreinWashingtonHeights,thegalleryexhibitfortheartistwhopaintedwiththeirbody—weretohelpdistractme.Topullmeoutofmygrief.ExceptithadbeenalmostsixmonthsandIwasfinenow.
Really,Iwas.
Butitwashardtoconvincesomeoneofthatwhentheyhadwitnessedyousobbingonyourbathroomfloorattwointhemorning,blackoutdrunk,thenightofyouraunt’sfuneral.
They’dseentheworst,rawestpartsofmeandtheydidn’tdeletemynumberfromtheirphones.Iwasn’talwaystheeasiestpersontogetalongwith,andthefactthattheystuckaroundmeantmoretomethanIcouldeveractuallyadmit,andbeingdraggedonthesefieldtripsthelastcoupleofmonthshadbeenrefreshing.
SotheleastIcoulddowasflagdownaserverforDrew.
“Igotit,”Isighed,andraisedmyhandtomotiontowardourserverassheturnedawayfromanothertable,andcalledtoher.Iwasn’tsureifthiswashowyouweresupposedtogettheirattentionatafancyrestaurant,butshequicklycameoveranyway.“Couldwehavethe,uh—”Iglancedatthedessertmenu.
Fionapipedin,“Thedeconstructedlemonwhatever!”
“That,”Isaid,“andalsocouldweperhapstalkwiththeheadchef?”DrewquicklypulledabusinesscardoutofherpursetohandtotheserverasIadded,“Pleasetellhimwe’refromStraussandAdderPublishers,hereaboutabusinessopportunity—abook,actually.”
Theserverdidn’tseemsurprisedatallbytherequest,asshetookthebusinesscardandtuckeditintothefrontofherblackapron.Shesaidshe’dseewhatshecoulddoandquicklylefttoputinthedessertorder.
Drewclappedquietlytoherselfoncetheserverhadgone.“Herewego!Ooh,doyoufeelthatthrill?Itnevergetsold.”
Herexcitementwasinfectious,eventhoughIfeltverylittleaboutthischef.“Never,”Isaid,andsuddenlymyphonebegantovibrateinmypurse.Itookitoutandglancedattheemailnotification.Whywasoneofmyauthorsemailingme?
Fionaleanedovertoherwife.“Ooh,howaboutwesetClemupwiththatnewguywhomovedintotheapartmentnexttous?”
“He’scute,”Drewagreed.
“No,thanks.”Iopenedmyemail.“I’mnotreadytojumpintoanotherrelationshipafterNate.”
“Yousaidyouwereoverhim!”
“There’sstillamourningperiod—oh,shit,”IaddedasIfinishedskimmingthemessage,andpoppedupoutofmychair.“I’msorry,Ihavetorun.”
Fionaasked,worriedly,“Issomethingwrong?Wehaven’tevengottenourdessertyet.”
ItookmywalletoutofmyknockoffKateSpadebagandsetdownthecompanycreditcardsincethiswas,technically,aworklunch.“OneofmyauthorsontourjustgotstrandedinDenver,andJuliette’snotansweringheremails.PutlunchonthatandI’llseeyouatwork?”IsaidapologeticallyasDrewtookthecard
Shelookedstricken.“Wait—what?”Shedartedhereyestothekitchen,andbacktome.
“Yougotthis,”Isaidasmyauthorsentanotherpanickedemail.Ihuggedthembothandstoleonelastfriedgoatcheeseball,chaseditwiththerestofthewine,andturnedtoleave—
“Watchout!”Drewcried.Fionagasped.
Toolate.
Icollidedwithaserverbehindme.Thedessertheheldwentoneway,andhewenttheother.Ishotmyhandouttograbitashewenttograbme,andpulledmebackupright.Istumbledandhesteadiedme,hisgripstrongonmyarm.
“Nicesave,”hesaidwarmly.
“Thanks,I—”AndthatwaswhenIrealizedmyotherhandwasonhisverysolidchest.“Oh!”Iquicklyhandedhimbackthedessertandsteppedaway.“Iamsosorry!”Ablushrosetooquicklyonmycheeks.Icouldn’tlookattheguy.Ihaddefinitelyjustputmyhandonastrangerforlongerthannecessary.
“…Lemon?”themanasked.
“Yes,sorry,sorry,that’sourdessert,butIhavetogo,”Irepliedinahurry.Myfacefeltasredasacherry.Iquicklydodgedaroundhim,mouthingtomyfriends,“Goodluck,”asIlefttherestaurant.
TwocallstoSouthwestAirlinesandfourcityblockslater,Ihadtheauthoronthenextflighttotheirfinaltourstop.IdescendedintothesubwaytomakemywaybacktoMidtownandtowork—andtriedtogetthefeelingofthatman’sstronggrip,thesolidnessofhischest,thewayhebenttowardme—hedidbendtowardme,didn’the?Likeheknewme?Iwasn’timaginingthings?—outofmyhead.2Strauss&Adder
ThefirsttimeIwalkedthroughthestonearchwayintothebuildingonThirty-FourthStreetandrodethechromeelevatorsuptotheseventhfloor,IknewtherewassomethingspecialaboutStrauss&AdderPublishers.Thewaythedoorsopenedandletoutintoasmall,white-shelvedlobbyfilledwithbooks,bothonestheyhadpublishedandonestheyjustloved,weatheredleatherchairsfacedyou,beckoningyoutosinkdownintotheircushions,openanovel,anddrowninthewords.
Strauss&AdderwasasmallbutpowerfulpublisherinNewYorkCity,specializinginadultfiction,memoirs,andlifestylenonfiction—thinkself-helpbooksandcookbooksandhow-tos—buttheyweremostrenownedfortheirtravelguides.Whenyouwantedaguidetoafar-offplace,youwenttowardthelittlemallet-hammerlogoofStrauss&Addertotellyouaboutthebestrestaurantsinthemostremotereachesofforeigncities,oneswhereyouwouldstillfeelathome.
Icoulddopublicityanywhere—andprobablygetpaidbetterdoingit—butIcouldn’tgetfreetravelbooksatabigtechfirm,orinsomePR-firmhellscape.Therewassomethingjustsosureandlovelyaboutwalkingdownthehalleveryday,linedwithbooksaboutRomeandBangkokandAntarctica,theenchantingsmellofagedpaperlikeadepartmentstoreperfume.Ididn’twanttowritebooksmyself,butIlovedtheideaofsomelong-deadorlong-forgottentravelguidewaxingaboutcathedralsofoldandshrinesofforgottengods.Ilovedhowabook,astory,asetofwordsinasentenceorganizedintheexactrightorder,madeyoumissplacesyou’venevervisited,andpeopleyou’venevermet.
Theofficewasanopenfloorplan,surroundedonallsidesbyfloor-to-ceilingshelvesofnovels,thespacecleanandwhiteandbright.Everyonehadsmallhalf-walledcubicles,eachdeskwithpopsofcoloraspeopledisplayedtheirfavoriteoddsandends—artworkandfigurinesandbookcollections.Minewasclosesttomyboss’soffice.Thehigher-upsallgotofficeswithglassdoors,asifthatwerethesamekindoflackofprivacyaslisteningtoJulietteinthecubicleinfrontofmesoboverheron-again,off-againboyfriendoftenmonths,herRomeo,Rob.(FuckRomeo-Rob.)
Atleastevenintheirtidyglassofficesyoucouldseethemdissociatingat2:00p.m.onaMondaywiththerestofus.
Andyethereweallwere,becauseifwealllovedonething,itwasbooks.
ImanagedtosendoutafewinterviewqueriesbythetimeFionacamebacktotheoffice.
“Thedessertwasreallyfantastic,”shesaid,walkingovertoreturnmycreditcard.She,liketherestofdesign,wasbanishedtotheglum,cobweb-filledcornerofthefloorwhereCEOswerewonttosticktheirmushroom-growingartsypeople.AtleastthreeofthedesignershadtostarttakingvitaminDsupplements,itwassodarkbackthere.“Sowasthechef.”
“HatethatImissedit,”Ireplied.
Fionashruggedandhandedmebackmycard.“Youkindofranrightintohim,actually.”
Ipaused.Themanwiththestronggrip.Thewarm,solidchest.“That…washim?”
“Absolutely.He’sagem.Reallysweet—oh,say,didyouendupsavingyourauthorfromairporthell?”
“Ofcourse,”Ireplied,pullingmyselfoutofmythoughts.“Wasthereeveranydoubt?”
Fionashookherhead.“Ienvyyou.”
Thatmademepause.“Why?”
“Wheneveryouneedtodosomething,youjustgoforit.Straightline.Nohesitation.Ithinkthat’swhyDrewlikesyousomuch,”sheadded,abitquieter.“You’reanExcelspreadsheettomychaos.”
“IjustlikethingsthewayIlikethings,”Ireplied,andFionaproceededtotellmeaboutwhatI’dmissedattherestaurant—apparently,someonefromFauxhadcometothechefaboutabook(ParkerDaniels,Drewguessed),ashadSimon&SchusterandtwoimprintsatHarperCollinsandoneatMacmillan.Therewouldprobablybemore.
Igavealowwhistle.“Drew’sgotsteepcompetition.”
“Iknow.Ican’twaituntilthisisallshestartstalkingabout,”Fionadeadpanned.Shecheckedhersmartwatchonherwristandgroaned.“Ishouldprobablyreturntothecave.Movietonight?Ithinkthatrom-comwiththetwoassassinswhofallinloveisout?”
“CanItakearaincheck?I’mstillunpackingfromthemove.Receipt?”Iasked,andFionadugourlunchbilloutofherpurse.Assheleftforthedarkanddankpartofthefloor,IslippedintoRhonda’sofficetogiveittoher,thoughshewasn’tthere.
Mostoftheotherhigher-ups—includingReginaldStrauss—hadphotosoftheirfamilies,vacationstheytook,memories,ontheirwallsandacrosstheirdesks.Rhonda’swasfullofphotoswithcelebritiesatbooklaunchesandred-carpetevents,andachievementawardsstackedhershelveswheregiftsfromgrandchildrenshouldgo.Itwasveryevidentwhatshechose,thelifeshedecidedtolive,andeverytimeIsteppedintoheroffice,Iimaginedsittinginherorangechair,havinglivedalifelikethat,too.
Suddenly,theglassdoortoherofficeslidopen,andRhondaAdder,inallherglamour,steppedintotheroom.“Ah,Clementine!HappyFriday,asalways,”sheannouncedhappily,lookingsharpasaknifeinablackpantsuitandfloral-printheels,herblunt-cutgraybobpulledbackfromherfacewithaclip.
WheneverRhondacameintoaroom,shecommandeditinawayIwantedto.Allheadsturned.Allconversationsstopped.
RhondaAdderwasasbrilliantasshewasmagnetic—thedirectorofmarketingandpublicity,andcopublisher,shehadstartedatalowlyPRfirminSoHo,clippingouttabloidrumorsandfieldingtelemarketercalls,andnowsheplannedandcoordinatedbookcampaignsforsomeofthebiggestnamesinthebusiness.Shewasaniconamongbookishpeople,thepersontheyallwantedtobe.ThepersonIwantedtobe.Someonewhohadherlifetogether.Someonewhohadaplan,hadgoals,andknewtheexacttoolssheneededtoimplementthem.
“HappyFriday,Rhonda.I’msorryItookalonglunch,”Iquicklysaid.
Shewavedherhand.“It’sperfectlyallright.IsawyouhandledAdairLynn’slittleairportsnafu.”
“She’sreallyhavingtheworstluckonthistour.”
“We’llhavetosendhersomeflowersonceshegetshome.”Sheopenedadrawerandpulledoutabagofchocolate-coveredalmonds.
“Willdo.Iputalunchexpenseontheaccount,”Iadded,settingthereceiptandcreditcarddownonthedesk.Shetookalookatbothofthemandquirkedaneyebrow.“Drew’safteranauthorforanonfictionproject.”
“Ah.Almond?”Sheofferedmethebag.
“Thankyou.”Itookoneout,satdowninthecreakychairoppositeofher,andupdatedherontheafternoon’shappenings—thebookedpodcastinterviews,thereviseditineraries,thenewlyconfirmedbookstoreevents.RhondaandIworkedlikeawell-oiledmachine.TherewasareasoneveryonesaidIwashersecond-in-command—andIhopedtobehersuccessorsomeday.EveryonefiguredIwouldbe.
RhondaputheralmondsawayandturnedtohercomputerasIbegantogetup,ourmeetingadjourned,untilshesaid,“Isawyourescindedyourrequestforvacationattheendofthesummer.Isthereareason?”
“Oh,that.”ItriedtolookunruffledasIsmootheddownthefrontofmycrumpledblouse.Attheendofthesummer,myauntandIalwaystookouryearlytripabroad—Portugalonesummer,Spainthenext,India,Thailand,Japan,mypassportclutteredwithalltheplaceswe’dbeentogetherovertheyears.IhadtakentheexactsameweekoffeveryAugustsincejoiningStrauss&Adder,soofcourseRhondawouldnoticewhenIdecidednottogo.“Idecidedthatmaybemytimewouldbebestspenthere,soI’mnotgoing.”
Everagain.
Shegavemeastrangelook.“You’rekidding.Clementine,youhaven’ttakenadayoffallyear.”
“WhatcanIsay?Ilovemyjob.”Ismiledthenbecauseitwastrue.Ididlovemyjob,anditwasagooddistractionfrom…everything,andifIkeptconcentratingonthethingsinfrontofme,thegriefwouldn’tcatchupwithmeattwointhemorninglikeitwantedto.
“Ilovemyjob,too,andIstilltookavacationthisyeartotheMaldives.Hadagreatmassagethere—Icangiveyouthenumberformyguyifyouendupgoing.”
Oh,yes,becauseIcouldaffordthat.Well,maybenowthatIownedmyaunt’sapartment,Icould.Ipushedastrainedsmileacrossmyface.“I’mfine,really—andbesides,BostonintheFalliscomingoutthatweek,andyouknowthatauthorissopersnickety.I’dratherdealwithhimthanmakeJuliettehandle—”
“Clementine?”sheinterrupted.“Takeyourdamnaccruedvacation.That’swhyyouhaveit.”
“But—”
“Yourrequesttorescindyourrequestisdenied.”
“I’mnotgoingonvacationanymore,though,”Isaid,tryingnottopanic.“Irefundedmytickets!”
Shegavemealookoverherred-frameglasses.“Thenyouhavetwomonthstofigureoutwhatelseyouwanttodo.Halfofourcollectionistravelguides—borrowone.I’msureyou’llgetinspired.You’llneedavacation,afterall.”
“Ireallydon’tthinkIwill.”
Inreply,sheswiveledherchairtowardmeagainwithasigh,andtookoffherglasses.Theyhungfromabeadedstraparoundherneck.“Fine.Closethedoor,Clementine.”
Oh,no.Quietly,IdidwhatIwastold—albeitalittlehesitantly.Thelasttimesheaskedmetoclosethedoor,Ifoundoutshefiredthemarketingdesigner.Isatdownagain,abitgingerly.“Is…istheresomethingwrong?”
“No.Well.Yes,butnothingbad.”Shesteepledherfingersandgavemealonglook.Sheworedarkmascaraanddarkereyelineraroundhereyes,andtheyalwaysmadeherlooksallthemoreintense.“Youaresworntosecrecy,Clementine,untilthetimeisright.”
Istraightenedinmychair.Thiswasbig,then.Wasitanewbook?Acelebritymemoir?WasStrausssellingthecompany?DidMichaelinHRfinallyquit?
Shesaid,“I’mplanningtoretireattheendofthesummer,butIonlywanttogoknowingStraussandAdderisingoodhands.”
Ididn’tthinkIheardcorrectly.“You—what?Retire?”
“Yes.”
Ididn’tknowwhattosay.
Thereweren’twordsenoughtodescribemyprofound—sadness?Disappointment?Strauss&AdderwithoutRhondawaslikeabodywithoutasoul—abookshelfwithoutanybooks.ShebuiltthiscompanywithStrauss—everysingleoneofitsbestsellersoverthelasttwentyyearscamefromher.
Andshewantedtoretire?
“Don’tgivemethatlook,”Rhondasaidwithanervouslaugh.Shewasnevernervous.Soshewasn’tpullingmyleg.Shewastellingthetruth.“I’vedonemytime!ButI’mnotgoingtoleaveifthisship’llsinkwithoutme.I’veputtoomuchofmylifehere,”sheadded,seeminglyasanafterthoughttohernameonthebusiness.“However,onlyyouandStraussknowatthemoment,andI’dliketokeepitthatway.Whoknowswhatkindofpiranhasthenewswillattractonceit’sofficial.”
Mymouthwasdry.“O…okay?”
“Inthemeantime,Iwantyoutotaketheleadonmostprojectsandacquisitionsthissummer,toseehowyoufare.I’llbeinthemeetings,obviously,butlet’sjustcallitadryrun.”
“ToseeifIcanmanagewithyougone?”
Shegavemeabaffledlook,andthenshelaughed.“Oh,no,dear,totakemyplace!”
IfIwasn’talreadysittingdown,mykneeswouldhavegivenoutimmediately.Me—takeRhonda’splace?IonlyhalflistenedasshetoldmehowhardIworked,howexemplaryIwas,howIwasexactlythekindofwomanshe’dbeenatmyage,andthatthiswasthekindofopportunityshewouldkillfor.Whatbetterwaytofosterthefuturethantogivethefutureachancetosucceed?
“Well,halfofmyplace.WhenStraussandIstartedthecompany,Itookoverforthedirectorofpublicityandmarketingaswellascopublisherbecauseweweresosmall,butIwouldnotwishthatonanyoneelse.Afterall,they’renotme,”sheadded.“Dependingonyourperformancethissummer,however,I’minclinedtoputyournameupforthenewdirectorofpublicity.You’vebeenherethelongestofanyoneontheteam,soIonlythinkit’sfair—nottomentionI’dbeanidiotnotto.”
I…didn’tknowwhattosay.
Asitturnedout,shedidn’texpectmetosayanything,assheputherglassesbackonandreturnedtohercomputer.“So,yousee,Iimagineyou’llneedtotakeavacationbeforeyoustartyournewjob—I’llgetyouthenameofmymasseuseintheMaldives.”
Mymouthdroppedopen.Igaveasqueak.Myheadwasspinningfromalltheinformation.
“Now,canyousendmemymeetingsfornextweek?SomethingtellsmeJulietteisgoingtoforget.Again.”
Thatwasmycuetoleave.
IprayedthatmylegswouldworkasIpushedmyselftomyfeet.“I’llgetthatrighttoyou,”Ireplied,andleftheroffice.
First,myvacationcancellationrequestwasdenied,andthenRhondadroppedthatshemightretire?AndImighttakeherplaceasheadofthedepartment?
Ididn’twanttothinkaboutit.
Mycubiclewasjustacrossthehallfromherdoor—tenfeet,giveortake.Itwasneatandpristine—thekindofspacethatDrewcalledaone-boxwalkout.MeaningthatifIgotfired,I’dneedonlyoneboxtopackallmykeepsakesbeforeIleft.Iwasn’tplanningongoinganywhere—I’dbeenhereforsevenyears—Ijustdidn’thavemuchIwantedtodisplay.Somephotos,afewofmywatercolorpostcardpaintingsfromaroundthecity—CentralPark’slake,theBrooklynBridgefromDumbo,acemeteryinQueens.IhadabobbleheaddollofWilliamShakespeare,andacollector’sboxsetoftheBront?sisters’works,andasignedbookplatefromanauthorIcouldn’trememberandcouldn’treadthenameofanymore.
Isankintomychair,feelingnumbandalittleoutofmyleague—forthefirsttimeinyears.Retiring—Rhondawasretiring
Andshewantedmetotakeherplace.
Mychestconstrictedinpanic.
Afewminuteslater,Juliette—apetitewhitewomanwithbraidedblondhair,bigdoeeyes,andcherry-redlipstick—trudgedbacktohercubicle,red-eyedandsniffling.Shesankdownatherdesk.“W-webrokeupagain…”
Absently,Igrabbedmytissueboxfromunderthedeskandofferedherone.“That’srough,friend.”3HomeSweetHome
Itwasn’tthatIdidn’twanttotakemyvacation—Idid.Everyyearforthelastsevenyears,I’dtakenthatweekandI’dflownofftosomedistantpartoftheworld.Ijust…didn’twanttobethegirlwhokeptlookingaroundairportsforawomanwithanazure-bluecoatandaloudlaugh,wavingherlargeheart-shapedsunglassesformetocatchup.
Becausethatwomandidn’texistanymore.
Andneitherdidthegirlwholovedherunconditionally.
No,shewasreplacedbyawomanwhoworkedlateonaFridaynightbecauseshecould,whowouldratherattendworkfunctionsthanfirstdates,whohadasparepairoftightsanddeodorantinherdeskdrawerjustincaseshepulledanall-nighter(notthatshehadyet).Shewasalwaysthelastoneinthebuilding,wheneventhemotion-sensorlightsthoughtshe’dgonehome,andshewashappy.
Shewas.
Ifinallyloggedoutofmyworkcomputer,stoodfrommychair,andstretched,thefluorescentlightabovemeflickeringtolifeagain.Itwasaround8:30p.m.Ishouldgetgoingbeforesecuritystartedtomaketheirrounds,becausethenthey’dtellStraussandRhonda,andRhondahadthispolicyagainstworkinglateonFridays.SoIgrabbedmypurse,madesurethatRhondahadeverythingonherdeskfortheMondaymorningmeeting,andleftfortheelevator.
Ipassedoneofthecompanybookcases—theoneswherepeopleputfreebiesofextragalleysandfinalcopies.Novelsandmemoirsandcookbooksandtravelguides.MostI’dalreadyread,butonecaughtmyeye.
DestinationTravel:NewYorkCity
Itmusthavebeenanewerone,andtherewasadelicioussortofironytoreadingatravelguideaboutacityyoulivedin.Myauntusedtosaythatyoucouldlivesomewhereyourentirelifeandstillfindthingstosurpriseyou.
Ithought—forasplitsecond—thatmyauntwouldloveacopy,butwhenItookitofftheshelfandputitinmypurse,realityhitmeagainlikeabricktothehead.
Ithoughtaboutputtingitback,butIfeltsoashamedforforgettingthatshewasgonethatIquicklyleftfortheelevator.I’ddonateittoasecondhandbookshopthisweekendinstead.ThelonesecurityguardatthefrontofthebuildinglookedupfromherphoneasIhurriedpast,notsurprisedatalltofindmeworkingsolate.
Iwalkedtothesubwaystation,andheadeduptowntotheUpperEastSide,whereIgotoffthetrainatmystopandpulledoutmyphone.Itwasareflexbynowtocallmyparentsonthewalkfromthestationtomyaunt’sapartmentbuilding.
Ineverusedtodothis,buteversinceAnaleadied,it’dbecomeasortofcomfort.Besides,IthinkithelpedMomalot.Analeawasheroldersister.
Aftertworings,Momansweredwitha“Tellyourfatherthatitisperfectlyacceptabletofinallymovemyexercisebikeintoyouroldroom!”
“Ihaven’tlivedthereinelevenyears,soit’sabsolutelyokay,”Isaid,dodgingaroundacouplelookingatGoogleMapsontheirphone.
Momshouted,makingmewince,“SEE,FRED!Itoldyoushewouldn’tcare!”
“What?”mydadcalledfaintlyinthebackground.ThenextIknew,hewaspickingupthephonefromwhatIassumedwasthekitchen.“Butwhatifyoucomehome,babygirl?Whatifyouneeditagain?”
“Shewon’t,”Momreplied,“andifshedoes,shecantakethecouch.”Imassagedthebridgeofmynose.EventhoughI’dbeenmovedoutsinceIwaseighteen,Dadhatedchange.Mymomlovedrepetition.Theywereamatchmadeinheaven.“Isn’tthatright?”
Dadargued,“Butwhatif—”
Iinterrupted,“Youcanturnmyroomintoanythingyouwant.Evenaredroom,ifyouwant.”
“Ared…?”Mombegan.
Dadsaid,“Isthatthesexdungeoninthatmovie?”
“FRED!”Momshrieked,andthensaid,“Well,thatisanidea…”
Myfathersaid,withasighthatweighedaboutasmuchasallthirty-fiveyearsoftheirmarriage,“Fine.Youcanputyourexercisebikeinthere—butwe’rekeepingthebed.”
Ikickedapieceoftrashonthesidewalk.“Youreallydon’thaveto.”
“Butwewantto,”Dadreplied.Ididn’thavethecouragetoadmittomydadthathomewasn’ttheirtwo-storybluevinylhouseonLongIslandanymore.Hadn’tbeenforawhile.Butitalsowasn’ttheapartmentIwaswalkingto—slowerandslowerbytheminute,asifIdidn’treallywanttogoatall.“Sohowwasyourday,babygirl?”
“Fine,”Irepliedquickly.Tooquickly.“Actually…IthinkRhondaisretiringattheendofthesummer,andshewantstopromotemetodirectorofpublicity.”
Myparentsgasped.“Congrats,sweetheart!”Momcried.“Oh,wearesoproudofyou!”
“Andinonlysevenyears!”Dadadded.“That’sgottabearecord!Why,ittookmeeighteenyearstomakepartneratthearchitecturefirm!”
“Andit’sjustintimeforyourthirtiethbirthday,too!”Momagreedhappily.“Oh,wearegoingtohavetocelebrate—”
“Idon’thavethejobyet,”Iquicklyreiterated,crossingthestreettotheblockwheremyaunt’sapartmentwas.“I’msuretherewillbeotherpeopleintherunning.”
“Howdoyoufeelaboutit?”Dadasked.Hecouldalwaysreadmeinthisalarmingwaythatmymomabsolutelycouldn’t.
Momscoffed.“Howdoyouthinkshefeels,Fred?She’secstatic!”
“It’sjustaquestion,Martha.Aneasyone.”
Itwasaneasyquestion,wasn’tit?Ishouldfeelexcited,obviously—butmystomachjustcouldn’tseemtounknotitself.“IthinkI’llbemorethrilledwhenIfinallyfinishmovingin,”Isaid.“There’sjustafewmoreboxesIhavetosituate.”
“Ifyouwant,wecancomethisweekendtohelp,”Momsuggested.“Iknowmysisterprobablyleftalotofjunkhiddenplaces…”
“No,no,it’sfine.Besides,I’mworkingthisweekend.”Whichprobablywasn’talie—I’dfindsomeworktodothisweekend.“Anyway,I’malmosthome.I’lltalktoyoulater.Loveyou,”Iadded,andhungupasIturnedthecornerandthetoweringbuildingoftheMonroecameintofullview.Abuildingthathousedasmallapartmentthatonceuponatimebelongedtomyaunt.
Andnow,againstmywill,itbelongedtome.
Itriedtostayoutofitforaslongaspossible,butwhenmylandlordsaidmyrentwouldbeincreasingintheapartmentIleasedinGreenpoint,Ididn’thavemuchofachoice—herewasmyaunt’sapartment,sittingemptyinoneofthemostsought-afterbuildingsontheUpperEastSide,willedtome.
SoIpackedallmythingsintotinyboxes,soldmycouch,andmovedin.
TheMonroelookedlikeeveryothercentury-oldapartmentbuildinginthiscity—askeletonofwindowsanddoors,havinghousedpeoplelongdeadandlongforgotten.Abone-whiteexteriorwithdetailedtrimworkthatlookedvaguelymid-century,wingedlionschiseledintotheeavesandplacedattheentrancewithmissingearsandteeth,andatired-lookinggreeterjustinsidetherevolvingdoors.He’dbeenthereforaslongasIcouldremember,andtonighthewassittingatthewelcomedesk,hishatslightlyaskew,ashereadthenewestJamesPattersonnovel.HelookedupasIcameinandhisfacelitup—
“Clementine!”hecried.“Welcomehome.”
“Goodevening,Earl.How’reyou?How’sthebook?”
“ThisPattersonguynevermisses,”herepliedhappily,andwishedmegoodnightasIheadedforthebrassyelevators.Myhearthurtalittle,howfamiliarallofthiswas—howeasy,howmuchitfeltlikehome.TheMonroealwayssmelledold—itwastheonlywayIcoulddescribeit.Notmustyormoldy,just…old
Lived-in.
Loved.
Theelevatordingeditsarrivaltothefirstfloor,andIslippedinside.Itwasgildedjustlikethelobby,inbrassthatneededanicepolish,withfleur-de-lisaccentsacrossthebaseboardandacloudymirrorontheceilingwhereatiredandblurryreflectionofmyselfstareddownatme.Brownhaircutattheshoulders,curlinginthesummerhumidity,andblunt-cutbangsthatneverquiteseemedtolookpurposeful,butsomehaphazardjobdoneat3:00a.m.withkitchenshearsandabrokenheart.
ThefirsttimeIcametostayatmyaunt’sapartment,Iwaseightandtheentirebuildingseemedlikesomethingoutofastorybook.SomethingI’dreadaboutinthecrampedlibrarybackhome—somewhereHarriettheSpyorEloisewouldlive,andIimaginedthatI’dbejustlikethem.
Clementinewasthekindofnameyougavetoaquirkychildren’sbookcharacter,afterall.
ThefirsttimeIrodethisenchantedelevator,Icarriedatoo-bigduffelbagwithme,thecolorofcherries,clutchingChunkyBunny—mystuffedanimal,whichIstillhad—withallmymight.Goingsomewherenewusedtoterrifyme,butmyparentsthoughtI’dbebetteroffwithmyauntforthesummerastheypackedupourhouseinRhinebeckandmovedtoLongIsland,wherethey’dlivedeversince.Themirrorsontheceilingwerewarpedeventhen,andontheslowrideup,Ifoundaspotwherethemirrorswereunevenanditbowedmyfaceandtwistedmyarmslikeafun-housemirror.
Myaunthadsaidinaconspiratorialvoice,“That’syourpastselflookingbackatyou.Justasplitsecond,fromyoutoyou.”
IusedtoimaginewhatI’dsaytothatsplit-second-behindself.
ThatwaswhenIstillbelievedinallofmyaunt’sstoriesandsecrets.Iwasgullibleandfascinatedbythingsthatsoundedtoogoodtobetrue,asparkofsomethingotherinthemundane.Amirrorthatshowedyourpastself,apairofpigeonswhoneverdied,abookthatwroteitself,analleywaythatledtotheothersideoftheworld,amagicalapartment…
Nowthestoriestastedsourinmymouth,butstill,asIlookedupatmymirroredself,Icouldn’thelpbutplayalong,likeIalwayshad.
“Shelied,”Itoldmyreflection,hermouthmovingtomywords.Ifmysplit-second-pastmewasshockedbythewords,shedidn’tshowit.
Becauseshealreadyknew,too.
Theelevatordinged,andIgotoffonthefourthfloor.Theapartmentswerelabeledwithletters.InthesummersafterIfirstvisited,I’dmemorizedhowtosaythealphabetbackwardwiththem.
L,K,J,I,H,G,F…
Iturnedthecorner.Thehallhadn’tchangedinyears.ThecarpetwasafadedPersiandesign,thesconcesforgottenwithcobwebs.Itrailedmyfingersdownthewhitechair-railmoldingthatlinedthehall,feelingtheroughwoodunderneathprickatmyfingertips.
E,D,C…
B4.
Istoppedatthedoorandfishedthekeysoutofmypurse.Itwasalmost9:30p.m.,butIwassobone-tired,Ijustwantedtogotosleep.Iunlockedthedoorandslippedoffmyflatsinthedoorway.Myaunthadonlytworulesinthisapartment,andthefirstwastoalwaystakeoffyourshoes.
WhenImovedinlastweek,myeyeshadwanderedoverallthetallshadows,asifIexpectedtoseeaghost.Asmallpartofmewantedto—ormaybeitwantedatleastoneofmyaunt’sstoriestocometrue.Ofcourse,nonedid.
AndnowIbarelyevenlookedupasIcameinside.Ididn’tturnonthelights.Ididn’tstudytheshadowstoseeiftheywerestranger,ifanywerenew.
Shesaidthisapartmentwasmagical,butitjustfeltlonelynow.
“It’sasecret,”shehadsaidwithasmile,pressingherfingertoherlips.ThesmokefromherMarlborocurledoutoftheopenwindow.Istillrememberedthatdaylikeitwasyesterday.Theskyhadbeencrisp,thesummerhot,andmyaunt’sstoryhadbeenfantastical.“Youcan’ttellanyone.Ifyoudo,itmightnoteverhappentoyou.”
“Iwon’ttellanyone,”Ihadpromised,andI’dkeptthatpromisefortwenty-oneyears.“Iwon’ttellasoul!”
Soshetoldmeinawhisper,herbrowneyesglimmeringwithimpossibility,andIbelievedher.
Tonight,theapartmentsmelledlikeitalwayshad—oflavenderandcigarettes.Moonlightstreamedinthroughthelargewindowsinthelivingroom,twopigeonsnestingontheAC,huddledintotheirsturdynest.Thepiecesoffurniturealllookedlikeshadowsofthemselves,everythingstillwhereIlastremembered.Idumpedmypursebythebarstool,mykeysonthecounter,andIfellontothevelvetybluecouchinthelivingroom.Itstillsmelledlikeherperfume.Theentireapartmentdid.Evensixmonthslater,afterI’dtradedmostofherfurnitureformine.
Igrabbedthecrochetedblanketfromthebackofthecouchandcurledmyselfunderit,andhopedIcouldfallasleep.Theapartmentwasforeigntomenow,missingsomethingterriblylarge,butitstillfeltlikehomeinawaythatnothingelseevercould.LikeaplaceIonceknew,butthatnolongerwelcomedme.
IwishedIhatedthisplacethatstillfeltlikemyauntcouldlivehere.Thatshecouldstillwalkoutofherbedroomandlaughatmeonthecouchandsay,Oh,mydarling,goingtobedalready?Istillhavehalfabottleofmerlotinthefridge.Getup,thenight’syoung!I’llcookyousomeeggs.Let’splaysomecards.
Butshewasgone,andtheapartmentremained,alongwithallofthefoolishfakesecretsshewhisperedaboutit.Besides,ifthisapartmentreallywasmagical,thenhowcomeithadn’tbroughtmebacktomyauntyet,overthehundredsoftimesI’dcomeinandout,andinandout,overthelastsixmonths?
WhywasIstillherealone,onthiscouch,listeningtothesoundsofacitythatkeptmovingforward,andforward,andforward,whileIstillmournedsomewhereinthepast?
Itwasalie,andthiswasjustanapartmentlikeA4orK13orB11,andIwasway,waytoooldtobelieveinanapartmentthatcouldcarrymetoatimethatnolongerexisted.
Herapartment.
Butnowmine.4StrangersinaStrangeTime
Ahandonmyshouldershookmeawake.
“Fivemoreminutes,”Imumbled,brushingthetouchaway.Therewasacrickinmyneck,andthepoundinginmyheadmademewanttoburrowdownintothesofawithallthechipcrumbsandneverreturn.Itwassoquiet,IthoughtIheardsomeoneinthekitchen.Myaunthumming.GettingherfavoritechippedcoffeemugthatreadF*ckthePatriarchy.Puttingonapotofcoffee.
Italmostsoundedlikeitusedto,whenI’dstumbleinlateatnight,headfullofwine,tootired(andtoodrunk)tomakeitbacktomyapartmentinBrooklyn.I’dalwayscrashonthecouch,andwakeupinthemorningswithamouththattastedlikecottonandaglassofwateronthecoffeetableinfrontofme,andshe’dbewaitingatheryellowkitchentableformetotellherallaboutlastnight’sgossip.Theauthorsbehavingbadly,thepublicistslamentingaboutthelackofdatablemen,theagentwhohadanaffairwiththeirauthor,thelatestblinddateDrewandFionahookedmeupwith.
ButwhenIopenedmyeyes,readytotellmyauntaboutRhonda’sretirementandanotherfailedrelationshipandthenewchefDrewwantedtosign…
Iremembered.
Ilivedherenow.
Thehandshookmyshoulderagain,thetouchsoftyetfirm.Thenavoice,gentleandrumbly,said,“Hey,hey,friend,wakeup.”
Twothingsoccurredtomethen:
One,myauntwasverymuchdead.
Andtwo,therewasamaninherapartment.
Withpureunbridledterror,Ipropelledmyselftositup,throwingmyhandsoutwidely.Iconnectedwiththeintruder.Intheface.Themangaveacry,clutchinghisnose,asIpushedmyselftomyfeet,standingonthecouch,myaunt’sdecorativetasseledpillowofJeffGoldblum’sfaceraisedindefense.
Thestrangerthrewuphisarms.“I’munarmed!”
“I’mnot!”
AndIhithimwiththepillow.
Thenagain,andagain,untilhebackeduphalfwayintothekitchen,hishandsraisedinsurrender.
Whichwaswhen,inmysemi-sleepystateoffightorflight,Igotagoodlookathim.
Hewasyoung—inhismid-twenties—clean-shavenandwide-eyed.Mymotherwouldhavecalledhimboyishlyhandsome.Heworeadarkshirtwithanoverstretchedneckline,acartoonpickleonthefrontandthewords(Pickle)BackMeUp,Bro,anddistressedbluejeansthathaddefinitelyseenbetterdays.Hisauburnhairwaswildandunbrushed,hiseyessolightgraytheyalmostlookedwhite,setintoahandsomelypalefacewithabrushoffrecklesacrosshischeeks.
IangledmypillowtowardhimagainasI(ungracefully)dismountedoverthebackofthecouchandsizedhimup.HewasalittletallerthanIwas,andgangly,butIhadnailsandthewilltolive.
Icouldtakehim.
MissCongenialitytaughtmetosing,andIwasnothingifnotaprepared,depressedmillennial.
Hegavemeahesitantlook,hishandsstillintheair.“Ididn’tmeantostartleyou,”hesaidapologeticallyinasoftSoutherndrawl.“Itakeityou’re…um,you’reClementine?”
Atthesoundofmyname,Iheldthepillowhigher.“Howdoyouknowthat?”
“Well,I’mactually—”
“Howdidyougethere?”
“The—um—thefrontdoor,but—”
“Howlonghaveyoubeenhere?Haveyoubeenwatchingmesleep?Whatkindofsickp—”
Heinterruptedmeloudly,“Allnight.Imean—Ididn’twatchyousleepallnight.Iwasinthebedroom.Igotdressedandcameouthereandsawyouonthecouch.Mymom’safriendofyouraunt’s.She’slettingmesublettheapartmentforthesummer,andshesaidImighthaveavisitor.”
Thatmadeverylittlesense.“What?”
“AnaleaCollins,”herepliedwiththatsameconfusedhesitance.Hebegantoreachforsomethinginhisbackpocket.“Here,see—?”
“Don’tyoudaremove,”Isnapped,andhefroze.
Andslowlyraisedhishandsagain.“Okay…butIhaveanote?”
“Giveittome,then.”
“Youtoldme—youtoldmenottomove?”
Iglaredathim.
Heclearedhisthroat.“Youcanreachforit.Backleftpocket.”
“I’mnotreachingforanything.”
Hegavemeanexasperatedlook.
Oh.Right.Itoldhimnottomove.“…Fine.”Icarefullycreptuptohimandbegantoreacharoundtohisbackleftpocket…
“Andherewefindtheraregentlemaninthewild,”hebegantonarrate—inareallyterribleAustralianaccent,bytheway.“Careful.Hemustbeapproachedcautiouslysonottobeeasilystartled…”
Iglaredathim.
Heraisedasingleinfuriatingeyebrow.
Isnatchedthecontentsoutofhisbackleftpocketandquicklymovedanarm’slengthawayfromhim.AsIbackedaway,Irecognizedmyaunt’sapartmentkey.IknewitwashersbecauseitwasonalittlekeychainsheboughtintheMilanairportyearsagowhenwewentaftermyhighschoolgraduation.Ithoughtthiskeyhadbeenlost.Andwithitwasanote,foldedintotheshapeofapapercrane.
Iunfoldedit.
Iwan,
It’ssolovelythatthiscouldworkout!Tellyourmotherhelloformeandbesuretocheckthemailboxeveryday.IfMotherandFuckercomebythewindow,donotopenit.Theylie.IhopeyouenjoyNewYork—it’squitelovelyinthesummers,albeitabithot.Ta-ta!
xoxo,AC
(P.S.Ifyouseeanelderlywomanwanderingthehalls,pleasebeadearandsendMissNorrisbacktoG6.)
(P.P.S.Ifmyniececomesby,pleasetellClementineyou’llbesublettingfrommethissummer.Remindheraboutsummersabroad.)
IstaredatitforlongerthanIprobablyneededto.EventhoughIhadcountlessbirthdaycardsandValentine’scardsandChristmascardsfromherstashedinmyjewelryboxinthebedroom,seeingnewwordsstrungtogetherinherloopingscriptmademythroatconstrictanyway.BecauseIdidn’tthinkI’deverseeanymorecombinations.
Itwassilly,Iknewitwassilly.
Butitwasabitmoreofherthanbeforethatremained.
Summersabroad
Thestrangerbroughtmeoutofmythoughtswhenhesaid,quiteconfidently,“Doeseverythingmakesensenow?”
Isetmyjaw.“No,actually.”
Hisbravadofaltered.“…No?”
“No.”BecauseMissNorrispassedawaythreeyearsago,andayoungcouplemovedintoherapartmentandthrewawayallofherantiquemusicboxesandherviolin,sinceshedidn’thaveanyonetowillthemto.Myauntwantedtosavethem,butbeforeshecould,theywereruinedoutonthecurbintherain.“I’mnotsurewhatyouthinksublettingmeans,butitdoesn’tmeanyoucanwaltzinjustanysummeryouwantto.”
Hiseyebrowsscrunchedtogetherinvexation.“Anysummer?No,Ijustspoketoherlastweek—”
“You’renotfunny,”Isnapped,huggingthesequinedfaceofJeffGoldblumtomychest.
Heblinkedthen,andgaveaslownod.“Allright…letmegetmythings,andI’llbegone,okay?”
ItriednottolooktoorelievedasIsaid,“Good.”
Hedroppedhishandsandquietlyturnedbackintomyaunt’sbedroom.Inside,IexpectedtoseemyfullbedonitsIKEAblackmetalframe,andinsteadcaughtaglimpseofablanketIhadn’tseensinceI’dpackeditupsixmonthsago.Iquicklylookedaway.Itjustlookedlikethatblanket.Itwasn’treally.
Mychestconstricted,butItriedtopushthefeelingdown.Ithappenedalmostsixmonthsago,Itoldmyself,rubbingmysternum.She’snothere.
Ashebegantopackup,Iturnedandpacedthelivingroom—IalwayspacedwhenIwasnervous.TheapartmentwasbrighterthanIremembered,sunlightstreaminginthroughthelargebaywindows.
Ipassedapictureonthewall—oneofmyauntsmilinginfrontoftheRichardRodgersTheatretheopeningnightofTheHeartMattered.OnethatIknewIhadtakendownwhenImovedintheweekbefore.Itwasinstorage,alongwiththevasethatwasnowonthetableandthecolorfulporcelainpeacocksonthewindowsillshe’dboughtinMorocco.
AndthenInoticedthecalendaronthecoffeetable.Icould’veswornIthrewitout,andIknewAuntAnaleahadstoppedkeepingtrackofthedays,butnotforsevenyears
“Well,Ithinkthat’sallofmythings.I’llleavethegroceriesintherefrigerator,”headded,aduffelbagoverhisshoulderashecameoutofmyaunt’sroom,butIbarelynoticedhim.Mychestfelttighter.
Icouldbarelybreathe.
Sevenyears—whywasthecalendarsettosevenyearsago?
Andwhereweremythings?TheboxesI’dyettounpackthatwereinthecorner?AndthepicturesI’dhunguponthewalls?
Hadhemovedmythings?Putthemsomewheretomesswithme?
Hepausedinthelivingroom.“Areyou…okay?”
No.No,Iwasn’t.
Isatdown—hard—onthecouch,curlingmyfingerssotightlyaroundJeffGoldblum’sfacethatthesequinsbegantocrinkle.Istartednoticingallofthelittlethings,now—becausemyauntneverchangedanythinginherapartment,sowhensomethingwentmissingorchanged,itwaseasytotell.Thecurtainsthatshe’dthrownawaythreeyearsagoafteracatshebroughtinoffthestreetpeedonthem.TheSaintDollyPartoncandleonthecoffeetablethatsetfiretoherfeatherboarobe,bothtossedoutthewindow.TheafghanI’dcoveredupwithlastnightthatshould’vebeenboxedupandputintothehallcloset.
Thereweresomanythingsthatwereherethatweren’thereanymore
Including…
Myeyesfellonthewingbackchairthecolorofrobin’segg.Thechairthatwasnolongerthere.Thatshouldn’tbethere.Because—becauseitwaswhere—
“Myaunt.Didshesaywhereshewent?”Iasked,myvoicewobbling,eventhoughIalreadyknew.Ifitwassevenyearsago,she’dbe…
Herubbedthebackofhisneck.“Um,IthinkshesaidNorway?”
Norway.RunningfromwalrusesandtakingphotosofglaciersandlookinguptrainticketsdowntoSwitzerlandandSpain,nursingabottleofvintagewineshe’dboughtfromacornerstoreacrossfromourhostel.
Blackspotsbegantoeatattheedgesofmyvision.Icouldn’tgetadeepenoughbreath.Itfeltliketherewassomethinglodgedinmythroat,andtherewasn’tenoughair,andmylungswouldn’tcooperate,and—
“Shit,”hewhispered,droppinghisduffel.“What’swrong?WhatcanIdo?”
“Air,”Igasped.“Ineed—Ineedfresh—Ineed—”
Toleave.Tonevercomeback.Tosellthisapartmentandmovehalfwayacrosstheworldand—
Intwostrides,hewasovertothewindow.
Alarmed,Ishookmyhead.“No,not—!”
Hethrewitopen.
WhatcamenextwassomethingoutofAlfredHitchcock’sTheBirds.Becausemyaunttookcareinnamingeverythingthatsheadopted.Theratthatlivedinherwallsforafewyears?Wallbanger.Thecatsheadoptedthatpissedonhercurtains?FreeWilly.ThegenerationofpigeonsthatroostedonherACforaslongasI’dbeenalive?
Twoblursofgrayandbluedartedintotheapartmentwithsavagecoos.“Motherfu—”themancried,shieldinghisface.
Theycameinlikebatsoutofhell,ratsofthenight,vengefulterrors.
“Thepigeons!”Icried.Oneofthemlandedwithahardthudonthecountertop,theothertookaroundinthelivingroombeforelandinginmyhair.Theclawsscratchedmyscalp,gettingtangledinmyalreadyknottedhair.“Getitout!”Icried.“Getitoffme!”
“Holdstill!”hecried,grabbingthepigeonbythebody,andgentlycoaxeditoutofmyhair.Itdidn’twanttoletgo.Idebatedwhetherornottoshaveoffmyentireheadinthatmoment.Buthishandsweregentle,anditmademypanickedheartinmythroatbeatalittlemorerationally.“Igotit,Igotit,there’sagoodgirl,”hemurmuredinasoft,lowvoice,thoughIwasn’tsurewhetheritwastothepigeonortome.
Iwasgladhecouldn’tseetheblushthatinchedupmycheeks.
Then—wewerefree.Iscrambledawayfromthepigeon,behindthecouch,whilehehelditatarm’slength.
“WhatdoIdo?”heaskedhesitantly.
“Releaseit!”
“Ijustcaughtit!”
Imimedthrowingit.“OUTTHEWINDOW!”
ThepigeonwhirleditsheadaroundlikethegirlfromTheExorcistandblinkedathim.Hemadeafaceandthrewitoutthewindow.Ittookflightintotheairandleftfortheoppositerooftop.Hegaveasigh.Theotherpigeonblinked,cooing,asitwaddleditselftotheedgeofthecounterandnibbledonapieceofmail.
“Erm,Itakeitthisis…MotherandFucker?”heasked,alittleapologetically.
Ipatteddownmyhair.“Nowyourememberthenote?”
“Couldhavespecifiedpigeons,”hereplied,andwenttogettheotherone.Itstartedrunningtheotherway,butheclickedhistonguetotryandcorralit.
Iwatchedwithmountingpanic.
Sevenyearsago,IwassupposedtogobackpackingacrossEuropewithmythenboyfriend,butwebrokeitoffjustbeforeourdeparture.Iwasmorebereftaboutthat,inhindsight,thanhimbreakingupwithme.Thenmyaunthadshownupatmyparents’house,travelingscarftiedaroundherhead,inheart-shapedsunglasses,asuitcaseatherside.She’dsmiledatmefromthefrontporchandsaid,“Let’sgochasethemoon,mydarlingClementine.”
Andwedid.
Shedidn’tknowwhereweweregoing,andIcertainlydidn’t,either.
Weneverhadaplan,myauntandI,whenwechasedanadventure.
Hadshesaidshe’dsublettedherapartment?I…couldn’tremember.Thatsummerhadbeenablurofsomeothergirlwithoutamaporanitineraryoradestination.
“Thisapartmentismagical,”myaunt’svoiceranginmyears,butitwasn’ttrue.Itcouldn’tbetrue.
“I…Ihavetogo,”Imuttered,grabbingmypursebesidethecouch.“BegonebythetimeIgetback.Or—orelse.”
AndIfled.5TheTime-Share
Istumbledoutoftheelevator,suckinginlungfulofbreathafterlungfulofbreath,tryingtogetmychesttoloosenup.Togetmyselftocalmdown.Breathe.
Iwasfine,Iwasfine—
Iamfine—
“Clementine!Goodmorningtoyou,”Earlsaid,tippinghiscaptome.“It’sabitdrizzlythismorning—issomethingwrong?”
Yes,Iwantedtotellhim.There’sastrangerinmyapartment.
“I’mjustgoingforashortwalk,”Isaidquickly,flashinghimasmilethatIhopedmeantthatnothingwaswrong,andquicklyleftintothedrearygraymorning.Itwasalreadysomuggy,thehumiditystucktomelikeasecondskin,andthecitywasmuchtooloudforninethirtyinthemorning.
I’dfallenasleepinyesterday’sclothes,whichIjustrealizedIstillhadon.Ismootheddownmyblouse,tiedmyhairbackintoatinyponytail,andhopedthatthefalloutfrommymascarawasn’ttoobad.Evenifitwas,IwassureIwasn’ttheworst-lookingpersonontheblock.
Thiswasthecitythatneverslept,afterall.
Whydidn’tItellEarlaboutthemaninmyapartment?Hecould’vegoneupthereandvacatedhim—
It’sbecauseyoubelievethestory.
Myauntwasgoodattellingstories,andtheoneshetoldabouttheapartmenthadalwaysstucktomelikeglue.
Obviouslyherapartmenthaditsquirks:thepigeonsontheACrefusedtoleave,generationaftergeneration,theseventhfloorboardinthelivingroomcreakedfornodiscerniblereason,andundernocircumstanceswereyoutoturnthefaucetandtheshoweronatthesametime.
“And,”shehadsaidgravely,thatsummerIturnedeightandthoughtIknewwhatmadethisapartmentmagical,butIdidnot,“itbendstimewhenyouleastexpectit.”
Likethepagesofabook,unitingaprologuewithahappyending,anepiloguewithatragicbeginning,twomiddles,twoclimaxes,twostoriesthatneverquitemeetintheworldoutside.
“Onemomentyouareinthepresentinthehall”—shepointedtowardthefrontdoor,asifitwasajourneyshehadlivedalready,retracingherstepsinthemapofhermemory—“thenextyouopenthedoorandyouslipthroughtimeintothepast.Sevenyears.”Then,alittlequieter,“It’salwayssevenyears.”
Thefirsttimeshetoldmethestory,sittinginthatrobin’s-eggbluechairofhers,Marlborocigaretteinhand,shetoldmeonlythegoodparts.Iwaseight,afterall,andmyfirstsummerwithmyauntstretchedwideinfrontofme.“Abouttwentyyearsago,waybeforeyouwereborn,thesummerwassweltering,andastormhadrolledacrossthecity.Theskywasbrilliantwithlightning…”
Myauntwasagreatstoryteller.Everythingshesaid,shemademewanttobelieve,evenwhileIwasfiguringoutthatSantaClausdidn’treallyexist.
Thewayshetoldit,she’djustboughttheapartment,andmymomhadhelpedhermoveinthatmorning,socardboardboxeswithherthingswerestackedalongthewalls,wordsonthesidedetailingwhatwasinsideinlong,loopyhandwriting.Kitchenandbedroomandmusic.ShehadjustendedhercareerwithTheHeartMattered,theBroadwayshowshehadstarredin.Shewastwenty-seven,andeveryonewasbaffledastowhysheneverwantedtoactonstageagain.
Asshetoldit,theapartmentwashollow.Itwaslikearoomwithoutbooks.Herrealestateagenthadgottentheapartmentforcheap—apparentlythesellerhadwantedtogetridofitquickly—andmyauntwasn’tonetolookagifthorseinthemouth.Shewentoutforgroceries(andwine),becauseshewasn’tabouttospendherfirstnightinhernewapartment,sleepingontheflooronanairmattress,withoutatleastawedgeofBrieandsomemerlottokeephercompany.
Shereturnedtohernewapartment,butsomethingwasn’tright.
Thereweren’tanyboxesinthelivingroom.Anditwasfurnished.Therewereplantseverywhere,recordsofoldbandssuspendedonthewalls,ahugestereosystemwithaturntableunderthelivingroomwindows.Shethoughtshe’dwalkedintothewrongapartment,andsosheturnedandleft—
Butno,itwasB4.
Shewentbackinside,andallthefurniturewasstillthere.
Aswasastrangeyoungwomansittingonthewindowsill,thewindowopen,welcomingwhateverbreezewouldbreaktheswelteringhotnessofaNewYorksummer.Thehumidityjusthungintheair,dripping,theskycloudlessofthethunderstormthatshouldhavedrenchedthecityjustafewmomentsbefore.Herlongbeigeshortswereasizetoobig,hertanktopsolouditshouldhavebeeninaJazzercisespecial.Herblondhairwaspulledbackintoaponytailwithabrightbluescrunchie,andshewasfeedingtwopigeonsonthesill,talkingtotheminsoftcoos,untilshenoticedmyauntandstampedouthercigaretteinacrystallineashtray,herthickeyebrowsraisedhigh.
Asmyauntusedtosay—shewasthemostbeautifulwomanshehadevermet,thesunlightframingherinahalooflight.Itwastheexactmomentshefell.
(“Youalwaysknow,”shetoldmeconspiratorially.“Youalwaysknowthemomentyoufall.”)
Thewomanlookedinconfusionatmyaunt,andthen—
“Oh,soithappenedagain.”
“Whathappened?What’shappening—whoareyou?”myauntasked,atalossforwords,becauseshewasquitesureshe’dsteppedintotherightapartment.Shedidn’thavetimeforsomethinglikethis.Thesummerheathadalreadymadeherirritated,andherflatsweresoggyfromtherainthatwasnownowheretobefound,andsheneededtoputhermilkawaybeforeitspoiled.
Thewomanturnedtoherwithasmile.“It’sabitodd,butyoulooklikethekindofpersonwhomightbelieveit.”
“DoIlookthatgullibletoyou?”
Hereyeswidened.“Thatisn’twhatImeantatall.Youjustmovedin,right?TotheMonroe—it’sstillcalledthat,isn’tit?”
“Whywouldn’titbe?”
Thewomanputafingertoherownlipsandtappedthem.“Thingschange.I’mVera,”shesaid,andoutstretchedherhand.“Iusedtolivehere.”
“Usedto?”
“Technicallystilldo,forme.”Vera’ssmilewidened,andshemotionedtomyaunt’sgroceries.“Youcanputtheminthefridge.Iwasjustabouttomakesomesummerfettuccine,ifyou’dliketostay,andIcanexplain?”
Myaunt,flustered,quicklyturnedandstartedforthedooragain.“Absolutelynot.”
Sosheleftagainandgotthesuperintendent,whounlockedherdoor—thesameoneshehadcomefrom,B4,soshehadn’tgoneintothewrongplacebefore—andletherintohersmall,emptyapartment.Hercardboardboxesgreetedher.Thesuperintendentlookedaroundforherpeaceofmind,buthedidn’tfindthepetiteintruderanywhere,andmyauntcouldn’tfindanyofthefurnitureshe’dseen,either.Nottherecordplayer,theplants,noneofit.
Shedidn’tseethewomanagainforanotherfewmonths.Bythenmyauntwasnolongersleepingonthefloor,andshehadboughtarobin’s-eggbluewingbackchairthatsheimmediatelysetinthecornerofthelivingroom,andherfridgewasstockedwithwineandcheese,atravelguideforMalaysiaopenandfacedownonthekitchencounter.
Sheleftherapartmentforasecond—longenoughtogetapackagefromthemailboxdownstairs—andbythetimesheunlockedherdoorandsteppedbackinside,shefoundherselfinthatsamestrangeapartmentagain,withtherecordsonthewallsandtheplantsoverflowingthecounters,stackedacrossthesill.
Thesamewoman,herhairnowshornshort,wasloungingonathreadbarecouchthathadgoneoutofstyleinthesixties.ShelookedatherguestoveracopyofJaneEyreandquicklysatup.“Oh,you’reback!”
Thewoman—thisVera—seemedquitehappytoseeher,too.Whichwasoddformyaunt.Mostpeople,aftersheimplodedhercareer,seemedtoonlyeverlookatherwitheitherbefuddlementormilddisdain.Myauntwasn’tquitesurewheretogo—whattodo.Shouldsheleaveagain,getthesuper?
(“ObviouslyIdidn’tthistime,”myauntscoffed,andwavedherhandintheairdismissively.“Hecouldn’tevenfixmyratinfestation.AndIexpectedhimtogetawholepersonoutofmyapartment?Absolutelynot.”)
Instead,myauntacceptedVera’sinvitetofettuccine,amealthatwasneverquitethesametwice.Veranevermeasuredanyoftheingredients,andwatchingherinthekitchenwaslikewitnessingahurricanepersonified.Shewaseverywhereatonce,draggingthings,half-thought,outofthecupboardsandabandoningthemonthecounter,forgettingtheboilingpotonthestove,decidingonasidesaladatthelastminute—butoh,whatkindofdressing?—andallthewhileshetoldmyauntthisabsolutelyimpossiblestory.
Ofanapartmentthatsometimesslippedthroughtime—sevenyearsforward,sevenyearsback.
“Likeaseven-yearitch?”myaunthadaskedwryly,andVerahadlookedsodistraughtthatshe’devenguessthat.
“No,liketheluckynumber!Seven.Itmustbelucky,sinceyou’rehere.”
Myauntsworethatshehadneverbeenflusteredherentirelife,butatthatmomentshehadn’tacluewhattosay.Theytalkedforhoursoveraldentepastaandwiltedsalad.Theytalkeduntilmorningwaspinkacrossthehorizon.Theylaughedovercheapwine,andwhenmyaunttoldthisstory,youcouldseethehappinessfillingherfacewithyouthandlove.TherewasneveradoubtinmymindthatshelovedVera.
Shelovedhersomuch,shebegantocallher“mysunshine.”
Andthatwaswhereshealwaysstoppedinherstory—atthebigreveal,thewonderandmagicofthisapartmentthatslippedthroughtime—andwhenIwasakid,thatwasenough.Itwasahappyending,andIgottoexistinthatsamespace,openingdoors,hopingI’dslip,too,intosomeunknownpast—ormaybeafuture.Insevenyears,wouldIbesuccessful?WouldIbepopular?Pretty?
WouldIhavemylifetogether?WouldIfallinlove?
OrifIslippedintothepast,wouldImeetmyauntfromthepicturesofwhenIwasborn?Thequieter,reservedwomanwholookedalittlelostinthosephotos,andIneverquiteunderstoodwhy.
Ittookafewyearstorealizethatshehadonlytoldmethegoodpartsthatfirstsummerafternoon,whenshewastryingtofillthesilence.
Iwastwelvewhenshefinallytoldmethesadparts.Shetoldmetopayattention—thattheheartbreakwasimportant,too.
Thesummereveningwascoolwithathunderstormasweatefettuccinethatwasneverquitethesametwice.Iknewthisstorybynow,backwardandforward,wishingeverytimeIsteppedintotheapartmentitwouldchoosemetowhiskaway—
“Iwantedtomarryher.”
ShesaiditsoftlyoverherthirdglassofmerlotwhilewewereplayingagameofScrabblethenightbeforeourflighttoDublin.Irememberthatdinnersowell—thewayyoudowhenyourbrainsticksonasceneandreplaysitoverandoveragainyearsafter,changingthedetailsjustslightly,butnevertheoutcome.
“Findingapersonwasalittlemoredifficulttwenty-oddyearsago.We’dmeteachothersomewhereintimesooftenbythen,Icouldtracethelinesofherhandsonmine.Ihadmemorizedthefrecklesonherback,drawnthemintoconstellations.Theapartmentalwaysdrewustogetherwhenwewereatcrossroads,andoh,wereweatsomany—inourcareers,inourpersonallives,inourfriendships.Wehelpedeachother.Weweretheonlyoneswhocould.”Shehadthisfar-offlookinhereyes.“IthoughtIcouldfindher,thatitwouldbeeasy—thatitwouldbelikeseeingsomeoneyouonceknewonacrowdedsidewalk,andyoureyesmeet,andtimestandsstill.Buttimeneverstandsstill,”sheaddedbitterly.“Alotcanhappeninsevenyears.”
Shewasn’twrong—insevenyears,I’dbegoingtocollege.Insevenyears,I’dhavemyfirstboyfriend,myfirstheartbreak.Insevenyears,I’dhaveapassportmorewornandweatheredthanmostoftheadultsImet.IcouldonlyimaginewhathappenedinthesevenyearsbetweenmyauntandVera.
Ididn’thaveto.
Itwassimple,anditwassad:
WhenshefoundVerainthepresent,shewasdifferent.Shehadchanged,bitbybit,thewayyearsoftendid,andmyaunt,inallherlovefornewandexcitingthings,wasafraidthatwhattheyhadinthatapartmentoutoftimewouldn’tlast.Shewasafraidthatitwouldneverbeasgoodasithadbeen.Thatalifetimetogetherwouldsour,thatthesecondtastewouldn’tbeassweet,thattheirlovewouldgrowstalelikebreadandtheirheartswouldgrowcold.
Intheend,Verahadwantedafamily,andAnaleahadwantedtheworld.
“SoIlethergo,”myauntsaid,“ratherthanbeburdenedwithme.”
AndVeramovedon.Twokidsonherown.Shemovedbacktoherhometowntoraisethem.Wentbacktocollege.Becamealawyer.Shegrewandshechangedandshebecamesomeonenew,astimealwaysmadeyou.Andshehadnotlookedback.
Allthewhile,myauntstayedthesame,afraidtokeepanythingtoolonginfearitmightspoil.
Sheonlyeverhadtworulesinthisapartment—one,alwaystakeyourshoesoffbythedoor.
Andtwo:neverfallinlove.
Becauseanyoneyoumethere,anyonetheapartmentletyoufind,couldneverstay
Nooneinthisapartmenteverstayed.
Nooneeverwould.
Sowhywouldtheapartmentgivemesomeonenow?Whynotmyaunt—thepersonIwantedtosee?Whydiditspitmeoutintoatimewhenshewasn’tthere,herapartmentloanedouttosomecharmingstrangerwiththemostpiercinggrayeyes?
Itdidn’tmatter.He’dbegonebythetimeIwentback.Theapartmentjustmadeamistake—orIwasgoingnuts.Eitherway,itdidn’tmatterbecausehewasn’tstaying.
IfoundmyselfwalkingalittlefartherthanIanticipated,overtotheMetropolitanMuseumofArt.IalwaysendedupherewhenIwasstressedorlost.Thetimelessnessoftheportraits,thesweepingcolorfullandscapes,viewingtheworldthroughpaint-splotchedglasses.Iwalkedthroughthegalleries,andinthattimeImanagedtosummonupalittlemoredecorum.Andaplan.IgotamacchiatofromtheItaliancaféacrossfromtheMonroeonmywayback,andIdowneditlikeachaser,tosseditintothetrashcanoutsideofthebuilding,andmarchedbacktowardthelastplaceIreallywantedtobe.6SecondChances
Thewalkfromtheelevatortomyaunt’sfourth-floorapartmentfeltexceptionallylong,mynervesbeginningtomount—sortofthewaymynervesalwaysdidwhenIapproachedherdoor(“yourdoor,”IcouldhearFionasay).Thedreadofgoinginside,mixedwiththeuncertaintyofwhetherornotI’dseethatstrangeragain,twistedmystomach.Ireallyhopedhewasgone.
IstoppedatB4,andthebrassydoorknockerstaredbackatme,thelionheadforeverfrozeninahalfscream,halfroar.
“Okay,theplanisifhe’sthere,chasehimoutwiththebaseballbatinthecloset.Ifhe’sgone,prosper,”ImutteredtomyselfasIfishedthekeysoutofmypurse.“Don’tfreakoutlikeyoudidearlier.Breathe.”
Somehowthatsoundedsomucheasierthanitactuallywas.
MyhandswereshakingasIinsertedthekeyintothelockandturnedit.Iwasn’tthesuperstitioustypeofperson,butthewafflinginmyhead—Don’tbehere,dobehere—soundedsuspiciouslylikeIwaspluckingpetalsoffadaisy.
Thedoorcreakedopenonrustedhinges,andIpeekedmyheadinside.
Ididn’thearanyone…
Maybehewasgone.
“Hello?”Icalled.“Mr.MurderMan?”
Noresponse.
Thoughifhewereamurderer,wouldherespondtobeingcalledone?Iwasoverthinkingthings.Islippedinsideandclosedthedoorbehindme.Theapartmentwasquiet,theafternoonlightstreamingraysofgoldandorangethroughthetaffeta-coloredcurtainsinthelivingroom.Motesofdustdancedinthesunlight.
Iputmypurseonthebarstoolunderneaththecounterandcheckedtherooms,buthe—andhisstuff—weregone.
Myreliefwasshort-lived,however,asItookstockoftheapartmentproperly.Thecalendarwasstillsettosevenyearsago.Theportraitsonthewallwerestillthere,theonesmyaunthadtakendown,eithergivenawayordestroyed,andtheonesI’dstoredinthehallwaycloset.Herbedwasinthebedroominsteadofmine,herbooksstillhaphazardlystackedontheshelvesinherstudy,thoughIwassureI’dputmostoftheminboxesalready.
Andthentherewasthenote—theonewrittenonthebackofareceiptinlongandscratchyhandwritingIdidn’trecognize.
Sorryfortheintrusion—I
Iturnedthereceiptover.Thedatereadsevenyearsago,fromabodegaonthecornerthathadsincebeenturnedintoanexpensivefurnitureboutique—thekindyou’dfindinfarm-chicmakeoverswithshiplap.
Mychestconstrictedagain.
“No,no,no,no,”Ibegged.Thetwopigeonssatonthesill,pressedagainsttheglassliketheywantedtobeinsidetowatchtheshow.Theylookedabitruffledfromthemorning.“No.”
Thepigeonscooed,scandalized.
Isetmyjaw.Crushedthereceiptinmyhandsandthrewitbackontothecounter.Grabbedmypurse.Andlefttheapartment.Thedoorslammedclosedbehindme.
ThenIunlockeditagain,andwentinside.
Thereceiptwasstillthere.
Iturnedaround.Lefttheapartment.
Andshovedmywaybackin.
Stillthereonthecounter.
“Icandothisallday,”Itoldtheapartment,andthenIwantedtokickmyselffortalkingtoaninanimateplace
ItfeltalittlelikeIwastalkingtomyauntinstead.Shewouldbethekindofpersontoplaythisexacttrickonme.We’dalwaysbuttedheads,eventhoughIlovedher.ShesaidItiedmybowstootightly,livedmylifetooneat,likemyparents.
Ijustlikedplans.Ilikedstickingtothem.Ilikedknowingwhatwascomingandwhenitwascoming.
So,yes,thiswouldbetheexactkindofthingmyauntwoulddo.
Onmysixthreentry,IsawthecrumpledreceiptandthepigeonswatchingmelikeIwassomefool,turnedonmyheels—
Andcameface-to-facewiththestranger.
“Oh,”hesaid,surprised,hispaleeyeswide,“you’rebackalready.”
Ijerkedbackward,raisingmypurse.“Isweartogod—”
“I’mstillleaving,”headdedcautiously,holdinghishandsupinsurrender,“butIforgotmytoothbrush,actually.”
Ifrowned.“Oh.”
“MayIgetit?”
Ipulledmypurseovermyshoulderagain.“Sinceyouaskedsonicely…”Isteppedtotheside,andlethimintotherestoftheapartment.Hehadhisduffelslungacrosshisbody,theairporttagstillonthestrap.HewentintothebathroomtogetitwhileIstoodperchedattheedgeofthelivingroom,pickingatmycuticles.Hecamebackoutwithittriumphantlyinhishand.
Maybewhenheleavesthistime,I’llgobacktomytime,too,Ithought.
“It’saweirdthing,”hesaid,wavinghistoothbrush,“butIhavetohaveit.”
“I’mreallypickywithmine.Theyhavetohavethelittlerubberbitsattheedges,”Iagreedabsently,beforeIrememberedthatIwassupposedtobecallingsecuritybecausehehad,infact,comeback.Buthe’dcomebackforhistoothbrush
“Oh,theonestomassageyourgums?”heasked.“Thosearenice.”
“AndIhateitwhensomeonejustsuggeststhatyouuseoneoftheirstheyhadn’tused—it’snotthesame.”
Hethrewhishandsup.“Right?Notthesame!Anyway,nowthatIhavemyemotionalsupporttoothbrush,I’llbeonmyway.AndifI’veleftanythingelse,youcanjustmailithere,”headded,takingapenfromthemugonthecounterandjottingdownhisinformationonanapkin.Hehandedittome.Ifhenoticedthecrumpled-upreceiptwithhisnoteonit,hedidn’tsayanything.
Ireadhisscratchyhandwriting.“You’refromNorthCarolina?”
“TheOuterBanks,yeah.”
“You’realongwayfromhome.”
Hegaveaone-shoulderedshrug,morecoythandismissive.“?‘Travelisaboutthegorgeousfeelingofteeteringintheunknown.’?”
Icockedmyhead,thequotefamiliar.“AnthonyBourdain?”
Therightsideofhismouthquirkedupintoacharminglycrookedsmile.Ifithadbeenanyothertime,anyotherplace,itmighthavemeltedmethenandthere.“I’llseeyouaround.”
“Probablynot,”Ireplied.
“Probablynot,”heagreedwithaself-consciouslaugh,andsalutedgoodbyewithhistoothbrush,anditwasadorable.
Iloweredmygaze,anditsettledonthecalendaronthecoffeetable.Sevenyears
Hestartedforthedoor.
Isqueezedmyeyesshut.
“Theapartmentalwaysdrewustogetherwhenwewereatacrossroads,”myaunthadsaidofherandVera.Soitmust’vedrawnthismanandmetogether,too.Ireallydidn’tcareaboutwhatevercrossroadsIwasat—Ifoundmyselfenchantedbythememoryofmyauntonmyparents’frontdoorstepsevenyearsago,askingmeonanadventure,asiftimeinandofitselfwasinfinite.Asifsheknew,withthatgleaminhereyes,thatsomethingwasabouttohappen.
Or,perhaps,itwasbecauseofwhatshe’doncetoldme.
Howsometimestimepinchedinonitself.HowsometimesitbledtogetherlikethewatercolorsIusedtopaintwith.
Helivedinaworldwheremyauntstillexisted,andifIcouldstayinthatworld—howeverlong…Evenifitwasjustinthisapartment.Evenifitwasonlythisonce.EvenifthenexttimeIleft,theapartmentsentmebacktomytime—
Inthisapartment,shewasstillalivesomewhere,outintheworld.
Thiskindofmagicisheartache,Iwarnedmyself,butitdidn’tmatter,becauseasoft,almostdeadpartofmyheartthathadbloomedeverysummerwithadventureandwonderwhisperedback,Whatdoyouhavetolose?
Whateveritwas,Ispunonmyheelsandtoldhimjustashereachedthedoortoleave,“Youcanstay.”
Heletgoofthefrontdoorknobandturnedbacktome,acuriouslookinhisbrightandpaleeyes.Theyremindedmeabitoftheshadeofcloudsjustbeforeaplaneascendedabovethem.“Yousure?”heaskedinthatsoftSouthernlilt.
“Yeah,but—Ihavetostayhere,too,rightnow,”Isaid,foldinghisnapkinupandstickingitinmybackpocket.IfIrememberedmyaunt’sstoriesaboutVera,I’dbesentbacktomytimeeventually.“Myapartmentiskindof”—Ipaused,wrackingmybrainforagoodlie—“outofcommission.It—um.Gotinfested.With—um.”Iglancedatthewindowsill.MotherandFuckerwerehuddledontheAC,preeningeachotheraftertheirharrowingmorning.“Pigeons.”
Hiseyeswidened.“Oh.Ididn’trealizeitcouldgetthatbad.”
“Oh,yeah.They’recalledtheratsoftheskiesforareason.”God,Iwasaterribleliar,butheseemedtobuyitwithaseriousnod.Seriously?Whatwerethepigeonslikewherehe’sfrom?“So…whilemyaunt’sgone,shetoldmetolookafterherapartment,andIfiguredIcouldstayhereafewdayswhilethatgotsortedout.”Ifinallydraggedmyeyesbacktohim.“I’msorryifIwasabitmeanatfirst.Youjustsurprisedme.Butifmyaunttoldyouthatyoucouldstay…”
“Thankyou,thankyou!”Hepressedhishandsagainsteachotherinprayer.“Iswear,youwon’tevenknowI’mhere.”
Ihighlydoubtedthat,sincehewasalmostimpossibletoignore.Hejustlookedlikealoudkindofperson,buthewasalsomesmerizingtowatch.Hemovedthroughtheworldwiththisairofnonchalance—likehedidn’tcarewhatanyoneelsethought.Itwasinfectious.Ishiftedonmyfeetuncomfortably,becauseitwasfinallybeginningtosinkinthatthiswasreal,andmyaunt’sstorywastrue.ItwasexactlywhatIhadwishedforforyears—openingherapartment,holdingmybreath,waitingtobewhiskedaway—
Onlyforittohappennow,aftermyauntwasgone,afterInolongerhadaheartforimpossiblethings.
Whycouldn’tIhavehadanencounterwithsomeoneless…enthusiastic?Thismanfeltlikehecouldexistanywhereandcallithome,toomuchlikemyaunt,toomuchlikethepersonIhadwantedtobe.
“Tomakeupforgettingoffonthewrongfoot,”hesaid,andcockedhisheadinaboyishway,“canIcookusdinner?”
Us.Thatsurprisedme.Ifeltmychesttightenlikearubberband.Iquicklylookedaway.“Um,sure.Ithinkthere’ssomespaghettisauceinthepantry?”
“Oh,that’ssweet,butI’vesomethingelseinmind.”Hisgrinturnedintoasmile,anditwasbrightandcrookedand,oh,no,socharming,likehehadahundredsecretshecouldn’twaittotellmetuckedintothecornersofhislips.“Oneofmyfavoriterecipes.I’mIwan,bytheway.”Heoutstretchedhishand.Hehadn’teventakenoffhisduffelbagyet.
Itookadeepbreathandacceptedhishand.Hisfingertipswerehardandcalloused,scarsacrosshisfingers,burnsonhishands.Theywerealsowarm,andhisgripwassolid,anditmeltedallthenervesIhadhadamomentbefore.Thismightnotbesobad.“Clementine,”Ireplied.
“Oh,like—”
Isqueezedhishandalittletighteranddeadpanned,“Ifyousingthatsong,Imighthavetokillyou.”
Helaughed.“I’dneverdreamofit.”
Iletgoofhishand,andhefinallyslidoffhisduffelbag,droppingitbythecouch,andhurriedintothekitchen.Ifollowedhimwearily.Hepusheduphisalreadyshortsleevesandgrabbedacuttingboardfromthecounter,thenspunitaroundbyitshandlewithaflourish.
Thiswasaterribleidea.Theworstidea.Whathadpossessedmetodothis?
Heglancedbackatme,standingthereintheentrywaytothekitchen,andaskedifI’dlikeaglassofwaterwhileIwaited—orsomethingalittlestronger.
“Stronger,”Idecided,tearingmyeyesawayfromthishandsomemaninmyaunt’skitchen,beginningtofeellikeI’djustmadeagravemistake.“Definitelystronger.”7BetterAcquainted
IwatchedfrommyperchonthebarstoolasIwanmadehimselfathomeinmyaunt’skitchen.MyauntandIusuallyateTVdinnersorwentout,andforthelastweeksinceImovedin,I’dgottentakeoutfrommyfavoriteThaiplace.Thekitchenwasaforeignbattlefieldtome,somewhereIjustcautiouslypassedthroughonthewaytothebedroomortogetanotherglassofwine.Icouldcooktheessentials—mymommadesureofthatbeforeIleftforcollege,shewasn’tgoingtoletheronlydaughterstarve—butI’dneverbeenveryinterestedintheartofitall.Iwan,ontheotherhand,seemedtofitsowellthere,likehealreadyknewwhereeverythingwas.He’dtakenawornleatherkniferollfromhisduffelbag,whichheputbackintothebedroom,andsettheknivesdownonthecounter.
“So,”Iasked,nursingacheapglassofrosémyaunthadboughtbeforesheleftforthesummer,“you’reacheforsomething?”
Heretrievedabrownbagofvegetablesfromtherefrigerator.Ihadn’tevenrealizedhehadstockeditfulloffood.Thefridgehadn’tseenanythingbesidestakeoutandleftoversforaweekatleast.Hegesturedtowardhiskniferoll.“Didmyknivesgiveitaway?”
“Alittle.Youknow,contextclues.Also,pleasesayyes.Thealternativeisthatyou’reactuallyHannibalandIamingravedanger.”
Hepointedtohimself.“DoIseemlikethekindofpersonwhowouldruinhisperfectlyacceptablepalatewithacutofhumantenderloin?”
“Idon’tknow,Ibarelyknowyou.”
“Oh,well,that’seasytofix,”hesaid,plantinghishandsoneithersideofthecuttingboardinfrontofhim,andleaningagainstthecounter.Therewasatattooontheinsideofhisrightarm,acountryroadweavingthroughpinetrees.“IwenttoUNCChapelHillonascholarship,planningonheadingtolawschoollikemymomandsister,butIdroppedoutafterthreeyears.”Hegaveanotheroneofthoseone-shouldershrugs.“WorkedinafewkitchenswhileItriedtofigureoutwhatIwantedtodo,anditwastheonlyplaceIreallyfeltathome,youknow?Mygrandpapracticallyraisedmeinakitchen.So,IfinallydecidedtogotoCIA.”
“TheCentral…”
Hismouthtwitchedintoagrin.“CulinaryInstituteofAmerica.”
“Ah,thatwasmysecondguess,”Ireplied,nodding.
“Gotanassociate’sfromthereinCulinaryArts,andhereIam,lookingforajob.”
“You’rechasingthemoon,”Imarveled,moretomyselfthantohim,asIthoughtaboutmyowncareer—fouryearsincollegeforarthistory,andthensevenworkingmywayup,slowly,atStrauss&Adder.
“Themoon?”
Embarrassed,Ireplied,“It’ssomethingmyauntalwayssays.It’soneofhercardinalrules—youknow,likekeepyourpassportrenewed,alwayspairredwineswithmeatsandwhiteswitheverythingelse…”Icountedonmyfingers.“Findfulfillingwork,fallinlove,andchasethemoon.”
Hebitinagrin,takingasipofbourbon.“Soundslikegoodadvice.”
“Iguess.So,you’re,like,what?”Istudiedhimforabeat.“Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Jeez.Ifeelold.”
“Youcan’tbemucholderthanIam.”
“Twenty-nine,almostthirty,”Irepliedgrimly.“Onefoot’salreadyinthegrave.Ifoundagrayhairtheotherday.Idebatedwhethertobleachmyentirehead.”
Hebarkedalaugh.“Idon’tknowwhatI’lldoonceIstartgoingwhite—Iwon’tgogray.Mygrandpadidn’t.MaybeI’llshavemyhead.”
“Ithinkyou’dlookrefinedwithabitofwhite,”Imused.
“Refined,”heechoed,likinghowthatsounded.“I’lltellmygrandpayousaidthat.Andanyway,mytrackrecordforstickingthingsouthasn’tbeenverysteady.WhenIsaidIwantedtogotoCIA,mymomwasbesideherselfatfirst—Iwasoneyearawayfromabusinessdegree—butIjustcouldn’tseemyselfsittingatadeskallday.Soinstead,I’mhere.”Heflourishedhishandslikeitwasamagictrick,buttherewasasparkleinhiseyesashesaid,“There’sanopeningataprettyfamousrestaurant,andIwanttogetin.”
“Asachef…?”
Hewascompletelyseriousashesaid,“Asadishwasher.”
Ialmostchokedonmywine.“I’msorry—you’rekidding?”
“OnceIgetin,Icanclimbtheranks,”herepliedwithanotherone-shoulderedshrug,anddugintothepaperbagforthefirstvegetable.Hetookoutatomato,andthelargechef’sknifefromthewornkniferoll,thebladesharp,andstartedtodiceit.Hiscutswerequick,withouthesitation,thesilverofhisbladeflashingagainsttheyellowish-whitelightofthegod-awfulmulticoloredchandeliermyaunthad“reclaimed”offthestreet.
“So,”hewentonasheworked,“nowthatyouknowallaboutme,whataboutyou?”
Iblewoutabreaththroughmylips.“Oof,whataboutme?GrewupintheHudsonValley,andthenLongIsland,andI’vebeeninthecityhalfmylife.WenttoNYUforarthistory,thengotajobinbookpublishing,andnowI’mhere.”
“Haveyoualwayswantedtoworkinbookpublishing?”
“No,butIlikewhereIamnow.”Itookanothersipofmyrosé,debatingwhetherornottotellhimtheotherthingsaboutme—thetripsabroad,thepassportfilledwithsomanystampsit’dimpressanylifelongtraveler,buteverytimeIshowedittosomeonethey’dgetthisideaaboutme.ThatIwassomechildofchaoswithawildheart,when,inreality,Iwasjustascaredgirlhangingontomyaunt’sbluecoattailsasshespiritedmeacrosstheworld.Isortofonlywantedhimtoseetherealme—themewhoneverleftthecity,noteventovisitherparentsonLongIslandanymore,themewhowenttoworkandcamehomeandwatchedSurvivorrerunsontheweekendandcouldn’tevensetasideafewhourstogotoherex-boyfriend’sartshow.
SoIdecidednotto,andsaid,“Well,that’smeinanutshell.Anart-history-major-turned-book-publicist.”
Hegavemeaweightedlookandpursedhislips.Hehadafreckleontheleftsideofhisbottomlip,anditwasalmostimpossiblenottolookatit.“Somehow,Ifeellikeyou’resellingyourselfalittleshort.”
“Oh?”
“It’safeeling,”hesaid,grabbinganothertomatofromthepaperbag,andgaveanotherone-shoulderedshrug.“I’mprettygreatatreadingpeople.”
“Oh?”
“Infact,I’mprettysureI’mhalfwaytofiguringoutyourfavoritecolor.”
“It’s—”
“No!”hecried,holdingtheknifeuptome.“No.I’mgoingtoguessit.”
Thatamusedme.Ilookedpointedlyatthetipofhisknifeuntilherealizedhehaditangledatme,andthenhequicklyreturnedittothecuttingboard.“Areyou,now.”
“It’smyonesuperpower,letmeimpressyouwithit.”
“Fine,fine,”Isaid,becauseIwassurehewasn’tgoingtoguessit—afterall,itwasoneofthemostsurprisingthingsaboutme—andwatchedhimslidethedicedtomatoestothesideoftheboardandthentakeoutanoniontopeelit.Hewasverydeftwithhishands,mesmerizinginawayIcouldwatchforhours.
“Well?”Iasked.“What’smyfavoritecolor?”
“Oh,I’mnotgoingtoguessitnow,”herepliedcoyly.“Ibarelyknowyouyet.”
“There’snotmuchtoknow.”Igaveashrug,watchinghimdicetheonion.“I’mprettyboring.Myauntwastheonewithallthecoolstories.”
“Areyouandyourauntclose?”heasked.
Iglancedupfromhishands,havingnotheardthelastquestion.“Hmm?”
Heliftedhisgazetomeetmine.Hiseyesweretheloveliestpalegray,darkeratthecenterthantheedges,soslightyouhadtogetveryclosetosee.“Youandyouraunt,youtwoseemclose.”
Thepresenttensesentashiverdownmyspine.Itwasunexpectedandstartling,likeadouseofcoldwatertotheface.Right,inhistimeshe’sstillalive,somewhereinNorwaywithme,beingchasedbyawalrusonthebeach.Itmademefeel,foramoment,likeshereallywasstillhere.Fleshandblood.Likeshecouldwaltzintotheapartmentatanymomentandpullmeintooneofherbone-crushinghugs,andI’dbreatheherin—MarlborocigarettesandRedperfumeandhintsoflavenderfromthelaundrydetergent.MydarlingClementine,shewouldsay.Whatalovelysurprise!
Iswallowedtheknotforminginmythroat.“I…guessweareclose.”
Asheputthechoppedonionsintoaseparatebowl,heglancedatmeandfrowned.“Thatlookagain.”
Iblinked,tearingmyselfoutofmythoughts,andpurposefullymademyfaceblank.“Whatlook?”
“Likeyou’retastingsomethingsour—youhadthatlookbefore.”
“Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout,”Ireplied,mortified,andpressedmyhandstomyface.“HowdoIlook?”
Helaughed,softandgentle,andputdownhisknife.“Youreyebrowscrinkle.MayI?”
“Uh—sure?”
Hereachedoverthecounterandpressedhisthumbinthecenterofmyeyebrows,andsmoothedtheskinout.“Here.Likeyou’resurprisedthatyouwanttocry.”
Istaredathim,ablushrisingonmycheeks.Iquicklyleanedback.“They—theydonot,”Isaid,mortified.“You’rejustseeingthings.”
Hepickeduphisknifeagainandbegantogutabellpepper.“Whateveryousay,Lemon.”
Ishothimaglare.“It’sClementine.”
“Clllllllemontine.”
“Isuddenlyhateyou.”
Hemockgasped,droppinghisknife,andslammedhishandsagainsthischest.“Lemon,already?Atleastwaituntilyoutastemyfoodfirst!”
“AmIgettingafancydinnertonight?”
Hesuckedinabreathbetweenhisteeth.“Oof,sorry.Ididn’tbringmyfinechina.Onlymyfineknives.”Andhepickeduphischef’sknifeagain.“ThisoneisBertha.”
Iarchedaneyebrow.“Younameyourknives?”
“Allofthem.”Thenhepointedovertohisotherknivesrolledoutonthecounterandintroducedthem.“Rochester,Jane,Sophie,Adele…”
“ThosearejustJaneEyrecharacters.”
“They’remygrandfather’s,”hereplied,asifthatexplainedeverything.
Ilookedattheonehewasusing.Thehandle,nowthathementionedit,didlookabitworn,andthesheenofsilveralittledull—buttheywereclearlywellloved,andwelltakencareof.“Washeachef?”
“No.Buthewantedtobe,”herepliedquietly,andIsensedthatitwasatoughtopic.Washisgrandfatherstillalive?OrhadheinheritedthosekniveslikeIhadthisapartment?
ThoughIwassurehisknivesweren’tofthetime-travelingvariety.
“Well,”Isaid,finishingmywine,“it’ssuchapitythatwithnofinechina,IguessI’llbeunculturedfortherestofmylife.”
Hetsked.“Afewofmyfriendswouldarguethatyoucan’tbeunculturedinfoodbecausetheideaofculturedfoodderivesfromthegentrificationofrecipesingeneral.”
Thewayhesaidthosewords,andtheseveritywithwhichhesaidthem,wasincrediblyattractive.MystomachdroppedasIbrieflywondered,Ifheisthatgoodatwords,howgoodisheat—
“So,Iamcultured?”Iasked,distractingmyself.
“Youarewhoyouare,andyoulikewhatyoulike,”hereplied,andtherewasnosarcasminhisvoice.“Youareyou,andthat’salovelypersontobe.”
“Youbarelyknowme.”
Heclickedhistonguetotheroofofhismouth,studyingmeforamoment,hiseyesashadedarkerthantheyhadbeenbefore.“Ithinkyourfavoritecolorisyellow,”heguessed,andwatchedasthesurprisetrickledacrossmyface.“Butnotabrightyellow—moreofagoldenyellow.Thecolorofsunflowers.Thatmightevenbeyourfavoriteflower.”
Mymouthfellopen.
“ItakeitI’mclose?”heaskedinasoftrumble,andthesmugnessmademytoescurl.
“Luckyguess,”Ireplied,andhesmiledsowide,hiseyesglittered.“Well,what’syours?”
Thatcrookedgrincurledacrosshislips.Hetskedagain,clickinghistonguetotheroofofhismouth.“That’dbecheating,Lemon,”hepurred.“You’llhavetoguess.”
Thenhepushedhimselfoffthecounterandreturnedtocooking.Andjustlikethat,themomentoftensionburstlikeabubble,eventhoughIstillfeltheadyfromhowclosehe’dbeen.
Igrabbedthebottleofroséandpouredmyselfanotherglass—I’dneedit.IthinkI’dbittenoffmorethanIcouldchewtonight.Ifhewastwenty-sixnow,he’dbe…thirty-threeinmytime?ProbablyrentingsomewhereinWilliamsburg,ifhestayedinthecity,withapartnerandadogatleast.(Heseemedlikeadogperson.)
Hedidn’thavearingon,butalothappenedinsevenyears.
Alotcouldhappen.
Myaunt’sstorywasrawinmymemory.Firstrule,alwaystakeyourshoesoffbythedoor.
Second,neverfallinloveinthisapartment.
Iwasn’talltooworriedaboutthat.
Hegrabbedafryingpanfromtherackandspunitaroundinhishand—almostclockinghimselfinthetempleintheprocess.Hetriedtoactlikehehadn’tjustalmostknockedhimselfoutashesetthepandownonthefrontlefteyeofthestove.“Ididn’task,”hesaid,“butyouokaywithfajitastonight?It’smyfriend’srecipe.”
Ipretendedtobeaghast,andclutchedmyimaginarypearls.“What,nosplit-peasoupformydelicatetastebuds?”
“Fucksplit-peasoup.”Then,quieter,headded,“That’stomorrownight.”8RomanceinChocolate
Thefajitaswere,surprisingly,excellent.
“I’mnotsureifIshouldbehappyyou’resurprisedorabitoffended,”hemuttered,pouringhimselfanotherglassofbourbon(whichhehadalsousedtoseasonthestripsofsteakwhenhecookedthem).
Wesatatmyaunt’syellowtableinthekitchenandatesomeofthebestfajitasI’deverhadinmylife.Thebeefwastender—itmusthavebeenflankorskirt,sojuicyitmeltedinmymouth,withaback-endbiteofthatsmokybourbonflavor.Theseasoningwassweetyetspicy,justenoughchilipowdertooffsetthecayennepepper.Thebellpeppersandonionswerecrisp,andtheykeptsizzlingwhenhebroughtthepanoverandsetitinthemiddleofthetable,alongwithwarmtortillas,sourcream,guacamole,andhotsauce.
Hetoldmehe’dlearnedhowtomakethemfromhisroommateatthatfancyculinaryschoolofhisandthatitwasaspecialfamilyrecipe,soevenifIlovedit,hewassworntosecrecy.
“SomedayI’llconvincehimtoopenarestaurant—afoodtruck,atleast,”headdeddefiantly,pickingattheleftoverbellpeppersonhisplate,“andhe’sgoingtothankme.”
“Orelse!”Ijoked.ItookonelastbiteoffajitabeforeIrealizedthatIwasstuffedandcouldn’teatanotherbit,andIpushedmyplateawaywithagroan.“Okay,I’vedecided—ifyoukeepcookinglikethat,youcanstayhoweverlongyouwant.”
Hetoreoffabitoftortilla,pickedupapieceofbellpepperandsteakwithit,andateit.“That’sadangerousdeclaration,Lemon.”
“Dangerousorgenius?I’vealwayswantedalive-inchef—likemoviestarshave.What’sitliketojust…havemealspreparedforyou.Hungry?”AndIsignaledtoourimaginaryserver.“Please,I’dlovesomeescargotbythewaterfallonthepooldeckoutback.”
Hesnortedalaugh.“Youjoke,butIknowsomeonewhodoesthatinLA,”hesaid.“Shehatesit,butthepay’sgoodsoshestays.Icouldn’t.Theyalwayswantthesamething—lowcarb,lowcalorie,keto,cleanse,vegetarian,whatever—toosoullessforme.Notadventurousenough.”
“Soobviouslyyouwanttogoworkatarestaurantwhereyouhavetocookthesamethingeveryday?”
Herolledhiseyes.“?‘Thesamethingeveryday,’?”heechoedwithairquotes,andscootedhischaircloser,hiseyesbrightwithpassion.Thegraywasswirling,liketheeyeofahurricane,soeasytogetlostin,IalmostfeltlikeIcould.“Lemon,firstly,themenuisseasonal,andsecondly,practicemakesperfect.Howelsedoyoulearnhowtomaketheperfectmeal?”
Thatmademecurious.Whatkindoffoodcouldmakehimthispassionate?Iwondered,leaningagainstthetable,“Whatmakesitperfect?”
“Imagine,”hebegan,hisvoicesweetandsoftlikebutterscotch,“I’meightandItraveltoNewYorkCitywithmymom,sister,andgrandpaforthefirsttime.WhileMomtookmysisteraroundtosomeofheroldhaunts,IwentwithmygrandpatoasmallrestaurantinSoHo.Hewassoexcited.He’dworkedinadenimfactoryhiswholelife,buthealwayswantedtobeachef.Hereadfoodmagazinesreligiously,cookedforfriends,family—birthdays,blockparties,anniversaries,Fridays,anyoccasionthat’dlethim.AndaslongasIcanremember,he’dalwayswantedtogotothisonerestaurant.Ididn’tknowitthenthatitwasworld-class,withMichelinstarshungonthewall.Ijustknewthatmygrandpalovedthechefdecuisinethere—AlbertGauthier—ageniusofculinarysciences.Ididn’tcare,Iwaseightandgettingfed,butmygrandpawassohappy.Hegotsomesortofsteaktartare”—andhismouthtwitchedthenintoatenderandreminiscentsmilethatreachedupintohiseyesandmadethemalmostglow,howhappyhewas—“andIgotthepommesfrites,andmywholelifechanged.”
“Pommes…?”
“Frenchfries,Lemon.TheywereFrenchfries.”
Istaredathim.“YourlifechangedbecauseofsomeFrenchfries?”
Hebarkedalaugh,brightandgolden,andsaidtomyuttersurprise,“Thethingsyouleastexpectusuallydo.”
Myheartclenchedforamoment,becausethatwassomethingmyauntwouldsay,too.ThatkindofterribleHallmark-cardplatitude.
“Andanyway,”hewenton,sittingbackinhischair,“mygrandpaneverhadthechancetoopenarestaurant,buthelovedcooking,andhepassedthatlovedowntome.”Hisvoicestayedlight,buthedidn’tlookatmeashesaid,“Hewasdiagnosedwithdementialastyear.It’sweirdwatchingthismanI’vealwayslookedupto—thisunstoppableforceofaguy—slowlygetsmallerandsmaller.Notphysically,butjust…yeah.”
Ithoughtaboutthelastfewmonthswithmyaunt.How,inhindsight,shegotsmallerandsmaller,too,liketheworldwassuddenlytoobig.Iswallowedtheknotrisinginmythroat,andcurledmyfingersintofistsunderthetable,resistingtheurgetohughim,althoughitlookedalittlelikeheneededit.“I’msorry.”
“What?”heasked,surprised,andsuddenlyschooledhisemotionsintoapleasantsmile.“No,no,it’sfine.Youaskedwhatmakesamealperfect.It’sthis.Food”—hemotionedtoouralmostemptyplates—“isaworkofart.That’swhataperfectmealis—somethingthatyoudon’tjusteat,butsomethingyouenjoy.Withfriends,andfamily—maybeevenwithstrangers.It’sanexperience.Youtasteit,yousavorit,youfeelthestorytoldthroughtheintricateflavorsthatplayoutacrossyourtongue…it’smagical.Romantic.”
“Romantic,really?”
“Absolutely,”hereplied,almostreverently.“YouknowwhatI’mtalkingabout—arichcheesecakeyoudreamabouthoursafter.Softcandlelight,aplateofcheese,andgoodwine.Theheadinessofabrazenstew.Thepillowypromisesinagoldenloafofbrioche.”Thepassioninhisvoicewasinfectious,andIbitbackasmileashepaintedapictureformewithhiswords,hishandswavingintheair,gettingcarriedaway.HisjoymademyheartachealittleinawayIhadn’teverfelt.Notthesadsortofache—butalongingforsomethingI’dneverexperiencedbefore.“Alemonpiethatmakesyourteethcurlindelight.Orapieceofchocolateattheendofthenight,softandsimple.”Thenhepushedhimselfupfromthetable,wenttograbsomethingfromashelfintherefrigerator,andtossedittome.
Icaughtit.Afoil-wrappedchocolate.
“Romance,Lemon,”hesaid.“Youknow?”
Itwirledthechocolatearoundinmyfingers.No,Ithought,lookingatthisstrangerusset-headedmaninashirtwithastretched-outneckholeandfrayedjeans,atattooofsprigsofcilantroandotherherbsacrosshisarm,butImightliketo.
Andthatwasadangerousthought.
I’dhadmemorablemealsbefore,butIcouldn’tdescribeanyofthemasromantic—atleastnotinthewaythathedid:sprintingthroughairportswithfastfoodinonehandandaticketstubintheother,late-nightrainydinnershuddledunderawningsbecausetherestaurantwastoofull,pretzelsfromstreetsidevendors,croissantsfromno-namebakeries,thatlunchyesterdayattheOliveBranch,washingitdownwithtoo-drywine.
“IguessIjustneverhadaperfectmeal,then,”Isaidfinally,puttingthechocolatedownontheedgeofthetable.“I’vejustalwaysfeltsooutofmyelementeverytimeIgotooneofthosefancyplacesyou’reprobablytalkingabout.I’mconstantlyafraidofchoosingthewrongspoonororderingthewrongdishor—something.Pairthewrongwinewiththewrongcutofsteak.”
Heshookhishead.“I’mnottalkingaboutthat.Arestaurantdoesn’thavetobefancy,withartfullyplatedsmearsofcoulisandbeurreblanc—”
“What’sthat?”
“Exactly.It’snotimportant.Youcangetdeliciousmealsfromamom-and-popjointjustaseasilyasyoucangetonefromaMichelin-starredrestaurant.”
“AndonerequireslessSpanx.Or—hearmeout—IcanjuststayhomeandeataPB&J.”
“Youcould,thoughwhatifitturnsouttobeyourlastmeal?”
Iblinked.“Wow,thatwentdarkfast.”
“WouldyoustillstayhomeandeataPB&Jifyouknew?”
Ifrowned,andthoughtaboutitforamoment.ThenInodded.“Ithinkso.MyauntusedtomakemePB&JsandwicheswheneverIcametovisitherbecauseshe’saterriblecook.She’dalwayspackmorepeanutbutterontothesandwichthanjelly,soit’dalwaysgetstuckrightontheroofofmymouth—”
Hesatupstraight.“That’sit!Theperfectmeal.”
“Iwouldn’tcallitperfect,but—”
“Youjustsaidyou’deatitasyourlastmeal,right?”
Hehadapoint.
“Oh,”Igasped,finallyunderstandingwhathemeant.“It’slessaboutthefood,then,andmoreabout—”
“Thememory,”wefinishedtogether.Hisgrinslidintoasmile,crookedandendearing,anditmadehiseyesglimmer.
Ifeltablushcreepingupmynecktomyfaceagain.
“That’swhatIwanttomake,”hesaid,restinghiselbowsontheedgeofthetable.ThesleevesofhisT-shirthuggedhisbicepstightly.NotthatIwaslooking.Idefinitelywasn’t.“Theperfectmeal.”
Itmighthavebeenthegoodfood,orthethreeglassesofwine,butIbegantothinkthatmaybehecould.Whoknows—maybehealreadyhadinmytime.Itriedtopicturehiminachef’suniform,awhitecoatstretchedacrosshisshoulders,coveringupthetattoossporadicallyplacedacrosshisarmslikeafterthoughts,andIcouldn’tgettheimageinfocus.Hedidn’tseemlikethekindofguytoplaybynormalrules.Heseemedlikeanexception.
Heunwrappedhischocolateandpoppeditintohismouth,androlleditintohischeektomeltonitsown.“Andhowaboutyou?”
Myshoulderssquaredatthesuddenquestion.“Whataboutme?”
“Why’dyouwanttobeabookpublicist?”
“Ijust…did,Iguess.”
Hearchedasinglethickeyebrow.Itwasaratherinfuriatingeyebrow,actually.Mostofthetime,guyswouldjustnodwhentheyheardwhatIdidforalivingandmoveonto…literallyanythingelse.“How’dyoustart?”heasked.“Youmajoredinarthistory,right?Soitwasn’tsomethingyoualwayswantedtodo?”
“No…”Iadmitted,andavertedmyeyesandconcentratedonapieceofchippedpaintontheyellowtable,scratchingatittouncoverthesandalwoodunderneath.“Idon’tknow.Iguess…thesummeraftercollege,myauntandIbackpackedacrossEurope.”Thisyear,actually.Thesummerhewashereinthisapartment.Ididn’tknowwhyIwastellinghimallofthis.IthoughtIhaddecidedearlierthatIwouldn’t.“I’dbeenthinkingaboutwhatIwantedtodomylastyearofcollege,andIdidn’treallywanttobeacurator,but…Ilovedbooks.Mostlytravelguides.MyauntandIalwaysboughtonewhereverwewent.Justlikethere’ssecretsinmemoirsandconfessionsinnovels,there’sasteadfastcertaintytoagoodtravelguide,youknow?”
“Ifeelasimilarwayaboutagoodcookbook,”hereplied,nodding.“There’snothinglikeit.”
“There’sreallynot,”Iagreed,thinkingbackonwhenIactuallydecidedtobeapublicist.“StraussandAdderpublishsomeofthebesttravelguidesintheindustry,soIappliedanditturnsoutI’mreallygoodatbeingapublicist,”Isaidsimply.“So,Ischeduleinterviewsandpodcasts,Igetauthorsfromonecitytoanother,IpitchthemtoTVshowsandradioshowsandbookclubs.Ithinkupnewwaystoconvinceyoutoreadaclassicforthetwentiethtimeeventhoughyouknowitlikethebackofyourhand,andIlikeit.Imean,Ihavetolikeit,”Iaddedwithaself-consciouslaugh.“Youdon’tgetpaidthatwellinpublishing.”
“Youdon’tinrestaurants,either,”headded,watchingmewiththekindofraptattentionthatmademefeellikewhatIdidwasactuallyinteresting.Hestudiedmewiththosemesmerizinggrayeyes,andIbegantothinkabouthowI’dpaintthem.Maybeinlayers,navymixedwithalovelyshadeofshale.“So,inaway,”hesaidthoughtfully,hiseyebrowsfurrowing,“youcreateatravelguideofyourown.Foryourauthors.”
“I…neverthoughtofitthatway,”Iadmitted.
Hecockedhishead.“Becauseyouhaven’tseenyourselfthewayotherpeopledo.”
Otherpeople?Oryou?Iwantedtoask,becauseitwasboldofhimtothinkheknewmefromafewhoursofconversationandpluckingapigeonfrommyhair.“Ithinkthat’sveryniceofyoutosay,”Itoldhim,“butit’snotthatdeep.I’mjustverygoodatfacilitatingthesaleofbooks.I’mgoodatspreadsheets.I’mgoodattimetables.I’mgoodatbadgeringpeoplelongenoughandhardenoughtogetthatsought-afterinterview…”
“Andwhatdoyoudoforfun?”
Igavealaugh.“YouaregoingtothinkI’mthemostboringpersonintheworld.”
“Absolutelynot!I’venevermetabookpublicistbefore.OranyonenamedClementine,”hewenton,andputhischinonhishandandleanedtowardme,grinning.“Sowe’realreadyofftoagreatstart.”
Ihesitated,twirlingmychocolatearoundonthetable.“I…liketositinfrontofvanGogh’spaintingsattheMet.”
Thatdid,infact,surprisehim.“Justsit?”
“Yep.That’sit.Justsitandlookatthem.There’ssomethingpeacefulaboutit—aquietgalleryroom,peoplemovinginandoutlikeatide.Iactuallymakeitayearlythingformybirthday.EveryAugustsecond,IgototheMetandsitonabenchandjust…”Ishrugged.“Idon’tknow.Itoldyou,it’ssilly.”
“Everybirthday,”hemuttered,marveling.“Sincewhen?”
“Sincecollege,actually.IstudiedhimandotherPostimpressionistpaintersextensively,buthealwaysstuckouttome.Hewas—is”—Iquicklycorrected,tryingnottowince—“myaunt’sfavorite,too.TheMethasoneofhissunflowers,oneofhisself-portraits,andafewothers.”Ithoughtaboutit.“I’vegoneforabouttenyearsnow.I’mnothingifnotachildofconsistencyandroutine.”
Heclickedhistonguetotheroofofhismouth.“You’rethekindofpersonwhostickstothedirectionsonthebackofabrowniebox,aren’tyou?”
“Thoseinstructionsareputthereforareason,”Irepliedpractically.“Baking’sapreciseart.”
Herolledhiseyes.“Don’tyouevercoloroutsidethelines,Lemon?”
No,Ithought,thoughthatwasn’texactlytrue.Iusedto,justnotanymore.“Iwarnedyou,”Isaid,downingtherestofmywine,andgatheringourplatestotaketothesink,“I’mboring.”
“Youkeepsayingthatword.Idon’tthinkitmeanswhatyouthinkitmeans,”hesaidinaverycheesyInigoMontoyaimpression,anditwasmyturntorollmyeyes.Thewinehadmademewarminside,andrelaxedforthefirsttimeallweek
“Okay,thencomeupwithanotherwordthatmeansdullanduninteresting,tiresome—”
“Doyouhearthat?”heinterrupted.
Iputmyplateontopofhisandpaused,cockingmyheadtolisten.Theghostofamelodydriftedthroughtheventsfromupstairs.MissNorrisplayingherviolin.Ihadn’thearditin…years.ThestringssoundedsweeterthanIremembered.
Hetiltedhisheadtolisten.
Ittookonlyafewbarstorecognizethemelody,andmyheartclenched.
“Oh,Iknowthissong!”hesaidenthusiastically,snappinghisfingers.“It’sTheWayoftheHeartorTheMattersoftheHeartor—no,wait,TheHeartMattered,Ithink?Mymomlovesthatoldmusical.”Hehummedafewnoteswiththeviolin,andhewasn’tthatoff-key.“Who’splayingit?”
“ThatwouldbeMissNorris,”Isupplied,pointingtowardtheceiling.Ofallthesongstoplay,ithadtobethatone?“SheperformedinBroadwaypitsforyearsbeforesheretired.”
“It’slovely.Whenevermymomplayedthissong,she’dputmeonhertoesanddancemearoundthekitchen.She’snotabigmusicalperson,butshelikesthatone.”
IcouldimagineatinyIwandancingaroundakitchenonhismother’stoes.
Isaid,myeyestrainedontheceiling,“Myauntstarredinthatmusical,youknow.”
“Really?Soshe’sfamous?”
“No,itwastheonlyBroadwayshowsheeverdid.EveryonesaiditwasbecauseshewastoofullofherselftofollowBetteMidlerorBernadettePeters.Suchapromisingyoungtalent,afteryearsofbeinganunderstudy,justsuddenlyabandoningherart?Theydidn’tunderstandher,”Iadded,alittlesofter,alittlegentler,becausemyauntwasalotofthings—lovingandadventurous,butalsomessyandhuman.SomethingIneverreallyrecognizeduntiltheveryend.
Thesoftandwarmnotesfromtheviolinupstairssankthroughtheceiling,alovesong.I’dseengrainyvideosonYouTubeofmyauntintheshow.Shewasbrilliant,andinfectious,inherglitteryrobesandextravagantjewels,beltingrefrainswithherentiresoul.ItwastheonlytimeI’deverseenherreally—impossibly—happy.
“Thetruthis,”Iwenton,andIwasn’tsureifitwasthewinethatmademewanttotalkabouther,orthewayIwanlistened—closelyandpreciously,asifmyaunthadmatteredtomorethanjustme,“shewasalwaysafraidthatwhatevercameafterTheHeartMatteredwouldn’tbeasgood.Soshedidsomethingnewinstead.Ienvythat.MyentirelifeIwantedtobelikeher,butI’mnot.Ihatenewthings.Ilikerepetition.”
“Why?”
Iturnedmygazebacktohim,studyingthisstrangerIshouldn’thaveletstayinmyaunt’sapartment,andallofhisquestions.“Newthingsarescary.”
“Theydon’thavetobe.”
“Howaretheynot?”
“BecausesomeofmyfavoritethingsIhaven’tevendoneyet.”
“Thenhowdoyouknowthey’reyourfavorite?”
Inreply,hestoodfromthetableandofferedmehishand.
Istaredatit.
“It’snotatrap,Lemon,”hesaidsoftly,hisSouthernliltarumble.
Ilookedathisoutstretchedhand,andthenathim,andtherealizationdawnedonme.Ishookmyhead.“Oh,no.Iknowwhatyou’redoing.Idon’tdance.”
Hebegantoswaybackandforthtotheviolinandhumthechorus.Foramomenttheheartmattered,foramomenttimestoodstill.Myaunthadsangitsometimesasshefoldedherlaundryorcurledherhair,andthememorywassorawitstung.
“Whenwasthelasttimeyoudidsomethingforthefirsttime?”heasked,asifdaringme.AndiftherewasonethingIwasmorethanapracticalpessimist,itwassomeonewhoneverbackedawayfromachallenge.
Iresisted.“IassureyouI’vedancedbefore.”
“Butnotwithme.”
No.
And—despitehisinsistence—thiswasfrightening,butnotbecauseitwasneworspontaneous.ItwasfrighteningbecauseIwantedto,andtheWestsneverdidspontaneousthings.Thatwasmyaunt.Andyet…hereIwas,reachinguptotakehishand.
Itwasbecauseofthewine.Ithadtobe.
Asmilecurledacrosshislipsashelacedhisfingersthroughmineandpulledmetomyfeet.Hisgripwasstrong,hisfingertipscalloused,ashespunmeinthekitchen.Istumbledalittle—dancingwasn’tmystrongestsuit—buthedidn’tseemtomind.Wefoundarhythm,oneofhishandsholdingmine,theothercomingtorestatmylowerback.Hissofttouchmademegaspinvoluntarily.
Hequicklytookhishandaway.“Sorry,isthattoolow?”
Yes.Andthisistoomuch.Idon’tdanceinkitchenswithstrangers,Iwantedtosay,alloftheexcusesbuildinginmythroat,butatthesametimeIjustwantedtobecloser,too.Hewassowarm,andhistouchsolightandtender,thatitmademewanthimtoholdontighter,steadyandsurelikeheheldhisknives.
Thiswasn’tlikeme.Andyet…
Ireturnedhishandtomylowerback,tohissurprise,andtrainedmygazeonhischininsteadofhiseyes,tryingtokeeptheflushoutofmycheeks.ButthatonlymeantIcouldstillseethecrookedgrinthatspreadacrosshislips,andashepulledmeclosertohim,ourbodiespressedtogether,myskinfeltelectric.Hewassolidandwarm,andthemusicwasyearning,andmyhearthammeredbrightlyinmychest.
Weswayedinmyaunt’sclutteredtealkitchentoasongaboutheartacheandhappyendings,anditwassotemptingtojustletmyselfunravel.Forthefirsttimeinwhatfeltlikeforever.
“See?”hewhispered,hismouthagainstmyear.“Somethingnewisn’talwayssobad.”
Thelastviolinnotesangthroughthevents,andthemomentended.Icamebacktomyselfwithsudden,crashingcertainty.NomatterhowIthoughtaboutit,thiscouldn’t—wouldn’t—endwell.
Iletgoofhimandsteppedback,wipingmyhandsonmyjeans.Ifeltmystomachtwistingitselfintoknots.Thewarmfeelinginmymiddleturnedicy.“I”—Iswallowedthelumpinmythroat—“Ithinkyougotthewrongidea.”9FirstImpressions
Hegavemeaconfusedlook.“Aboutwhat?”
Wasithotinhere,orwasitjustme?“Idon’tthink—we—this…”Ijusthadtogooutandsayit.Drawtheline,becauseitverymuchneededtobedrawn.“I’mnotgoingtosleepwithyou,”Iblurted.
Hiseyebrowsjerkedupinsurprise.Ablushquicklyroseacrosshischeeks,andhechokedonhisownbreath.“I—Iwasn’t—no,no,that’sfine.Iwasn’tthinkingyouwould,Lemon.”
“Oh.Well.”Iavertedmygaze.Ifeltembarrassed.Afool.Ilookedanywhere—everywhere—butathim.“Justsowe’reclear,then.”
“Ofcourse,”hereplied,quicklyrecovering.“I’msorryifIgaveyouthatimpression.”
“Youdidn’t!Ijust—Idon’tthinkit’dbeagoodidea.You’restayingatmyaunt’splace,I’mstayinghere,too…”Sevenyearsinthefuture,Iaddedinmyhead.“Ijustreallydon’twanttocomplicatethings.Sorry,”Iadded,becauseIjustdidn’tdothis.Foravarietyofreasons,butmostlybecausehewasveryhandsome,andIwasverymuchattractedtohim,andthatwasthekindofsurprisethatIdidnotseecoming.Oh,andwewereseparatedbysevenyears.
Nothinggoodcouldcomeoutofthis.
Rulenumbertwo,Iremindedmyself.
Igrabbedourplatesanddepositedtheminthesink—likeIshould’vedoneinsteadofdancewithhim.Itwasamistake.Aboveus,MissNorrisworkedherwaythroughaSondheim.Igrabbedasponge.
Iwangaveastart,risingfromhischair.“Youdon’thaveto—”
“Youcooked,”Isaid,wavinghimtositbackdown.“Iclean.That’stherule.”
“AndwhatifIwanttogetsomepracticeinformyfuturedishwashinggig?”
“Ifyou’rethatbad,”Isaid,lettingthewaterrunforabituntilitgothot,“thenIhatetosayit,butyoumightneedtostartlookingforanewprofession.”
Hemockedagasp.“Rude!”
“Truthful.”Iputtheplatesinthesink,andturnedbacktohimfully.“Thedinnerwaslovely,Iwan.Thankyou.Ialmostdon’tregretnotkickingyououtoftheapartment.”HismouthfellopeninaquestionasIwenttopullsomeblanketsoutofthelinencloset.HewasstillgivingmethatperplexedlookwhenIreturned,twopillowsandanafghanundermyarms.
“Almost?”heasked.
“Someonehastotakethecouch,”Ireplied,anddecidedthatitwouldbeme.
Hejumpedtohisfeet.“Absolutelynot.”
“Don’tpullthe‘You’reagirlsoyoudeservethebed’bullshit,please.Genderrolesandstereotypesarenotmycupoftea.”
“I’mnot,I’mpullingthe‘There’saperfectlygoodbedinthereandwearebothadults’card.”Heputhishandsonhiships,asifposinglikeadadcouldgetmetocomply.
Iopenedmymouth,butthenhegavemealook—thekindthattoldmetotesthimifIdared.
Imumbled,“Youlooklikeaparentabouttogointoaparent-teacherconference.”
“Wecanevenputapillowbetweenus,”hewenton,ignoringme.“Youdon’treallywanttosleeponthecouch,doyou?Andyoucertainlywon’tletme…”
No,Iwouldn’t.
“Just—I’llthinkaboutitasIdothedishes,”Iaddedwhenhewenttoargueagain,butthenheraisedhishandsindefeatandbowedouttotakethebathroomfirst.
Thethingwas,hewasn’twrong.Wewerebothadultsandtherewasaperfectlygoodqueen-sizedbedinmyaunt’sbedroomthatwecouldbothsleepin.Thecouchwasn’tdoinganyoneanyfavors—ithadalwaysbeenmoreforlooksthanactuallyfaintingon,anyway.Butthatdidn’tmeanIhadtolikeit.
Igrabbedmychocolatefromthetable,finally,unwrappedit,andpoppeditintomymouth.Ismoothedoutthetinfoilwrapper.Yourfutureishere,itread.
Lies.
Iputallmyfrustrationsintowashingourplatesandglassesandcleaningup.Myheadwasbuzzingfromthedrinks,butthelastfewminuteshadsoberedmeupprettywell.IdrankaglassofwaterandtooktwoAdvil,andasIheadedtomyaunt’sroomtopickoutsomepajamasfrommystashinhercloset,Iwanopenedthebathroomdoorandsteppedout
Ifroze.
BecauseIwasstaring,veryprominently,athisbarechest.Itwasn’tthatI’dneverseenabare-chestedmanbefore—itjust…surprisedmealittle.Hehadtattoos,allblacklineworkinsimilarstyles,sporadicallyacrosshisbody.Besidestheonesonhisarms,therewasanotheronhisribcage,anotherjusttotheleftsideofhisnavel.Andthentherewasabirthmarkjustbelowhiscollarboneintheshapeofacrescentmoon.
Iasked,verygravely,“Whathappenedtoyourshirt?”
“Idon’twearonetobed,”herepliedsimplyandsteppedtothesidetoletmeintothebathroom.“Doyoumind?”
Ofcourse,ifIwasanun.“Oh,no,”Isaidcoolly,“you’refine.”
“Okay.”
Anotherawkwardpause.
ThenIasked,“Areyousureyoudon’twantmetosleeponthe—”
Herolledhiseyes.“Ifanyoneissleepingonthecouch,it’sme.”
“Irefuse.You’remyaunt’sguest.”
Hecrossedhisarmsoverhischest,andItriednottostareathowhismusclesmovedunderhisskin.Thewayheheldhisrightshoulderabithigherthantheleft.ThewayIwantedtoputmymouthonthatcrescent-shapedbirthmark—“Thenwe’reatanimpasse,”hesaid.
“Fine,”Imuttered,tearingmyeyesawayfromhim,andgrabbedaT-shirtandapairofcottonshortsfrommyaunt’scloset,andlockedmyselfinthebathroom.Isplashedcoldwaterontomyface,anddefinitelydecidedtoforgetaboutwhathelookedlikewithoutashirton.NotthatIhadstaredatthecutofhismusclesastheydisappearedbeneathhisbluepajamabottoms.NotthatIscrubbedmyfacerawtryingtogetthesalaciousthoughtsoutofmyhead.
Seriously,mymouthonhisbirthmark?Ugh.
Eventhoughmyauntwasgone,IsworeIcouldhearherlaughingatmefromwherevershewasnow.
See,darling?shewouldsay.Youcanplaneverythinginyourlife,andyou’llstillbetakenbysurprise.
And—worseyet—thiswasasurpriseIwasbeginningtolike.Thatscaredmethemost.ThewayIkeptwonderinghowtopainthiseyes—moreblue,probably,layeredafterthedilutedgraydried.ThewayIrememberedwhathishandsfeltlikeinmine,callousedandgentle,howhisotherhand,aswedanced,followedtheridgesofmyspinedownmyback,alittletoofarandnotfarenough.
Something,somethingwell-laidplans.
Andit—allofit,thewayI’dpainthiseyes,thetouchofhishandonmylowerbackaswedanced,hiscrookedsmile,thechampagne-feelingoffizzybubblesinmychestwheneverhemetmygaze—terrifiedme.
“Onemoretime,”ImutteredasIcreptoutofthebathroomandgrabbedmypurseandkeys.“Tryonemoretime.”
Therewerenosoundsfrommyaunt’sroom,soIfiguredIwanhadalreadygonetobed.IfIleft,closedthedoor,andcameback—maybehe’dbegone.Maybetheapartmentwouldn’tsendmebacktothistimeagain.
Sothat’sexactlywhatIdid.
“Goodbye,”Iwhispered,sortofhatingthatIwasn’tgoingtosayittohisface,butthiswasforthebest.Ineededtoleave.NothinggoodcouldhappenifIstayed.
Iopenedthedoor.Isteppedoutside.
Iwaitedone—two—three—
Icountedallthewaytoseven.Aluckynumber.
ThenIinsertedthekeyandturnedthelock,andasIheldmybreath,Iopenedthedoorandsteppedbackin.
Andasthedoorclosed,IrealizedIwasinvery,verybigtrouble.
SoIcreptdownthehalltothebedroomandslidontotheleftsideofthebed.Iwanwasalreadybreathingdeeply,turnedontohisside,themoonlightcastingwhiteacrosshisauburnhair,turningthegingertofire.Therewereholesinhisearfromwhere,Iassumed,heusedtohaveearrings,andthetattooofaverysmallwhiskbehindhisleftear,andIrealizedhewasn’tthekindofguyIwentfor,andIcertainlywasn’tthekindofgirlhe’dlike.Straitlacedandanxious,abrokenandhorriblemesswithwallssohighI’dforgottenwhatI’dblockedoffontheotherside.
“Gotosleep,Lemon,”hemuttered,hisSoutherndrawlthickwithsleep.
Mortified,Iquicklyslippedunderthecovers,turnedmybacktohim,andwaitedforeithersleepordeathtoclaimme.10(Sub)liminalSpaces
Morninglighttrickledinthroughthebedroomcurtains.Myheadwasfuzzy,thecomforterkickedoffhalfwaythroughthenight.Icurledmyarmaroundthepillowinthemiddleofthebedandburrowedmyheadintoit.Itwaswarm,andtheapartmentwasquiet.I’dhadsuchalovelydream—thatIhaddinnerwithamanwhocouldactuallycookforonce.I’dneverdatedanyonewhocoulddoanythinginthekitchenbeyondgrilledcheese.Hehadanicesmile,too,andbeautifuleyes,andIwantedtolaughatmyselfbecauseIwouldneverdohalfthethingsIdidinthatdream.Iwouldn’tlethimstayinmyaunt’sapartment.Iwouldn’tdancewithhiminthekitchen.Wewouldn’tsleepinthesamebed,withapillowbetweenus.
…ApillowthatIwasverysurelyhuggingrightthen.
And,suddenly,itallcamecrashingbacktome.Iwokeupwithastart,andscrambledtositup,grabbingtheclockonthenightstand:10:04a.m.Ilookedaround.Itwasmyaunt’sbedroom.Hermonsteraplantwiltedinthecorner,hertapestryfromLebanononthewall.
Yesterdayhadbeenreal.
Oh—oh,no
Iburiedmyheadinthepillowandtookadeepbreath.
“Getup,”Itoldmyself.Iwanmustbearoundheresomewhere.Hisindentationwasstillinthebedbesideme,butitwasnolongerwarm.Whenhadhewokenup?Iwassuchaheavysleeper,Iwouldn’tevenwakeupifanatomicbombwentoff.God,IhopedIhadn’tdrooledinmysleep.
Iswungmylegsoverthesideofthebedandpushedmyselftomyfeet.Histoiletrieswerestillinthebathroom(notthatIchecked)andhisduffelbagwasstillonthefarsideofmyaunt’sdresser(Ijustcasuallysawitwhileleavingtheroom),buthewasnowheretobefound.
Alonely,heavyfeelingknottedinthemiddleofmychestasIsteppedintothekitchen.He’dputthedishesawaythismorning,everythingreturnedtowherethey’dbeenthenightbefore,thoughIstraightenedthewineglassesintoneatrowsandstackedtheutensilsontopofeachotherinthedrawers,wherehe’dhaphazardlyputthem.Itwasautomatic,really,awaytokeepmyhandsbusy.Theapartmentwassoquietwithoutanyoneelsehere,thesoundsofthecitymuted,adullhumofcarenginesandpigeoncoosandpeople.
AsIopenedthebreadboxtogetoutabagel,Inoticedapieceofpaperonthecounter,trappedunderapen,withscratchyhandwritingacrossit.
Gonetogetthatesteemeddishwashinggig.Coffee’shot!—I
Thatpeculiarknotunwoundinmychestatthesightofit.Ihadn’tknownIhadwantedtoseehimagainuntilIrealizedthatIcould,andIhatedthattherewasaknottheretobeginwith.Itookthepieceofpaper,begantoballituptothrowitintothetrashcanunderthesink,butresistedtheurge,andputitback.ThenIslippedintothebathroomtowashmyfaceandbrushmyteeth,sincemymouthtastedsourfromlastnight’swine.IputonsomemascarasoIdidn’tlookhalfasdeadasIfelt.HowdidIwangetupsoearly?HehadhadalmostasmuchtodrinkasIhad—thenagain,hewasagoodfiveyearsyoungerthanme,too.Andtherewasagapbetweenearlytwentiesandlatetwentiesthatonlypeopleexistinginbodiesintheirlatetwentiesunderstood.Youcouldstillfightgod,butyou’dhavetoiceyourkneesafterward.
Bythetimethebagelpoppedoutofthetoaster,I’dwashedmyfaceandpulledmyhairbackintoatinyponytail.Thecoffeepotwasstillwarm,soItookadvantageofitandpouredmyselfacup.
Itsmelledgood,atleast.
Islippedontothebarstooltoenjoymybreakfast,listeningtothepigeonscooontheirACunit,andtriedtoconvincemyselfthatthisguywasn’tgrowingonme.
“Damnit,”Iwhisperedbecausehemadereallyexcellentcoffee,too.
Hewasgoneforthemajorityoftheday,andSundayswereusuallywhenIstayedinandcaughtuponmyTVshows—thefewthatIstillwatched.MainlySurvivorandwhatevershowDrewandFionabulliedmeintowatching,claimingI’dloveit.However,myauntneverpaidforcableorinternet,anditwasn’texactlylikemyphonecouldconnecttoWi-Fisevenyearsinthefuture,soIdecidedtosnoopinstead.
Justalittle.
Justtostaveofftheboredom.
Iwasn’tgoingtoatfirst,buthisduffelbagwasrightthereinthebedroom,andIkeptpassingiteverytimeIwalkedin.Justalittlepeek,Ireasoned,slidingtheduffelbagoutfrombesidethedresser.Ibegantounzipit,butmyconsciencegotthebetterofme.
Itwasrudetogothroughsomeoneelse’sthings,andhehadn’treallygivenmeareasonnottotrusthim.
“Youcan’tcontroleverything,”Iwhisperedtomyself,andpusheddownthetendency.“It’sprobablyjustclothesandstuffanyway.”
ButignoringthetemptationwasalotharderthanIgavemyselfcreditfor,becausewhilehe’dtoldmealotabouthimself,Ifoundmyselfwantingtoknow.everything.Wherehewenttohighschool.Hisfirstcrush.
Hisfavoritecolor.
Withonelasttemptinglookattheduffel,IclosedthebedroomdoorbehindmesoIwouldn’tbecoaxedintosnoopingbymyownbadthoughts,andwentintomyaunt’sstudy.
Ineededtodistractmyself.
Icouldleavetheapartment,butwhatifitdidn’tbringmebackherewhenIreturned?That’sexactlywhatIwanted,andthedoorwasrightthere,thechanceformetoleave…
Ireallyshould,Irealized,becausetherewasnothingkeepingmehere,andwhileIwanwasreallyhot,Idefinitelywasn’tabouttobreakthetime-spacecontinuumtobewithhim.Thatwasn’thowthisstorywent.
Leavingwasthebestoption,butwouldtheapartmentjustkeepsendingmebackhere,againandagain?Igrabbedmypurseandstaredatthefrontdoor.“We’regoingtoplaynice,”Itoldtheapartment,grabbedthedoorknob,andopeneditoutintothehallway—
Justasawomanambledby,walkingherferretonarhinestoneleash.Shenoddedingreeting,eventhoughhergazelingeredtoolongonme.“Clementine,”shegreeted,“nicetoseeyou.”
“You,too,Emiko,”Ireplied,pullingmypurseself-consciouslyhigheronmyshoulder.
“You’recertainlyfashionabletoday.”
Thatwaswhenitoccurredtome:Istillhadonmypajamas.Ablushrosequicklyonmyears.“Yeah,well—uh—justtestingmydoor.”Imotionedtothedoorbehindme,theninsertedthekeyandpushedmyselfbackinside.
Thedoorclosedwitharesoundingclick
AndIknewevenbeforeIsteppedbackintothelivingroomthatithadsentmebackagain.Thecoffeewasstillwarm,thenotewasstillonthecounter,andIhadexhaustedmyoptions.Icouldgotomyparents’tonight,ifIreallywantedto.MaybeDrewandFionacouldputmeupontheircouchforanevening.Butthethoughtofadmittingdefeattastedsourinmymouth.
I’dalwayswantedittomagicmeaway,andnowthatithad,Ikeptaskingittotakemeback.
“Fine,”Icalledtotheapartment,admittingdefeat.“Youwin!I’llstay.”
Itmighthavebeenmyimagination,butthepigeonsonthesillsoundedsmugastheycooedinreply.
Idroppedmypurseonthecouchagainandshuffledbackintomyaunt’sstudytofindsomethingtodo.ItstillsmelledthesameasIremembered.Ofoldbooksandweatheredleatherandcrinklypaperbackswithbrokenspines,romancesandadventuresandfantasiesandtravelguides,paperweightstopicturebooks.Whenshewasn’ttraveling,myauntread.Sheporedoverstories,drownedherselfinwords.Inthesummersbetweenouradventures,she’dbuildapillowfortandcrawlunderneathit,litwithfairylightsandlavender-scentedcandlesinmasonjars,andwe’dreadtogether.SometimesIspententireweekendsadventuringwithEloiseorsolvingmysterieswithHarriet.
Therewassomethingjustsoreassuringaboutbooks.Theyhadbeginningsandmiddlesandends,andifyoudidn’tlikeapart,youcouldskiptothenextchapter.Ifsomeonedied,youcouldstoponthelastpagebefore,andthey’dliveonforever.Happyendingsweredefinite,evilsdefeated,andthegoodlastedforever
Andbooksabouttravel?Theypromisedwide-eyedwonders.Theywaxedpoeticallyaboutthehistoryandthecultureoftheplaces,likeananthropologistofonce-in-a-lifetimeexperiences.
Ononeofourfirsttripstogether—IthinkIwasnineatthetime—IwasboredoutofmymindonatourofsomestuffyEnglishcastle.Thegrouphadbeenfilledwitholderpeople,andIwastheonlykidalongonthebusride.I’dforgottenmysketchbook—I’dlovedpaintingsinceIwasachild(myparentsalwayssaidthatmyfirstChristmasgiftwasawashablewatercolorset)—soIbegantodoodleonthebrochureinstead,untilmyauntopenedhertravelguideandpointedtotheplaceweweregoing,paragraphsuponparagraphsofhistoryonthepage,andsaid,“Whydon’tyoudrawonthis?It’llmakeitmoreexciting.”
Sothat’swhatIdid.
Markersgavewaytoinks,andthenbacktowatercolors,anditjustbecameahobbyofmine,andIhadpaintedinourtravelguideseverytripsince.Theguideslinedabookshelf,fromallthedifferentplacesaroundtheworldshe’dtakenme,theirspinescrackedandtheirpagesbuckledfromthewatercolors.
IteventuallymadesensethatIwantedtoworkwithbooks—especiallytravelbooks.ItwaseasyworkbecauseIalreadyloveditall.Thefeelingofanakedhardbackundermyfingers,thesmellofnewink,thefreshsliceofapagewhenyoudog-earedit,thecrinkleofapaperback’sspine.
Thepromiseofasecretplaceonlytheauthorknows.
Ibegantotakeoutabook—aguidetoBolivia—whenatinontheedgeofashelfcaughtmyeye.Itwassmall,stainedwithdifferentcolors,butIrecognizeditinaninstant.Itwasmytravelwatercolorset—oneofmyolderones,becausethatyear,myaunthadsurprisedmewithabrand-newtinwithdeeper,richercolors,andI’dpaintedmywayacrossAmsterdamandPrague.Thetinwassmall—aboutthesizeofmypalm,withsixthumbnail-sizedwellsofwatercolorsinside.
Thecolorsweren’tflakylikeIexpected,expired,butjustalittledry.Withsomewater,theycouldcomebacktolifequiteeasily.Therewasevenasmallpaintbrushnestledatthetopofthetin.Itookit,andgotanidea.ThetravelguidetoNewYorkCitythatI’dpickedupatworkwasstillinmypurse,soIwenttogetitandgatheredafewpillowsfromthecouch(includingJeffGoldblum)andheadedforthebathroom.MyauntalwaysjokedthatImademyselfanestinthetublikeapigeon,butitwasreallytheonlyplaceshe’dletmepaintafterIaccidentallyspilledwatercolorsalloverherbrand-newrug.
“Youcan’tmessanythingupinhere!”shehadannounced,brandishingahandtowardthebathroom.“Andanythingyoucan,alittlebleachwillfix.”
Isettledintothedrybathtubanddampenedmywatercolors,wakingthemupfromtheirslumbers.Mostofthewellswerealmostempty,thelastdregsofcolorclingingtotheircornerslikeshadows.ThenIflippedtoapageofasightIknewwell—BowBridge,andtherowboatsfilledwithtouristswhosailedunderit.Strokesofbluesandgreens,thecreamybrownsandstoneofthebridge,popsofwhiteshirtsfrombrightlydressedromanticleads,confessingtheirlovewhilepaddlingacrossthelake.
AsIpainted,thewatercolorhungonthewall—amooninaseaofclouds—keptmecompany.I’dpainteditformyauntyearsago,andshe’dbeensodelightedshe’dtakenittoaframeshopthatveryday.
“Yougavemethemoon,mydarling!”shehadsaidhappily.“Oh,whatalovelyandimpossiblegift.”
Shehadalwaystoldmetochasethemoon.Tosurroundmyselfwithpeoplewhowouldlassoitdowninaheartbeat.
Itwaseasyforher.Shewasthemaincharacterinherownstory,andsheknewit.
And,forapartofit,Ithinkshewasthemaincharacterinmine,too.Comparedtoher,Iwasashadow.WhileshewentoffexploringMilan,Ifollowedafterherwithamap.Whileshehikeduptocastles,Ihungbackwiththetourguideandmadesuretopackafirstaidkit.Shetoldghoststories,andIdisprovedherbyuncoveringairvents,andnomatterhowsaccharinethosememorieswere,Iwasstillcaughtinthesourtasteofaworldwithouther.
Eventually,somethingbegantocomeofmypainting.Ilostmyselfinthecolors,thewhimsicalwaytheybledtogether.Icouldn’trememberthelasttimeIhadactuallyletmyselfpaint.UsuallyIwasbusywithwork,andthenwhenmyauntdied,creatinghurttoomuch,becauseshehadalwaysbeentheonetogiftmewatercolorsets,tosearchoutbeautifullandscapesandplantmedownonabench,andletmepaintforhourswhileshewentshoppinginthriftstoresandtouristshops.SheprobablyshouldneverhaveleftateenagegirlaloneonabenchontheSeine,orattheAcropolis,orinthegardenofateahouse,butthoseweresomeofmyfavoritememoriesfromthosetrips:whenIsawtheworldindifferentshadesofbluesandgreensandgolds,blendingthemtogether,layeringthem,findingtheperfectshadeofazureforthesky.
Itfeltnicetodosomethingformeagain.Tojustbe
Noto-doliststokeeppushingmyselfthrough,noexpectations.
Justme.
AndwhileIdidn’tfeellikethechildwhousedtocurlupinaclaw-foottubtopaint,Ididfeel…safe
Istillfeltalone—Idoubtedthatwouldchange—butIdidn’tfeellikeI’drattleapart.Thetruthwas,Ihadbeenisolatedforthelastfewmonths,eversinceAnaleadied,becauseitwastheonlywaytokeepmyselftogether.Myparentshadeachothertocryonwhenthegriefroseinthemiddleofthenight.
Ihadnoone,aloneinanapartmentinBrooklyn.
Ididn’thaveanyonetorubmybackandtellmethatitwasokaynottobeokay.IhadtotellmyselfasIsatonmykitchenfloorinthemiddleofthenightandcriedintoapillowsoIwouldn’twakeupmyneighbors.
Thepastwasthepastwasthepast,anditcouldn’tbechanged.EvenifIsomehowmetherhereinthisapartmentsevenyearsinthepast,itwouldn’tchangeanything.Shewouldstilldie.Iwouldstillfindmyselfonthefloorcryingattwointhemorning.
AndthenNatecamealongthreemonthslaterandthoughthecouldfixme,Iguess,withalittlewell-placedlove.ExceptIdidn’tneedtobefixed.I’dgonethroughtheworstdayofmylifebymyself,andIcameouttheothersideapersonwhosurvivedit.Thatwasnotsomethingtofix.
Ididn’tneedtobefixed.Ijustneeded…toberemindedthatIwashuman.
Anddinnerwithastrangerwhodidn’tlookatmelikeIwasbrokenhadbeenasurprisinglygoodstart.11Burn,Baby,Burn
Eventually,Istoppedpaintinganddrewmyselfabath.
Isankdownintothehotwater,thelavenderandchamomilefromthesoapI’dusedsoftandcalming,andIstaredupatthecrownmoldingontheceiling,alloftheintricateswirlsandgildedpatternscharacteristicoftheMonroe.Imust’vedozedoffatsomepoint,becausethenextthingIknewthefrontdoorwasopening,andIheardsomeonecrosstheapartment.Theirfootstepswereheavy.Irubbedmyeyeswithmyprunyfingers.
Isatupinthebath.
Iwan.
Ireachedformyphoneonthestool.Fivep.m.already?
“Lemon?I’mback,”hecalled,hisfootstepscomingcloser.
“Here!”Ireplied,tryingnottopanic.“I’m—um—inthebath!”
Hisfootstepssuddenlystopped.“O-oh!”
Iwinced.Nicegoing,Clementine,Ithoughttomyself.Youshould’vejustsaidnottocomein.Myearsburnedwithembarrassment.“Don’tmakeitweird!”
Hesputtered.“I’mnotmakingitweird,you’remakingitweird!”
“Youmadeitweirdfirst!”
“Ididn’tsayanything!”
“YousaidOh!”
“ShouldIhavesaidsomethingdifferent?”
Iburiedmyfaceinmyhands.“Just—justignoreme.I’mgoingtogodrownmyselfinthetub.Goodbye.”
Hechuckled.“Well,don’tdrownyourselffortoolong.I’mcookingagaintonight,”headded,andhisfootstepsfadedintothekitchen.
Iquicklyreachedformytowelandpulledmyselfoutofthebath.Iheardhiminthekitchen,puttingthingsaway,asIdriedmyselfoffandrememberedthatIhadn’tpickedoutanyclothes.“Shit,”Imuttered,andopenedthebathroomclosettotrytofindoneofherbathrobes.Instead,Ifoundalovelyblacksatinrobewithamaraboufeathertrim.Itwasutterlyridiculous—thekindofexpensiverobewealthywomeninoldmovieswore,completewithalongcigaretteholderandadeadbodyinthefoyer.Isnorted,pullingitoffthehanger.I’dalmostforgottenthatshehadthismonstrosity.Afewyearsago,itcaughtfirethankstoherSaintDollyPartoncandle,andsheendeduptossingbothoutthewindowinapanic.Theapartmentsmelledlikemeltedfeathersforweeks.
Well,itwasbetterthanatowel,atleast.
Ishruggedontherobe.Itstillsmelledlikeherperfume.RedbyGiorgioBeverlyHills.Sodistinctiveandintense.She’dwornitforclosetothirtyyears.
AsIcameoutofthebathroom,Iwanglancedoveratme,myhairdamp,smellingslightlyoflavendersoap.Heopenedhismouth.Closeditagain.Blinked—quiteafewtimes.Thenhesaid,quiteseriously,“Ma’am,I’veaveryseriousquestiontoaskyou:Didyoumurderyourhusband?”
Ifluffeduptheboaandadoptedaterriblemid-Atlanticaccent.“I’msorry,Officer,Ican’trecallhowmyhusbanddied.Itmust’vebeenthepoolboy!I’llhavetogetanewone.”
Hearchedaneyebrowashestoodbythestove,whereheslowlyheatedalargesaucepan,halfadozenlemonsonthecounterbesidehim.“Poolboyorhusband?”
“I’mnotsure,what’reyourcredentials?”
Heflickedhisgazedownthelengthofme.“I’veaprettyhealthyrésumé,”herepliedinthatsoft,lowSoutherndrawlofhis.“Andplentyofreferences.”
Itsked.“Foryourcharacter,Ihope.”
Theedgesofhismouthtwitchedasitturnedintoasortofhalfsmirk,andhereallythoughthewasbeingsuaveasheleanedbackagainstthestove—andgaveayelp.“Sonova—!”Hequicklythrewhishandintotheair,buthe’dalreadyburnedtheshitoutofthetipofhispinkyfinger,andstuckitinhismouth.
“Areyouokay?”Iaskedinalarm,droppingmyawfulaccent.
“Fine,”hesaidaroundhispinkyinhismouth.“I’mfine.’Tisonlyafleshwound.”
Igavehimalookandcameover,takinghishandoutofhismouthtoinspecthisfinger.Therewasanangryredmarkallthewayacrosstheinsideofit.“Weshouldputbutteronit.”
“Butter?”Hesoundedincredulous.
“Yes?Mymomalwaysdoesit.”
Helaughedthen,andgentlytookhishandoutofmine.Heturnedonthefaucetandranhispinkyunderthecoolwater.“This’lldojustfine,I’dhatetomessupyouraunt’séchiré.”
Ittookmeamomenttorealize—“Herfancybutterhasaname?”
“It’snotfancyifitdoesn’thaveaname,”herepliedgallantly,turningoffthefaucetwhileIgrabbedabandagefromthefirst-aidkitinthemedicinecabinet.Heoutstretchedhishandagainoncehe’ddriedit,andIwrappeditinaDisneyBand-Aid.“Wouldyouliketokissit?”heasked.“Makeitfeelbetter?”
“Thatdoesn’twork.”
“Aboutaswellasbutter,Isuppose”washisreply.
“Well,inthatcase…”Ireallydidn’tlikehowsmughesounded,andinmyaunt’sfeatherboa,suddenlyfeelingbrave,Ibroughthishandtomymouthandgentlykissedthebandage.
Hisfaceturnedalovelypinkish-red,fromhisneckallthewaytohisscalp,makingthefrecklesacrosshischeeksglow.Anditwasalsostrangelysexy,hiscurlyhairmessyfromadayoutinthecity,histieloosenedandaskew,dressedinawhitebutton-downthatdidn’tquitefithim,andblacktrousersthatIwassurewereafewyearsoldatthispointbecausetheywerefrayedalittleatthehems.WheneverItookacloserlookathim,hewasdisorientinginthekindofwaykaleidoscopeswere,constantlymovingandshifting,fullofcolorsandshapesthatshouldn’thavegonetogetherbutdidinawaythatmadeitperfect.
HemighthavebeenthemosthandsomemanI’deverseen.
Butespeciallywhenheblushed.
Heswallowed,hisAdam’sapplebobblingwiththedifficulty,discombobulated.
Idroppedhishandandsaid,“Butterworks,bytheway.”
“I…uh.”Helookedathisbandagedfinger.
“Itfeelsbetter,doesn’tit?”
Hisgazefelltomylips.Lingeredthere.Hebenttowardme,millimeterbymillimeter,andthecloserhegot,themoreofhimIdrankin,hislongeyelashes,thefrecklesacrosshischeeksandnose,multiplyingbythemoment.Hislipslookedsoft.Hehadanicemouth—akindone.Itwashardtoexplainwhyitlookedkind,butitdid.
Butthensomethingmadehimpullback,second-guesshimself,andmystomachtwistedalittleinregret.Heclearedhisthroat.“Fine,fine.Buttermightwork,”hesaid,busyinghimselfwithtossinginmeasurementsofsugar,somesortofcornstarchorflour,andsalt,andthepinkishtintonlyremainedattheedgesofhisears.
Wereyouabouttokissme?Iwantedtoask,andIwasn’tsureifIwantedtheanswertobeno.Butinstead,Iasked,“What’sfordinner?”
“Oh,thisisdessert,”hereplied,motioningtothelemonsonthecounter.“Howdoyoufeelaboutpizzatonight?”
“Ithinkthere’sanumberfordeliveryonthefridge…”
“Imeantfrozen.”
Iletoutalaugh,thoughitsoundedhollowtomyears.“Areyousureyou’reachef?”
“I’mfullofsurprises,Lemon,”hereplied,teasingmewithanothergrin,andwewerebacktobefore.Itwassillytofeeldisappointedthathehadn’tkissedme.Thiswasn’tmeatall.And,apparently,itwasn’thim,either.“Andbesides,”headdedwithawinkandshotmecharmingand—admittedlycringey—fingerguns,“I’mmakingyouadesserttonight,instead.”12TheMoonandMore
Thefrozenpizzawasexactlywhatitpromisedtobe—ittastedlikecardboardwithalittlebitofplasticcheeseontop.Anditwasdeliciousinthesamewaythatfive-dollarpizzasfromthesupermarketandcheapwinealwayswere—predictableandsolid.
Whilewewaitedforittocook,Ihaddugoutsomeofmyoldjeansthatstillfitfrommyleftoverclothesinmyaunt’sclosetandputonadarkgrayT-shirtthatI’dlostinSpaintwoyearsago,andhefixedupsomesortofpiethatsmelledoflemonsandpoppeditintothehotovenasweate.
“Howwastheinterviewtoday?”IaskedasItookmylastslice.We’dgonethroughhalfthebottleofwinealready,andpickedthroughmostofthepizza.
“Glorious,”hesaidwithacontentsigh.“ItwasjustlikeIremembered.TheyevenstillhadthetablemygrandpaandIsatat.”
“Wastheheadchefthere?Theoneyourgrandpaliked?”
Hecrinkledhisnoseandshookhishead.“Sadly,no.ButIthinktheinterviewwentwell!Iwasoneoftwenty-threeapplicantswhomadeittothefinalround.”
“Foradishwashinggig?”
Hepickedapieceofpepperonioffhispizzaandcorrected,“ForanopeningatoneofthemostprestigiousrestaurantsinSoHo.It’saninstitution,ofcoursealotofpeoplewanttoworkthere.”
Ishookmyhead.“Ican’tbelieveyoucan’tjuststartasalinecook.”
“MaybeifIweremoretalented,sure,”herepliedwithashrug,andIdidn’tbelievehisfalsemodestyonebit.Therewasapiethathe’dmadefromscratchintheoven,andIwasn’tabouttosayIwasaconnoisseur,butI’deatenmywayaroundtheworld.Iknewgoodfoodinthesamewayanyonewhowaswelltraveledenoughknewthebestpizzaswerealwaysingrease-stainedhole-in-the-walljoints,thebesttacosfromtin-coloredfoodtrucks,thebestfalafelfromstreetvendors,thebestpastafromfamily-ownedrestaurantsinthebowelsofRome.Iwanwastalented.
Thewindowswereopentonight,andasoftbreezecameinfromthestreet,flutteringthegauzywhitecurtains.ThetwopigeonsthatroostedontheACwerecooingintheirlittlenest,MotherandFuckerenjoyingtheevening.
“So,”hesaid,changingthesubject,“what’veyoubeendoingallday?”
“Takingabath,”Ireplied,andwhenhearchedaneyebrow,Isighedandsaid,“Iaccidentallyfellasleepinthebath.BeforethatIwas…”Ifrowned.“Inthetub.”
“Justinthetub?”
Ihesitated,settingdownmylastcrustofpizza.Iwasn’treallyhungryforit,anyway.Therewasnoreasonnottotellhim,especiallyafterhe’dsharedsomuchwithmelastnight.“Don’tlaugh,butIwasalwaysamessypainterasakid.I’dgetwatercolorseverywhereandmyauntwouldbelivid,soshesetmeupinthebathroomandtoldmetogowild.Sothat’swhatIwasdoing.Youknow,beforeItookabath.”
Heseemedsurprised—inthebestway.“Painting?”
Inodded.
WhenNatefoundoutaboutmyhobby,ashestumbledacrossmylandscapesandmystilllifesandmyportraits,alltuckedintomycloset,hiseyesglowedwiththepossibilityofsellingthem.Monetizingmypassion.“Makeitworkforyou.You’refantasticatit.”
ButIalreadyworkedinanindustrythatsoldartascommodities,andIreallydidn’twanttogodownthatpath.Ididn’tlikepaintingbecauseotherpeoplemightlikeit;IlikedpaintingbecauseIappreciatedthewaythecolorsblended,thewaybluesandyellowsalwaysturnedgreen.Thewayredsandgreensturnedbrown.Therewasacertaintytoitall,andwhentherewasn’t,therewasalwaysareason.
And,besides,bythetimeNateandIgottogether,I’dstoppedpaintingentirely.
“CouldIsee?”Iwanasked,andwhenIdidn’trespondimmediately,hequicklyadded,“Youdon’thaveto.It’sokay.It’ssomethingforyou,right?”heguessed.“It’sprivate.”
Istaredathimforalongmoment,becausethatwasitexactly.I’dalwayshadtoexplainit.“Yes.It’sforme.”
Henodded,likeheunderstood.“Cookingwaslikethatforme.Ilikedkeepingitsecret—justbetweenmeandmygranddad.Itfeltpowerful,youknow?Thislittlethingthatnooneelseknewabout.”
“Andifyoushowittoanyoneelse,you’reafraiditmightspoil.”
“Yeah,that’sit.”
“Butyoudid—obviously.Sinceyoucookedforme.”
Hegaveaone-shoulderedshrug.“IthoughtIjustwantedittobeapastime,butthenIdecided…whatthehell?”
Ilookeddownatthetinybitofpaintstillstuckundermyfingernails.“Doyouregretit?”
Hecockedhisheadinthought.“Askmeinafewyears.”
IfIfindyou,Ithought,Iwill.
ThoughIcouldn’timaginethathewould—therewasacertainkindofpersonwhotookholdoftheirpassionandneverletitspoil.He’dneverlosesightofwhyhewantedtobeachefinthefirstplace.
Iadmitted,“Thepaintinginthebathroom?Ofthemoon?It’smine.”
Hethought,hiseyebrowscreasingasherecalledthepainting,andthenhiseyeslitup.“Oh,thatone!It’slovely.Doyouhaveothersaroundtheapartment?”
Tothat,Ismiledandtappedafingertomylips.“Ido.I’llshowthemtoyounexttime,”Isaid,“ifyouremembertoaskme.”
“Deal,”heagreed.“They’reprobablyrightundermynose.”
Ithoughtaboutthetravelguidesinmyaunt’sstudy.Hehadnoidea.Icockedmyhead.“Youknow,it’sweird.TodaywasthefirsttimeI’vepaintedin…halfayear?Yeah,thatseemsright.”
Hewhistled.“That’salongtime.Whydidyoustop?”
Ifeltmybodytense.“Someonebrokemyheart,”Isaidsoftly.
“Oh…I’msorry,Lemon.”
Ishrugged,andtriedtoplayitoff.“It’sokay.Mylastboyfriendtriedtogetmetopaintagain,butIjustdidn’thaveitinme.Ididn’thaveitinmetodoalotofthingswithhim,tobehonest.HesaidIwastooclosed-off.”Iputthewordsinairquotes.“Ididn’tevencrywhenwebrokeup.”
“Thatdoesn’tmeanyoudidn’tlovehim.”
“Itwasthreemonths,”Ireplied,dismissinghisidea.“I’msureIdidn’t.Myauntalwayssaidyouknowthemomentyoufall.”
Hestudiedmeforamoment.“Maybeyoudo.”
“Haveyoueverbeeninlove?”AndthenIasked,tryingtojokewithhim,“Isthatwhyyou’rereallyinthecity?Tochaseaftersomeone?It’sokay,”Iaddedconspiratorially,“youcanadmitittome.Iwon’ttellasoul.”
Towhichhesmiled,crookedandcharming,asifhewasabouttotellmeasecrethe’dnevertoldanyoneelseintheworld.Heleanedtowardme.“AndifIhave?”
Isatupalittlestraighter.“Dotheyknow?”
“Sadly,yes,”hereplied.“Butalas,pommesfritesareacruelbeast,andmybodyrejectsthemwith…heartburn!”Hedramaticallyclutchedhischest,andIrolledmyeyes.
“Okay,IguessIdeservedthat.”
“Mm-hmm.”Hetookmyhandandpulledmetostand.“Andifyouhavetimetoplotoutmyfictitiouslovelife,”hesaid,pullingmeintothekitchen,“youhavetimeto—”
“Pleasedon’tsaydance.”
“—towhipsomecreamformewhileItakethepieoutoftheovenandchillitforabit.”
Thedreadquicklyturnedintorelief.“Oh,that.”ThenIrealizedwhathe’dsaid.“Wait,I’mhelpingyou?”
“It’llbeeasy,Ipromise.”
Somehow,Ididn’tbelievehim.IruinedSpaghettiOsinthemicrowave,soIdidn’thavealotofconfidencethatIcouldwhipanything.Hegrabbedmyaunt’shummingbirdovenmittsandtookthepieoutoftheoven.Thescentoflemonsexplodedintotheapartment,warmandgooeyandcitrusy.Hepoppeditinthequick-freezeandpulledmeovertoabowl,anddashedintheingredientsinrapidsuccession—hehadeverythingpremeasuredintherefrigeratorandchilled,andtoldmetokeepwhiskingtheingredientsuntilstiffpeaksformed.IjustnoddedanddidasIwastold,andapparentlymywhippedcreampeakswerebeautiful.
“Ihavenoideawhatthatmeans,”Ireplied,myarmsfeelinglikeJell-O,ashecheckedonthepieinthequick-freeze,andhetookoutthecream,spreadingitoverthepie.
Hegrinned,“Itmeansyou’reanatural.”
“Atwhipping?Orthecream?”
“Whatisthat,asenseofhumor?”
Ilaughedandelbowedhimintheside.“Shutup.”
Buthejustkeptgrinningashetookthepieovertothetable,andIfollowedwithtwoplatesfromthecabinetandtwoforks.WesatdownandIhandedhimone,andweclinkedthemtogetherinasortofcheers.
“Youfirst,”hedecided,motioningtothepie.“Thesuspenseiskillingme.Inthisrecipe,Isubstitutemeringuewithwhippedcream.It’satwistonkeylime,withlemonsobviously,withagraham-crackercrust.Simple,really.Arguablytoosimple,especiallywithoutthemeringue.”
“Whynomeringue?”
Heshrugged.“Thewhippedcreamhashintsoflemon.It’scloseenough.”
“…Canyounotmakemeringue?”
“Alas,”hesighed,andsethisheadonhishand,“myonlyenemy.Tobefair,Ididn’tmakethewhippedcream,either.Youdid.”
“So,youaren’tperfect?”Imockgasped,reelingaway.
Herolledhiseyes.“I’dbeboringifIwasperfect.I’vealwaysbeenbadatmeringue,eversinceculinaryschool.ThepeaksneverpeakedandI’mwhollyimpatient.Mybiggestdownfall.”
“That’syourbiggestdownfall?”
Hehonest-to-godthoughtaboutitforamomentbeforenodding.“Yes.Yes,itis.”
“Huh.”BecauseIwasverysureifhefoundoutthelaundrylistofmyflaws,he’dberunningforthehills.Itwirledmyforkaroundinmyfingersandstabbeditintothepie.
ThenIscoopedupaforkfulandtastedit.Thewarm,gooeyacidityofthepie,alongwiththegrittinessofthegrahamcracker,thesweetnessofthewhippedcream,withapinchoflemonzest—itwassuchalovelybouquetofflavorsandtextures.Itremindedmeofalemongrove.
Hewaitedpatiently.Then,asiftruetohisword,abitimpatiently.Hedrummedhisfingersonthetable.
Shiftedinhisseat.
Gaveahuff.
Finally,heasked,“…Well?”
Ibitthetinesoftheforkbetweenmyteeth,lookingfromhimtothepie,andthentohimagain.Hereallywasimpatient,wasn’the?
Hisfacefell.“It’sterrible,isn’tit?Imessedup.Iforgotaningredient.I—”
“Youshouldbeashamed,”Iinterrupted,pointingmyforkathim.
Inalarm,hegrabbeditandtookabite.
“Weatepizzawhenwecouldhavebeenhavingthisthewholetime?”Ifinished,ashechewedandsankbackintohischair,swallowinghisbite.“Forfuturereference,Iamperfectlyokaywithdessertfordinner.”
Hegavemeamoroselook.“Youreallyhadmegoingthere,Lemon.”Hesighedinrelief,andthenrealized—“Soyou’llhavedinnerwithmeagain?Inthefuture?”
“Ofcourse.I’mstillwaitingforthatsplit-peasoup,”Irepliednobly,andtookanotherbite.“Whywereyousonervousthiswouldn’tbegood?”
“Itwasmygrandfather’srecipe—whichisn’treallyarecipeatall,”hereplied,handingtheforkbacktome,“soit’sabitdifferenteverytime.”
Abitdifferenteverytime.
LikeVera’sfettuccine.
Thephrasewaslikeagutpunch—areminderofmyaunt’ssecondrule.Neverfallinloveinthisapartment.
“Healwayssaysfoodbringspeopletogether,andthat’sreallywhatIloveaboutit.”Hesmiledalittleatthememory,thoughtherewasthisdistantlookinhiseyes.WasthathowIlookedwheneverItalkedaboutmyaunt?“Howitcanbealanguageallitsown,”hewenton,puttinghiselbowsonthetable,hisheadperchedonhishands.“I’vehadentireconversationswithpeopleI’veneverspokenawordto.Youcansaythingswithfoodthatyoucan’tquitewithwordssometimes.”
Andtherehewentagain,hispassionforthisartIhadtakenforgrantedturnedintopoetry.Iwouldreadencyclopediasifhewrotethemwiththissortofwonderlust.
Takinganotherbite,thesweetnessofthecreamdancingwiththetartlemon,makingmyteethcurlindelight,Isaid,“Ah,you’retalkingaboutaperfectmealagain.”
“Itallcomesfullcircle,”hereplied,theedgesofhismouthtwistingupinasmile.“Universaltruthsinbutter.Secretsfoldedintothedough.Poetryinthespices.Romanceinachocolate.Loveinalemonpie.”
Isetmyelbowsonthetable,myheadproppedonmyhands,mirroringhim.“Truthbetold,I’vealwaysfoundmyloversinagoodcheese.”
“Asiagoisverysassy.”
“Anicecheddar’sneverletmedown.”
“Yougowithcheddar?That’sso…likeyou,honestly.”
Igaveagasp.“Youmeanboring,don’tyou!”
“Ididn’tsaythat,yousaidthat.”
“I’llhaveyouknow,cheddarisaveryrespectablecheese.Andversatile,too!Youcanputcheddaronanything.Notlikesomeofthoseotherfanciercheeses,like—likegoudaormozzarellaorrock—rocke—”
Hetiltedhisheadtowardmeandwhispered,“Roquefort.”
“Yes,thatone!”Isaid,pointingmyforkathim.“Orchèvre.Orgouda…”
“Youalreadysaidthatone.”
Hisfacehoveredsoclosetomineasheleanedoverthetable,Icouldsmelltheaftershaveonhisskin.Mystomachwasburning.“Or”—Mybrainstruggledtothinkofanotherone.—“Parmesan…”
“I’vealwayslikedcheddar,”hefinallysaid.Thisclose,hiseyesweremoreblueandgreenthangray,growingdarkerandstormierthelongerIstared.IwonderedifIcouldseehisfutureinhiseyes,whatkindofmanhe’dbeinsevenyears—butallIsawwasatwenty-somethingalittlelostinanewcity,waitingtobethepersonhe’dbecome.
Ifhelikedcheddar,thendidhelikesafeandboring,too?Me?No,Iwasgettingcarriedaway.Ofcoursethatwasn’twhathemeant,buthewasstillsoclose,andmyskinprickledfromtheheatIfeltfromhisbody.Hiseyesdroppedtomylipsagain,asifdebatingonwhethertotakethechance.
Andthenheasked,hisvoicebarelyaboveawhisper,asecret,“MayIkissyou?”
Isuckedinabreath.IwantedtoandIshouldn’tanditwasprobablytheworstdecisionintheworldand—
Inodded.
Heleanedoverthetableandpressedhislipstomine.Thenwebrokeaway—justforamoment,asharpintakeofbreath—andcrushedourmouthstogetheragain.Icurledmyfingersaroundthefrontofhisdressshirtandtuggedathisalreadyloosetie.Hecuppedmyfacewithhishands,anddrankmein.Imeltedintohimfasterthanicecreamonahotsidewalk.Hekissedlikehewantedtosavorme.
“IfearIhave,indeed,gottenthewrongidea,”hemurmuredwhenwefinallybrokeaway,hiswordshotagainstmylips,voicedeepandhoarse.“Despitemybestefforts.”
Ifeltstarved—thewildgirlIwantedtobebutneverquitewas,thekindwhoyearnedtodevourtheworld,onesensationatatime.Thesoftnessofhislips,thehungerthere.Iwrappedhistiearoundmyhand,drawinghimclosertome,andhemadeanoiseinhisthroatasIpulledhimnear.
“Webothmight’vegottenthewrongidea,”Iagreed.“Ilikeit,though.Wecouldtryitagain?”
Hiseyesdarkenedlikeahurricaneonthehorizon,andasItuggedhimtowardme,hecamewillingly,andkissedmeharderonthemouth,threadinghisfingersintomyhair.Histongueplayedalongmybottomlip,teasing,andhetastedlikelemonpie,sweetandsummery.Mybellyburned,ached,ashisthumbslidalongmyjawline,slowlytracingitdowntowardmyneck.Histouchwaslightandsoft,thecallousesonhisfingertipsroughagainstmyskin,summoninggoosebumps.Ishivered.Andhesmelledamazing—likeaftershaveandlaundrydetergentandgraham-crackercrust.
Ididn’trealizehowhungryIwasfortouch,forsomethinggood,somethingwarmandsweet,untilIgotataste.
“Don’tfallinloveinthisapartment,”myaunthadwarned,butthiswasn’tlove.Itwasn’t,itwasn’t,itwasn’t—
Thewayhekissedme,sothoroughlyIfeltitinmytoes,thewayIpulledhimtome,myhandwrappedaroundhistie,thewayIthoughtaboutifhewassogoodwithhistonguenow,howmuchbetterwouldhebeinafewyears—
No,thiswasn’tlove
Afterall,Ididn’tknowwhatlove—romanticlove,toe-curlinglove—feltlike.SohowcouldIfallforit?
Thiswasn’tit.Itcouldn’tbe.
“Youkisslikeyoudance,”hemurmuredagainstmymouth.
Ibrokeaway,suddenlyappalled.“Terribly?”
Helaughed,butitwaslowanddeepinhisthroat,halfagrowl,ashestoleanotherkissagain.“Likesomeonewaitingtobeasked.Youcanjustdance,Lemon.Youcantakethelead.”
“Andyou’llfollow?”
“Tothemoonandback,”hereplied,andIleanedforward,myhandspressedagainsthishardchest,andkissedhimagain.Harder.Overthelemonpie.MyinsidesfeltlikePopRocks,fizzyandbright.Hemadeanoiseagainstmymouth,agrowlthatrumbledthroughhischestashislong,longfingerscurledfurtherintomyhair,histeethnibblingonmybottomlip—
Suddenly,hepushedthelemonpieaside,wineglassesclatteringastheybumpedagainstthewall,andIputakneeonthetable,halfwayontoit,justtogetalittlecloser.Justalittlemore.Iwantedtopressmyselfintohim.Iwantedtolosemyselfinhissmell,inhiscallousedtouch,inthewayhepaintedwordslikepoetry.
Romancewasn’tinchocolate,itwasinthegaspofbreathaswecameupforair.Itwasinthewayhecradledmyface,thewayItracedmyfingeroverthecrescent-shapedbirthmarkonhiscollarbone.ItwasinthewayhemutteredhowbeautifulIwas,thewayitmademyheartsoar.ItwasinthewayIwantedtoknoweverythingabouthim—hisfavoritesongs,finallyguesshisfavoritecolor.Hismouthmigratedtowardmyneck,feelingmypulsequickandloudatmythroat.Pressingakissundermyear—
Hewillneverstay,mydarlingClementine,Iheardmyauntsay,crystalclearinmyhead.Icouldseehersittinginherwingbackchair,rememberingVera.Noonestays.
“Wait,”Igasped,breakingmyselfawayfromhim.Myheartwasquickandloudinmyhead.“Wait—isthissmart?Shouldwe?Thismightbeabadidea.”
Hefroze.“What?”
“This—thismightbeabadidea,”Irepeated,lettingmyhandunwindfromhistie.Mylipsfelttender,mycheeksflushed.
Heblinked,tonguinghisbottomlip,hisgazestilldrunkonourkisses.“Youcouldneverbeabadidea,Lemon.”
Butwhatifyouare?Ithought,bitingtheinsideofmylip.BecausethereIwas,teeteringontheprecipiceofsomething.Icouldtipoverandneverseethetopagain,orIcouldremainperfectlybalancedwhereIwas.
AndthenIlookedintohisgrayish-blueeyes,andIknewexactlyhowI’dpaintthem—I’dpaintthemlikethemoon.Layersofwhite,graduallygrowingdarker,withshadowsofblue.Now,though,theywerelikestormcloudsoutatseainthegoldeneveninglight—
AndIwasafool.
“…Lemon?Youhavethatlookagain,”hesaidinconcern.Isnappedoutofmythoughts,embarrassmentfloodingmycheeks.Hehadcomearoundthetable,andkneltdowninfrontofme,hishandonmyknee,histhumbgentlyrubbingcirclesthere.“Lemon?”
“Sorry.”Ipressedmyhandsagainstmyface.“I’msosorry.”
“No,no,it’sokay.”Gently,hetuggedmyhandsawayfrommyface,lookingupatmewithnothingbutconcern.Whatalovelyman.Isankdownagainsthim,myfaceburiedintohisshoulder,whereI—awfully—fitsoperfectly.Hewassowarmandcomfortable,andIhatedthatIlovedit.“I’msorry,”Irepeatedagain,becauseIwasn’tsurehowelsetovoiceit—howmuchIwantedthis,wantedhim,buttherewerethingsmyheartcouldn’thandleanymore,stillbrittleandsmall,brokenfromsomethingelsethatcouldn’tstay.
Iwasbroken,andIwasalone,andIwishedhehadfoundmesevenyearsago,instead.
“I’msorry.I’msorry…”
“Hey—hey,don’tapologize,don’tbesorry,there’snothingtobesorryfor,”hesaid,gentlydislodgingmefromhisshouldersohecouldlookatmyface,pushingmyhairbehindmyear.Hecradledmycheekinhiswarmhand.“It’sokay.It’sokay,really.”
Thisiswherenormalgirlswouldhavecried,becausehisvoicewassogentle,socomforting.Thisiswheretheywouldhavelettheirheartoverflow,andbringdowntheirwalls,butmyeyesdidn’tevenstingwithtears.IthinkIhadcriedthemalloutinthelastsixmonths.IthinkIhadrundry.BecauseasIlookeddownintohisfaceandhislovelypaleeyes,allIcouldfeelwasahollowpitinthecenterofmystomach.
IwishIcouldtellyouastory,Ithought,andIwishyouwouldbelieveit.
Buthewouldn’t.Iwasoldenoughtoknowthatforafact.Becausewhilehebelievedinromance,inchocolates,andloveoverlemonpies,thestoryofagirlsevenyearsoutoftimesoundedabittooabstract,evenforhisears,andIcouldn’tbearthethoughtofthewayhe’dlookatmeonceItoldmystory,halfpitying,halfdisappointed,thatIhadtomakeupalieaboutatimeslipinsteadoftellinghimthetruth.
Instead,Ileanedmyfaceagainsthishandandkissedhispalm.“Canwefinishourdessert?Andtalksomemore?”
Hestoodandkissedmyforehead.“Ofcourse,Lemon.Iwouldlovenothingmore.”
Myheartclenched,becausehewassolovely,andIwassorelieved—happy,even—thatheunderstood.
Hereturnedtohischair,tookhisfork,andaskedmeaboutmyfavoritepaintings.WhyvanGogh?WheredidIliketotravel?Whatwasmyfavoritesnack?IfIcouldhavedinnerwithanyone,pastorpresent,whowoulditbeandwhy?Andhemademelaughovertherestofthelemonpie,andwedrankwine,stillwiththetasteofhislipsonmytongue,thememoryofthekissesthat,forallintentsandpurposes,neverwere.13BacktotheGrind
WhenIwokeup,thebedbesidemewasempty,andIwanhadleftanoteonthecounterthatread:
Freshcoffeeinthepot.—I
Hemusthavealreadylefttoseeaboutthatdishwashinggigagain—Ihadn’tevenheardhimgetup.Afterwefinishedthebottleofwinethenightbefore,wewenttobed,fingerslacedtogetherandforeheadspressedagainsteachother’s,themoonlightsharpandsilver,paintingsoftlinesacrossourbodies,andwetalkedsomemore.Abouthissister,abouthisgrandfather’sdreamrestaurant,aboutmyparentsandtheirsoft,routinewayoflife.Heaskedaboutthescarslashedthroughmyeyebrow,andIaskedabouthistattoos—thebunchofcilantroonhisarmforhisgrandpa(theybothhadthatgenewhereittastedlikesoap);initialsonhistorso,mysteriousandfaded;awhiskbehindhisearbecausehethoughtitwasfunny,amongothers.WetalkedaboutwhereI’dtraveled,wherehe’dneverbeen.
“You’venevereatenataWaffleHouse?”he’dasked,aghast.
“MyauntandIpassedafewontheroadtripwetookthatonetime,but…no?Why,amImissingsomething?”
“WaHosarethebest.Theyneverclose,andwhentheydo?Youknowanaturaldisaster’sonitsway,soyoubettergetthefuckoutofthere.Theirhashbrownsareeitherthebestthingsintheworldorsosoggythey’resoup.It’sonlythegreatestmoderntavernexperienceintheworld.”
“Thatcan’tbetrue.”
“Ipromise,”herepliedfirmly,“nothingisquitelikeaWaffleHouseattwointhemorning.”
Iwondered,vaguely,asIslippedonmyblouse,wheretheclosestWaffleHousewastome.WouldIgetamazinghashbrowns,orgreasysoup?WouldIfindhimthere,hauntingthebooths?Itmademewonderwherehewas,really,rightnow.Sevenyearslater.
“I’llseeyoulater,”ItoldtheapartmentasIgrabbedmypurseandkeys,andleft.EarlwasatthefrontdeskreadinganotherJamesPatterson,andhetippedhishattomeasIhurriedoutthedoor.
NowthatIwasoutoftheapartment,thecitypushedonaroundme,evermovingforward,anditwassodiscombobulatingatfirst.
Inmyaunt’sapartment,italmostfeltliketimestoodstill.
Iwassolostinmyownthoughts,betweenmyaunt’sapartmentandStrauss&Adder,Ididn’tnoticeDrewandFionaintheelevatorbesidemeuntilFionasaid,lookingabitbedraggled,“Youlooklikesunshineandunicornfarts.”
Ipattedmyflyawaybangsdown.“Ido?”
Drewsaid,“You’rebeamingwithit.”
“It’sirritating,”Fionaadded,jabbingtheclose-doorbuttonbeforemorepeoplecouldjamtheirwayintotheelevator.Itwasalreadytenstrong,andwewerescrunchedneartheback.
MycheekswentpinkasIthoughtaboutIwan.AndIwan’smouth.Thewayhetasted.“Ispentallweekendpainting,that’sall.”Notquitealie.
“Ooh,paintingwhat?”Drewasked.
“ThatnewNewYorkCitytravelguidethatKateworkedon?”Isaid.
“Oh!Isawoneonthefreebieshelf.Youtookit?Whatdidyoupaintfirst?”
“BowBridge,”Ireplied,andstudiedthetwoofthem.Theylookedlikethewalkingdead.“Itakeityoutwodidn’thaveagoodweekend?”
“Understatementoftheyear,”Drewmuttered,lookingattheceiling.“Wespentallweekendgettingthebabycornerready.Andbywe,ImeanIdid.Thisone‘supervised.’?”Sheputthewordinairquotes.
“Youdidgreat,sweetie,”Fionarepliedandkissedhercheek.
Theelevatoropenedonourfloor,andwefoughtourwaytothefrontandoutintothelobby.DrewsplitofftoherdeskwhileFionaandIwenttothekitchentofixourmorningcoffees.ItwasonlywhenDrewwasoutofsightthatFionasteppedclosertomeandwhispered,“Iwasworriedaboutyou!”
Igaveherastrangelook.“Worried?Why?”
Shesighedinexasperationandgrabbedacoffeecupfromthedishwasher.“Youdidn’trespondtoanyofmytextsthisweekend!”
Istaredather,andthenitclicked.“Oh—oh,youknowmyaunt’sapartmentgetsbadreception.”
Shescrunchedhernose.“Ididn’trealizethatbad…”
Itookmyphoneoutofmypurse,andloandbehold,IhadquiteafewmessagesfromFiona—aphotoofherandDrewputtingupaforest-themednurseryandgettingangrywiththeIKEAcrib.“Oh.Oh,I’msosorry!Ididn’tevenlookatmyphone.That’salovelycolor.”
Shedidn’tlooklikeshebelievedmeasshepoppedadecaffeinatedcoffeepodintothecoffeemaker.“Itis…?”
“Absolutely—”
“Goodmorning!”Rhondabreezedintothekitchen,thesmellofherperfumestrongandherheelsloud.“Wehaveameeting!”shesingsonged.“Bestnotbelate!”Andshegavemeameaningfullook.Right—becausestartingnow,Iwasontrial.IfIwantedtoprovemyselftoRhonda,thatIcouldfillhershoes,Ineededtobeatthetopofmygame.AndIwouldbe.ThiswaswhatIwanted,afterall.
Couldn’tscrewthisup.
FionaeyedRhondaassheleftwithhermorningbreakfastblend,andwhispered,“She’sinagoodmood…itmakesmesuspicious.”
“She’susuallyinagoodmood,”Ireplied,andFionagavemeadeadpanlook.“What?Sheis.Bettergobeforethatchanges.”
“Wait—I’mnotdoneinterrogatingyou!”
“Youcanlater,”Ipromised,andquicklyfixedmyselfacupofcoffee,dumpedmypursebymydesk,andgrabbedmynotebookandpenbeforerushingdownthehallandintothemeetingroom.
Whenwealltookourseats,Rhondajumpedatthechancetobegin.“Ijusthadtheloveliestweekend,andIreallyhopeallofyoudid,too!Whichbringsmetomyfirstorderofbusiness…”Shestartedwithmarketingdesign—checkinguponthestateofads,whetherthatnewvideothatwouldplayinfrontofEntertainmentWeeklywasdone,whetherthey’dfixedthetypoinoneoftheGoogleads,etcetera.
IthoughtaboutgooglingIwantoseeifhestillworkedatthatFrenchrestaurant,whicheverrestaurantthatwas.MaybeIcouldsurprisehim.Maybehe’dbesousbynow.Maybehe’dwonawards.
Or—maybe—he’dgonebackhome.
“…Clementine?Didyouhearme?”
Isatalittletallerinmyswivelchair,mortifiedthatI’dbeeninmyownhead.“I-I’msorry.What?”
Rhondagavemeacuriouslook.“IaskedaboutthemediaplacementsforMalloryGrey’sbooks.Wedon’twantherbumpingintothatlastAnnNicholsnovelfromFalconHouse.”
“Right,yes.”IglanceddownatmynotesandtriedtopushIwanoutofmyhead.Therestofthemeetingwasjustaquickrundownoftheweek’swork.ThebooksthatlaunchedonTuesday,thecampaignswehadgoingforthem,thepromotionsweneededtofocuson,theupdatesonbookclubs…butinthebackofmymind,thequestionpersisted—
Wherewashenow?14SevenYearsTooLate
IthoughtthatafternoonIcouldgoogleIwan,butIbarelyhadasecondtopeebecauseanadultsubscriptionbookboxdecidedtofeatureoneofourcelebritymemoirsalongsideabarofsoapintheshapeofanunmentionable,completewithasuckeronthebacktostickittothebathroomwall,andIspentmyentireafternoonputtingoutthatfire.
Bythetimesixo’clockrolledaround,FionahadtodragmeawayfrommycomputerbeforeIsentanotherheatedemailtothebookboxcompany,absolutelyabouttosignitwithHavethedayyoudeserve.Wewalkedtogethertothesubway,sincewewerebothheadinguptown(shehadanappointment,andDrewgotamigrainehalfwaythroughtheday,soshe’delectedtogohomeearly),andshesatdownbesidemeonabenchaswewaitedforthesubway.AmanwithanaccordionandadrumsetathisfeetplayedajazzyrenditionofBillyJoel’s“PianoMan,”andafewfeetaway,aratwasnibblingonacrustofpizza.
God,IlovedNewYork.Eventheclichébits.
Fionasaid,notlookingatme,“Somethingelsehappenedthisweekend,didn’tit?Icantell.”
“What?No.Ijust…Itoldyou.”
“Yeah,youpaintedandyoudidn’tcheckyourphoneallweekend—twothingsthatyouneverdo.”
Shehadapoint.Ichewedontheinsideofmylip,debatingonwhethertotellher.IfIknewFiona,Iknewshewouldn’tstopaskinguntilshefoundout,andshewasincrediblyperceptive.“Okay,so,don’tfreakout,”Ibegan,andtookadeepbreath,“butIthinkImetsomeonethisweekend.”
Thatsurprisedher.Sheglancedupfromherphone.“AttheMonroe?”
“Heislivinginthebuildingforthesummer.”Notquitealie.“He’sinthecityforajob,andwejuststartedtalkingand…he’snice.Talkingtohimisnice.”
Sheblinkedafewtimes.Resettingherbrain.“I’msorry,didyousayyoumetsomeone?Ofyourownaccord?Hastheskyfallen?”sheadded,perplexed.
Isnortedalaugh.“Oh,comeon,Icanmeetpeoplesometimes.”
“Yeah,whenDrewandIforceyou.”
Irolledmyeyes.Thetrainpulledintothestation,brakessqueaking,andwegotupandmadeourwayintothecar.
“Haveyoukissedhim?Didyouspendthenight?”Fionaasked,followingme.Imadefortwoemptyseats,butayoungmaninabusinesssuitswoopedinbeforewecouldtakethem,andhespreadhislegsandstartedplayingagameonhisphone
Iglaredathim.
“Tellmeeverything.Ishecute?”Fionawenton,oblivious.
Icontinuedglaringatthemanuntilhefinallylookedup,asnarlonhislips,andthensawthepregnantwomanbesideme.Andtheotherpassengersgivinghimjudgmentallooks.Heshovedhisphoneintohispocketandclosedhislegs,andIguidedFionadownintotheseatbesidehim.
“Whatdoeshelooklike?”sheasked.“What’shisname?”
“Iwan,”Ireplied,holdingontothebaraboveher,“andwejusthaddinnertogether…allweekend.”
Shefannedherselfwithherhands,blinkingbackfaketears.“Ohmygod!MylittleClementineisfinallygrowingup!Youmightactuallyfallinlove!”
Ididn’twanttothinkaboutit.“Okay,that’senough.”
“Whatifyoutwogetmarried?Whatifhe’syoursoulmate?”Shegasped,leaningtowardme.“What’shislastname?”
“It’s—”Ifroze.Thetrainjostledon.AndIrealized,thenandthere,thatIdidn’tknowhislastname.“Um…”
Shestaredatme.“Youseriouslyspenttheentireweekendwithhimanddidn’tgethislastname?”
Mr.Manspreaderbesidehersmirked,andIshothimanotherglare.“I’llgetittonight—oh,thisisyourstop,”Iadded.
Shegenuinelylookedlikeshewasabouttoskipherappointmenttobadgermesomemore,butthenshedecidedagainstitandgatheredupherpurse.“Youhavetotellmeeverythingtomorrow—includinghisname,”shesaidsolemnly,butIneitherpromisednordeniedIwouldassheexitedandpointedatmefromtheplatformandmouthed,“Imeanit,”asthetrainpulledaway.
Iwavedhergoodbye,knowingtherewasnowaytogetoutofit,andwenttogositinherspot—buttheguyhadalreadyspreadoutagain.Iscowledandmovedtowardthedoorinstead,andwaitedtoexitattheEighty-SixthStreetStation.
Icouldn’tbelieveIdidn’tgethislastname.
Justafewdaysago,ifyou’dtoldmethatI’dmeetahandsomestrangerinmyaunt’sapartmentwho’dbecomeanot-so-strangefriend(werewefriends?orsomethingelse?),Iwouldn’thavebelievedyou.ButnowIwaswonderingwhathewouldcooktonightfordinner,whetherhe’dgottenthedishwashingjob,howhisdaywas.MaybeIcouldspendweekendsattheapartmentoverthesummerlearningaboutthebirthmarkonhisclavicleandthescarsonhisfingersthatkissedonetoomanyknives.
And,maybebytheendofit,Icouldtellhimthesecret,thatIdidliveinthefuture.Andmaybehe’dbelieveme.
Or—worseyet—Ididenduptellinghim,andhedidn’tbelieveme,andmaybethat’swhyhenevercamelooking.BecauseIcouldn’tignorethesevenyearsbetweenus,thesevenyearssincehe’dmetme,andwhereIwasnow.Henevercamelooking.
AtleastnotthatIcouldremember.
Thetrainpulledintomystation,andIclimbedoutofthesubwayandgottotheMonroe.Earlwasatthefrontdeskagain,almostdonewiththeJamesPattersonnovelfromthismorning.Hegreetedmewithasmile,likehealwaysdid,andIleftfortheelevatorandrodeituptothefourthfloor.
Iwanlookedlikehehadawhimsicallastname—somethingWelsh,maybe?SinceIwanwasWelsh.Orwasitafamilyname?Andmaybehislastnamewasboringtocounteractit?
Ipulledmykeysoutofmypurse,tryingtoreininmyexcitement.
IunlockedthedoortoB4andopenedthedoorquickly.
“Howaboutlet’strymyaunt’sfettuccinetonight?”Icalledintotheapartment,kickingoffmyshoesbythedoor.
Istoppedafewfeetintotheapartment.Itwasdarkandsilent.
Thekindofsilencethatmademyhearttwistpainfully.ThekindIknewalltoowellinthisplace.
“Iwan?”Icalled,andfearmountedinmychest.BecauseitwasthekindofsilencethatIrememberedfromjustafterAnaleadied.Thekindofsoulless,unlivablesilencethatmademewanttorunawayasquicklyasIcould.ThekindofsilencethatsatwithmeasIunpackedmyboxes.AsIputherthingsawayinthecloset.Itookanotherstepintotheapartment.Thenanother.“…Iwan?”Myvoicewassofternow.Mostlyeatenbymyownpanic.
Thiswasthekindofsilencethatwassolouditscreamed.
WhenIroundedintothekitchen,thelightswereoutandthekitchenwasclean,myboxofdinnerwarefrommyoldapartmentsetbesidethesink,openandhalfwayunpacked.Therewerecoffeecupsstillonthedryingrack,havingnevermadeittotheirspotsinthecabinets,thenapkinsinthepeacockholderempty.Inthelivingroom,everythingwasorange-yellowwitheveninglight—likeastilllifeportrait,framingthespacewherearobin’s-eggbluechairnolongersat,itsimpressionsstillintheorientalrug.
No.No,no,no—
Itookastepback,thenanother,hopingthatmaybetheapartmentwouldrealizeitsmistakeandquicklycorrectit.Butitdidn’t.Andthensuddenly,Iwasrunningoutthedoor.
Islammeditclosed.
MyhandswereshakingasIunlockeditagainandsteppedinside.
Darkandsilent—andpresent.
Iclosedit,andopeneditagain—andagain
Onthefifthtry,Ijuststoodintheopendoorway,andlookedintotheemptyapartmentwheregoldeneveninglightstreameddownintoanapartmentthatwasnolongerlivedin,andIknewthatwasit.
This—whateverthishadbeen—wasover.
Nomoreconversationsovercardboardpizzasordancingtoadeadwoman’sviolinsonginthekitchenorkissesthattastedlikelemonpiesor—or—
Theneighboracrossthehallpeekedoutofherapartment.Shewasanolderwomanwiththickblackhairandglasses.Shegavemeaworriedlook.“Clementine,iseverythingokay?”
No,no,itwasn’t,butshewouldn’tunderstand.SoIreeledmyselfin.Cobbledmyselfbacktogether.I’dtaughtmyselfhowtodoitoverthelastfewmonths,andIwasverygoodatit.Amasonexcellingintheartofwalled-offemotions.“Fine,thankyou,MissAvery,”Ireplied,surprisedathowevenmyvoicewas.“Justcominghome.”
Shenodded,andambledbackinside.
IpressedmybackagainstthedoortoB4andbreathedin,deep,andthenbreathedoutagain.Mykneesfeltweak,mychesttight,asIsankdowntothecarpetedfloor.ItriedtotellmyselfthatIknewthiswasgoingtohappen,tuckingallofthewhat-ifsinmyheadintoasmallbox—alloftheimpossibleweekendsI’dmadeup,learningaboutthebirthmarkonhisclavicleandthescarsonhisfingersthatkissedonetoomanyknives.
“Itwasaperfectweekend,”Iwhispered,keepingmydoubtatbay.“Anylongeranditwouldturnoutbad.You’dfindoutthathelistenedtoNickelbackor—orworse.”
Oneweekendwasenough.
Onememorywasplenty.
Itwas
Awaveofgriefroseinmychest.Iwasn’tjustgoingtoacceptthat.Itookoutmyphoneandopenedmybrowser,andthereontheancient,carpetedflooroftheMonroe,ItriedtofindIwan,wherehewas,wherehecouldbe.IsearchedeverykeywordIcouldthinkof—CulinaryInstituteofAmerica+dishwasher+linecook,NorthCarolina,lemonpies,Iwan
Iscouredeverylink,everystrangeFacebookpage,andIcameupwith…
Nothing.
Itwasasifhewereaghost,andIcouldonlythinkthattheworsthadhappened.Thathewasgone.Thatmaybe,infact,hewasaghostnow,amemoryonthefarsideofsomegraveyard.Andevenifhewasn’t,evenifhewasstillalive,IwasmorecertainthaneverthatI’dneverseehimagain.
Myaunthadwarnedme.Rulenumberone,alwaystakeyourshoesoffbythedoor.Rulenumbertwo,neverfallinlove.
Ibittheinsideofmycheekandconcentratedonit,andtoldmyselfifIcried,thenthatwouldbeit—Iwouldknowwhatlovefeltlike,andthiswouldbeit.AndItried—Iwantedtocry.Iwaitedforthestinginginmyeyestoturnintosaltytears,butitneverdid.BecauseIdidn’tcryoversomeoneIbarelyknew.Thatwouldbesilly,andClementineWestwasnotthat.
Shedidnotfallinlove.
Andshewouldn’tstartnow.
Isuckedinadeepbreath,steeledmybones,andforcedmyselfbacktomyfeet.Itwouldbeokay.It’dbefine.Keepmovingforward,keepmyeyesstraightahead.Iformulatedaplan.Madeamentalto-dolist.Nothingstayed—thatwassomethingIshouldhaveexpected,somethingIshouldhaveremembered.
Iwasfine
SoIturnedbacktofacethedoortoB4,unlockedit,andwentinsidethequiet,lonelyapartment.Idroppedmypurseonthecounter,changedclothes,andturnedontheTVinthelivingroomasIunpackedtherestofthekitchenboxandstoreditallawayinitsproperplace.
AndthenIwenttosleepinmybedinmyaunt’sroom,mybedframecreakierthanhers,thecurtainspartedjustenoughtobeaminasliverofsilverlightfromamoon238,900milesaway.Ishutthecurtainandignoredit,likeIshouldhavefromthebeginning.15Timeless
Andthesummerspunon.
HumidJunemorningsfinallygavewaytostormyJulyafternoons,washingintogolden-coloredevenings,andIwanhadtrulydisappeared.Ikeptlooking,though,thinkingmaybeIcouldfindhimonthecrowdedsidewalkordiningatatableinanupscalebutunpretentiousrestaurantinChelseaortheWestVillagethatmight’vefithishomegrownpersonality,buthewasalwaysjustabittoofaroutofmyreach.Iwaslookingeverywhereforsomeonewho—aboveeverythingelse—didn’twanttobefound.Ifhedid,thenhewouldn’thavemadeitsohard,andIwasbeginningtowonderhowmuchtheselastsevenyearshadchangedIwan.IwonderedifI’drecognizehimonthestreet.
IwonderedifI’dalreadymethim,ifwe’dsatbesideeachotheronasubwaysomewhere,ifwe’dsharedajokeinadarkbar,ifI’deatenhisfood,accidentallystolenhisseatonacrowdedbus.
Maybeitwastimetoletthisgo.
So,slowly,Istoppedlookingashard.
Besides,myfriendswereverygoodatdistractingme—well,draggingmeintotheirschemes,anyway.
ThehallwayofStrauss&AdderPublisherswasdarkuntilImovedinmycubicle,andthemotion-sensorlightsactivated.EveryonehadleftearlyfortheFourthofJulyweekend,soIstretchedandenjoyedthesilence.Summerwasalwayshumidinthecity,andmyaunt’sapartmentdidn’texactlyhavecentralair.Thewindowunitworkedasbestitcould,butitneverquiteshruggedofftheheat.
“Clementine!”Fionasingsonged,finallydraggingDrewoutofthebathroom,wheretheyhadbothbeenforthelasttwentyminutes,changingintotheirfine-diningattire.“Areyouready?”
“We’regoingtobelate,”Ireplied,plantingmyhandsonthearmrestsofmychairandpushingmyselftomyfeet.Fionahadconnedmeintoaterriblepurpledressthatmademefeellikeagrapeabouttobesquashedintowine.“Wecanjustcallhimandtellhimwe’renotgoing.”
“That’snotabadidea,”Drewagreed,fixinghertie.Sheworeafreshpinkdressshirtwithwhitesuspendersanddark-washskinnyjeans.Gonewashertried-and-truetweedjacketandcomfortableslacks.Thethingsshedidforherwife—thethingswebothdidforFiona.“Wecanjustsayweallcaughtacold.”
Ipointedtoher.“Exactly.”
Fionarolledhereyes.“Wearegoing.Thisguyisperfectlynice!Helivesinourbuilding.Heevenpayshisownrent,whichisrarebecauseweliveinabuildingfullofhedgefundbabies.Andyou,”sheadded,snappinghergazetome,“aregoingtohavefun.”
AsIhadfeared,Fionahadn’tforgottenaboutourconversationonthesubway,andshe’daskedaboutIwanafewdayslater.Icouldn’texactlytellherthatmyaunt’sapartmentdecidedtostopbringingustogether,soInevergothisname,andmyalmoststalkerygooglinghadresultedinabsolutelynothing,soinsteadItoldhersomethingInowabsolutelyregretted—
“Thetimingwasn’tright.”
Sheimmediatelyassumedthathewasengagedtosomeoneelse,orgettingadivorce,ormovingtoAustralia,soshetookituponherselftodotheonethingthatbestfriendswerewonttodo:
Makemefeelbetter.
SoIslippedonmyheelsandletherdragmetotheelevatoranddownintothewaitingUber.TherestaurantmydatehadchosenwasontheUpperWestSide,asmallItalianplacethatgratedyourcheeseforyourightatyourtable,andmydateinquestionwas—indeed—incrediblynice.ElliotDonovanhadakindsmile.Hewastallandbroad,withaheadfullofcurlyblackhairandchocolateeyes,andhetalkedaboutbooks,andeventshe’dgonetoattheStrand,andhisfavoriteauthors.FionaandDrewsatatatableontheothersideoftherestaurant,butIcouldfeelFiona’sgazeonmethewholetime—andsocouldmydate.
Halfwaythroughdinner,heleanedforwardalittleandsaid,“Fionaisabitintense,isn’tshe?”
IshovedapieceofbreadintomymouthbeforeIcouldsayanythingI’dregret,andinsteadmumbledafteramoment,“Shehasherheartintherightplace.”
“Oh,I’mnotdisputingthat,”hereplied,butthenhetookadeepbreathandsaid,“butIdon’tthinkthisisgoingtoworkout,isit?”
Onpaper,Elliotwasperfectlygood.HewastheexactkindofmanIwantedtodate—hardworking,withagoodjobandadecentbookcollection.Hehadanicesenseofhumorandalovelylaugh,butwhenIlookedatthemenu,allIcouldthinkofwasIwantellingmeaboutaromanceinchocolate,aloveletterinastringoffettucine,andIshookmyhead.“Idon’tthinkso.I’msorry.”
“It’sokay!Ihavetoadmit,Icameherehopingit’dbeagooddistraction,”headdedinembarrassment.
“There’ssomeoneelse?”
Henodded.“Andyou?”
“Yeah,butthetimingwasallwrong.”
Helaughed.“That’salwaysthemosttragic,isn’tit?”ThenheglancedatFionaandDrew’stableagain—andFionahadthegalltopretendlikeshewaslookingatthewinemenuinstead—andsaid,“Wecanpretendforyourfriend’ssake,though,yeah?Givethemagoodshow?”
Ismiled.“Absolutely.Andthenwecanpretendtogetinafightattheendofdinner,andnevertalktoeachotheragain.”
“Ooh,Ilikethatidea.Whatshouldthefightbeabout?”
TowhichIasked,“Whatisyourhottestbooktake?”BecauseIknewthatamanwhowasthatwell-read,whohadlivedhisentirelifeintheuppercrustofsociety,workingonWallStreet,absolutelyhadagoodone.
Andoh,hedid.
Fionathrewherhandsintotheairaswedescendedintothebowelsofthesubway.Afterourfakefight,he’dcaughtacabbacktohisapartment,andDrew,Fiona,andIwalkedtothesubwaystation.“Ican’tbelieveyoupickedafightoverDune!”
“Look,it’snotmyfaulthisopinionwaswrong,”Ireplied,tryingtobiteinagrin.
“Hewasperfect—perfect!Andthenyouhadtogoandpickafight,”shewenton,ranting,wavingherhandsintheair.“Iamdisrespected!Humiliated!Ihavetoseehimintheelevatorsinmybuilding.I’mgoingtohavetolookhimintheeyesandknowthathethinksDuneisthebestsci-fibookofalltime.”
Drewshookherhead.“ThedisrespecttoAnneMcCaffrey.”
“Look,Iwillnothavesomedeadmanhoggingupmyshelfspace.RealestateinNewYorkisalreadyoutrageous,”Isaidmatter-of-factly.
Fionanarrowedhereyes.“YousaythatandyetyouownfourdifferenteditionsofLordoftheRings.”
“Icouldhavefive,”Ithreatened,andshethrewupherhandsagain.
“Fine!Fine,I’llvetthemfirst,andthenwe’lltryagain—”
Igrabbedherhandgently,andwestoppedinfrontoftheturnstile.Thereweren’talotofpeopleinthestationatthistimeofnight,andthosewhowerejustwentaroundus.“Howaboutlet’snot?”
Hereyebrowsknittedtogetherinconfusion.“Whatdoyoumean?”
“I’mnotreallylookingrightnow—Idon’twanttolookrightnow,”Iamended.“Iappreciateallofthis,but…I’moverIwan,Ipromise.I’mreallyokayalone.”
AndImeantit.Eventhoughmyparentswereparagonsofasuccessfulromance—theyfiteachother’squirksandhang-upslikepuzzlepieces—myaunthadlivedalonealmostherentirelife,anditwasn’tallthatbad.Rhondahadasuccessfullife,andshedidn’thaveasignificantother,either.TheywereshiningexamplesthatIcoulddoit,too.Ijustneededtoconcentrateonworkrightnow,likeRhondadid.Besides,Iwastiredofthiswholedance.Itwasn’tthatIdidn’twantapartner—Idid;thinkingaboutgoingthroughtheworldalonemademystomachdropintomytoes—butIdidn’treallywanttolookrightnow.
Ididn’twanttositacrossfromanotherdecentmanandnotfeelanythingandplothowbesttoendthedatesoweneverhadtoseeeachotheragain.
Drewpulledherarmthroughherwife’sandaddedquietly,“She’llfindsomeonewhenshe’sready.”
Fionaletoutasigh.“Fine—butuntilthen,you’reourthirdwheel.Andyou’regoingtolikeit.”
Iraisedmyhandsinsurrender.“Iwouldlovetobeyoursidecar.”
“Good,”shereplied,thoughshesoundedalittledefeated.Shelookedlikeshewantedtosaysomethingelse,butthenshethoughtbetterofitanddugherMetroCardoutofherpurse.Werodethe1downtowntotheQtogether,andthentheygotoffatCanaltotransfertotheR,andIwavedthemgoodbye.
Fiona’sheartwasintherightplace,soIcouldn’tquiteblameher.Andbesides,thefoodtonightwasprettygood.NotasgoodastheplaceDrewhadtakenuslastmonth—theOliveBranch—butitwasnice.
Thesubwayalertannouncedthedoorsclosing,andIsankdownintomyseat,finallylettingmywallsdown.Myfeethurtinmyshoes,andIcouldn’twaittoescapemySpanx.
Keepmovingforward,keepmyeyesstraightahead,thatwastheplan.Nothingstayed—thatwassomethingIshouldhaveexpected,somethingIshouldhaverememberedbackwhenImetIwan.
Iwasfine
Besideme,twogirlsbenttheirheadsintowhisper,lookingattheirphones.“Ohmygod,MoxieGossipsayshewasjustspottedinSoHo.Comingoutofhisrestaurant.”
“Thenewone?”
“Yes!”
“Washewithanyone?”
“No!Ithinkhe’ssingleagain.”
Theytitteredtogether,lookingatanInstagramstory,andIpulledoutapenandtheguidetoNewYorkCitythatIhadswipedlastmonthandopenedituptothesectionaboutthesubway.ThereIbegantosketchthegirlsbenttogetherovertheirphones,andsettledinfortherideuptown.16LifeGoesOn
TherewassomethingmagneticaboutManhattaninthesummer,thewaythesunreflectedoffeverymirroredskyscraperwindow,bouncingoffeachotherlikesomeancientmirrorball.ItwasperfectforafternoonsstandinginlineforShakespeareinthePark,quietSaturdaysattheCloisters,nightsbuzzingwithlightandfoodandenergy.Buteveryyear,whentheFourthofJulycamearound,Drew,Fiona,andIpackedourbagsandheadedtotheHudsonValleytoescapethetouristsandbrowseallofthedelightfullittlebookstoresnestledinquainttowns,andwereturnedjustasthecityemptiedagain,andlifespunon.
IhadlunchwithDrewandFiona,andIworkedlate,andthenoneafternoon,aboutamonthandahalfafterImetIwanforthefirstandlasttime,inthemiddleofJuly,whensummerwasatitshottest,Drewexcitedlyleanedinacrossthewrought-irontablewherewesatintheshadeinBryantPark.
“Guesswhatproposalwegotintoday!”shesaidhappily.
FionaandIpickedatourgrilledcheesesfromthefoodtruckparkedoverbytheNewYorkCityPublicLibrary’sStephenA.SchwarzmanBuilding.Theywerewarringwithanewfoodtruckontheblock—aloudyellowfajitatruckthathadalinethatsnakeddownthesidewalk,anditsmelledridiculouslygood.ProbablynotasgoodasthefajitasIwanmademeafewweeksago,though.Besides,Ihadmyallegiancetothegrilledcheesetruck.ThegrilledcheesesweresomeofthebestinMidtown—gooeyandcrisp,thesourdoughcrustcrunchy,themeldofcheesesharmonious.Minehadchoppedchunksofmushroomsandbellpeppers,mayonnaisespicedwithalittlesriracha,anditwasverymuchbliss.I’dstartedpayingalittlebitmoreattentiontothefoodIatesinceIwan—andthepeoplewhocookedit,wonderingwhattheirstorieswere,too.
“Whose?”Fionaaskedaroundapimentogrilledcheese.
“Thechef’s!Youknow—theonefromtheOliveBranch?JamesAshton?He’scomingintotheofficetomorrow.Hewantstomeetwithus.”
Iperkedup.“Ithoughtwe’dwrittenhimoff?”
“Ialmostdid.Admittedly,hisagentalsosaidtheyweregoingtoafewotherimprints…”Shegaveashrug.“Butit’sastart!Ihaven’tlookedovertheproposalyet,butIknowit’sgoingtobeamazing.AndyoushouldfinallyreadthatEaterarticle.”
Iduckedmyhead.“Sorry…”
I’dtabledthearticlesincethatlunchafewweeksagobecauselifehadgottenfrantic,andRhondahadplacedalotmoreresponsibilitiesonme.Nothinghadcomeoutofitatthetime,anyway,untilnow.
Fionasaidaroundamouthfulofgrilledcheese,“Oh,Clem,you’regoingtofallinlovewithhiswriting.It’ssoromantic.Hisforearmsarealmostasniceashisface,”sheadded.“Theybetterbefrontandcenteronthebookcover.”
“Hisforearmsorhisface?”
“Both.”
“And,”Drewadded,remindingusthatshewas,infact,aprofessional,“hewritesbeautifully.Icanjustimaginewhathisproposalisgoingtobelike.”
IhighlydoubtedIwouldfallinlovewithafewwell-placedadjectives,butIlikedDrew’senthusiasm,andifshemanagedtonabanotherauthorforherlist,thatwasallIcaredabout.Shewassoexcitedtogetbacktotheofficetoreadhisproposal,weendedourlunchearlyandheadedbacktoStrauss&Adder.Ithoughttheafternoonwouldbequiet.Juliettehadn’tbrokenupwithherboyfriendinaboutaweekandahalf,andIwasontopofallofmyemails,soitwasabitofasurprisewhenRhondacalledmeintoherofficeaboutanhourlaterandaskedmetoclosetheglassdoortoheroffice—again
Idid,andsatinthehardplasticchair.“Issomethingwrong?”Iaskedhesitantly,pickingatmynails.Because—again—usuallywhensheclosedherofficedoor,somethingwaswrong.Thefirsttime,wefiredthemarketingdesigner.Thesecondtime,shetoldmeshewasretiring.
Ireallyhopedshedidn’thaveaterminaldiseasetoday.
“What?Oh,no,whywouldyouaskthat?”shesaidinalarm.Then,abitmoreseriously:“ShouldIaskthat?”
“No!No,absolutelynot.No,”Iquicklyreplied,wavingmyhandsinfrontofme.Iateanalmondshe’dofferedmeasshesankbackintoherseat.“Everythingisfine.Perfect.”Therewerethreedingsfrommyphone.Threeemails.Iswallowed.“Mostlyperfect.We’rehavingabitofaproblemwith—”
Sheputupahand.“Doesn’tmatter.Asyouknow,wehaveameetingtomorrowwithJamesAshton,who’sshoppingaroundhiscookbook.”
“IthinkDrewmentionedhim,yeah.”
“Itwouldbeverynicetoaddhimtoourlist,”shereplied,andtookoffherglasses.Shesetthemdownonthedeskinfrontofherandadded,“SincewelostBasilRaytoFaux.”
Isatupalittlestraighter.“Wewhat?”
“Hesignedadealwiththemlastweek,”sherelayed,whichwaspossiblysomeoftheworstnewswecould’vehad.BasilRaywasoneofourtopauthors—hiscookbookssoldsowell,wedidn’teventhinktwicewhenhetoldustobookhiminfirstclassandsentusariderwhereherequestedonlyDietCokes,aspecifickindofkombuchathathadtobeimportedfromSouthKorea,andvegan-friendly,gluten-free,high-caloriemealoptions.“Tobefrank,losinghimwillbeasubstantialhittoourfinances.Giventhat,alongwithsomeotherbitsofbadluck,wemightbeintroubleifwecan’tfindabigbookfornextsummer.I’mnottryingtoalarmyou,I’mjustbeingfrank,”sheadded,becauseshecouldnodoubtseetheblooddrainingfrommyface.
“Trouble—doyoumean,like,foraseasonor…?”
“Perhaps,Clementine,”shesaidgravely,“butwedon’twanttotakechances.That’swhyIaskedyoutoclosethedoor.”
“Oh,”Isaidquietly.
“I’mgatheringalistofotherrisingstarsintheculinaryworldtoapproach,butJamesAshtonwouldbeashoo-in.He’syoung,he’squitetalented,andhe’shandsome.Wecouldselltheshitoutofhiscookbook,”shesaidconfidently.“Thisaprettyrarescenario.FromeverythingI’veheardabouthisagent,thiswholeordealisgoingtobenotoriouslyawful—soI’dlikeyoutotaketheleadonitwithDrew.You’retheonlyoneItrust.”
Whichmeantthiswasmychancetoprovemyself.
Sheateanotheralmond.“I’dlikeyoutolookoverhisproposalandgotothemeetingtomorrowwithanoutlineofhowyou’dgoaboutlaunchingthisbook.Theusual,youknow.Drewcanemailittoyou.”
“Absolutely,andIcanmeetwithherandformulateaplanofattack.”
“Perfect.Ilookforwardtoseeinghowyounabthischef,”shereplied.
“Whoelsehashegoneto?”Iasked.
“Allthebigplayers.”
Whichmeantthiswasgoingtobenearlyimpossible.Strauss&Adderdidn’thavethekindofmoneyorresourcesthatalotofthelargerpublishersdid,butthatjustmeantIhadtogetcreative.Comeupwithamarketingstrategyhecouldn’tsaynoto.Ihadalotofworkaheadofmetonight.“I’llseewhatIcando.”
“Excellent,”Rhondareplied,andsatbackinherchair,greeneyesglimmering.“Thisisgoingtobebigforyou,Clementine.Icanjustfeelit.”
Ihopedshewasright.17LostandFound
“Startwithjamesashton’sarticle—theoneinEater,”Drewsaidaswehurriedfromworktothesubway.Itwaspouringrain,sowehadtododgelargepuddlesaswedescendedintothestation.“Idon’tthinktheproposalreallystrikesatwhathe’sgoodat.”
“Youstillwanttoconvincehimtowriteamemoir?”IaskedasweswipedourMetrocards.
“Morethananything—butI’lltakeacookbookfirstifIcangetit!”shereplied,andwavedassheandFionahurriedofftocatchtheirtrain.
Iheadedfortheothersideofthestation,wringingoutmyhairasIwaitedfortheuptowntrain.NewYorkwasmiserablewhenitrained—butespeciallywhenyouwerecaughtinitwithoutanumbrella.
ImanagedtogetaseatontheQandsettledin,tryingtoignorethestrangerstouchingmefromallsides.ThiswasanotherreasonIalwaysworkedlate—Ididn’thavetocontendwithrushhourandallthepeople.Tryingtoignorethetouristmanspreadingtomyright,IpulledoutmyphoneandopenedthearticleDrewhadsentmeamonthandahalfago.
GoodFood,thearticletitleread.ByJamesAshton
Itwasalovelyread—abouthowthereistheartoffood,andthenthereistheartofpresentation.Thevoicewascharming,tongue-in-cheek,likeafriendtellingyouasecretoverdrinksnamedafterdeadpoets.
Atfirst,Ifoundmyselfsmiling—IcouldseewhyDrewlovedhisvoice.Itwasinfectious,hisenthusiasmcatching.Icoulddoalotwiththis,especiallyifthischefwasascharismaticashiswriting.Thepossibilities
Buthalfwaythroughthearticle,thestrangestsensationbegantocreepdownmyspine.
Thewordsfeltfamiliar,likeacoatsomeonepulledovermyshouldersintherain.Theyknittedtogetherintopalegrayeyesandauburnhairandacrookedhalfsmile,andsuddenlyIwasbackinmyaunt’sapartment,sittingacrossfromIwanatthatyellowkitchentable,hisvoicewarmandsure—
Itisrarelythefoodthattrulymakesameal,butthepeopleweshareitwith.Afamilyspaghettirecipepasseddownfromyourgrandma.Thesmellofdumplingsclingingtoasweateryouhaven’twashedinyears.Acardboardpizzaacrossayellowtable.Afriend,lostinamemory,butaliveinthetasteofahalf-burntbrownie.
Loveinalemonpie.
Thedoorsdingedandopenedtomystop.MyheadwaswhirlingfromthewordsasIsteppedoutwiththerushofpeople,scrollingdownthroughthearticleagain,sureI’dmissedsomething.SurelyIwasmistaken—
Andthereatthetop,aphotofinallyloaded.
Amaninaprofessionalkitchen,dressedinawhiteuniform,afamiliarleatherkniferollinhishands.Hewasolder,crow’sfeetaroundhispaleeyes,butthatsmilewasstillsobrightandsoachinglyfamiliar,itstolemybreathaway.Istood,staringatthevibrant,glossyphotoofamanIusedtoknow.
JamesAshton.
No—
Iwan.
Someoneshoulderedtheirwayuptheescalatorbesideme,snappingmebacktoreality.Itcouldn’tbehim.Couldn’tbe.ButwhenIgotoutside,therehewasagain,onabusstopadforacookingcompetition,graffitipaperedaroundhim.Theadhadbeenthereawhile.Atleastafewweeks.MyheartroseintomythroatasIquicklyturnedthecorner,passingamagazinestand,hisfacethereagainonthefrontofoneofthem.Realitybegantosinkin.Indisbelief,Iwentoverandpickeditup.
NEWYORK’SHOTTESTCULINARYSTAR,theheadlineread.
“You’vegottobekiddingme,”Imuttered.
Ihadbeensofocusedonlookingahead,catapultingmyselftowardthenextstepinmyplan,therestoftheworldablursoIdidn’tgethurt—
Ihadn’tlookedaroundme.Hadn’tbeenpartoftheworld.Partofanything,really.I’djustgonethroughit,headdown,heartshuttered,likeatraveleragainstatorrentialrainstorm.
ButwhenIfinallystoppedforamomentandlookedaround,hewas—
Everywhere.18AnotherYou
“Hewasrightundermynose,”Imutteredtomynewpothosplant,Helga,asIpouredmyselfaglassofwine.
HereIwas,sittingonthefloorinfrontofmycoffeetableinmyaunt’sapartment,furiouslyclickingoneverylinkaboutamanwhowassevenyearsolder,sevenyearsfartheraway,sevenyearsstranger,thantheonewhohadkissedmeoveralemonpie.
“Onlynowhe’ssofaroutofmyleagueIbarelyevenrecognizehim.Hedoesn’tevengobyIwan.HegoesbyJamesAshton.IwouldneverhaveguessedAshton,”Iadded,alittlemorosely,andsankbackagainstthecouch,clutchingthebottleofwinetomychest.WhenI’dgottenHelgaafewweeksago,mymomtoldmethatifItalkedtoit,it’dgrowbetter,butHelgajustlookedsortofwilty.ProbablybecauseIdumpedallmyemotionaltraumaonher.“Atleasthemadeit,right?Hemadeit.AndIfoundhim…”
Itwasarelief,becausehewasn’tdead,hehadn’tgonebackhome.He’dmadesomethingofhimself,exactlyashesaidhewantedto,andthemoreIscrolledthroughhislife,digitallygeneratedacrossGoogle,themoreIbegantowishI’dseenitallfirst-hand.
Inthelastsevenyears,hehadbeenadishwasherforonlyamonthandahalfbeforehegraduatedtolinecook,wheretwo-timeMichelin-starredchefAlbertGauthiertookhimunderhiswing.Gauthier…wasn’tthatthechefhe’dtalkedaboutoverdinner?Ayearlater,hewassouschef,beingrecognizedasarisingstar,atalenttowatch,gatheringaccoladeslikesomepeoplecollectedbottlecaps.Hiscareertrajectorywasastronomical.Onecriticlovedhisfood,andallofasuddenhispopularityexploded,andtwoyearsagoAlbertGauthierretiredandhandedoverthereinsoftherestaurantIwanhadstartedatasadishwasher.Thatrestaurant?
TheOliveBranch.
IrememberthebroadchestI’drunintoonthewayoutthedoor.
Ibitmythumbnail,skimmingthedifferentlinksandarticlesdetailinghislifeinamessy,imperfecttimeline—
NowthatIknewhedidn’tgobyIwan,IfoundhimrathereasilyonthealumnipageofCIA—asanotablechef.WithhisrecognitionattheOliveBranch,he’dmadequiteanameforhimselfintheculinaryworld.JamesgueststarredonChef’sTableandsomeFoodNetworkshows;he’dbeenafrequentguestontravelfoodshows.Andnowhewasopeninguparestaurantallhisownattheendofthesummer,andIwassurethatwasgoingtocoincidewiththisbookproposalofhis.Thenameoftherestauranthadn’tbeenannouncedyet,butIwassureit’dbesomethingabouthisgrandpa,maybe?PommesFrites?
Ismiledalittleattheidea.
Somehow,he’dbecomeevenmorehandsome,agedlikeahandleoffinebourbon.Inthevideosonline,hewasmagneticandpolished.IfDrewdidgethim,hewouldn’tneedmuchmediatraining,whichmademyjobeasier.
Ithoughtaboutthatsweet,crooked-mouthedmanwithatasteforhisgrandpa’slemonpiesthatwereneverquitethesametwice,andIdecidedyes—thiswasgood.Thiswasokay.
Ifinishedmyglassofwine,openedhiscookbookproposal,andstartedtomakeaplan.Iwasgoodatplans,goodatmyjob,goodatwhatIdid.ThiswastheonethingIexcelledin,theonethingIcouldburymyselfunderandfeelsafewith—especiallyagainstthisoneawfulthoughtinmyhead:
Hecouldn’trememberme,becauseifhedid…wouldn’thehavetriedtofindme?
AndIwasn’tsureIwantedtoknowthatanswer.
And,asluckwouldhaveit,Iranlatetothemeetingthenextmorning.
Tobeclear:itwasfiveminutesuntil10:00a.m.,whenthemeetingwassupposedtostart,butbythesoundofvoicesontheothersideoftheconferenceroomdoor,Iwasabouttobethelastoneinside.Ismootheddownmyblackskirt,thinkingthatmaybeIshould’vewornpants.Somethingthatmademelookcleverer,bolder.Maybeadifferentblouse,too—whydidIalwayschooseyellow?Atleastnoonenoticedthestainonthebowfrommycoffeethismorning.
Myheartbeatquickandsickinmythroat.WhywasInervous?
You’vedonethisahundredtimesbefore,Itoldmyself.You’regoodatthis.
Iclosedmyeyes.Tookadeepbreath.
Andopenedthedoorwithasmile.
“Hi,there,”Igreetedbrightly.“SorryI’mabit…”
LatewaswhatIwantedtosay,butthewordsdroppedoutofmymouthasIcameintotheroomandcaughtsightofthemanseatedattheheadoftheconferencetable.I’drehearsedthismomentinthemirrorallmorning—lookpleasant,put-together,smileprofessionally(don’tsmiletoowide,don’tshowyourgums—actlikeyourlifeistogether,too).Maybehe’drecognizeme.Maybehe’dthinkIlookedfamiliar,andhe’dflashthatboyishsmileofhis—
IhaditalldowntoafineartbythetimeIgottothesubway,goingoverthescenarioinmyheaduntilI’dmemorizedexactlywhattosayandhowtosayit.
Andallofit,inonesplitsecond,failedme.
BecausethemanattheheadoftheconferencetablewasnottheoneIremembered.Curlyauburnhaircutshortontheside,longeratthetop,accentinghissturdyfaceandclean-shavensquarejaw.He’dlostthebeardfromtheInstagramphotos,butsomehowgainedtheabilitytoleavemeabsolutelyspeechless.TherewerebitsoftheIwanIknew—asmatteringoffrecklesacrosshischeeks,astrongnose,soft-lookinglips.
Iimmediatelyrecalledwhattheyfeltlikeonme.Thewayhe’dnippedatmyskin,fastenedhishandsaroundmywaist—
Mystomachplummetedintomytoes.
Butforeverythingthatstayedthesame,somuchhadchanged.ThingsIreallycouldn’tknowuntilIsawhiminperson.Sevenyearshadsharpenedhisedges,turnedstretched-neckT-shirtsintoafittedlightgrayblazerthathuggedhisshouldersinasharpcut,Vansintosensibleoxfords,darksleeplesscirclesaroundhiseyesintorefinedcrow’sfeet,hisentireappearancetailor-made.Hisganglinesshadshiftedtosomethingsolidandmuscular,muchmorefitthanthemanI’dmetoveramonthagooverastrangesummerweekend.Themanwhokissedme,lipstastinglikesweetlemonpie,promisingtofollowmetothemoonandback—
Hisgazerosetomine,palegrayeyes,sharpandbright,pinningmetothespotlikeamothtoacorkboard,andIfelteverymuscleinmybodytense.
Oh,no,Iwasinsomuchfuckingtrouble.19TheProposal
“Thisisclementinewest,”Drewintroducedme.“ThoughIthinkyoumight’vemetherforafewsecondslastmonth?”
Lastmonth…?HadshefiguredoutthatthiswasIwan?MyIwan?No,Ihadn’ttoldFionaorDrewanyspecificsabouthim,andbesides,helookedverydifferentthanthemanI’dmetinmyaunt’sapartment.
Thenitoccurredtome,suddenly—
I’drunintohimonmywayoutoftherestaurant.Thatwaswhatshemeant.
“Clementine…?”Drewasked,abithesitantly.
Isnappedtomysensesandsmiled—don’tshowgums,lookpleasant,justlikeI’drehearsed.“Oh,hi,yes,sorry.Ithinkwehadabitofacollision,actually,attherestaurant.I’msorryIdidn’tgetachancetomeetyouproperlythen.”
“It’squiteallright,wecanmeetagainnow,”heremarkedinthatfamiliarSouthernlilt,notunpleasantly.Besidehimsathisagent,asharkofawomannamedLaurenPearson,whowas,undeniably,oneofthebestinthebusiness.Hestillhadn’ttakenhiseyesoffme—almostasifhethoughtImightdisappear.
Washetryingtoplaceme—Ihadthatkindofface,really.Someoneyoumightseeinacrowdandalmostremember.
Doyourecognizeme,too?Iwantedtoask.
No,hecouldn’t.It’dbeensevenyears.Ididn’tevenremembermyone-nightstandsfromsevenyearsago.
Getittogether,Clementine.
“Youmadeagoodsavewiththatdessert,ifIrecall,”hewenton.
“Itwould’vebeenashametowearthedessertoutoftherestaurant,”Ireplied,andsatdownbesideDrew,situatingmynotebookinfrontofme.
Andthentheworstthingofallhappened,thethingthatIhadbeendreading:hesmiled,perfectlystraightandperfectlywhiteandperfectlypracticed—likemine—andstretchedhishandacrossthetabletome.“I’msureitwould’velookedstunningonyou.I’mJames,butJamesismygranddad’sname.Myfriendscallmebymymiddlename—Iwan.”
Iacceptedhishand.Itwasroughandwarm,markedwithscars,somanymorefromthesevenyearsbetweenus.ThelasttimeIhadfeltthosehands,they’dbeencradlingmyface,histhumbstracingmyjawline,gentle,likeIwasaworkofart—
“Howwouldyouclassifyyourfuturepublicist?Afriend?”Iasked,andhisagentbarkedalaugh.
“Ilikeher!”shecrowed.
JamesAshton’ssmileturnedalittlecrooked.Asmallslipinhisrefinedimage.“We’llsee,Clementine,”hereplied,andreleasedmyhand.
“Clementine’saseniorpublicisthereatStraussandAdder.ShebasicallyrunstheentirepublicitydepartmentwhenRhonda’saway.Lastyear,shewasrecognizedasarisingstarbyPublishersWeekly.Needlesstosay,anybookwehaveisingoodhandswithher.”
“Ihavenodoubt,”Iwan—James—replied,andturnedtoDrew,andashedid,hisbodyshiftedandhesatupalittlestraighter.“TellmeaboutStraussandAdder.”
SoDrewdid.Shetalkedaboutthecompany’shistory,ourauthors,andourworkethic.Asshetalkedpassionatelyaboutherteam,andhowwecouldbestservehiscareer,usingaPowerPointtoshowothersuccessfulbooklaunchesandcampaignsfromovertheyears,Jamesaskedthoughtfulquestions—abouthowDrewlikedtoedit,whatwasexpectedfromthecookbook,theprocessofturningadraftintothefinalproduct.
Imusthavebeenstaringathimbecausehiseyes—brightwiththelightfromthePowerPoint—flickedtome.Hecaughtmygazeandhelditforoneheartbeat,two,asDrewansweredoneofLauren’squestions.Hispaleeyeswereaperfectandcloudygray,likemyfavoriteautumndays,perfectfordirtychailattesandchunkyscarves.Thewayhelookedatmemademystomachburn.
Hecouldn’tremembermefromthatweekend.Itwassevenyearsago,andhe’dmetstarsalotbrighterthanme.
Thenhelookedawayagain,backattheonslaughtofnumbersandprojections,andnoddedalongtoDrew’spassionatepresentation.Thewayshetalkedaboutherjob,herauthors,youcouldtellshelovedwhatshedid.Shelovedhelpingcreativepeopleplantseeds,andshelovedwatchingthoseseedsbloomintofascinatingprojects,andhertrackrecordsofarindicatedjustthat.Shemostlydealtinmemoirsandhistoricalfantasy,butshetrulylovedthewayhewrote,andhisrecipes.
“AndIwanttohelpyousharethemwiththeworld,”Drewdeclared,turningofftheprojector.“Ithinkwecouldbeareallygreatteam.”
“Well,thatisabsolutelylovely,”hisagentreplied,andIcouldn’ttellwhetherornotDrew’spitchhadendearedJamesAshtontousornot.Hisagentwascertainlyimpossibletoread.Shemadeamotionwithherhandtowardus.“Wouldyouliketostartoff,James,orshouldI?”
Jamessatupalittlestraighter,lacinghislongfingerstogetheronthetableinfrontofhim.“I’llstart,thankyou,Lauren,”hebegan,andhisvoicewaslevelandcool,andheturnedthatshale-coloredgazetoDrew.“Ibelievefoodshouldbeanexperience.”
Isatupalittlestraighter,becauseIknewthispart.Iknewhewasgoingtotalkaboutloveinchocolateandcomfortinbutterandpoetryinspices—andIwasexcited,perhapsforthefirsttimesinceseeinghim,becauseitmeanthewasn’tsodifferent.Thebestpartsofhimwere—
“Anyonecanmakeagrilledcheese,anyonecanmakeatomatobisque,andwiththerighttools,Ibelieveanyonecanmakeitwell.It’sallinthepresentation,”hewentonconfidently.“It’stheskill.It’sthewayyoucreateyourculinaryartthattrulymakesforamemorableexperience.”
Ithoughtaboutmyaunt’speanutbutterandjellysandwiches,alwaysgettingstucktotheroofofmymouth,andhowtheIwanIknewhadtoldmethatwas—
“Aperfectmeal,”hesaid.
No,itwasn’t.
Iquicklylookeddownattheprintedproposalinfrontofme.Drewgavemeasmallsmile,andIsmiledbackandnodded,andhopedIdidn’tlooktooconfused.
Experience?Skill?Whataboutyourmemoriesandstories—whatmadethosefoodsendearing?
“Asyoucouldprobablytellfromtheproposal,”hewenton,“I’mlookingforapublisherwhowillofferjustasmuchasI’malsoabletooffer,betweenmyonlineimpressions,media,andconnections—allofwhicharestatedintheproposal.TherecipebookinquestionwillcoincidewithmyrestaurantopeninginNoHo.Itwilldetailseasonalspecialtiesandnewrecipesforthoselookingformoreexcitingcuisines,anditstrivestocapturewhatmakesaperfectmeal,”hefinished,andstoleaglanceatme.
Icouldn’tmeethisgaze.
“It’saverylovelyideaforacookbook,”Drewsaid,herfingersfoldingandunfoldingthecorneroftheproposal,“andwiththeperfectphotographer,I’mpositivewecanmakethepagesabsolutelysing—alongwithyourthoughtfulasidesatthestartofeachdishofcourse.LikeyouwroteinyourEaterarticle.”
“I’mgladyouenjoyedthearticle,”herepliedpleasantly.“Iwroteityearsago.”
AndIwonderediftherewasanythingofthatauthorleftinhim,becausewhatDrewdidn’tsay,butIcouldhearbetweenthewords,washow…outoftouchtheproposalfelt.Therewasjustsomethingsosleekinthepages—almostuntouchable.Itwasallsohigh-conceptand…alientome.Heoncewaxedpoeticallyaboutcomfortfoodsandyettherewasnoneofthathere.Whohaddryicehangingaroundforanoodledish?Orspentthreedayspreppingasaucetodribbleonacutofsteak?TherewassomethingjustsodisconnectedinthispitchfromthemanI’dfirstmet,andI’dunderstoodwhyDrewhadtoldmethearticlewasmoreimportant.Allofthewarmthandcareinthepiecewasatoddswiththestiltedpolishhere.
Justsixweeksago—orsevenyearsago,Isuppose—hewastellingmewithgreatenthusiasmabouthisfriend’sfajitarecipeandhisgrandfather,whonevermadethesamelemonpietwice.ThatwasthemanwhowrotetheEaterarticle.Notthisone.Andhisrecipesweren’thiddenbehindaskill-setpaywall,inaccessibletoanyonewhodidn’tknowwhatjuswas.
“Youlooklikeyouhavesomethingtosay,”JamesAshton—Iwan—remarked,givingmeanunreadablelookasheleanedbackinhischair,andIquicklyschooledmyface.
“No,sorry,”Ireplied,andDrewgavemeahesitantlook.“That’sjustmyface.”
“Ah.”
“Well,wehaveafewothermeetingswithpublishersafterthis,”Laurensaidasshegatheredupherthings,“butwe’reaskingthat,ifyouareinterested,yousubmityourpreliminarybidbytomorrowafternoon.Thiswillbeaslightly…differentprocessthanusual.”
DrewandIexchangedastrangelook.Usuallytherewasabid—sometimesanauctionifthereweremultipleoffers—andLaurenPearsonlovedauctions.Ifiguredwe’dbegoingupagainstquiteafewotherimprints,soIwasconfusedastowhatcouldbedifferent
Laurensaid,“Wearegoingtotakeallseriousbiddersontoasecondround—acookingclass—inwhichwe’llassesshowthepublishingteamsworktogether.Andjusttohaveabitoffun.Thenwe’lltakethelastandbestbid,andwe’lldecidefromthere.”Shelacedherfingerstogetheronthetableinfrontofher.“Andyoumightbewonderingwhywe’regoingthroughallthistrouble.”
Yeah,actually.
“AndIwishIcouldtellyoumore,”shewenton,clearlyenjoyingdanglingasecretinfrontofus,“butthisisjustapreliminarymeeting.We’llbelookingatallpartsofyouroffer,andso,verylikely,aslongasapublishercomestoplayandhasdynamicideas,they’llbeinvitedtocontinueontothesecondround.”
Thenshestood,andIwan—James,Ihadtoremindmyself—followedsuit.
“Itwasapleasuretomeetyou,”hetoldDrew,andshookherhand.“Ilookforwardtoperhapsworkingwithyouinthefuture.”
“Ihopeso.Icoulddosomuchwithyou—respectfully,”shereplied.
Hegrinned,butitdidn’treachhiseyes.“Ihavenodoubt.”
Drewfollowedtheagentoutthedoor,guidinghertothelobby,andsuddenlyIfoundmyselfalonewiththetalent.Iquicklypulledallmypaperstogetherandshovedthemintomynotebook,wantingtoleaveasquicklyaspossible,butitwouldberudetoleavebeforehim,andhewascertainlytakinghistime.
Aknotformedinmythroat.
“James?”hisliteraryagentcalled.
“Coming,”hereplied,andstartedforthedoor,butashepassed,hebenttowardme,andIcaughtabitofhisexpensivecologne,woodsyandsharp,andhewhisperedinadeepanddeliciousrumble,“Itwasgoodtoseeyouagain,Lemon,”beforeheslippedoutoftheconferenceroom,andIwasleft,mouthopen,staringafterhim.20BerriedAlive
Wednesdaynightswereusuallyreservedforthreethings:cheapwineandcheeseplatesatBerriedAlive,asmallbardownbytheFlatironBuildingdecoratedindeathmotifsthatskewedmorecutethanmorbid,andbitchingaboutourweek.Fionacalleditour“WineandWhine,”thoughshe’dbeenmissingoutonthefirstpartofitforthelasteightmonths.Nowshepickedherwaythroughthecheeseplateandlamentedabouthowshemissedthetasteofahousered.UsuallyitwasjustFiona,Drew,andme,butJuliettehadhadaparticularlyterribleweek,sowe’dinvitedheralong,too.
Thewinebarwasdeadtonight—nopunintended—soweactuallymanagedtogetourfavoritetableinthebackintheshapeofaskull,andthatjusttickledFiona.Shesatatthetopoftheskullandcried,“Look,babe,Igotahead!”withacackle,and—notforthefirsttime—Drewlookedlikeshemightjustwalkherselfintothesea.Weorderedwhatwealwaysdid,cheeseplatesandcheaphousewine,andwestartedourWineandWhinesession,becauseitwasnothingifnottherapeutic,andnoneofuscouldactuallyaffordtherapy.
I,personally,justwantedtoburrowintothecenteroftheearthandnevercomeoutagain.Eversinceyesterday,Idon’tthinkmyhearthad—once—calmeddown
“Itwasgoodtoseeyouagain,Lemon,”Iwan—James,damnit,hewasapotentialauthor—hadsaid.Whichmeantherememberedme.
Iknewhowtohandleawholehostofsituations.Iknewwhatnumberstocallwhenmyauthorswerestrandedinairports,Iknewwhichjournaliststogotofirstforexclusivescoops,Iknewhowtomakeagoodfirstimpression,thebestwordstosaytostartoffontherightfoot,butnoneofthatwasgoingtohelpmehere.
Ikeptreplayingthemeetinginmyhead,overandoveragain,tryingtopickouttheIwanIknewfromtheJamesAshtonseatedatthetable.Thewayhejustcontrolledtheroomthemomentthemeetingstarted—itwaslikeIcouldn’tlookatanyoneelse—wasinfuriatinglysexy,andatthesametimeunattainable.
Atthetable,JuliettewasbeginningtospiralaboutthesocialmediacampaignthatRhondahadputheron—somethinginvolvingaTikTokdancethatwas,aboveeverythingelse,justacompletewasteoftime.
“Ican’tevendance!”shecried,burrowingherfaceinherhands.“Oh,whydidshechooseme?”
Fionasaid,“Youcould’vesaidno.”
“ToRhonda?”sheasked,aghast.“Clementinecan,butIcertainlycan’t,andIlikemyjob.”
Which,tobefair,wastrue,thoughJuliettewasdefinitelythestrongerofthetwoofuswhenitcametogeniusandunexpectedcampaigns.Ayearago—whenIwasonvacation—Strauss&AdderhadtopromoteabooktitledICharttheStars,butthemarketingdesignerhadleftatypoinanadthatranintheNewYorkTimesand,regrettably,onthebigjumbotroninTimesSquarethatmadeitreadISharttheStars.Itimmediatelyblewupontheinternet,andeveryonestartedmakingfunofit,butinsteadofapologizingandpullingtheadswespentwaytoomuchmoneyfor,Juliettedecidedtoleanintoitwiththehashtag#ISHARTTOO.ItwasonlyacoincidencethatthemaincharacteralsosufferedfromIBS,andtheauthor,empowered,cameoutasapersonwithIBSaswell.Itbecameawholething.
Andyes,thatwasthemarketingdesignerRhondalaterfired.
JuliettethoughtonherfeetinawayIabsolutelydidnot,eventhoughI’dworkedasapublicistalittlelonger.
“Well,maybeyoucangetthatnewinterntodoit?”Drewasked,andFionaagreed.
“Orthenewsocialmediamanager?Whydon’tyoumakethisherproblem?”
“Itried,”shesighed.“Shemadeitmyproblemagain.”
“Well,that’ssilly—Clementine,whatwouldyoudo?”Fionaasked.“Clementine?”
Ihadmyheaddown,scrollingthroughInstagramonmyphone.Okay,technicallyasingleprofileonInstagram.JamesAshton’s.Myphoneglowed,fullofcolorsfromalloftheplaceshe’dbeen,thebrightyellowoftheSahara,thedeepgreenofThailand,thesakurapinkofJapan…somanydifferentplaces,soakingthemallin.
Likemyaunt.
Therewereotherpeopleonhistimeline,too.Hisagent,Lauren,butalsopeopleIassumedheworkedwithattheOliveBranch.Furtherback,therewerephotosofwomen,too,grinningashekissedthemonthecheek,orastheysatonhislapinintimateposes.PicturesofvacationsintheHamptonsandintercontinentaltripswithexhausted-but-happygirlfriends.Noneofthosewomenstayedinhisfeedforlong.Afewmonthsatmost,andthentheywoulddisappear,andsoonenoughanotherwomanwouldsneakintohislife,andanother.
Notunlikemyrelationships,Irealized.
“Clem?”Fionarepeated.“EarthtoClementine!”Shewavedherhandinfrontofmyphone.
Iquicklyslammedit,facedown,onthetable.“I’mnotlookingatnothing!”
Drewsaid,“Well,that’ssuspicious.”
“Answeringaquestionwedidn’taskandbadgrammar?”Julietteadded,soundingalittledubious.“Thatseemsodd.”
Fionaagreed,“She’sneverbeengoodatlying.Gimmethat!”
IsquawkedinprotestasFionasnaggedmyphone,putinmypasscode(sincewhendidsheknowmypasscode?),andgaspedashisInstagramcameup.Iburiedmyfaceinmyhands.
“Clementine!Doyouhaveacrush?”Fionaaskedslyly,andshowedtherestofthetablemyphone,asifthesuddenrevelationwasscandalous
Iimmediatelypoppedmyheadup,startled.“No!Absolutelynot!Ilikemyjob!”Iadded,asifIdidn’talreadysoundmortified.“Ijust…”Ipressedmyhandsagainstthesidesofmyneck,knowingIwasturningeveryshadeofredimaginable,andallofmyfriendslookedatmeexpectantly,becauseIwasn’tonetogostalkinganyone’sInstagrampages.Ever
Fionashookherhead.“Clementineneverhasacrush,”shesaid,andDrewnoddedsagely.
“Shemustbesick,”Drewagreed.
“Oh,whatalovelycrush!”Julietteadded.“Wait—isthatthatchef?”
Iwantedtodie.Icouldn’tjusttellthemthatIwastryingtofigureouthowsomeonewhowrotesuchalovelyarticleinEatercouldgiveussuchacoldproposal,andIdidn’twanttoundermineDrewandheracquisition.Myjobwastobackherup,sowhateverfeelingsorreservationsIhadcamesecondtobeingonherteam.So,Iendedupwith,“Fine.You’reright.He’sreallyhot.Ihopewegethim.”
Julietteseemedintrigued.“Oh!Everyonewastalkinginthekitchenatworkaboutthisguy.Somethingaboutaweirdacquisitionprocess?”
“It’sabitridiculous,butwe’regoingtoplay,”Drewreplied,andateachunkofcheddaroffthebone-shapedcharcuterieboard.“Can’taffordnottoatthispoint.I’msurethebookwilllandintherighthands.”
“Preferablyyours,”Fionasaid,andtookherwife’shandandsqueezedittightly.“We’rerootingforyou,babe.”
ItookmyphonebackfromFionaandshoveditintomypurse.“There’snowaywewon’tmakeittothenextround.Drew’sofferwasfantasticandwe’reagreatteam.I’dbemoreworriedaboutthatcookingclass.”
Julietteclickedhertonguetotheroofofhermouth.“Oh,Icanjustimaginetheinsurancehe’dhavetotakeoutforthat.Robalwayshastoinsurehisguitar.”
Wegaveherastrangelook.
“Why?”Drewasked.
Shereplied,quiteseriously,“Incaseitburstsintoflameswhilehe’splayingit.”
Well,then.
Fionaresponded,savingbothDrewandmefromanswering,“Ifanyonewillburndownhisrestaurant,it’llbeClementine.”
“Hey!”Icried.“Imightnot.”
Shepointedout,“You’veadmittedthatyou’veputtinfoilinthemicrowave.”
“ItwasonceandIwasdrunkandthecandybarwasfrozen,”Isaiddefensively,andeveryonelaughedandagreedthatthey’dallsellakidneytobeaflyonthewallofthatcookingclass.
TheywentontotalkabouttheircurrentguessesforhowlongBasilRaywouldstayatFauxbeforeregrettinghisdecisionandreturningtoStrauss&Adder.Here,hewasabigfish,butoveratFaux?Notsomuch.
“He’snotcomingback,”DrewsaidtoJuliette.“Andevenifhedid,he’sexhaustedthelistofeveryreputableghostwriter.”
Juliette’seyeswidened.“Hehasaghostwriter?Oh,actuallythatmakessense.Hiscookbooksarealwayssodifferent…”
AndIfoundmyselfzoningoutalittleagain.IsmearedasoftBrieonacracker,toppeditwithapricotjam,andwonderedwhatIwanwouldthinkofthisplace.Wouldhelikealltheskullsonthewall,theterriblepunsonthemenu,orwouldherakehiseyesacrosstheexpanseandturnaroundandleaveimmediately,becauseitwasn’tsomewherehisglossyimagewouldgo?Him,JamesAshton,drinkinghousewineandeatingthecheapestcheeseplateatadeath-themedbarwithabunchofgossipers?
Icouldn’timagehimhereatall.
Andmaybethatwasforthebest.
“SpeakingofFalconHouse,”Juliettewenton,afterDrewmentionedthatAnnNicholshadaghostwriteraswell,“Iheardthattheexecutiveeditoroverintheirromancelistnowoverseestheirentireimprint—fictionandnonfiction.”
Fionagavealowwhistle.“Aretheysingle?”
Everyonegaveheralook.
“What?ForClementine!”
“Hehasafiancée,”Irepliedabsently,justtoshowthatIwas,infact,listening.Isnaggedanothersliceofcheddar—myfavorite,itneverfailedme—andadded,“Besides,youknowme.Idon’thavetimetofallinlove.”21BrokenDoors
Thenextafternoon,drewtoldmethenews.Theterrible,awful,infuriatingnews.
“Wedidn’tmakeit,”shewhispered,sittingatthehigh-toptableinthecommunalkitchen,absentlystirringherblackcoffee,andIknewexactlywhatshemeant—
Jamesandhisagenthadrejectedouroffer.
Myvisionturnedredalmostimmediately.“What?But—”
“Iknow,”shecutmeoffwithaheavysigh.“There’snowaywebidlowerthanEstrangeBooks,andIheardfromTonyathattheyareinthenextround.Hemust’vejustnotlikedus.”
WhichwasaliebecauseDrewwasimpossibletohate,andwehadpulledtogetherahellofaplantosendwithouroffer.“Well,he’swrong,andhe’sgoingtoregretit.”
“Thanks,”shereplied,andslippedoffthestoolatthetable.Shewastryingtoactlikethedecisionhadn’tguttedher—shewasaneditor,afterall,andshewasusedtodisappointment.ButthisfeltalittledifferentbecauseshehadgoneafterJamesAshton.She’dpursuedhim.Andunderanyothercircumstances,shewould’vebeentheonlyeditortodoso.Itwasjustbadtiming,andworseluck.“IthinkI’mgoingtogoforawalkaroundtheblock.TellFionaifshecomeslooking?”
“Sure,”Isaid,alittlehelplessly,assheleftfortheelevatorlobby.Thisdidn’tmakeanysense.Ithoughtforsurewe’datleastgettothenextround.Ipacedthekitchen,tryingtorecallwhatDrewcould’vesaid,whattellstherecould’vebeenduringthemeetingyesterday,butshewasperfect.HerpresentationofStrauss&Adderwasspot-on,andherpassionfortheprojecthadbeenalmosttangible.Theonlyotherpossibilitywas—
Ifrozeinmyfootsteps.
Me.
Herememberedme,andhedidn’twanttoworkwithme,andIwasthereasonwhyhehadrejectedouroffer.Asickfeelingsettledinmystomachbecausethatwastheonlypossibleexplanation.
Isankthisacquisition.ThesecondIknewitwasIwan,Ishould’verecusedmyself,butI’dbeensohungrytoseehim,andtoprovemyselftoRhondathatIcouldhandleit…
“Shit,”Imuttered,rakingmyfingersthroughmyhair.“Shit.”
IwishedIcouldsaythebadluckstoppedthere,butRhondafoundoutthatthechefpassedonus,andtosayshewasalittledisappointedwasanunderstatement.
Shestoodbymycubicle,goingoverhisproposal,ourplans,andDrew’sdeclinedofferwithashakeofherhead.“Itmusthavebeensomethingsaidintheroom.Theofferisgood—theroyaltiesareridiculouslygenerous.”Sheshookherhead,andinsteadofhandinghisproposalbacktome,shetosseditrightintomytrashcan.“Rubbish—allofit.”
“Theagentassuredusthateveryonewouldmorethanlikelygetintothenextround,too.”
“ObviouslyLaurenlied.Backtothedrawingboard,then.Let’stakethisasalearningopportunityandmoveforward.”
Thensheturnedandleftforheroffice,andIresistedtheurgetoburymyfaceinmyhands.AlearningopportunityafterI’dalreadybeenheresevenyears.Thispreliminarymeetingshouldhavebeenacakewalk,andinsteadithadsealedourfate.Ifelthumiliated,mostlybecauseI’dbeensoconfidentthatwewouldmakeittothenextround.
AndIhadbeentheonetoblowitup,andthatleftuswithoutamajorplayertofilltheroleofBasilRay.FuckBasilRay,seriously.DidhehavetogotoFaux?
“Learningopportunity,”Iremindedmyself,pullingupInstagramandbrowsingsomeofthebiggerfoodgrammers,rulingouteverygood-lookingguywhocameacrossmyfeed.Theycouldn’tbetrusted.
Bythetimefiveo’clockrolledaround,I’dplottedfourdifferentwaystokillJamesAshtonandmakeitlooklikeanaccident.IevenhadaspotontheHudsonsavedinmyphoneastheperfectplacetodumphisbody—notthatIwould.ButthinkingaboutitmademefeelbetterasIgatheredmypursetoleave.
IknockedonthesideofDrew’scubiclegently,andsheglancedupfromthemanuscriptshehadprintedoutandwascurrentlytakingaredmarkerto.“Hi,”Isaidsoftly.“You’regoingtobeokay?”
“It’snotthefirsttimeI’velostabid,Clementine,”sheremindedme,settingdownthemanuscript,“butthankyouforcheckingin.”
Itriednottoletmyregretshowtoomuch,becauseIwasthereasonhehadpassed.Hehadrememberedme,afterall.Whatifheendeduphatingmeafterthatweekend,orIhadsecretlyannoyedhim,orhedidn’twanttoworkwithsomeonehe’dkissed,once,athousandyearsago?
Iwasthereasonwelostthisbook.WhatifIbecamethereasonStrauss&Adderfolded?Thatwassilly,Iknewthatwassilly.Publishersdidn’tfoldbecauseofonefailedacquisition.
Iwastryingnottopanic.
Drewglancedattheclock,andgaveastart.“It’sfivealready?Ican’tbelieveI’mleavingafteryou.”
“That’swhyIaskedifyou’reokay.”
“Ha!Oh,thanks.I’mfine.I’llseeyouMonday?”
“Don’tworktoolate,”Isaid,wavinggoodbye,andheadedtowardtheelevatorlobbybeforeshecouldseethepanicrisinginmyface.Imademywayuptowntothelargeoff-whitebuildingwithlionsintheeaves,andthoughtthatmaybeonebreakingoffandfallingonme—arecurringnightmareIhadwhenIwasakid—mightactuallybeawelcomewaytospendafewmonthsinacomabeforewakingup,havingforgottenthisentiresummer,andreturningtoworkblissfullyignorantofJamesIwanAshton.
TodaywasoneofthoseManhattanhenges,andasthesunsankbetweenthebuildings,touristsandManhattanitesalikecrowdedthecrosswalks,takingouttheirphonestocapturehowtheorangesandyellowsandredsburstfromthehorizonjustbeyondthestreet.Ididn’tstopasIcrossedbehindthetourists.Thephenomenonwasonlyafewminuteslong,asdusksettledacrossthecitylikeashimmerytequilasunrise,andbythetimeIpushedopenthedoorstotheMonroe,itwasover.
EarlgreetedmeasIcamein.Hewashalfwaythroughhisnextmystery—DeathontheNile.Ijustwantedtogettomyaunt’sapartment,drawabathwithabathbomb,andsinkdownintothewateranddissociateforawhileasIlistenedtotheMoulinRougesoundtrack.
Theelevatorwassoslowtocome,andwhenIgotinside,itsmelledalittleliketunasalad,which…wasjustasunpleasantasitsounds.Ileanedbackagainsttherailing,staredupatmywarpedreflection,andpatteddownmyflyawaybangs,thoughthedayhadbeensohumidmyhairfrayedoutattheends.
Therewasnohelpingit.
Theelevatorletmeoffonthefourthfloor,andIcounteddowntheapartmentstoB4.Icouldn’twaittogetoutofthisskirt.Afterabath,I’dputonsomesweatpants,taketheicecreamoutofthefreezer,andwatcharerunofsomethingterrible.
Iunlockedthedoorandtrudgedmywayinside,slippingmyflatsoffatthedoor—
“Lemon?”avoicefromthekitchensaid,deepandfamiliar.“Isthatyou?”22UnsolicitedAdvice
Theapartmentsmelledlikefood—warmandspicy—andthesoftsoundsofaradiohummedthroughtheapartment,playingatunethat’dbeenpopularyearsago.
Thatvoice—Iknewthatvoice.Myheartswelledinmychest,somuchsoIfeltitmightburst.
Itookastepin,andthenanother.
Noway.Noway.
“Iwan?”Icalledhesitantly—hopefully?
WasIhopeful,orwasthisweirdfeelinginmystomachdread?Iwasn’tsure.Itookanotherstepdownthehallway,slippingoutofmyflats.Whatweretheodds?
Thesoundoffootstepsrushedacrossthekitchen,andthenamanwithauburnhairandpaleeyespokedhisheadoutofthedoorway.
Andthedoorclickedclosedbehindme.
IwanworeadirtywhiteT-shirt,theneckstretchedout,andfrayedjeans,sodifferentfromtheuptightmanwhohadsatdownacrossfrommeintheconferenceroom,devoidofeverythingthatmadehimglow.Hesmiledthatkind,lovelysmileofhis,asifhewasgladtoseeme.
Becausehewas
Impossible,impossible,thisis—
“Lemon!”hegreetedmehappily,andeventhewayhesaidmystupidnicknamewasdifferent.Likeitwasn’tasecret,butasanctuary.Hethrewhisarmswideandpulledmeintoahug.Iwasn’tthatbigofahugger,butthesuddencrushagainsthischest,thecloseness—itmademyheartslamintomyribcage.Thedreadturnedintofluttering,terrible,hopefulbutterflies.Hesmelledlikesoapandcinnamon,andIfoundmyselfwrappingmyarmsaroundhimandholdinghimtight.
Imetyouinmytime,andyou’resodifferent,Iwantedtotellhim,pressingmyfaceintohischest,butIdoubthe’dbelieveme.Idon’tknowwhyyouchanged.Idon’tknowhow.
And,quieter,Idon’tknowyouatall
“You’resuchasightforsoreeyes.Andyou’rerightontimefordinner,”hesaidintomyhair.“Ihopeyoulikejapchae.”
Istaredupathimasthoughhemightaswellhavebeenaghost.Mybrainwasbuzzing.Theapartmentdiditagain—likeithadformyauntandVera.Butwhynow?Anothercrossroads?
Iwanfrowned,andletgoofme.“Issomethingwrong?”
“I…”
IrealizedIdidn’tcare.Hewashere.Iwashere.
AndIwashappierthanI’dbeeninalongtime.
“I’msorry,”Iblurted,“thatIdidn’tcomeback.”
“Everythingworkoutwellwithyourapartment?”
“What?”
“Withthepigeons,”hesaid.
“Oh,yes!Everything’sworkingoutfine.Ijustcameto—tocheckup.Toseehowyouwere.I’msorryIdidn’tknockfirst.”
“It’sfine,it’sfine,Iwassureyou’dbeback.Well,”headded,withashygrin,“Iwaskindofhoping,atleast.”
Westoodthereforanotherawkwardmoment.Likehewantedtosaysomething,andIsortofdid,too.Imissedyou—butwasthattooforward?Imissedthisyou—thatwould’vebeentooweird.IwantedtoshakehimandaskhimifIwasthereasonhepassedonDrew’soffer,buthewasn’tthatman.
Hewouldn’tbethatmanforyears.
Thenheclearedhisthroatandinvitedmeintothekitchen,whereheturneddowntheradioandreturnedtothestove.Themomentpassed.Ifollowedhim,dumpedmypursebythecounter,andclimbeduponmybarstool,asthoughitwereroutine.Wasitroutineatthispoint?Thisfeltcomfortable.Itfeltunreal.
“How’veyoubeen?”heasked,pickingupthewoodenspoonhehadabandonedinthepanandstirringwhateverwasinside.
“Fine.”Then,whenIrealizedI’dusedthatwordsoofteninthelastfewweeks,Iaddedmoretruthfully,“Overworkedalittle,honestly,butI’vebeenpaintingmore.”ThenIreacheddowntomypurseatmyfeet,andtookoutthetravelguidetoNYCtoshowhimmynewpaintings.Ihadfinallycoloredtheonewiththegirlsonthesubway,andIreallylikedhowtheyhadturnedout,bathedinbluesandpurples.
“Oh,gorgeous!”hecried,andtooktheguidetoflipthroughandseeallofthem.“Thesearereallysomething.Itellyouwhat,somedaywhenIgetarestaurant,I’llcommissionyouforafewpieces.”
IthoughtabouttheOliveBranchandhiscookbookproposal.“Idoubtthey’reyouraesthetic.”
“Ofcoursetheyare.”Heclosedthebookandhandeditbacktome.“Whatdoyousay?”
Iwasflattered—itwasanicethought.“Idon’ttakecommissions,sadly.”
“Thenhowaboutanexchange?”hereplied.“Dinneratmyrestaurantfortherestofmylife.”
Thatwasalovelyfuturehepainted.Iwould’vebeenenrapturedbyit,ifitexisted.“Okay,”Isaid,becauseitdidn’texist,“butonlyifIgetmyowntable.”
“Setasideforyoueverynight—besttableinthehouse.”
“It’sadeal,Chef,”Ireplied,reachingoutahand,andheshookit—hisgripfirmandwarm,fingerscalloused.Atleasthishandshakehadn’tchangedinthefuture.Exceptmaybeinthatmeetingroomhe’dheldonforasecondtoolong.
“You’regoingtoregretthat,”Isaid,ashewentbacktohissimmeringsaucepan,andIputmytravelsketchbookbackintomypurse.
“Nah,Idon’tthinkIwill.”
No,he’djustforgetaboutit.
Itookstockoftheapartment.InthepastfewweekssinceI’dbeengone,he’dmadehimselfathome.Thereweredishesdryingontherack,andafewcrumbsontheACoutside,whereMotherandFuckernested.Hetooktwofloralbowlsoutofthecabinetandplatedthembothwithsomesortofnoodleswithvegetablesandmeat.Hebroughtbothtotheyellowtableanddidn’tevenaskbeforehetookoutanewbottleofwine.
“Irememberedyoulikedrosé,soIboughtmorejustincaseyoucamebackaround,”hesaid,tomysurprise,andmotionedovertothetable.“Wecaneat.”
“Wow,areyoutryingtoimpressme?”Ijoked,slippingoffthebarstool,andjoinedhimatthetable.Itwassoeasy,existingwithhim.Maybeitwashisnonchalantsmile,thewayitdisarmedmelikeverylittleelsedid.Whateveritwas,thepanicthathadsetintomybonessincethemeetingwithJames,andlaterthelostbid,ebbedaway.
“Ha!Maybe,”herelented,andsatdownoppositemeandpouredusbothaglassofwine.“Bonappétit,Lemon.”
Ihungonthewayhesaidmyname,likeitwassomethingtender.“Canyousayitagain?”Iasked,beforeimmediatelyrealizinghowweirdIsounded.
“What,bonappétit?”Hemadeaface.“IknowIsuckatFrench,youdon’thavetorubit—”
“No,mynickname.”
Asmirktuggedattheedgeofhismouth,andheleanedforwardonhiselbowsandsaid,“Oh,soyoulikeitnow?”
Mortificationcrawledupmyneck.“No.Ijust—Ineedtogetusedtoit.Becauseyouclearlywon’tstop.”But,ofcoursehedidn’tbelieveme.Ididn’tbelievemyself,either.“Nevermind,”Iquicklyadded.
Suddenly,thesharpringofacellphonecutthroughthekitchen.
“Notmine,”Itoldhim,becausemycellphonedidn’tworkinthepast.
“Oh!Sorry,”hemumbled,pushinghimselftohisfeetagain,andwenttogoretrieveanoldflipphonefromthechargeronthecounter.Hereallywasn’tonefortechnology,washe?HereadthecallerIDandhisnosescrunched—somethinghetendedtodo,Irealized,whenhewasconfused.“Sorry,Ihavetotakethis,”hesaid,andanswereditasheleftforthebedroom.“Hey,Mom.Issomethingup?”
Isattherequietly,lookingdownatmyplateofcoldnoodles,vegetables,andmeat.ShouldIgoaheadandeator…?Itriednottoeavesdrop,really,Idid,butthewallsinthisapartmentwerepaperthin,andthebedroomwasjustontheothersideofthekitchen.
“Yeah,I’mstilllookingforaplace—no,I’mfine,I’mfine,”hesaidwithalaugh.“Stopworryingsomuch,willyou?Look,Ihaveafriendover.I’llcallyoulater?Ipromise.”Apause.“I’llletyouknow.Loveyou,too.Goodnight.”
Ashereturned,ItriedtopretendlikeIwasdoingsomething—Ifoldedmynapkin,unfoldedit,inspectedthesilverware(Ididn’tevenrealizemyaunthadmetalchopsticks),andashesatdown,heasked,“Domydishwashingskillsleavesomethingtobedesired?”
“No,no,they’reperfect,”Iquicklyreplied,puttingthechopsticksdown.“Ijust.Um.Myreflectioninthe…Thewallsarethin,”Iadmitted,andhesnortedalaugh.
“Mymom.She’sworriedsick.Likemothersare,”headdedwitharollofhiseyes,takinganapkinfromthetable.“Anyway,shesayshello.”
“You’vetoldheraboutme?”Iasked,surprised.
“I’vetoldherI’vemetafriend,”hereplied.“Andsoofcoursesheimmediatelyassumeswe’regoingtoelopetoVegas.”
“Wow,that’squitealeap.”
“That’smymother.”Helaughed.“Let’seat?”
“Boneappetite,”Isaid,makinghimalmostchokeonhiswineashewentforadrink,wheezingalaugh,andItookabiteoffoodtokeepmyselffromlookingtoosmug.Iwasstarving,asitturnedout.Thecoldnoodlesweredelicious,andthemeatwassotenderitalmostmeltedinmymouth.
“Agoodporkshoulderneverletsmedown,”hereplied,“andadmittedlythisiskindofacomfortfoodforme.It’sbeenaroughfewweeks.”
“Oh!Yourinterview!”Igasped,suddenlyremembering.Hedidlookalittleworseforwear,cometothinkofit.Hishairwasgreasyandpushedback,andthewhiteT-shirtheworelookedlikeit’dgonethroughalottoday,thecollarslouching,revealingthebirthmarkonhisclavicle.Iimmediatelylookedawayfromit.“Didyougetthejob?”
Heswallowedamouthfuloffoodbeforehestruckaposeandsaid,“Iamofficiallytheirnewdishwasher.Ijustforgothowgruelingitwas.”Heshowedmehishands.Theyweredryandcrackedalready,andwhenIheldhishand,hisskinwasroughtothetouch.
“Youneedagoodmoisturizer,”Isaidashedrewthemback,andlookedforlornlyathisnailbeds.“Orrubbergloves.”
“Probably…”
“It’llbeokay.It’snotlikeyou’regoingtostayadishwasherforever.”
“No,andcrackedhandsaside,it’sbeensocool.I’veworkedinkitchensbefore,butthere’ssomethingabouttheOliveBranchthatjust…”
“Isthatthenameoftherestaurant?”Iask,eventhoughIalreadyknew.
“Oh,yes!Ididn’ttellyou?”WhenIshookmyhead,hegaveanapologeticsmile.“Youshouldcomebysometime.I’llwashyourplatesreallywell.”
“Iamflattered,Iwan.”
Hegrinned,swirledhisnoodlesaroundhischopsticks,andateanotherbite.“Theheadchefismagnificent.Heknowsexactlyhowtopullthebestoutofallofhiscooks.Herunsatightship,butI’mlookingforwardtoit,”hesaid,almostreverently,andthenhescrunchedhisnose.“Well,mostly.”
Iquirkedaneyebrow.
“So,there’sthislinecookpositionopeningup,andIwanttoapplyforitbut…”
“Butwhat?Doit!Apartmentsaroundherearestupidlyexpensive.”
“Iknow,butIjustgothired,soI’mnotsureIshould.Ihaven’tearnedit,really,andthere’sthisotherguyapplyingforit,anyway.Heprepsvegetables.Everyonethinkshe’sgoingtogetit.”
“Whichiswhy,”Iguessed,“you’renotevengoingtotryforit.”
“I’mnotsureifIshould?WhatifI’mnotgoodenough?WhatifImakeafooloutofmyselfinfrontofChef?I’veluckedintothischancetostudyundermygranddad’sidol.Grandpanevergotformaltraining,andIwantthismorethananything.Iwanttomakehimproud,youknow?AndIdon’tknowif—”
Ireachedoverandputmyhandontopofhis.Itstartledhimintosilence,andhelookeddownatmyhand,andthenbackuptome.Irubbedmythumbgentlyagainsthisskin.“JamesIwanAshton,”Isaidgently,“youaretalentedandyouaretireless,andyoudeservethatspotjustasmuchasanyoneelse.”
“Ihaven’tpaidmydues—”
“Andwhodecidesonwhatduesyouneedtopay?Ifyouwantsomething,youhavetogoforit.Nooneelsewillbemoreonyoursidethanyou.”
Hehesitated.
Icurledmyfingersaroundhishand,andheldittightly.“Bemercilessaboutyourdreams,Iwan.”
Heshiftedhishandandinsteadlacedourfingerstogether,hisdriedandcracked,andminesoftandpale.“Okay,”hefinallyagreed,andturnedthoselovelygrayeyestomeagain.“ThoughIdon’tthinkIevertoldyoumyfirstname.”
“Ofcourseyoudid,”Irepliedquickly,slippingmyhandoutofhis.Ireturnedtomyfood.“Remember?Thefirstnight.”Itappedthesideofmyhead.“Thisbrain’slikeasteeltrap.”
Hechuckled.“I’msureitis.”Hetiltedhishead,debatingforamoment.“DidIevertellyouabouttherestaurantIwanttoopen?”
Thatpiquedmyinterest,andIsatupalittlestraighter.“No?”
Heperkeduplikeadogofferedabone.“Ihaven’t?Okay,okay—pictureit:longfamily-styletables.Thewallsarered.Everythingiscomfy,theleatheronthechairsbrokenin.I’dgetalocalartisttodesignthechandeliers,hireallmyfavoritepeople,putyourartonthewalls,”headdedwithawink.“It’llbeaplacewhereyoufeelabitathome,youknow?”
Ithoughtaboutthedishesinthecookbookhepitched—thenoodlesondryice,thedumplingsthatneededacommercialsteamer,thechilisaucerecipethatrequiredrareAfricanOrangeBirdpeppers—andIcouldn’timagineit.
“ItsoundslikesomewhereI’deat,andIhateeatingoutatrestaurants,”Ireplied.“Whatwoulditbecalled?”
“Idunno.Ineverreallyhadanameforit.”Hegrinned,slowandmeltylikebutter.“IthinkIgotafewyearstofigureitout.”
Seven,tobeexact.
HefinishedtherestofhiswineasIsetdownmychopsticks,becausewhiletherewasalittlebitleft,Icouldn’tfinishit.Hemotionedtothebowl,andIsaid,“Oh,yes,pleasehaveit.”
“I’mnothingifnotagastronomicblackhole,”hereplied,puttingmybowlontopofhis.
Igrabbedmywineandsatbackashefinishedmynoodles.Therewasanideaslowlyforminginmyhead.“So,Ihaveascenarioforyou.”
“Goon,”hesaid,hismouthfull.
“There’sthisauthor,right?Atwork.”Itriedtokeepitasanonymousaspossible.“MyfriendandIareinthisauction—allofthebiddersweresupposedlygoingtomakeittothenextround,but…hejustturnedusdown.”
Hiseyebrowsjerkedup.“Justlikethat?”
“Justlikethat.Andit’sfrustratingbecauseIknowhe’dbeamazingwithmyfriend.”Ichewedonmythumbnail,beforeIrealizedwhatIwasdoingandquicklystopped.“Whatwouldyoudo?”
“Doyouknowwhyhepassed?”
Becauseofme,Ifear.“Idon’tknow.”
“Hmm.That’stough.”Hebegantogetupwithourbowls,butIslappedhishandawayandtookthedishesawaymyself.
“Youcooked,Iclean,remember?”Ideclared,andturnedonthewaterinthesink,waitingforittogetwarm.Hefollowedmeintothekitchen,andasIstoodthere,hehookedhischinovermyshoulderandleanedagainstme.Hesmelledlikedishsoapandlavender,andittookeverywillfulboneinmybodynottomeltintohimlikeicecreamonthepavementinsummer.“Well,”hesaid,hisvoicerumblingagainstmyskin,“couldyougoandtrytoconvincehim?”
Iscoffedalaugh.“Sadly,itdoesn’tworkthatway.Andtomakemattersworse,bothmyfriend’sandmycareerswerekindofridingonthis.Ijustdon’tgetit.Weshouldhavemadeittothenextround.”
“It’sapityheisn’tachef.Inrestaurants,agoodkitchenisagoodteam.Weallworkoffeachotherandmostofthetimeit’sbetterifwealllikeeachother,too.Myfriendshavebeeninplaceswhereeveryonekeptsnipingateachother,anditwassoawfultheyquit.Peoplearethemostimportantthinginanykitchen.”
Thepeople?Ieyedhim.“Youreallybelievethat?”
Hegaveashrug,likeitwasano-brainer.“Absolutely.Wedon’tgetpaidenoughtoworksomewhereshitty,especiallyifwehavetherésumétogosomewhereelse.”
Iturnedoffthewaterandstaredathim,mybrainwhirringahundredmilesaminute.Ohmygod,thatwasit.AllIhadtodowasappealtothechefinhim—thehimwhotoldmethisexactthing.I’msurehe’dhadashittytimeinakitchenbynow;fromwhatI’dread,they’readimeadozen.Itwasalongshot—butIbelievedinlongshots.
Hehesitated.“What?Istheresomethingonmyf—”
Turningtofacehim,Ilookedupintohislovelymoon-coloredeyes,andplantedmyhandsoneithersideofhisface,smushinghischeekstogether.“You’reagenius,Iwan!”
Heblinked.“I…am?Imean—ofcourseIam.”
“Agenius!”Ipulledhisfacedowntokisshim.Hislipsweresoftandwarm,startledatfirst.HebarelyevenregistereditbeforeIpulledaway.“I’llseeyoulater,okay?”Iturnedtoleave,buthecaughtmebythehandandpulledmeback.Hisgripwastight—tighterthanusual.Inadesperate,longingsortofway.
“Justamoment,”hemurmured,andkissedmeagain.
Thistimehewasreadyforme,hismouthhungry,andImeltedintohim.Icurledmyfreehandaroundhisshirt,keepinghimclose.Heletgoofmyhandand,reachingdowntograbmywaist,suddenlyliftedmeupoffthefloorandplantedmeonthecounter.Helookedupintomyeyes,thebrightpalenessofhisturnedstormy.Hisfloppyhairfellintohisface,andtherewerebitsofgoldinitwhenthefluorescentlightsofthekitchenhititjustright.“Incentive,”hegrowled,andkissedmeagainandagain,quicksnapsacrossmycheeks,againstmyneck,“soyou’llcomebackalittlesooner.”
“Didyoumissmethatmuch?”Iasked,myarmswrappingaroundhisneck.
Hemurmuredagainstmymouth,“I’dhavetolietosayno.”
Andtheworstpartwas?Iwantedtostay.Iwantedtostayashekissedmesavoringly,hishandsgrippingmythighsasheleanedintothekiss.ButIcouldseethetimeonthemicrowavebehindhim,anditwasalreadynineo’clock.IfIwantedtomakeittotheOliveBranchbeforeitclosed,Ihadtoleavenow.
“I’llcomeback,”Iwhispered,regrettingthatIhadtogo.
Hedidn’tbelieveme.“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Eventhoughitreallywasn’tuptome,itwasn’talietechnically.Iwouldseehimagain.Butiftheapartmenthadbroughtmebacknow,Iknewitcouldagain—andsomehowinmyheartIknewitwould.SohekissedmeonelasttimeasIslidoffthecounter,asifhewantedtosealthepromisewithhislips,andIknewIhadtogothenifIwantedtoleaveatall,becauseitwasgettingharderandhardertobreakaway.
Rememberruletwo,Itoldmyself,andtoreawayfromhim.IgatheredmypurseandwhatlittleresistanceIhadleft,andfledbeforeIconvincedmyselftostay.23MainCourseofAction
Iknewitwasabadidea,butIdidn’thaveanother.NotifIwasgoingtosalvagethis.
Ihailedataxi,toldthedrivertoheadtotheOliveBranchdowninSoHo,andfoundmyselfinfrontofthehoppingrestaurantnottwentyminuteslater.Withoutaplan.Thedoorswereallpulledwide,thewindowsopentoletintheeveningsummerair.ThepatronsatnightwereaworldawayfromtheonesI’dseenatlunch,alltrendyyoungpeopleintheirnewglitteryfashions,snappingphotosoftheirfoodwhilebarelyeatingabite—andmostplatesonlyhadabiteonthem.IfeltmoreoutofplacethanIhadfeltinawhile,andthatalmoststoppedmefromgoinginsideatall,butthenIsteeledmyself,andthoughtaboutwhatmyauntsaid—
“Pretendtobelonguntilyoudo.”
Thehostessstoppedmeatthefrontofthehouseandaskedformyreservationname.Thatwasmyfirsthurdle.Ididn’thaveone,obviously,andshewouldn’tletmeintotherestaurantifIdidn’t.SoIpulledbackmyshouldersandraisedmychin,andpretendedwiththebestofthem.“I’mheretoseeJames.”
Thewoman’seyeswidened.Shegavemeaonce-over.“Andyouare…?”
Right,alotofpeoplewantedtoseehimthesedays,andIdoubtedhe’dthoughttwiceaboutme.Whichwasodd,seeingashowIstillfeltthephantomtouchofhismouthonmine.“I’m…”
Nooneimportant—apublicistfromapublisherhehadrejected.Thatcertainlywouldn’tgetmeintoseehim.SoIthoughtquick.Whatwouldmyauntdo?She’dputoncountlesshatsovertheyears,pretendingtobelongsomewhereuntilshedid.“I’majournalist.For—uh—for…”Myeyesglancedoffamagazinepilebehindthehostessstand.“Women’sHealth.”
Itriednottowince.Thatwasabadlie.
Shefrowned,givingmeanotheronce-over.“ForJames?”
“Inanarticleaboutgettingwomen’sheartsracing.”Iwasjustdiggingmyselfdeeperanddeeper.
“It’sabitlate,isn’tit?”
“Nevertoolate—that’sajournalist’s,uh,motto.Ishehere?”
Shepursedherlips,andthenpressedherearpieceandsaidsomethingintoit.Shewaitedamoment,andthennodded.“Sorry,you’llhavetocomeb—Waitaminute!”
IhadsteppedpastherlikeIhadajobtodo.TechnicallyIdid,butnotwhatshewasthinking.“YoucantellhimI’mhere,”Isaidovermyshoulder,anddoveintothedarkanddecadentrestaurantIcouldn’tafford.Shesquawkedinreply,butdidn’tmakeamovetostopme.Shehadtoomanyotherpeopletogreetandseat,andsheprobablywasn’tpaidenough,anyway.
Idippedaroundaservercarryingaheavytraytoalargetable,andslippedintothehallwaythatledtothekitchenandbathrooms.Themetaldoorstothekitchenswungopen,aserverrushingoutwithatrayfullofbeautifullyplateddishes,andIsteppedtothesideashepassed,catchingthemetaldoorbeforeitswungclosed.Thiswasit.
“ToMordor,”Iwhispered,andwentinside.
Anolderwomanwithatealpixiecutglancedupfromplatingthelatestdish—afishplateofsomesort,andherfacescrunchedinannoyance.“Kitchen’soff-limits,”shesaid,andshoutedsomethingbehindher—forasauceorsomething.Shemusthavebeenthesous.
Everythinginthekitchenwaschaos.Peopleshouting“Behind!”astheybroughtsizzlingpansuptothefronttoplate,or“Corner!”astheyturned,heavingdishesintothesinksattheback.Itwasallveryoverwhelming,butImademyselfstandmyground.
Anotherserverpassedmeintothekitchenandputdownaticketatthestationwiththesous,whotookitandshoutedtheorderbacktothekitchen.
Thensheturnedbacktomeandsaid,again,alittleannoyed,“Thekitchen’soff-limits.”
“I’mjustlookingfor—”
Shewavedattheserverbesideme.“Getheroutofhere.”
Besideme,theserver,aganglyguyinhisearlytwenties,turnedandopenedhisarmstotrytocorralmebackintothehallway.“Sorry,ma’am,”hemuttered,lookingdownathisshoes,notmeetingmyeyesatall.
Itriedtobathimaway.“Wait—wait—Iwanttotalktotheheadchef!”
“Everyonedoes,”thesousreplied,notevendeigningtolookupasshewipedtheedgeofahot,plateddish.“You’renotspecial.”
Well,thatwasrude.Theservergrabbedmebythearm,butItoreitawayfromhim.“Look,Ijustneedafewminutes—”
“Doyouseehimhere?Out!”shecriedagain,wavingherhand,andtheserverpushedmeoutofthekitchen.I’dneverbeenmanhandledsoapologeticallybeforeinmylife.Hemumbled,“Sorry,sorry,sorry,”evenashescootedmeoutthedoor.
Istumbledbackwardintothehallwayagain,andMordorclosedinaflashofswingingsilverdoors.“Wait,please,Ijustneedtotalkto—”
“Issomethingwrong?”
Theserverfroze.Ifroze.Myheartslammedagainstmychest.
Hequicklyturnedtothevoicebehindme.“Chef,”hemurmured,stilllookingattheground.“Sorry.Shecameintothekitchenaskingforyou.”
“Didshenow,”herumbled.Ifeltmyskinprickle.
“ChefSamuelsaskedmetotakeherout.”
“Ihopenotpermanently.”
Theservergaveastart.“I—uh—”
“It’sajoke,”helamented,almostpitifully,andthenwavedhimaway.“Ihaveher.Youcangobacktowork.”
“Yes,Chef.”Theservernoddedagain,andquicklylefttotendtohistables.
Whenthesquirrellyguywasgone,Iheardthechefrumble,“You’renotfromamagazine.”
Turningonmyheels,IwhirledaroundtofaceJamesAshton.Mystomachfoldeditselfintoknots.Justhalfanhourago,hismouthwasonmyneck,hisbreathagainstmyskin,andnow—wecouldn’tbefurtherapart.“James,”Igreetedhim,tryingtokeepmyvoicelevel.
Ihopedthisworked.
IhopedIwanwasright.
Hewasinhischef’suniform,awhitecoatbuttoneddownthesideofthefront,straininghisbroadshoulders.“Yes,Clementine?”
“Yourejectedouroffer.”
“Idid,andifthat’swhyyou’rehere,”hesaidcarefully,“mydecisionisfinal.”
Myheartplummetedintomytoes.“Holdon,hearmeout—”
“I’msorry,”hewenton,lettinghisarmsfalltohisside,andhepassedmetowardthekitchen.“Ireallyneedtogetbacktowork—”
Iwhirledaroundonmyheels.“Isitbecauseofme?”
Hefrozeinhisfootsteps,hisbacktome.Myhandswereclenchedsotightly,Ifeltmynailsleavingindentationsinmypalms.
“Isitbecauseofme?”Irepeated.“BecauseyouandI…”
Heglancedoverhisshoulder,andthatwasalltheanswerIreallyneeded.
Itwasbecauseofme.Myfistsbegantotremble.Iprobablyshouldhavefeltsadthathehatedme,buttopunishDrew?Iwasn’tsad—Iwasgettingangry.“Holdon,youdon’tthinkthat’sabitharsh?”
Heturnedbacktome.“No,actually.”
“Wedidn’tevendoanything,”Isaid,takingasteptowardhimasheretreatedback.“Wejustkissed—afewtimes.That’sit.”Itookanotherstep,andhepressedhimselfflatagainstthewall,framedbetweenasconceandastilllifeofafruitbowl.“AndI’msureyou’vedonemorethanthatsincethen,James.”
Hispaleeyeswerewide.“Um…well…”
“Igetitifyoudon’tlikemeorwanttoforgetaboutme,buttorejectStraussandAdder’sofferbecauseofme?”IwentonbecausetheIwanIknewandthemanstandinginfrontofmecouldn’thavebeenmoredifferent,andIdidn’tcarehowsuccessfulhewasnow,orhowhandsome,Ihadapublishingimprinttosave.
“Clementine,”hesaid,andIhatedhowlevelhisvoicestillwas,howcomposed,“doyoureallythinkweshouldworktogether?Doyouthinkthatthis”—hemotionedbetweenus—“wouldbeagoodidea?”
“IthinkyouandDrewwouldworkgreattogether!AndIthinkStraussandAdderwouldtreatyourworksowell.NevermindIamdamngoodatmyjob,andIknowIam.Iwouldn’tletapersonalgrudgeorwhateveryouhaveagainstmeaffecthowhardIwillworkforyouandyourbooks.”Myhandsfelloutoffists.“Iknowmycominghereisunprofessional,butyouoncesaidthatit’sthepeoplethatmakeagoodteam,andeveryoneatStraussandAdderisgood.They’rehardworking,andthey’rehonest,andyoudeservethat.Andtheydeserveachance.Arealone.”
AndIwouldn’tbeheremakingafoolofmyselfifitwasn’timportant.Strauss&AdderneededabigauthortofillthevacuumBasilRayleftbehind,andifwedidn’tgetone,itwouldbodevery,verybadlyformyjob—andeveryoneelse’sjobattheimprint.BasilRaywouldn’tbethereasonStrauss&Adderclosed,butIrefusedtomakethatoldcryptidthenailinthisproverbialcoffin.
Hepursedhislips,hopingI’dbreakeyecontactfirst,buthefinallydid,andlookedaway.Amuscleinhisjawtwitched.Hemuttered,“Idon’tlikeyouusingmyownwordsagainstme…”
“Admitit,”Isaid,pokinghiminthechest,“it’sagoodmove.”
Hescrunchedhisnose,thefirstsmallcrackinhisput-togetherfacade.ThefirstsmallsignofmyIwan.“It’s…alsoquiteendearing,”headmitted,“andalittlebitsexy.”
Iblinked.“Sexy?”
Towhichhereplied,hisfaceinchesfrommine,socloseIcouldfeelhiswordsonmyskin,“Youhavemebackedupagainstawall,Lemon.”
Oh.
Ifinallyrealizedhowclosewewere.SocloseIcouldseemyreflectioninthepolishedbuttonsofhischef’scoat.Unprofessionallyclose.Andsuddenly,thatawfultelltalefeelingreturned.ThePopRocksinmystomach,howitalmostmademefeelsick.Heatroseuponmycheeks,andIquicklysteppedaway,myearsburninghot.“Sorry,sorry.”
“Iwasn’tcomplaining—”
“I’llwithdrawmyselffromthebidding,”Iinterrupted.“IshouldhaveinthefirstplacewhenIrealizedwhoyouwere.Thatwasmyfault.Juliettecantakemyplace,she’salovelypublicistandshe’ll—”
“No,it’sokay.”Withasigh,herubbedthesideofhisneck.Theshoutsofthefrontofthekitchencarrieddownthehalllikeanechothroughacave.Themurmurfromthehousewasloud,theclinkingofutensilsontableware,thelaughteroffriends.Quieter,hemuttered,“Ithoughtyouwouldn’twanttoworkwithme.”
Myeyeswidened.Ilookedbackathim.“What?”
“That’swhatIthought.Ithoughtyouwerejustplayingniceintheconferenceroom.Youweren’texactlyfriendlyinthere.Youhadthatlookinyoureyes.Youknow,the…”Andhemadeapinchingmotionwithhishandstowardhiseyebrows.Didhemeanmy…?“Thatone!That’stheone.”
Mortificationcrawledoverme.“Ithoughtyoudidn’twanttoseeme!”Youhaven’tforsevenyears.Youdidn’tevencomelooking.Isteppedbackandpulledmyfingersthroughmyhair.“Ohmygod.”
“I’msorry,”heagreed,thoughhelookedlikehewantedtosaysomethingelse.“IreallydidloveDrew’senergy.Sheseemslikeshe’dbegreattoworkwith.”
“Sheis,”Iinsisted.“Soyou’llreconsider?”
“I…willhavetotalktomyagent,”hereplied,andscrubbedthesideofhisneckagain—beforeherealizedwhathewasdoingandquicklystopped.Puthishandsbyhissides.
Atleastthatwasbetterthanwherewewerebefore.“Fine,”Irepliedshortly.
“Allright.”
Hissouschefpokedherheadintothebackarea.Shedidn’tseemsurprisedatalltofindusthere.“Chef,stopflirting—weneedyouinhere!”
“Yes,Chef,”hereplied,andstartedforthefrontofthekitchen,butturnedbacktomeandwhispered,“Idon’tlikeitwhenwefight,Lemon,”andleftmeinthehall,thesoundofhisnicknameformelikeapieceofcandyattheendofdinner,sweetandperfect,andIcouldn’tshakethefeelingthatmaybe—maybe—Iwasinovermyhead.24AnUnwantedGift
AndthatwashowDrewfoundherselffloatingoncloudnineFridayafternoon.ShepulledeverycookbookStrauss&Adderhadofftheshelveslikeshewasabookworminabookstorewhereeverythingwasfree,whileFionaandIsentherYouTubetutoriallinksandmadealistofNetflixcookingshowstobingeeverywakinghourthisweekend.Theapartmentdidn’tsendmebackagaintohim,butmaybeitwasforthebestasIslowlyspiraledintoapanicabouthowtoholdaknife.
“Wemightburndowntheentirerestaurant,”Drewsaidhappily,waltzingherwayovertoFionaandmeatthetableinthekitchen.“Butatleastwe’restillintherunning!”
Fionawassnackingonhalfofthegranolabarthatwassupposedtogointomyparfait.Shenibbledatit.“Forsomeonewhocan’tcook,you’recertainlygoingtogiveittheoldcollegetry,babe.”
“Absolutely,babe,”Drewreplied,dumpingthestackofbooksdownontheedgeofthetable,andslidintoaseat.“I’mgoingtoburnthefuckoutofsometortellini.Idon’tknowhowyoudidit,Clementine,butyou’reamiracleworker.Asalways.TheagentsaidthatshejumpedthegunbeforeconsultingJamesAshton.”
Fionaadded,“Whatdidyoudotogethimtoreconsider?”
Ishrugged,stirringupmyyogurt.“Nothing,really.”Besidestrespassintoakitchenandmanhandleaprospectiveclient.“Ijustaskedhimwhy,andhechangedhismind.”
Mostly.
Fromthemailroom,Jerry—ourmailguy,atallmanwhomadetheabsolutebestdumpcakesforholidays—rolledoutacart,whistlingaLizzosong.“Mornin’,ladies,”hegreeted,andreachedforapackagetohandtome.“Foryou.”
“Oh?”Itookitandturnedthepackageovertoreadthename.Myworldnarrowedtoapinprick.
JerryturnedtoDrew.“Iheardyou’reinthenextroundwiththatchefguy!Congrats!”
Theyhigh-fived.“Thanks!I’mgoingtocrashandburn!”sherepliedhappily,andhelaughedandrolledhiscarton.Shetookthefirstbookoffthepile—Salt,Fat,Acid,HeatbySaminNosrat—andbegantoread.
“Iguesswewon’tbefinishingthebaby’snurserythisweekend,”Fionasaidwryly,andDrewgaveheradejectedlook.“What?Youstillhaven’thungupthewallpaperIbought.”
“Babe,IknowlessabouthangingwallpaperthanIdoaboutcooking.”
“Therearefewerwaystoscrewupwallpaper,”sherepliedmatter-of-factly.
Drewglared,andFionasmiled,andthatwastheirmarriageinanutshell.Isetdownthepackagequickly,turningtheaddresssidedown.“Ilovedoingwallpaper.Icanhelp?”
“Ohmygod,really?Thankyou,”Fionasaidinrelief,andshovedtherestofthegranolaintohermouth.
“We’llpayyou,”Drewadded.
“AbottleofroséandI’myoursforaslongasyouneed,”Ireplied,andwithonelastbiteofyogurt,Ishovedmyplasticspoonintotheemptycupandstood.“Ishouldprobablygetbacktowork.”
IhadbeguntoleavewhenDrewsaid,“Hey,youforgotyourpackage.”
Fionapickeditupandflippeditover.“Iwonderwhoit’sf—Oh.”
Iwinced.
FionashowedDrewthenameonthepackage,andhereyeswidened.“Youraunt?”Drewasked.“But…”
“Itmust’vegottenlostinthemail,”Imumbled.
Myfriendsexchangedaworriedlook.Sometimes,whenmyauntwasalive,she’dsendpackagestomyworktosurpriseme—leather-boundnotebooksfromSpain,teasfromVietnam,lederhosenfromGermany—whenevershewenttravelingonherown.
Butmyaunthadbeendeadforsixmonths.
Thepackagemusthavebeenlostinthemailforaverylongtime.Shehadn’tgoneanywheresincelastNovember,whenshevisitedthelastplaceshe’dneverbeen—Antarctica.She’dsaiditwasthecoldestshe’deverfeltinherlife,socoldthatherfingertipsstillhadn’twarmedintheweekssinceshe’dcomehome.
“Isyourheaterworking?”Ihadasked,andshe’dlaugheditoff.
“Oh,I’mfine,I’mfine,mydarling.Sometimesthecoldjuststickstoyou.”
“Ifyousayso.”Icouldn’trememberwhatI’dbeendoingthen—IthinkIwaswalkinghomefromwork,havingjustcomeoutofthesubway,mynosecoldandsnowsloshingtheground,butIcouldn’tquiteremember.Younevercommitamundanemomenttomemory,thinkingit’llbethelasttimeyou’llheartheirvoice,orseetheirsmile,orsmelltheirperfume.Yourheadneverremembersthethingsyourheartwantstoinhindsight.
Myauntsaid,“I’mfeelingrestless.Let’sgoonanadventure,mydarling.I’llmeetyouattheairport.Let’spickthefirstflightout—”
“Ican’t,Ihavework,”Iinterrupted,“andbesides,IjustboughtourticketstoIcelandtodayforourtripinAugust.Theywerearealsteal,soIcouldn’tresist.”
“Oh.”
“Youdon’twanttogotoIceland?”
“No—no,Ido.It’sjustwe’vebeenbefore.”
“ButnotinAugust!Youcanapparentlyseethesunatmidnight,andthere’sthishotspringIwanttotry—Ihearit’sreallygoodforarthritis,soit’llbegreatforyou,”Iadded,andmyauntmadeanoiseinherthroatbecauseitwasgettingmoreandmoreapparentthatshedidn’tlikethethoughtofslowingdown.Shewassixty-two,soinhermind,sheshouldn’thavearthritis.Notatleastuntilseventy.Myphonebeeped.“Oh,Mom’scalling.I’llseeyouintheNewYear—dinneratmyparents,you’llbethere?”
“Ofcourse,darling,”shereplied.
“Promiseyouwon’tflyoffonthenextplaneoutofJFK?”
Shelaughedatthat.“Ipromise,Ipromise.Notwithoutyou.”
Andsuddenly,IwasbacktolastNewYear’smorning,myphoneringingandringingandringing,asmyheadpounded.I’ddranktoomuchthenightbefore—toomuchofeverything.Mymouthfeltlikecottoncandy,andIthinkIkissedsomeoneatmidnight,butIcouldn’trememberhisface.DrewandFionaalwaysdraggedmetoNewYear’sEvebashes,anditneverfailedthateverypartywasallthesamekindofawful.
Ihadfeltformyphoneonmynightstand,andwhenI’dfinallyfoundit,Iunpluggeditandanswered.“Mom,it’stooearl—”
“She’sgone.”Ihadneverheardmymomsoundlikethatbefore.Highandhysterical.Hervoicecracking.Herwordsforced.“She’sgone!Sweetheart—sweetheart,she’sgone.”
Ididn’tunderstand.Myheadwasstillsleepy.“Who?Whatdoyoumean?Mom?”
“Analea.”Then,quieter:“Theneighborsfoundher.She…”
Thethingnoonetellsyou,thethingyouhavetofindoutonyourownthroughfirsthandexperience,isthatthereisneveraneasywaytotalkaboutsuicide.Thereneverwas,thereneverwillbe.Ifeversomeoneasked,I’dtellthemthetruth:thatmyauntwasamazing,thatshelivedwidely,thatshehadthemostinfectiouslaugh,thatsheknewfourdifferentlanguagesandhadapassportclutteredwithsomanystampsfromdifferentcountriesthatit’dmakeanyworldtravelergreenwithenvy,andthatshehadamonsteroverhershouldershedidn’tletanyoneelsesee.
And,inturn,thatmonsterdidn’tletherseeallthethingsshewouldmiss.Thebirthdays.Theanniversaries.Thesunsets.Thebodegaonthecornerthathadturnedintothatshiplapfurniturestore.Themonsterclosedhereyestoallthepainshewouldgivethepeoplesheleft—theterribleweightofmissingherandtryingnottoblameherallinthesamebreath.Andthenyoustartedblamingyourself.Couldyouhavedonesomething,beenthatvoicethatfinallybrokethrough?Ifyoulovedthemmore,ifyoupaidmoreattention,ifyouwerebetter,ifyouonlyasked,ifyouevenknewtoask,ifyoucouldjustreadbetweenthelinesand—
If,if,if.
Thereisnoeasywaytotalkaboutsuicide.
Sometimesthepeopleyoulovedon’tleaveyouwithgoodbyes—theyjustleave.
“Areyouokay?”Fionaaskedsoftly,puttingherhandonmyshoulder.
Iflinchedawayfromher,blinkingthetearsoutofmyeyes.“Yes,”Isaid,suckinginalungfulofbreath.Thenanother.Fionahadthepackageinherhand,andItookit.Iwasn’tgoingtoopenit.“I’mfine.It’sjust…unexpected.”
Dreweyedthepackage.“It’sprettysmall.Iwonderwhatitis?”
“Ineedtogetbacktowork.”AsIleft,Idiscardedmylunch—andthepackage—inthetrashcan,andreturnedtomycubicle,anddrownedmyselfinworklikeIusedto.LikeIshould.
Twohourslater,whenmostlyeveryonehadlefttheoffice,Ireturnedtothetrashcantodigoutthepackagefrombeneathfour-day-oldlomeinandhalfatunasandwich,butitwasn’tthere.Thepackagemyaunthadsentmewasgone.25BestinShow
Therestoftheweekendandintothenextweekpassedinablur.TheapartmentfeltemptywithoutIwaninit.EverytimeIopenedthedoor,Ihopedtofindhimagain,butthepresentalwaysgreetedme,andIstartedtowonderifitwouldtakemebackagainatall.
Dayspassedwithoutmuchfanfare;DrewandFionapreparingfortheirparentalleavesasthebabyneared,gettingeverythingsorted,untilsuddenlyIfoundmyselfsittinginanUberasitpulleduptothesidewalkinfrontoftheOliveBranch.Thesignonthedoorsaidthatitwasclosedfortheeveningforaspecialevent—andthatspecialevent?Thecookingclass.Editorsandtheirteamsfromallacrosspublishingweresupposedtobehere.FauxandHarperandsomeRandomPenguinsand—rumorhadit—thenewpublisherforFalcon,Mr.BenjiAndorhimself.Throughtheopenwindows,Icouldseeafewpeoplealreadyminglingintheemptydiningspace.
“So,here’stheplan—Idoallthecooking,youdothechopping,”Drewspecified,probablybecauseshedidn’ttrustmycookingskillsasfarasshecouldthrowme.Which,fair.Ialsodidn’ttrustthem.“AndifwecomeacrossParker,wehog-tiehimandtosshiminthebathroom.”
FionapokedherheadoutofthepassengerseatoftheSUV.“Knock’emdead,ladies!”ShegaveusthefingergunsastheUberpulledawayagain,boundfortheLowerEastSidetodropheroffathome.
DrewandIwaiteduntiltheSUVhadturnedthecornerbeforeshesmootheddownthefrontofherbutton-down.“HowdoIlook?”
Istraightenedhermedallionnecklaceandputmyhandsonhershoulders.ShelookedaboutasnervousasIfelt.“Youaregoingtokickassinthere.”
“Wearegoingtokickass,”sheremindedme.Shepulledherarmthroughmine,andgaveashiver.“Ooh,I’mfinallynervous!Canwebackout?TellStraussIfuckedoffintothewoodsinstead?Becomeahermit?Liveofftheland?”
“Whathappenedtotheeditorwhosaidshe’dkillforJamesAshton?Also,you’dhatelivingwithoutinstanthotwater.”
“You’reright.I’lljustfuckofftoacastleinScotlandinstead.”
“It’sprobablyhaunted.”
“Youlikeruiningeverything,don’tyou,”shedeadpanned.
Irolledmyeyesandguidedhergentlyinthedirectionofthefrontdoor.
Insidetherestaurant,Ispiededitorsfromalldifferentpublishers,somebignames,someIdidn’trecognizeatall.Ihadn’tbeentoanymixersinthelasthowevermanymonths—well,sincemyauntdied,atleast—soDrewgavemethe411onallthedifferentpeople.Therewasatablesetwithglassesofchampagne,andwebothgrabbedoneandwenttogohauntacorneroftherestaurantuntilitwastimetostartourculinaryjourney.
“Thisismissionimpossible,”Drewmuttered,dartinghereyesabouttheroom.“Wearedeepinenemyterritory,twospiesinthejunglesof—oh,Parker,hi.”Shequicklystraightenedasalankywhiteguywithtoo-bigglassesandslicked-backhairswaggereduptous.HehadwhatI’dcallthatguyinyourMFAsyndrome.Constantlyactinglikehewasthesmartestguyintheroom,favoritebookwassomethingbyJonathanFranzenor—worse—FightClub.Thekindofguywhowouldlookatthememephrase“shebreastedboobilytothestairs”andnodandgo,Yes,yes,thisisindubitablyqualityliterature.
Hewasthatkindofguy.
“DrewTorres,nicetoseeyou,”Parkersaidwithasmilethatwasprobablyasgenuineashishairplugs.“Excitedfortheclasstonight?”
“Oh,absolutely.Can’twaittoseewhatwe’recooking!”
“Itisn’teverydayyougettolearnfromoneofthebestchefsintheindustry.Why,justtheotherweekIwastalkingtoCraigoverthere”—hepointedattheexecutiveeditorofHarperorSimon&Schusterorsomething,aflexifIhadeverseenone—“andwewerecomparingJames’sever-changingmenu.I’mthrilledhehassuchawiderangeofskills.”
Drewgaveanod.“Oh,yes,he’sverytalented.”
“He’llbegreatoveratFaux.Wehavesomanyfantasticresources—though,I’msureStraussandAdderwilltryitsbest,won’tit?”
“We’resmallbutmighty,”Drewreplied,andmotionedtome.“Clementinehereisoneofourseniorpublicists.She’sthemastermindbehindalotofourbooks’success.”
“Ah,RhondaAdder’ssecond-in-command,IwaswonderingwhenI’dmeetyou!”Parkergreetedme,extendingahand.“I’veheardnothingbutgreatthings.I’msurprisedsheletyououtfromunderthatrockwhereshekeepsyou!”headdedwithalaugh.
Mysmilewasstrained.
“Well,I’msurprisedyourpublisherletyououtfromunderyours,”cameadeep,softvoice,andDrewandIbothlookedovertowatchatoweringgiantstrideover.Darkgelled-backhair,thickglasses,hisfaceanexpressionofartisticallyplacedmoles.Hegavehisfelloweditoraknowinglook.“Youcanstopbeingawful,Parker.”
ParkergaveBenjiAndorasurprisedlook.“Iwasjustjoking!SheknowsIwasjoking!Right?”
Itoldhim,“Oh,yes,obviously.”
“See?Obviously.”Parkerslappedmeontheshoulder.Itensed,tryingnottoreelaway,whensomeoneontheothersideoftherestaurantcalledParker’sname,andhesaidhisgoodbyesandwanderedovertothem.Ishiveredwhenhefinallyletgoofme.
Drewsaidinamockwhisper,“See?He’stheworst.”
“Youweren’tkidding.”
BenjiAndorgaveusanapologeticlook.“Iwouldsayhemeanswell,butweallknowhedoesn’t.”
“Iwould’vecalledyoualiar,anyway,”IrepliedbeforeIcouldstopmyself.
“He’ssomeone’svillainoriginstory,”Drewagreed,andthencockedherheadinthought.“Probablymine,tobehonest.”
Herumbledagood-naturedlaugh.“IfParkercomesovertobotheryouagain,letmeknow.”
“Thankyou,butIthinkwecanhandlehimourselves,”Drewreplied.
“Absolutely,I’djustliketowatch,”hesaidwithawink,andafteragoodbye,hemigratedovertoadifferentcornertostandsilentlyagain,likethebroodingtreehewas.
Wedidn’thavetostandaroundawkwardlyfortoomuchlonger,becauseJamesAshtonbreezedintotherestaurant,allsmilesandcharmingdimples,inabutton-downmaroonshirtandinsanelywell-fittingjeans,andItriedtoschoolmyfaceasbestIcould.Ididn’twanthimtogetthewrongimpressionofme—again
Drewelbowedmeinthesideandhissed,“Stoplookinglikeyouwanttomurderhim!”
Apparently,itwasn’tworking.Igroaned.“That’sjustmyface!”
Jamesroundedtothefrontofthekitchenandclappedhishandstogeteveryone’sattention.“Welcome!”hegreeted.“It’ssonicetoseeallofyourlovelyfaces.Ihopeyouhaveallcomereadywithopenheartsandemptystomachs.Now,followmebacktothekitchen.I’veprepareddifferentstationsforeveryonesowecanlearnhowtocookaspecialtyhereattheOliveBranch…”
Drewreallyshouldn’thavebeenallthatworriedaboutcooking.Asitturnedout,weweren’ttheworstcooksinthekitchen—thathonorwent,fulltilt,toParker,who,alongwithhispublicistandmarketingdirector,settheirentirestationonfire.Jamesrushedoverwithanextinguisherandpattedhimontheshoulderafterwardwithalaugh.
“Happenstothebestofus!”hesaid.
Inthisintimatesetting,JamesAshtonwasniceandpersonable,andhewasaverypatientteacher,buttherewassomethingdistantaboutthewayhesmiledateveryone,somethingguardedwhenevereditorsaskedquestions.IkeptlookingforsomecrackinhisfacadetoseethemanIknewunderneath—likeIsawinthemeetingroom—butheseemedtohavepracticed.Hewasn’tlettinganyonegetclose,whichononehandwassmartandprofessional—oh,hewassoveryprofessional—anditmademewonderhowandwhyhe’dbecomesopracticedandrefined.
Despitethat,thecookingclasswassomuchfun,IsoonforgotthatI’dbeenworriedatall.Weendedupgettingfloureverywhereaswemaderavioli,stealingsipsofcookingwinebetweenlearninghowtoreducethesauce,andwetearedupwhencuttingonionsandsaidourfinalrightstothechickenasweslitthebreastsdownthemiddle.BenjiAndorwasbesidehimselfatthestationnexttous,laughingsomuchhehadtoexcusehimselftositdownandcatchhisbreath.(“Ihaven’tbeenthiswindedsinceacarknockedthespiritoutofme.”)Wehadsomehowblunderedourwaythroughthecookingclass,butweknewweweren’tgoingtogettopmarksforpresentation.
AndwhenJamesAshtonfinallycamearoundtoourstation,helookedmoderatelyentertainedbyourravioli.“Theylook…”
Likevaginas.Notthatanyofusweregoingtosayit.
“LiketheOliveBranch’sspecialty,”Isaidinstead,echoinghisdeclarationfromearlier,andtookanothersipofthecookingwine.
Drewwantedtodie.
Jamesbittheinsideofhischeek,tryinghardtokeephisprofessionalpersona—butthere.Isawit.Thecrackinhisimage.“Howdidyouevenmanagethis?”heaskedonlyafterhewasabletolookaway.
“Theykeptfallingapart,”Drewsaidmeekly.“Sowejustkindof…squishedthemtogether?”
Henodded,hisfaceearnest.“They’lltastegreatregardless,I’msure.”
Icoughedintomyshouldertodisguisealaugh,andDrewelbowedmeinthesideasJamesambledawaytogocheckuponFalconHouse.“Ican’tbelieveyousaidtheylookedlikehisrestaurant’sspecialty!”shehissed.
“Theydo,Drew,”Ireplied.“Wouldyourathermesaytheylooklikevulvas?Eachoneofthem’salittledifferent.”
Sherolledhereyesandstartedtossingthemintotheboilingpot.“You’retheworst.”
Ielbowedherback.“You’regladIcame.”
“Immensely.”
Therestofthecookingclasswentaboutaswellasexpected.Wefinishedupourfood,andJamestalkedalittleabouthowheranhiskitchen.“Agoodkitchenrunsonexcellence,butagreatkitchenrunsoncommunicationandtrust,”hesaid,glancingovertomeasIgavehimsecretivefingergunsbehindDrew’sback.Hesteadfastlyignoredit.“Iwanttothankyouallforcomingouttonight.Iknowthisisabitdifferentthanwhatyounormallygothroughtoacquireabook,soIappreciateyourwillingnesstoexplorecuisinewithme.”
Iwishedhesoundedalittlemoreenthused,likehehadinmyaunt’sapartment.Iwantedtoseethatpartofhim—theexcited,passionatepart,butitfeltdulledalittleintheharshkitchenlightsoftheOliveBranch.MyheartfeltfullandheavythinkingabouttheIwanwaitingformeinmyaunt’sapartment,andtheoneherewithusnow,sodifferentandyetsosimilar.
Hedidn’ttalkaboutbestoffersorfinalbids.Hetalkedaboutfoodandtechnique,andhehopedthatwe’dallcomebacktovisithimwhetherornotitworkedout.
Aftertheclass,hewentaroundandthankedeveryone,andweallputourleftoversinto-gobagsandexitedtherestaurant,laughingandpickingonParkerforalmostsettingtheentirerestaurantonfire.
“I’mabettereditorthancook!”washisdefense.
AndDrewreplied,“Tobefair,weallare.”
Outside,ablondwomanwaited,andsherusheduptoBenjiAndorwhenhecameout.Hebentandkissedheronthecheek,andhandedherhisterribleravioli,andtheysplitofftowardthesubwaystation.Parkergrumbledasheandhisteamcaughtataxi.Drew’sUbercamefirst.
“Icanwaitforyours,”shesaid,butIwavedheroff.
“Nah,itshouldbehereanyminute.”
“Okay.”Shehuggedandkissedmeonthecheek.“Thankyouforbeingonmyteam.I’mnotsurewhatI’ddowithoutyou,Clementine.”
“You’dstillkickass.Here,youcantakemineforFiona,”Iadded,handinghermyfood,aftershegotintotheUber.
“Fionawillloveyouforever.”
“Iknow.”
Thecardroveaway,andsoonenoughIwastheonlyoneleftoutsidetheOliveBranch.MyUberwascirclingthewrongblockforthesecondtime,andIbegantogetthefeelingthatthedriverwasabouttocanceltherideandflagmeasano-show.Ishouldprobablytakethetrainhome,anyway,andsavemymoney.Besides,itwassuchalovelynight.Themoonwasroundandlarge,framedperfectlybetweenthebuildingslikethemaincharacterinherownfilm,reflectingoffthewindows,cascadingsilverylightintothewarmorangeofstreetlights.Forafewhours,I’dbeensofocusedoncookingthatIhadn’tthoughtaboutRhonda’sretirementorthependingdisasterthatwasStrauss&AdderPublishersifwedidn’tgetJames.No,focusedwasn’texactlytherightword.Myjawdidn’thurtfromclenchingit;instead,mycheekshurtfromsmilingsomuch.Ihadn’thadthatmuchfunin…averylongtime.Especiallywheremyjobwasconcerned.
EvenbeforethisJamesAshtonbusiness,Icouldn’trememberthelasttimeIactuallyhadfunatwork.Iusedto—IknowIdid,Iwouldn’thavestayedatStrauss&AdderifIdidn’t—evenwhenIwasworkingmyselftothebone.Therehadbeensomethinginvigoratingaboutmasteringthejob,beingsurroundedbypeoplewholovedthesamethings,butoverthelastfewyears…Iwasn’tsure.Thejobneverchanged,butIthinkwhatIenjoyedaboutitdid.Myjobusedtofeellikechasingthemoon,andnowitjustfeltlikeplanningouthowtogiveittootherpeople.
Butthatwaswhatajobyoulovedwassupposedtofeellike,right?Whenyou’dbeenthereawhile?
AsIstood,wondering,watchingmyUbertakeanotherwrongturn,someonecameupbesidemeonthesidewalk.
Iglancedover.ItwasJames,havinglockedupfortheevening,swinginghiskeysaroundonhisfirstfinger.Helookedjustaspristineashehadafewhoursbefore,andIresistedtheurgetoscrubmyfingersthroughhishairtomakehimalittlelessperfect.Icertainlyfeltlikeamessbesidehim.
“Ithinkwegotoffonthewrongfoot,”hesaidingreeting.
“We?”Iechoed,turningtohim.“Don’tdragmeintoyourbaddecisions.”
Hesnortedalaugh,andputhishandsinthepocketsofhisdark-washjeans.Theyfithimtooterriblywell,huggingeverycurve.Itwasn’tthefirsttimethatnightthatIthoughthehadaniceass,afterall.NotthatI’deversaythattoaprospectiveauthor.Orsayitaloudatall.Infact,Iprobablyshouldnothavethoughtitinthefirstplace.“Fine,fine,”hesaid,hisvoicelightandwarm.“Istartedoffonthewrongfoot.”
“Better.”Intheapp,mydriverkeptcirclingandcircling.Bradwasn’tgoingtocomepickmeup,washe?
“Youknow,”hesaid,andgaveafrustratedsigh,scrunchinghisnose,“thispartwasaloteasierinmyhead.”
Surprised,Iglancedupathimagain.“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”
Heturnedtomethen,andIwishedhedidn’tlookashandsomeashedidinthestreetlight,thewaytheorangesandbrownsinhisauburnhairglimmered,afewstreaksofsilverathiswidow’speak,buthedidandIcouldn’tquitebringmyselftolookaway.Itstruckmethen,howstrangeitwastoseehimoutintheworldandnotinasmall,crampedapartmentontheUpperEastSide.Hewashere,real.Inmytime.
ItmademystomachknotinawayIcouldn’texactlydescribe.
“Areyouhungry?”heasked.
Iinclinedmyhead.
Drewhadbeensnackingallevening,butI’dbeensonervousIcouldn’teatatall.Itwasprobablyabadideatocrossanysortofprofessionalboundary,butthiswasjustfood.Itwasn’tamarriageproposaloranything.Besides,hewassuchamysterytome,Icouldn’treallyresist.AndIwas,infact,starving.ButmaybenotforthethingIthought…
IcanceledmyUberandasked,“Whatdoyouhaveinmind?”
Hepointedwithhisheaddownthesidewalk,andtippedhisbodyalittle,beforehebegantowalkinthatdirection,anditmusthavebeenthewayNewYorkCityfeltatnight—theglowofpossibility,shruggingofftheheatofthedaytobright,glitteryevening—butIfollowed.26WashingtonSquareArch
Myauntusedtotellmethatsummernightsinthecityweremadetobeimpossible.Theywereasbriefasyouneededthem,butneverlongenough,whentheroadsstretchedintothedarkness,theskyscrapersclimbedintothestars,andwhenyoutippedyourheadback,theskyfeltinfinite.
“So…”Ibegan,becausethesilencebetweenuswasbecomingalittleawkward,“didyouplanonwhattosayafteryouaskedmetodinner?”
Heflashedmeabashfulsmile.“Notreally.I’mprettybadatplanning.”
“Ah.”
Wewalkedanotherblocksilently.
Then,heaskedtheworstpossiblequestion—“How’syouraunt?”
Thequestionfeltlikeapunchinthegut.Iputmyhandsinmypocketstokeepthemfromshaking,andIsteeledmyselftoanswer.“Shepassedaway.Aboutsixmonthsago.”
“Oh.”Herubbedthebackofhisneck,ashamed.“I—Ididn’tknow.”
“Ididn’texpectyouto.”Westoppedatthenextintersection,andglancedbothwaysbeforewecrossed,buttherewerenocarscomingeitherway.“It’sbeensevenyears.”
“Andyoulooklikeyouhaven’tagedaday.”
Ileanedbackonmyheels,andstartedwalkingbackwardinfrontofhim.“Doyouwantmetotellyoumyskincareroutine?”BecauseIdoubtedhe’dbelievethetruth.“Icouldgiveittoyouincrystal-cleardetail.”
“AreyousayingIlookold?”
“Distinguishedisamuchbetterspinonit.”
Hismouthdroppedopen,andhepressedahandtohischestwithagasp.“Ouch!AndhereIthoughtweweretryingtogetoffontherightfoot.”
“Youwere,”Ireminded,unabletobiteinagrin.Iturnedonmyheelsagainandwaitedforhimtocatchupwithme.“I’mjoking,bytheway.”
Hepressedhishandsagainsthisface,asifhecouldsmoothoutthecrow’sfeetaroundhiseyes.“IfeellikeIneedtogetBotoxnow…”
“Iwasjoking!”Ilaughed.
“Maybeplasticsurgery.”
“Oh,please,andruinyourperfectnose?”
“AmIbalding,too?MaybeIcanjustgetanewfacealtogether—”
Igrabbedhimbythearmtostophim.“Ilikeyourface,”Itoldhimingoodhumor,andbeforeIcouldstopmyself,Ireachedupandcuppedhischeek,mythumbtracingoverthelaughterlinesaroundhismouth.Ablushrusheduphisthroattohischeeks,butinsteadofleaningaway,heclosedhiseyesandleanedintothepalmofmyhand.
Myheartstutteredbrightly.Theskinonhischeekwasroughwithfinestubble,andasIlookedathim—reallylooked—therewassomuchthesameaboutthismanIdidn’treallyknow,thatitalmostfeltlikeIdid.Butforeverythingthatwasthesame,thereweresmallbitsthatweredifferent.Hiseyebrowsweregroomed,hishairtrimmedneat.Iranmythumbdownhisnose,feelingthecrookedbumpthere.
“Whendidyoubreakyournose?”Iasked,finallydroppingmyhand.
Hislipstwitchedintoagrin.“It’snotnearlyascoolofastoryasyou’rethinking.”
“Soyoudidn’tbreakitinabarfight?”Iasked,mockaghast.
“Sister’sweddingaboutayearago,”hereplied.“Shethrewthebouquet.Iwasstandingtooclosetothepeopletryingtocatchit.”
“Andyougotsmackedbyoneofthem?”
Heshookhishead.“Bythebouquet.Hadalittlesilverclasponit.Smackedmerightinthenose.”
Ilaughed.Icouldn’thelpit.“You’rekidding!Didyouatleastcatchtheflowers?”
Hescoffed.“Whatdoyoutakemefor?OfcourseIcaughtthem.Mysisterandallherfriendswerelivid.”Westartedwalkingagain,andWashingtonSquareParkwasjustahead.Therewasafoodtruckonthefarside,butIcouldn’tmakeoutthenameofityet.
“So,technically,”Irealized,“you’resupposedtogetmarriednext.”
“That’swhytheywerelivid,yes.Ihaven’tbeenmuchforcommitment.”
“YourInstagramtellsmeasmuch.”
Hegaspedagain.“I’mhonoredthatyouresearchedme!”
Ipointedtomyself.“Publicist.It’smyjob.”
“Sure,sure,”hesettled,andthengaveaone-shoulderedshrug.ThekindIremembered—anditstillinfuriatedmetheexactsameway.“MaybeIjusthadn’tfoundwhoIwaslookingforyet.”
Iglancedoverathim.Studiedthelinesofhisface,howthestreetlightscuttheshadowsofhisfacesharp.“Andwhoareyoulookingfor,James?”
“Iwan,”hecorrectedsoftly,athoughtfullookflickeringacrosshisface.“MyfriendscallmeIwan.”
Iinclinedmyhead.“IsthatwhatIam?”
Iwasn’tsurewhatkindofanswerIwanted—that,yes,Iwasafriend?Orthat,no,weshouldn’tcrossprofessionalboundaries?Or—
DoIwanthimtosayI’msomethingmore?
Thatwasasillythought,becauseI’dseenthetypeofwomenhehaddated,andnotasingleoneofthemwaslikeme—overworkednerdypublicistswitharthistorydegreeswhospenttheirbirthdaysdrinkingwineoutofflasksinfrontofvanGoghpaintings.
“Well,”hebegan,“actually—”27YoMama’sFajitas
“Iwan!isthatyou?”amancriedfromthefoodtruck,startlingusbothoutofourconversation.We’dsomehowendedupinfrontofabrightyellowtruckwithahighlystylizedlogoonthesidethatreadYoMama’sFajitas.Alinecurveddownthesidewalk,mostlycollegekidsandyoungpeopletakingclassesoverthesummerattheNYUcampusnearby.
Iwan?
Thendidthatmean—
Alargermanwavedfromthewindowofthefoodtruck,andJames’sfacelitupatthesightofhim.“Miguel!”hecried,throwingupawave.Themanabandonedhisstationandcameoutofthebackofthetruck.HewasaburlyHispanicguy,withcurlydarkhairpulledintoabun,theundersidesshaved,tawny-brownskin,andasmilelargerthanlife—likeyoucouldtellhecrackedsomereallygreatjokes.Theyhuggedeachotherquickly—completewithasecrethandshakeandeverything.
“Hey,hey,IthoughtIwouldn’tseeyou’tiltheweekend!”Miguelgreetedhim.“What’stheoccasion?Heretoaskforajob?”Hewiggledhisthickblackeyebrows.
“Readytocomeworkinmykitchen?”Jamesvolleyedback.
“Inthatexpensive-assnewrestaurantofyours?Fuckthat,”Miguelreplied.
Jamesshrugged.“Worthashot.”
Miguelglancedovertome.“Andwho’sthis?”
“ThisisLemon,”Jamesintroduced,wavingmeover.Lemon.NotClementine.Iguessheonlyusedmyactualnameinprofessionalsettings.
Ioutstretchedmyhand,decidingnottocorrecthim.IguessIwasn’tgoingtobearoundenoughforhisfriendstoneedafullname.“Hi.It’sapleasure.”
Miguelacceptedmyhandandshookit—hisgripwashardandfirm,andIimmediatelylikedthisguy.“Lemon,eh?Nicetomeetyou.How’dyouendupwiththisguy?”
With?
Igaveastart,quicklypanicking.“Oh,we’renottogether—we’rejust—yousee,IwaswaitingforanUberanditnevercameandIwasjustatacookingclassandreallyI’mhis—”
“We’veknowneachotherforawhile,”Jamesinterjected,glancingoveratmetoseeifitwasagoodsave.Itwas.Iwantedtomeltintothepavement,Iwassorelieved.“Oldacquaintances.”
“Yes,that,”Iagreed,thoughMiguelseemedimmediatelysuspicious,butbeforehecouldaskthehowsofhowwemet,theotherpersoninthefoodtruckleanedoutofthewindowandshoutedathim:“Hey,asshole!Youleavemeinhereallalonewiththissortofline?”
TowhichMiguelturnedbackandmotionedtoJames.“Isa!Iwan’shere!”
“Well,tellIwantogetinline!”thewomanreplied,duckingbackinthroughthewindow.Shewasatallandmuscularwhitewoman,herhoney-coloredhairpulledbackfromherfaceinaponytail,herearsarmoredwithhalfadozenearrings,herbarearmsfilledwithsomanydifferenttattoos,theymeldedtogetherinatapestry.Then,onsecondthought,sheduckedherheadbackoutandadded,“Iwan,ifyou’reheretomoochoffusagain,atleasthandoutthedrinks!”
“He’sherewithadate!”Miguelreplied.
Jamesgavehimabetrayedlook.“It’snot—”
Isashouted,“Thenhebetterordersomething—wecloseattensharp!”
Miguel’ssmilegrewpained.“Ibettergohelpbeforesheplotstokillmeinmysleep.Again,”headdedgrimly,andhurriedbackintothefoodtruck,andtookupthenextorder,andwegotinlineattheend.AfewpeopleglancedbacktolookatJames,thoughonlyoneortwopeoplerecognizedhim,pullingouttheirphonestochecktheimagesonlinenexttohiminreallife.
Jamesseemedabsolutelyoblivioustoit.“That’sMiguelRuizandhisfiancée,andbetterhalf,IsabelleMartin.WeallgraduatedCIAtogether.”
“Oh?”IhadahunchasIcameclosertothetruckandreadthemenu.WithanamelikeYoMama’sFajitas,Ihadaninklingofwhattheyserved,butIwaspleasantlysurprisedanywayasIskimmeddownthemenu.“Youdidit,then,”Isaidwithagrin.
Distractedfromtakinghiswalletoutofhisbackpocket,heasked,“Didwhat?”
“Youbulliedyourfriendwiththefajitarecipeintoopeningafoodtruck.”
Hehadtothinkonthatforamoment,butthenhemusthaveremembered,becauseitdawnedonhimandheseemedveryexcitedashesaid,“Ididmakeyouhisfajitasthefirstnightwemet,didn’tI?Theseareinfinitelybetter.”
“Oh,I’venodoubt.”
“Wow,tellmehowyoureallyfeelaboutmycooking,Lemon.”
“IthinkIjustdid.”
Hismouthfellopeninascandalizedexpression,andI’msurehewould’vehadsomethingverysmartandsnarkytosay,butwecametothefrontofthelineatthatexactmoment,andIwasthankfullydistractedbyorderingachickenfajita,andheabeefone,andtwoCoronas.HelingeredbythefoodtruckasMiguelandIsapreparedourorder,lookingsomuchmoreinhiselementherethaninapristinekitchen,wherehewasdoneupinachef’sjacket,barkingorderstolinecooks.Here,hisshirtwasuntuckedandhishairhadbecomeabitruffledanddroopyfromtheevening’shumidity,ashegaveMigueljustalittlebitofhellforsomeknifetechnique.
“Seriously,lookatthatknife,”Jamessaid,tsking.“That’sgottobethedullestthinginthatkitchen—andthatincludesyou.”
“I’vefeelings,bro.”
Isasaidwhileplatinganotherfajita,notmissingabeat,“No,youdon’t.Isquashedthoseyearsago.”
“Frombothsides?Youcanbothfuckoff.”Buthegrinnedatthem.
Jameslaughed,and,oh,itwascharming,howeasyitwas.Likehefitinhere,hangingoutbythewindowofhisfriend’sfoodtruck.Heturnedtomeandasked,“DidyouknowthatintheUS,afoodtruckistechnicallyclassifiedasarestaurant?Andthatbecauseitis,it’seligibleforaMichelinstar?”
“No,Ididn’tknow,”Ireplied.
Miguelrolledhiseyes.“You’renotgonnaconvinceme.”
“I’vedoneitoncealready.”
“Pfff.You’retellingmetogetsomerandomhighbrowfoodcritictocomeoverhere,eatmyfood,andtellmewhatIalreadyknow?No,thanks.Youcankeepyourstars.”Miguelwavedhishand,andwentbacktohiscooktop,andJamesrolledhiseyes.
Iasked,becauseIwasn’tquitesuremyself,“HowdoyougetaMichelinstar?”
Heturnedtomeandwiggledhisfingers.“It’samystery.Well,notthatmuchofamystery,butweneverknowwhenaMichelincriticcomesintoourrestaurants.Wejustknowwhenthey’regone.Usually,theycomebyonceeveryeighteenmonthsorsoifyou’reontheirlist—unlessarestaurantisindangeroflosingastar,thentheycanmakeasurprisevisit.”
“Theysoundabitlikeafoodmafia,”Isaidconspiratorially.
“You’renotwrong.Togetonestar,acritichastocomeintoarestaurantandlikethefoodenoughtoawarditastar.Twostars,acritichastocomefourtimes.Threestars?”Hegavealowwhistle.“Thehardestofall.Tenvisits.Tenconsecutiveperfectdinnersacrossyearsofwork.It’salmostimpossible,whichiswhythereareonlyahandfulofrestaurantsthatarethree-starred.”Hehadthisconflictedlookonhisface,ashespunasilverringaroundonhisthumb.“Mostchefswouldkillforthreestars.”
“Andyou?”
“Iamachef,”hereplied,buttherewasaguardedlookonhisface.Hemotionedtothecooktop,whereMigueldippedoutabowlofsteakstrips,andaddedahandfulofbellpeppersandonions.“MiguelandIsaaretwoofthemosttalentedpeopleIknow.Theymakethislookeasy,buttheirfoodisintricateandincrediblydetailed.Seethesteaks?They’vebeenmarinatingforatleastfourhoursinamixtureof—whatisit?Limejuiceand…?”
“Yomama’ssecretrecipe,”Isaquipped.
Jamesbarkedalaugh.“Right,right.Theingredientsarefresh,andtheychangethemenubasedonwhat’sinseason.Theyhaveapumpkinfajitainthefallthatjust—itblowsmymind.”
Ashetalked,Icouldn’thelpbutjoinintohisexcitement.LikeIdidintheapartment.Hetalkedtoomuchwithhishands,lacingadjectivesintotheairwithhisfingers,butitwasendearing,andtheotherpeopleinlinecouldn’thelpbutleanintolisten.
Whenhelitup,wewerelikemothstoaflame.
Iwishedthishadbeenthesideofhimhe’dshowninthatconferenceroom,andinthatcookingclass—everywhere,really,thatmattered.
ThiswasthepartofhimIfearedhaddisappeared,buthe’djustschooleditandkeptithiddenforfriendswhowouldn’tgiveuphissecret.
“Whyareyousmiling?DidIsaysomethingfunny?”heaskedsuddenly,droppinghishands.
“No,sorry—Ijust—Imissedthis.”AndImotionedtohim.
“Meboringyouwithfood?”heasked.
Ishookmyhead.“Youbeingpassionateaboutit.”
Aconflictedlookcrossedhisbrows.“I’malwayspassionateaboutit.”
Whydon’tyoushowitmoreoften,then?Iwantedtoask,butIfeltthatmightbealittlerude.Besides,sevenyearsmadehimalmostastranger,sowhowasItosayanything,anyway?“Iknow,Ijust—Imissedit.Inthe”—Iwavedmyhandabsently—“sevenyears.Itwasalongtime.”
“Ah.”Jamesnodded,bitinginasmilethatwasjustalittlebitcrooked,andthehollowpartofmychestached—thepartthathadbeencarvedoutbygrief.Itachedforsomethingwarm.Forsomethinggood.Forsomethingthatmaybe,justmaybe,couldstay.Asmileandabittersweetstoryoverlemonpie.
AndIwasintroubletonight,becauseIsmiledback.
“Ithinkitwasalittlelongerforme,”hesaidatlast.
Myeyeswidened.
Suddenly,myphonebuzzed,andIquicklytoremygazeawayfromhimandpulleditoutofmypurse,expectingittobeoneofmyauthorsstrandedatanotherairportorconventionhotel.ItwasFionaandDrew.Crap—I’dforgottentotextDrewandtellherthat…what,Iwasoutgettingdinnerwithourprospectiveclient?
Maybenot.
EARTHTOCLEMENTINE!!!Fionatexted,alongwithaslewofemojisIhopedmeantthatshewasconcernedandnotabouttomurderme.
Areyoumurdered?Drewasked.Doweneedtofileapolicereport?
CLEMENTINEMIDDLENAMEWESTAREYOUALIVE,Fionaadded.TEXTY/N.
Ireallylovedmyfriends.Ialsowishedtheywouldn’thaveruinedthemoment.
Jamesasked,alittleworried,“Iseverythingokay?”
“Oh,yeah.Ijusthavetoanswerthis.”Orelsemyfriendsmightactuallyfileamissingperson’sreportonme.“Myfriends.They’realittle…”
“Saynomore,”hereplied,raisinghishands.“I’vegotthefood.Youcangofindaseatforus,ifyouwant?”
“Sure,thanks.”AndIquicklyleftthefoodtruck,whichwasperhapsforthebestbecauseIwasgettingwaytoowarmstandingbesidehim,andhewaslookingmuchtoohandsome,andthatwasthekindoflineIwasnotgoingtocross.IheadedforthestonebenchesinfrontoftheWashingtonSquareArch,andsattheretowait.
Fionafollowedthatupwith,Okaymaybedon’ttext.IFYOU’RETHEMURDERERWE’RECOMINGAFTERYOUBUDDY.
Drewadded,YEAHGETFUCKED.
YOUTELL’EMBABE
Bothofyouneedtocalmdown,Ifinallytexted,glancingoveratthefoodtruck.MiguelwassayingsomethingtoJames,wholookedbashful,rubbingthebackofhisneck.Iwantedtocommitthatimagetomemory,putitinaframeinmyhead,thestreetlightsbrightagainsthishair,theshadowsacrosshisfaceinbluesandpurples.I,notforthefirsttimetonight,feltmyfingerstwitchwiththethoughtofpaintinghiminvividcolors,tocapturethemoment.Tomakeitlastforever.
Immediately,Fionatexted,HOLYCRAPSHE’SALIVE.BABESHE’SALIVE.
HALLALUJUAH,Drewadded.
Thenagain,*HALLILUJIAH
Then,**HALLALUDSHGAKJA
Asmilebrokeoutacrossmylips.Drewaren’tyousupposedtobeaneditor?Iasked.
Drewsentafrowningface.
Fionasaid,ClearlysheneverhadtopirateRufusWainwrightoffLimewire.
IthinkIjustagedtenyearsreadingthattext,Ireplied,thentoldthemIwasoutgettingdinnerwithafriendI’dmetonthesidewalk—notquitealie,Ifigured—andputmyphoneawayasJamescameoverwithourfood,twoCoronasunderhisarm.Itookthebeersashesatdown,andhepoppedthemopenonthesideofthebenches.
“Togoodfood,”hesaid,handingmemine.
“Andgoodcompany,”Ireplied,andweclinkedthebottleneckstogether,andImadedowithpaintingthissummereveninginmyhead.Thenightamixofmidnight-blueandpurplehaze,flecksofpearl,andloud,brightpinksthatonlyIcouldsee,metaphorsforhowIfelt.
Thenightwaswarm,andthebeerwascold,andthecompanywas,infact,quiteperfect.Peoplestrolledunderthearch,laughingwitheachother,andtheparkmadetheskylooksowideIcouldalmostseethestars.Wechattedasweate.Heaskedaboutmyjob,andIaskedhimabouthis.Thenewrestauranthewasopeningtookupagoodmajorityofhistime,sohissouschefattheOliveBranchwasdoingalotoftheheavylifting,andhefeltbadaboutit.
“WasthatthechefImetlastweek?”Iasked,recallingthesouswhotoldmetoleavethekitchen.
“IonaSamuels,”herepliedwithanod.“OneofthebestchefsIhave.Shedoesn’tknowityet,butshe’sgoingtobetheheadchefattheBranchonceIleave.Ican’timaginetherestaurantinbetterhands.”
“Isitbittersweet?Leavingaplaceyou’vebeenforthelastsevenyears?”
Hegaveaone-shoulderedshrug.“Somewhat,butit’sgoodformybrand,andmycareer.”Itwasniceseeinghislifepanoutexactlythewayhewanteditto.Itdidn’tmatterwhatIthoughtabouthisglossylife.
Iwasinsolittleofit,afterall.
“I’veworkedsomuch,”hewenton,“Ireallycan’tstopnow.Don’treallywantto.”
“You’vebuiltsomethingamazing.Ibetyourgrandpa’sproud.”
Hehesitated,andtookanotherlongswigofbeer.“Hepassed,actually.”
Itfeltlikethewindgotpunchedoutofme.“Oh—oh,I’msosorry.”
Heshookhishead.“It’sokay,really.It’sbeenalmostsevenyearsnow.Hepassedrightafter—”Hestoppedhimself,andsaidinstead,“AfewdaysafterIgotmyownapartment.”
Soafterheleftmyaunt’splace.Afterthesummer.Sosoon,though,afterhegothisjob.Hisgrandpadidn’tevengettoseehimbecomethechefhewastoday.Itwasunfair,really.Iwasn’tsurehowtocomforthim—orevenifhewantedcomfort.Ithadbeensevenyears,afterall…andheseemedtobeabletotalkabouthisgrandpaalotbetterthanIcouldaboutmyaunt.Intheend,Ijustsaid,“Lookatallyou’vedone.You’reabouttoopenupyourownrestaurant.You’vemadehimproud.”
“Ihave,”heagreed,thoughtherewasn’tegoinhisvoice.Therewasjust…atiredness?Yeah—hesoundedtired.“AndI’vegivenupalottobehere.Relationships,friendships,othercareeropportunities…onlywaytogoisup.”
Itookonelastbiteofchickenfajita,studyinghiminthestreetlights.“Doyouregretit?”
“IfIsaidIdid,”hereplied,lookingthoughtful,“wouldthatbeadisservicetothepastmewhodreamedofgettinghere?Probably.”Butthenaslowsmilespreadacrosshislips,honeyedandcoy.“Thoughit’sagoodthingIdon’t.But…”Hehesitated.“Idoregretnotbeingthere.Foryou,”headded.“Whenyourauntpassed.Iregretthat.”
Aknotformedinmythroat.Ilookedaway.Anywhereelse.“It’sfine,”Isaidshortly.“I’mfine.”
“No,”hemumbled,studyingmyface,andIknewitlookedalittlelost,alittlebroken,“youaren’t.”
“Whydidn’tyoucomefindme,then?”Iaskedabruptly.“Overthelastsevenyears?”
Hisfacepinched,hesetdownhisplateonthebenchbesidehimandstartedtocleanhishands.Iimaginedhewasthinkingabouthowbesttobreakittomethathedidn’tcareto,thatifhewantedtohecouldhave,buthejustplantedahandbetweenus,leanedonitashecameinclose,andwhispered,“Wouldyouhavebelievedme,Lemon?”28TimeWellTraveled
“I…don’tunderstandwhatyoumean,”Iconfessed.
Hesighedandleanedbackagain,lookingaroundthepark,toagroupofyoungpeopletakingphotosunderthearch.“Thenletmesetthescene.Sevenyearsago.You’re…what,twenty-two?Ifindyou,andI’mastranger,right?Becauseyouwon’tknowmeforanothersevenyears.”
Hiswordscaughtmeoffguard,andIalmostchokedonmybeerasItriedtotakeanothersip.Whathadhesaidearlier?“Ithinkitwasalittlelongerforme”?“You—youknow,then?That…”
“Yeah,”herepliedshortly.“Ido.”
Iwasn’tsurewhatwasmoreshocking:therealizationthathehadthoughtaboutcomingtofindme,orthefactthatatsomepointinthenextfewweeksbeforehemovedoutofmyaunt’sapartment,Iwouldtellhimthetruth.Isatupalittlestraighterattherealization—“Imakeitback,then,don’tI?Totheapartmentinyourtime?”
Heconcentratedonastreetlight.“Idon’tremember.”
Istudiedhisfaceforalongmoment,tryingtoseeifIcouldtellifhewaslying,thesetofhismouth,anuncertaintyinhiseyes,buthedidn’tbetrayanything,notevenwhenhecaughtmestaring,andreturnedit.
“Idon’tremember,Lemon,”heinsisted,andIquicklylookedaway.
Doessomethinghappen?Iwantedtoask.Somethingsoterriblethathecouldn’teventellme?Itriedtothinkbackandrememberthatsummersevenyearsago,whenIwentgallivantingoffwithmyauntatamoment’snotice.ItwasthefirstandonlytimemyauntandIstoleawayformonths,chargingourphonesincafésandsleepinginhostels.ThenextyearIhadajobatStrauss&Adder,andsoweplannedatripattheendofsummereveryyearinstead.We’dmeetattheMetonmybirthday,suitcasesinhand,andwe’dsitandvisitvanGoghforawhile,andthenleaveforplacesunknown.
Ididn’trememberthedayIcamehomefromthatglorioussummerabroadsevenyearsago.IrememberedtaxiingwaytoolongonthetarmacinLaGuardia,solongtheyranoutofcomplimentarywine,andIremembereddroppingmyauntoffatherapartment,hugginghergoodbye,andbeingsotiredIaccidentallycaughtataxiwithanotherpersonalreadyinside
Ifrowned.
Jamesreachedtowardmeandsmoothedouttheskinbetweenmybrowswithhisthumb.Hedidn’tsayanything,buthedidn’thaveto,becauseIfiguredIhadthatlookonmyfaceagain,thatdistantsourone,likeIwassuckingonalemondrop.
“Doyounotremember,ordoyounotwanttotellme?”Iasked,pullingawayfromhim,andhetiltedhisheadtoonesideanddebatedonhowtoanswer.
“Isthereathirdoption?”
“Sure,butwhatisit?”
Hehesitated,andlookeddownathishalf-eatenfajitaasifhewastryingtofigureouthowtosaywhatheneededto,andsuddenlyIgottheterriblefeelingthatitwouldjustmakeeverythingworse.
“Sorry,”Isaidquickly.“Youdon’thavetoanswerthat.Wow,I—Ireallydon’tknowhowtocarryonanormalconversation,doI?What’syourfavoriteband?Favoritebook?Favoritecolor?”
“Tsk,tsk,youstillhavetoguessit—oh,no,”headdedquieter,catchingsightofsomethingbehindme,andhisgazedarkened.“IfeellikeI’mabouttoregretthis.”
“What?”Iglancedovermyshoulder.
MiguelandIsawereclosingupthetruck,pullingdowntheirwindowcoveringandlockingtheirdoors,beforeheadingoverourway.Icheckedmywatch.Theyreallydidcloseattensharp,didn’tthey?
Jamessaidastheycameover,“Ihopeyoudon’thavewhatIthinkyouhaveinthatbrownbag,Miguel.”
“Pffff,absolutelynot.Wantone?”Migueladdedtome,slidingtositdownbesideme,andofferedmethecontentsofthebag.Itookoutachip,anditlookedtobecoatedinsugar.
Itastedone.Definitelybrownsugar.“Oh,that’sgood.Whatisthat?”
JamesarchedaneyebrowatMiguel,andtookonehimself.“Miguel’sactualspecialty,”hetoldme.“Tortillachipstossedincinnamonsugarandsomethingelse.Stillhaven’tfigureditout.”
Migueltsked.“NotevenIsaknowsit.”
Thedessertchipswerelovelyandsweet,andhadanicegreasycrunchtothem.Theywerequiteperfectafterthefajitas.Iateanotherone.“Cayennepepper?”Iguessed.
Takingahandfulofthemfromthebag,Isasaid,“He’llnevertellyou—whetheryou’rerightorwrong.Mybetisdehydratedsriracha.”
“Doesn’thavetherightkickforsriracha,”Jamesmused.
Migueljustlookedhappythatnoonecouldguessit.“Why’sitmatter?Doyouwanttotakeallofmysecrets?”
“Mighthelpwithhiscookbook,”Isasaid.“Godknowshecan’tdobreads.”
“I’mnotbadatthem,”Jamesrepliedindignantly,“andchipsaren’tbread.”
Shelaughedandscrubbedhishair.“SaystheguywhoalmostfailedIntrotoBreadstwice.”
“And,”Migueladded,lookingatme,“hewearsitlikeabadgeofhonor.”ThenhereachedoverandpulledJames’shairbackfrombehindhiseartoshowmethetattoothere.ThewhiskI’dseenbefore,nowfaded,thelinesalittleblurry.
JamesmadeadisgruntlednoiseandslappedMiguel’shandaway.“Yeah,don’tgiveawayallmysecrets.”
“Pffff”MiguelwavedhishandatJames,andleanedintome.“Youknowhowhegotthattattoo?”
“It’sfuckinghilarious,”Isaadded,slinginganarmaroundJames’sshoulder
“Don’tlistentothem,”Jamespleadedtome,hishandbrushingacrossmine,toolightandlingeringnottobepurposeful.“They’lltellyounothingbutlies.They’reliars.”
“SpeakingofIntrotoBreads…firstdayatCIA.Thethreeofusweretheoldestpeoplethere,”Miguelsaid,andJamesshookhishead.
“Oh,no,notthatstory.”
“It’sagoodstory!”Miguelrebutted,andleanedtowardme.“Anyway,thisguygetscalledonbythechefteachingus,andwe’reallelbowdeepindough,right?”
“Ihatethisstorysomuch,”Jamesgroaned,pullinghishanddownhisfaceinagony.
“Hewasasked—Isa,whatwasheasked?”
Shetookanotherchipfromthebag.“Hewasaskedwhathewasdoing.”
“Iwasfollowingdirections,”Jamesmumbled.
“Hesays—tothissuper-stodgychef,bytheway—‘WhatdoesitlooklikeI’mdoing?I’mbeatin’it.’Elbowdeepindough.Flouronhisface.Yeastspilledacrossthecounter.Using—whatthefuckwereyouusing?Awoodenspoon?Hewaspurechaos.”
Isacackled.“Andtheteacherjustlookedathimandsaid,‘Whisk,youwhiskit.’?”
Jamespointedout,“Tobefair,I’dneverseenaDanishwhiskinmylife.ThenIsadecidedthatwe’dallgooutdrinkingthatnightandwoundupatatattooshopand”—heshrugged—“that’sit.That’sthestory.”
TowhichMiguelandIsabothshowedmetheutensilsbehindtheirleftears,too—aspatulaandaladle.
“Well,nowIfeelleftout,”Isaid.“Iwantacookingutensilbehindmyear.WhichonewouldIbe?”
Isatookanotherhandfulofchipsfromthebag.“Nah,you’renotacookingutensil.You’dbe…hmm.”
“Apaintbrush,”Jamessaidsoverycertainly.
Miguelasked,“You’reapainter?”
“It’sjustahobby,”Iquicklyreplied.“I’mabookpublicist,actually.It’sagreatjob.Iworkunderoneofthemosttalentedpeopleinmyfield,andit’ssuchanhonor.Iloveit.”
OntheothersideofJames,Isaasked,“Whydoyouloveit?”
Iopenedmymouth—andfroze.
ThatwasaharderquestionthanIthought.
Thethingwas,Ilovedmyjob,too,butifIwashonestwithmyself?Iwasn’tsureIwaspassionateaboutitanymore—notlikeRhondawas,orthepersonIusedtobe,sixmonthsago,whojustkeptclimbinghigherandhigher,andthat’sallshewanted,but—
IsawhowhungryandexcitedDrewwasaboutthepossibilityofacquiringJames’sbook,howevenasshenearedretirement,Rhondawaspassionateaboutherjobuntiltheveryend,andmostlyIjustfelt…tired.
IthoughtaboutthelastconversationIhadwithmyaunt—“Let’sgoonanadventure,mydarling.”
And,honestly?Anadventuresoundednice.
“I…justdo,”Iendedupreplying.“Andithelpsthatmytwobestfriendsalsoworkwithme.Whatmadeyouwanttobeachef?”Iaskedher.
“Mymom’sarenownedpastrychef—excuseme,patissiere.Igrewupinthebacksofkitchens,”Isasaid.“Ithinkmyfavoritething,though?Thewayafreshcroissantsmells.Nothinglikeit.”
“Orwhenyougettheperfectblendofsalt,acid,andfat…”Miguelkissedthetipsofhisfingersandthrewitintothesky.“Makesadishsing.”
“Orthepeoplewhocometotasteyourart,”Jamesagreed,andthenhepursedhislips,andshookhishead.“Thetruthismostrestaurantjobspayshit.Youworkterriblehours.Whileyoumakegreatfood,youusuallyeatshitwhenyougethome.Oryou’retootiredtoeat.Thisbusinessisn’tforeveryone.Ifyou’renotpursuingsomethingworthwhile,thenwhyareyouinthekitchen?”
“Ican’trememberthelasttimeIcookedformyself,”Isadeadpanned,adistantlookinhereyes.
Miguelthrewbacktherestofhisbeer.“Ican’trememberthelasttimesomeonecomplimentedmyfood.”
“Ican’t,either,andI’mabouttoopenarestaurant,hopefullytocriticalacclaim,sohere’shopingsomethingchanges,”Jamesadded,finishingtherestofhisbeer,too,andpushinghimselftohisfeet.Hegrabbedtheemptyplatesandbeerbottles,andwenttogothrowthemaway.Asheleft,asinkingfeelingbegantosettleinmystomach.
Isasighed,eatinganotherchip.“I’msoafraidhe’sgoingtoburnout.”
Miguelrubbedthebackofhisneck.“Iknow.”
IwatchedJamesretreattothetrashcanattheedgeofthesquare.“Burnout?”
“Yeah,”Migueltoldme,watchingJameskickacandownthesidewalk,thenpickitup,andthrowitawaywiththerestofthetrash.“Ijust…sometimesthinkhe’sdoingtoomuch.Notdoingenoughforhimself.”
“Hewantstomakehisgrandpaproud,”Ipointedout.
Henodded.“Yeah,well,atwhatpointshouldhestartwantingtodosomethingforhimself?Ifitwasn’thisgrandpa,itwasChefGauthier,ifitwasn’tGauthier,itwaswhateverhethoughtheneededtodotogettothenextlevel.Overandoverandoveragain,”hesaid,rollinghishandtoemphasize.
“Maybeit’swhathewantstodo,too,”Isapointedout.
“Maybe,”Miguelreplied,“butmaybethere’ssomethingindoingthethingthatbringsyoujoy,too.Evenifit’snotthethingthatgetsyouafuckin’Michelinstar.”
IfinishedmybeerasJamesreturned,hishandsinhisdark-washjeans.Hesatdownhardbetweenusagain,andleanedbackonhishands.“Okay,enoughcomplainingaboutwork.Lemon,didyouknowIprobablywouldn’thavesurvivedCIAwithoutthesetwo?”
“Hewassuchapain,”Isacomplained,andateanotherchip.
IeyedJames.“Ibelievethat.”
Helookedstricken.“Hey…”
“Wehavealotofstories,”Miguelagreed.
Itookanotherhandfulofchips,andtoldhisfriends,“I’venowheretobe.Tellmeeverything.”
Isahummedexcitedlyandhoppedtoherfeet.IfJameslikedtotalkwithhishands,Isalikedtotalkwithherwholebody.Shemovedwhenshespoke,Iquicklyfoundout,pacingbackandforth,turningonherheels,likesittingstillwasthebaneofherexistence.“Well,youarelookingatthethreetopchefsfromCIAtheyearwegraduated,”shebegan,motioningtothethreeofthem.“Andtwoofusalmostdidn’tgraduate—butnotfromalackoftrying.”
Jamesleanedinclosetomeandmuttered,hisvoicelowandalittleplayful,“I’llletyouguesswhichtwo.”
“Notyou,surely,”Ireplied,andhismouthtwitchedintothebarestgrin.
Isawenton,“Wesortofallgravitatedtowardeachother,sinceweweresomeoftheoldestthere.”
Jamessaid,louder,thoughhedidn’tleanawayfromme.Ourshouldersbrushed,andIfeltlikeateenager,myheartskippingupintomythroat.“IthinkIwastheoldestinourclass…”
“No,no.”Miguelwavedhishand.“Therewasthatretiredaccountant.Whatwashername?Beatrice?Bernadette?”
Isasnappedherfingersandpointedtohim.“Bertie!She’sthereasonwewentabroadthatsummer,remember?WhenwecateredforthatnudecolonyonthecoastofFrance?”
Jameshadafar-offlookinhiseyes,asifhewasrecountingawarzone.“IwishIdidn’t.”
Miguelwenton,“OrthetimewealmostpoisonedtheQueenofEngland.”
“Wedidnot,”Jamescorrected.“Notevenremotely.”
ButallItookoutofthatwas“Youcookedforthequeen?”
Heshookhishead.“Godresthersoul.Itwasn’tthatbigofadeal—”
“Hellyeah,itwas!Listen,henevergetsexcitedforanything.Itwasforabanquet,right?Somerealfancyshit,andwe’dgotteninongoodrecs.ThoughIdon’tthinkyouwereworkingthatkitchen,wereyou,Isa?”
“No,IwasgettingdrunkdowninShoreditch.”
“Right,right.”Miguelnodded,remembering.“Well,ifitwasn’tforthatpoisontaster,noonewould’vecaughtit.”
“Paprikaandgroundchilipepperlooksimilar,okay?”Jamesmassagedthebridgeofhisnose,andthensaidalittlequieter,“AndIwasalittlehungover.”
“Ohmygod,”Igasped.“Youwerealmostanassassin?”
“Groundchilipepperwouldnothavekilledthequeen,”herepliedindignantly,knockinghisshoulderagainstmine.Eventhroughourclothes,hewaswarm,andthisclose,Icouldsmellthehintsofhisaftershave—awoodsycedarandrose.“Cayenne,ontheotherhand?Probably.”
“That’snoteventhefunstory!”Miguelwenton,asparkinhiseyes.HewaxedpoeticallyaboutsomeotherstorieswithJames,storiesofaone-nightstandinGlasgow,ameet-cutewithamobsterinMadridthatendedinahigh-speedmopedchasedowntheGranVia,travelingasfarandaswideashe’dsaid,farbackinmyaunt’sapartment,hehopedhewould.
Wetalkeduntilourcinnamon-sugar-crustedfingershitthebottomofthechipbag,anditwasagoodnight.ThekindofgoodnightthatIhadn’thadinawhile
Thekindofgoodthatstucktoyourbones,thickandwarm,andcoatedyoursoulingoldenlight.
Goodfoodwithgoodfriends.
Bytheendofallofit,Jameswaslaughingagain,hissmileeasyashetalkedabouthisearlydaysasalinecookattheOliveBranch,andthemeatvendorwhotriedtohookhimupwithhisdaughter.
“Ithinkyouactuallywentonadate,didn’tyou?”Isaasked.
Jamesduckedhishead.“One.Wequicklyfiguredoutwewerenotcompatible.Butshedidhaveababygoatshedressedupinwellyboots.Sodamncute,”headmitted.
Miguelasked,“Wasn’tthatthefallafteryoucametoNYC?WhenyougotpromotedtolineattheBranch?”BythenIwassoinvestedIwantedeverylittledirty,embarrassingthingJamesIwanAshtonhadeverdoneorbeenapartof.“Afteryoumetthatgirl,right?”
SomethingchangedinJames’sposturethen,asweleanedagainsteachother.Hewentrigid.“Notthisstory.”
“Oh,comeon.”Isarolledhereyes,andtoldme,“Henevershutupabouther.Notonce,notforasecond.Whatwashername?Ithadsomethingtodowithasong,right?”
“Asong?”Ibothdidanddidn’twanttoknow.
“Yeah,”Miguelagreed,andstartedtosingit.“Ohmydarling,ohmydarling,ohmydarlingClementine.”29BadTiming
Jameswalkedmetothesubwaystation,thoughhe’dcalledforanUbertotakehim…Iwasn’tsurewherehelived,actually,butitmostcertainlywasn’ttheMonroe.AfterMiguelhadsung“Ohmydarling,Clementine,”IthoughtI’dendupchokingonachip.JameshadquicklychangedthesubjecttohowMiguelhadproposedtoIsa—inthemiddleofthefoodtruck,actually,onaratherrainyspringdaythreeyearsago.Nocustomers,justthemtwo,andsteakthatwasgoingtospoil.Iwould’vebeencharmedbytheirstoryifmymindwasn’tstillreelingfromtheconversationbefore.
“Henevershutupabouther,”Miguelhadsaid,justbeforesingingthesong,andthinkingaboutitgavemebutterfliesinmystomach.
Hecouldn’tshutupabouther—aboutme
“Tonightwasfun.Thankyouforentertainingmyfriends.Theycanbe…alot,”hesaid,hishandsinhispockets.
“Ifyouthinkthey’rebad,youshouldhangoutwithDrewandFiona,”Irepliedwithaself-consciouslaugh,becausethinkingaboutthefouroftheminthesameroomtogetherfeltlikeapanicattackwaitingtohappen.Istoppedjustinfrontofthestairsthatleddowntothetrainplatform,andhelingeredtherebesideme.Bothtooclose,andtoofaraway.
Asifwewerebothwaitingforsomethingtohappen.
Iturnedandasked,tryingnottosoundtoocoy,“So,Clementine,huh?HowmanygirlsnamedClementinedoyouknow?”
Hismouthtwitchedintoagrin.Hiseyesweresoftpoolsofgray.MaybeI’dpaintthemwithwatered-downgreeninstead—withbitsofyellowandblue,opalescentclouds.“Onlytheone,”herepliedsoftly,andtookhishandsoutofhispockets.
Thosebutterfliesinmystomachturnedravenous.“Shemust’vebeenlucky,then.”
“She’salsosmart,andtalented,andbeautiful,”hewenton,countingmyqualitiesonhisfingers,andtookastepcloser.
Thisclose,helookedsomuchmorehandsomethanIwaspreparedfor,histhickdarkeyebrowstrimmedandthefrecklesacrosshisnosespecklinghisskinlikeconstellations.Hisgazewasguarded—andIwished,Iwishedsoterribly,thathewasstillthatwide-eyedmanfrommyaunt’sapartment.
Iraisedmyhandstohisface,tracingthelaughterlinesaroundhismouth,feelingthebarelytherestubble.Iclosedmyeyes,andIfelthismouthhoveringclosetomine,andIwantedhimtokissme—Irealizedthatwithapangofdread.IwantedhimtokissmemorethanIwantedanythinginavery,verylongtime.BeingclosetohimfeltlikeastoryIdidn’tknowtheendingto—thefizzy-rockfeelinginmybonesIalwaysgotwhenmyauntsmiledatmewithallofherteeth,hereyesbrightandwild,andaskedmeonanadventure.
Hewasanadventure.OneIsuddenlyknewIwantedtotake.
Withoutashadowofadoubt,Iwantedthis.
Iwantedhim
Butasecondpassed,andthenanother,andthebuoyantfeelinginmystomachquicklybegantosink.Iopenedmyeyesasheshiftedawayfromme,andplantedakissonmyforeheadinstead.
“Andshe’ssupremelyoff-limits,”hefinished,hisvoiceagainstmyhair.Myhearttwistedintheultimatebetrayal.Hesteppedawayfromme,apainedlookonhisface.“Alwaysthewrongtime,isn’tit,Lemon?”
“Yes,”Iwhispered,myvoicetight—becausehewasright,andIwasmortifiedthathehadtobetheonetopointitout.Icouldn’tlookathim.“Ishould—Ishouldgetgoing,”Imuttered,andfleddownthesteps.
“Lemon!”hecalled,butIdidn’tstopuntilIwasthroughtheturnstileandheadingtowardthesubwayplatform.
I’dalmosttossedmycareeraway,andforwhat?Somequick-heartedfeelingthatwouldn’tstay,anyway?Becausenothingstayed.
Nothingwould
Butwhatscaredmewasn’tthefactthatIhadn’teventhoughttwiceaboutkissinghim—itwasthatIhadn’tcaredaboutmycareeratall.AboutwhatRhondawouldthink.Aboutthrowingawaysevenyearsofovertimeandsleeplessweekendsandpapercuts.
Thatwaswhatscaredmemost,thatthethingthatIhadbeenworkingtowardsoharshlywassomethingthat,inasplitsecond,Ididn’tevencareabout.
Thetraincameintotheplatform,andIgoton.Istillfelttheimpressionofhishandsinmine,andmystomachburnedwheneverIthoughtabouthowclosehehadbeen.Thesmellofhisaftershave.Thewarmthofhisbody.Howhehadstoppedhimself,thealmost-silentsigh.
“Alwaysthewrongtime,isn’tit?”hehadasked.
Yeah,Iguessitwas.30WayBackWhen
Isteppedintomyapartment,slippingmyflatsoffbythedoor.Rainpatteredagainstthewindows,softliketinyfingertipstappingontheglasspane.ThetwopigeonswerehuddledintheirnestontheACunit,andIwasdebatingwhetherornottotakeacoldshowertoscrubofftheevening—andallthepeskyfeelingsstillhumminginmychest,whensomeonecalled—
“Lemon?”
Ifroze.Then,almostdisbelieving,Icalledback,“Iwan?”
Stumblingovermyflats,Ihurriedintothekitchen.Andtherehesatatthetable,abottleofbourbonandaglassinfrontofhim.HewasstillinadirtywhiteT-shirtfromworkandloose-fittingblackslacks.“Lemon!”hesaidwithacrookedsmile.“Hey,it’snicetoseeyou.What’reyoudoingaroundthislate?”
“I—Iwantedtoseeyou,”Ireplied,sotruthfullymyheartachedinmychest.Ijustdidn’tthinkIcould.Thismanwithshaggyauburnhairandpaleeyes,whosmiledwiththatcrookedandwarmsmile.
Andyounevergetoverme.
Icrossedthekitchen,takinghisfaceinmyhandsashelookedatme,eyeswideninginsurprise—oh,thatwonderfulwide-eyedsurprise,andIkissedhim.Roughlyandhungrily,wantingtotattoothetasteofhimintothegraymatterofmybrain.I’dwantedtodothisallnight.Runmyfingersthroughhisauburnhair,holdtighttohiscurls.PressagainsthimsohardIfelthimagainstme.
Hetastedlikebourbon,andhisfive-o’clockshadowwasroughagainstmyskin.
“Whysohungry,Lemon?”heasked,cominguptogaspforair,hiscuriosityalittleheartbreaking,asifhesuspectedthatIhadulteriormotives.ThatIcouldn’tpossiblywanttobeherekissinghim.
“Aren’tyou?”Iasked,andthatseemedtobeanswerenoughforhim,because,yes,hewas.Yes,Iknewhewouldbe.OfcourseIknewhewouldbe.Thewayhe’dlookedatmeallnight,studiedme,asifhewantedtodrinkmein,asifhethoughtheneverwouldagain—Iknewthatlook.Itwasthelookmymomgavemydad.Thatmyauntgavethatfar-offmemorythatsatlikeasourcandyonhertongue.
Iknewthatlooksofuckingwell,IrecognizeditthemomentheliftedhisheadfromthetablewhenIwalkedin,fromthemomenthecalledmeLemonwiththathopefuldisbelief.
Hereachedupandtangledhisfingersintomyhair,drawingmeintoanotherkiss.Slowandsensual,hishandscradlingmyfaceashismouthpressedagainstmine,mutteringsoftaffirmationsagainstmylips.Histongueskimmedalongmybottomlip,andIleanedintohim,thefeelingofPopRocksinmychest.Hesmelledsogood,likewildnessandsoapandhim,thatmademehungrierformore.
“YouseemtoalwaysvisitrightwhenIneedcompany,”hemurmured.
“Company—orme?”
Heleanedbackalittle,lookingupatmewiththosebeautifulstormyeyes—likecloudsbeforeautumn’sfirstsnow.“You,Ithink,”hereplied,hisvoicesoftandsure,anditmeltedthehorridwallIhadbuiltuparoundmyself,andIkissedhimagain,tosavorthosewordsonmylips.
Hishandsweregentleastheycuppedmyface,slowlydriftingdownwardtowardmyblouse,undoingthebuttonsoneatatimewiththosenimble,longfingersofhis.Ashedid,hiskissestrailedfrommymouthtomyneck.Imadeanoisethatsoundedmoreferalanimalthansexyashescrapedhisteethacrossthelineofmythroattowardmyshoulder.Hespunus,soIpressedagainstthetableinstead,andheliftedmeuponit,scootingthebottleofbourbonoutoftheway.Histongueflickedagainsttheskinatmycollarbone,sucking,andthenhisteethsankintoit.
Ifeltmyselfpricklewithgooseflesh,andIgasped.
“Toomuch?”heasked,lookingupatmefromunderhislovelyandlongeyelashes,hisgazedrunkonme.
No,theopposite.
“More,”Ibegged,feelingheatriseuponmycheeks.
“Ilovethewayyoublush,”hemurmured,kissingthehillsofmybreastsasheundidthetopbuttonsofmyblouse.“Itdrivesmemad.”
IneverconsideredhowIlookedwhenIblushed.“Tellme.”
“It’salovelycolor,”hestarted,hisbreathhotagainsttheskinbetweenmybreasts,ashelaidmebackonthetable,hiskneeanchoredontheedge,hishandsplantedoneithersideofme.“Itstartsrighthere”—heplantedakissjustbelowthecenterofmycollarbones—“anditcreepsup”—akissatthebaseofmythroat—“andup”—anotheragainstthesideofmyneck—“andup.”Anotherontheedgeofmyjaw.Onmyrightcheek.“AnditdrivesmecrazywhenIknowI’mthecause.”
Ifeltmyskinflushatthe—verytrue,honestly—assumption,myheartslammingagainstmyribcage.Aslowgrincrossedthatterriblycrookedmouthofhis.
“Likenow,”hepurred,andkissedmyblushingcheeks.Thewayhehandledmewassotender,sohonest,itwas—quitefrankly—erotic.Ihadbeenromancedbefore—ofcourseIhad,youdidn’ttraveltheworldandnotfallforahandsomemaninRomeorasmart-talkingtravelerinAustralia,aScotsmanwithadeep-throatedgrowl,apoetinSpain—butthisfeltdifferent.Everytouch,everybrushofhisfingertipsacrossmyskin,hadaweighttoit.Areverence.
LikeIwasn’tmerelysomegirltokissandrememberfondlyintenyears,butsomeonetobekissedintenyears.
Intwenty.
But,ofcourse,thatdidn’thappen,thatcouldn’thappen,becauseIalreadyknewhowthisended.
Hekissedthefurrowbetweenmybrows.“Whatareyouthinking,Lemon?”
Myfingerstraileddownhischestandcurledupunderhisshirt.IwasthinkingthatIwantedtogetoutofmyhead.ThatIwantedtoenjoyhim,here.Iwasthinkinghowselfishthatwas,knowingwhatIknew,knowingthiscouldn’teverworkout.Iwasthinkinghowmyaunthadbeensmarttosetupthatsecondrule,andIwasthinkinghowthoroughlyIwasgoingtobreakit.
Itracedthetattooonhisstomach,asmallrunningrabbit.Goosefleshrippledacrosshisskinatmytouch.“Howmanydoyouhave?”Iaskedinstead.
Heinclinedaneyebrow.“Ten.Doyouwanttofindthem?”
Inreply,Ipulledhisshirttherestofthewayoff,andhedroppedittothekitchenfloor,andItracedanothertattooonhishipbone—awishbone.“Two.”
Initialsontheleftsideofhistorso.“Three.Four,”Iadded,kissingthebunchofherbsgatheredonhisleftarm,tiedwitharedstring.
Oneontheinsideofhisotherarm,ofaroadfilledwithpines.“Five.”
“Youareimpressivelygoodatfindingthem,”hemurmuredasIslidoffthekitchentable,andpulledhimslowlyintothelivingroom.Hekissedmeagain,nibblingmybottomlip.
“Ineverbackdownfromachallenge,”Ireplied,andturnedhimaround,plantingakissonthebutcher’sknifeonhisrightshoulderblade.“Six.”
Theseventhonewasonhisrightforearm,aradishhalfwaysliced,fallingapart
Eightwassmall,soeasilyoverlookedonhiswrist,aconstellationofdotsthatformedScorpio.OfcoursehewasaScorpio.
“It’sgettingharder,”hetaunted.
“Isit,now,”Ireplied,andherealizedwhathe’dsaidandbarkedalaugh,thistimeblushinghimself,andItuggedhimdownthehall,kissinghimasIpushedhimontothebedandclimbedontopofhim.Hewas,infact,extremelyarousedbymygame,andthatwasverythrilling.Numberninewastuckedjustabovehiscollarbone,hiscrescent-shapedbirthmarkbelow.Itwasalineofaheartbeat,andwhenInibbledagainsttheskinthere,hemadeanoisethatsounded,alittle,likehewascomingundone.
Hemurmured,“Pityyouwon’tfindthelastone.”
OfcourseIwould.Iwasnothingifnotanattentivelistener.Igentlyturnedhisheadtotheside,hearinghisbreathcatch,andpushedbackthehairthatcurledaroundhisleftear,plantingakissonthewhiskhiddenthere.“Ten,”Iwhispered.“Sowhat’smyprize?”
Hescrunchedhisnose.“Wouldyoutakeadishwasher?”
“Someoneoncetoldmeit’sthemostimportantroleinthekitchen,”Ireplied
“Hemightnevermakemuchofhimself.”
“Oh,Iwan,”Isighed,takinghisfaceinmyhands,“Idon’tcare.Ilikeyou.”
Andthereitwas.
Myaunt’srulebroken;myperfectplanshattered.IknewIwanwouldn’tbeadishwasherforever,andevenifhewas,itwouldn’thavemattered—dishwasherorcheforlawyerornooneatall.ItwasthemanwithgemstoneeyesandthecrookedsmileandthelovelybanterthatIfeltmysoulcrushingfor.
Thoselovelypearleyesdarkenedtostorms,totempests,asheseizedmebythemiddleandshiftedmeoffhimandontotheduvet.Hepressedagainstmewithhisweight,dragginghishandsupmythighs,undermyskirt.“I’mgoingtotakeoffyourblouse,”hesaid,hisfingersfindingtheirwaytothebuttonsonmyshirt,undoingtherestofthemonebyonewiththoselong,nimblefingersofhis.Iwantedthemelsewhere.“I’mgoingtokisseverypartofyou.I’mgoingtocommiteverypieceofyoutomemory.”
“Everypiece?”Iaskedashereachedbackandunclaspedmybra.
“Every”—hemutteredashismouthexploredmybreasts,hisfingersfollowingmycurvesdownward,tuggingatmyskirt,slippingbeneathmyunderwear—“lovely”—
Itensedinagaspashisfingerstoyedwithme,myhandsfindingpurchaseinhismessyhair.
“—piece,”hegrowled,andslippedhisfingersintome,strokingme,ashistonguedancedacrossthebareskinofmybreasts.Isquirmedbeneathhisweight,butheheldmefirmlyandmurmuredsweetly,likechocolate,hiswordstartandcoylikelemons,affirmationafteraffirmationintomyhair.Iwasneverthekindofwomantofallinlovewithavoice,butwhenIcame,hepressedhismouthagainstmyearandrumbled,“Goodgirl,”intheexactwaythatmademeloseallsenseofself-preservation.
Myaunthadtworulesintheapartment—one,takeyourshoesoffbythedoor,andI’mcertainI’dforgottentodothatatleastonce.
SoatleastonceIcouldbreakrulenumbertwoaswell.
Justonce.
But,unlikewithshoes,allyouneedtodoisfallinloveonce,though,toberuinedbyitforever.“Birthcontrol?”heaskedbetweenkisses.
Ihadtothinkforasecond.“Um,yeah,but—”
“Hold,please.”Hepepperedatrailofkissesdownmybody,andplantedoneonmyinnerthigh,beforehelefttogetsomethingfromhiswallet,thencamebackintothebedroom,slippingoutofhistrousers.Hetorethecondomwrapperopenwithhisteeth—whichwassomuchsexierthanIthoughtitcouldbe—andputitonbeforeheslowly,savoringme,slippedhimselfinsideofme,murmuringpsalmsofmybodyashetraveledit,andIknewIwasfalling.ThekindoffallingthatwouldhurtwhenIhittheground.Thekindoffallingthatwouldshattermeintopieces.
SoIkissedhim,feelingbrightandrecklessandbrave,andIfell.
Thenextmorning,mymouthfeltlikeI’dswallowedanentirepackofcottonballs—andthenIremembered:bourbon.Theemptybottlewasstillonthenightstand,andmypinklacepantiesweredrapedfromthelampshade.
Classy,Clementine
Besideme,someonegroaned.Iwassousedtowakingupalone,Ihadn’trealizedthatIwanwasstillinthebedbesidemeuntilherolledoverandkissedmybareshoulder.
“Mornin’,”hemumbledsleepily,andstifledayawnagainstmyskin.Hisvoicewasslurredanddeepfriedinthemorning,andadorable.“How’reyou?”
Ipressedthepalmofmyhandagainstaneye.Myheadfeltlikeitwasfullofsand.“Dead,”Icroaked.
Helaughed,softandrumbly.“Coffee?”
“Mmh.”
Soherolledoverandbegantogetoutofbed,butthespaceheleftfeltsocoldallofasudden,andIquicklygrappledforhimaroundthewaistandpulledhimbacktobed.Hefellonthemattresswithachuckle,andIcurledupagainsthisback,shovingmyfreezingfeetagainsthis.
“Yourfeetarefreezing!”heyelped.
“Deal.”
“Okay,okay,justletme—hangon,”hesaidwithasigh,andturnedontohisback.“Ididn’ttakeyouforacuddler,”headded,notunkindly.
“Fivemore,”Imumbled,layingmyheadonhischest.Hisheartthrummedquicklyinhisribcage,andIlistenedtohimbreatheinandout.Theapartmentwasquiet,andthemorninglightsplitintogoldsandgreensthroughtheglassartworkhangingupoverthewindowbehindthebed.
Afterawhilehesaid,“Ithinkthepigeonsfromthelivingroomhavebeenstaringatussincesunrise.”
“Hmm?”
Hepointedupatthewindow,andIlookedup.Sureenough,MotherandFuckerweresittingthereonthesillofthewindow.Isatupinbed,makingsuretokeepthebedsheetwrappedaroundmyself,andsquintedatthem.“Howlongdopigeonsliveinthewild,youthink?”
Heconsideredit.“Probablyaboutfiveyears,why?”
“Justwondering,”Ireplieddismissively,andreturnedmygazetothetwoonthesill.Theydidlooktheexactsameastheonesfrommychildhood.Onehadbluefeathersaroundhisnecklikeacollar,therestofhimspeckledwhiteandgray,andtheotherlookedabitoily,withstreaksofnavyplumagethatreachedallthewaydowntothetipsoftheirfeathers.Cometothinkofit,Icouldn’trememberwhatthepigeonsbeforethemlookedlike,orifthey’dhadbabies.I’dalwaysassumedthattheynestedinthewinter,andanewcoupletooktheirplaceeveryyear,butnowIwasbeginningtosuspectsomethingverydifferent,andtheyremindedme—quiteclearly—thatIwasn’twhereIwassupposedtobe,either.
Iwavedmyhandatthem.“Shoo,shoo!Goaway,”Isaid,buttheydidn’ttakeflightuntilIdrummedmyknucklesonthewindow.Thentheyjustflewaroundtotheirnormalperchinthelivingroom.“Myaunthatedthosebirds,”IsaidasIsettledbackagainsthim,andclosedmyeyes.
Heshiftedalittle.“Lemon?”heaskedafteramoment.
“Mmm?”
“Whydoyourefertoyourauntinpasttense?”
Ifroze.Thefirstthingthatpoppedintomymindwastopretendtobeasleep.Notsayasinglething.Mysecondinstinctwastolie.What’reyoutalkingabout?Pasttense?Mustbeaslipofthetongue.
Whatwouldaliehurt?Tohim,shewasstillalive.Tohim,shewasgallivantingoffwithherniece,sneakingintotheTowerofLondonanddaydrinkinginEdinburghandbeingchasedhalfwayacrossNorwaybyawalrus.
Tohim,shewouldn’tdieforquiteafewyears.Shewouldn’teventhinkaboutit.Shewasstillalive,andtheworldstillheldherinit.
Sothisiswhereyoufindout,Ithought,andmyvoicewastightasIwhispered,“Youwon’tbelieveme.”
Hefrowned.Itwasapeculiarfrown,eyebrowsfurrowed,theleftsideofhismouthdippedalittlelowerthantheright.“Tryme,Lemon.”
Ithoughttotellhim.Iwantedto—Idid.But…“She’sneverhomelongenoughformetoeverseeher,”Ifoundmyselflying.“Shegoestravelingalot.Shelikesnewplaces.”
Hethoughtaboutthatforamoment.“Icanseetheallureofthat.I’dliketotravel.”
“Iusedtoallthetimewithher.”
“Whatstoppedyou?”
“Work.Adultthings.Agoodcareer.Astablerelationship.Ahome.”Isatupinbedandgaveashrug,wrappingthecomforteraroundme.“Ihadtogrowupsomeday.”
Hewrinkledhisnose.“YoumustthinkI’mnuts,then,tostartanewcareerhalfwaytothirty.”
“Notatall.Ithinkyou’rebrave,”Icorrected,andkissedhisnose.“Peoplechangetheirlivesallthetime,doesn’tmatterhowoldyouare.But…canyoupromisemesomething?”
“Anything,Lemon.”
“Promisemeyou’llalwaysbeyou?”
Hiseyebrowsknittedtogether.“Well,that’saweirdthingtoask.”
“Iknow,but—Ilikeyou.Justthewayyouare.”
Helaughed,asoftrumbleinhisthroat,andkissedmyforehead.“Allright.Ipromise—onlyifyoupromisesomething,too.”
“What?”
“Alwaysfindtimetodowhatmakesyouhappy—likepainting,andtraveling,andfucktherest.”
“Howpoetic.”
“I’machef,notawriter.”
“Maybeyou’llbebothsomeday.Andrightnow,what’sgoingtomakemehappyisashower.Maybeit’llhelpwiththishangover.”Ibegantoscootoutofbed,buthepulledmeclosetohimagainandkissedme.Ilovedthewayhekissed,likeIwassomethingtosavor—evenwithmorningbreath.“Thisalsomakesmehappy,”Iadded.
Hesmiledagainstmymouth.“Thehappiest.”
Eventually,Ipeeledmyselfawayfromhim,gatheredmyclothes,andleftforashower.
WhenIcamebackout,hewasalreadydressed.
“Let’sgoouttoday,”hesaidasIcameoutofthebathroom,dryingmyhairwithatowel.Hewassittingonthefaintingcouch,hiseyesclosedandarmsbehindhishead,thewindowopentoletthepigeonseatsomepopcornonthesill.Iglancedatthemicrowaveclock—itwasalreadyoneintheafternoon.“Youcanshowmearoundthecity.Ooh—andyoucanbringyourwatercolors.Icanwatchyou.Wheredoyouliketopaint?”
Igaveitathought.“Touristtraps,mostly.”
“CentralPark,then?Oristhereanotheroneyoulikemore?ProspectParkisbeautiful.”
“Well…”
Hesprungupfromthecouch.“Let’sdoit.Beforetheday’sgone.It’ssoprettyoutsidetoday.Let’slounge,andIcanbringabook,andyoucandoyourwatercolors.”
“W-wait,”Isaidinapanic,ashedisappearedintothestudy,andcamebackwithmytinofwatercolorsandabook,andtookmyhand.“Myhair’sstilldamp.Myhead’sthrobbing.Idon’thaveanymakeupon!”
“Youlookbeautifuljustasyouare,”hereplied,pullingmeacrossthelivingroom.Hegrabbedhiswalletfromthecounter.
“That’snotthepoint.”
AndyetIstilllethimleadmetothefrontdoor.Ican’tleavethisapartment,Iwantedtotellhim,buthewouldn’tbelieveme.Thenagain,Ihadn’ttriedtoleavethisapartmentwithhim.Maybe…
IcouldhavestoppedhimifIreallywantedto.Ididn’t.Hisexcitementwasinfectious.Hespoutedoffplaceshe’dliketocheckout—thedelifromWhenHarryMetSally,someothermovie-specificrestaurants.Hewantedtotryahotdoginthepark,apretzel,maybesomeicecream.
“DotheyactuallyallowyoutorentrowboatsinCentralPark?”heasked,slidingonhisshoes,andIputonmyflats.Hishandaroundmywristwastightwithexcitement,untilItookhisfingersandlacedthemthroughmineinstead.
There,muchbetter.
Hesmiledasheledmetothedoor,hiseyesbrightwiththepossibility.“We’llgoeverywhere.FindsomeofthegreasiestpizzainNewYork.We’ll—”
Andthesecondheopenedthedoor,hevanished,leavingonlythewarmthofhisfingersthroughmine,andtheneventhatfaded,andIstoodinmyaunt’sdarkapartmentinthepresent,andlookedatmyemptyhand.31LetterstotheDead
AfterItriedtogobackfour—no,five—times,Ifinallygaveupandrealizedthattheapartmentwasn’tgoingtosendmebacktohimtoday,anddecidedtogorunsomeerrands.IlockedthedoorandshovedmykeysintomypurseasIheadedoutofthebuilding.Ididn’twanttostayrightnow,withthefeelingofIwan’shandstillinmine.Atthefrontdesk,EarlclosedhislatestJamesPattersonnovelandwavedtome.“Oh,hello,Clementine!Summerreallyblowsupthunderstormsinablink,don’tit?”hesaidasIcameuptotherevolvingdoorandlookedoutintothedrearygrayrain.IwasgladIdidn’tlookthathungover,thoughIfeltitineveryboneinmybody.“Youknow,Irememberwhenyouandyourauntwouldcomedowntheelevatorandraceintothecourtyardandcomebackinsoakingwet.”Heshookhishead.“It’sawonderyounevercaughtyourdeathoutthere.”
“Shealwayssaiddancingintherainmadeyoulivelonger,”Ireplied,thoughitwassillyandcertifiablyuntrue.Itwasanicethought,evenifitturnedouttobefalse.
“I’llhavetotryitsomeday,”herepliedwithalaugh.“MaybeI’llliveforever!”
“Maybe,”Iconceded,andleanedagainstthedesktowaitoutthestorm.Wheneverrainwouldbegintodrumonthewindows,wherevermyauntandIwere—itdidn’tmatterifwewerehome,orinsomeforeignplace—shewouldgrabmyhandandpullmeoutintotherain.Shewouldstretchoutherarmsandtiltherheadbacktothesky.Becausethat’swhatlifefeltlike,she’dalwayssay.
That’swhatlifewasfor—
WhoelsecouldsaytheydancedintheraininfrontoftheLouvre?
“Comeon,mydarlingClementine,”sheurged,coaxingmeintothedownpourinfrontofParis’sfamousmuseum,thegreatglasspyramidourdancepartner.Thensheraisedherhandsoverherheadandclosedhereyesasiftochannelsomedivinepower.Shestruckaposeandbegantoshakehershoulders.“Youonlyliveonce!”
“What?No,stop,”Ibegged,myshoessqueaky,myprettyyellowdressalreadysoakedthrough.“Everyoneislooking!”
“Ofcoursetheyare,theywanttobeus!”Shegrabbedmebymyhandsandthrewthemup,andspunmearoundthecobblestones,awaltzagainstsadness,andagainstdeath,andgrief,andheartache.“Enjoytherain!Youneverknowwhenitwillbeyourlast.”
Thatwasthethingaboutmyaunt,shelivedinthemomentbecauseshealwaysfiguredit’dbeherlast.Therewasneverarhymeorreasontoit—evenwhenshewashealthy,shelivedlikeshewasdying,thetasteofmortalityonhertongue.
Iusedtolovethewayshesawtheworld,alwaysasonelastbreathbeforetheend,drinkingineverythingasifsheneverwouldagain,andmaybeIstilllovedbitsofthat.
Ilovedhowshespenteverymomentmakingamemory,everysecondlivingwideandfull,andIhatedthatsheneverthought—neveronceentertainedtheidea—thatshewouldhaveanotherdanceintherain.
TheconfusedlooksofthetouristsinthecourtyardoftheLouvremeltedintowonderasshepulledthem—allstrangers—onebyoneintothestorm.Aviolinistwhohadsoughtshelterunderthebrimofanewspaperstallliftedtheirinstrumenttotheirshoulderandstartedplayingagain,andkidsranouttojoinus,andsooneveryonewasspinningaroundintherain.
Becausethatwasmyaunt.Thatwasthekindofpersonshewas.
ThemelodyofanABBAsongsangovertheviolinist’sstrings,ayawpabouttakingchances,aboutfallinginlove,andwedanced,andthenextdayI’dcaughtacoldandspenttherestoftheweekintheapartmentwe’drented,survivingonbrothysoupandclubsoda.WenevertoldmyparentsthatI’dgottensick,onlythatwe’ddancedintherain.
Inevertoldmyparentsthebadbits,anyway.
MaybeifIhad…
TherainbegantoletupasEarlsaid,“Oh,Ithinkyou’vegotsomethinginyourmailbox.”
Mymailbox.Itfeltsojarringtohear.Itwassupposedtobemyaunt’s,butIhadthekeysnow,andanylettersaddressedtoherhadgoneunansweredforthelastsixmonthsanyway.Shedidn’tgetmuchmailanymore,afterI’dclosedherbankaccountandcreditcards,butsometimestherewouldbeapieceofjunkmail,soIwentovertotherowofgoldenmailboxesandtookoutmykey.
“Whatisit?”IaskedasIopenedit.
Heshrugged.“Justaletter,Ithink.”
Aletter?Mycuriositywasovertakenbydread.Perhapsaletterreturnedtosender,addressunknown.Perhapsitwasjunkmailindisguise.Ormaybe—
Iunlockedthemailboxandtookitout.Itlookedlikejunk—likeeverythingelsethatcameforher—untilInoticedthehandwrittenaddressinthecorner.
FromVera
Myheartleaptintomythroat.Vera—myaunt’sVera?TheVerafromherstories?Blackspotscreptintotheedgesofmyvision.Mychestwastight.Thiswastooreal,tooquickly.
“Clementine?”IheardEarlsay.“Clementine,iseverythingallright?”
Itoremyeyesawayfromtheletter,andshoveditintomypurse.“Fine,”Irepliedtooquickly,andtriedtosteadymybreathing.“I’mfine.”
Hedidn’tbelieveme,buttherainhadletupandsunshinepouredontothestreetbetweentheclouds,anditwasmychancetoleave.
“Haveagoodday,Earl.”IwavedtohimasIslippedoutoftherevolvingdoorsandintothehotandmuggySaturdayafternoontotakeawalk,andtrytoclearmyhead.
Thatevening,IcalledDrewandFionatodinnerforanemergencymeeting.DrewwantedtotrythisnewAsianfusionplacedowninNoHo,butwhenwegotthere,thelinewasoutthedoorandthewaittobeseatedwasatleastanhour.Fionadidn’twanttowaitanhour,andDrewhadn’tthoughtit’dbesobusyonaSaturdayeveningthatwe’dhaveneededtoreserveatable,sinceitwasnewandnoonehadheardaboutityet.Turnedout,TimeOuthadwrittenakillerreviewfortheplaceafewdaysago,sonoweveryonewantedtotrythesrirachaeggrolls.
“Maybethere’ssomewhereelsearoundhere,”Drewmuttered,pullingoutherphone,butitwasprimedinnertimeandIwassurealmosteverywherewouldberelativelybusy.Themuggyafternoonhadgivenwaytoawarmandsummeryevening,cloudsrollingacrosstheorangeandpinkskyliketumbleweeds.
“Maybesomewherewithoutdoorseating?”Fionaasked,lookingoverDrew’sshouldertoskimYelp.
Itiltedmyheadbackinthesunlight,waitingforthemtodecidewheretogo,sinceIwasn’tallthatpicky,andFionahadthemostdietaryrestrictionsoutofallofus.TheywerearguingoverwhetherornotweshouldjustcutourlossesandskipovertoanotherrestaurantintheWestVillagesinceFionadidn’twanttokeepwanderingaimlessly,whenIspiedafamiliarbrightyellowtruckatthefarendofthestreet,parkedexactlywhereithadbeenlastnight—atWashingtonSquarePark.
Cateringtothesummercollegecrowd,asusual.
Isaid,“Howaboutfajitas?”
Theygavemeaconfusedlook.Drewsaid,scrollingthroughherphone,“Whereisthat…?”
“What’stherating?”Fionaadded.
Iturnedthemaroundandpushedthemdownthesidewalk.“Trustme,wherewe’regoing,wedon’tneedratings.”
Theytriedtoarguewithmeuntiltheycaughtsightofthefoodtruckandthelinecurlingdownthesidewalk.MostofthepeopleinlinewereeitherstudentsfromNYUortouristswhofoundthemselvesdownbytheWashingtonSquareArch,drawninbythesmellofgrilledmeatsandninetiespopsongs.
“Thisplacesoundsdelicious,”DrewsaidasFionafoundthefoodtruck’sInstagramhandleandtookaphotototagthem.“How’dyouknowaboutit?”
IhaddinnerwithJamesAshtonlastnight,whojustsohappenstobeanot-so-oldflameofmine—it’scomplicated—andhisfriendsownthistruckiswhatIwouldhavesaidifnotfor…everything.ThoughIfiguredifIdidsaythat,thenitwouldjustopenupacanofworms,andDrewwouldstartaskingquestionsabouthowIknewJamesAshton,whenImethim—thingsthatIcouldn’texactlylieaboutbecauseIactuallymetDrewandFionasevenyearsago,andtheywouldhaverememberedaguylikeJamesbackthen.
Soasomewhattruthitwas.
“Don’tgetmad,butJamesactuallyshowedmethisplacelastnightafterthecookingclass.”
Drew’seyeswidened.“Thechef?”
InoddedandFionagasped,“Clementine!”
“Itwasjustdinner!Wewerebothstillalittlehungry,andmyUberfailedtopickmeupand…anyway,thepeoplewhoownthisfoodtruckarehisfriends.”
Drewseemedalittlehesitant,somethingIunderstoodbecause,let’sfaceit,iftheotherimprintsfoundoutthatI’dbeenspendingtimewiththeauthoroutsideworkfunctions,itwouldlook…
Well,therewouldberumors,tosaytheleast.
InPR,anypublicitywasgoodpublicity,butnotinthiscase.Inthiscase,itwouldlookhighlyunprofessional,andDrewknewIwouldn’tsacrificemycareerthatway.Atleast,Ihopedshedid.
Aswewaitedtoorder,Fionaasked,“So,whydidyoucallforanemergencymeeting?”
“Oh!”I’dalmostforgotten.Ireachedintomypurseanddrewouttheletter.“Igotthisinmyaunt’s—inmymailboxattheMonroe,”Iquicklycorrected.
“Aletter?”Drewmuttered,andthenhereyeswidenedwhenshereadwhoitwasaddressedto.“Youraunt?”
“Who’sVera?”Fionaadded.
“Verawasa…sheandmyauntdatedthirty-somethingyearsago.Myauntnevertalkedmuchabouther,butVerawasvery,veryimportanttoher.”Soimportantthatshechosetolethergoinstead—afraidthatwhattheyhadcouldonlygetworse.Becausepeoplechangedoversevenyears,andAnaleaandVerawerenodifferent.ItwaslikehowIwanhadchangedintoJames.HowIwouldchangeinthesevenyearstocome.“Idon’tknowwhattodo.ShouldIreturnittosenderorjustkeepit?”
“It’sdatedonlyafewdaysago,”Fionanoted.“Idon’tthinksheknowsyourauntisgone.Maybeyoushouldtellher?Inaletterbacktoher?Or,sinceyouhaveheraddress,inperson?”
“Butwhatwouldshesay?”Drewasked,andthenshookherhead.“I’djustreturnittosender.”
“Butwhatiftheywereinlove?”
“Thenwhywouldn’tsheknowthatAnalea’sdead?”
Ilistenedtothemarguebackandforth,lookingdownatthelongandloopyhandwritingthatbelongedtoawomanI’donlyheardaboutinmyaunt’sstories.AwomanwhohadgonethroughmuchofthesamethingthatIwanandIwerecurrentlynavigating.Myaunthadtoldmehersideofthestory,andI’djustassumedthatVerahaddisappearedandgonetoliveherlife,butthisletterprovedotherwise.They’dstillkeptintouch,yearslater.
Whydidn’tmyaunteversayso?
“Clementine?”Drewknockedhershoulderagainstmine,alittleworried.“We’realmosttothewindow.”
Iquicklyputtheletterawayagain.“Right,right,thanks.”
“Whatareyougoingtodo?”
“Idunno,”Irepliedtruthfully.
Fionawoveherarmthroughmine.“Well,whateveryouchoose,we’llbewithyou.”
Thatmeantalot,andIsqueezedherarmtightly.
Whenwesteppedupinline,Miguel’seyesinstantlylitup.Hethrewhisarmsupandsaid,“Hey!Longtimenosee!Sogoodyoucamebackformore,eh,eh?”Heaskedwithawiggleofhiseyebrows.
“Couldn’tstayaway.”
Isasaid,leaningoutthewindow,“Andwho’reyourfriends?”
“FionaandDrew.”Imotionedtothem,andtheywavedpolitely.“ThisisMiguelandIsa.”
“Pleasure,”Miguelsaidwithawave.“Ilovemeetingnewfriends.”
“Lemonheretoldusabitaboutyou,”Isaagreed.
DrewandFionagavemeastrangelook.“Lemon?”Drewasked.
“Anickname,”Iquicklyreplied.“CanIgetachickenfajitaand…?”Ilookedtothemfortheirorders,andtheysaidwhattheywanted.“Andabottleofwater.”
“Nobeer?”heasked.
Thethoughtofitmademegreen.Iwasstillfeelingtheeffectsoflastnight’sdrinking.Iwancouldabsolutelydrinkmeunderthetable.“Waterisperfect.”
“Fine,fine,bottlesarearoundthesideinacooler,”hesaid,andIbegantotakeoutmycardtopay,butDrewwavedherhandtoshoomeoff.
“I’vegotit.”
“But—”
“Seriously,ourtreat.Twomorebottlesofwater,though.”
“Gotcha.”Henodded,andkeyeditintohistablet.DrewfinishedpayingasIwentaroundtothesideofthefoodtruckwhereMiguelsaidthewaterswouldbe.Therewasamansittingonthecooler.
Ifroze.
Hequicklyrightedhimself.Evenwithabaseballcappulledlowoverhiscurls,Irecognizedthecrescent-shapedbirthmarkonhiscollarbonebetweentheopenneckofhisdarkHenley.Oh.“James?”Iasked.
Hiseyeswidened.“Lemon?”
“Whatareyoudoinghere?”Iasked,becauseifDrewandFionasawhim,theywouldimmediatelyassumethatItookthemheresothatIcouldseehim.AndIwassurethey’dneverletmelivethatdown.
Heseemedperplexed.“They’remyfriends!Ihangoutheresometimes.”
“Don’tyouhavearestauranttorun?”
“Usually…?”herepliedhesitantly.“I’mintheprocessofpreppingmynewrestaurantforasoftopening.IsaandMiguelaregoingtohelpmewithsomelast-minutetoucheslater.Whatareyoudoinghere?”
“Ibroughtmyfriendstotryyourfriends’food.”
“Friends…”Hisnosescrunchedashethought—andthenhesatupstraight.“They’rehere?”
“…Yes?”
Drewcalledfromthefrontofthetruck.“Everythingallright,Clementine?”
Ireplied,“Fine!Thecooler’sjust—uh—cold!”AndIwavedmyhandforhimtoopenthecoolerhewassittingonandgetthewatersout.“Why’reyouactingsostrange?”Imurmuredtohim.
Miguelcalled,“Iwanshouldbebackthere.Gethimtogetthem!”
JamesandIlockedeyes.“Thanks!”Icalledback,asJamesmutteredunderhisbreathandplungedhishandsintotheicywater,andtookoutthreebottles.Hehandedthemtome.
“I’mnotactingstrange,”hereplied,andthenIrealizedwhatwasoff—
“Ohmygod,you’rehungover—wedidn’tevendrinkthatmuchlastnight!”Ireplied.Well,hedidn’tdrinkverymuch.Thehimsevenyearsagodrankmeunderthetable.
“Youdon’tlooksogreatyourself,”herepliedwryly.Webothlookedalittlegreenaroundthegills,tobehonest.Heglancedbehindme,debatingonwhethertosayhellotomyfriends.“I’msorry,Idon’tthinkI’minfightingshapetomeetthemrightnow.”
“You’vealreadymetDrew,it’sjustherwifeyouhaven’t.”
“Ah,theeditor—yes,Ithinkitmightbebestifshedoesn’tseemehungover,”hereasonedwithanod.“Wouldthatbeokay?”
Itwasadorablethatheasked.“YougetoneGetoutofJailFreecard.”
“I’mtakingit,”herepliedsomberly.“I’llbesuretomakeitupto—”Hiswordscaughtinhisthroat.Then,withoutwarning,hereachedtowardme,brushingmyhairtotheside,andhispaleeyesgrewdarkandstormy.Hepursedhislipstogether,andIdidn’tunderstandwhyuntil—
“Seemslikeyouhadagoodnight,too,”hejoked.
AndthenIrealized.“Ohmygod,”Igasped,quicklyreelingaway,andpulleddownmyhairtocoverthebruisethere.Well,thehickey.I’dtriedhardtocoveritwithconcealerthismorning,butitmusthavewornoffthroughouttheday.
“Hadanotherdateafterdinnerlastnight?”heeggedmeon.“Wasithot?”
Igavehimasilentlook.Hedidn’tunderstandforamoment,andthenhiseyeswidened,andhepressedhisfingersagainsthismouth.
Andallhesaidasherememberedwas—
“Oh.”
Iclearedmythroat.“Itwas,infact.”
“Waswhat?”Hiseyeswerealittledazed.
Ireplied,“Hot.”
Hegroaned,then,andpulledhishandsthroughhishair.“Youcan’tdothat,Lemon.”
“Youasked.”
Hesoundedabsolutelydestroyedashereplied,“Iknow.Itdrivesmecrazy.”Hisfacepinched.“Formeitwassevenyearsago,andforyouitwaslastnight.”
“Technicallythismorning,too,”Icorrected.
Hemadeapainednoiseinhisthroat.“Ofcourse,howcouldIforget?”
“I’mnotsure,really.Itwasverygoodsex.”Iinclinedmyheadalittle,studyingthismanstandingintheshadowofhisfriend’sfoodtruck,hungoverfor—whatIsuspected—wasthesamereasonIwas:eachother.ThoughIwasverycertainIhadmorefunlastnightthanhedid.
Herubbedhisfacewithhishands.“Ifthiswastogetbackatmeforturningyoudownlastnight—”
“Oh,don’tworry,youdidn’t.”
“YouknowwhatImean,”hegrowled.Right—hethoughtIwentbacktotheapartmentlastnight,andhadsexwithhispastselftomakehispresentselfjealous
Irolledmyeyes.“Well,you’rewrong.Theapartmentdoeswhatitwantstowhenitwantsto—it’snotmyfaultyouwantnothingtodowithmenow.”
Hetookastepcloser,closeenoughIcouldkisshim,ifIdared.“Nothingtodowithyou?”hewhispered,incredulous.“Irememberhowyoutaste,Lemon,thesoundofyourbreathasIheldyou.”IfeltmyskingettinghotevenasIpressedawaterbottletothesideofmyneckandlookedaway.“Irememberthewayyoucountedthetattoosonmyskin,theshapeofyourmouth,thewayyourbodyfeltwhenyoucameforme,”hemuttered,glidinghisfingertipsacrossmyfuriouslyredcheeks.“AndIstillfuckinglovethewayyoublush.Itdrivesmecrazy.”
Mymouthfellopen.Hearthammeredagainstmychest.Hedidn’tlooklikeJamesforamoment,butIwan,myIwan,lookingoutfromafacesevenyearsstranger.AndIthoughthewasgoingtobenddown,tostealakiss,buthesteppedawayandquicklyclimbedintothebackofthetruckasDrewturnedthecorner.
“Hey,”shesaid,ourfoodinherhands,“iseverythingokay?”
“Fine!”Isqueaked,quicklyturningaround.Thesoonerweleft,thebetter.“Igotthebottlesofwater!Weshouldgo.”
Drewgavemeaconfusedlook.“Okay…”
“Onward!Let’sgositbythefountain,”Isaid,quicklyherdingherandFionaawayfromthefoodtruck.Iglancedbehindmewhenwe’dcrossedthestreet,andsawJamesclimbingoutofthebackofthetruck.Thenhepulledhiscaplowandlefttheoppositeway.
Off-limits,Iremindedmyself,turningbacktomyfriends.He’soff-limits.32SecondandFinalBid
Ispenttherestoftheweekenddeep-cleaningmyaunt’sapartmentandsketchingMotherandFuckerintheNYCtraveljournalsectiontitled“Wildlife.”Theapartmentdidn’tsendmebacktoIwan—thoughIwisheditwouldhave.Paintingwasaneasywaytodistractmyself,atleastuntilIstartedtocleanoutmypurseandfoundtheletterfromVeraagain.TheaddresswasontheUpperWestSide.Soclose—justacrosstheparkfromtheMonroe—butanentireworldaway.
ThelongerIlivedinmyaunt’sapartment,themoreIcouldseewhyshe’dkeptit.Why,afterherheartbreakwithVera,shehadn’tsoldit,andinsteadtraveledtheworldtostayaway.Therewasapossibilityinthesoundofthelockclickingopen,inthecreakofthehingesasthedoorflungwide,aroulettethatmayormaynotbringyoubacktothetimewhenyoufelthappiest.
Analeahadsaidthatromanceacrosstimeneverworked,butthenwhywasVerastillwritingtoher?Iwantedtoopentheletter,toreadthecontents,butthatfelttoopersonal.Itwasn’tmybusinesstoreadwhateverwasinside,andIdoubtedmyauntwouldwantmeto.ThemostIcoulddowasreturnit,andaskVerainperson.
WhenIarrivedtoworkonMonday,Rhondawasalreadyinheroffice,lookingmorewornoutthanusual.Shehadshruggedoutofherblazeralready—somethingsheusuallyonlydidafterlunch—andhadexchangedherheelsforthesensibleflatsshekeptstowedinherbottomdeskdrawer.
Iknockedontheglassdoor,andsheglancedup.“Ah,Clementine!Perfecttiming.”
“Earlystart?”Iasked.
“Icouldn’tsleep,soIthoughtImightaswellgetsomeworkdone.”
Whichmeantthatshehadthoughtofsomethinginthemiddleofthenightthatkeptherawake,soshecameintoworkearlytogetitdone.Herentirelife’sworkwasthisimprint,shepouredherentirelifeintoit.Herhobbywasreading,herdowntimespentbrainstormingnewstrategiesforthenextbigbook,hersocialcirclespepperedwiththedirectorsofotherimprints.Thatshouldbeme,too—Iwantedittobeme,buttherewasanitchundermyskinthatwasgrowingbytheday.AfeelinglikeIwasinaboxtoosmall,acollartootight.
AndIwasafraidofit,becauseI’dspentsolongtryingtofindsomewherepermanenttostay.
“Bytheway,”Rhondawenton,tappingherballpointpenagainstanotepadonherdesk,“haveyoudecidedwhattodoaboutyourvacation?”
“IthinkI’lljustbearoundthecity,”Ireplied,knowingshewasaskingtomakesureIwasactuallygoingtotakeit.Iwas—againstmywill.
Shenodded,thoughfromthebendofhershoulders,Icouldtellthatshewasrelieved.“Good,good.Withthetransition,youmightneedtobeoncall.”
Thatmademepause.“Thetransition?”
“Yes.”Shedidn’tlookatmeasshespoke,neatlyorganizingherpensinhertray.“AsIsaid,Strauss’ssplittingmyjobintothree—copublisher,directorofmarketing,anddirectorofpublicity.I’mnominatingyouforthedirectorofpublicity,buthewantstointerviewoutsideofthecompanyaswell.Somethingabouthealthycompetition,”sheaddeddeadpan.
“Oh.”Inodded.“Imean,thatmakessense.I’veonlybeenheresevenyears.”
Finally,mybosslookedatme,andherfacewaspinched.Irecognizedtheexpression—shewasangry.Notatme,though.“AndyouareoneofthemosttalentedpeopleI’vemetinalongtime.Iwillfightforyouuntiltheend,Clementine,ifthisiswhatyouwant.”
“Ofcourseitis,”Irepliedquickly,hopingthewordscouldbethesalvefortheitchundermyskin.“Iwantthis.”
Rhonda’sredlipsquirkedintoasmirk.“Good.Iexpectednothingless.Straussmightwanttohiresomeoneelse,buttherearetwopeopleatStraussandAdder,andIhavejustasmuchweightashedoes.You,”shewentonpointedly,“justhavetonabJamesAshton.”
“Oh,that’sall?”Iasked,tryingnottosoundtoopanicked.“Aseasyascatchingthemoon.”
“Goget’em,”shecheered.
Ireturnedtomycubicle,wheretherewassolittleprivacyIcouldn’tevenscreamintomydonutneckpillowIhadtuckedundermydeskfordayswhenItookcatnapsinthestockroom.IalreadyknewtheimprintandmycareerwereridingontheacquisitionofJamesAshton.Shedidn’thavetoremindme.
Breathe,Clementine.
IfIwantedthecareerIhadbeenworkingtowardforsevenyears,Ihadtodothis.
Nomatterwhat.
Isentafewemailsandfolloweduponsomepodcastinterviews,andslowlymyeyesstrayedtothelandscapewatercolorsI’dpaintedyearsago,hangingonthecorkboardbesidemymonitor.TheBrooklynBridge.ThepondinCentralPark.ThestepsoftheAcropolis.AquietteagardeninOsaka.Afishingpier.SnapshotsofplacesI’dbeen,andthepersonI’dbeenwhenIpaintedthem.
Thatrestlessfeelingundermyskinreturned,moreterriblethanever.
Thepaintingofawallofglaciershadhuesofpurpleandblue,fromthesummerIturnedtwenty-two—theClementinefromIwan’stime—freshoffaheartbreakwithherboyfriend.Ishould’veseenitcoming,butIdidnot,andIwasanuttermessafterward.I’dgraduated,andwentbacktomyparents’houseonLongIsland,andholedmyselfuptheretowastethesummerawaywhileIappliedtocurationjobsIwasn’tsureIwanted.
MyboyfriendandIweregoingtogoonabackpackingtouracrossEurope,butobviouslythatdidn’thappenwhenhedumpedmeanddecidedtotakeatechjobinSanFrancisco,andIalmostrefundedmyairlinetickets—untilmyauntcaughtwindofitandrefusedtoletme.
“Absolutelynot,”shesaidoverthephone.Iwaslyinginmybedroominmyparents’house,staringupattheceilingfilledwithboybandsfrommyyouth.Allofmythingswereinboxesinthehallway,movedoutofmyex’sapartmentinawhirlwindoftwenty-fourhours.“Wearegoingtotakethattrip.”
Isatup,startled.“We?”
“Youandme,mydarling!”
“But—Ididn’tplanforustogo.HalfthehotelsIhavebookedhaveonebedand—”
“Lifedoesn’talwaysgoasplanned.Thetrickistomakethemostofitwhenitdoesn’t,”shesaidmatter-of-factly.“Anddon’ttellmeyoudon’twanttosleepbutt-to-buttwithyourdearoldaunt?”
“That’snotwhatI’msaying,butyoumusthavesomethingelsetodo.Thattripyouweretalkingabout,theonetoRapaNui—”
“Nah!Icanpostponeit.Let’sgobackpackingacrossEurope!”shesaiddecisively.“Youandme—wehaven’tdoneitsinceyouwereinhighschool,remember?Justonelasttime,foroldtimes’sake.Youonlyliveonce,afterall.”
AndwhetherornotIwantedtosayno,AuntAnaleawasthekindofforceofnaturewhowouldn’tletme.Icouldhavethoughtupanyexcuse,foundanyreasontostayhomeandwallowinself-pity,anditwouldn’thavemattered.Myauntshowedupthenextmorningwithherbagspacked,inthebluecoatshealwaysreservedfortravel,andlargesunglasses,ataxiwaitingonthecurbtotakeustotheairport.Hermouthtwistedintoasmilesobigandsodangerous,Ifeltmyheartachebreakwaytosomethingelse—excitement.Alongingforsomethingnew
“Let’sgoonanadventure,mydarling,”shedeclared.
And,oh,didIrealizethen,thatIhadthethirstforadventuresownintomyverybones.
Imissedthatgirl,butIfelthercomingbacknow,littlebylittle,andIdidn’tquitehatethethoughtofsomethingnewanymore.ThelongerIsathere,inthissmallcubicle,themoreIbegantowonderwhat,exactly,Iwasworkingtoward.
IthoughtitwastheideaofRhonda,awomansurroundedbyframedbestsellerlistsandaccolades,quitehappywhereshewas,andIimaginedmyselfinherorangechair.WhatIwouldlooklike.I’dneedtothrowmywholeselfintoit.AsmanyhoursasI’dworked,IknewRhondaputinmore.Madeherselfavailabletoourauthors,totheiragents,toherstaff,everywakingmoment.SheworeherjobthewaysheworeherLouboutins.TobeasgoodasIwantedtobe,I’dhavetodothat,too.I’dtrademyflatsforheels,buyasetofblazers,bethekindofpersoneveryoneexpectedmetobe—
SomeonelikeJames,Isupposed.
Iwantedthat.Didn’tI?
Myphonevibrated,andIglancedatthetextmessagefromDrew.
It’sin!Secondandfinaloffer!!Sendgoodvibes,shesaidwithapraying-handsemoji.
YOUGOTTHISBABE!Fionareplied.
JamesandhisagentinvitedustothesoftopeningofhisnewrestaurantonThursday.MoveWine&Whinetothenandthere??Drewasked.
Soundsgood,Itexted,andFionagaveathumbs-up.
Iturnedmyphonetosilent,andwentbacktowork.Itwasoutofmyhands.WhoeverJameschosewaswhohechose.TherewasnothingIcoulddoaboutitnow.
Everythingwouldrunitscourse—comeintomylifeandthenleaveagain,becausenothingstayed.Nothingeverstayed.
Butthingscouldreturn.
Thatremindedmeofsomething.Ipulledoutmyphoneagainandadded,Wouldyoutwoliketogowithmetodelivertheletter?33WhatNeverWas
Veralivedoneighty-firstStreet,betweenAmsterdamandBroadway,inafour-storywalk-upthecolorofcreamstone.Accordingtotheaddressonherletter,shelivedonthethirdfloorin3A.FionaandDrewstoodonthesidewalkbehindmeforsupport,thoughDrewstillbelievedIshouldjustmailtheletterbackinstead.
“Whatifshedoesn’twanttoseeyou?”sheasked.
“I’dratherfindoutinpersonifsomeoneI’vewrittenletterstooverthelastthirtyyearsdied,”Fionaargued,andherwifesighedandshookherhead.
IunderstoodwhereDrewwascomingfrom—perhapsitwouldhavebeeneasiertojustsendbacktheletter.MyauntandVera’srelationshipwasn’tmybusiness,butbecauseIknewthestory,Ifelt…obligated,Iguess.Tofinishit.
IhadheardsomuchaboutVera,shealmostfeltlikeafairytaletome—someoneIneverthoughtI’dmeet.Myhandswereclammy,andmyheartracedinmychest.BecauseIwasabouttomeether,wasn’tI?Iwasabouttomeetthelastpieceofmyaunt’spuzzle.
Itookadeepbreathandscannedthebuzzerbox.Thenamesweresmudged—almostillegible.Isquintedtotrytomakeoutthenumbersatleast,andpressedthebuzzerfor3A.
Afteramoment,aquietvoiceanswered,“Hello?”
“Hi—I’msorrytobotheryou.MynameisClementineWestandIhavetheletteryousentmyaunt.”Then,abitquieter:“AnaleaCollins.”
Therewasn’taresponseforagoodlongmoment,solongIthoughtthatmaybeIwasn’tgoingtogetaresponse,butthenshesaid,“Comeonup,Clementine.”
Thedoorbuzzedtounlock,andItoldmyfriendsI’dbebackinaminute.
ThenItookadeepbreath,andsteeledmycourage,andsteppedintothebuilding
PursuingVerafeltlikeopeningawoundIhadsuturedtogethersixmonthsago,butIhadto.IknewIdid.Ifsheandmyaunthadkeptintouchovertheyears,thenwhyhadn’tAnaleaevermentionedit?Iftheyhadstayedfriends,whydidn’titworkout?IthoughtAnaleahadcuttieswithVera,likeshehadwitheverythingshelovedandrefusedtoruin,butapparentlythereweremoresecretstomyauntthanIhadoriginallythought.Thingsshekepthidden.Thingssheneverletanyonesee.
Iusedtowanttobeexactlylikemyaunt.Ithoughtshewasbraveanddaring,andIwantedtobuildmyselflikeshe’dbuiltherself.Myauntgavemepermissiontobewildandunfettered,andIwantedthatmorethananythingelse,buteversinceshepassedI’drecoiledfromthat.Ididn’twanttobeanythinglikeher,becauseIwasheartbroken.
Iwasstillheartbroken.
AndnowIhadtotellsomeoneelse,someonewhoalsolovedAnaleaenoughtowriteherlettersthirtyyearsaftertheirtimeended,exactlywhatIneverwantedtohearagain.
Istoppedatapartment3Aandknockedonthedoor.MyaunthadtoldmeaboutVera,aboutwhatshelookedlike,butwhensheopenedthedoorIwasimmediatelystruckbyhowmuchsheremindedmeofmyaunt.Shewastallandthin,inaburnt-orangeblouseandcomfortableslacks.Hergrayish-blondhairwascutveryshort,herfaceangularforawomaninherlatesixties.
“Clementine,”shegreeted,andsuddenlypulledmeintoatighthug.Herarmswerethin,soitsurprisedmehowstrongshewas.“I’veheardsomuchaboutyou!”
Tearsprickledinmyeyes,becausesheconfirmedwhatIhadwondered—whetherthisletterhadbeenafluke,orifitwasanotherlineofconversationinalonghistoryofcorrespondencesbackandforthoveryearsandyears.Anditwasthelatter.
AnaleahadkeptintouchwithVera,andtheyhadtalkedaboutme.
Shesmelledlikeorangesandfreshlaundry,andIhuggedherback.
“I’veheardalotaboutyou,too,”Imurmuredintoherblouse.
Afteramoment,sheletgoandplantedherhandsonmyshoulders,gettingagoodlookatmefrombeneathherhalf-moonglasses.“Youlookjustlikeher!Almostaspittingimage.”
Igavethesmallestsmile.Wasthatacompliment?“Thankyou.”
Shesteppedbacktowelcomemeintoherapartment.“Comein,comein.Iwasjustabouttomakesomecoffee.Areyouacoffeedrinker?Youhavetobe.Mysonmakesthebestcoffee…”
Whatmyaunthadfailedtomention,however,wasthatVerahadaveryslightSouthernaccent,andherapartmentwasfilledwithpicturesofasmallSoutherntown.Ididn’tlookatthemtoothoroughlyasIcameintothelivingroomandsatdown,andshefixedustwocupsofcoffeeandsatbesideme.Iwasalittlenumb,everythingablur.AftersomanyyearsofhearingstoriesaboutthiswomannamedVera,hereshewasintheflesh.
ThiswasthewomanAnaleahadlovedsomuchshelethergo.
“IwaswonderingwhenI’dbeabletomeetyou,”Verasaidasshesatdownbesideme.“It’sasurprise,though.Iseverythingallright?”
Inreply,Ireachedintomypurseandpulledoutthelettershe’dsentmyaunt.Itwasabitcrinkledfrombattlingwithmywallet,butIsmootheditdownandhandeditback.“I’msorry,”Ibegan,becauseIwasn’tsurewhatelsetosay
Shefrownedasshetooktheunopenedletter.“Oh,”shewhispered,realizationdawning,“isshe…”
Therewerethingsthatwerehardtodo—complicateddivisionwithoutacalculator,ahundred-milemarathon,catchingaconnectingflightatLAXintwentyminutes—butthiswasbyfarthehardest.Findingthewords,musteringthemup,teachingmymouthhowtosaythem—teachingmyhearthowtounderstandthem…
Iwouldneverwishthisonanyone.
“Shepassedaway,”Iforcedout,unabletolookather,tryingtokeepmyselftiedtightlyinabow.Together.“Aboutsixmonthsago.”
Herbreathhitched.Hergriponthelettertightened.“Ididn’tknow,”shesaidquietly.Shelookeddownattheletter.Thenupatmeagain.“Oh,Clementine.”Shereachedformyhandandsqueezedittightly.“Yousee,Irecentlymovedbacktothecity.Mysonhasajobhere,andIwantedtobenearhim,”sherambled,becauseitfeltbetterthanlingeringonthosewords—shepassedaway.Sheswallowedhersadnessandsaid,afteramoment,asshegatheredherselfbacktogether,“MayIaskwhathappened?”
No,Iwantedtoreply,butnotbecauseIwasashamed.Iwasn’tsureifIcouldtalkaboutitwithoutcrying.
ItwaswhyIdidn’ttalkaboutitatall—withanyone.
“She…shehadn’tbeensleepingwell,soherdoctorprescribedhersomemedicineawhileago.Andshejust…”ForallthetimesI’drehearsedthis,theyallfailedmenow.Ididn’tknowhowtoexplainit.Iwasdoingabadjob.“TheneighborscalledforawellnesscheckonNewYear’sDaywhenshewouldn’tanswerthedoor,butitwastoolate.”Ipursedmylips,screwingthemtightlyclosedasIfeltasobbubbleupfrommychest.“Shejustwenttosleep.Shetookenoughthatsheknewshewouldn’twakeup.Theyfoundherinherfavoritechair.”
“Theblueone.Oh,”Vera’svoicecracked.Shedroppedtheletterandpressedherhandsagainsthermouth.“Oh,Annie.”
Becausewhatelsecouldyousay?
“I’msorry,”Iwhispered,pressingmynailsintomyhands,focusingonthesharppain.“There’snoeasywaytotalkaboutit.I’msorry,”Irepeated.“I’msorry.”
“Oh,honey,itisn’tyou.Youdidnothingwrong,”shesaid—
ButIdid,didn’tI?Ishouldhaveseenthesigns.Ishouldhavesavedher.Ishouldhave—
AndthenthiswomanwhomIdidn’tknowwrappedherarmsaroundmeandpressedmetightlyintoherburnt-orangeblouse,anditfeltlikepermission.ThekindIhadn’tletmyselfhaveforsixmonths.ThekindofpermissionthatI’dbeenwaitingfor,asIsataloneinmyaunt’sapartment,andgriefwelledupsohighitfeltsuffocating.ThepermissionIthoughtI’dgivenmyself,butithadn’tbeenpermissiontocry—ithadbeenacommandtobestrong.Tobeokay.Itoldmyself,overandover,Ihadtobeokay.
Andfinally—finally—someonegavemepermissiontocomeundone.
“It’snotyourfault,”shesaidintomyhairasasobescapedmymouth.
“Sheleft,”Iwhispered,myvoicetightandhigh.“Sheleft.”
Andshebrokemyheart.
ThiswomanwhoIdidn’tknow,whoI’donlyeverimaginedinmyaunt’sstories,heldmetightlyasIcried,andshecriedwithme.Icriedbecausesheleftme—shejustleft,evenasIchasedher,hercoattailsfluttering,justoutofreach.SheleftandIwasstillhereandthereweresomanythingsshehadn’tdoneyet,orwouldn’teverdointhefuture.Thereweresunrisesshe’dneverseeandChristmasesinRockefellerPlazashe’dnevercomplainaboutandlayoversshe’dnevercatchandwineshe’dneverdrinkwithmeagainatthatyellowtableofhersasweatefettuccinethatwasneverthesametwice.
I’dneverseeheragain.
Shewasnevercomingback.
AsIsattherecryingintoVera’sshoulder,itfeltlikeawallhadsuddenlycomedown,allofmypent-upgriefandsadnesswashingawaylikeabrokendam.Afterawhile,wefinallypriedourselvesapart,andshegotaboxoftissuesanddabbedhereyes.
“Whathappenedtotheapartment?”sheasked.
“Shegaveittomeinherwill,”Ireplied,thengrabbedafewtissuesandcleanedmyface.Itfeltrawandpuffy.
Shenodded,lookingalittlerelieved.“Oh,good.Youknowitwasminebeforesheboughtit?Well,notmine—Ionlyrenteditfromthisstodgyoldmanwhooverchargedforit.Hepassedaway,soIhadtomoveout,andhisfamilysoldittoyouraunt.Idon’tthinktheyeverknewwhatitdid.”
Thatsurprisedme.“Theydidn’t?”
“No,theyneverlivedthere,buttherentersknew.ThemanItooktheleaseoverfromwarnedme.He’dfiguredoutthehardway.Hethoughtsomeoneelsehadakeytotheapartmentandwascominginandrearranginghisthings!Itwasonlyafterhegothernamethatherealizedthewomanwhokeptbreakinginhadpassedalmostfiveyearsprior.”Sheshookherhead,butshewasgrinningatthememory.“Ialmostdidn’tbelievehimuntilithappenedtome,andImetyouraunt!”
Shedidn’tseemmuchliketheVerainmyaunt’sstories.ThisVerawasmoreput-together,wearingastringofpearls,lookingaspristineashersimplydecoratedapartment.Andiflittlethingsweredifferent,maybesomeofmyaunt’sstorywas,too.“Whydidn’tthingsworkout?”Iasked,andshegaveaone-shoulderedshrug.
“Ican’ttellyou.Ithinkshewasalwaysalittleafraidofagoodthingcomingtoanend,andoh,wewereagoodthing,”shesaidwithasecretsmile,herthumbsrubbingagainstthewaxsealonthebackofherletter.“IneverlovedanyonequitelikeIlovedAnnie.Wekeptintouchthroughletters,sometimeseveryothermonth,sometimeseveryotheryear,andwetalkedaboutourlives.I’mnotsuresheeverregrettedlettingmego,butIwishIwould’vefoughtalittlemoreforus.”
“Iknowshethoughtaboutit,”Ireplied,rememberingthenightmyaunttoldmethewholestory,thewayshe’dcriedatthekitchentable.“Shealwayswishedithadendeddifferently,butIthinkshewasafraidbecause…theapartment,youknow.Howyoutwomet.”
Hermouthscrewedintoacoysmile.“Shewassoafraidofchange.Shewasafraidwewouldgrowapart.Shedidn’twanttoruinit,soshedidwhatshedidbest—shepreserveditforherself.Thosefeelings,thatmoment.Iwassomadather,”sheadmitted,“foryears.ForyearsIwasangry.AndthenIstoppedbeingsoangry.Thatwasjustwhoshewas,anditwasapartofherIlovedwiththerestofher.Itwashowsheknewhowtolive,anditwasn’tallbad.Itwasgood,too.Thememoriesaregood.”
Ihesitated,becausehowcouldtheybegoodwhensheleftus?Whenthelasttasteinourmouthswaslemondrops?“Evenafter…”
Veratookmyhandandsqueezedittightly.“Thememoriesaregood,”sherepeated.
Ibitmybottomlipsoitwouldn’twobble,andnodded,wipingmyeyeswiththebackofmyhand.Thecoffeeshe’dbroughtwascoldbynow,andneitherofushadtouchedit.
Myphonebuzzed,andIwassureitwasDrewandFionaaskingifIwasallright.Iprobablyneededtogetbacktothem,soIhuggedVeraandthankedherfortalkingwithmeaboutmyaunt.
“Youcancomebackanytimeyouwant.Ihavestoriesfordays,”shesaid,andescortedmebacktowardthedoor.Nowthatmyheadwasn’tspinning,Itooknoteofthepicturesthatlinedthehallway.
Verawasinalmostallofthem,standingbesidetwochildrenofvaryingages—aboyandagirlbothwithaheadfulofauburnhair.Sometimestheyweretoddlers.Sometimestheywereteenagers.Fishingatthelake,elementaryschoolgraduation,thetwokidssittingonasmilingoldman’sknees.TheybothlookedverymuchlikeVera,andIrealizedtheymustbeherchildren.Therewasnotanotherpersoninthephotos,onlyeverthethreeofthem.AndIcouldn’tstoplookingattheboy,withhisdimplesandpaleeyes.
“MyyoungestcalledustheThreeMusketeerswhenshewaslittle,”shesaidwhenshecaughtmestaringatthecollageofpictures,anditfeltlikeIheardherthroughatunnel,andshepointedataphotoofabeautifulyoungwomaninaweddingdressbesideasmilingdark-hairedman.“That’sLily,”shesaid,andthenmotionedtothepictureofafaceIknewtoowell.
Ayoungmanwithacrookedsmileandbrightpaleeyesandcurlyauburnhair,inafloralchef’sapronashecookedsomethingoverawell-lovedstove.Hestoodbesideashorteroldmanwithhisbackcurledover,wearingasimilarchef’sapronthatreadIAin’tOld,I’mWell-Seasoned,hiseyesthesamebrightpalegray.Istaredatthephotoinbittersweetawe.
“AndthisisIwan,”shewenton,“withmylatefather.Iwanreallylovedhim.”
“Oh.”Myvoicewastiny.
Shesmiled.“He’sopeninguparestaurantinthecity.I’msoproud,buthe’sbeensostressedlately—Isometimeswonderifhe’sdoingallthisbecausehelovesit,orbecauseofhisgrandpa.”
IstaredatthephotoofthemanIknew—Iwanwithhiscrookedandinfectioussmile.ItmusthavebeentakenjustbeforehemovedtoNYC.Andsuddenly,somethingclicked,lookingatthatphoto.Ofallthethingsthathadchangedinthosesevenyears,themostprominentwasthelookinhiseyes.Therewasunabashedjoythere.
AndIwonderedwhenthatleft.
“Maybeyou’llmeethimsomeday.He’sveryhandsome,”Veraaddedwithaneyebrowwiggle.
“Heis,”Iagreed,andthankedheragainforlettingmecryonhershoulder,andwithonelasthug,Ileftandmetmyfriendsoutfrontonthesidewalk,whobothdeclared—ratherimmediately—thatIlookedlikeIneededadrink.
Theyhadnoidea.34AllTooWell
Fortherestoftheweek,IwonderedhowIcould’vemissedthesigns.
Notthatitwasapparent.Thinkingbackonit,IwanhadsaidthatAnaleawasafriendofhismom’s,butI’dneveraskedforhername.Itmadesense,whenIthoughtaboutit,thatmyauntwouldofferheremptyapartmenttosomeone’schildsheknew.Notonlyknew,butknewintimatelywell.IdoubtedthatIwanknewhismom’shistorywithmyaunt,justlikeIhadn’t—hewouldhavebroughtitup.
HadtheapartmentknownwhoIwanwas?Wasthatwhyitbroughtustogetheratthesecrossroads?
Myfingersfeltrestless—sorestlessthatIbroughtatinofwatercolorstoworkandsatoverinBryantParkatlunchandpaintedthecrowdsIsaw.WhenIreturnedtowork,Iwenttoquicklywashthepaintdriedonmyfingertips.
“Ilikethatyou’repaintingagain,”FionacommentedonWednesday,asweloungedonthegreengrassinBryantPark,ononeofDrew’sblanketsfromheroffice,andIwashedtheSchwarzmanBuildingingoldsandcreamsinmytravelguide’sBestFreeTouristStops.“Theyellowsarepretty.”
“Almostlemony,”Drewagreed,loungingonthegroundbesideFiona,herhandsbehindherhead.“I’vebeenmeaningtoaskforawhile,but—whatmadeyoustartpaintingagain?”
Ishrugged.“Idunno,Ijustpickeditbackup,”Ireplied,cleaningmybrushoutinabottlecapofwater,andchoosingarustyorangefortheedgesofthebuilding,“anditmakesmefeelhappy.”
Drewhummedinthought.“Ican’tevenrememberwhatmakesmefeelhappy…”
“Reading,babe—ooh,”Fionaheldherbelly,herfacepinching.“Oh,thatwasinteresting.”
Drewsatupstraightinalarm.“Iseverythingokay?Somethingwrong?”
Shewavedheroff.“I’mfine,I’mfine.Itwasjustaweirdfeeling.”
Igaveherahesitantlook.“Likebaby-comingweird?”
“I’mnotdueforanotherweek,”Fionareplied,asifthatwouldstopit,butfortherestofthedayshewasfine—andshe’dabsolutelyscoffedattheideaofstartinghermaternityleaveearly.(“What,andfutzaroundthehouseallday?No,thankyou,I’dgoinsane.”)
SowhenThursdayrolledaround,Ibroughtadresstotheofficeandchangedinthestallafterwork,andtogetherwithDrewandFionawecaughtacabtoJames’snewrestaurant.Itwasasoftopening,reservedforinvites-only,tocelebratethelaunchofhyacinth—alllowercase,bytheway,inaloopyhandwritingscript.
WemetJulietteoutside,dressedinastylishcreamblousetuckedintobaggybrowntrousers,abeltatthewaist.Herhairwasdoneupintotwobuns,aknockoffPradabagonherarmthatlookedsorealIcouldalmostbelieveitifshedidn’ttellmeexactlywheretogetonemyself.Besideher,Ilooked…alittleunderdressedandcasual,inapalepurpleknee-lengthdresswithabowatthecollar,andforthefirsttimesincemylastdatewithNate—
“Heels?”Juliettegasped.“Ohmygod,you’rewearingheels!Andyou’resotallinthem.”Shequicklydugoutherphoneandsnappedaphotoofthem.“ThisisgoingrightintomyStories!Wehavetorememberthisoccasion.”
Igroaned.“Iwearheelssometimes!”
“Whenyouwanttoimpresssomeone,”Fionanoted.
“Ourfutureauthor,obviously,”Ivolleyedback.
Drewputherhandsonherhipsandpracticedhercalmbreathing.“Speakingofwhich,ifanyofyoumakemelookbadtonight…”
Juliettesaid,withasalute,“We’llbeonourbestbehavior!Thoughsomeonemighthavetotellmewhichforktouseifthere’smorethanone…”
IloopedmyarmsthroughDrew’sandFiona’sandsaid,“Don’tworry,I’llbewrongtoo.”
Andtogetherweopenedtheheavywoodendoorandwalkedinside.
Ontherideover,Iimaginedwhathisrestaurantwouldlooklike—maybeitlookedliketheonehetalkedaboutovercoldnoodles.Longfamily-styletablesandcrimson-redwalls,comfyandwarm,theleatherchairsbrokenin.Localartistswouldbeonthewalls,thechandeliersthisamalgamationofsconcesandcandelabras.
Atablesetasideforawomanhemetoversomefar-offweekendsinadistantmemory.
“Setasideforyoueverynight—besttableinthehouse,”Irememberhimsaying.
AconversationIwassurehe’dforgotten,eventhoughIkeptthesametravelguidetuckedintomypurseaswesteppedintohisrestaurant.
Itwasbright—thatwasthefirstthingInoticed—almostimpeccablyso,withpolishedwhitemarbletablesandoff-whitesconceswiththeslightestbluehue.Thechairswerestoolsatbest,theceilingbaretonewsilverplumbing,somewherebetweenawarehouseandahalf-finisheddepartmentstore.Itfeltlikeaplacewhereifyoumadeamistake,it’dbeonapedestalforalltosee.Myheartsankalittlebecausethiswasn’tIwan’sdreamatall.
ItwasJames’s.
ThehostessquicklyrecognizedDrewfromaphotoonherclipboardandusheredustoaspecialtable.Afewotherfamiliarfaceswerealreadyhere—Benjiandhisfiancée,Parkerandhiswife,andtwoothereditorswhohadbeenatthecookingclass.Wesatdownatoneofthelargertables,thechairsuncomfortableandcold,andIfeltsooutofplaceitmademyskinitch.
Pretendlikeyoubelonghereuntilyoudo,Ithoughttomyself.
“Thisplaceissofancy,”Fionasaid,asourserverbroughtoutourmenus—whichwereallthesame,detailingalistofsevencourses.Fionahadaspecialmenuforherdietaryrestrictionsasapregnantperson.Ourserveralsobroughtusabottleofwine—
“Complimentsofthechef,”theserversaid,uncorkedthered,andpoureduseachaglass.
Whenshewasgone,Drewpickedupherglassandhelditup.“Toagoodevening,whetherornotwegetthebook.”
Therestofusclinkedourglassestohers.Thewinewasdryandalittlesour,andsuddenlyitfeltlikeIwasbackatthatfirstlunchattheOliveBranch,feelingoutofplace,swingingmyarmswildlytofindmyfooting.
Myfriendscommentedontherestaurant,themenu,theotherpeopleseatedatthetables.IwashalflisteningtoJuliettetalkaboutanewcampaignshewasputtingtogetherwiththesocialmediacoordinatorwhenafamiliarfacewalkedintohyacinth—VeraAshton.
Thehostessquicklytookhertobeseatedatthebesttableintherestaurant,andshesmiledasshesatdown,andmarveledatthedécor.Iexcusedmyselffromthetabletogosayhello.
“Oh,Clementine!”shecried,claspingherhandstogether.Shewasdressedinasage-coloredpantsuit,pearlsinherears.“It’ssounexpectedtoseeyouhere.Lovely,isn’tthisjustlovely?”
“Itis,”Irepliedingreeting.“Howareyou?”
“Good!Good.Ithoughtthiswasasoftopening,whatbringsyouheretoIwan’s—excuseme,James’s”—shesaidconspiratorially—“restaurant?HehatesitwhenIcallhimIwaninpublic.Somethingabouthisimage.Abitsilly,buthe’llfigureitout.”
Iwasn’tsosure,seeingthisrestaurant.“Iactuallyworkforoneofthepublishershe’sthinkingaboutsigningwith.”Imotionedbacktomytable.“Ijustwantedtocomeoverandsayhello.”
“Oh,whatatreat!He’dbewrongnottochooseyou—Oh,there’sLilyandherhusband,”sheadded,lookingbehindme,andIbarelyhadtimetolookbeforeapetitewomaninaflowerydress,herauburnhairlongandwild,cameuptothetable.ItstartledmehowmuchshelookedlikeIwan,fromherlight-coloredeyestothefrecklesacrosshercheeks.Shegavemeahesitantsmile,asdidherhusband,andIquicklyrealizedIwasblockingthechairshewastositin,andsteppedoutoftheway.“Lily,”Verasaid,motioningtome,“thisisClementine.DoyouremembermystoriesaboutAnalea?Thisisherniece.”
“It’snicetomeetyou,”Lilysaidpleasantly,asherhusbandsatdownbesideher.“Wasn’tAnaleawhoIwanstayedwiththatsummer?”
“Inherapartment,yes,”Veraconfirmed.“Iheardshewasgoingabroad,soIphonedherupandaskedifmysoncouldstaythereforthesummer.Hegotajobathisgrandfather’sfavoriterestaurant,andsevenyearslater,lookwhereweare!AllbecauseAnalealethimstaythereforfree.”ThatIdidn’tknow.Veralaughed,shakingherhead.“Isn’titstrangehowtheworldworkssometimes?It’sneveramatteroftime,butamatteroftiming.”
Itwas,wasn’tit.
“Ijustsortofwishhehadmorecomfortablechairs,”Lilysaidwithalaugh.“Grandpawould’vehatedthese.”
“I’msurehewould’veappreciatedthethought,”Verarepliedamicably.“Clementine,wouldyouliketojoinus?Wehaveanextrachair.”
“Oh,no,Ishouldgetbacktomytable,butitwasreallygreattoseeallofyou—andtomeetyou,Lily.Haveagoodnight,”Isaidingoodbye,andstartedbackformytable.
Thekitcheninthebackwashiddenbehindfrostedglassthatshifted,alittle,likeanopal,dependingonthelight.Behindit,shadowswentbackandforth.Isetmymouthintoathinline,lookingattheperfectwhitemarbledtablesandthecleanlines,andthedishesthatcameouttowaitingtables,circlesofwhitewithsmallbite-sizedpopsofcoloronthem.Atthetablessatinfluencersandcelebrities,peopleIknewoftangentiallyintheculinaryworldfromresearchingJames.Tastemakers.Critics.Peopleheshouldbeseenwith.Peoplehewantedtoimpress.
Ireturnedtomytable,buttherewassomeonealreadyinmyseat.Amaninapristinechef’suniform,broadshouldersandcrisphair,awhiskhiddenbehindthecurlsaroundhisleftear.
JameslookedupatmeasIapproached,andgavemeaperfectsmile.“Ah,hellothere.Iwasjustheretowelcomeeveryonetohyacinth.”
Juliettesaid,“It’ssobright,Ishould’vebroughtsunglasses.”
“You’regoingtogivecopyeditorsaheartattackwiththatnamenotcapitalized,”Iadded.
“MaybeI’llstartanewtrend,Clementine,”hesaidevenlywiththatperfectwhitesmileofhis.Hestoodandpulledoutthechairforme.Isat,ahardlumpforminginmythroat.“Itwasapleasureseeingallofyouagain—andmeetingyou,Juliette.Pleaseenjoyyourmeal,andIhopeit’smemorable—perhapsevenperfect.”
Thenheleftforthenexttable,andmyfriendsbegantotalkaboutthedishesonthemenu—almostallofthemwereiterationsofrecipesinhisproposalbutheightenedtofitthiselevatedspace.
Aroundme,thegossipfromothertablestalkedabouthowhe’dearnedaMichelinstarfortheOliveBranch,howhewontheJamesBeardEmergingChefaward.Theytalkedabouthispresentation,hisdishes,hisattentiontodetail,howhewashungry—alwayshungry—formore.Howthatmadehimarisingtalent.
Howpeoplewereexcited—starved—formore.
Asmuchasmyheartached,itwashardnottobeproudofhim.
Eventhoughhisclosestfriends,IsaandMiguel,werenowheretobefound.
Ourserverbegantobringoutourplates.
Thefirstthingwasafishsoup—blackbassinflowerblossoms.Theywereallbite-sized,thoughthatwaswhatatastingmenuwas,abunchofsmallerplates,enoughforamouthfulandanevocativeconversationabouttheflavorofthecaviar.
Therewastroutliverwithfreshapplesandfatty,caramelizedbutter.
Duckragù.
Amaranthtoastwithsmokedroeandtartarsauce.
Asinglecornbreadhushpuppywithasmokyyolkandnobsofpickledcorn.
Pig’s-bloodflatbread.
Yogurtwithmarshmallows.
Icecreamwithcarameldrizzle.
Andfinally,therewasawhiskoflemon-flavoredmeringueonacrumblygrahamcracker.Itwassupposedtobehisnewrenditionofalemonpie,butasIateit,allIcouldthinkaboutwasthedessertIwanandIsharedatmyaunt’skitchentable.
Hehadsaidmeringuewashisdownfall—hecouldn’tbegoodateverything,he’dbeboringifhewasperfect—andyetthebiteItookwasgood.Thegrahamcrackercrumbledinmymouth.
Ididn’trealizeIhadtearsinmyeyesuntilDrewasked,“Iseverythingokay?”
Yes,itshouldhavebeen.Yes,becausethisdinnerwasexcellentineverywaythatitneededtobetoimpresseverypublishingteamhere.Everycelebrity,everyinfluencer.Itwasdelicious.
Perfect,even.
AndyetIcouldn’tgetthephotoIhadseenonVera’swalloutofmyhead,ofIwanandhisgrandfatherinatoo-tinykitchen,wearingmismatchingaprons,withflourontheircheeksandthatcrooked,terriblyperfectsmile.Perfectbecauseitwasn’tperfect.
Perfectbecauseitwasn’ttryingtobe.Hewasjusthimself.
“Excuseme,”Itoldmytable,wipingmymouth,andquicklyleftfortherestroom.ThedoorwaslockedwhenIgotthere.Icursedundermybreathandstoodoutside,waiting.Thesignabovethedoorwasinthesamelowercaseloopyhandwriting.
Mychestfelttight.
Myaunthadquithercareerbecauseshewasafraidshe’dneverbebetterthanwhoshe’dbeeninTheHeartMattered,andIwanwastheopposite.Hekepttryingtobebetter,toearneveryone’srespect,toimpresspeoplewithperfect—ornothing.
Didherealizewhathe’dgivenup,though?
Ishouldhavebeenproudofhim—Iwasproudofhim—but…
“So,howwasit?”
Startled,Ispunaround,andChefJamesAshtonstoodbehindme,freshoutofthekitchenwherehisteamworkedlikeawell-oiledmachine.Icaughtglimpsesofthemthroughthecircularwindowinthedoor,facespinched,workingtowardthekindofperfectionIdidn’tunderstand.
“It’s…quitearestaurant,”Itoldhim,motioningouttowardthediningarea.
Hisperfectgringrewtight.“Youdon’tlikeit.”
Iswallowedtheknotinmythroat.Oh,no.“Ididn’tsaythat.”
“Icanseeitonyourface.”
Iglancedbacktowardthediningarea,theclankingofsilverwareandthemurmuringofvoices,thegaspasplatescame,sighingdryiceoffthem.Weweresecludedinourownlittleworldbackhere.
“I’msorry,James,”Isaidquietly.
Hisfacedidn’tgiveanythingaway,butheasked,“Whydon’tyouevercallmeIwan?”
ItwasaquestionIreallydidn’tknowhowtoansweruntiljustthen,lookingupintothoseguardedgrayeyes,poolsofshalethatonlyneededasinglelayer.Isteppeduptohim,andplacedahandonhissolid,warmchest.Iwantedtokisshim,andIwantedtoshakehim,andIwantedtobringoutthemanIsometimessawbetweenthecracks,butIcouldn’t.AllIcoulddowasgivehimthetruth.
“IusedtohavelovelydinnerswithamannamedIwan,whotoldmethatyoucouldfindromanceinapieceofchocolateandloveinalemonpie,”Ibegan,andconfusioncrossedhisbrow.
“Thosedisheswouldn’thaveimpressedanyone,Lemon.Iwasadishwasherthen.Ididn’tknowbetter.”
“Iknow,andthefoodwasdelicioustonight.The—um—thefishthing?Itwasreallygreat.I’msorry,Idon’tknowtheactualnameofit,”Iaddedquickly,hopingitdidn’tannoyhim.“Itwasverygood.Areyouhappywithitall?”Iasked,wavingmyhandtowardhisnewrestaurant,andallofitssharpedgesandblankwhitewalls.Thewayittriedtobesomethingnew,andendedupbeingnothingatall.
“Whywouldn’tIbe?”hereplied,andtherewasanedgeoffrustrationinhisvoice.“OfcourseIam.”Hegesturedtowardthediningarea.“Everyoneouttherelookslikethey’reenjoyingthemselves—they’rehavingexcellentfood.”
“Thencloseyoureyes—whatdoyouhear?”
“I’mnotgoingtodothat.”
“Please.”
“Lemon—”
“Please.”
Hebreathedoutthroughhisnose,butthenheclosedhiseyes.“Ihearutensilsonplates.Ihearconversations.TheACsqueaking—Ineedtofixthat.There,areyouhappy?”
“Justkeeplistening,”Itoldhim,andtomysurprise,hedid.Afteramoment,Iasked,“Doyouhearanyonelaughing?”
“Ihopetheyaren’t.”
“Idon’tmeanatyou,Imeanwitheachother.”Iglancedoutagainattherestaurant,strangersonuncomfortablechairs,shiftingawkwardlyastheytookphotosoftheirfoodandsippedwineorchampagneastheyscrolledthroughtheirsocials.
Slowly,heopenedhiseyes,andlookedouttowardthediningarea,too,astrangelookonhisface,searchingacrossthetablesasifhecouldprovemewrong.Andwhenhecouldn’t,hesaid,“I’mdoingsomethingnewhere.Somethinginventive.Somethingpeoplewanttosee—somethingtheywilltalkabout.”Hepursedhislipsanddartedhisgazebacktome.“I’mgivingpeopleaperfectmeal—youknowthisismydream.ThisiswhatI’veworkedfor.”
“Iknow,”Itriedtoexplain,butIwasquicklylosinghim.“I’mjustaskingyounottolosewhoyouare—”
“WhoIwas,”hevolleyedback,andIwinced.“Whatdoyouwantfromme,Clementine?”
Tobethemanwhosmiledatmewiththatcrookedmouthoverfrozencardboardpizza.Thekindofguywhotoldjokesacrosscoldnoodles.Thepersonwhotoldmeabouthisgrandfather’slemonpies,howtheywereneverthesametwice.“You’resooutoftouchwitheverythingyouwere,”Isaid.“Imeandryiceforpasta?”
Hisnosescrunched.“Coldnoodles.”
Likehemadeformetheotherweek.Itriedagain,“Adeconstructedlemonpie?”
“Everybitetastesalittledifferent.”
Likethekindofpiehisgrandfathermade.“Butthey’renotthesame—they’rethingsthatmadeyouwhoyouare,”Itriedtoreason.“Theymadeyou—”
“AndifIwasstillthatdishwasher,wouldyoubehere?Competingformycookbook?No.Nooneouttherewouldbehere.”
Therealizationwaslikeabucketoficewater.Mythroatfelttight.Ilookedaway.
“I’mstillme,Clementine,”hesaid.“I’mstilltryingtomakemygranddadproud,tomaketheperfectmeal—andIknowhowtonow.Istudiedunderthemanwhomadeit.Iknowexactlywhatmadeitperfect—”
“Itwasyourgrandpa,Iwan,”Iinterrupted,andthesharplookfroze,andthenslowlyslippedoffhisface,untilhelookedlikehe’dlosthisgrandfatheralloveragain.Ireacheduptotryandtakehisfaceinmyhands,buthemovedaway.
Mythroatstungastearscametomyeyes.
“I’msorry—”
“Changeisn’talwaysbad,Clementine,”hesaid,hisvoicesolidbutstoic.Hisjawworkedashetriedtofindtherightwords.“Perhapsinsteadofwantingmetostaytheexactsamepersonyoumetinthatapartment,youshouldletyourselfchangealittle,too.”
Idrewmyhandbackquickly.“I…”
Behindhim,thesilverdoorstothekitchenswungopen,butinsteadofaservercomingoutwithanotherroundofintricatelystyledplates,itwas—Miguel?Hishairslickedback,inamaroonsuit,aglassofchampagneinonehand.
Hewashere,afterall?
Miguelsaid,smiling,“Iwaswonderingwhereyou’dgoneoffto!Isa’sabouttogetintothat2002SalonBlancbackthere—Lemon!Hey!Iwan,youdidn’ttellmeshe’dbehere.”
Jamespursedhislipstogether,andIlookedaway,tryingtofindsomeexcusetoleave,becauseIhadmisjudgedhim,apparently.MorethanIthought.
Suddenly,shoutscamefromthediningarea.Weglancedbacktowardthemountingchaos,andIpaledwhenIrealizedthatitwascomingfrommytable.DrewwashelpingFionatoherfeet.Juliettewasinasheerpanic,asshesearchedtherestaurantforme,herphoneinherhand,callinganUber.Shefoundmeandheldupherphone.
“IT’SCOMING!”Juliettecried.
It…?
Jamesdidn’tunderstand.“Coming?What’scoming?”heasked,andIrealizedasecondbeforehedid.“Didherwaterbreak?”
“Ihavetogo,”Imuttered,andhedidn’tstopme.AsIhurriedbacktowardmytable,Ifeltsomethingwarmslidedownmycheeks,andIwipedmytearsaway.
IgrabbedthephoneoutofJuliette’shandandmyownpurseasweleft.“TheUber’sfiveminutesaway.”
“I’llflagitdown!”Julietteannouncedandhurriedoutthedoor.
“Wereallydon’thavetogothatquickly…”Fionawassaying,butnoonelistened.Drewwasclearingthewayassheledherwifeoutoftherestaurant.
IglancedbackonelasttimeatJames,andtherestoftheunfamiliarfaces,andthatitchundermyskinwassobadnowitburned.Ididn’twanttobehere—becausehewasrightaboutonething.ClementineWest,aseniorpublicistatStrauss&Adder,wouldn’thavenoticedIwanatallifhe’djustbeenadishwasher.Shewouldn’thavechasedafterhimsohardifaccoladeshadn’tpepperedhisrésumé.Shewasgoodatherjob,andshewaslookingforatalentedcheftofillaspaceinherimprint’sroster.ShewasRhondaAdder’ssecond-in-command,andthatcameaboveallelse.Someonesteadfast.Someonesolid.
ButLemon,overworkedandexhaustedLemon,lovedthatcrooked-moutheddishwashershe’dmetdisplacedintime,andshecametoworkwithwatercolorsunderhernailsonaccident,andshetooktravelguidesfromthefreebookshelvesneartheelevators,andshehadanitchunderherskin,andapassportfullofstamps,andawildheart.
AndinfiguringoutwhoIwantedtobe,IthoughtIruinedDrew’schancesofgettingthisbook.Iruinedalotofthings,itseemed,whileItriedtobesomethingpermanent—butintheend,Iwastheonewholeft,outoftheheavywoodendoorandontothesidewalk,whereJuliettehadflaggeddowntheblackSUV.
“Youchosethecarpooloption?”Drewaccusedher.
“Ipanicked!”Juliettecried.
WeloadedintotheSUVbesideaflusteredcouplewholookedtobegoingonadatethemselves,andIdidn’tlookbackasIclosedthedoor,andwesetoff.35TwoWeeks’Notice
ThelaboranddeliveryfloorofNewYorkPresbyteriandidn’texpectanentourageofwell-dressedtwentysomethingsrushinginaftertheirfriend,onlytobeturnedawayatthedoorbyanoverworkednurseandtoldtostayinthewaitingroom.JulietteandIdid,andweclaimedacornerofthebeigeroomtowaititout.Wecouldhavegonehome,probably,butthatnevercrossedourmindsatall.Wesatthereandwewaited,becauseFionaandDrewwereasmuchmyfamilyasmyparents—wesaweachothermoreoften,anyway.Wecomplainedoverwinetogether,andwespentNewYear’sandHalloweenandtheoddgovernmentholidaystogether.Wecelebratedbirthdaysanddeathdays,andtheywerethefirstpeopleIcalledwhentheworstdayofmylifehappened.
Itwasonlynaturalthatweweretogetherforthebestdays,too.
SoitwasnosurprisethatIwasinthewaitingroom.Juliette,ontheotherhand,wasnew.
“Youcango,youknow,”Itoldher,butsheshookherhead.
“Noway,Istickthingsthrough,”shereplied.Iwantedtopointoutthatshereallydidn’thaveanobligationtoFionaorDrew,butthenIthoughtbetterofit.Ifshewantedtobehere,whowasItosayno?
Afteranhour,Istretchedandcheckedmyphone.Itwasalmost10:30p.m.JuliettewasnervouslyscrollingInstagramwhileIsketchedinmytravelguide,outliningthewaitingroominthesectiontitledQuietReprieves.Thesleepysofa.Thetired-lookingchairs.Thefamilyontheotherside,thedadhavinggonebackwithhiswife,thegrandparentshunchedinchairstowait,twokidswatchingaDisneymovieontheirdad’sphone.
“Crap,”Juliettemuttered,pausingataphoto.
Isatdownandcrackedmyneck.“Whatisit?”
Shesighed.“Nothing.”
Iglancedoveratherphone,anyway.“IsthatRob?”
“Hehadashowtonight,”shereplied,butthatwasn’twhatwaswrongwiththephoto.Hewaskissinganotherwoman.“She’sprobablyagroupie,”shesaid,asiftoexplainitaway.“He’sverygoodtohisfans.”
Igaveheranappalledlook.“Really?”
“…Itdoesn’tmatter.He’llmakeituptome,”shereplied,puttingherphonetosleepandshovingitintoherpurse.“It’sfine.”
Butitwasn’t.Iturnedtoherandgatheredherhandsinmine.“We’refriends,right?”
“Ishouldhopeso.YouseemyprivatestoriesonInstagram,andifwearen’tfriends,Ireallyneedtoreconsiderthat.”
Icouldn’thelpbutlaugh.“We’refriends,soIjustwanttotellyou:fuckRomeo-Rob.”
Sheblinkedatme.“What?”
“FuckRob,”Irepeated.“YouarewaytoosmartandwaytoobeautifulandwaytoosuccessfultohavesomeD-listguitaristfromano-namebandtreatyoulikeyou’rereplaceable.Youaren’t.”
“Heplaysbass,actually…”shemuttered.
“Fuckhim!Whydoyoukeepgettingbackwithhimifhemakesyousomiserable?”
Hereyeswidenedandsheopenedhermouth,andthenshutitagain,glancingatthefamilyontheothersideofthewaitingroom,whohadcoveredtheirchildren’sears,scandalized.Ididn’tcare,thiswasmymoviemoment.
Iwenton,“Igetit,he’shot.Heprobablygivesyouthebestsexofyourlife.Butifitdoesn’tfillyouwithtingliestobearoundhimeverysecondyou’rearoundhim—ifhedoesn’tmakeyouhappy—thenwhatthehellareyoudoing?Youonlyliveonce,”Isaid,becauseifI’dlearnedanythingaboutlivinginatime-travelingapartment,nomatterhowmuchtimeyouget,it’sstillneverenough.AndIwantedtostartlivingmylifelikeIwasenjoyingeverymomentthatIhadit.“Andifyoudoitright,”Isaid,rememberingthewaymyauntlaughedaswesprintedtocatchourconnectingflightsacrosstheairport,howsheflungherarmswideatthetopofArthur’sSeatandtheParthenonandSantoriniandeveryhillwithabeautifulviewshecameacross,asifshewantedtoembracethesky;thewayshealwaystookhertimetodecidewhatshewantedonamenu;thewaysheaskedeveryoneshemetfortheirstories,absorbedtheirfairytales,andchasedthemoon.
“Ifyoudoitright,”Irepeated,“onceisallyouneed.”
Juliettewasquietforalongmoment,andthenherfacescrunchedintears.“WhatifIn-neverfindanyoneelse?”
“Butwhatifyoudo?”Iasked,squeezingherhandstightly.“Youdeservetofindout.”
Withasob,sheflungoutherarmsandpulledmeintoatighthug,burrowingherheadintomyshoulder.Iwasnotexpectingit,soIstiffenedatthesuddencontact,butifshenoticed,shedidn’tletgo,becausesheheldonasshecriedintomyshoulder.Iwrappedmyarmsaroundherawkwardly,andpattedherback.
Ididn’tknowthatnoonehadevertoldherthatshedeservedmore.Ididn’tknowthatshehadbeenthinkingaboutcallingitquitsforawhile.Ididn’tknowhowunhappyshehadbeen.Howmiserable.Shesaidshehadn’trealizedituntilIsaidshedeservedbetter.
Acold,hardrealizationcurledinmystomach,becauseasshefinallyletgoofmeandtoldmethatIwasright,Ithoughtaboutmysmallcubicle,thepaintingsoflandscapesIhungupacrossmycorkboard,andthepilesoftravelguidesIhadstashedinmydeskdrawer.Ithoughtaboutcominghometomyaunt’ssmallapartment,andcatchingthetraineverymorning,andplanningsomeoneelse’sadventuresinanExcelspreadsheetfortherestofmylife.
AndIrealizedthatIwasunhappy,too.
Thewaitingroomdoorsswungwide,andDrewswoopedin,asmilesowideandbright,itwascontagious,andwhateveranswerIcould’vehadwaserasedbythatmoment.“Comeon,comeon!”Drewsaid,grabbingusbyourwrists,andpullingustoourfeetandoutofthewaitingroomanddownthehall.“Youhavetomeether!Youhaveto.She’samazing.”
AndPenelopeGraysonTorres,bornateightpoundsandtenounces,was,infact,amazing.Evenwhenshespitupalloverme.
Thatmondaymorning,rhonda’sofficewaswarmandquietasIcameinandsettheletterdownonherdesk.WorkwasquietwithoutDrewandFiona,butthey’dbegoneonmaternityleaveforthenextfewmonths,andIhatedthatI’dbegonebythetimetheycameback.AsoftpopplaylisthummedfromRhonda’sspeakersassheloungedbackinherchairandflippedpageafterpageofaboundmanuscript,herglasseslowonthebridgeofhernose.Sheglancedupatme,hereyebrowsknittingtogetherinconfusionattheletter.“What’sthis?”
Theend,thebeginning.
Somethingnew.
“Irealizedsomethingoverthesummer,”Ibegan,twistingmyfingersnervously,“anditwasthatI’mnotveryhappyanymore.Ihaven’tbeeninawhile,butIdidn’tknowwhyuntilanoldfriendcamebackintomylife.”
Rhondasatupalittlestraighter,takingtheletterandopeningit.
“I’msorrythatthiscomesasasurprise—itwasasurprisetome,too.I’mnotsurewhatIwanttodo,”Iwentonasshereadtheresignationletter,herfacegrowinggrim,“butIdon’tthinkit’sthis.Thankyousomuchfortheopportunity,andI’msorry.”
BecauseIfeltlikeIhadwastedhertimeforsevenyears.Forshavingoffpartsofmyself,overandoveragain,tosqueezeintotheexpectationsIthoughtIneededtosetformyself.Iwasnevergoingtowearheelsandblazers—Ididn’twantthatanymore,anditwasscarytothinkabout,butalittlethrilling,too.
Icouldn’tlookatherasIturnedtoleave,butasIdid,Rhondasaid,“Ididn’tfindoutwhoIwantedtobeuntilIwasalmostforty.Youhavetotryonalotofshoesuntilyoufindsomeyoulikewalkingin.Neverapologizeforthat.OnceIfoundmine,I’vebeencontentfortwentyyears.”
“Youbarelylookadayoverfifty,”Iremarked,andshethrewherheadbackwithalaugh.
“Go,”shesaid,wavingmyletteratme,“andhavesomefunwhileyou’reoutthere.”
SoIdidjustthat.
EventhoughIhadtwoweekstoshiftmydutiestoJuliette,andtohelpRhondastartthehiringprocessformyreplacement,Ipackedupmycubicleintoonebox—Drewalwaysdidcallitaone-boxwalkout—andrealizedthatapartofme,subconsciously,alwaysknewthatIwouldn’tbehereforever.Ididn’tcluttermydeskwiththingsfromhome.Ididn’tdecoratemycorkboardwithphotosoffriendsandfamily.Ineverevenchangedthewallpaperonmycomputer.
Iwassimplyhere.
Andthatwasn’tenoughanymore.
Withmyresignationturnedin,workwasstrange.JulietteandIwouldeatatBryantParkonthegrass,andIslowlystartedhandingoffmyauthorsandoff-boarding,andwekeptFionaandDrewupdatedonalltheworkroomgossip.
Afterhyacinth’ssoftopening,Drewdidn’thearbackfromJamesandhisagentuntilthefollowingTuesday—andeventhenitwasjusttoinformusthattheywouldbemakingafinaldecisionsoon,butcouldn’tquitespecifywhen.Things,apparently,hadbeensobusywithfinalpreparationsfortheofficialopeningoftherestaurantthattheydidn’thavetime.Ididn’thavethecouragetotellDrewthatIwassureI’dfuckedourchancesprettythoroughly—Iwassurehehatedme.Oratleastneverwantedtoseemeagain—butDrewwassobusywithhernewbornthatIdoubtshegaveJamesapassingthought.
AndifJamesdidwanttoseeme,heknewwhereIlived,thoughitseemedeventheapartmentdidn’twantmetoseehimagain.36TouristSeason
Theworstpartofquittingmyjob,however,wasfiguringouthowtobreakittomyparents,whoexcelledineverythingtheydid.Myparents,whoneverquitanything.Myparents,whohadinstilledthatsameethicinme.
Myparents,whodemandedthattheycelebratemybirthdaythisweekend,liketheyalwaysdid.
Myparents,whoIsaidyestobecauseIlovedanddidn’twanttodisappointthem.
AndIfearedIwouldanyway.
“Oh,sweetheart!”Momcalled,wavingmeovertothetablewheresheandDadsat,eventhoughIcouldwalktothetableblindfoldedbynow.Theycameintothecityformybirthdayweekendeveryyear.TheyaskedforthesametableinthesamerestaurantonthesameSaturdaybeforemybirthday,andtheyalwaysendeduporderingtheexactsamefood.ItwasthesortoftraditionthatwentbackasfarasIcouldremember—aritualatthispoint.
WewouldgetlunchatthisadorablelittledineroveronEighty-FourthStreetcalledtheEggverythingCafé,wheremymomwouldorderthenumbertwo—twopancakes,twoeggssunny-sideup,andtwoburntsausagelinks.Notcooked,butburnt.Andmydadwouldgettheeggletsupreme,whichwasjustanomeletwithbellpeppersandmushroomsandthreedifferentkindsofcheese,holdtheonions,andacupofdecafcoffee.IusedtoplayagamewhereInevergotthesamethingtwice,butaftercominghereforalmostthirtyyears,thatwasanimpossibleendeavoratthispoint.
Ifmyauntwasthekindofpersonwhoalwaystriedsomethingnew,myparentsexcelledinthemonotonousmundane,overandoveragain.
Itwaskindoftheircharm.Alittlebit.
AsIcameovertotheirtable,Dadstoodandgavemeabigbearhug,hisbeardscratchyagainstmycheek.Hewasabigmanwhowasspectacularathugs—theback-breakingkind.Hepickedmeupandspunmearound,andwhenhesetmedown,thefloortiltedalittle.“Daughter!”hecried,andhisvoicebellowed.“It’sbeenforever!”
“Lookatyou!Youlooksotired,”Momadded,grabbingmyfaceandplantingakissonmycheek.“Youneedtogetmoresleep,younglady.”
“It’sbeenaweirdfewweeksatwork,”Iadmitted,asweallsatdownforlunch.
“Well,nowyou’rehere!Andasthebirthdaygirl,youaren’tevengoingtothinkaboutworkforthenext”—Momcheckedhersmartwatch—“fourhoursatleast.”
Four?
“Don’tlooksoenthused,”Dadaddedwrylybecausealong-sufferinglookmust’vecrossedmyface.“Younevercomeseeyourparents,sowealwayshavetomakethelongtriptothecitytoseeyou.”
“It’snotthatlong,”Itoldthem.“YouliveonLongIsland,notinMaine.”
Momwavedmeoff.“Youshouldcomevisitmoreoftenanyway.”
Theserverrememberedourfaces,andsheknewbynowwhatmymomanddadordered,andshelookedatmeexpectantly,readyformetotrysomethingnew,butasIbrowsedthemenu,IrealizedI’dtriedeverythingonitalready.“Howabouttheblueberrywaffles?”
Hereyebrowsjerkedup.“Didn’tyouhavethatlasttime?”
“I’lltryitwiththatVermontmaplesyrupyouhave,”Iamended,“andthelargestcoffeeyoucangetme.”Shejotteditdownonhernotepadandflittedaway.
Mymommadesmalltalkbycommentingonthenewupholsteryonthetrainseatsontheridehere,andhowtheconstructionontheirstretchoftheLIEwastakingforever,andhowshehadtochangetoanewdoctorwhoknewnothingabouthermedications—Momwasverygoodatcomplaining.Shediditoften,andwithgreatgusto,andmydadhadlearnedearlyontojustnodandlisten.Momwasauniverseapartfromhersister.Theywereoppositesofthesamecoin,onetiredofnewthings,theothersearchingforthemwherevershewent.
Mystomachhadlaceditselfinknots,becauseatsomepointtodaytheyweregoingtoaskaboutmyjob,andatsomepoint—
“So,”Dadsaid,“how’sthebookthinggoing?”
Toosoon.Itcametoosoon.“I,um—”
Theserverbroughtourfoodout,whichimmediatelydistractedmyparents,andthankfullytheywentontotalkabouthowtheremusthavebeenanewchefintheback,becauseMom’seggswerenotcookedthewaysheremembered.Ipickedatmyblueberrywaffles,whichseemedfineenough,especiallyslatheredinVermontmaplesyrup.Myparentsaskedabouthowtheapartmentwasdoing,andIaskedthemaboutDad’sbirdcondominium(aseriesofbirdhousesallstackedtogetherlikeadesignerresort—Itoldhimthathe’dfindhimselfoverrunwithpigeonsifhebuiltit,buthedidn’tbelievemeuntil,loandbehold,hewasoverrunwithpigeons).
Afterwe’dfinishedeating,Momexcusedherselftothebathroom,andDadscootedhischairalittleclosertome,stealingmylastbiteofblueberrywaffle.“Youknowyourmomdidn’tmeanit—thatyoulooktired.”
Iflippedmybutterknifearoundandglancedatmyreflection.AnyonecouldseethatmyparentsandIlookedrelated—IhadDad’sreddishnose,hissoftbrowneyes,andmymom’sfrown.IneverreallyhadmuchofAuntAnaleainme,thoughmaybethatwaswhyItriedtobesomuchlikeher.“Idon’tlookthattired,doI?”
“No!”herepliedquickly,fromyearsofMompinninghiminthattrapherself.“Absolutelynot.That’swhyIsaidyoudidn’t.Youlookhappy,actually.Content.Didsomethinggoodhappenatwork?”
Itiltedmyhead,debatingonananswer.Iguessthiswasasgoodatimetotellhimasany.“Actually…Iquitmyjob.”
Dad’smouthdroppedopen.Heblinkedhisbigbrowneyes.“Erm…doyou…haveanoffersomewhereelse?”
“No.”
“Then…”
“Yeah.”Ilookedaway.“Iknowitwasastupiddecision,but…IsortofrealizedoverthissummerIwasn’tallthathappywhereIwas,andIknowitwasn’tsmart,butthemomentIturnedinmytwoweeks’,Ifeltthisknotinthemiddleofmychestcomeundone.Itwasarelief.”Iglancedbackathim,hopingthathecouldunderstand,eventhoughhe’dneverquitanythinginhisentirelife.
Hethoughtaboutitforagoodhalfaminute.ThatwasreallywhatIlovedaboutmydad.Hewaskindandpatient.Heevenedoutmymom,whowasloudandquickandbombastic,soIalwayslikedtotellmydadbignewsfirstbeforesurprisingMom.“Ithink,”hefinallysaid,choosinghiswordscarefully,“thatnothinglastsforever.Notthegoodthings,notthebad.Sojustfindwhatmakesyouhappy,anddoitforaslongasyoucan.”
Isetdownmybutterknife,andputmynapkinovermyplate.“AndifIcan’tfindthat?”
“Youmightnot,”hereplied,“butthenagain,youmight.Youdon’tknowwhatthefutureholds,sweetheart.”HescrubbedmyheadlikehedidwhenIwaslittle,andgaveawink.“Don’tthinktoomuchaboutit,yeah?Youhavesomesavings…”
“AndIcansellAnalea’sapartment,”Iaddedquietly.
Hiseyebrowsshotup.“Areyousure?”
Inodded.I’dbeenthinkingaboutitforawhile.“Idon’twanttolivethereforever.Itjustfeelstooclosetoher,andI’mtiredoflivinginthepast.”
Somewhatliterally,too.
Hegaveashrugandsatbackinhischair.“Thenthereyougo,andyourmomandIwillbehereifyoueverneedanything—Ah!Mylove!”headdedwithastartwhenherealizedthatMomwasstandingbehindusandprobablyhadbeenforawhile.“How,haha,howlonghaveyoubeenthere?”
Shetoweredoverus,andturnedhersharpgazetome.Oh,no.“Longenough,”shesaidcryptically.
DadandIgaveeachotherthesamelook,asilentpactthatwe’ddiguptheotherpersonifMomdecidedtodumponeofusinanunmarkedgrave.
ThenMomsatdowninherchair,turnedtome,andtookmyfaceinherhands—herfingerswerelongandmanicured-pinktomatchtheflowersonherblouse—andsaid,“Youquityourjob,Clementine?”
Ihesitated,mycheekssquishedtogetherbetweenherhands.“Y-yes…?”
Shenarrowedhereyes.Beforesheretired,shewasabehavioraltherapist,andsheemployedalotofthoseskillstohandlemyfatherandme.Thensheletgoofmyface,andgaveatiredsigh.“Well!Thiscertainlywasn’taplottwistIwasanticipating.”
“I’msorry—”
“Don’tbe.I’mglad,”sheadded,andtookmyhandinhercoldones.HerhandsremindedmeofAuntAnalea’s.MomandIneverreallysaweyetoeye,andeventhoughItriedtobelikeher,Iendedupbeingmorelikehersister.“You’refinallydoingsomethingforyou,sweetheart.”
Thatsurprisedme.“I—Ithoughtyou’dbeangry.”
Myparentsgaveeachotherabaffledlook.“Angry?”mymotherechoed.“Whywouldwebethat?”
“BecauseI’mquitting.I’mgivingup.”
Momsqueezedmyhands.“Oh,sweetheart.Youaren’tgivingup.You’retryingsomethingnew.”
“ButyouandDadalwaysfindawaytomakesomethingwork.Youdothingsoverandover,evenwhenitgetshard.”Iblinkedbacktearsthatstunginmyeyes.OfcourseI’dfindmyselfhavingamidlifecrisisintheEggverythingCafé,wherealltheserversworesplatteredegggraphicsonthefrontsoftheirshirtsandhadeggpunsontheirnametags.“Ifeellikeafailurefornotbeingabletojustpushthrough.”
“Youaren’t.You’reoneofthebravestpeopleweknow.”
Dadagreed,“Hell,youhadaconversationwithastrangerinacabanddecidedtobeabookpublicist.That’sbraverthananythingIcoulddo.Ispenttenyearsdecidingtobeanarchitect.”
Thatwastrue.IhadcaughtacabwithastrangerfromtheMonroethedayIcamebackfromthatsummerabroad,andheaskedaboutthebookIwascarrying—ithadbeenthetravelguideI’dpaintedinallsummerabroad.
Momsaid,“Youwillbehappiestwhenyou’reonyourownadventure.NotAnalea’s,notwhoeveryou’redating,noteveryonewhothinksyoushoulddowhatyou’resupposedtodo—yours.”Thensheclappedherhandstogether,andsignaledfortheservertobringusthecheck.“Now!Wearealmostdone!WhowantstogetcelebratorybirthdayicecreamafterthisfromthecartoutfrontoftheMetandgoforawalkinthepark?”sheasked,hereyesglimmering,becauseitwastheexactsamethingwe’ddonefor—well,youknow.Ituckedtheirwordsintothesoftmatterofmyheart,andIfollowedmyparentstogetfrozenicecreamsandwiches,andwewalkedthroughtheparkonthisgloriousgoldenSaturdayatthebeginningofAugust,pretendinglikeitwasn’ttoohotandtoobright,eventhoughwe’ddoneitathousandtimes.
Therewassomethingniceaboutdoingitagain,sittingatthesameparkbenches,feedingthesameducksinthepond,sowell-wornandnatural.Notsafe,really,becauseeachtripwasdifferent,butfamiliar.
Likemeetinganoldfriendsevenyearslater.37TheLastGoodbye
AfterIsaidgoodbyetomyparentsatthetrainstation,Iwenthome.Tomyaunt’sapartment.
Tomyapartment.
Changewasn’talwaysabadthing,likemyaunthadconvincedherselftobelieve.Itwasn’talwaysagoodthing,either.Itcouldbeneutral—itcouldbeokay.
Thingschanged,peoplechanged.
Ichanged,too.Iwasallowedto.Iwantedto.Iwas
Thereweresomethingsthatstayedthesame—theMonroe,forinstance.ItalwayssortoftookmybreathawayasIcameuptoit,lookinglikeitshouldbethemaincharacterinsomewhimsicalchildren’sbookseriesaboutalittlegirl.MaybehernamewasClementine.Thebuildingalwayshadadoorgreeter,anoldergentlemannamedEarl,whokneweveryone’snameinthebuilding,andalwaystoldthemhello.Theelevatoralwayssmelledlikesomeone’sforgottenlunch,andthemirrorontheceilingalwayslookedbackatyouasplitsecondtoolate,andtheMuzakwasalwaysawful.
“You’llbeokay,”Itoldthereflection,andsheseemedtobelieveit.
Theelevatorletoutonthefourthfloor.Icouldn’trememberhowmanytimesI’drolledmysuitcasesdownthishall,mywheelscatchingeveryknotanddentinthecarpet.Mypassportwouldbeinmyhand,aflurryoftravelguidestuckedintomybackpack.Sevenyearsago,IwouldhavebeenjustcominghomefromourEuropeanbackpackingtrip,tiredandindesperateneedofashower,therestofmylifestretchedbeforemelikethegoodpartsofanovelthattheauthorhadyettowrite,anddidn’tknowhow.
Ihadadegreeinarthistory,somethingthatreallydidn’thaveasinglepathtotake.Ihadthoughtaboutapplyingtobeacurator.I’dmulledoverbecomingagallerist.Perhapstryagraduateprogram.Butnoneofitreallyevercaughtholdofme.Ifigurednothingwould.IhadspentallsummerpaintingthroughatatteredoldcopyofTheQuintessentialEuropeanTravelGuidethatI’dswipedfromasecondhandstoreinLondon,etchingsceneriesaboverecommendedtouristtrapsandrestaurants.
Ihaddroppedmyauntoffatherapartment,sotiredmyfeetwerenumb,andhailedataxioutfront,notknowingsomeoneelsehadjustslippedinside.I’dopenedthedoorandslidin,onlytofindthestrangerlookingatmewiththisbewilderedexpression.
He’dsaidIcouldtakeit,butIsaidhecould,andweendedupfindingoutthatwewerebothheadingdowntowardNYUanyway,sowhynotgotogetherandsplitthefare.TheweightofmyfuturehadspreadoutinfrontofmenowthatIwasonthegroundagain,inacitywhereIhadtofindajobandafuturecareerand—allIcouldthinkaboutwasTheQuintessentialEuropeanTravelGuide,andthemallet-hammerlogo,andanideabegantoform.Hetoldmeabouttheapartmenthewasabouttorentwithtwoofhisfriends,andhowhewasexcitedtobeabletostayinthecity.Andthenheaskedme—
“Howaboutyou?”Icouldn’trememberwhathelookedlike—distressedjeansandaplainwhiteshirt—butthedaywasmostlyablur.I’dmetsomanyfacesoverthelastfewmonths,theyalltendedtoblendtogether.
Eventheonesthat’dchangemylife.
“IthinkIwanttoworkwithbooks,”Itoldhim,surprisingevenmyself.“Isthatweird?”Iaddedwithaself-consciouslaugh.“Idon’tknowthefirstthingaboutbookpublishing!Imustbecrazy.”
Andhesmiled,andthinkingbackonit,Icouldalmostrememberhisfacethen.Thecrookednessofhismouth.Hiskindeyes.Andhesaid,“Idon’tthinkso.Ithinkyou’regoingtobeamazing.”
Itwasthatgermofanideathat,afewweekslater,hadmeapplyingtoeveryjobIcouldfindinpublishing.EverythingthatIwasremotelyqualifiedfor.Ijustneededafootinthedoor.Ijustneededachance.
ThenextthingIknew,IwasatapreliminaryinterviewinaconferenceroomatStrauss&Adder,sittingacrossfromawomansosharpandsobold,itwaslikeshewasmadeforredlipstickandleopard-printheels.AndIknewinstantlythenthatIwantedtobejustlikeher—exactlylikeher.Someonewhohadtheirlifetogether.Someonesuccessful.Someonewhoknewthemselves.
ButintryingtobeRhonda,I’dneverstoppedtothinkaboutwhatpartsofmyselfI’dshavedaway.
Iguess,sortoflikeJames.
Wehadgrownup,andgrownapart,indifferentways.
IcametoastopatapartmentB4.Myapartment.Itookmykeysoutofmypurseandturnedthelock.Ifeltahushofcoolairasitopened—andmyheartslammedintomychest.Therewasthatfeelingagain.Soslight,almostafigmentofmyimagination.ThetinglingoftimeacrossmyskinasIsteppedthroughthedoorway,andintothepast.
Theapartmentwasdark,saveforthegoldenafternoonsunlightstreamingthroughthelivingroomwindows.MotherandFuckerwerepreeningthemselvesontheAC.Everythingwastidy,blanketsfoldedandpillowspuffed.
Theblanketsweren’tmine.Andmyaunt’swingbackchairwasinthecorner.
Theapartmenthadbroughtmebackagain.
Iquicklycheckedmyphoneforthedate.Sevenyearsago,we’dbecomingbacktoday.HadIalreadymissedhim?
ButwhenIturnedintothekitchen,hewassittingatthetable.IndistressedjeansandawhiteT-shirt,theneckholestretchedout,andsuddenlythemaninthetaxicameintofocus.Whenheleft,I’dmeethimoutsideonthesidewalk.I’dcatchacabwithhim,anditmademyheartacheattherealizationthatwehadcrossedeachother,timeandagain,likeshipsinthenight.
Helookedup—andrecognitionlithisgrayeyes.“Lemon…”
MybodyreactedbeforeIcould,andIhurriedacrossthekitchen,andhepulledmeclose,burrowinghisfaceintomystomach.
“Areyoureal?”hemumbledbecauseIhaddisappearedinfrontofhiseyesthelasttimehesawme.EverydayIcamebackintotheapartment,I’dhopedit’dbringmebacksoIcouldexplain,butitneverhad.
Icombedmyfingersthroughhishair.Imemorizedhowsoftitfelt,howhisauburncurlshuggedmyfingertips.“Yes,andI’msorry.I’msorryIdidn’ttellyou.”
Heleanedbackalittle,andlookedupintomyfacewiththoselovelypaleeyes.“Areyouaghost?”
Ilaughed,relieved,because,yes,Iwasand,no,Iwasn’t,becauseitwascomplicated,becauseIknewwhatthisfeelingwasnow,warmandbuoyant,andkissedhimonthelips.“Iwanttotellyouastory,”Ireplied,“aboutamagicalapartment.Youmightnotbelievemeatfirst,butIpromiseit’strue.”
AndItoldhimastrangestory,aboutaplacebetweenplacesthatbledlikewatercolors.Aplacethatfelt,sometimes,likeithadamindofitsown.Ionlytoldhimthemagicalbits,thepartsthatclungtomyboneslikewarmsoupinwinter.Itoldhimaboutmyauntandthewomanshelovedacrosstime,andherfearofgoodthingsgoingsour,andItoldhimaboutherniece,whowassoafraidofsomethinggoodthatshesettledforsafe,thatsheshavedoffsomuchofherselftofitthepersonshethoughtshewantedtobe.
“Untilshemetsomeoneinthatterrible,lovelyapartmentwhomadeherwantjustalittlemore.”
“Theymusthavebeenveryimportanttoher,”herepliedsoftly.
Iranmyfingersdownhisface,memorizingthearchofhisbrows,thecutofhisjaw.“Heis,”Iwhispered,andhekissedme,longandsavoring,likeIwashisfavoritetaste.Iwantedtoburrowmyselfinhistouch,nevercomeoutagain,buttherewasapartofmethattuggedbacktothepresent,whereIbelonged.
“Butwhyseven?”heaskedafteramoment,hiseyebrowsfurrowing.“Whysevenyears?”
“Whynot?It’saluckynumber—or,”Iaddedteasingly,“maybeit’sthenumberofrainbowsyou’llsee.Maybeit’sthenumberofflightsyoumiss.Thenumberoflemonpiesyou’llburn.Ormaybeit’sjusthowlongyou’llwaitbeforeyoufindmeagaininthefuture.”Ibegantopullawaywhenhegrabbedmymiddleanddrewmebackin.
“I’llneverhavetowaitforanythingifIneverletyougo,”hesaidearnestly,holdingtightlytomyhands.“Wecanstayhere—forever.”
Whatalovelythought.“Youknowwecan’t,”Ireplied,“butyou’llfindmeinthefuture.”
Hiseyesgrewsteely.“Icanfindyounow.Today.I’llsearcheverywhere.I’ll—”
“Iwouldn’tbeme,Iwan.”
Sevenyearsago,Iwouldhavebeenterribleforhim.Twenty-twoandfreshoffmyfirstrealheartbreak,havinggallivantedoffwithmyauntallsummer,kissingeveryforeignboyImetinshadowybars.Lovewasn’tsomethingthatIlookedfor,itwassomethingImade,overandoveragain,totryandforgettheguywhobrokemyheart.Ibarelyrememberedhisnamenow—EvanorWesley,somethingmiddle-classandsuburban,drivinganeco-friendlycar,withhiseyessetonlawschool.
Sevenyearsago,Iwassomeoneelseentirely,tryingondifferenthatstoseewhichonefitbest,whichskinIwascomfortablewithsharing.
Sevenyearsago,hewasthisbright-eyeddishwasherwithsoapunderhisnails,wearingoverstretchedshirts,tryingtofindhisdream,andinthepresent,hewasglossyandsureofhimself,thoughwhenhesmiled,thecracksshowed,andtheywerecracksthatmostpeopleprobablydidn’twanttosee.ButIlovedthem,too.
Thatwaslove,wasn’tit?Itwasn’tjustaquickdrop—itwasfalling,overandoveragain,foryourperson.Itwasfallingastheybecamenewpeople.Itwaslearninghowtoexistwitheverynewbreath.Itwasuncertainanditwasundeniablyhard,anditwasn’tsomethingyoucouldplanfor.
Lovewasaninvitationintothewildunknown,onestepatatimetogether.
AndIlovedthismansomuch,Ineededtolethimgo.Thishim.Theoneinmypast.
Becausetheoneinmypresentwasjustaslovely,thoughalittlebitworndown,butalsoalittlebitmore,andIfeltsosillynowbecauseI’dbeencomparinghimtothismanIhadmetinthepast.I’dimaginedhe’dbejustlikethisIwan,onlyolder.Butweallchange.
“ButthenwhowillIbeinsevenyears,whenyoufindme?”heasked,unsure,asifhewasafraidofthepersonI’dmeet.
Buttherewasnothingtoworryabout.
“You,”Itoldhim,bendingdowntopressmyforeheadtohis,soakingineverydetailofthisIwanofbefore,thisboywhohadn’tyethadabrokenheart,whodidn’tknowthewordstothosekindsofsongsyet.Iwantedtohughim.Iwantedtowraphimupinablanketandferryhimthroughallofit.Iwantedtobethereforit—Iwantedtobethereforhim.ButIwouldn’t.Notforalongwhile.
“Youaregoingtotraveltheworld,”Isaid.“You’regoingtocookwidelyandyou’regoingtoabsorbculturesandfoodsandstorieslikeasunflowerdrinksinthesun.AndIthinkpeoplewillseeasparkinyou,andyourpassionforwhatyoudo,andsomedayyou’llmakerecipespeoplewillwriteaboutinmagazines,andyou’llhostguestsfromalldifferentwalksoflife,andyou’llmakegoodfood,andthey’llfallinlovewithit.Withyou.”
Asmileplayedacrosshislips.“Soyouhavemetmeinthefuture.”
“Yes,”Ireplied,andImemorizedthewayhischeekfeltscratchywithfive-o’clockshadow,thesoftfurrowinhisbrowsasifhewastryingnottocry.
“Andyou,”Iwhispered,apromisetohim,“aregoingtobeamazing.”38Ghosts
Wekissedforthelasttime,beforetheclockonthemicrowaveturnedovertofive,andhemutteredthathehadtoleave.Hetoldmyaunthe’dbeoutbyfour,andhewasalreadyanhourbehind,andhestillhadtogotoworkfortheeveningshiftandgettohisnewapartment—“Itookyourwordforit,andIbulliedmyfriend—youknow,theonewhotoldmethatfajitarecipe?—intomovingtothecitywithme.We’resublettingaplaceintheVillage.”
So,hewasgoingtobelivinginthecompletelyoppositedirectionofwhereIwouldforthenextsevenyears—aboveaGreekrestaurantinGreenpoint—beforetakingovermyaunt’sapartment.“Ithinkitmightworkout,”Ireplied,bitinginasmile.
“Yeah?I’lltakeyourwordforit.”
Westoodawkwardlyforamomentlongeratthedoor.AndthenIplantedmyhandsonhischestandpushedhimback.
“Go,”Isaid.“You’llseemeagain.”
“WillIbeashandsomeasIamnow?Balding?Oh,IreallyhopeI’mnotbalding.”
Ilaughedandshovedhimagain.“Go.”
“Okay,okay,”hesaid,grinning,andcaughtmywristonelasttime.Hekissedtheinsideofmyhand,andlookedmeoverasifhewantedtocommitmetomemory.“I’llseeyouinafewyears,Lemon.Youpromise?”
“Ipromise—and,Iwan?”
“Yes?”
“I’msorry.”
Hefrowned.“Forwhat?”
ButIjustgavehimasmile,thoughitwasabitembarrassed,andalittlesad,becausewhenIdidmeethimagain,I’dbesocaughtupwithwishinghewaswhohe’dbeenthatIfailedtoseewhohehadbecome.Hewouldseemeagain,butIwasquiteunsureifIwould.
Thiswasit.Thislastmomentwithmywristwrappedinhishand,theafternoonlightstreaminginthroughthewindows,brightandstagnantinawayonlyAugustlightcouldbe,thatmadehishairshimmerwithredsandblonds.
IthinkIloveyou,Iwantedtosay,butnottothisIwan.
Hekissedmeonelasttime,ingoodbye,andlefttogocatchacabthathewouldendupsharingwithagirlwhowasn’tquitesurewhoshewantedtobe,andwouldn’tknowforyears.They’dtradesmalltalk,andhe’dlearnasecret,andthentheywouldsaygoodbyeinWashingtonSquarePark.
Thedoorclosed,andIhalfexpectedtheapartmenttocatapultmeintothepresent,butthekitchenwasquiet,andthepigeonscooedonthewindowsill,andsoIstoodthereforalongmoment,myeyesclosed,andexistedonefinalmomentinatimewhenmyauntwasalive.
Whenshefirstdied,Ithoughtaboutwhatit’dbeliketopackupmylifeandleave.Racemysadnessacrosstheworld,andseewhowon.ButIcouldneverrunfarenough,notreally.
Imissedhereveryday.ImissedherinwaysIdidn’tyetunderstand—inwaysIwouldn’tfindoutforyearstocome.Imissedherwiththisdeepsortofregret,eventhoughtherewasnothingIcouldhavedone.Sheneverwantedanyonetoseethemonsteronhershoulder,soshehidit,andwhenshefinallytookthemonster’shand,itbrokeourhearts.
Itwouldkeepbreakingourhearts,everyonewhoknewher,overandoverandoveragain.Itwasthekindofpainthatdidn’texisttosomedaybehealedbyprettywordsandgoodmemories.Itwasthekindofpainthatexistedbecause,onceuponatime,sodidshe.AndIcarriedthatpain,andthatlove,andthatterrible,terribleday,withme.Igotcomfortablewithit.Iwalkedwithit.
Sometimesthepeopleyoulovedleftyouhalfwaythroughastory.
Sometimestheyleftyouwithoutagoodbye.
And,sometimes,theystayedaroundinlittleways.Inthememoryofamusical.Inthesmelloftheirperfume.Inthesoundoftherain,andtheitchforadventure,andtheyearningforthatliminalspacebetweenoneairportterminalandthenext.
Ihatedherforleaving,andIlovedherforstayingaslongasshecould.
AndIwouldneverwishthispainonanyone.
Iwalkedthroughherapartmentonelasttime,rememberingallthenightsIspentonhercouch,allthemorningsshecookedmeeggs,thefingernailpolishonthedoorframetomarkmyheight,thebooksinherstudy.Iranmyfingersoverthespinesfulloffaceswe’dmetandstorieswe’dheard.
Ofallthepeople,alloftheexperiences,allofthememories,thatlovedmeintobeing.
Iheardthedooropen,andIsteppedoutofherstudy.HadIwanforgottensomething?“Iwan,ifyouforgotyourtoothbrushagain…”MyvoicetrailedoffasIstaredatthewomaninthekitchendoorway,dressedinhertravelingclothes.
Shedroppedherbags,herfacestretchinginconfusion,andfinallywonder.Thenshesmiled,brightandblinding,andthrewoutherarms.Myheartswelledwithgriefandjoyandlove.Somuchloveforthisghostofmine.39IKnewYouWhen
IsatdownononeofthebenchesinfrontofvanGoghwithaflaskofwineandthreeofmybestfriends,andweallpasseditaround,sharingsips,astheysanghappybirthdaytome,andgavemepresents.AromancebookfromJuliette—“It’sthelatestAnnNichols!Igotitearly,don’ttellanyone.”
AndDrewandFiona,theygavemeanelegantandbeautifulpassportholder.
“Becauseyoushoulduseit,”Fionasaidwithasmile.
Ihuggedthemall,thankfultohavefriendslikethese,whowerethereformewhenIdidn’tneedthem,andrunningtowardmewhenIdid.Usually,we’dalljustcelebratebirthdaysatourlocalWineandWhinehauntwhicheverWednesdaywasclosest—that’showwecelebratedeveryone’sbirthday—buttheyknewI’dcometotheMetonWednesdayinstead,sinceitwasmybirthdayandIwasnothingifnotmyparent’schildofroutine,andthey’daccostedmeonthesteps,completelyunexpected.IthoughtIwouldn’tseeDrewandFionaforanotherweekatleast,buttheydecidedtobringPenelopealong,andshewasnappingsurprisinglyblissfullyinawrapacrossDrew’sfront.MyauntandIusedtovisitvanGoghbeforewesetoffonourtrips,buttherewasnotripthisyear,thoughitwasstillnicetogoandsit,likeIusedtoincollege,anddrinkalittlewine,andlistentomyfriendscommentonthepiecesofartasifanyofusknewwhatweweretalkingabout.
“Ilikethatframe,”Juliettesaid.“It’svery…stark.”
“Ithinkit’smahogany,”Fionapointedout,beforePenelopeGraysonTorresmadeanoisethatprobablysignaledtoFionathatsomethingwasamiss,becauseshetookthebabyfromDrewandsaid,“Ineedtogofindabathroom.Drew?”
“Ithinkthere’sonethisway.We’llberightback,”Drewadded,gettingupwithherwife.
“Takeyourtime,”Ireplied,andtheyleftdownthehallway.Juliettegrabbedamapthathadbeenabandonedononeofthebenches,andshementionedthatshehadn’tbeentothismuseuminawhile.
“Youshouldgoexplore.I’vebeenheresomanytimes,IthinkIhavealltheplaquesmemorized,”Irepliedmatter-of-factly,andthatseemedlikeagreatideatoher,becauseshesetofffortheSacklerWing,leavingmetomyowndevices
Finallyalone,inthequietsurroundedbytourists,Isettleddownonmybench,andlookedupatthevanGoghs,sandwichedbesideotherPostimpressionistpaintersofthatera,GauguinandSeurat.EventhoughpeopletriedtobequietastheymovedaroundGallery825,theirfootstepswereloudandshuffling,echoingacrossthewoodenherringbonefloor.
Iclosedmyeyes,andbreathedoutabreath,andImissedmyaunt.
ShealwayssaidshelovedvanGogh’swork,andmaybethatwaswhyIloveditaswell.AndknowingwhatIknewnow,maybeshelikedvanGogh’sworkforotherreasons,too.Maybeshelikedhowhecreatedthingswhileneverknowinghisownvalue.Maybeshelikedthethoughtofbeingimperfect,butbeinglovedanyway.Maybeshefeltsomesortofkinshipwithamanwho,forhisentireadultlife,warredwithhisownmonstersinhishead.VincentvanGogh’slastwordswere,afterhisbrothercomfortedhimbytellinghimhewouldgetbetterfromtheself-inflictedgunshotwoundtothechest,“Latristessedureratoujours.”
Thesadnesswilllastforever.
Itwasn’talie.Therewassadness,andtherewasdespair,andtherewaspain—buttherewasalsolaughter,andjoy,andrelief.Therewasnevergriefwithoutloveorlovewithoutgrief,andIchosetothinkthatmyauntlivedbecauseofthem.Becauseofallthelightandloveandjoythatshefoundintheshadowsofeverythingthatplaguedher.Shelivedbecausesheloved,andshelivedbecauseshewasloved,andwhatalovelylifetimeshegaveus.
Ididn’trealizeDrewhadreturneduntilsheclearedherthroat,herhandsbehindherbacksuspiciously—asifshewashidingsomething.Fionawasn’twithher.“Hi,sorry.Ididn’twanttogivethistoyouwitheveryoneelsearound…”
“Whatisit?”Iasked.
“Ireallyhopeyouwon’tbemadatme,but…”Sherevealedapackage,andhandedittome.“Whenyouthrewitaway,I…fisheditoutofthegarbage.Iwastryingtofigureouttherighttimetogiveittoyouand,well…there’sneverarighttime,Iguess.”
ItwasthesamepackagethatI’dthrownaway—theonefrommyauntthathadgottenlostinthemail.
Itookit,runningmyhandsovermyaunt’scrisphandwriting.
“I’msorryifyou’remadbut—”
“No.”Iblinkedbacktearsinmyeyes.“Thankyou.Iregrettedthrowingitaway.”
Shesmiled.“Good.”Thenshestoopeddownandhuggedme.“Weloveyou,Clementine.”
Ihuggedherback.“Iloveyouall,too.”
Shekissedmycheek,andbegantoleaveagain,butIstoppedherforamoment.“Didyoueverhearback?AboutJamesAshton?”
DidImessitallup?ButIwasafraidtoaskthatpart,becauseIhadn’theardonewayortheotherwhatendeduphappeningtothatauction.Ithinkitwrappeduptoday.HeprobablywentwithFaux,orHarper,or—
AsparklelitDrew’seyesandshenoddedwithasmile.Shesatdownontheedgeofthebenchandtookmyhandstightly,andsaid,“Wegotit!Iheardjustbeforewecameheretosurpriseyou.”
Myshouldersrelaxedwithrelief.“Yougotit.”
“Wehavesomethingstoworkoutinthecontract,buthe’sours.”
“He’syours,”Icorrected.
Hersmilefalteredalittle.“StraussandAdderwon’tbethesamewithoutyou.”
“It’llbejustasgood,andhewillshinewithyou,Ijustknowit.”
Sheperkedatthat.“You’reright,andyoushouldsayitlouder.”
SoIdid.IstoodandpointedtoDrewandshouted,“Attentioneveryone!”
Drewpaled.“No,wait,stop—”
“PleasegivearoundofapplauseforDrew,themostthoughtful,lovelybookeditoryou’lleverfind!”Ishouted,whileDrewtriedtoshushme,andclawedatmetositdownagain.Theattendantintheroomgavemeatiredlook.“Andshejustwonherdreambookatauction!”
TherewasaroundofsparseapplauseasDrewpulledmebackdownontothebench,herfaceredinablush.“Shush!Stopit!What’scomeoveryou,doyouwanttogetkickedout?”
Ilaughedandpromised,“I’mgoingtocelebrateeverygoodthingthatcomesyourway.”
Theroomattendant,whohadbeguntowalkovertous,decidedthatweweren’tworthit,turned,andleftforherperchbythedoorwayagain.
Drewsaid,“You’reamenace.”
“Youloveme.”
“Wedo,”sheagreed,andhereyesflickeddowntothepackageagain.“Comefinduswhenyou’redone?”
“Ipromise.”
“Okay,good.”AndsheleftagaintogoafterFiona.
Whenshewasgone,andthequietcreptintothegalleryagain,Istareddownatthepackageonthebenchbesideme.Itwassmall,aboutthesizeofapostcard,soIcouldseehowitcould’veeasilygottenlost.Therewerehalfadozendifferentcustomsstampsonit,detailingitslongandharrowingjourney.Itfeltalmostimpossiblethatit’dcomebacktome,butithad.
Myfingersslippedunderthebrownpackagingpaper,andIfinallytoreitopen.Itwasatravelguide—toIceland.?vintyriBíeurbyIngólfurSiguresson.WhenIputitintoGoogle,ittranslatedtoAdventureAwaits
Andshehadtuckedaletterintoit:
Todetailourtripnextyear!IfounditinadarlinglittleusedbookstoreinCanterbury,England.
Love,AA
Mymouthtwistedastearscametomyeyes.Shehadbeenplanningiteventhough,intheend,shewasn’tquitesureshewantedtogo.
IclosedtheletterandtuckeditbackintothebookforthetripIwouldnevergoon,andturnedmyeyesbackuptovanGogh.
Iwouldneverknowifshemeanttoleaveornot,whetheritwasaccidentalorintentional,butIchosetobelievethatinanotheruniverse,wewereboardingaplanetoIceland,sheinherpowder-bluetravelingcoat,herhairpulledupintoascarf,readytotearthroughalltheromancenovelsshe’dloadedontoherkindle,andI’dbepaintingscenesin?vintyriBíeur
Ilikedthatstory.Itwasagoodone.
But…sowasthisone.Alittlesadder,butitwasmine,andwhileIcelandwasnolongerontheagenda,adventurestillawaited,soIopenedtothefirstpage,andtookoutmypencil,andbegantosketchthefamilywiththeyoungchildacrosstheroom.Herparentsheldherhandasshepulledthemfromonepaintingtothenext,countingthebirdsineachofthem.Iftheydidn’thaveabird,she’dsay,“None!”andmoveon,sonaturallyIsketchedaflockofpigeonsbehindher.
I’msuremyfriendswerealldraggingeachotherthroughtheMet,lookingatthesuitsofarmorandthesphinxesandtheRembrandts,whileIsathappilyandletmyheartpouroutintothepages.
Ididn’tnoticethemanwhosatdownbesidemeuntilthelittlegirlcameuptohimandasked,“Doyoulikebirds?”
“Mostofthem,”herepliedwarmly,“thoughI’mstillunsureaboutpigeons.”
“Ilovepigeons!”shegasped,andturnedtoherparents.“Momma,Daddy,let’scountthepigeonsinthepicturesnext!”Beforeshedraggedthemofftothenextroom,which—Iknewfromexperience—heldquitealotofpaintingswithbirdsinthem.
Themanbesidemeleanedforward,hishandsonhisknees,ashelookedupatthepaintings.Heworeasoftlavenderbutton-down,sleevesrolleduptoexposethetattoosacrosshisarms,placedlikeafterthoughts.Iglancedoverathim—
“Iwan?”Hisnamewasawhisper,afraidIwasmistaken.Though,hedidn’tlookasputtogetherasbefore.Hisauburncurlswerewild,hisshirtcrumpled.Butthenhelookedoveratme,thosepaleeyessolovelyagray,Iknewhowtopaintthemnow—inshadesofblackandwhiteandcreamsandgoldsandblues,pearlescentandsoft.Andthenhesmiledatme,thatsamecrookedsmileofthemanI’dmetinthatsmallapartmentontheUpperEastSide,wheretimecrashedtogetherlikeopposingwaves.
IhadjustopenedmymouthtocongratulatehimonchoosingDrew,theonlyrightchoice,tryingtomakeitsoundassarcasticandplayfulasIcould,whiletryingtodisguisemyregret,thecracksinanimpendingheartbreak,whenhesaid,“HappyBirthday,Lemon.”
“What?”Igaveastart.
Hepulledupasmallbouquetofsunflowers.“Happybirthday.”
Itookthemhesitantly.He’drememberedmyfavoritecolor.Ofcoursehehad,becausehewasstillthesameperson—thoughtfulandkind.Likehe’dalwaysbeen.Foreverythingthatchanged,somethingstayedthesame.“I’msorry,”Isaid.“Ishouldn’thavesaidanythingtheotherweek—especiallynotatyouropening.”
“Perhaps,”hereplied,foldinghishandstogether.Wesattherequietlyforamoment,lookingatthepaintings.Touristsmigratedaroundus,thegalleryasoftrushofmurmurs.
“HowdidyouknowI’dbehere?”Iaskedafteramoment.
Hegavemeasidelonglook.“Yousaidyouwouldbe.Everybirthday.”Hegaveasmalllaugh.“YouhavenoideahowmanytimesIdebatedcominghereanyotheryear.Justsittingdownbesideyou,wonderingif—maybe—you’drecognizeme.”
“Fromthecab?”Iasked.
Henodded.“ButIwasalwaysalittletooafraid.Andthenwhenyouwalkedintothatbookmeeting…”Heclickedhistonguetotheroofofhismouthandshookhishead.“Itriedtolooksocoolforyou.”
“Youaccomplishedthat.Maybealittletoowell,”Iadded.
Hechuckled,andturnedtome.“Wouldyou…liketogotodinnerwithme?IknowthisrestaurantdowninNoHo.It’schangedalittlerecently.”
“Idon’tknow…Isitgood?”
“It’sdecent,”hereplied,andthenafterathought,headded,“Ihope.”
Agrinbrokeoutacrossmyface.Icouldn’thelpit.“Well,then,Iguessweneedtogoseeforourselves,”Isaid,andhestoodandoutstretchedhishandtome,andIfeltafamiliarkindofthrillcurlthroughmybodyasIacceptedhishand—thekindoffeelingIgotwhenIrushedaftermyauntthroughairportterminals,fastandbreathless,theworldspinning.
Itwasthefeelingofsomethingnew.40ChasetheMoon
“Closeyoureyes,”hesaidaswegotoutoftheUberinfrontofhisrestaurant.Theafternoonhadsunkenintoabeautifulgoldenevening,andthelightthroughthestreetsreflectedoffthewindowsoftherestaurant,soIcouldn’tseeinside.
“Why?Areyougoingtokidnapme?”Ireplied,andherolledhiseyesandputhishandsovermyeyessoIwouldn’tlook.“Doyouneedmysafeword?It’ssassafras.”
“Walkforward—watchyourstep,”headdedasIsteppedoversomething,andintotherestaurant.Iheardthedoorclosebehindme.Therestaurantwascoldandquiet—weweretheonlyonesinhere,bythesoundofourfootstepsasheledmefurtherinside.
“Isitapony?”Iasked.“Ooh—areyoufinallycookingmesplit-peasoup?”
“Canyoujustbeseriousforoneminute?Thisisimportant.Standthere,”headded,placingmeinanexactspotonthefloor.Ichewedonmybottomlip,tryingnottosmiletoowide.“Okay,”hesaid,“three…two…”
Heletoutadeepbreath.
“One.”
Thenhetookhishandsaway.
Softrusticchandeliershungfromtheceiling,castinggoldenlightdownacrossthedeep-mahoganytables,mostofthemsmall,wherelovelybouquetsofbeautifulviolethyacinthssatinglassvases,interspersedwithsoftlyflickeringcandles.Thewallswereaverdantsagecolor—notcrimson,butcrimsondidn’treallyfithimanymore,anyway—pepperedwithamenagerieofartpieces,allhunginvaryingframesandindifferentsizesacrossthewalls.
Hehurriedovertoachairandscooteditout.“It’lltakeabittobreakthemin,”hesaidasIsatdown,andhepushedmein,“butIthinkwehavethetime.”
“Isthisactualleather?”
“Pleather,butdon’ttellthecritics,”headdedwithawink.Thenhetookamenuonthetable,andhandedittome.ItlookedalmostexactlylikethemenuI’dseenherenearlytwoweeksago.Excepttherewasonedifference.Two,actually,andofcourseIsaidtheonehewasn’treferringto:“Youcapitalizedthename?”
Hegavemealookandpointeddownatthedessert.“I’mgoingtomakethegoddamnlemonpie.Thedryicenoodlesarestaying,though,”headded,alittlequieter.
Theedgesofmymouthtwitchedintoasmallsmile.Ilikedthelightinginherenow,itturnedeverythinghazyandlovely.Romantic.“Ithinkthat’sagoodtrade,”Ireplied,stilllookingatthemenu.Smilingatit,really.Becausehe’dalsoaddedanotherdish.Pommesfrites.“Huh?Whatdidyousay?”
Hekneltdownbesideme,ahandonmyknee,sothatwewereeyelevelwitheachother.Hewasjustsohandsome,Iwantedtotracethelinesofhisface,Iwantedtosketchthesharpnessofhisjawbone,Iwantedtopaintthecolorofhishair.Thisscenewouldgointhesectionofthetravelguidelabeled“ScenicSpots”becauseIwouldn’tgettiredoflookingathisfaceforyears—decades.Iwantedtowatchitage,Iwantedtoseewhatkindofwrinklesknittedintohissmiles.
“Isthiswhatyouimagined?”heasked,turninghisgazeacrosstherestaurant.“Afteryouremindedmethatwhatmadethatmealperfectwasmygranddad,Ilookedaround,andIstartedtowonderwhichpartsofthisrestaurantwereme.”
Ishookmyhead.“Itwasallyou,everysecondoftheway.Iwaswrong.”
“Notcompletely,”hereplied,andpulledmetomyfeetagain.“Thechairswereabadidea—theywerewaytoouncomfortable.”
“Theywere,”Iadmittedinrelief.
“Andthelightingwastoobrightandunforgiving—likeIputeveryoneinaspotlight.But,”headded,“unlikethedishwashersevenyearsago,IknowthatIliketheideaofsmalltables—they’reintimate—butperhapsthewhitewasalittletooarrogant.”Hepulledmeintothemiddleoftherestaurantandstoodbehindme,wrappinghisarmsaroundmymiddle,hischinonmyshoulder,asheslowlyturnedmetoablankspaceonthewallinthemiddleoftherestaurant.“It’sforyou,ifyoueverfindtheinspirationtoputsomethingthere.”
Ipressedmyfingerstightlyaroundhisatmywaist,mylipspressedtogetherastearsstungatmyeyes.“Really?”Iwhispered,andfelthimnodagainstmyshoulder.
“Really.Allmylife,I’vewantedtomakeaplacethatfeltcomfortable—it’swhatIalwaysworkedtoward.Aplacewherepeoplecancome,andeatperfectmealswiththeirgranddads,andfeelathome.ThisHyacinthisme.Notthemefromsevenyearsago,notthepressreleaseversionofme—butme.Andyouhelpedmerememberthat,Lemon.”
Iturnedinhisarms,andlookedupatthislovelyman,ablendofanidealisticdishwasherandanexperiencedchefdecuisine,partlittleboywhoseperfectmealwasaplateofFrenchfries,andpartmanwhomadethemostdelicatelemonpies.
“AndIlove,”hewenton,“howeverypieceofthisrestaurantnowtellsastory—howtheambianceisthenarrator.Andthisstoryisaboutthepast”—hepressedhisforeheadagainstmine—“meetingthepresent.”
“Orthepresentmeetingthepast,”Ireminded.
Hebroughtmyhanduptohislipsandkissedit.“Andthepresentmeetingthepresent.”
“And”—Ismiled,remindedofthatgirlsittinginasharedtaxi—“thepastmeetingthepast.”
“IthinkI’minlovewithyou.”
Iblinked.“W-what?”
“Clementine.”Andthewayhesaidmynamejustthenfeltlikeapromise,avowagainstlonelinessandheartache,andIcouldlistentothewayhistonguewrappedaroundthelettersofmynamefortherestofmylife,“Iloveyou.You’restubborn,andyouworryalittletoomuch,andyoualwaysgetthiscreasebetweenyoureyebrowswhenyou’rethinking,andyouseepartsofpeopletheydon’tseeinthemselvesanymore,andIlovethewayyoulaugh,andthewayyoublush.IlovedthewomanImetinapartmentB4,butIthinkIloveyoualittlebitmore.”
Iswallowedtheknotinmythroat.Myheartfeltbrightandterriblyloudinmyears.“Youdo?”
Hesnaggedmychin,turningmyfaceuptowardhis,andwhispered,“Ido.Iloveyou,Lemon.”
IfeltlikeIcouldfloatrightoffintothesky.“Iloveyou,too,Iwan.”
Heleanedclose,thesmellofaftershaveheadyonhisskin.“I’mgoingtokissyounow,”herumbled.
“Please.”
Andhekissedmethere,inthestolenmomentsofaWednesdayevening,inarestaurantthatfeltlikehissoul,andhiskisstastedsharpandsweet,likethebeginningofsomethingnew.Ismiledagainsthismouth,andIwhispered,“AndhereIthoughtyou’dfindromanceinapieceofchocolate.”
Herumbledalaugh.“AgirlIoncemetsworeshe’dhaditinagoodcheddar.”Hishandssankdowntomywaist,andhebegantoswaymealittle,backandforth,tothesoundofsomeinvisiblesong.“Whatwouldyouliketonight,Lemon?”
Ikissedhimagain.“You.”
“Fordinner!”Helaughed,throwinghisheadback,andthenhesaid,abitsofter,“Thenyoucanhaveme.”
“Youwon’tjudgeme?”
“Never.”
“IwantaPB&J.”
Helaughedagain,brightandgolden,andkissedmeonthecheek.“Okay.”Andhepulledmeintotheimmaculatekitchenandmademeapeanutbutterandjellysandwichfromsomeleftoverendsofaloafoffreshlybakedbread,grapecompote,andnaturalpeanutbutter.Thebreadwassoft,andwhenIkissedhim,hetastedlikegrapejelly,andhetoldmeaboutthenewchefsinhiskitchen,andaskedme,“Whatareyougoingtodowiththerestofyourlifenow,Lemon?”
Icockedmyheadanddebatedwhileheleanedoverandtookabiteofmysandwich.“Idon’tknow,butIthinkIshouldmakesuremypassportisgood.”
“You’regoingtotravel?”
“IthinkImight.And,Idon’tknow,maybechasethemoon.”
Heleanedover,sincewewerebothsittingonthecountertop,andkissedmegentlyonthelips.“Ithinkthat’sagreatidea.”
Iputtherestofmysandwichdown,andcurledmyfingersaroundhiscollar,feelingtheheatfromhisskinonmycoldfingers.Inallhonesty,Iwashungryforsomethingelseentirely.“Doyouwanttocomebacktomyapartment?”
“Only,”hereplied,asacrookedgrincurvedhislips,“ifyoucanguessmyfavoritecolor.”
“Well,that’seasy,”Isaid,andleanedinclosetowhispertheanswerinhisear.
Hebarkedalaugh,hiseyesglittering.
“AmIright,JamesIwanAshton?”Iasked,alreadyknowingthatIwas.Atfirst,Ihadn’tbeenallthatsurewhathisfavoritecolorwas,butitturnedoutthathe’dbeensayingitthisentiretime,repeatingit,overandover,everytimehecalledmyname.
Becausehisfavoritecolorwasthesameasmine.
Themonroewasquietthatevening.Theskywasbrightwiththelastdredgesofsunlight,throwingpinksandbluesacrossthehorizon,asIledIwanintothetwelve-storybuildingwherestonecreatureshelduptheeavesandneighborsplayedmusicalsontheirviolins.Earlwasatthefrontdesk,readingAgathaChristie,andheperkedupwithawave,andreturnedtoitaswehurriedtotheelevator.
“YouhavenoideahowmanytimesIwalkedpastthisbuildinghopingI’dcatchaglimpseofyou,”hesaidasweslippedinside.“Iwashalfafraidthatmanwouldrecognizemeeventually.”
“It’sawonderweneverbumpedintoeachotherafterthetaxi,”Iagreed.“Whatwouldyouhavedone?”
Hebithisbottomlip.“Plentyofthingsthatareprobablyfrowneduponinpolitesociety.”
“Oh,nowI’mveryinterested—Lookup,”Iadded,andwhenhedid,Iwhisperedtohim,andmymirror-selfwhisperedtohisahalfsecondlater,andhiseyeswidenedatthewords.Hegavemealookascolorcreptuphiscollarandtingedhischeeks,makinghisfrecklesalmostglow.Iwatchedhimrunhistonguealonghisbottomteeth,mouthslightlyparted.
“Really,”hemumbled.
Igaveashrug.Theelevatordooropenedontothefourthfloor.“Maybe,”Isaid,smilingasecretsortofsmile,andpulledhimoutoftheelevatoranddownthehall.Wepassedrowsandrowsofcrimsondoorswithlion-headdoorknockers.InfrontofthedoortoapartmentB4,hepulledmecloseandwrappedmeinhisarmsandpressedmybackagainstit,andsnaggedmymouthwithhis.Hekissedfervently,asifhe’dbeenwaitingforadrinkforyears.
“Inevergotoverthat,”hemurmured,breakingawayjustlongenoughforabreath.
Islidmyhandsuphischest.“What?”
“Howwellyoukiss.Overthelastsevenyears,”hewenton,restinghisforeheadagainstmine,“Iwentonsomanydates,Ikissedsomanypeople,Itriedtofallinloveagainandagain,andallIcouldthinkaboutwasyou.”
Iwasn’tsurewhattosay.“Allsevenyears?”
“Twothousandfivehundredandfifty-fivedays.NotthatIwascounting,”headded,becauseclearlyhehadbeen,andthatmadethebutterfliesinmystomachawfullyhappy.Sevenyears—sevenwholeyears
Iwhispered,“Atleastyoudon’thavetowaitadaymore.”
Hesmiled,wideandcrooked.Andhepressedhislipstomineagain.Softly,savoring.“No,”hemurmuredagainstmylips,plantinganotherkissonthecornerofmymouth.“Butthewaitwasworthit,Lemon.”
“Sayitagain?”Imurmured,becauseIstilllovedthewayhesaidmynicknameinhissoftSoutherndrawl.
Ifelthimsmileagainstmymouth,ashishandcameuptocradlemyface,andhekissedmeagain,asifhecouldn’tgetenoughofit,andquitehonestlyIcouldspendtherestofmylifebeingkissedbyhim.Hismouthlingeredagainstmine,deeperthistime,hungrier.Heleanedin,hishandstravelingtomyhips.IranmyfingersdownthelineofbuttonsonhisshirtbeforeIslippedthembetweentwoofthemnearhisstomach,brushingmyfingertipsalonghisskin.Icouldgetlosthereinthismoment,notravelguides,noitineraries.
UntilIremembered—“We’restillinthehallway.”
“Arewe?”Hekissedmycheek.
“Weare.”
Anotherkissonmytemple,onmynose,returningtohoveragainstmymouth.“Iguessweshouldgetinside.”
“Probably.”AndIpulledhimintokisshimagain,andthenIunlockedmyapartmentdoor,andwefellin,amessofarmsandlimbs.Wekickedoffourshoesatthedoorasitclosedbehindus,andpushedeachotherdownthehall.Heslidhisarmsbehindmyback,andliftedmeup.Iwrappedmylegsaroundhismiddle,pullinghimcloser.Myfingerscurledintohisgingerhair.HewaslikeabrandyIwantedtodrinkonaclearsummerday,agoldenafternoonIwantedtogetlostin,aneveningovercardboardpizzaandlemonpiethatwasneverthesametwice—
Hesatmeuponthecounterofthekitchen,trailingkissesdownmyneck.
“Theplant’snew,”hemurmured,glancingatthepothosonthecounter.
“Hername’sHelga.Shewon’tmind.”
Helaughedagainstmyskin.“Good.”Henibbledmyshoulder,hisfingersslippingundermyskirt,andunzippedit,tuggingitoffme,andthenheundidthebuttonsofmyblouse,andplantedakissbetweenmybreasts.
Iundidhisbuttonsonebyone,tracingthecrescent-shapedbirthmarkonhiscollarbeforeIkeptgoing—andthenIpaused.FeltoveranewtattooI’dneverseenbefore.Myeyebrowsfurrowed.“Whendidyougetthis?”
Helookeddownatthetattoo,andthensheepishlybackatme.“Aboutsevenyearsago.It’sabitfadednow—”
“It’salemonflower.”
“Yes,”hereplied,lookingupintomyeyes,searchingthem.He’dgottenalemonflowertattooedoverhisheart.
“Whatdoyoutellpeople,whentheyaskaboutit?”
Hisshynessmeltedintoasmile,warmandgooeylikechocolate.“ItellthemaboutagirlIfellinlovewithattherightplacebutthewrongtime.”
Aknotlodgedinmythroat.“Andwhatareyougoingtotellthemnow?”
“Thatwefinallygotthetimingright.”
“Amatteroftime,”Iwhispered.
“Amatteroftiming,”heproposed,andkissedmeagain,beforehismouthtraileddownmystomachtomyunderwear,untilhepulledthemdown,andIcurledmyfingersaroundhisauburncurlsashesaidsoftdevotionstomerightthereinmykitchen.Hewassotenderasheplantedhishandsagainstmythighs,andspreadmylegswide,and,oh,Ireallylovedthisman.Ilovedthismanashekissedtherestofme,andcarriedmetomybedroom.AshetooktimetolearnaboutthescarsonmykneesfromwhenIfellasakid,ashetracedhisfingers,callousedandwarm,acrossthefrecklesonmyback,andkissedthescaronmyrighteyebrowfromaclosecallwithapieceofglass.HepushedmyhairbackgentlyandkissedmesodeeplyIfinallyrealizedwhatmyauntmeantwhenshesaidyoualwaysknewtheexactmomentyoufell—
Idid,too.
Sortof.
Ifellforeverykissheplantedonme,butI’dfallendays,weeks,months,before.Ifellalittleinthattaxiridewithastranger,andIfellalittlemorewhenIaskedthatstranger,sevenyearslater,tostay.Ikeptfalling,tumbling,notrealizingIwasn’tonsolidgroundanymore,aswehaddinnerandlaughedoverwineanddancedtoviolinmusicals,asweatelate-nightfajitasintheparkandwalkedonglitterysidewalksmadeofrecycledplastic,trippingheadlongintosomethingsodeepandterrifyingandwonderfulIdidn’trealizeIhadfallenatalluntilhecametositbesidemeinfrontofapaintingofadeadartist,andtoldmehelovedme.
Hemeantitashisfingersmemorizedmybody,ashediscoveredhowwefittogetheragain,andhewassomuchbetteratitallthanhewassevenyearsago.Like,impeccablegame,sir.IsuddenlyhadnoqualmswithallthewomenIrememberedfromhisInstagram.TheywerealotofpracticeandIwasabsolutelyreapingthebenefits.Hewrappedhishandsaroundmine,andaswemovedtogether,hesaidmynameasifitmeantsomethingallitsown—aspell.Maybethestartofarecipe.Fordisaster?No,Iwon’teventhinkit.
Henibbledthesideofmyneck,justundermyear,andIpressedmyselfupagainsthim,tryingtobecloserthanweevercouldgo.Iwantedtoenterintohisbloodstream,meldintohisbones,becomeapartofhimwitheverythingthatIwas—
“Ihavedreamedofthisforyears,”hemurmured,kissingthedipofmyneck.“Idreamedsomuchofyou.”
“How’sreality?”Iasked,myselfaroundhim,neverwantingtolethimgo.
“Fuck,somuchbetter.”
Ilaughedandkissedhim,andthenhemovedfasterasourheartbeatsrose,andtherewasnomoretalkingaswefell,harderandharder,towardeachother,comingtogetherintherightplaceattherighttimeintherightmoment,andIlovedhim.Ilovedhisscarsandthecookingburnsonhisarmsandthestupidwhisktattoobehindhisear.Ilovedhowhisauburncurlshuggedmyfingers,andIlovedthathehadthreestrandsofgrayhair.
Onlythree.
Iwasprobablygoingtogivehimmore.
Andwelaughed,andchartedeachother’sbodiesdowntoourcores,mapsofplacesthatwerefamiliarandyetnew,andthenightwasgood,andmyheartwasfull,andIwashappy,sohappy,tofallinloveonanightlikethis,whereIfeltlikeIhadfinallycaughtthemoon,andmore.EPILOGUEAndWeStay
OnthefourthflooroftheMonroeontheUpperEastSide,therewasasmall,clutteredapartmentIloved.
Iloveditbecauseinthemorningsaperfectslantoflightdrapeditselfacrossthekitchen,spillinggoldeneggyolkacrossthetableandtiledfloor,andinthestillnessof10:00a.m.,motesofdustglitteredacrosstheairlikestars.
Iloveditbecauseithadanelegantclaw-footbathtubthatwastheperfectsizetocurloneselfinsideandpaint.Iloveditbecausebooksspilledofftheshelvesinthestudy,andhalf-dyingdevil’sivycurledaroundbustsoflong-deadpoets.Andintheevenings,Irememberedmyauntsashayingthroughthelivingroom,herhairupinacolorfulscarf,wearingherfavorite“Imurderedmyhusbandincoldblood”robe,amartiniinonehand,andalloflife,grabbedbythehorns,intheother.
Iloveditbecausethereweremarksonthedoorwayleadingintothebedroom,whereeverysummermyauntmeasuredmyheightandmarkeditwithadifferentshadeoffingernailpolish.
AndIlovedthatapartmentbecauseIlovedseeingIwaninit,hummingalongtoninetiespopsongsashedancedaroundthekitchen,fromcuttingboardtostovetosink,stealingglancesatmewiththoseglitteringgemstoneeyes.Icouldalmostimaginewantingtocomebacktothosemoments,againandagain,justtorememberhowhesmiledandcalledmeLemoninhissoft,rumblingvoice.
Evenaswepackedeverythingintoboxes,Ilovedthisapartment.AsIkissedmyfingersandplantedthemonthewall,andsaidgoodbye,forthefirstandthelasttime,Iwantedtostayhereforever,butIwantookmyhandandledmethroughthefrontdoorandintosomebrightunknown.
Nothingstayed—orsoIhadalwaysthought.Nothingstayedandnothinglingered.
ButIwaswrong.
BecausetherewasanapartmentintheMonroeontheUpperEastSidethatwasfullofmagic,andittaughtmehowtosaygoodbye.
Anditwasnolongermine.
Thatdidn’tmatter,though,becauseIcarriedallofthegoodmomentswithme,thewallsandthefurniture—theclaw-foottubandtherobin’s-eggbluechair—andthewaymyauntdancedmearoundthelivingroom,sonomatterwhereIwas,Iwouldalwaysbehome.
Becausethethingsthatmatteredmostneverreallyleft.
Thelovestays.
Thelovealwaysstays,andsodowe.Acknowledgments
Everybookisaprocess.
AsI’mwritingthis,TheSevenYearSlipisincopyedits,whichjustmeansit’sattheverybeginningstageswhereitgoesouttoearlyreaders.Writingacknowledgmentsatthisstagealwaysfeelslikealittlebitofaguessinggame—yousee,TheSevenYearSlipdoesn’tcomeoutforanothersixmonthsasofrightnow,soI’mnotquitesurewhoalltothankyet,andaspeoplecomeandgo,I’llmissafewnames.
Publishingisanever-changinglandscape,bothworkingintheindustryandwritinginit,butforthemoment,thesearethepeoplewhohavechampionedTheSevenYearSlip—andmypreviousnovel,TheDeadRomantics
Thisnovel,inparticular,wouldn’tbewhatitistoday(orsixmonthsfromnow,really)withoutthededicationandsupportofmytalentededitor,AmandaBergeron,whotookalookatallmyjumbledideas,andhelpedmemoldthemintothisglued-togetherclumpofdeadtreesyou’reholding.
I’dalsolovetothankmyagent,HollyRoot,foralwaysbeingsoincrediblypresentwithme.She’soneheckofapartnerforallofmycreativeendeavors.Thankyouforsayingyestoallmyharebrainedideas.
TotheteamatBerkley:SareerKhader,DanielleKeir,TinaJoell,JessicaMangicaro,CraigBurke,andJeanne-MarieHudson.Mycopyeditor,JanineBarlow;andAlainaChristensenandChristineLegonandDanielBrount;myproofreaders—MichelleHope,MeghaJain,andJenniferMyers;andthesalesteam;themarketingdesigners;thebooksellersandlibrariansandreaders—thankyouformakingmycareersuchadelight.
Vi-AnNguyen,thecoveryoudesignedislovely,andthankyoualsotoAnthonyRamondoforastellarlookformyromancenovels.
Tomyfriendsandcritiquepartners—NicoleBrinkley,KatherineLocke,KaitlynSagePatterson—thankyouforbeingmyguineapigstimeandagain.
Andthismightseemalittlesilly,butIalsowanttothankmycat,Paprika(Pepper,mylovelyPepper),who’ssatatmyfeetforalmostallofmynovelssofar,asteadfastcompanioninacareerthatis,often,asolitarything.She’ssickrightnow,andI’mnotsureaboutthefuture,butforthemoment,she’slyingonmybed,andshe’shere.
There’samagictothat,whenIreadtheseacknowledgmentsinthefuture,andIrememberthismoment.Mycatonmybed,coffeecoolingonthedeskbesideme,pilesoflaundrymountinginmybasket.Agiftfrommetome.
Speakingofwhich,lastofall,I’dliketothankmyself.BecauseIdidit.Iwroteanovel.Itdoesn’tmatterhowmanyI’vewrittenbeforethis,orhowmanyI’llwriteafter—it’sstillawonderIwrotethisone.IdidsomethingIdidn’tthinkIcoulddo.IputtheTechnicolorfluffinmyheadintoink-coloredwordsonthepage.It’sawonder.
Ihopethisfeelingnevergoesaway.TheSevenYearSlip
AshleyPoston
ReadersGuideEverybookisatimecapsule.
WhoIamrightnow—asI’mwritingthissixmonthsbeforeTheSevenYearSlipfindsitswayontoshelves—isn’tthepersonI’mgoingtobewhenyoureadthis.Booksarelikeamagicalapartmentinthatway,capturingasingularpointintimewhenanauthorwritesabookthatmaybe,someday,afutureyouwillvisitandread.
WhoIwasatthebeginningofwritingthisbookisn’tthepersonIendedupbeingattheend.Ilookbackonthoseearlierdrafts,anditdoesfeel,alittle,likeglancingthroughawindowbackatapersonyouknewintimately—howtheytaketheirbreakfast,andtheirfavoriterestaurantspots,andtheworstdayoftheirlife—alreadyknowingwhat’llcomenext.
Griefisaweirdthing.Itcanbeamonsteronyourshoulder.Itcanbeafriendsittingwithyouatthetable.Itcanbeamemoryinasmell—thesoft,delicatenotesoffloralperfume.Griefcanfindyouinthemiddleofthenightasyourollovertogobacktosleep.Itcanevenfindyouinyourdreams.
Andgrief—whatitlookslike,howitwhispers,howyourespond—isdifferentforeveryone.
WhenIlookbackonthefirstdraftofTheSevenYearSlip,tryingtopinpointtheexactshadeofgriefClementinefeltforherlateaunt,IcouldseethatIwasclose,butitwasthesortoffeeling,thesortoflifeexperience,Ihadtoimagine.
Andthen,suddenly,onabrightbluedayattheendofMarch,Ididn’thavetoanymore.
It’ssostrangewhenyourlifesuddenlystops—whentheworstdayhappens—andtheworldjustspinsonwithoutyou.Mygrandfatherdiedbysuicide,andIhadabookdue.Mygrandfatherdidn’tevenleaveanote,andIhadinterviewstoscheduleandvideostofilmandeventswhereIneededtosmile.Mygrandfatherwasdead,andIhadtoanswerquestionsonabookaboutgriefandfunerals—andyeah,Iknowhowironicitsounds.
WhenIlookbackonthatfirstdraftofTheSevenYearSlip,Ithink—mostly—abouthow…nice…Iwroteitall.Acomfortandawarmhug,andatthesametimeitsaidnothingatall.
So,afterafewmonths,Irearrangedmywritingspace—becauseIcouldn’tsitinthatchairattheendofthattablelikeIhadthedaymymomcalledmesobbing,becauseIstillvisitthatmomentinmynightmares—andIwroteaseconddraftofTheSevenYearSlip.IwroteadraftthatwasmuchmoredivorcedfrommyfeelingsthanI’deverwrittenbefore,becauseImyselfdidn’twanttosittoolongwiththatgrief.Icouldhavechangedthestory.Icouldhavepriedtheauntoutofthebonesofthisbookandwrittensomethingnew—myeditorwouldhaveletme,she’ssolovelyandsounderstanding—butIdon’tthinkIcouldhave.
So,finally,Itriedagain.
Thelasttime.Thistime.
Itbecomesthebookinyourhands.
IwishIcouldsaythatIwroteaboutsuicidecorrectlyorperfectly,butIknowIdidn’t.I’mmessy,andI’mpronetopurplylanguage,andItrytomeetthisterribleexperiencewithloveandthoughtfulness,becauseeventhoughI’mheartbroken,Ilovemygrandfather.
Thisbookisverypersonaltomeintheexactwaysthatfeelsrawandtootelling.
I’mnotthepersonIwaswhenIfinishedthatfirstrose-coloreddraftofTheSevenYearSlip,andbythetimeyoureadthis,Iwon’tbethepersonIamafterIputthelastperiodinthissentence.Abookisatimecapsule.NomatterhowmuchIchange,orwillchange,orwilllearn,thisbookwillbestagnant.It’llexisthere,foreverunchanged,alongwiththepiecesofmethatIputintothepages.
IknowIwillbedifferentinthefuture,andeverytimeyoucomebacktothisbook—ifyoucomebacktoit,everagain—you’llbedifferent,too.Ithinkthere’salittlebitoflovelymagicinthat.Themagicofamemory.Apieceofcreativitybornfromthepersonyouwere,onceuponatime.Theartstaysthesame,butyouchange,andasyouchange,sodoeswhattheartmeanstoyou—evenasitallowsyouawindowintowhoyouoncewereandthepeopleyouonceloved,andstilllove.
Itchanges,butinlittleways,itallstays.
Everythingstays.
Ifyouoralovedoneisexperiencingthoughtsofsuicide,pleasecontactyournationalsuicidepreventionfoundationat988(intheUS).DISCUSSIONQUESTIONS
Griefisdifficulttomanage,butespeciallysuddenandtraumaticgrief.HowdoesClementinecopewithhers?HowdoesIwan?
Theapartmentcanonlytravelsevenyearsintothefutureorpast—wouldyoutravelsevenyearsintoeitheryourfutureorpast?Andifso,whowouldyouwanttomeetthere,andwhy?
Myfamilyhasthestoryofmygreat-grandma’s“dumplingsweater”—thesweatershealwaysmadeherhomemadedumplingsin.Rumorhasit,thesweaterstillsmellslikedumplingsandhersoftfloralperfumetothisday.Doyouhaveafoodorrecipethatremindsyouofhome?
Iwanclaimsthatfoodisauniversallanguage—doyouagreewithhim?
Attheendofthebook,Clementinesetsoffonanewadventureaftersherealizesthatshehaschangedsinceshebeganherpublishingcareer.Haveyoueverthoughtaboutchangingcareers?Why,anddidyou?
Intheculinaryworld,it’seasytosaythatMichelin-starredrestaurantsarethebest—butweallknowthatonedivebarwe’dkillfor.Whataresomeofyourfavoriterestaurants,andwhy?(Don’tbeshy,dropthenames!)
Doyouthinkachefwhoinventsnewrecipesandflavorsismoretalentedthanthechefwhoperfectsanold,butexquisite,recipe?
Clementinehasaloveforartandartists,butmostspecificallyVincentvanGogh.Isthereapieceofartthatmovesyou?(Book,painting,film,comic—theyallcount!)Andifso,why?
Ifyouhadaplanetickettoanywhereintheworld,wherewouldyougo?AndwheredoyouthinkClementinewent?BOOKPAIRINGSFORTHESEVENYEARSLIP
Salt,Fat,Acid,Heat:MasteringtheElementsofGoodCookingbySaminNosrat.
KitchenConfidential:AdventuresintheCulinaryUnderbellybyAnthonyBourdain.
TheAnthropoceneReviewed:EssaysonaHuman-CenteredPlanetbyJohnGreen.
ThePrincessBridebyWilliamGoldman.
ThisIsHowYouLosetheTimeWarbyAmalEl-MohtarandMaxGladstone.
GarlicandSapphires:TheSecretLifeofaCriticinDisguisebyRuthReichl.
EverythingINeedIGetfromYou:HowFangirlsCreatedtheInternetasWeKnowItbyKaitlynTiffany.
EveryHeartaDoorwaybySeananMcGuire.PhotobyAshleyPoston
ASHLEYPOSTONistheNewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofTheDeadRomantics.AnativeofSouthCarolina,shelivesinasmallgrayhousewithhersassycatandtoomanybooks.Youcanfindherontheinternet,somewhere,watchingcatvideosandreadingfanfiction.
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