Eleven—Bo

I

’m not a good sleeper. Since I was small, I’ve always found far too many things to worry about to waste time sleeping. It used to upset my mom. She’d come into the kitchen at six a.m. for her chilled water before heading out on the two-mile run she’d taken every single morning of my life, and there I’d be, sitting at the table fully groomed, reading a book, just waiting for the day to start. And when she got home, I’d have breakfast ready. I was a good cook in the third grade, which is why I’m an excellent cook now. Which I suppose is why my worries this morning were incessantly culinary-related.

It’s hard to know how best to please a renter-slash-houseguest, and I did not want to disappoint Ivy Talbot on her first official day here. Especially now that I knew her. Somewhat. I’d asked Mia if the girl had any food allergies, and my ridiculous sister said she had no idea. So, after an hour of pro and conning a full breakfast of egg-white omelets filled with imported feta and baby spinach, honeyed fruit, and nine-grain muffins versus homemade granola and Greek yogurt, same honeyed fruit, but with green tea, I gave my obsessing a break and went to look for my extra copy of Precious Bane . There was time. It wasn’t yet seven.

I still couldn’t quite believe what happened last night. Ivy Talbot had been so friendly and open, and I’m usually so repellent. But she seemed to have missed that. I’m not sure what happened to me, either: I don’t usually warm so quickly to people, especially women—unless I’m medicated, which I wasn’t. I’m usually far too busy emitting toxic waves of anxiety to invite anything but avoidance. Unless I’m medicated. But last night was different. Ivy was different than most women I’d met. She was either not aware of my anxiety or simply didn’t care, which I found surprisingly freeing . But then I think she was just pretty self-involved herself. It looked like she’d been crying—or wanted to. There was something very fragile about her, almost bruised, and I was actually quite shocked at how it drew me in—I generally avoid other people’s problems. But she was wounded, I guess that was the difference, and almost like she didn’t think anyone would notice. And she had those pretty eyes. Sad, but pretty. All I could think to do was offer her food when all I really wanted to do was sit down, at a comfortable distance of course, and talk to her. And then when I had the chance, all I could do was say something absurd about her wedding, which sort of put to death any further conversation.

I groaned, reliving the awkward moment. This is why I work in isolation—really, it’s a kindness to the rest of humanity. These were my thoughts as I surveyed the wall of boxes lining Lullaby’s RV garage. Aunt Lully didn’t have an RV, she just had space for one if she ever had a yen for a weekend home on wheels. Consequently, all my earthly belongings were crated and organized in rows the likes of which Costco would envy. And somewhere on the second row—B—was a pallet of boxes filled with books.

When Ivy had insisted on helping me scrub down the lawn furniture, I’d almost had a seizure, I swear. I’d steeled myself to feel ridiculous, and I had, a little. But that was all me, it was nothing she’d said or done. In fact, again, it almost seemed like she’d been oblivious to my oddity—well, again, maybe not oblivious, but certainly not bothered by it. And it had been… nice being with her . Easy, even. Surprisingly so. And we’d talked about books—and she’d seemed honestly interested in Precious Bane . I had to find it for her. I had to, or I would have nothing to say to her.

Where was that book?

I looked for thirty-eight minutes—to no avail—and had to stop, which forced the sensible breakfast choice of granola, yogurt, and fruit. At that point, it became a time management issue—granola didn’t require any preparation, nor was it temperature dependent. It merely had to be on the table and look appetizing, which I could manage and still be downstairs on time. My goal was to make it to my workroom—a converted bedroom in Lully’s basement—by 8:00. But I’d left my phone on the washer last night when I’d put in a load of towels, which now necessitated my walk past the pool, which I was dreading because Mia and Ivy were doing laps.

Lullaby had designed her home to match her larger-than-life personality. And since Monterey was not weather-friendly enough to justify a showpiece in the backyard, my aunt had built her pool indoors. It was a marvel of engineering and indulgence, not to mention 30,000 gallons of untrustworthy chlorination. And wouldn’t you know the 20x40 wonder of Italian marble resided in its own glass room directly across from the laundry suite—hence my angst.

And at the moment, my sister and our lodger were swimming in that untrustworthy chlorination almost certainly with their mouths open. Well, Mia was swimming, Ivy was sort of pretending. When she realized I’d caught her half-hearted effort, she looked a little sheepish. I waved so she wouldn’t think I was rude—or gawking—at which point she disappeared beneath the water.

“Bo!” Mia shouted. “Some producer called a minute ago—I forgot her name, but she said she was sending someone over at noon to look at a snake?”

“Today?” I coughed.

“You left your phone in the laundry room, so I answered it. It’s on the table.”

“Today? As in today ?”

“Yes, today,” Mia laughed. “She said she was sorry to call so early—she said she thought she would get your voicemail.”

I saw my sister’s mouth moving, heard utter ridiculousness emanate, and could not believe what she was saying. Yesterday was supposed to be committed to sketching, material gathering, pricing, and the formation of a solid vision that naturally required time and devoted creativity. But yesterday had gotten away from me with the arrival of Ivy Talbot, so no sketching had taken place. No pricing. No devoted creative effort whatsoever. I had nothing to show my client.

And then it started. The pounding in my chest and in my ears, the breath I couldn’t get in or out. The seizing of my throat. The certainty of impending death. Quickly and decidedly, I knew this time I was dying. I started to tremble, and then I staggered, trying to reach the closest chair. This wasn’t happening. Not now! Please, not now!

“Bo!”

The familiar wail filled my ears, high-pitched, terrifying.

“Bo! Ivy! He’s having a panic attack! I need your help,” I heard Mia shout through a tunnel.

No! Don’t help me. Just let me die this time! Then my legs abandoned me. Suddenly my sister was there, wet, and holding me up. Then her friend, also wet, draped my other arm around her. Together they maneuvered me to a teak lounge and lowered me onto it. Now I was not only dying but also mortified to be doing it in front of these sodden witnesses. And I was wet—with unclean water.

“Bo, you’re breathing too fast,” Mia barked. “Slow down. Concentrate! Ivy, watch him while I find a paper bag.” Then my sister was gone, and Ivy Talbot calmly placed her cool hands on my face. “Bo. Open your eyes,” she said. “Look at me.”

I did, or I tried to, but I couldn’t focus. She came closer. She smelled like chlorine. “Bo,” she said, softly in her drawl. “Look at me. Listen to me. You’re okay. You’re fine. Just breathe with me. Just breathe.”

Her thumbs were now gently stroking my cheekbones, and her face was inches from mine. She was so incredibly calm. “You’re havin’ a little panic attack. That’s all. And the good news is it’s not a heart attack. See, silver linin’. ”

I absorbed each word. She was crazy. There was no silver linin’ in this moment. It was a heart attack! Could she not see my heart trying to pummel its way out of my chest? Was she blind? I was dying! But don’t let go of me. Please don’t let go!

“Keep breathing, Bo,” Ivy crooned. “Slow down. You’re doing great. You’re doing great.”

Then Mia was back and holding a paper bag against my face, but I was still locked on Ivy’s eyes, as if to let go would hasten the stopping of my treacherous heart. It was a primal terror, void of reasoning.

“Bo, breathe,” Mia said. “In, slow. Good. Now out, good. Nice and slow.” I let go of Ivy’s wrist, which I had been crushing, and took the bag from my sister. Slowly, and in a flood of humiliation, I came an inch back to myself, then another inch. Somewhere a phone rang and Ivy, holding her arm to her chest, left my side to answer it. Mia held out a glass and a small orange pill. “Take this.”

I resisted because that’s what I do, but Mia was right, I needed it, even if I hated that I needed it. I took the little Xanax from my sister and swallowed it down with a sip of water I could tell had not been filtered. Then I closed my eyes and willed myself through this episode. Xanax works fast, and because I rarely took it, my system responded quickly. Within just a few minutes, the edge was off, and my panic had distilled down to just my worse than usual anxiety—and, of course, monumental shame. How had I let this happen in front of Ivy Talbot, a stranger I would have to face all summer?

“Bo?”

Speak of the devil.

“That was a Miss Edmonds, your noon appointment about a snake? She said she had forgotten a conflict and wanted to come at eleven instead.”

I groaned.

“I hope it’s okay, but I told her your morning was booked and she would have to call you back tomorrow. ”

I looked at this girl shivering in her red swimming suit, nothing but concern—and quick thinking—in her blue eyes. “Thank you, Ivy,” I said fairly gushing relief. “That’s perfect.”

“Good thinking, Ivy!” Mia piped. Then to me she said, “I’m calling Mom. I have a class shoot, and you can’t stay alone.”

“No.” Could my humiliation be more… humiliating? “I’m fine,” I insisted. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not leaving you alone, Benjamin. You know the rules.”

“Mia!” I snapped.

“I could stay,” Ivy said, and we both looked at her. She shrugged. “I know I said I was planning to start my job search today,” she said to Mia. “But maybe that could start tomorrow, or I could just do a little Googling today.”

Mia seemed torn. “That’s nice of you, Ivy,” she said. “But that’s a lot to ask.”

“Definitely too much to ask,” I insisted, wishing I was anywhere but here. I got to my feet, which was a lot harder than I made it look. Panic is like a bullet that leaves you stunned and blood-drained, but still alive—in a manner of speaking. “See, I’m just fine,” I said again.

But then my preposterous knees turned to noodles, and I fell face-first into Ivy Talbot’s damp chest.

If ads affect your reading experience, click here to remove ads on this page.