Chapter 17
On Sunday morning, I wake clutching my laptop, still in the clothes I wore yesterday. I haven’t pulled an all-nighter like this since I was a teenager. I’ve been writing all weekend and it feels so freeing.
Panicked, I make sure everything I wrote last night was saved. Only when I’m certain every word is right where I left it, I hook up my laptop to charge and make my way to the main house for coffee and a shower.
Abuelita will already be at mass with her friends. Sometimes Eddie takes her, sometimes he does not. But either way, he’s never sacked out on the couch the way I find him now. I wonder now how long this has been going on.
“Why are you sleeping on the couch?” I ask him.
He rolls over and yawns. “I let your mami take my room. It just makes sense.”
I sigh. Of course it would make sense to Eddie. He couldn’t abide having a woman sleep on a sofa when there was a perfectly good bed available.
“I’m not here all that much,” he protests.
“But having a bed to sleep in is the main reason you live here.”
He waves it away. “She needs a bed more than I do.”
“You have a bad back!”
“This couch is actually comfortable,” he says but when he winces, I know he’s lying.
“Riiight.”
I wish my entire family wouldn’t cater to my mother but I remind myself they’re doing it for me. Because she’s connected to me, and more importantly my father, and that’s all it takes in the Santana home.
As usual, Abuelita has left café for us.
She makes strong coffee, the closest thing to an espresso I’m going to have this morning and I need every milligram of caffeine in my bloodstream.
I rattle around in the cupboard searching for my “best granddaughter in the world” cup but am forced to settle for an “I’d rather be watching a telenovela” mug.
A fully dressed Eddie joins me in the kitchen and I hand him the carafe. He looks like he needs the caffeine more than I do. While he pours his coffee, he gives me a look I’ve come to realize means he’s about to give me a lecture.
I hold up my hand. “I was up late writing. That’s why I look like this.”
This means he should not bother me with anything trivial or nag me about my appearance.
Sometimes Eddie can be just as bad as my mother with the exception that he’s never mentioned my weight.
But he’s of the somewhat old-school opinion that a single lady should be ready to meet her possible Mr. Right at all times.
Even in her own damn house. Obviously, I disagree.
He looks confused and shakes his head. “I want to talk to you about your mami.”
“Oh, that.” A lecture about my mother is not going to be much better, I fear.
“Mija, she is your mother, so try to be nice.”
“I am nice! But it’s not okay that she just shows up here like she has no other place to be. She’s taking advantage of our hospitality.”
“Did you ever stop to think she has nowhere else to go?” He narrows his eyes.
“How is that possible? She divorced Seb and if I know my mother she got a settlement. Besides, there’s all the money she made in all her years of acting. Look at the way she dresses! Does she look penniless?”
“Neither one of us knows the whole story. Just be patient with her. You love your mother, and you can’t pretend you don’t.”
“She’s never been supportive. I don’t know if she deserves my forgiveness.”
“No one actually deserves forgiveness, but we give it anyway.” Eddie lowers his head and gives me his saintly look possibly because it’s Sunday. “That’s who we are.”
It’s pointless to argue and I hold out my palms. “Fine, sure. I’ll try to be better.”
Mami appears in the doorway and we both turn to see her, hair perfectly styled, full makeup, wearing a dress that emphasizes the straight lines of her slender figure. Like Eddie, she’s old-school and must be photo op ready at any moment.
“Buenos dias. Guess what? I haven’t been able to fit into this dress for a while. The best thing about divorce is the diet,” she says, then takes a seat at the kitchen table. “Eddie, would you pour me a café, por favor?”
I bite my tongue before I tell her to get it herself. She’s not the queen. Naturally, Eddie pours her a cup and brings it to her the way he already knows she likes it. Black, like her soul. She curls her fingers around the warm cup, her manicure utter perfection.
“What are you doing today, mi amor?” she asks me, taking a dainty sip of her coffee.
“Writing,” I say. “All day. I’m on a roll.”
“Fantastic. Another little book? Eddie isn’t it wonderful our Luci is a New York Times bestselling author?”
“I’m not sure whether we—I mean I, made the list yet.”
“Yes, you did,” she says, stirring her coffee. “I subscribe to the Times, and I saw it myself last week. Soulmates, by Elizabeth Brogan, that’s your book right?”
“Oh my God. Really? He’s…I’m on the list? Again?” My voice is a squeak.
It’s been a week since the episode aired and between the excitement building around it the book made the list again.
“What number placement?” I ask. “Was it number one?”
I don’t think we could dare to hope.
“Is that important? I don’t remember,” she answers. “Isn’t that nice, Eddie?” She gives him a pointed look from under her long (and obviously fake) lashes.
“Yes, yes, of course. It’s very nice.”
It would help if Eddie or at least my mother understood what an achievement this means in any author’s life. She seems unfazed, as though I won first place in a local writing contest, while I’m about to scream in delight.
“I have to make a phone call.” I rush right out the kitchen back door toward the shed to call Ryan in privacy. “Um, I have to tell all my friends.”
I can’t believe he didn’t bother to tell me.
But as I’m changing and slipping on a pair of sandals, I decide I need to congratulate Ryan in person.
This is a huge accomplishment for any author but especially one with what is, albeit technically, a debut.
He must be thrilled and I can’t even imagine what I’ll find when I drive over to his home.
This will be a celebration of sorts, so after I shower and dress, I stop by Michaela’s Bakery, but it’s Sunday so they’re closed.
I don’t need anything fancy and I’m not even sure flowers are appropriate.
I drive all over town looking for the right gift, spending hours musing over sentimental cards, candy, and flowers.
At Trader Joe’s, I decide a plant is more appropriate.
A happy plant, of course, so I choose basil because it smells good and can do double duty as food.
And ballons, naturally. I have to go somewhere else for those and finally, thirty minutes later, I shove the “Congratulations” mylar balloons low into the back seat of my sedan.
Each time they pop up, obstructing my rear view, I reach to push them back down.
I ring the doorbell twice since he won’t be expecting me. I start to wonder if Ryan is home even though I see his rental parked, when he opens the door, a big smile on his face.
He holds his arms out in a greeting I’ve never seen from him. “Hello! It’s you.”
He never greets me like this and I’m a bit unnerved. First, I hand him the basil plant, which he accepts.
“Congratulations! I just heard the news.”
“Yes! Come in!” He sweeps his arm wide in a flourish. “Welcome!”
He almost looks…happy. Or high. Guess making a list, a crowning achievement for authors, has a way of doing this to a person.
“Are you okay?” I narrow my eyes.
“I’m great! Why wouldn’t I be? It’s official. And I’m sure this plant…” He gestures.
“It’s basil. An herb, so you can cook with it, too.”
He gives the plant a sideways look. “Right and those…um…”
“Balloons,” I say, feeling stupid now. A grown man doesn’t need balloons. He’s not twelve.
“Are all to congratulate me on making the list.”
There’s something different about Ryan. He’s not clean-shaven this morning, a small amount of dark stubble covering his jaw and chin.
But it isn’t until I notice the amber liquid in a nearly empty tumbler, and glassy eyes behind his frames that I realize he’s tipsy. In the middle of the day. On a Sunday.
“I thought maybe you’d call me when you heard the official news,” I say, still holding the balloons and sitting down with them. They float above me like I’m their only tether. “I guess it happened last week?”
“Would you like a drink to celebrate?” He walks to the kitchen counter where he holds up an opened bottle of Scotch. “This is supposed to be the good stuff. Kate sent it via carrier.”
I can’t believe I brought a dude balloons and a plant. I should have brought liquor, of course.
“No, thank you. I’m…”
“Not a Scotch person?”
“No.”
“You don’t drink?” He squints his eyes as if I’ve just told him I like to skip uphill.
“I don’t drink before five o’clock.”
I hold the balloons securely because this side of Ryan seems unnatural. I half expect to find he’s been body snatched and that his body pod is lying around here in the back room somewhere.
“Me either but I’m breaking with tradition.” He holds up his tumbler. “This is a monumental day.”
“My mother gave me the news but I don’t think she realizes what a big deal this is. She thinks I just made the Times list and didn’t even suggest we celebrate.”
“You should go celebrate with her.” He points to me with his free hand. “This is your achievement too.”
“No, it’s not.” I shake my head.
This time draws no comparison to when I actually wrote a book for Desdemona that made a list. The publisher sent me a basket of flowers with a card that said, “thank you,” the only acknowledgment I received or would ever receive.
I celebrated my achievement quietly with my family.
They thought I was celebrating getting a new contract.
When everyone in reader and writer circles was talking about the Desdemona book that made The New York Times for the first time in decades, I couldn’t say a word.
Now, I feel like a double impostor. It’s worse, it turns out, to pretend you wrote the book when you didn’t.
At least before, I secretly knew my book, my words, had made the list. Now I’m taking credit I don’t deserve.
Ryan takes a seat beside me, the balloons between us like a barrier. I only realize how many I have when he pushes several aside and gives me a long look.
“I sent a few chapters of my new book to Kate, the one you’ve been helping me research,” Ryan says.
“You started writing it?” He hasn’t shared that bit of news with me.
He nods. “I was inspired after our trip to Santa Cruz and stayed up all night. You were right. I needed to get out of the house for some inspiration.”
“That’s great,” I say. “What did she think of it?”
“Kate kindly told me she hates it.” He laughs and for the first time, I hear Ryan’s deep scrape of a chuckle. “Isn’t that funny?”
Okay, so this drinking isn’t only celebratory. He might be indulging in a little self-pity. I’m familiar with rejection, and even if Ryan doesn’t get many, surely it never gets any easier to hear your work leaves something to be desired.
“No, it’s not funny. Why did she say that?”
Ryan gives me a look like he can’t quite figure me out. “It lacks what the book has. Maybe I should write another book that reads like a poor sap’s diary. It’s pretty clear she’s going to compare all my other work to that book from now on.”
“Don’t say ‘that book.’ It’s good, Ryan, you know it’s true.”
I might hate the book because of the ending but even I can appreciate the stylistic writing. It’s witty and emotional and doesn’t pull any punches.
“Maybe. But I’ll never write anything that great again, which was a fluke in the first place. What does that say about me?”
Tired of shoving balloons out of my line of sight, I get up and set them on the table like a centerpiece.
When I return, Ryan is seated on the edge of his seat, studying me.
I feel something uncomfortably like a tingle wash over me.
He has the most intense eyes and in that one crazy moment I want to kiss him.
Just to make him feel better. He should know that even though he’s had crushing heartbreak, followed by a staggering betrayal, he’s not damaged goods.
He’s intensely attractive, young, and can still find love and be happy someday.
Maybe this time it will be the love of his life.
It’s as if he’s reading my mind and his gaze softens a bit. “Luci. You’re so kind. You are a lifesaver and I don’t deserve you at all.”
It’s my chance to make light and I chuckle, shimmying my shoulders. “Well, who really does?”
“Only a great man. The best man alive.” He holds his glass as if to salute this imaginary creature.
“When you meet him give him my number.” I wink and give him a little shoulder check.
There’s a slight quirk of his lips and then he downs the rest of his Scotch.
“Do you know how many times in my life I dreamed I’d have a book do this well? I lost count. And now that it’s happened, I can’t celebrate it.”
“Of course you can! They are your words.”
“They’re not words I wanted to write. Ironically, in a way neither one of us can.” He stares at the empty contents of his glass.
I see his point. For me, it’s a half-hearted celebration because it’s not my book.
Not even my name, but the name of a fictitious person I’m pretending to be.
It might be difficult to celebrate without feeling like a total impostor, but I’m up to the task.
The face of Elizabeth Brogan, after all, is mine.
“You’re wrong and I’ll prove it. We can both celebrate.” I stand. “We’re going out to dinner, my treat.”