12
Taxi horns blare—one after the next—when I open my eyes, peering into the unfamiliar darkness. I don’t know where I am, just
that I’m not in Ireland, nor with Colm and Liam. Memories of yesterday hit my heart like arrows, and I wince. I’ve woken up
from a beautiful, warm dream, and whatever force that controls my destiny has, once again, dropped me into the abyss.
I sit up in another strange bed, which I’m grateful to find empty. In a blue silk nightie, I shiver as I get up and walk to
the window. Pulling back the curtains, I see the sun hasn’t yet peeked over the horizon, but even under the cloak of night,
I know where I am.
Manhattan.
I spot the High Line in the distance, as well as the Chelsea Hotel’s iconic neon sign. I feel like this must be the corner
of Twenty-Third and Seventh, where I used to wander in for late-night hot dogs at Chelsea Papaya. To this day, I have no idea
how a one-dollar wiener could taste that good.
The city lights twinkle through the rain-splattered window, as if to say, Welcome home, kid . But I feel neither welcome, nor at home. I just want to be back in my real life, not in this never-ending alternate reality.
Also, who is this man walking into the bedroom in his underwear?
“Hey,” he says, shutting the bathroom door. I recognize his voice, of course. I know his voice, even if I’m too shocked to confirm it. He pauses beside the bed, back turned to me.
Adrenaline courses through my body, even before the beam of light hits his face.
“It’s going to be a hell of a day,” he says, pausing to take a sip of last night’s lukewarm nightcap on the bedside table.
“Might as well take the edge off.” Whiskey on the rocks. I know, because I know him .
Every muscle of my body freezes. The man climbing back into bed with me is Christian: my best friend’s husband .
“No,” I say, inching away from him. I turn on the lamp on my bedside table just to make sure I’m not hallucinating. I’m not.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no. This is not happening. You should be with Frankie!”
“Frankie?” he says, thoroughly confused. “We said good night to her at the concert.” He smiles. “I got her into a cab, remember?
Don’t worry. She’s fine.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not fine, Christian !”
“Whoa, Lena. What’s wrong?”
I feel dizzy, but not from last night’s libations. “Christian, I need you to do something for me.”
“What is it?”
I sit up, breathlessly leaning against the headboard. “Describe how we met.”
“Wait, what?”
“Christian, please,” I say, closing my eyes tightly, then opening them again. “I just... need to hear you say it.”
“Okay, okay,” he finally says.
I wait for him to explain—to make this make sense, if that’s even possible. For all I know, Frankie’s coming home soon. What
have we done? What have I done?
“All right,” Christian says, propping another pillow behind his back. “Let’s take a trip down memory lane. There you were,
a goddess , sitting on that barstool at the Nomad Hotel bar. I noticed you first, even though you always say it was the other way around. No, I watched you walk in. I thought to myself, I could die a happy man tonight if I could just have one drink with her .” He smiles, turning onto his side to face me. “And then the miraculous happened— you walked over.”
No, I didn’t. Frankie did.
“I gripped the edge of the bar; I could barely hold on tight enough in your presence.” He pauses, shaking his head. “You were
a force then, just as you are now.”
I look down at the sizable emerald ring on my left hand—cushion cut. Somehow it sparkles in the dim light as Christian inches
closer, his hand sliding familiarly across my stomach. This isn’t good. In fact, it’s terrible. Terrible, terrible, terrible.
“What’s going on with us, Lena?” he asks, sensing my unease as he pulls away.
Us? Instinctively, I recoil. There is no us!
“We were happy, and then...” He pauses, looking away.
“Christian,” I begin cautiously, “I don’t quite know how to say this, but—”
Without warning, his lips meet mine, and I am, at once, powerless to resist. For a moment—a long one—I linger, or, rather,
freeze, letting him pull me close, so close that I can feel the beat of his heart against mine. But it’s just a moment, I
tell myself, a moment that shouldn’t be happening. And maybe it isn’t happening at all? Yesterday, I was in Ireland under
entirely different circumstances. My heart swells, thinking of Colm, Liam. But now I’m here, in the arms of someone I trust—someone
I... love: my friend, but also... Frankie’s husband.
“I can’t,” I say, pulling away, a little breathless and deeply disturbed. This can’t be happening. I would never...
“Right,” Christian says, frustrated as he creeps back to his side of the bed, turning onto his side, back to me. I shove a
spare pillow in the space between us—the border, I tell myself, which must not be crossed.
This is insane! The last time I saw Christian was with Frankie and their baby on the farm in Pennsylvania, and now I’m in Manhattan wearing his ring?
Minutes pass, maybe an hour. I watch the digits on the clock beside me—slow and steady torture—until the sun finally rises,
flooding the bedroom with light, which is when Christian lets out a yawn and climbs out of bed.
“Well, guess I better rip the Band-Aid off and get this day started,” he says with a groan as he peels off his T-shirt, revealing
his six-pack abs. I avert my eyes. “Back-to-back meetings with the LA team.” He threads his legs through a pair of trousers,
then pauses, turning to me. “Maybe I should bag it? Call in sick. We could”—he sits on the edge of the bed beside me—“do a
little more reminiscing?” When his hand dips beneath the covers, I’m instantly transported back to that night in the city,
the fire we both felt. It was as real as it was wrong—just as it is now.
“No,” I say, stiffening. “I mean, you should go in. It’s an important day, right?” I tuck my knees against my chest like a
fortress.
“Yeah,” he finally says, standing up and walking to the closet. “You’re probably right, and I know you have writing to get
done.”
“Totally,” I say, relieved that he took the bait. “I have so much... writing .”
“All right,” he says, a little crestfallen. “See you tonight, then.” He scrolls through his phone, then shakes his head. “Oh,
wait, we have that birthday dinner for Frankie, don’t we?”
His words sound impossible, foreign even. It’s bad enough that I’m here, but how am I supposed to face my best friend under
these circumstances, much less look her in the eyes?
“Who’s she bringing this time?” Christian asks, straightening his tie. “That woman goes through men like she does hair colors.
Remember the last dude?”
I stare ahead blankly.
“You know, what’s-his-name with the beard and all those tattoos? I swear, that one had to be fresh out of Rikers.”
“Yikes,” I say, worried.
“Anyway, my final meeting wraps up at six, so I’ll see you at the restaurant, okay? If I’m late, please don’t crucify me.
You know how the LA team is.”
“Right,” I say, eyeing his gray suit, which hugs his body in all the right places. “No crucifying.”
“Good luck today,” he says, before giving me a quick peck. “You’re on the home stretch with this one. I’m getting bestselling
novelist vibes.”
I nod, playing along.
“Well, I can’t wait to read it.” He smiles, his expression tentative. “You’ve kept this one pretty close to the vest.”
I’ve written more than one?
“All right, see you tonight,” he says, flashing me a final smile from the bedroom doorway.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Tonight...”
When the door closes, I lean my head against the pillow, letting out a long sigh.
Okay . I’m an author —married to Christian . What is this, some kind of Freudian nightmare? I mean, I can write—at least, in the corporate world. But a full-length novel? No. And let’s be clear: If Frankie saw me
in bed with her husband just now, she’d have my head on a plate. How did the stars align—or misalign—to deposit me here? Maybe
that quirky physics professor in college was right. I remember nothing from the course other than his tweed suits and obsession
with the so-called “butterfly effect” theory—the idea being that a butterfly can flap its wings in China, for example, setting
off a chain of events that could trigger a tornado in Houston, or, in this case, my life.
I should probably get up, get dressed, and figure out my next steps. In the closet, I survey my options, all black and beige. No prints. No florals. No... color. Okay, I guess we’re into monochromatic? Am I... depressed, or do I just live in New York? I grab a pair of jeans and a nondescript black sweater, then slip into some sneakers. In the kitchenette, I drop a pod into
the Nespresso machine on the counter and down a shot of espresso before making another. The apartment is nice enough, and
clean, though very helter-skelter—Amazon boxes stacked by the doorway and a mountain of unfolded laundry on the sofa. I sort
through the pile of mail lying on the counter—unopened bills, clothing catalogs, and a postcard from Rosie!
Hello, darling girl,
How are you? And Christian? I’m in Bali at a yoga retreat in the jungle! It’s gorgeous here! Maybe when I return, you’ll have
baby news! Oh, do I hope so. I know how difficult this fertility journey has been for you. I wish I could just snap my fingers
and make it so.
How’s your novel coming along? Last we spoke, you said that it was more personal than anything you’ve ever written. Facing
our inner selves is a task like no other, which is why I’m sure it’ll be your best!
Well, I must go to sleep, the airport shuttle departs at 6 a.m. Come visit when I’m back! Sometimes I miss you so much it
hurts.
Hugs and kisses, and all my love,
always,
Rosie
Rosie in Bali? Christian and I... trying for a baby ? The hair on my arms stands on end as I walk back to the living room, to the little desk by the far window, where I sit down
and open the laptop. Who am I? I open a browser and type my name into Google. I click on a Goodreads link and see a photo of myself, turned to the side, half smiling. What’s with my smile—and my hair? I look rigid, pent-up—like I take myself way too seriously.
I close the browser and begin clicking through the folders in my iCloud like a private investigator. I scroll through images
from my life, well, this one, anyway: Christian and I, sailing on the Hudson, date-night selfies, me in front of the Mona
Lisa, Christian in front of Van Gogh’s self-portrait. Why me and not Frankie?
I want to pick up the phone again, and dial my best friend, but I hesitate. Instead, I open a folder titled “Third Novel/First
Draft.” Maybe I’ll find a little truth somewhere in my fiction. I click on a document titled “Proposal.”
And Then There Was You
A Novel Proposal by Lena Lancaster
Vera Canfield has a loving husband, a fulfilling career as a novelist and a cheeky cat named Elf. From the outside looking
in, yes, Vera seems to have it all. But there’s something dark brewing in her beautifully curated world—a long-held secret
that haunts her by day and keeps her up at night.
I sit up straighter in my chair and shiver, just as my phone rings, and I wince when I see the name on the screen: Frankie .
“Uh, hello?” I say, cautiously.
“Dude, where are you?”
“Where am I?” I wonder if she can hear the guilt and self-loathing in my voice.
“Yeah,” she continues. “You were supposed to be here a half hour ago!”
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Where again?”
“The park!”
“Okay, as in Central Park?”
“Um, yep, the one and only.” I imagine her rolling her eyes. “P.S. Your coffee is going to be cold.”
“Okay,” I say, a little breathlessly. “But, Frankie, where in the park?”
“Alice in Wonderland,” she says, obviously annoyed. “Duh.”
I immediately recall the bronze statue we used to pass on our jogs through Central Park a decade ago. “Right. I’ll... be
there soon.”
The cab drops me off in Columbus Circle, and as I look out at the park ahead, I realize I have quite a sprint ahead of me.
Fortunately, I slipped on running shoes, and I run —past a group of tourists taking selfies, past a posh-looking mom pushing a double stroller, past the ghosts of my old life
in the city. Twenty minutes later, I’m out of breath and staring up at a bronze statue of Alice in Wonderland—an apt metaphor
for me right now. She went down the rabbit hole; I went... somewhere.
“You’re forty-five minutes late,” Frankie says, clearly irritated. Her bleached-blond hair, with an inch of dark roots, is
parted down the middle and cut into a blunt bob that lands just beneath her chin. I want to tell her what’s happening to me,
but I’m too busy wondering, What happened to my best friend, and who is this rocker chick?
“Sorry,” I mutter, a little stunned. She’s wearing an edgy black babydoll dress styled with a choker necklace, and what’s
that tattoo on her wrist? “Frankie? What happened?”
“What are you talking about?” She takes a sip of her coffee, handing me mine. It’s cold, but I don’t complain. That’s my reward
for being late.
“Your hair, your—”
“Oh, do you like it?” She smiles, smoothing the side pieces that frame her face. “I’m loving my new salon on Sixth. Their
straightening treatment has changed my life.”
I nod, more than a little shocked. “But... your curls were so... you.”
“Meh,” she replies with a shrug. “I got my color touched up, like usual, but kept the roots this time, see? It’s a thing.
Dark roots, light hair. You know, the rocker girl vibe.”
“But, Frankie, you’re not a... rocker girl.”
“I know, I know. It’s just an... aesthetic I’m trying out.” She adjusts the choker on her neck, twisting it around as if
she has no clue how to wear it. She doesn’t. “Also, Townes is into that sort of thing.”
“Townes?”
She grins. “Yeah, the new guy I’m dating!”
Not only is Frankie’s appearance drastically different, so is her attitude. She’s tougher, more jaded. Even her voice—it has
an edge to it. I want to know everything, what of life’s twists and turns had such a searing effect on her. But before I can
open my mouth, she hands me her phone.
“ This is Townes,” she says proudly. “Hot, right?”
I stare at the photo of a man on a subway immersed in a book. “Wait, is that Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace?”
Frankie nods proudly.
“Isn’t that, like... a thousand pages?”
“He’s really smart,” she continues. “I saw him on that Instagram page—you know, @hotdudesreading?” She smiles conspiratorially.
“Anyway, I may or may not have slipped into his DMs.”
Impossible. Frankie would never do something like this!
She shakes her head, as if reading my mind. “Really? You’re judging me?”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s just that, well, what if he’s—”
“A freak?” Frankie shrugs. “It wouldn’t be my first encounter. Listen, Lena, while you’ve been happily married for the last
seven years, I’ve been stuck on the dating roller coaster from hell. I just want to meet someone nice and get off this ride,
you know? I’m tired. And... I don’t know, maybe I want to be a mom someday.”
You’ll be a great mom someday.
My heart aches for Frankie. It hurts to see her like this—so different, so lost. I want to clutch her shoulders, look her
in the eyes, and tell her the truth. But I can’t, because I’m the reason her life is in a tailspin. I also realize that this
isn’t the version of Frankie I can confide in. No, this Frankie? She needs my help. I need to be her Competent Traveler.
“Everything is going to be okay,” I say reassuringly.
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not.” I pause, thinking back to the day she married Christian, all those years ago, in another life. They’d danced to
Nat King Cole, then halfway through busted out a preplanned choreographed dance to “Disco Inferno.” It was magical, and they
were so in love. And now? Somehow, I’ve inserted myself into the life that Frankie was supposed to have. I’m the reason she’s
spinning her wheels, the cause of her unhappiness. I can’t turn back time, but I can make choices—right now—that might help.
“We’ll see,” Frankie says with a sigh. “Anyway, Townes is coming to my birthday dinner tonight. I think you’ll like him, Lena.
I really hope you will.”
I nod, though I’m not so sure. I’m also curious about this novel of mine, especially considering what Rosie hinted at—about
my fiction bordering reality. “I sent you the pages of my new work-in-progress, didn’t I?” I mean, I assume I share my work with my best friend.
“Um, yeah ,” she says, obviously annoyed.
I take another sip of my coffee. “And what did you think?”
“I emailed you my comments last week, space cadet.”
“Oh, sorry, I... I must have missed it.”
Frankie smiles. “I really liked it. I did. But, Lena, I have to ask?” She crosses her legs, then recrosses them again. “Is
this novel loosely based on... your marriage ?”
“What makes you think that?” I reply, playing coy.
“I don’t know,” she continues. “I guess I just got that vibe. I mean, Christian is totally on the baby wagon, right? And you’ve been a little hesitant, like your character, who’s on the fence, but going through the motions for her husband.”
My God, I’m unhappy, aren’t I? All this time, I’d watched Frankie and Christian’s beautiful life unfold in real time—happy for them, yes, but also, honestly,
a little envious. There was always a part of me, deep down, that wondered if it should have been me, not Frankie, who approached
him all those years ago. I think of this morning in bed, the electricity I felt when his lips met mine. We have chemistry,
yes, but it’s just one part of the complicated recipe for happiness. That’s never been clearer to me than right now.
“What else struck you as... similar to my life?” I ask Frankie, bracing myself.
“Well,” she continues, pausing for a long beat. “Vera and her husband—what’s his name—?”
“Preston,” I say. The detail is still fresh in my mind from reading my pages this morning—snooping on myself, as weird as
that sounds.
“Right, Preston. I mean, the guy’s a catch—obviously—and they seem happy enough, at least that’s the image they project to
the world. And maybe Vera should be happy and probably nix all that inner whining.” Frankie nods to herself. “Seriously—Preston is practically Husband of
the Year.” She sighs. “But maybe that’s the commentary you’re making—the idea that even the most beautiful-seeming lives can
still be riddled with uncertainty?”
“Well,” I say, taking in her words. “Brava. That’s quite the literary analysis.”
“Thanks,” she says, as a bicyclist hurtles by, spraying droplets from a nearby puddle that splatter onto my pants. “Oh, there was something else.” She pauses, lost in thought for a long moment. “Connection. Vera and Preston are compatible, yes; great together in the bedroom, yada, yada; they share a love of art; but something is off with them, you know? Like, he didn’t seem all that curious about her work, but went on and on about his. And he thinks South Park is funny, but she hates it.”
I laugh to myself.
“And then there was the tiniest little thing,” Frankie continues. “The slightest detail that I might have missed, and I’m
so glad I didn’t, because it was so subtle, but so relatable. That part where Vera is at a girlfriend’s house and her husband
comes home with flowers, kisses her cheek, and asks her how her day was.” She pauses. “It wasn’t the flowers or the kiss that
caught Vera’s attention while observing the interaction, it was the ‘ How was your day? ’ I loved how she told her friend that Preston never asks her about her day. She’s, like, ‘Does he even actually care?’” She grins. “Good stuff.”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling.
“Anyway, go easy on Townes tonight, okay?” Frankie says as we walk to the sidewalk ahead. “Please, no Mama Bear.”
I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I guess you’ve forgotten about our most recent double date—with Evan?”
“The one with the beard?” I ask, remembering Christian’s commentary earlier this morning about the Rikers Island guy.
“Yeah, well, he did kind of have it coming. But not Townes.” She grins, hailing a cab. “You’ll see.”
Back at the apartment, I’m exhausted, but I don’t dare close my eyes. As weird and shocking as this reality is, at least I’m
here with friends. Besides, who knows where I’ll wake up next? For that reason, I want to stay—and stay awake—and for as long
as possible. I have things to figure out and a version of my life that needs sorting. But before I can analyze further, my
phone buzzes.
The screen reads: Lucy Sherman: HarperCollins Editor.
“Hello,” I say, picking up.
“Lena! Thank God you answered! We need to talk.”
I can only assume this is my editor . My overly caffeinated editor.
“Okay,” I say, letting out a big yawn. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, yes!” she exclaims. “I read your draft, and I fell in love, Lena. Love, love, love. The way you examine the nuances
of marriage. I mean, I laughed. I cried. I felt all the feels, especially that bit when she accidentally breaks his favorite
mug while washing dishes and he loses it on her. I mean, it wasn’t about the mug. It’s never about the mug. But the accumulation
of hairline cracks that finally gave in—oh, Lena. It was such a brilliant metaphor.”
“Wow, uh... thank you,” I say, a little stunned.
“Of course, I have some comments. You’ll need to fix a few things, but nothing major. It’s all there . In fact, some sales reps read it over the weekend, and Ernie thinks Target will place a major order, maybe even make it
a book club pick. Think of all those women out there in miserable marriages, pushing their red carts around—a captive audience,
you know?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep up.
“There’s just one thing I need to run by you after my meeting with publicity today. Just standard stuff, but I want to make
sure you’re still on board.”
“Still on board? With what?”
“You know, with what we talked about last week. Yes, this is a work of fiction, but the publicity team thinks we could get
a lot more leverage if you shared some of your personal life, like pages from your own marriage’s ups and downs. Make sense?
I mean, we’re not asking you to air your dirty laundry or anything, but given what you’re going through with Christian, I’m
sure you have plenty of material for an Oprah magazine essay, maybe, or a Good Morning America segment—something like that.”
“Wait, what you just said, about the stuff I’m going through with Christian, I—”
“The elephant in the room, right? Honey, how long have I known you? And how long have you been unhappy? Listen, I’m not asking you to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable.” She pauses, laughing nervously. “But hypothetically, if you were to, you know, separate, before publication, we could use your personal story to get mega-coverage. With a combo like that,
well, I’d be shocked if you didn’t make the List your first week.”
“As in, the New York Times Bestseller List ?”
She laughs. “The only one!”
“Listen, Lucy, I’m going to need a little time,” I say. “To think this over.”
“Right, right,” she says with a sigh. “Do hurry, though. I need to get back to publicity. But, Lena, congratulations, again.
This is going to be your big book. I can feel it.”
Lucy—whoever she is—has no idea that I’ll be gone tomorrow—at least, if this messed-up situation continues to repeat itself.
With four hours until Frankie’s birthday dinner, I decide to make another shot of espresso and have a look at the first draft
of the novel that my editor has just raved about. Who knows, maybe it’s all there, as she says, everything I need to understand—mysteriously
veiled in the pages.