Chapter 14
“What are the odds they’ll send a search party out for us?”
“Pretty low. I think if Amelia actually steps away from her five-hour nighttime skin care routine and notices we’re gone,
she’s more likely to seize the opportunity to leave us—me—in the dust.”
Jack’s arm has been wrapped around my waist the last hour. We’ve walked until the neighborhood peaked at a set of concrete
yard art manatees, at which point we declared the house the winner and decided to turn back. Everything and nothing has changed
in the past two hours, since that first kiss beneath the stars. The conversation continues on companionably about our normal
shared lives, yet now there’s a fizziness to it that keeps my heart racing.
Maybe this’ll be my new heart rate.
One hundred and twenty beats per minute.
But even in the midst of our casual chat, a part of me slows things down every few minutes, says something regarding the subtle
change around us that seems too good, too perfect to be true. “I know you were just exaggerating when you said that bit about
dating me for ages. I remember Marilyn.”
He grins and tugs me a little tighter to his side. “That was before the Friendsgiving party. Everything changed the day before
Thanksgiving.”
Thanksgiving Eve. The night I had Jack and his then girlfriend, Marilyn, over, force-fed her pigs in a blanket, and dragged
them into playing that awful murder mystery board game.
They had met at the gym a few weeks prior, unironically, and I knew it was something when he texted that day that he wasn’t going to make it to dinner with me after all. That they were going with some of her friends to some trendy spot where everyone wore only neon items and there were no bowling balls in sight.
And I wasn’t jealous . Of course I wasn’t jealous—I had no right to be.
And it was fine on that first date when he bailed on me to choose something lame like twenty-five-dollar appetizers and music that didn’t
make you pay a quarter to play.
And it was fine the second week when he was suddenly busy.
But it was not fine on Thanksgiving Eve, when he just casually skipped. Just. Skipped.
Bowling. The thing that was principal in our lives.
Date on Sunday. Date Monday. Date every other day of the week for all I care. But Wednesdays were mine. (Ours.) The Pin Pals needed him at least that one day of the week.
I needed him.
So, yes, technically, I had been morosely strolling the aisles of the grocery store at nine o’clock at night after bowling,
and when I came upon the little box in the clearance aisle with the Christmassy cartoon figures—the leering Frosty the Snowman,
a self-righteous little elf holding a toy hammer quite viciously—all looking suspiciously at one another, I snatched it up.
Who Stole Rudolf’s Red Nose at the Karaoke Party? it asked.
Well, we certainly needed to find out.
I pretty much spam texted him into coming over to play, and everyone else for that matter. My conversation with Jack went
like this:
Me: We need to cling to our youthful roots.
Jack: No.
Me: Do something spontaneous. You know, they say that’s what helps the fight against Alzheimer’s. It’s never too early to start
considering optimizing our mental health, Jack.
Jack: No.
Me: Not to mention, you are the reason we lost tonight. It’s the least you can do to show up after that morale-shattering loss.
Jack: The Ballbarians (still the worst name) are undefeated. We both know I would’ve done nothing to bolster the team.
Me: I’ll make my special nachos.
Jack: Be there in 40.
Marilyn showed up with him.
She stood in the corner of the living room, pushing tortilla chips around on her plate in her slinky black dress for half
an hour. She smiled and nodded uncomfortably as Emiliano spoke to her, emphatically, about something she could only partly
understand in his budding English. But when she was handed a Grinch face mask along with her character card, that’s when she
snapped. Suddenly had a terribly important email she’d entirely forgotten about that just had to be sent via her desktop, at home, and called an Uber.
Jack stayed.
“Ten thirteen p.m.,” Jack announces. “Everything changed at 10:13.”
I laugh. “You can’t know the exact minute.”
“You were standing on top of your coffee table, that huge trunk of wood, in your swinging reindeer antlers and pajama pants,
singing—horribly, I might add—a bluesy ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,’ when I decided.”
“My character was Rosie, the jazz-singing ex-girlfriend of Rudolf with a chip on her shoulder. I had to be bluesy.”
“And the bluesy did it.” He squeezed my waist. “That’s when everyone else was off the table.” He pauses. “Ah.” He grins at
his little joke. “See what I did there? Because you were on it.”
“Why?” I say incredulously. I remember my pajama pants. I remember the horrible singing. “Why then?”
“Because that’s when I saw in your eyes there was a chance.”
And I know, I know we have just kissed. I know his arm is around my waist right now, but it feels exposing realizing he knew the truth about that night. Like he’s opened the very secret medicine cabinet in my bathroom and perused the bottles.
Warmth rises in my cheeks that’s immediately cooled by the July breeze. Even I haven’t fully acknowledged what happened to
me that night. I had made some tiny rash decisions, then put the experience and memory behind locked doors and thrown away
the key. After all, I was in a relationship . And jealousy was not allowed when you were in a relationship .
My worldview is easy to manage in black and white. I’m a rule follower.
You have a boyfriend and a declared mutual relationship? Stay loyal. Loyal until one or both agree to terminate the relationship.
You have a job? Be there when the clock starts.
You have a deadline? Get it in by midnight.
The world is simple to comprehend when you follow the rules.
But that night was different. I was feeling just so... so... down that he had deserted us for that beautiful, perky
Pilates gym rat. Seeing the empty chair beside me at bowling. Feeling the gaping hole in the evening in his absence. I wanted him there. I wanted to hear his little satirical jokes. I wanted him to show up with two Cokes and slide one over to me without speaking. I wanted to feel the brush of his knee in a casual way against mine as we sat huddled so close together, too many of us on the seats.
I wanted to hear about the tiny stuff, the little details of his day. I wanted to tell him about how I broke the letter A on my keyboard and spent two hours writing things like “the glss cndle ws centered on the tble.”
I wanted to live in his nothings and him to live in mine.
And I felt it so strongly, so urgently, that yes, I all but dragged him to my place for an excuse of a party.
And yes, when the inspiration struck and it was time to show off my character, I did use it as an excuse to grab his hand.
To pull him—not Chen, not Jose, but him—up on the table with me.
I wasn’t beautifully dressed. The one thing slinky about my outfit were the reindeer antlers that bounced as we danced.
“But you gave me the most stunning smile I’d ever seen,” Jack says.
And I know I did.
Because Marilyn was gone. And he was all mine again.
And I guess the feelings that I thought were so cleverly shrouded by party games and hat tricks were not so cleverly shrouded
after all.
I guess... even though that night I went to bed and vowed to forget what I did... I guess he remembered.
“Oh,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut at the memory, “don’t remind me. I was just terrible that night.”
“No, you weren’t.” He squeezes my hand reassuringly. We’re at the entrance to the parking lot now. The bus and Amelia’s face
peeking out in the distance. “You didn’t betray Parker, Bryony. You just... couldn’t fool me. There’s a difference.”
Wordlessly our hands break apart as we step onto the parking lot and start toward the bus.
We both know and don’t have to say it.
It’s best if we keep this between us.
At least until we get off this bus tour.
Light emanates from the humming bus as we reach it, and we pause just before getting to the door.
I look up at him. Cock my head. “So... that’s it? You were waiting all this time for me to break up with Parker? I gotta
admit, Jack. It just...” I shrug. “It doesn’t seem like you. You’re not a waiter. When you see something you want, you
go for it.”
“It wasn’t about Parker.” And to my surprise, he sounds solemn. “There was something I wanted to take care of first.”
“Did you? Did you take care of it?”
“Almost.”
I laugh. “How very Edward Rochester of you. What? You’ve got some secret certifiable wife stored in your attic you gotta figure
out how to ditch first?”
The laugh he gives is only half-hearted, clearly concealing that whatever it is isn’t a laughing matter. “Something like that.
It’s all water under the bridge now—”
“I see what you did there—”
“But let’s not talk about it tonight. Tonight’s perfect, and I want to remember it this way.” He stoops down. Brushes his
lips over mine in a way that makes the tips of my toes tingle.
“Fine by me,” I say, and kiss him again.
Amelia calls from inside the bus, asking why we’re not moving yet.
Time to go .
I give the door a couple raps.
“So,” I say, tucking my hair behind one ear. “I’ll just, um, see you tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow?” he says with a laugh, gesturing at the door after it opens. “Bryony, I’ll continue to see you for the next million
hours.”
Million hours.
And that sounds... wonderful. That sounds right.
Sure enough, all night he does stick by me, refilling my coffee and scrutinizing his own emails as we both work. Keeping me
company, encouraging me as I slash and write. Slash and write. Following my usual rhythm.
Eventually I can see the weariness in his eyes, the slow drags of his typing, like a clock winding down.
“Go to bed, Jack. I’ve written the last six books without you by my side. I can manage to do this one too. I’m in the zone.”
He doesn’t need me to say it a second time. His laptop snaps shut and he grabs his empty coffee mug. Checks his watch as he
stands. “Top you off?” He gestures to my empty coffee mug.
It’s one thirty.
I shouldn’t have more coffee.
But then I remind myself of that article taped onto the coffee shop wall with the “statistics” of all the ailments you relieve
by drinking more coffee.
A fifth-cup level solves dementia. Might as well go for a sixth and enhance my brain cells to solve world peace. “Please.”
And when I hold up my empty coffee mug, eyes on the computer screen, I feel the surprise of a kiss on my cheek. Turn toward him. Make the second one count.
“You’re amazing,” he says in a hushed voice. “You know that?”
My whole body is still tingling as I take in the first sip of the new mug and the door to the little bathroom shuts as he
moves with his toiletry bag inside.
What a whirlwind of a day.
My entire life just changed, didn’t it?
My fingers type despite myself, one half of my brain on the story and the other half still trying to process the elation of
the past twenty-four hours.
Love lost. (But can I really call Parker love ? No. Whatever that was cannot compare to this. This . THIS .)
Betrayal. (Gutting, of course. But more importantly, how selfish of him. How selfish of him to hide his new relationship for so long , to deny me from moving on.)
And then, of course, Jack.
The date.
The waiter.
The bread.
The walk.
The kiss.
The revelation.
The... well, the everything.
I am in love.
Because of course, this is love.
And I’ve been in love for quite some time.
I just didn’t know it was with him.
***
The bus is pitch black at 3:00 a.m., all but for the glow of my laptop and the dim running lights. My typing is still going strong. I don’t know why, but my best work happens this way, when the world is silent. When the world is calm. It’s probably what Gloria dubs my “fear of missing out” syndrome. How I can’t turn down any activity during the day that looks remotely possible with other human beings. (Grocery store to get bananas? Absolutely. A post office trip to buy stamps? Immediate need. Christmas card time is only nine months away. )
I don’t think I could be like other writers, tucked away at a desk somewhere in their home, all alone but for their cats and
the occasional mailman. Wanting to be alone.
Who wants to be alone?
No. This is why I teach.
I thrive amid busyness. I love the clamor of people and languages around me. I love to feel the whole world surrounding me.
And at night, I love to write.
I love living with one foot in both worlds.
It’s the loss of Mom. Part of it, at least. I was an extroverted child to begin with—I would always end up turning strangers
into playmates when we went to parks and libraries in my early years. Gran said it wouldn’t take but ten minutes in a new
place before I was parading around with my new friends—and then when Mom passed, it was earth-shattering. My heart split in
two right there in the hospital room. The grief felt so big that the floor seemed to open up and swallow me whole.
In that moment Gran went to take Gloria to the hospital room’s bathroom. I think it was an excuse, really, because I could
hear Gran’s stifled sobbing through the bathroom door. Gloria was only four then.
Besides that one deeply sorrowful moment, Gran never cried, at least not that intensely, in front of us again.
But then a janitor accidentally came in, loaded down with buckets and mops, clearly thinking this was another room. I remember
how particularly bouncy her backside was as she backed into the room, wheeling in her mop bucket, humming to herself a little
song.
And when she turned, the shock registered on her face when she saw my face. And the tears streaming down my cheeks. And Mom’s body. Still there.
She plucked those earbuds off her ears and dropped down to her knees. And opened her arms.
And I don’t know who she was or her name, but I’ll never forget stepping forward. Running forward really. And the smell of
jasmine perfume on her neck and the total envelopment of her arms around me. How her arms seemed to be trying to keep me in,
protected from the brokenness outside.
And I don’t remember her words, but I do remember the tone of her words. The soft hush of them. The way her soul reached out
and wrapped around mine for just a moment in hopes of easing my pain. Telling me I was not alone.
She was an angel in a critical moment for me. My gran, of course, too. Of course.
But the janitor lady reminded me that while one soul moved on from this earth, separated from me for a time, there were millions,
billions, more just as beautiful, just as intricately made and perfectly rare, who remained with me and who would step in
to carry me through.
So. It comes as no surprise that I write at night.
Sacrifice a little sleep, drink caffeine to supplement, work my days surrounded by beautiful souls.
“Coming along?”
I’m not going to say I scream, but there is a real temptation to as Amelia’s voice rises from the darkness and interrupts
my thoughts.
And then I look up and that’s when I really do give a little scream before clapping my hand over my mouth.
There’s nothing but blackness at the back end of the bus. Blackness, and the glowing red outline of a face hovering in the
air.
Then the glowing face moves toward me.
Her robe is cinched tight around her, huge round curlers surround her head, and a wire runs down her side to a pocket connected to what appears to be a lasery, fancy-gadget face mask covering her entire face. All I can see are the slits of her blue eyes as she approaches the coffee and tea station at the little kitchen. She reaches for a mug, misses, putters around, and finally grabs it.
Good grief. I can’t even see nose holes.
How is she breathing?
She looks like Darth Vader’s lover.
I keep on writing as she mumbles complaints under her breath about the fact the teakettle was turned off (heaven forbid we
don’t start a fire at 3:00 a.m.) and fiddles with the sink until she gets it turned on and the water begins to pour into the
kettle.
I try my best to ignore her and keep on writing. But it’s a little challenging to do when somebody in full glowing mummy garb
is standing in the shadows, watching you. Out of boredom, no doubt.
She’s like a toddler. Has no problem just staring at people.
I only zero in on typing faster. It becomes my new goal to get to the end of this page before I slip off into bed. I’m at
thirty-eight thousand words now, made a wonderful dent in the manuscript this evening. Two thousand words. Good words. I have fallen in love with the way my character stumbles into the resident hermit of the town when he’s in the backwoods
of his house, following the sound of the lost dog. The shortcut back as the two men talk.
I can’t help it, this falling in love with my own story.
There is no bigger fan, I think, than an author over her own narrative. Sometimes I pity readers, to be honest. I remain in
this world for months, day and night, breakfast, lunch, dinner, and midnights, always thinking, always living partly in this
made-up world.
Readers, if the book is good, get to see the marsh water. If the book is great, they get to touch it. Smell it. Hear the sound
of the ripples. But the writers? We have dived in. Submerged ourselves. Touched the clay bottom. Felt the wet earth squeeze
between our toes. We drink it. Swallow it. We live and, for a thousand reasons, love our fantasy worlds.
“I don’t like that.”
I startle and look up.
“Cut it,” she says.
I lift my eyes to see where Amelia stands over me. Her finger is pointing at the page on my screen.
A small ball of fire swirls in my stomach. Every muscle in my body tenses up.
“Amelia,” I say, my tone measured. “If you keep asking me to cut my story to ribbons, I will eventually take the pieces and
make them into a flag of my own.”
And then she laughs.
But the laugh is choked and stifled sounding behind her mask.
She pats me on the back. “Oh, Bryony. It’s my story. Never forget that for a second. These are my stories . And I’d like—I really would like—to see you try. If that day ever comes, make sure to tell me. I’d love to be one of the
five people to buy it.” She gives my shoulder a friendly—and creepy all the way to my toes—squeeze. “I’ll be your biggest
supporter. Guaranteed.”