Chapter 29
When I wake up, I immediately make myself an espresso in the overwrought, fancy hotel coffee maker and throw cold water on my face. I have those jet-lagged sensations of too little sleep matched with my internal clock being thrown off, but they’re nothing that caffeine and a walk can’t fix.
I mosey along the Paddington Basin canal, letting the slim redeveloped waterway guide me. Soaring buildings, quirky bars, and converted warehouses line the water, a pedestrian cocoon amid a busy area.
I stop when I get to the location of the party—when Celia said it was at a place called the Cheese Barge, I didn’t realize it was going to be a literally floating barge with wheels of cheese lining the expansive windows. As I walked along the canal, I noticed a number of barges that seemed to be homes or private boats, but quite a few were restaurants or bars as well, so this isn’t an anomaly. They’re all fairly thin, to accommodate the canal, but the bigger ones stretch out to around the length of a basketball court. It’s charming in its own particularly London specificity.
I hear Celia shout “Nora!” and I look up to see her leaning off the upper deck, waving to me. I duck inside, the interior of the barge renovated in rustic wood and metal, with those large windows showcasing the canal.
“How do I get ... up?” I ask a hostess at the front, and she points me to a small spiral staircase.
When I get up onto the deck, I see that the reception has already begun. A crowd of fashionable people is standing around (and everyone with a drink, so I guess we’re still leaning into the British lunchtime-beverage stereotype). All the food appears to be cheese related, which I don’t even have a moment to wonder about before a server comes over with a tray.
“Would you like to try our infamous Westcombe curried cheese curds? Or these Stilton grilled cheeses? On the table over there is some fondue, and our delightful half kilo of baked Baron Bigod Brie.”
“Oh, when you guys say ‘cheese barge,’ you really take that literally,” I muse.
The server laughs, “Oh yes, it’s truly British cheese heaven over here.”
Since most of the options are paired with carbs, I’m not going to complain. I grab one of the little triangles of grilled cheese as I notice Celia making a beeline to me.
“Nora! I’m so, so glad you’re here. What a treat to have you!” She kisses both my cheeks and then holds me at length to look me up and down.
“You’re looking gorgeous as ever; love this dress,” she says, and I’m pleased she’s noticed my shirtdress, because it’s yellow and green and patterned with horses and riders and felt particularly apropos for a London jaunt.
“It’s really nice to see you, Celia,” I say, surprised at how true it is. As we catch up, I find myself enjoying the break from my everyday. Celia pulls in various members of the team to introduce me to and gushes over my column, gossips about people we used to know in college, and regales me with tales from the newspaper office. I meet the new boss, Donna, who immediately releases a barrage of compliments about my column in her thick Scottish brogue, and I blush with her enthusiasm.
“Your column, by the way, really does so well in digital,” she says, not letting me ever change the subject. “Not just because of the traffic—although we do see an uptick around it—but the engagement as well in the comments. Are you checking in with the comments from time to time?”
“I can’t say I do,” I admit. “I always thought the important rule of thumb was to not see what others say about your writing.”
Celia cackles and gives me a squeeze. But Donna continues. “Oh, well, you should, it’s just about the most amiable comments section I’ve ever seen. I think the earnest tone of the column attracts a certain level of civility and kindness. It’s really lovely.”
Celia beams, and I appreciate her enthusiasm. (It was her goal, after all, to make a friendlier advice column.) I can’t help but think about the safe space the column has given for Eli and me to discuss our lives, and it warms me to think about anyone else getting to share in secret when they need to.
But it’s as though Celia can sense that I’m thinking about him, because she says, “It’s really too bad your copyeditor, Eli, isn’t here. He’s such a fantastic editor, as I’m sure by now you well know. He’s actually the person who manages the entire copyediting and fact-checking team, but he personally does all the columns and op-eds and also all the headlines. He’s been working remotely for a few months, but I was actually hoping he’d make it to the party since he’s back in London for a bit. But he has family troubles at the moment, so he’s not here.”
“Oh, is that so?” Donna says, their conversation light and breezy, while I now stand with my inconvenient knowledge weighing me down. It’s amazing to think of all these versions of a single person—Eli, my cantankerous, surprisingly layered neighbor; my beloved secret pen pal; the defensive ex-boyfriend of a client; and now the dependable wordsmith for my friend and colleague Celia. All the shades in front of me and yet currently so, so far away. The discussion is like having a ghost standing in the middle of our conversation, and the mention of him makes me ache.
“I was hoping to meet him too,” Donna continues.
“I’m trying to convince him to pop by the office at least so he can say hello to you,” Celia says to Donna. “And he edits for other sections, too, obviously, so I think everyone is looking forward to a little catch-up.”
“Yes, everyone speaks so highly of him.” Donna turns to me. “I feel so lucky to have such a crackerjack team for your column—your writing combined with Eli’s precision and Celia’s encouragement and guidance. You make at least one part of my job incredibly easy.”
I smile, trying to ignore the lurch that’s settled in with the discussion of Eli. “I hope it’s been a good transition so far,” I say, trying to steer the conversation away.
“Oh, absolutely,” Donna says, and she enthusiastically recounts the trials and tribulations of starting over at a new paper.
I can see why Celia likes her. They’re two gears that rotate together, aligned and engaged, pushing each other and hyping each other up. It’s a dynamic I’ve never really had in my work, since therapy is so solitary. It’s understandable that Celia wanted me to meet her and get pulled into the team dynamic that I’ve apparently been a small piece of, but unknowingly, from across an ocean.
The day drifts into afternoon, and I’m stuffed with every possible British cheese imaginable. Our party overlooks the canal as the barge slowly churns even while we stay stationary, attached to the land next to us.
When it’s time to go, I wave goodbye to Donna and Celia, with a promise that I’ll come in for a tour of the office tomorrow, first thing in the morning.
I’ve started to make my way back to my hotel, ready for a low-key night of a pub dinner and a book, when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I pull it out and have to sit down to take in the messages coming through now.
J: I hope the event went well—I can’t believe I had to miss a party on a barge filled with cheese. That feels especially cruel.
J: Obviously my own doing, of course.
I see the dots pop up and go away as he stops and starts his texting. Clearly he’s not just sending me a message to say hello and ask how the party was. But I wait until finally another text comes through.
J: And I’ve kept wanting to text you to say sorry that we’re not able to meet up, but then that made me feel a bit guilty because there’s actually something I’ve been keeping from you.
J: Or ... that sounds a bit dramatic, since you don’t even know me.
J: Ugh, I’m really doing great with this—that also came out wrong. You do know me. Probably better than most people. But I meant you probably don’t care one way or the other about this since we’re not real-life friends.
There’s another slew of stopping and restarting, and my heart pounds, waiting for whatever is coming next.
J: Christ, I’m really putting my foot in it today. I think I’m not sleeping well lately.
J: Since I’ve bungled that completely and implied we’re not friends even though you’re probably my favorite person to talk to (“talk to”), I’ll just come out with it.
J: You see, I live in New York now, actually. Which I know is where you live, obviously.
J: I mean, I am in London right now. My mum really is ill. That’s not untrue.
J: But ever since we started texting about meeting up, I’ve been in New York. And I’ve felt strange about it, like I’m keeping something from you. But I didn’t know how to tell you.
J: And this week, while I’ve been here and wondering why I cancelled on you when I could pop out and say hello (and I’m going to have to make time for work things anyway otherwise).
J: I think it’s because ... I wonder if maybe meeting in real life will ruin whatever this is. There’s something safe in our conversations. And I worry that ... I’m a better version of myself in writing. What if we meet and you realise I’m sort of a mess? What if I lose the one person I don’t wreck things with?
J: I let my nan down. My ex-girlfriend tossed me to the side. And I suspect the woman I’m in love with thinks I’m ghosting her, when really I’m too scared to be honest.
J: So the thought of losing you too feels like too much.
J: Maybe I’m saying all of this and I’m already going to lose you because you’re going to think I’m completely daft and in desperate need of a good therapist (know anyone? Ha). But I hope you understand why the thought of meeting in person seems too daunting. I hope we know each other well enough at this point that you understand why I might not be able to be brave when it comes to you right now.
J: But I hope you won’t stop being my friend. Because you’re really my favorite friend.
I reach up to wipe away the tears that have started pouring out of my eyes.
I have no idea what to say. The words have always come so easily when I’m writing to him, but now, with this—with all that he just wrote—I’m left wordless.
Figure out how to not let him push you away, Ari said. But he’s pushing everyone away, even if I completely understand being scared to upset the precarious balances of your life. I’ve always been that way too—keeping people at arm’s length, letting my parents keep behaving the way they always have. It’s daunting to upset your status quo.
I know I have to find a way to get through to him. But it can’t be over text. I can’t just spring this entire scenario on him when he’s not ready for it.
I need to sleep on it.
I’m going to stick with my original plan for tonight: I’m going to find a pub where I can get good and drunk. And I’m going to read a book where I already know the ending so at least one thing can feel contained and simple.
But first, I’m going to text Eli something back. Because I know there’s one thing I can still say to reassure him, even if he has no idea it’s all about to get upended either way.
Nora: We’re still friends. I hope we’ll always be friends.