11. Eleven
Within an hour, I’m in my beach chair, letting the salty wind and the glittering ocean restore me.
Only it’s not working. Tossing out eight years of lesson plans and thousands of hours of hard work means sacrificing my identity as a teacher. I hate this plan. Worse, I don’t think I can pull it off. What have I done?
“A little harmless improvisation. That’s all,”Dean once said when the kids went off-script. I imagine that’s what he’d say now before reminding me what I’m known for, “Is there anything you can’t fix?”
I slump in my beach chair. I can’t fix us. I stare at my phone, willing Dean’s face to light up the screen. What goes through his head when he sees that I’ve called? Is he so busy that he doesn’t have the time or energy to respond, or does he not want to?
Pulling out Jack’s book, I stifle annoying tears. Crying never helps.
I open the cover and flip to the first page. The Other Us.
The first scene pulls me in immediately. A young couple sits nervously in a nondescript waiting room. It’s unclear what kind of waiting room it is or why they’re there, but there’s an alluring intensity to the way they are with each other, adoring and anxious. Sweet and tense. And peppered with little intimacies. It’s as if whatever awaits them determines their fate.
I reach into my bag for my pencil case, ready to mark the foreshadowing and highlight the engaging imagery. But then, I remember. I left that at home to force myself to try Jack’s way—to live in the story.
I groan. Jack. I don’t know what to think about him. Should I rely on my first impressions—that he’s a brooding Heathcliff, a partying playboy, and an obnoxious jerk? Or the brief moments that combat them—his apologies, sharing about his brother, his help getting furniture for Sara’s room (Rose has already sent a text alert), and his offer to toss out what he’s written? My feelings mix like spilled paint, swirling into icky shades of gray.
I need this beach day. I push thoughts of my enigmatic next-door neighbor out of my head.
But page to page, I trace him through the story like a faint backroad on a crowded map. I see shadows of Jack in his main character—his antsy writing energy, his moodiness, his dark eyes—but they aren’t the same people. Like a literary Where’s Waldo game, I find other familiar caricatures. Tom is a calm, well-spoken therapist. Marcy shows up as the main character’s sister. Rose is a nurse, while Vernon is a neighbor obsessed with model trains. Small clues reveal their identities—Tom’s voice, Rose’s red hair, Vernon’s rambling, and Marcy’s matter-of-fact way of putting things. But anyone outside the neighborhood wouldn’t make the connections. They are pale versions of the originals disguised in Jack’s fictional world.
The story revolves around Caulder and Jasmine, a seemingly perfect, passionate couple, magical in the way some couples just are. But they have secrets—Jasmine is bipolar, while Caulder battles depression, insomnia, and alcoholism. So, when they’re good, they’re really good. But when one or both aren’t, they’re the absolute worst people for each other. And they’re rarely “right” at the same time.
It’s tragic, sad, and dark but beautiful in how they stay together, regardless of how hard it is. The Other Us is the side of them they don’t let others see, the side they fight against to return to that sweet spot of mutual “normalcy.” And there’s hope, always hope like this impenetrable chain locked between them.
In a heart-wrenching scene near the end, they push each other away, sacrificing their happiness to help the one they love. They put on brave faces and say things they don’t mean, all while screaming on the inside like they’re being ripped in half.
I fold the book against my chest—I have to stop reading. I’ve never known love like that, but the scene hurts in strange ways. The pain I keep locked away rattles my inner cages. That’s what I do—put on a brave face when I’m screaming inside.
The sun and breezes bathe my bad feelings, and though fearing an unhappy end to his “not a wine and roses story,” I pick it back up.
When I finish, I’m crying. The sun’s setting. Nearby sunbathers stare with concern.
“It’s a good book,” I defend tearfully. “A really good book.”
Watching the surf, I let the tears come—it feels good to let them out, especially in the mental safety of a fictional world and surrounded by strangers. I’m devastated, but in the best way. Crying helps, after all, I decide as my tension releases in the purge. My personal sadness slips out, camouflaged with the emotions I feel for Jasmine and Caulder’s story.
The Other Ushas a happily-ever-after but not really—the couple tries living apart to better their conditions only to discover they can’t and decide that five minutes of happiness together is worth whatever time it takes to get there. So, the ending is sad because things will never be easy for them.
Even so, part of me wishes for a love like that, one worth any struggle. This is what Mira meant about two people being desperate for each other. I’ve never felt that before. But once, when someone felt something like that for me, it felt wrong and became my nightmare.
So, my other half understands—that’s why I love Dean. Safety and comfort are more important than desperation. I can’t imagine feeling that, anyway, let alone finding someone who is decent and kind, doesn’t mind my scars, and wants me desperately. That’s a fantasy reserved for romance novels and one-in-a-million couples.
During the quiet and thoughtful drive home, I’m still reeling from Jack’s beautiful story. I plan to reread it tonight in bed with a glass of wine—I’m shocked at how much I loved it.
More surprisingly, this is a book I can teach. His expert use of literary devices feeds my teacher’s imagination—not only can I teach the same concepts that I do with Shakespeare or Hemingway, but with The Other Us, it’ll actually be… fun.
What if I turned my classroom into an everyday book club? With ideas spinning up like a tornado, my wine-in-bed plans will have to wait until after a brainstorming session.
Rose and Vernon rush from their house when I pull into the driveway.
“Oh, Rowan, you’re finally home.” She claps. “We must discuss Operation Foster Furniture.”
“It’s an honorable thing,” Vernon says, “offering your home. My Uncle James and Aunt Loraine hosted foster children and foreign exchange students for some thirty-odd years. Of course, that was when—”
“Vernon, no. Rowan, we’re headed to Jack’s for dinner. Join us.”
“Um, I need a shower… and to take care of Edgar… and do some things.” The more I speak, the worse my excuses sound.
“Come after all that, love,” Rose says, unfazed. “We’re making BBQ pizzas. Yummy for the tummy. I’ve been sent loads of furniture pictures. It’d be nice if you could sort what you want.”
“Our street is a generous one,” Vernon says, “and there’s no time like the present to do a good deed. I want to work out the pick-up and delivery with Tom and Jack. But we can’t make plans without you. You like pizza, don’t you?”
“Of course. But is the entire neighborhood invited?”
“Just our little corner. Do say you’ll be over.”
“Yes, in a little while.”
Rose claps giddily again before they take the path between our houses to his backyard.
Almost an hour later, I follow the same path. Twinkle lights and Edison bulbs brighten a surprisingly peaceful setting—this isn’t his typical party. My neighbors sit beside the outdoor kitchen at a large round table, laughing, drinking, and nibbling from a charcuterie board and slightly charred pizza from the oven.
Vernon and Tom stand in old-school formality as I join the table. When the typical greetings are out of the way, I say, “Where’s Jack?”
“Writing.” Rose motions to the lighted, open windows of his office. “Having people around sometimes helps, like background noise at a coffee shop.”
Marcy loads a plate for me while Tom pours me an expensive Merlot. I’m about to question these ever-evolving rules concerning Jack—not to disturb him while he’s writing and yet come over and enjoy a meal in his backyard while he’s writing—but my phone chimes.
I hold it up. “It’s Mom from India. Is it okay for me to take this?”
“Oh, yes! We’d love to meet her.” Rose lights up, bouncing in her seat.
I accept the FaceTime call and find Mom where I usually do—sipping tea in the small courtyard of her rental. It’s morning there, and she’s dressed in a silky blouse, sleeveless to highlight her toned arms, and probably black pants, though I can’t see them. She’s one of few women in the world who can pull off a pixie haircut—it makes her seem taller and goes with her professional vibe. Her signature gold hoops dangle from her ears, and she twiddles with the single pearl necklace around her neck.
Until lately, Mom and I have always been extremely close. Now a consultant for the military and overseas companies, she’s busy. Sometimes distracted. But our communication has suffered since Dean came into my life. She doesn’t think he’s right for me and, like Mira, doesn’t refrain from telling me so. Still, given her difficult history with men, I doubt she’ll ever approve of anyone.
Circling the table with my phone, I introduce my neighbors. “This is my mom, Christine Mackey.”
Vernon stands up, saluting her. “Thank you for your service. My father, God rest his soul, worked a submarine mess hall for fifteen-odd—”
“Vernon, no.” Rose pulls him to his seat.
The group chitchats about India, military service, and the weather before I give up holding my phone and perch it against a pepper grinder to put the entire table on-screen.
When Mom asks about the oyster roast, the table goes silent, everyone glancing around to see who might answer first.
“It was fine. Let’s not talk about it. Or Jack.” My abrupt tone sounds rude, though I whisper the last part.
Rose flashes her most sympathetic look. “Did something happen with Jack?”
“He behaved so admirably last night.” Vernon folds his arms.
“Wait. Who’s Jack?” Mom leans toward her computer screen.
“Rowan’s next-door neighbor.” Tom motions at our surroundings. “This is Jack’s place.”
Marcy leans in. “Jack Graham. The writer.”
My mother squeals—a sound I’ve never heard her make. Mom doesn’t even read romance.
So, my mouth drops when she says, “The Jack Graham? Author of Cape Moon and Edge to Nowhere and, oh my gosh, Love and Other Miseries?”
Okay, I guess she does read romance.
“The one and only,” Rose says. “Jack grew up here. He’s our resident celebrity.”
“A good boy, too,” Vernon adds. “He handled the oyster roast situation with care.”
“What situation, Vernon?” Mom prompts despite my chiding look.
“Well, our neighbor Renita made some unfortunate remarks about the need to cover up Rowan’s, um, well, you know, pressuring Rowan to try her Mary Kay products as a means to...”
“Hide her scars,” Rose says plainly.
“Thank you, dear. Jack got angry—”
“I’ve never seen him so upset,” Rose gawks.
“He tried to deal with it quietly. Told Ed that Renita needed to go home. Then, Renita, well—”
“She had a right conniption.” Rose’s blue-gray eyes double in size. “Ed didn’t know what to do with her.”
“He attempted to coax her into his golf cart, but she said she was a caged bird finally let free and bringing beauty to the world—”
“She was off her rocker,” Rose says. “She gets this way, you see.”
“The party was crashing, and we hadn’t even reached the second batch of oysters yet. Poor Ed, full of apologies.” Vernon shakes his head like these are the larger travesties—uneaten oysters and a man apologizing. “Finally, Jack cornered her. He gently explained that everything was a-okay. You just need a rest, Renita. Nothing’s broken that can’t be fixed—”
“Oh, and that she does make the world beautiful in her way,” Rose chimes in.
“Renita broke into tears. Then, Jack put his arm around her, and she hugged him, saying how sorry she was, and he said… oh, what’d he say?”
Rose perks up. “Oh, yes. That it’s not a party until someone gets drunk off their ass and acts a fool. The crowd cheered.”
A snicker bumbles from me, hearing Jack’s words in Rose’s prim British accent.
“The party went on like nothing happened, and all the oysters were eaten,” Vernon concludes, “and that’s that.”
“No, that wasn’t just that.” Rose turns to Mom and me. “Jack walked Renita home himself. I thought that was sweet, considering how upset she made him.”
“Did everyone know why he was upset? You know, what Renita said?” I ask, though I still don’t want to talk about it.
“Oh, no, dear.” Rose shakes her head.
“We had no idea,” Marcy says, motioning to Tom. “We just thought Renita was being Renita.”
“Vernon and I overheard it, you see. But Jack kept it under wraps.” Then, she locks her lips with her fingers and tosses the imaginary key over her shoulder. “No one knows she offended you, love.”
“I wasn’t… that offended. Jack was.”
“Rowan, why not?” Mom cuts in, looking bothered. “You are a beautiful woman. You should object to anyone telling you to hide your face.”
Rose turns to Mom. “Christine, to be fair, Jack didn’t give her much chance. He’s very full-steam ahead when doing or saying what he wants. He strikes people as a cocky grump. That’s why he and Rowan aren’t besties… yet.” She holds up her crossed fingers.
“But facts are facts,” Tom begins with authority, “Jack’s writing block is over… and it’s because of Rowan.”
The table falls silent, staring at me while I groan.
“I don’t understand,” Mom says. “What does Rowan have to do with Jack’s writing?”
“Jack hasn’t written a word in over a year,” Vernon says.
Mom gasps, hand to heart. “Why not?”
“Let me explain,” Vernon says with authority. “Jack had an older brother, Devin. They were more like twins, less than a year apart and inseparable. Best friends with Ben and Margot’s son, Corey, next door. The three amigos. But in their teens, Devin was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia.” He shakes his head. “He fought like hell.”
“They all did,” Rose continues. “But the treatments were a vicious cycle. Jack lived on high alert, waiting for positive change that never came, watching his brother get sicker and sicker, and helpless to stop it.”
“Devin died on a rainy Wednesday in spring,” Vernon says. “It would’ve been the boys’ last baseball season together.”
“That’s when he met Evie,” Rose groans. “It was the perfect storm—a grieving boy getting a lot of attention for his dead brother meets an attention-seeking girl who suddenly wants to help him through it. Evie became a fixture in Jack’s life. Quite a pretty girl.”
Vernon’s eyes widen. “A stunner. Still is.”
“She dumped him when they were in college,” Rose says before adding in air quotes, “so she could focus on her studies.”
I shrug lightly. “Everyone has tough breakups.”
“True, dear. I’m sure you have a few stories to tell… we’ll get them out of you eventually.” Rose giggles like it’s a game.
“But it didn’t end there,” Vernon says.
“They still hook up,” Rose explains. “Friends with benefits, I suppose, but there’s a downside. Evie may have inspired his stories, but she’s not good for him. Being with her reminds him of what he’s lost. Jack’s always in a right state afterward.”
“Another vicious cycle,” I breathe out, “like with his brother.”
“Precisely,” Vernon says.
“Jack finished The Other Us over a year ago,” Rose continues. “Then, Corey’s dad, Ben, died in Jack’s arms—heart attack in the driveway—and when he reached out to Evie for comfort, she refused like he was asking too much.”
“And she told him she’d found someone else, someone serious,” Vernon adds.
Rose nods, pursing her lips. “He’s had writer’s block ever since. I think—”
“We. We think,” Vernon clarifies.
“Yes, we think. Sorry, love. We think his sadness has caught up with him.”
“It’s like his cancer!” Vernon decides vehemently.
“Right, dear. All his partying, grumpiness, and empty relationships—it’s just sadness disguised. He needs someone who makes him feel hopeful again. He must purge his old muse and find a new one.”
Vernon leans up in his seat, squaring his shoulders. “That’s you, Rowan.”
“Nope! Not it! Jack doesn’t need a muse. It’s a sexist and demeaning concept—that women are meant to be mystical beings, puppeteering a man’s creativity… and that a man’s incapable of creating without one. Jack Graham is a successful, well-loved writer. An amazing writer. Evie didn’t do that for him; he did. He doesn’t need a mystical force guiding his hand. He needs a better mindset and understanding of his abilities. A good therapist will help him better than I ever could. And speaking mythologically, Evie’s not a muse, more like a siren toying with him. A good therapist will help him through that, too.”
Their dumbfounded, wide-eyed expressions—not at me but at the air around me—make me slump. “He’s right behind me, isn’t he?”
Rose giggles.