23 That Person Who Makes You Want to Do Everything Again
23
That Person Who Makes You Want to Do Everything Again
It was past 11:00 a.m. when I finally got back. I left my suitcase on the floor and looked at the walls with new eyes. This was my home now. I opened the windows to let in a little air and put a James Bay album on the old record player. The music filled the entire room.
As I threw my dirty clothes in the wash and put away my things, I realized none of Frances’s old belongings were there apart from her favorite cup, which was in the drying rack, and a shawl hanging on the coat-tree.
Time seemed to run backward, like a video on rewind or the sand in an hourglass rising miraculously upward, and I could briefly see Frances and my grandmother within those walls, happy, laughing, their arms around each other on the sofa while I colored with crayons, kneeling on the floor. All those memories, down to the last detail, came to life in my mind. My time there had been the happiest I’d ever known, and there was a bittersweet contentment in finally being back there.
Is it possible to miss yourself? Yes. I knew. I was doing it right then.
I took a deep breath and focused on the here and now. No more ruminating, no more thinking in circles, no more running away. I looked for a metal box my grandmother used to store her buttons in. I emptied it out and put inside the book my mother had given me when I was a girl. I needed to see it for what it really was: a keepsake, but also just a thing. I couldn’t use it as a sanctuary every time I felt alone. It wasn’t a refuge, it wasn’t therapy, and turning it into that had been harmful for me. It was time to give it up.
No more hiding it under the pillow.
Trey was right. I didn’t need to pretend I was someone else, especially not a character from a book. All I needed was to be myself.
I also put away my grandmother’s letter in the same box. When I closed it, I felt lighter.
Then I plugged in my computer and made a few calls while I waited for it to charge. I got hold of Hayley and managed to talk to her for a few seconds. She was somewhere in New Caledonia. Hoyt answered me on the first ring, “Little Pumpkin!”
“Hey, big brother.”
“Where the hell have you been?”
“I was trying to think through some things. Don’t worry, though. I’ll tell all.”
“I hope so. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yeah. That’s…that’s why I’m calling. I’ve decided I’m going to stay here in Montreal, for good.”
He waited a moment to respond, and I could hear murmurs in the background. “I’m glad to hear that, Harper. I like the idea of having you here close.”
I tried to remain calm. “Next week, I’ll go to Toronto, just to get my things and take back my apartment keys. I’ve got to talk to my department head at school and my boss at the publisher…”
“I can give you a hand if you need.”
“No, I can handle it on my own.”
“Okay.”
“Excuse me, sir. You’ll need to turn off your phone. We’re about to take off,” a woman said.
“Are you on a plane?” I asked.
“Yeah, Dad wants me to make a surprise visit to the New York office. I’ll be back in a few days. If you want, we can have dinner and you can tell me everything?”
“Yeah, call me, I have something I need to tell you in person.”
“What?” He sounded slightly alarmed.
“Nothing bad. Relax.”
“Sir, your phone.”
“You should listen to her or they’ll throw you off the plane.”
“Right. I’ll see you soon then, Pumpkin. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I hung up and looked at my phone, feeling nostalgic. It would be nice to live close to my brother and sister again. I dialed Frances, but it went straight to voicemail.
“Hey, Frances. I hope your sister’s better. Call me when you can. I need to tell you some things… I’ve decided to keep the house and the bookstore. I’m scared. I’m nervous, too, but something tells me this is what I need to do. Really, though, I wanted you to know I was back, and…I just want to talk to you. I love you, Frances. Take care, please.”
I smelled spices coming through the window. I looked at my watch: it was 1:30. There was nothing to eat in the house, so I threw my computer in my bag and headed out.
I’d put in my earbuds and was listening to music and making a list of things to do in my head. Correct my last few manuscripts, buy tickets for Toronto—the sooner, the better—deal with the inheritance papers…
I went into a takeout place and got a veggie sandwich with yogurt sauce before walking to the bookstore. The soft, late-summer breeze warmed my skin, and I smiled, feeling relieved—feeling like myself. “Someday” by We Are Harlot started playing. I loved that song, and I hummed it to myself along the way.
I stopped at the front door and just stood there for a long time, staring at my reflection in the glass before taking the key out of my purse and opening the door. My heart was pounding out of my chest.
I took one step, then another, gazing at nothing in particular, reabsorbing details I already knew from memory. The place seemed to be embracing me, welcoming me, and I touched the shelves, the antique cash register, the books piled on the tables, feeling the magic throbbing there. I could hear the rush of blood in my temples telling me what I already knew: this was my world.
There in my sanctuary, surrounded by calm and quiet, I cleared off a table and took out my laptop and food, and sat down, feeling bliss amid the scent of new books and lemon air freshener.
A knocking on the glass startled me. I looked up and saw Trey waving from outside. It was almost nighttime. I must have been sitting there for six hours, at least.
I opened the door and stepped aside to let him in. As soon as he’d crossed the threshold, he lifted me up and pressed his lips to mine. I was happy, but also nervous. Being there with him made our relationship so real that it almost scared me.
“Something wrong with your phone?” he asked.
“Were you calling me?”
“I’ve been calling you for hours. I wanted to take you to dinner.”
“Sorry. I usually keep it on silent when I’m working.”
He kissed me again and set me down, and I stumbled away, wondering if I would ever manage to keep ahold of myself with Trey around. He gave the shop a once-over.
“I like the place,” he said.
“I’ll need to make some changes and bring it up to date a bit. And I need to set up a little writing corner since I’ll be spending so much time here.”
“I could lend you a hand,” he said, then grabbed me, squeezing my buttocks. “Or two!”
“I love how romantic you are.”
His face changed to that of a little boy caught doing something wrong. I loved that, especially because I’d never seen him do it with anyone but me.
“I’ve never, uh… I’ve never had a serious relationship. Like with anyone. So I’m not sure if I know how to do it. How to, like, be romantic and say sweet nothings that sound like poetry. I can learn, though, I swear!”
Maybe he didn’t know, but he was a good guesser. I couldn’t imagine words that would have stirred me more.
“Being romantic is overrated. Someone slamming you against the wall and giving it to you has its charm.”
And in the blink of an eye, he had gotten to work. His body was tight against mine, holding me off the floor, his hips between my legs, his eyes looking sly but beautiful at the same time.
“That I can do,” he said.
I laughed—I couldn’t help it—and a warm feeling spread through my chest that was nothing like what I’d ever experienced before. I thought I had known what desire, pleasure, and love were… But I hadn’t, not until he showed me. You have to give everything, you have to feel that other person doing the same, striving to satisfy you even more than they want to satisfy themselves…
I knew then, as he kissed me, that I would spend my life with him. Doing everything. Talking, laughing, dreaming, traveling, sleeping, having sex…
I kept my arms wrapped around his neck as he stumbled over to the table with me and leaned me back on top of it, lost in our passion. Our bodies were inflamed, we couldn’t hold back, we were lost in each other, and then…
And then the bells rang, sounding sharper than I remembered them. I’d forgotten to lock the door. We sat up and tried to arrange ourselves as best we could.
“Excuse me, are you open?”
A woman was gawking at us, seeming to realize she hadn’t picked the ideal moment to come in. Trying not to crack up, embarrassed, I told her, “Sorry. We’re, uh…we’re doing some renovations. We’ll be open next week.”
“Thanks. I’ll come back then.” She turned around, but then paused, and added, “Sorry to interrupt you.”
Before I could answer, the bells rang again and we were alone. Trey broke into cackles, deep and forceful, that echoed through the bookstore.
“You think she’ll really be back?”
“I hope so,” I said.
“It’s dinnertime. You want to come over?”
“Sure,” I said. I wanted to know everything about him, wanted to use each moment with him to discover something, and what is more personal and intimate than someone’s home? It’s a reflection of who we are, and it shows our identity in a way few other things can.
On the way there, I recited briefly what all I’d done that day, mainly reading and correcting manuscripts. I told him the stories in all the books, the parts I’d liked, the parts I thought didn’t work. How bad I felt for marking mistakes or making suggestions, because I wasn’t sure that I knew enough or mattered enough to tell other writers how to do their jobs.
“I don’t know much, but it seems to me a degree in literature and creative writing plus two years working at a publisher—plus the fact that you’re a writer yourself—qualifies you to make those kinds of judgments.”
As we walked, I could feel him glancing over at me, and I did the same—trying not to catch his eye and failing. He reached out and grabbed my shoulder affectionately, pulled me toward him, squeezed me. “We’re here,” he said, pointing to a tall, narrow Victorian house with a stone exterior and a turret on the right corner that made it look like a castle.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“Architecturally speaking, it’s a masterpiece. It’s one of the oldest buildings in this neighborhood, but it’s very well preserved.” We walked up the stone steps to the door, which he opened for me. “Ladies first,” he said.
The interior was nothing like what I’d imagined. It was open, like a loft, and the decor was modern. There were no walls separating the dining room, living room, and kitchen, and the room felt gigantic and free. A wooden staircase climbed to the second floor.
“I can’t believe this place, Trey.”
“Thanks. Unfortunately, it’s not mine. It belongs to a friend who’s living in Europe. I take care of it and he rents it to me for next to nothing. I’m sorry to say the fridge isn’t well stocked, but I’m sure we can whip up something nice. Will you help me?”
I nodded, removing my purse and tossing it onto the sofa. Then I froze. A gigantic dog had appeared at the top of the stairs. It was gray with white spots, and its golden eyes were glaring at me. It must have been Sisuei. I gulped. He was much bigger than I’d imagined.
“Relax,” Trey said behind me. “He’s chill, he’s a regular gentleman. He won’t even come down till I tell him. You want to meet him?”
“I think so?”
“Sisuei, come.”
The dog trotted down and jumped up on his back legs, trying to lick Trey’s face. Then he turned to me. He sniffed me, walked in a circle, and sat down, staring at me with curiosity. Then he groaned and bumped my hand with his nose.
“He’s waiting for you to pet him.”
“For real?” I asked.
“Yeah. He loves to be scratched behind the ears. You’re lucky. He usually ignores everyone.”
“You probably tell all the girls that. Do you take him for walks in the park when you’re looking for a hookup?”
With a seductive look, he walked over, put his hands on my hips, and said, “First of all, you’re the only girl I’ve officially introduced him to. And second of all, Sisuei doesn’t know how to fake his feelings. He always shows his true colors.”
I crouched down, not quite trusting the dog, and stretched out my hand to pat his enormous head. His hair was a little stiff on the ends, but soft and woolly underneath if you sank your fingers into it.
“Hi, Sisuei. I’m Harper. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Trey told me about you. He said you’re a very good dog.”
Sisuei barked happily and tried to lick my face. It tickled.
“Come on, dude, leave her alone. You’re covering her in slobber,” Trey said.
Sisuei seemed to understand what he was saying and sat back. He was so pretty I could hardly stop looking at him.
I followed Trey into the kitchen. We washed our hands and he offered me an apron. While he cut vegetables and a chicken breast into strips to stuff the puff pastry, I got to work making the salad. I wasn’t much of a cook, but a simple vinaigrette I could handle, and I fancied it up with some honey and mustard. It was a variation on a French recipe my grandmother used to make.
Trey stuck a finger in the bowl, and I slapped him away, but before I could, he’d already lathered it in dressing. He then stuck it in his mouth and sucked it.
“Disgusting,” I said.
“It’s tasty,” he murmured, not ashamed in the least.
We had a glass of white wine while we waited for his tart to cook. Trey showed me the rest of the house. We lingered a while in the room that had become his studio. It was full of blueprints: hanging from the walls, in folders, in dozens of cardboard tubes, laid out on a draftsman’s table, on a desk next to his computer.
As he showed me his projects, he started to shine, and I felt I could understand his passion, which was similar to mine when I talked about writing. Being passionate about something—I think we can all understand that. It’s something we all want, and when you feel it, there’s no denying it. It keeps us alive and it brings us close to the people who are the same as us in a kind of perfect communion. Jack Kerouac said it best: “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved.” That’s what we were. Mad to be saved. Mad about each other.
We had a relaxed dinner at the island in the kitchen, and Trey spoke to me for the first time about his father. They barely talked anymore. Even though they lived in the same city, they’d only seen each other a few times that year, and the experience hadn’t been pleasant. He kept saying it didn’t matter, but the way he repeated it told me it did. So did his eyes, which revealed his pain, his need to run from something he hadn’t yet told me about.
And my heart, which I’d felt growing stronger those days, turned to an object made of glass that could fear, suffer, and break.
I talked to him about my father as well. I told him things I’d never told anyone, and he listened to me in silence. Before I knew it, I was revealing all the things I had hidden without realizing it: the tears spilled in hiding, the mornings when I hadn’t wanted to wake up, everything I’d been willing to do to get him to look at me the way he did at others. The things I would still do…
“Will you tell him?” he asked me.
“That I’m going to stay?” He nodded. “Why? He’ll find out either way, and if someone else tells him, I won’t have to deal with his reproaches.”
“Harper, you need to get past your fear of confronting him.”
I rubbed my cheeks, trying to distract myself. I knew it was ridiculous to keep being afraid of my father when I was twenty-two years old, but the feeling ran so deep that I didn’t even know how to face it. I only knew how to run away.
“I know, but…”
“But what?”
“Confronting him isn’t really what I’m scared of,” I confessed, at last starting to understand myself.
“What is it, then?”
“I’m afraid if I do it, I’ll find out why he doesn’t love me. And a truth like that can really hurt.”
“Trust me: lying hurts way worse, and silence can hurt even more than that.”
By now we were sitting on the couch. Trey brushed a strand of hair out of my face and tucked it behind my ear. He liked to do that, and I liked him doing it. It was a tender gesture. I leaned my head to the side and pressed his hand into it.
“Look at us,” he said.
Just then, Sisuei hopped up onto the couch and rested his head in my lap. I petted him. I was more comfortable with him there, and I closed my eyes, listening to his soft groans. When he nuzzled me closer, I bent over and buried my nose in his fur, hugging him, and feeling a little stupid. I looked at Trey out of the corner of my eye.
“What?” I said defensively.
“Nothing.”
“I know you’re thinking something. What is it?”
He took a deep breath. “I’ve always felt like something was missing in this house. And I never knew exactly what. Now I do. It’s you.”
That remark made me want to kiss him, drag him off to bed, tell him all the reasons I needed him, too. But instead I started laughing like an idiot. As though he understood, Sisuei’s ears began to move.
“Don’t laugh, dammit!” Trey said. “I’ve never even thought anything like that and you’re making me feel like an idiot!”
A romantic song started playing on the stereo, and I leaned in to him, not sure what I was doing, just wanting contact: eye to eye, mouth to mouth, skin to skin. My desires mingling with his. We were like two treasure hunters exploring each other’s bodies with no map or compass, just following our instincts.
We didn’t let each other go until the sun rose. Our fingers danced over each other’s nakedness while the music played. I heard “Love Somebody Like You” by Emma White, and the notes seemed to float around us.
“I got you something,” he said.
“A present?”
He nodded, slipped away from me softly, and stood. Walking to the closet, he pulled out a drawer, reached in, and grabbed a black paper bag. He sat down beside me and handed it to me.
Nervously, I glanced at him before peeling off the gold sticker holding it closed. My grin grew into a smile as I brought out a book, a novel, called The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend by Katarina Bivald.
“It’s about a young woman who starts up a bookstore in a small town and how reading changes her and her new neighbors’ lives,” he said.
I ran my fingers over the cover in gratitude. “Thanks, I didn’t expect this. I’m so excited!”
He kissed me on the forehead.
There was something else in the bag, so I reached back in, pulling out an assortment of different-sized notebooks tied together with a ribbon.
“Those are for you to write down all the ideas that occur to you.” Then he pulled out something else, a rectangular black box I hadn’t noticed. “And you can use this to write them with.”
My lips quivered and I had a knot in my throat, and when I opened the box, tears welled in my eyes. It was a Montblanc Le Petit Prince pen with my name engraved on it.
“Trey, this is too much.”
“I know it’s silly, but since it had the same name as…”
“The island,” I said.
“Yeah. I saw that and I just had to get it.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. These are just the kinds of things any writer deserving of the name should have.”
I wanted to tell him all I felt in that moment, all that those gifts meant to me. All that he meant to me. But words escaped me. There just weren’t any that said enough. What phrase could capture the feeling that without understanding why, you just wake up one morning and there’s someone next to you who makes you want to live? This is how the best things in life come to you, out of nowhere, without warning. And you realize that loneliness only exists because you’ve refused to open the door and let that person in. The person who’s always there, through rain, through shine.
There weren’t any words to tell him that I wished that every clock in the world would stop and make this moment eternal. That if I could choose, I would wish for us to be reborn as two cats so we could have nine more lives together. For everything to remain as it was. Our eyes met, and I touched his cheek and ran my fingers down his neck, then pulled him close and stopped a few millimeters from his mouth, inhaling his breath. I kissed him until my heart was pounding and my entire body was tense. And the smile he offered back to me was a promise of bright sunny days and long nights of conversation, laughter, and sex.