A Storybook Wedding

Chapter 8 Nate

Between our wedding day and the residency, things mostly go back to normal. All around me, it’s the busy holiday season. I continue drafting my new book. I had started writing a sequel to Work, discussing how the nature of work has evolved since the pandemic ended, but I found that—other than finally being able to find my voice—it wasn’t really going anywhere. But something happens at the end of November that gets me all stirred up, and the words can’t fly out of my fingers and onto my screen fast enough. It’s the story of a man who lets his professional success mute his ability to create success within his personal life until he meets a woman who he sees very much going down the same path. He can only recognize his own mistakes by watching her make them too. Essentially, it’s a story about the other struggles that have been magnified by the pandemic, mostly shining a light on our society’s inability to form meaningful connections with one another due to the way we view achievement and the rise in technology replacing physical interactions. The working title is Success. I don’t know for sure, but I feel a fire in the writing and an urgency in the words in a way that I haven’t felt since composing the early drafts of my debut.

I don’t see CJ again until the winter residency begins on December 27. We speak a lot over the course of the month, mostly via email and sometimes on the phone. Part of me wants to see her, but I don’t want to confuse or complicate things any more than they already are. I really enjoy her company, but I’m so excited about the fact that I’m writing again and that this new manuscript finally seems to have some direction, I’m a little afraid that if I pull away from my writing practice (which has become a seven-day-a-week scenario, at least for now), I will somehow jinx myself.

Anyway, she’s busy too. CJ works at the Forest Hills branch of the Queens Public Library, and this time of year evidently manifests itself in a variety of craft classes that she puts on for the children called “Snowflake Workshops.” Apparently, they used to be called “Santa’s Workshops,” but she changed it when she stepped into her current role because she wanted it to be more inclusive for the patrons and their children. They paint wooden dreidels while she reads a Hanukkah story. They make patchwork stockings out of old socks while she reads a Christmas story. They dip their own candles for the kinara while she reads a Kwanzaa story. The series keeps her busier than usual, and coupled with holiday shopping and preparing for her first winter residency, she explains that she doesn’t have time for much else.

She’s also been spending a lot of time researching literary agents and drafting query letters. She sent me her first one—it was all about New Year’s resolutions and was quite honestly one of the worst things I’ve ever read, so I’m trying to coach her away from making the mistake of putting too much of her personal self into the letters. I’ve been careful not to use words like desperate or pathetic in her critique, because hurting her feelings is not on my to-do list. But I would love to see her get an agent, which is why I don’t think this is the opening she should go with:

Dear Fill-in-the-blank Agent>,

Some people think New Year’s resolutions are stupid. I don’t. In fact, every year, I try to make and keep reasonable, attainable resolutions. Unfortunately, like most of the world, life gets in the way, and by February, they are usually a thing of the past.

Not this year.

This year’s resolution is the culmination of a dream I have had since I was a child: to become a published author. There’s no guarantee that sending you this letter will get me there, but it’s a big step in that direction.

Wow…no. Just no. I gently explain that truly nobody gives a shit about her ability to make or keep resolutions and that she should really read several articles written in industry books that reference the idea of “the hook, the book, and the cook.” The hook is your pitch—your quick line or two that gets someone interested in learning more. The book is obviously where you roll out what could eventually become draft jacket copy, and the cook is a short bio.

Nowhere in that recipe does it call for one’s sad musings on New Year’s resolutions.

I also happen to know—since CJ is my wife and we have filled out forms to prove it—that her birthday is January 1. And not just any birthday either—her thirtieth. The last thing she needs is an inbox full of rejection as a birthday gift. I’ve seen her cry twice, and I swear, both times I felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest by a twisted, violent serial killer. I can’t stand by knowing she’s about to destroy all hope of literary representation with that sorry attempt at a query opening and not do something to prevent it.

Instead, I guide her through a variety of drafts. By Christmas Eve, we’ve gone through six different iterations. I almost suggest we get together so we can just bang it out (the letter—get your mind out of the gutter, please), but I know her family keeps her busy on holidays, and I don’t want to launch an inquisition among her parents and sisters. I mean, sure, we’re technically married, but not by the standards they’d want, and I figure we’ll see each other in a few days anyway on the island.

By the time we end up with something much more respectable and professional, it’s December 26. In the wee hours of the morning that follow, I’m not surprised that when I knock on the door to CJ’s apartment, she’s clutching Jeff Herman’s Guide to Book Publishers, Editors, and Literary Agents with Post-it notes sticking out of it in four thousand different directions with a determined look on her face.

I’m not sure why, but my throat gets tight when I see her standing there. She’s wearing black leggings, UGG boots, and a cable-knit gray sweater. She looks like a snuggly bubble of hope dressed up as a fuzzy winter owl—because always, the glasses.

“Hey,” I say. “It’s five a.m. You’re reading?”

“No, silly. I’m packing it. And hi! It’s so good to see you!” she exclaims. She throws her arms around my neck and hugs me.

I’d like to reciprocate—her hair smells like coconut and sunshine—but my hands are full. When she releases me, we stand there awkwardly, me holding several bags and her with that book.

“Come in! Come in,” she says and ushers me inside. “I feel bad I didn’t just pick you up at the train. I didn’t expect you to be carrying so much stuff.”

“Well, this is actually for you,” I say, handing her a shiny red shopping bag. I drop the rest of my stuff on the ground by the front door and swing it shut.

“You got me a gift?”

“Yeah. For Christmas.”

“Really?” CJ’s eyes get wide. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

She grins, and it illuminates her whole face. She holds up a single hand. “Wait here,” she says and walks into the bedroom. She emerges with a small rectangular box wrapped in silver paper with green ribbon. She extends her hand to me. “For you.”

I take the box reflexively, trying not to notice the fact that I still feel like I can’t swallow. On the box, there’s a gift tag that reads For my husband in neat cursive scrawl with a smiley face beneath it.

I try to clear my throat. “Thanks. Go ahead. Open yours.” I’m smiling, and I feel like I wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face even if I tried.

“Well, wait. Come sit on the couch at least. We can be by the tree,” she laughs as she points at the diminutive pre-lit Christmas tree in the corner that stands all of three feet high, tops.

“That’s cute. Props to you for even decorating.” From my spot on her couch, I look out the sliding glass door into the darkness. All I can see is the reflection of the two of us, sitting on the couch, knees facing each other.

“You don’t decorate?”

“Nah. You should see my place. It’s very…I don’t know. Plain. I haven’t done much with it. Furniture’s comfy though. It’s much warmer here.” And it is—not temperature-wise specifically, but from an emotional standpoint. Not that I’m an emotional type of guy, mind you. Her apartment just reminds me a little of warm apple cider. Don’t read into it or anything. It’s just a metaphor.

“In this basement?” she asks.

“It feels homey. My place might be a lot of things, but homey’s not one of them. Anyway,” I say, gesturing at the gift. “Open.”

She gingerly takes the tissue paper out of the bag and peers inside. Then she pulls out the two things I bought her: a book light with a little owl on it and a pair of earplugs. “Aw,” she says, holding the book light. “This guy’s cute. And what’s this all about?” she asks, palming the earplugs.

“It’s really partly an apology gift,” I joke. “I’ve been told that I grind my teeth in my sleep.”

“Ex-girlfriend mention that?”

“Dentist,” I correct her. “I didn’t want to subject you to that for the next eight days. And the book light reminded me of you because of the owl.”

“You think I look like an owl?” she asks.

“Not in a bad way. I would say that an owl is probably your spirit animal though.”

“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment because it means you think I’m wise. Anyway, thank you. It’s a great gift. Very sweet,” she says. “Now you. Open yours.”

I peel back the paper carefully, like I don’t want to rip it. The box is smallish and flat, as if it would fit a bracelet or some other kind of jewelry. There’s no way she got me jewelry though. That would be too weird.

I pop the top of the box open.

It’s a pen.

“I had it engraved,” CJ says. “Look.” She points at the side of it.

TO PEN, WRITE brILLIANT STUFF. LOVE, CJ.

“I hope you like it.”

I do. I love it. It’s sweet and simple and useful.

It’s perfect.

Words don’t come right away, so I just nod. My palms feel sweaty. Then I cough, clearing a pathway in my throat for a response. “It’s great. Thank you.”

She claps her hands like a giddy child. “Cool! I’m so glad. I even used that wretched nickname you like.”

“It’s a good nickname.”

“If you say so,” she smirks. “Anyway, come on. We better get going. Don’t want to miss our boat.”

I carefully fold the wrapping paper and put it in the box with my new pen. I pack the box in my laptop bag to keep it from getting tossed around in my luggage.

We carry our stuff to CJ’s car out front, and between her bags and mine, it’s like playing a game of Tetris to get it all to fit in her trunk. But we manage. We grab Dunkin’ at the twenty-four-hour drive-through and then head up to Point Judith, Rhode Island, because the Montauk ferry only runs in the summer. Along the way, we fill each other in about our holidays and family drama. I ask about Bryce, Jamie, and the triplets, and she tells me that Jamie’s already showing quite a bit. Her other sister, Melanie, is due a month before her, and Jamie’s already bigger than her. I want to ask more, but I decide not to.

The boat ride is rockier than we expect it to be, but we both hold it together—no vomiting today, thank you very much—and when we get to the terminal on Block Island, there’s a van there to meet us.

We’re early; faculty members are expected to be on the island in the morning so that when the students arrive in the later afternoon, they feel like the professors are already situated. CJ and I are showing up together because, as a married couple, that makes a whole lot more sense than if we were to come separately.

Maggie picks us up at the ferry, wearing a shirt that has a graphic of an open book on it. My eyes are accosted by the text running across her abundant chest—not that I am noticing; it’s just impossible not to notice. I like my action between the covers, it reads.

“That’s a cute shirt,” CJ says.

“Thank you,” Maggie replies, needlessly smoothing her hands over her northern lady parts. She appears amused—or possibly annoyed—that we’re obviously traveling together, and as a result, she drives the van as if she’s trying out for NASCAR. The roads aren’t icy, but it’s definitely freezing out, and there’s a good chance that patches of black ice could be lurking in the shadows. Maggie evidently does not give a fuck about our safety or her own. She puts her music up loud (today, we’re listening to Sisqó’s “Thong Song”) and ignores us the whole way there.

It’s about 10:30 a.m. by the time we arrive at the retreat center. Our van is greeted by Lucy. She barely even looks at me as she hands me my welcome packet and room key. “I heard about your new development,” she says to both of us. “But I’m not handing out student packets until after lunch. Also, we only have one copy of the room key. Since all the rooms in the main house are supposed to be singles, the retreat center only gives us one copy of each key.”

“You can’t make a copy?” Nate asks.

“If you’d like to travel back to the center of town and locate a hardware store, please, be my guest. But I just got here a little while ago and have another seventy-five people to register, so no, I can’t do that.”

I glance at CJ. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I wasn’t trying to imply that you’re not busy.”

“Not a problem,” Lucy says matter-of-factly. “Cecily, your packet will be here after the faculty lunch is served.”

“Thanks,” CJ replies. “And it’s fine. We can just share the key.”

“Terrific,” Lucy says, although it’s clear that nothing in her life has ever matched that description. She walks off, and I’m glad.

“Come on,” I say to CJ. “I’ll show you where the rooms are.”

She follows me up the staircase. Each room is labeled with an index card with a name scrawled across it.

“Here we are,” I announce when I see the words Mr. and Mrs. Nate Ellis posted on a door. It’s just past Alice Devereaux’s room, same as last time. (Alphabetical order’s a real bitch sometimes.) The single key we have fits the lock, and I open the old oak door.

“Wow,” CJ mumbles.

“Is it okay?” I ask, giving the room the once-over. It’s the same room I stayed in during the summer residency. There’s a queen-size four-poster bed, a small desk, a tall chest of drawers, and an en suite bath. The walls are covered in faded dark-green wallpaper, giving the room a very old-school-bed-and-breakfast vibe. In the corner, there’s a small cast-iron gas fireplace perched on a brick slab, opposite a green velvet wingback chair.

“Wow. They treat you guys like royalty here compared to the student quarters. Have you seen those rooms?”

I shake my head.

“It’s just bad. I can’t describe it. Very prisonlike.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, welcome to your upgrade, I guess.”

She takes it in, nodding appreciatively. “What do you want to do about…?”

“What?”

“Sleeping?”

“What do you mean?”

“Pen, wake up. One bed. Two people. Living a sham life in a marriage of convenience.”

“Jeez, CJ. Lower your voice.”

“Sorry. But still. I mean, this channels the vibes of, like, every romance novel written in the past ten years.”

“You read romance novels? Really?”

“Not anymore. I used to though. Back when I still believed in happy endings.”

“Okay. Well, I just assumed we would share the bed. I’m surprised this didn’t dawn on you earlier, CJ. You’re a smart cookie. Did you think they had the faculty sleeping in bunk beds up here?”

“No, but I sort of thought your accommodations would look a lot more like mine did. How was I supposed to know the room would look all romantic like this?”

Romantic? Really?“You think this is romantic?”

“There’s a fireplace.”

“It’s for warmth. I’m told the heat in this old-ass house sucks.”

“Still.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. It looks nice. It’s antique and ornate,” she says, tracing her finger along the curvature of the carved bedpost. “It reminds me of something out of Little Women.”

“I guess we should have talked about this sooner. My bad; that’s on me. If you don’t feel comfortable sleeping in the same bed, I guess I could sleep on the floor. Or in that chair,” I say, pointing at the wingback, imagining the excruciating aches in my lower back that would result from an endeavor like that.

“No, it’s fine,” she says. “I’m a grown-up. I can handle us being in the same bed. I mean, as long as you can handle it.”

“I’m fine. I was expecting it.”

“I can be a covers hog.”

“Excuse me?”

“I get cold. I like lots of blankets on me.”

Through the wall, I hear someone sneeze. “See? I told you,” I whisper. “Thin walls in this place. Make sure you don’t say anything incriminating. And yes, I’m sure it will get cold what with the wind here. But they had an extra blanket in the closet last time. Let’s see.” I walk over to the linen closet outside the bathroom door. Sure enough, there’s a quilt folded neatly inside. I hold it up to show her.

“They even give you extra linens? I’m telling you, it was just bare bones in the North Wind. I even packed my own towel because the one last time was so small, it hardly covered anything.”

I laugh. “I’m pretty sure I was given a stack of towels last time.” I pop my head in the bathroom. “Yup. We’ve got three.”

“Unreal,” she says, shaking her head. “So what are we supposed to do for the rest of the morning?”

“Nothing really. Unpack. Settle in. There’s a faculty meeting over lunch.”

“You think they’ll let me stay?”

“For lunch?”

“Yeah. I mean, if lunch is during a meeting, I hope they let me eat.”

“That’s crazy. Of course they’ll let you eat.”

“I’m not so sure. You didn’t get a bitchy vibe from Lucy?” she asks.

“Look who we’re talking about, CJ. It’s Lucy. She’s the poster child for resting bitch face.”

“You don’t think she knows that I was the one behind the whiteboard incident last summer, do you?”

I grin. “Doubtful.” I begin to unpack my things into the bottom three drawers of our dresser, leaving the top three available for her to use.

CJ sits down on the bed on the side closest to the door. She reclines her body back, and when her head reaches the pillow, she closes her eyes. “Mm,” she says. “Everything is so much nicer up here.”

I steal the moment to take in the sight of her. Her brown hair is spilled out all over the white pillowcase, and with her arms up over her head, the tiniest sliver of her belly is on display. The black leggings show off her shapely hips and legs, which are crossed at the knee, boots hanging over the side of the bed. Her lips are deep pink, two plump raspberries shiny with morning dew.

I look away and pretend not to feel what the sight of her is doing to me.

Instead, I talk, willing my chatter to fill the empty space. “I will say, it’s been awhile since I’ve shared a bed with someone. Hopefully it won’t be too awful for you.”

“You don’t starfish, do you?”

I smile. “No. I don’t think so.”

“So who was she?”

“Who?”

“The last sleepover you had.” She rolls over onto her stomach, her legs bent at the knee to keep the boots off the bed, and she shimmies to face me. Now all I can see is the shapeliness of the back side of her…which is not making things any better.

“Last sleepover? Or last girlfriend?”

“Ooh, this just got interesting,” she says, her eyebrows going up and down. “Both.”

“Well, the last sleepover I had was with my parents, actually. My mom had a colonoscopy scheduled for eight a.m., and the traffic from Jersey is a mess at that time, so my parents slept in my guest room the night before.”

“Nate.”

“Yeah?”

“That. Is. Not. Hot.”

Her disappointment makes me laugh. “I know. I’m messing with you. To be honest with you, I sleep around constantly. I had four ladies over just this past week,” I deadpan.

“Well, then we can’t sleep in the same bed because I don’t want to catch anything from you.”

I grin. “I’m kidding, obviously. My last girlfriend was a long time ago. We split up before the pandemic. Her name was Avery. We dated for a couple of years, and she really wanted me to propose to her. You know those women who are just not subtle about it?” She nods. “She was like that. I think she just wanted to be married to someone. It didn’t even have to be me.”

“So what happened to her?”

“I got a literary agent. I was so excited, and I took her out to dinner at Mohegan Sun. Told her I had big news. She thought she was getting a ring and was sorely disappointed. We broke up on the ferry ride home.”

“Oof. I’m sorry, Pen.”

“No, I’m good. I wouldn’t want to be with someone like that anyway. The kicker was she got in touch with me once the book got big and was all congratulatory and flirty.”

“Ew.”

“Exactly.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Few years.”

“And there’s been nobody since then?”

The question makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want the truth to be the wrong answer. “There was one girl. She just lasted a few dates. But nobody since before COVID.”

“Really? That’s a long time to go without…you know.”

“Yes, CJ. I know. But it’s fine.” This is a lie. It hasn’t even been in the ballpark of fine for a while.

“Do you miss Avery?”

“Never.”

“Do you miss the idea of her?”

“Not of her, no. But the idea of someone? Sometimes. It can get lonely,” I admit. “Do you miss Bryce? Was there anyone important after him?”

She shakes her head.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true,” she shrugs. “Me and online dating don’t mesh well.”

“I hear you on that.”

“Anyway, then I got married to a super famous novelist, and now I can’t date anymore.”

“Unless he takes you out.”

“I suppose that’s true.” She smiles. “Where do you think he would take me?”

I don’t know what comes over me. It could be her angle, how she’s sprawled across our bed, or the look on her face of teasing innocence. She’s so beautiful, I can’t look away. But I’m fixated on her face. So I just stare.

And she stares right back at me.

Her throat bobs up and down as she swallows.

My groin stirs, as if it’s waking up from a long, wintry hibernation.

“I think,” I say, pausing, “that he would take you anywhere your heart desired.”

“Huh,” she mumbles, blinking those brown eyes behind her blue glasses.

The silence between us falls heavy and hard, and I begin to understand that maybe the real reason I didn’t see CJ over the past month was because I was afraid of what I would want to do to her if I saw her. Realizations crash down around me, but neither she nor I move a muscle.

I want this girl.

I want to do unfathomable things to her.

I think, based on the way she’s staring back at me, that she mightwant me to do unfathomable things to her.

I don’t know what to do with this revelation, so I excuse myself to use the bathroom. I close the door behind me and go to use the toilet, taking a few deep breaths to encourage my sudden erection to calm the fuck down. I flush, wash my hands, splash some cold water on my face, and when I emerge from the bathroom, CJ’s over by her backpack, extracting her laptop from it and plugging it into the socket near the desk.

“I’m going to work on my query letters,” she says. “Since we still have about an hour until lunch.”

“Okay,” I say. “I guess I’ll write.”

“You want the desk?”

“No, it’s fine. You can take it.”

“Thanks,” she says.

When she sits down, she’s facing away from me. I take out my laptop and set it on my lap in the bed, but looking at her sitting there, I am able to write exactly zero words. Instead, I watch her tap the back of her pen against her lips while she’s thinking, crack her knuckles before she types, and flip through that Jeff Herman book studiously.

I don’t know how I’m going to be able to handle this for eight days.