Chapter 13 Nellie Today
After the visit to town, I beg to be dropped off before the rest of the group heads to dinner. And when I get back to the room alone, I flop onto my bed—careful-ish of my shoulder—and pass the fuck out.
The combo of the gummy, heat, wine, and stress has officially done me in.
I sleep through the organic pizza feast. I sleep through the drinks. And, when I wake up, in a foggy disoriented state, it’s pitch-dark out, the chirp of crickets the only sound. And I get the sense that even they’re the last insects at the party.
I haven’t eaten since the Cheerios.
I stand up and pad over to a side table by the door where I’ve dumped my snack bag from the plane and retrieve a raspberry jam oat bar. It will have to suffice, along with those salted caramel truffles I’ve been eyeing. Beside the bag slouches the organic market tote from Noah.
Right!
Unwrapping and demolishing the bar, I carry the tote over to the bed to forage through it for my meds. But inside I find so much more than I expected.
There’s a prescription anti-inflammatory. A pain medication, as promised, too. But there’s also arnica cream, a cold pack, Epsom salts, and a heating pad—which I celebrate like it’s a new car.
Yesssss.
There is also a second bottle of iced tea. Which makes me question Noah’s claim that he bought the drink for himself—was it always intended for me?
And, if so, why was he being so kind? Was it guilt? Reparations for our past—though he has still never admitted fault? Or could he just not stand the idea of someone out there in the world not liking him?
Noah was always the most charming, well-loved guy. You couldn’t hate him. If you got to know him well, you’d glimpse his darker dimensions, but he presented outwardly as accepting, sweet, and fun—like everybody’s favorite puppy.
With a killer six-pack and panty-dropper eyes.
Well, it was no mystery why the ladies liked him.
Is he just trying to right a wrong, so his conscience is clear?
My mind wanders back to his abs, then roams around his body to unseemly places, as I wonder whether it’s still the same.
Inadvertently, tangled in my dress, I’d shown him mine, but he hadn’t shown me his.
But back in the day…
That relationship was so formative for me.
So much so that he haunted me. Sometimes, over the years, I’d realize suddenly, with shame, that I was attracted to someone because of a certain physical quality that reminded me of Noah.
And I’d chastise myself for that—for even remembering the particular slope of his lower back into his ass, the leanness of his build, the broadness of his shoulders, the smooth tan skin of his muscled forearms. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.
Even Alfie, though fair and lithe and always in a vintage band tee, had a half-smile that evoked one Noah used for our inside jokes.
But it was a poor imitation. More caustic than clever. I know that now.
By the time I realized I’d been taken in by that familiarity in part, that I’d endowed this new man, Alfie, with a kind of warmth and affection he didn’t possess, I was in deep.
I groan, running a hand as far as it will go through my tangled hair.
I am hot and bothered enough, but still I pop a pill and plug in the heating pad. I dim the light, lie back down, and place the warming fabric on my injured shoulder.
Every part of me feels pulled tight, the dial turned up.
Moonlight falls through the shades, turning everything blue. Even my mood. A tree branch taps the window like Morse code.
Am I reacting this way because I’m roiling from a breakup?
It would be easier if that was the case.
Only, I know that’s not true. Because Alfie and I were over ages ago, though I’d let the relationship sit out, thawing, until it turned.
Change is always challenging, and another failed relationship didn’t feel great, but I’d felt mostly relief when he walked out the door carrying his last box of political tomes and politely wished me well like I was his least favorite colleague.
One thing I know for sure: I will not be lying in bed decades from now, electricity thrumming through me, sheets nervy against my skin, thinking about him.
Clearly I’m in crisis of another kind. It’s true that I’ve been feeling stuck.
New York is home, but somehow I’ve grown sick of the Brooklyn neighborhood I once loved.
Even of the curmudgeonly bodega cat with whom I used to trade haughty glares.
I am no longer excited by the prospect of the next fancy project or timely “collab”—the parties, the cocktails, the sometimes-famous people.
In about two months, the magazine will fold, cast aside along with its staff.
Which, I suppose, is the push I need. I’m ready for the next challenge. The next stage. But what does that mean?
Because here I am in the dark with my eyes closed against reality, fantasizing not about a new future but about the past. About what—or who—lies just on the other side of this suite’s common room.
About putting on some of those old records and inviting him in.
And isn’t that the exact opposite of what I should be doing?
Grasping at old versions of myself out of desperation? Backsliding into old habits? Giving credence to bad ideas, a person I know is bad news, from before I knew better?
Why am I even entertaining this? The truth is, I realize now with a sense of profound embarrassment, I don’t even know if there is a this at all.
And I definitely know there shouldn’t be.
And yet I keep returning to that almost kiss on the plaza bench earlier in the day, the way his lids dipped heavily as he leaned in.
I need to focus on the future! Heal my (psychosomatic?) arm! Be my best self for Cara. Then go home and figure out what’s next. Not daydream about making out with my ex-boyfriend from a time when I was also crushing on John Starks, George Clooney, and Christian Slater.
I shift to my right and feel around on the bedside table for a bottle of orange blossom and chamomile pillow mist that is apparently distilled on the property. I spray it around in place of sage to clear the air. Clear my head.
And it does smell incredible.
See? I’m fine! Great, even. I can go back to avoiding Noah. Rejoin Team NSA. Use my shoulder as an excuse to skip the booze bus to wineries Cara has planned for tomorrow—Day 3: You booze, you snooze! Song: “My Own Worst Enemy” by Lit—and use the time to get my shit together instead.
Screw my head on right.
You’ve got this, I hear my dad say. Or maybe it’s John the driver.
But the heat enveloping my shoulder, radiating all the way down my body, and coiling at my core, is saying something different. Gingerly, I grab the heating pad and move it to my stomach, then I turn on my side and let it curl with me, offering comfort.
The next morning, I do in fact beg off the booze bus. Which I object to anyway on the basis of terminology alone.
I believe in buses. And I believe in parties. But, in an ideal world, never the twain shall meet.
There’s too much potential puking involved in both.
Cara is totally understanding and practically offers to stay behind too, but obviously that’s out of the question.
Once she’s given me a pass and I’ve promised to be extra fun later, I wait to hear the main door to our suite wheeze open and slam shut before I climb out of bed and venture into the common room.
Noah has made coffee again and, though I am intent on avoiding actual contact with him today, I feel like it’s still acceptable to drink his brew.
He has left his door open and I can’t help but notice—when I walk over and fully snoop—that his bathroom mirror is still steamed up from a shower. Horribly, I instantly flash to an image of him lathering up—and scurry away, pulling my mind out of the gutter.
Besides, I have big plans for the day and I’m pretty excited.
Though I have wandered around the property a bit, visiting the chicken coops periodically en route to meals to say hello, I have yet to enter the spa barn. And based on the scents emanating from its recesses, it is not to be missed.
After all, this is where the amazing distilled flower mist was born! How else can I pay homage?
I figure the spa will be good for my shoulder and my brain. So, I’ll commune with my higher mind. And drink some cucumber water.
I am so zen. Om.
But when I meander the quiet dirt path to that corner of the grounds and pop inside wearing my robe, I find an abandoned reception desk.
It’s in the style of a bleached-out paddock, behind which a birch shelf is lined with natural beauty serums and creams. There is no one to be found.
I peek in and around the area, by the racks of impossibly soft yoga pants and a crystal display, down the treatment room corridor featuring gathered sprigs of hay mounted along the walls.
They’ve really doubled down on the farm theme.
Unsure of what to do, I peek back outside, returning to the property’s main path, and fortunately bump into a member of the staff, a young woman with blue hair and a soft-spoken voice.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
Oh, if only.
“I was just interested in the spa…”
“Ah,” she nods. I feel like she gets me. Just like Damien thinks he does. I gag. “When the property is rented out in this capacity, it’s not staffed unless there are specific massages and treatments scheduled. But the hydrotherapy area is open for use—and it’s wonderful. Help yourself!”
So I do.