Chapter 38
NOW
“Wait, wait, wait,” says Matt. “This is crazy. You deleted your number?”
“And blocked him in my phone before I could change my mind. Then deleted his contact.”
“Wow. Blocking Queen.”
“Well, if it ain’t broke.”
Matt looks scandalized. “I mean. From a yes, girl perspective, you know … yes, girl. But also … why didn’t you just talk to him?”
“I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I knew it was over. It was a mistake to go to begin with. I had been thinking something he hadn’t. It was all just so embarrassing. I don’t do well when I’m embarrassed.”
“No, I think we all remember the miming incident.”
My eyes shut of their own volition. “Being forced to mime in a high school hallway—I have no words for that.”
“How ironically mime-like.”
I can’t help but laugh at this, but then the laugh turns to a groan as I push my plate out of the way with my elbows and put my head down on the table.
“Didion.”
“Yes,” I say into the table.
“You know you have to talk to him, right?”
“No,” I huff.
“Didion…”
I sit back up. “Am I crazy though? That was pretty fucked-up, right?”
“Well, I’m pretty hardwired to believe there’s always way, way more than two sides to every story. But as your friend, yes, I can see exactly why you were so hurt.” Then, like he can’t help but want more juicy details, he asks, “What did you do when you left?”
“I went across the parking lot to a Chili’s and called an Uber. Went to the airport and then I called my mom.”
“Oh. Does Sammie know all of this?”
“No. We haven’t talked like this in a long time. You can tell her if you need someone to gossip with.” I say this last part more to lessen the impact of admitting that we hadn’t talked.
“Noted. Okay, so what did Babe do when you called her?”
“She flew me here. I stayed for a week figuring things out, and then I went back to New York, packed up all my stuff, moved in with a friend temporarily, and that’s when I got hired at Baccarat.”
“And here you are.”
“And here I am.”
We hear the front door, and then Austin comes in.
“And here he is,” says Matt.
“And here he fuckin’ is,” I say.
“Hey,” says Austin, slightly out of breath. He looks between us, and then says, “Why do I get the feeling you guys were just talking about me?”
It’s painful to see him with all of these memories right at the surface. I want to hit him or cry and scream, maybe even drop to my knees and beg him to love me back. Beg him to tell me it was all some crazy misunderstanding.
I hide the softer parts of me, instead rolling my eyes and laughing it off. “You’re so vain.”
Austin winks and goes upstairs.
After a few minutes, Sammie and Nora return from the water, intent on a snack. I take the opportunity to be alone, walking down the beach, not stopping until my feet are in the water. I stare down as it wraps itself around my feet, cool and cleansing, sand sinking beneath me.
When I called Babe from the Midland airport, she had spoken calmly and clearly. Asked if it would make me feel better to come to Birdsong. I could hardly talk I was crying so hard, finally gasping out a yes. The next thing I knew, there was a one-way ticket in my email.
She was always good in an emergency. Always knew how to be there in moments of devastation.
I landed in Georgia, walked out into the crisp fall air, and waited at the pickup curb.
The relief I felt when I saw her car had made tears rise again in my throat.
I suppressed them just long enough to get into the Bronco, still with desert dust on my boots, still wearing his sweatshirt.
It still smelled of smoke and puppies and sex.
She had put an arm out, a wing, and said, oh, honey, and I leaned into her and cried like I never had before. People began honking, a man in a neon yellow outfit came to the window to tell us to move, and she shot him a wicked look that made him start directing traffic around us.
I stayed in her embrace for who knew how long, and then she finally broke away to turn up the old Julie London song on the radio, and we’d driven through the gray mist across the bridge to Mercy.
Once at home, she told me to shower. She had put out a set of pajamas for me—her softest, my favorite—and when I came downstairs, skin warm and pink from the hot water, eyes and throat raw from sobbing, she handed me a big pour of champagne.
More jazz played, candles burned, and she made creamy tomato basil soup with gooey, buttery grilled cheese sandwiches.
My favorite. And then I discovered she’d even made snickerdoodles, cheap box brownies, and coconut cream pie.
On the counter, I saw she had picked up junk food.
Cool Ranch Doritos, Smartfood popcorn, Double Stuf Oreos, Sour Skittles, and Sour Patch Kids. A smorgasbord of comfort.
“What do I do now?” I had asked her. I didn’t know what exactly I was asking about. For work, where to live, how to heal. What to do with all this pain and aching love I’d never be able to spend.
Babe knew. She smiled at me kindly and said, “You eat dinner.”
I had been cooking for years already by that point, but that was the first time it really hit me that food was the one love language that Babe and I understood. The two of us knew, deep in our souls, that the only surefire way to start feeling better was to have a good meal. Whatever that meant.
Birdsong, and Babe, had been a refuge that night. And for the next week, as I decided what to do with the wreckage of my life. The days had been long and cozy. I read three entire books. Babe let me talk when I wanted, and sulk when I needed. It was perfect.
I just had no idea, then, that it would be the last perfect time I ever spent with her.