Chapter 29
lovelillibet The upside of never taking care of my fingernails is that I don’t have to worry about all that money going down the drain when they get totally wrecked. I got these ragged cuticles for free, baby!
Sincerely, Libby
Image: Close-up of a hand with a bandaged knuckle, several small pink burns, and short, unpainted nails.
#goodhelpishardtofind #nailedit #manyhands #blessthismess
There were moments over the next weeks when Libby wanted to go back in time and slap her past self for suggesting Keoki open his own food truck. Not because the enterprise was cursed, unlike certain other recent schemes that sprang to mind. It was just a lot of sweaty, greasy, back-straining work.
Getting the lease was the easy part. All Keoki had to do was promise to be open for business by the end of the month. One of his cousins knew where he could find an old Airstream trailer, and he was able to source most of the cooking equipment secondhand. (There were perks to having worked in food service since your teens and being generally beloved.) They still had to rip out the interior of the trailer, retrofit it as a working kitchen, figure out the menu, clean up the lot, create a seating area, hang lights, paint signs, advertise, get permits, pass inspections, stock the pantry and refrigerator, and scrub an endless stack of pans.
That was Libby’s main memory of those days, though she did a little of everything, including press releases. And then, because the clock was running down and Keoki didn’t have time to train anyone else, she learned how to work the line, finishing dishes he’d prepped and doing the grunt work even she couldn’t mess up.
“We’re building your skills. First the crepes, now you can do a whole salad by yourself. That’s a complete meal.”
“I toss lettuce with a dressing you made. I’m not exactly Julia Child.”
“But you’re tall like Julia. Baby steps.”
Toward what? Libby didn’t ask. It was a relief not to think about her own life.
That didn’t stop her from acknowledging the irony of her current situation. Libby was doing exactly what she’d been running from in the first place—food-related manual labor—and yet she was grateful for it. The sheer physical exhaustion, the rushing around, the endless to-do list, the tangible sense of accomplishment: it made her feel better, even when she smelled worse.
If Libby had ever managed to start a real gratitude journal, she would have written:
I’m grateful for the chance to help Keoki, since I semi-ruined his life.*
*Although Mr. L would have been a weird business partner.
I’m grateful I have someone to talk to who isn’t a cockroach.
I’m grateful for the people who read Sincerely, Libby because it tells me I’m not the only one flailing through life.
I’m grateful I don’t have time to worry about my personal problems.
That last one especially was a relief. It was like taking a vacation from herself, shutting down all the circuits that powered her worries about the future, and the past, anything beyond this moment. She was a rock deep underwater, sensing the movement of waves far above without feeling more than a surface vibration. The work was never-ending, but it was honest, and had a purpose beyond tricking people. Libby slept better at the end of a day of menial labor than “Lillibet” ever had while lounging in the luxury of her million-thread-count sheets.
It was a revelation she shared with the readers of the newly minted Sincerely, Libby account, among other guess-who-pulled-her-head-out-of-her-ass observations. Libby didn’t pretend to have all the answers, any more than she fronted about her home life, but she did keep posting. Behold my many and varied imperfections, all tied up with a hairnet and rubber gloves!
Now that Jean was back, Libby even had artsy photos of her grungy state. A bandaged knuckle. Industrial-sized containers of cooking oil. Rorschach blots of teriyaki on a take-out napkin. A harrowing journey into the depths of their refrigerator, which was even more desolate now that they ate most of their meals at the food truck. But from cool angles that made it look almost intentional. The pictures were credited to Jean, with an additional disclaimer (I DIDN’T TAKE THIS), just as the pretty plates were clearly attributed to Keoki (I DIDN’T MAKE THIS). Which left Libby free to claim the words, even if the I WROTE THIS was only in her head.
And because the universe was contrary, or fond of ironic twists, or had a generally terrible sense of humor, plain old Libby was pulling more followers by the day. The numbers had easily tripled since her Lillibet days. That didn’t make her an influencer in any sense of the word, but people were reading sentences that Libby wrote. And they were lines she actually meant this time.
* * *
No amount of sweat dripping into her eyes, parboiling her hands in hot soapy water, or making fun of herself online would have kept Libby from obsessing over Jefferson, if what she lacked in willpower hadn’t been supplied by geography. It was as if he’d dropped off the face of the earth when he left the island. Libby couldn’t find a crumb of new content online, and not for lack of trying. She kept waiting for the breakup story to appear, or a big glossy profile written by someone else. Apart from a single “Trouble in Paradise?” headline (reusing the photo of a frowning Jefferson from the jewelry booth, with the display of rings cropped out), there was nothing.
His photography website was as bare-bones as ever. Watching the famous video felt weird now that she knew the real him, like her tween self kissing a picture in a magazine instead of actual boys. Out of desperation, she even checked to see if he had a profile on any of the dating sites, though it was hard to think of something less Jefferson than advertising himself on the Internet. Plus, after narrowing her search to his part of the world, marketing algorithms decided she was a survivalist with significant quantities of facial hair and targeted her online ads accordingly. All that camo might come in handy if she decided to stalk him old-school, with binoculars. Maybe some face paint. A hat covered in moss.
But for that she’d have to fly to Wyoming. And to do that she needed money.
Libby’s rational side tried to convince the rest of her to accept that she most likely would never see Jefferson again. Might as well go cold turkey and embrace her new life of useful drudgery.
But the part of her that believed in fairy tales secretly hoped that if and when their paths did cross, she would be worthy of him because of this time spent busting her ass.
Even though her heart felt more like a thick bruise than a functioning muscle, Libby was aware that her Sad and Lonely era could have been sadder and lonelier. She saw Keoki and Cici almost every day, and the food truck community was laid-back and welcoming. Her Internet friends provided commentary and occasional comic relief that helped her feel less invisible.
The person she saw least was Jean, despite sharing an apartment. Her roommate was still logging ridiculous hours at the resort. When Libby worried about her burning the candle at both ends, Jean swore she had it under control.
And she must have been getting some downtime during her shifts, because Jean often returned from the resort with new concept art for Keoki’s Kitchen, gradually refining his logo (a cresting wave with an anthropomorphized pineapple holding a ukulele while riding a surfboard) and sketching out the mural for the street-facing side of the trailer.
Libby posted sneak peeks of Jean’s drawings on her account, along with behind-the-scenes shots from the restaurant-in-progress. In the back of her mind, she was piecing together a longer story: “Local Boy Makes Good (Food).” A companion piece to the Tutu story, if that one ever saw the light of day. Because if you could make a restaurant out of spare parts and unexpected detours, maybe it was worth putting in that kind of work to build her career. Even if the steps weren’t quite as straightforward as sanding picnic tables and scrubbing pots.
One night when she was alone again at the apartment, Libby started writing. It wasn’t quite a food story, or a travel write-up, or a profile of Keoki, though it had elements of all three. The flavors of the North Shore, the locals who lived there, the tradition of hospitality. She was trying to capture a particular moment in a specific place. And hopefully attract as many customers as possible to Keoki’s food truck.
When she finished, Libby sent it to Jean, who was yet again working the night shift.
Where are we sending it? Jean replied, ten minutes later. Times? Tribune? New Yorker? Paris Review?
Libby smiled at her phone, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the lack of air-conditioning. Not sure yet. Probably someplace local. She hesitated, afraid of sounding full of herself. Or maybe an in-flight magazine?
Dancing dots appeared and disappeared several times before Jean finally replied:
Hold that thought. I might have an in.
* * *
When Jean’s key turned in the lock later that night, Libby forced herself not to run across the room and scream in her face, Do you have anything to tell me about my story?
“Hey,” she said casually, peeling herself off the couch. “How was your— Is that a freaking hickey?”
“No.” Jean raised a hand to her neck, covering the exact spot that had caught Libby’s eye. “You don’t want to hear my news?”
“Is it about your hickey?”
“No, it’s about your story.”
Trust Jean to play her trump card. Libby braced for disappointment. “Well?”
“I reached out to Hildy.”
“What? Why?”
“Because she has sway and she likes your stuff,” Jean said, as if it were that simple.
“Liked.” Libby leaned hard on the final d. “I’m sure she hates me now.”
“Time heals all wounds. I figured she was over it.”
Libby doubted three and a half weeks was long enough to change anyone’s mind. It certainly hadn’t made a dent in her feelings about a certain reserved yet secretly tender and romantic photographer.
“And?” Libby forced herself to ask. Might as well take her medicine.
“Unknown. She hasn’t gotten back to me. Which is weird, considering I told her you had a job offer from another magazine. I figured there was no way she’d back down from a challenge like that.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
Jean dropped her bag on the floor. “Even if that would be a lie?”
“No more lying! I can’t handle it. And besides, I want to get a job on my own merits. Not by tricking people.”
“Hmmm.” Her roommate moved into the kitchen, pulling a packet of ramen out of the cupboard. Libby watched her fill a mug with water and stick it in the microwave to heat.
“What?”
“Where are you applying for these hypothetical jobs?” Jean asked, smashing the packet of ramen with her fist.
“I don’t know. I was thinking freelance to start. Build my portfolio.”
“Why not someplace on the mainland? There are a billion times more opportunities there.”
Libby would have been less taken aback if Jean had suggested job-hunting on the moon.
“Not that I’m trying to get rid of you,” Jean said, as if she could hear the frantic whirring of Libby’s thoughts. “I just want you to open your mind to the possibilities. In case you thought that was something you couldn’t do. Because you could. Be the one to leave. If you wanted. You would be okay. We would be okay. And if it doesn’t work out, at least you know you can make a mess and come out the other side in one piece. More or less.”
There was so much packed into Jean’s words. How well she knew Libby, and the exact shape of her fears. A silent acknowledgment of the fight neither of them had forgotten or wanted to repeat. The much-gentler-than-usual nudge: Have you thought about this?
And of course Jean was right. Even when Libby was angling for a job with Hildy, she’d never given serious consideration to moving far away. Deep down, Libby saw herself as a person who got left, not the one to venture out on her own.
Her mind was ever so slightly blown. Jean was often surprising, but never more than when she used her powers for good.
“She did like my story,” Libby said, chewing her way through a new thought buffet.
Jean nodded, her expression saying, And?
“That means someone else might like it, too. It’s not impossible.” She glanced at Jean, collecting another nod of encouragement. “Because that really came from me. Not just my life but who I am.” Some of the best parts of Libby, even—things she wasn’t ashamed of. Her curiosity about human beings. The urge to understand how they live and why. Wanting to share those stories with other people.
She fixed Jean with a serious look. “We still can’t lie.” It was important to reinforce these messages as often as possible, in the hopes that someday they would stick. “I have to tell Hildy the truth.”
“Fine.” Her roommate shrugged as if this had been her goal all along. “You two can sort it out. I’ll forward you the email.”
From: [email protected]
Re: I’m sorry
Dear Hildy,
I am writing to respectfully request that you disregard the email from Jean. On the off chance you didn’t delete it unread. To be clear, I do not have a job offer from anyone else.
I apologize for taking up more of your time. And everything else.
Best regards,
Libby Lane
Dear “Libby,”
Hello to you too.
I hadn’t seen Jean’s email but of course I went to look for it. If that was a clever ruse to get me intrigued, congratulations. It worked. So why don’t you want me to see your pitch? Am I not big-time enough for you?
All best,
Hildy Johnson I
Dear Hildy,
I’m sorry if it sounded like I didn’t want you to see my story about Keoki’s food truck. I assumed you would rather be boiled in hot oil than ever hear from me again. Since I lied to you and messed up all your plans. Et cetera.
Pursuant to the above, I’m sure you won’t want the story about Tutu either, so I am respectfully withdrawing it from submission at this time.
Best regards,
Libby
P.S. That is my real name.
Libby,
Stop apologizing and send me the freaking story about Keoki. As a friendly reminder, you gave me the piece about Tutu first. If I decide not to run it, I will inform you in writing and provide the customary kill fee.
Please be advised that I have a legal team like you wouldn’t believe.
I’ll be in touch.
Hildy Johnson, Future Legend