Chapter 37
Morning comes, and I go through the motions of getting ready for the day. It strikes me that I’m traveling alone for the first time. I mean, not counting the last time, coming home from my last trip to Aruba. But this is different. This will be just me for a whole week.
Maybe it will be nice.
I certainly wouldn’t say that I’m excited about it, but there is something a little bit energizing about the idea of letting go of the past. I’ve found that by mustering up the strength to clean out Mom’s old room, I’ve felt a bit of a rebirth in the apartment.
Like it’s no longer in mourning. Like maybe there’s a future ahead, and even if I have no idea what it will look like, it exists. Starting now. With this trip.
Beckett is behind me now. It still hurts, and I still think about it, but when the great love of your life is going to marry someone else, there’s really not much you can do.
My therapist has suggested that I do everything I can to move on, and so I am trying.
She encouraged me to clean my mom’s room, and I did.
She encouraged me to book a trip, and I did.
She encouraged me to scatter Mom’s ashes—and here we are.
“It’s important to know when a chapter has come to a close,” she’s told me, and I know that despite how I wish it had turned out, the chapter of my life that was me and Beckett is over.
Being with him was a dream, but sometimes dreams just don’t materialize, and that needs to be okay.
He’s a big star, and I am genuinely happy for him.
If she was still alive, my mom would have told me that the whole week with Beckett offered nothing if not hope for my future.
Some people believe there’s only one person who can be your soulmate, only one path you can take that will lead to happiness, but my mother was definitely not one of those people.
She was an eternal optimist who could find a silver lining around every cloud.
She would be the first to tell you that happiness is an inside job.
I used to marvel at how she could live the second half of her adult life without a serious partner, and she’d smile and say that I was all the partner she needed.
I don’t know how she did it. All I know is that I’m happy she was mine, and I hope one day I’ll be enlightened enough to see the world the way she did.
The only person I know who is as optimistic and bubbly as my mom was is Evan, who, coincidentally, called me the other day.
We had a nice talk. It was great to not feel the pressure of the People magazine thing weighing on me anymore.
He didn’t even bring it up. In fact, the reason he called was to discuss my next career steps.
“The thing is, Mel,” he said, “you’re crazy talented. So if you want to keep writing, I can find a way for you to do it. Haters be damned, you know?”
“Really? Even after a plagiarism scandal?”
“It wasn’t plagiarism, and the only people for whom it would really matter if it was would be the Cabaret legal team and me, obvi. But we know you, and Beckett knows you, and nobody who matters thinks you stole anything from him. So you’re fine as far as that’s concerned.”
“But what about the gossip?”
“That’s all it is. Gossip. This will all be old news soon enough. It’ll get bumped by the next big literary scandal. And there’s always drama, so fear not, buttercup.”
“I do love the act of writing. I just feel like the well has run dry at this point. I don’t think I have another romance in me, and certainly not a funny one.”
“What would you want to write?”
I thought about that. “I don’t know. Maybe a mother-daughter story.”
“Well, that would be a pivot, but I’m sure it would be fine. And if Cabaret didn’t want to pick it up, I can find you another publisher who would. We might have to give you a pen name. Start from scratch in rebuilding your brand. But I’m up for it if you are.”
“Maybe, Ev. It’s definitely possible. I think I just need to take the summer and regroup.”
“Of course, absolutely. I just would hate to see you walk away from something you love if you don’t have to, and in this case, you don’t. There are options.”
“Thank you. This is why you’re my favorite.”
“How’s everything else going?” he asked. “You sound…better.”
“I feel a lot better, to be honest. I’ve been cleaning out my Mom’s bedroom, which has been surprisingly cathartic. And, you won’t believe it…”
“Dish, girl.”
“I’m going back to Aruba.”
“You are? When?”
“This coming Friday.”
“With people? Or alone? What kind of trip is this and why wasn’t I invited?” he laughs.
“It’s just me. I’m actually going there to scatter my mom’s ashes.”
“Oh,” he said, swallowing. “Mel, that’s really sweet. You know, I would have gone if you needed support for something like that.”
“I know. And I love you for it. But I’m good. I think it’s all part of the healing process.”
“So how long will you be away?”
“Just a week.”
“Okay, hang on. I’m writing this down.”
“What for?”
“Listen, I’m not trying to get all sappy on you, but it’s important that someone keeps track of your whereabouts. I know if your mom were here, she’d want someone looking out to make sure you’re safe.”
He’s not wrong. “You’re a sweetheart, Evan, you know that?”
“I’ve been called worse. Now go on. Just tell me the airline and the time.”
“JetBlue. It leaves at 9:00 a.m., flying direct,” I say, listening as he scribbles. “Comes back the following Friday at noon.”
“Thank you, Mel. Gotta keep an eye on the talent.”
“Yeah. Well, when I get back, we can talk about next steps. Maybe grab lunch?”
“For you? I’ll even come to Queens.”
“Thanks, Ev. You’re the best.”
“Yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.”
So now, as I get ready to lock up the apartment and head to JFK Airport, I feel an odd sense of calm.
I am looked after, even though my mom’s not here anymore.
I’ll go to Aruba and pay homage to her properly.
I’ll bask in the sun and try to remember that life can be beautiful and good and warm and relaxing.
I’ll try to open myself up to whatever the future holds for me.
And when I return home, I’ll be coming back to a place that is significantly lighter.
It used to be ours. But now it’s just mine. And that’s okay.
I Uber to the airport. I check my bag on the curb—no sense in dragging it around.
I begin the process of making my way through the checkpoints.
First, there’s the passport check. Then the shoes-off line, where I make sure to let the TSA agent know that I am transporting cremated remains.
I remove the travel urn from my bag and give it to the agent so she can hand-scan it.
Her face is understanding, and I’m grateful for that, but more than anything, I’m just glad that enough time has passed that I can manage to do any of this without bursting into tears or requiring heavy medication.
I walk through the X-ray scanner. Grab my shoes and slide them on.
The TSA agent hands me back my ashes, and I return them to my bag.
Then I meander toward my gate in Terminal 5.
There’s no rush, really. I got to the airport early, and without having to worry about my mom needing to sit down or checking on her seat assignment, I have time to go grab a cup of overpriced coffee and maybe check out the airport bookstore.
I head to Dunkin’. I’d go for Starbucks, but the line is crazy long and the two coffee shops are equidistant from the WhereTraveler Book Shop I’ve got my eye on.
I get my usual: a medium coconut hot coffee with two Splendas and extra cream.
Then I head in the direction of the bookshop.
I brace myself because I know Beckett’s book will probably be there with its own special display, and mine probably won’t have even a single copy on the shelves.
But that’s okay. Good for him, I remind myself, even though I always measured success by whether or not my book was stocked at the airport.
I stand by that, even now. Case in point: As predicted, Beckett’s book is in the window as well as on its own table. And mine is not even worth looking for.
But that’s really not why I’m here. I’m looking for something new to read.
There’s nothing better than snagging a new book at the airport.
The intrigue of starting a story when you’re about to go on an actual, real-life journey is a lot of fun.
I head for the section with the beachy covers, looking for new titles by some of my favorite authors.
Kristan Higgins, Elin Hilderbrand, and Jennifer Weiner all have titles on the display.
Elin’s is a year old and I’ve read it already, but the other two are new, so I snag them both and head for the register.
I’m waiting in the line when I see the small rack of magazines by the counter.
Oh, fuck.
You can’t miss it.
Beckett Nash takes up the entire cover of People magazine. He’s sitting on a stool, maybe in his kitchen? His elbow is leaning on a white granite countertop. There are massive windows behind him that overlook Manhattan. His face is not smiling. It’s stoic. And he’s holding up my book.
Not his.
Only mine.
The cover reads, “My Side of the Story: When Love, Life, and Literature Collide.”
What the actual fuck?
It’s my turn at the register. I swipe a copy of the magazine and add it to my book stack. I pay the man behind the counter and grab my coffee and my purchases and hightail it down to my gate.
I settle into one of the navy-blue chairs, place my coffee on the small table beside me, put my tote bag carefully on the ground by my feet, and pick up the magazine.
His face makes my heart pound.
He’s holding my book.
I flip the magazine open, past the contents pages and ads to the fifth page. There, I see another photo of him beside an open laptop, showing a photo of The Old Man and the Sea from their website.
I begin to read.