Chapter 16 #2
I’d been pacing with Sam The Dog hot on my heels. This stopped me cold. “There’s not much to tell. I met a guy. He happens to be an astronaut. We’ve been on a few dates.” Absentmindedly, I pulled the rose quartz pendant out from under my sweater and rolled it between my fingers.
“What do you know about him?” she asked. “I have to say, the whole thing kind of spooked me.”
“What are you getting at?” I asked. “Just say it.”
“Fine,” Harper said. “I know you’ve got this whole ‘what I write comes true’ thing going on.
I’ve tried to be supportive and not judge, but, honey, enough already.
It’s not real. And now I’m worried this guy knows who you are, read your book, and is fucking with you. It doesn’t give you stalker vibes?”
“At first I was on high alert, believe me. It’s definitely been a lot to take in, but I’ve gotten to know him the past couple weeks and he’s great.”
“Promise me you’ll keep being careful?”
“I am. I will,” I assured her. “All of our dates have been in public. He doesn’t even know where I live yet. But he’s not our biggest problem right now. If this gets out, everyone I know—starting with my in-laws—will think I’m totally bananas.”
“WriteOn doesn’t have many subscribers to their YouTube channel,” Harper said. “The odds are good that only a handful of people will ever listen to the podcast. It’ll all work out.”
It did not work out.
I wasted my remaining precious time before Lucy, Rebecca, and William returned at the end of the weekend tracking the number of views on the YouTube video, which I had added into my “rotation of validation.” I started with , checking my hourly rankings for the Kindle, paperback, and audiobook editions, as well as reading any reviews.
My next stop was Goodreads, where I checked for upticks in ratings, along with the number of people who had marked the book to-read and the number who were currently reading.
Again, I read any new reviews. Then I checked my socials and all relevant hashtags.
The number of views on the YouTube video ticked up slowly.
In fact, all my metrics were moving at glacial speed.
One part of my brain took comfort in that.
It’s what I wanted: to be published again, but to fly under the radar.
But the part of my brain housing my fragile writer’s ego was a little bruised.
The checking and rechecking compulsion continued until Sunday evening, when Rebecca texted they’d landed and were on their way home.
Sam The Dog and I were waiting for them playing our version of fetch—me throwing a ball and him pretending not to notice—when the black town car pulled into the driveway and finally delivered my sweet girl back to me.
When the driver opened the car door, Lucy had already freed herself from her booster.
She sprinted into my waiting arms squealing, “Mommmmeeeeeee!”
I was astonished as I enveloped her and breathed in her distinctly Lucy smell—a combination of her sweet apple conditioner with a hint of metal that was the same as Sam when he’d sweat.
Our near-daily video calls had failed to capture how much she’d changed over the last two weeks.
I swore Harry Potter must have cast some kind of growth spell on her.
She had to be an inch taller and her cheeks had thinned.
For their homecoming, I’d ordered from our favorite Chinese restaurant.
As we all dove into dinner, Lucy chattered away, innocently spilling the details of their trip that had apparently been censored from our calls.
She’d barfed on the plane to Florida. She’d gotten sunburned because Grandma forgot her hat one day.
Grandpa said the f-word when they got lost. After all the times I’d been on the receiving end of Rebecca’s well-intentioned parenting advice, I was delighted to see her and William squirm as they attempted to provide “context” around each of Lucy’s stories.
As we all laughed when Lucy let slip that her grandparents had bribed her with ice cream twice a day, I found myself hovering above our family dinner, watching it like it was a scene in a feel-good movie.
I would miss this easy rapport. Would it feel different not having a secure spot in this safe little bubble we’d all created together?
Even though we’d still be here all the time for tennis lessons, swimming, family dinners, and holidays, in another week it would be as guests, not residents.
That was, assuming Rebecca and William didn’t disown us when I broke the news we were moving.
Lucy was practically face down asleep at the table by the time we finished dinner.
William offered to carry her back to the guesthouse, but there would be no way to keep him from seeing the boxes of Sam’s belongings stacked in the living room.
That was a conversation I planned to have tomorrow, when everyone was more rested.
So I begged off and lifted her up from her chair.
I was so happy to have her home that I carried her straight into my room, tucked her into Sam’s side of the bed, and collapsed next to her.
At 5:00 a.m., Lucy was wide awake due to jet lag and refused to go back to sleep, so we moved to the couch, where I let her watch cartoons.
I was scrolling the news apps on my phone when Bronwyn texted me a link.
Before I could click on it, her next text arrived: This article posted late last night. You’re blowing up! xo.
Words that every author dreams of. Except me.
When I clicked on the link, the headline stopped me cold: Author Believes She’s Written Her Own Happy Ending.
If I thought the headline was bad, the article itself was a billion times worse.
In addition to several quotes from the podcast video, the reporter had included the lurid details surrounding Sam’s death.
I sounded like a certifiable nutjob. So much for no one seeing the video and it all working out.
But it wasn’t fair to blame Harper or Bronwyn.
This salacious article racing across the internet was of my own making.
How was I going to face Rebecca when I’d promised her nothing like this would happen?
How would I explain this to Frannie? My parents?
Everyone at work? The mommies of Lucy’s friends?
What in the world would I say to Max, after he’d been so understanding when I’d bared my soul to him?
Your amazing reaction gave me the courage to speak my truth?
I was such a pathetic idiot. And what about Lucy?
Barely able to breathe, I glanced at her angelic face as she dozed on the couch.
This article didn’t mention her, but how long until she became ensnared in my wackadoodle narrative?
Apparently two hours. Because that’s when I heard Rebecca’s unmistakable knock on the front door.
I extracted myself from Lucy’s sleeping form and threw on a sweatshirt.
When I opened the door, Rebecca’s arms were crossed, her head shaking with disapproval, with William by her side.
I stepped outside and closed the door behind me, wholly unprepared to have this conversation without the benefit of coffee or a bra.
“We got a Google Alert,” Rebecca said. “An article about you writing your own happy ending? Have you seen it?”
“Yes.” I nodded slowly.
“Please tell us this astronaut is some kind of misguided PR stunt,” she said.
“Nope,” I said. “I can assure you Max is quite real.”
“Max, huh?” William mumbled.
“Well, so much for all those promises you made about this time being different,” Rebecca bit out. “That reporter dredged everything up. Just like I predicted. How could you do this to us? To Lucy?”
“Whoa, Rebecca.” I held up a hand. “I didn’t do anything to Lucy or even to you.
I admit my candor in that interview was a bit much, and I definitely didn’t plan to open up like that, but everything I said was true.
Ever since Lucy was born, I’ve wished every single day that Sam could have met her.
It’s so unfair that he died never getting to hold her, or kiss her, or love her.
So I wrote a story that imagined him coming back as an astronaut.
And then I randomly met an astronaut.” I shrugged.
“I’m truly sorry this is triggering, but deep down, I think I’m tired of hiding.
And being afraid. Maybe it’s time for all of us to stop avoiding the past. It’s not healthy.
You won’t even speak of what happened and you—”
“Thea,” Rebecca interrupted sharply, “you went on a podcast and admitted to trying to bring your dead husband back by writing a book. Please don’t make this about us. We’re worried about you. We’ve already received texts from several friends who saw the article, and they’re worried about you, too.”
“Worried about me?” I pursed my lips. “You know what? You can tell everyone not to worry. I’m fine. In fact, I’m better than fine. I’m so fine that I signed a lease for a two-bedroom apartment in Frannie’s building. Lucy and I are moving out next weekend.”
“What?” Rebecca took a stunned step backward, and I immediately felt bad about breaking the news to her in a fit of anger. This was definitely not how I’d envisioned the conversation.
“I’m sorry to tell you like this.” I softened my tone. “I was planning to share the news tonight as soon as Lucy went to bed.”
“Is this because we took her to IMG?” William asked.
“No, this has nothing to do with tennis,” I assured him. “Or with you guys. We love you. You know that. We’ve been so lucky to spend the first five years of Lucy’s life living here.”
“I don’t understand why you would move now after everything we’ve been through. Oh no.” Rebecca gasped. “Are you ripping Lucy from the only home she’s ever known because you want to be with that astronaut?”
“The prospect of dating again was definitely a catalyst, but the truth is that this has been a long time coming. With Lucy starting kindergarten in the fall, this felt like the right time to make a fresh start. We’ll be close by.
We’ll still work together. We’ll still see you all the time,” I promised.
“Thea, you’re young and vibrant,” William said, “and we knew the time would come that you would want to start—”
“Not now, William,” Rebecca cut in. “Have you considered this guy might be scamming you? If he were an accountant or a lawyer, I’d be less skeptical. But an astronaut? What are the odds of that? Have you googled him?”
“Of course I did. I’m not an idiot. His name is Maxwell Q. Smith. Look him up yourself.”
“All right, both of you, let’s take a breath,” William said, inserting himself. “We all need to focus on what’s best for Lucy.”
“Which is obviously for Thea and Lucy not to move out so abruptly,” Rebecca snapped at him.
I gave William a beseeching glance, but before he could give any indication whether he might go to bat again for Team Thea, the guesthouse door opened. Sam The Dog raced between my legs and jumped up on Rebecca.
“This dog is incorrigible,” Rebecca said, pushing him off her.
“What does ‘incorrigible’ mean, Grandma?” Lucy appeared in the doorway rubbing her eyes.
“Hey, Jellybean, you’re awake,” I said, wrapping my arms around her.
“I’ll explain later. We were just making dinner plans, sweetheart,” Rebecca said, shifting into an exaggerated version of her sweet-grandma voice.
“We were?” I asked, mimicking her tone.
“Yes, we were,” Rebecca continued, undeterred. “Your mommy is inviting her new friend to family dinner on Friday.”
I flinched at the audacious suggestion. Or was it a demand? Where would we all eat? Smushed together into the four-person breakfast nook? Or were we going to return to the dining room for the first time since Sam died?
“Why are you guys talking funny?” Lucy asked.
“We’re just being silly grownups,” I said, ruffling her hair. Ignoring my exploding list of concerns about this fraught dinner idea, I looked straight at Rebecca and declared, “Dinner is a great idea. I’ll set it up.”
Rebecca glanced down at her phone. “FYI, that article has now been shared over sixty-eight hundred times.”
“There’s no such thing as bad publicity, right?” I said, tossing one of her favorite clichés in her face before steering Lucy back into the guesthouse.