Benny Abbott
Day Three Hundred and Eighty-Five
My stomach is a hornet’s nest. Beside me in the shadows, Joy runs in place, punching the air.
“Is this thing ever going to start?” she asks, panting.
“Not until you’ve done at least fifty deep breathing exercises.”
She fans herself and adjusts her dress—white with black polka dots, new for the occasion. “I feel like I’m gonna puke. Do you feel like you’re gonna puke?”
I nod, though you’d think we’d be used to this by now.
It’s been a year of nerve-racking waits.
First, for Xander’s death to be officially ruled an accident after it was determined—fairly quickly, thank god—that all of our stories aligned.
Then, for my charges to be dropped—Ted’s because I sucked it up and apologized with a grotesquely expensive camera, and the other as a matter of exchange.
While it’s excessive to accuse someone of concealing evidence in a murder investigation when there is no murder to begin with, the courts still had a claim, seeing that Xander’s death wasn’t believed to be an accident at the time.
They only dropped their charges after Philip threatened to sue the LAPD for “exacerbating my injury” while cuffing me—a lucky break, if you will.
After that, there were months of back and forth with Apex Plus as we discussed how to best move forward.
And finally, the book-related waiting—for notes, copyedits, foreign rights contracts, cover reveals.
And now, this. The launch of What Doesn’t Kill You: A Tragicomic Story of Survival.
“What if people hate it?” Joy asks, not for the first time. “What if they think—”
“Stop.” I press a hand to her cheek and let it linger, thumb rubbing her soft skin.
It still sends thrills down my spine that I get to touch her this way.
“It doesn’t matter what people think. But for the record, they’re going to love it because it’s you.
Because you told the truth, even though it was hard.
And because you’re an excellent writer.”
“I wasn’t worried about that half of the book,” she says, and I laugh.
Beyond the curtain, on the Orpheum Theatre’s forestage, is a bloodred rug, a round bar table covered in black cloth, and two black leather stools.
It’s like a goth living room in a French baroque palace, spotlit with enough wattage to burn a horde of undead.
Beyond the orchestra pit are two thousand fans chattering in their seats, well on their way to being drunk.
In the wings off stage left, our new senior producer, Esme, holds up a hand.
Five minutes. We told her she could sit in the audience, but she wants to be on deck in case anything goes wrong with the audio recording.
“It’s my job.” Technically true, though we’ve assured her the Orpheum sound techs know what they’re doing.
Though we forgave Mallory after a heavy heart-to-heart, we decided it was best she find another job.
She agreed without question. And perhaps because she swore on her life she didn’t know Xander was Joy’s stalker, or because she too was scarred by him, or maybe because we’re just too damn nice, we gave her the bonus Xander once promised when our contract with Apex Plus finalized.
A parting gift, so to speak, for someone with whom we share too many ugly secrets.
We’ve been drowning in Quinn’s cupcakes ever since.
Joy peeks through the curtain, and then whistles. “Full house.”
I wrap my arms around her, and look over her head through the crack.
Practically everyone we know is here, front and center in the red upholstered seats.
Joy’s parents, who haven’t let a day go by without talking to her since they returned from their cruise.
Our financial advisor, Alex. Our dog sitter.
The entire dodgeball team from our early days in LA.
Farther down the row is Sarah and her new boyfriend, whom I intend to grill as soon as we have a moment alone.
Beside them is our research assistant, webmaster, social media manager, and merch team, all of whom now have the option to work in person whenever they want.
There are no more closed doors at TSMSYL. No more secrets. No one to hide from.
“Carlotta looks beautiful tonight,” Joy says.
I follow her gaze to the middle aisle, where Emil and Carlotta are making their way to their seats, Carlotta indeed beautiful in an emerald green dress, silver hair styled in a curly bob. Emil carries their drinks, two plastic cups filled with white wine.
“Emil even buttoned his shirt,” I add.
Of all the surprises this year threw at us, these two neighbors are among the top.
I had no idea until a few months ago that it was Emil who sent the email warning us about Shake Awake’s toxic protein powder.
He knew he couldn’t sit idly by when he learned he’d connected us with an unsafe product, but he was worried the founders would trace the whistleblowing back to him.
Hence, the anonymity. “I should have done more,” he explained over dinner one night, “but maybe it was for the best things worked out the way they did.”
I still marvel at that now. Because if Joy and I hadn’t dismissed the anonymous email as a scam, then Xander wouldn’t have so cheerfully bragged to Emil a few days later about trading free advertising for personal shares, thus tipping Emil off that Xander was a self-serving snake.
And if Emil hadn’t already been wary about Xander, he might have otherwise shrugged it off when Xander blew up at him after the toxin poisonings made the news.
But he did not shrug it off. Instead, he asked Carlotta to keep an eye on Joy.
And if she hadn’t, she might never have noticed Joy’s bruises or suggested the shelter, and Joy would not have asked Carlotta for a ride the night Xander died. No hitchhiking needed.
If none of these things had happened, our lives might look very different right now.
Not that I was told any of this until after the case was closed. When they finally fessed up, when I finally learned the full truth, I almost couldn’t believe it.
So many surprises.
Joy leans back against my chest, and I kiss her head as the host taps the mic and asks the crowd to finish taking their seats.
“I can feel your heart,” Joy whispers.
I hold her tighter. “I can feel yours too.”
It is surreal, being here, sharing this moment with our fans after everything we’ve been through.
We listen, hearts thumping, as the host begins her introductions, and I take Joy’s hand when our names are called.
As we step through the curtain, the crowd stands, clapping and screaming and jumping up and down.
It lasts for so long Joy and I can’t help but laugh.
We tell them to stop, it’s too much, we’re not worthy, and they continue to clap.
WHEN IT’S OVER, when we’ve read from our opening chapters, and answered questions, and signed a thousand books, when we’ve shared champagne and cupcakes in the Orpheum Club with our family and friends, when we’ve closed the historic theater down, I take Joy back to my—our—home, and we get ready for bed.
As we’re brushing our teeth, my phone dings on the counter. A text to both of us from Luna: Sorry again that I couldn’t make it tonight. Heard you were terrific. Congratulations!
I meet Joy’s eyes through the mirror, and we share a look that speaks a thousand words. After this year, I’d say my poker face is getting better, but I don’t need to wear one with Joy.
Five minutes later, in bed, Joy turns to me.
“I think I’m ready,” she says.
This was what she said eight months ago when she told me she was ready to give us a proper shot. And then again two months ago when she was ready to start gradually moving into my house. But I know this is something else. The one thing she needs to do before she’s ready for the rest.
“Really?”
She nods.
I stretch out my arm and she wriggles into my nook. Kissing the top of her head, I whisper, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she whispers back. “So much.”
I never thought I could be this happy. Sometimes it renders me so weightless it threatens to carry me away. But here, now, I do my best to remain rooted to the earth, vowing to never again take a single moment with Joy for granted.