10. Chapter 10
Chapter 10
H ere was the thing about Luke Sanderson: He’d already seen Jane at a little bit of a low point. Which was why he was both the perfect and less-than-perfect person to be accompanying her during the real-time unfolding of her latest one. Perfect because—Jane didn’t really have anything to prove from a “got it together” standpoint. Less-than-perfect because—he clearly knew, from high-definition, technicolor, first-hand experience, that she most definitely did not have it together. And Jane at least liked to think she had some dignity left.
“Give me a break,” Haley said when Jane told her that. “First of all, it was ten years ago. Second of all, it was ten years ago. Do you even think he remembers? He’s a guy. I bet he doesn’t remember. Blake barely remembers my name half the time and he’s about to commit his entire life to me.”
“I’m telling him you said that,” Jane said. “And it was eight years ago.”
“Fine, eight,” Haley said. “Are you happy?”
“You heard him,” Jane said. “He said he remembered me.”
“Because you’re memorable ,” Haley said.
“Because of what happened,” Jane said.
“I am pretty sure there’s a quote somewhere about how there’s not a difference,” Haley said. “But anyway.”
But anyway. This is what happened. Jane was visiting Haley at school during a long weekend the spring of their senior year of college. Haley had more or less blown off most of her classes at that point, but there was one that she had to be at, a lecture that would make up either zero or ninety percent of the final, depending on who you asked. “I’m not really sure how that’s allowed,” she said to Jane as she was getting ready, “but whatever.”
It would be a couple hours before they could meet up for lunch, so Jane stayed home in her pajamas, watching TV on the couch. She flipped around to a few things, finally settling on The Price is Right . There was something comforting about it for her. It was something she remembered from her childhood, for one thing. For another, everyone on it seemed so happy. Not just happy—kind. Magnanimous. All the contestants cheered for each other, and high-fived each other, and helped each other out, even though they were competing against each other. It made her feel good about humanity.
It was already sunny and nice outside—70 degrees, a lazy breeze in the air. She cracked open the sliding glass door to let in some air, then got herself a bowl of Cheerios and sat cross-legged in front of the TV. One lady wearing a cat-in-sunglasses sweatshirt won $500 for placing a correct bid on a pair of surfboards. Another girl there for her grandma’s eightieth birthday—complete with extended family all in customized t-shirts emblazoned with a picture of Grandma in a party hat—came up short on a grocery guessing game but sent herself to the final round with a dramatic 99-cent spin on the wheel. The crowd erupted for the victory in honor of Grandma, the Newly Minted Partying Octogenarian. “This show is so great,” Jane said out loud to herself.
Everything was great. The game-show wins for society, the beautiful spring day, getting to hang out with Haley. It was all so heady, Jane felt like she wanted to celebrate too. A face mask , she thought. They were going out later that night. A face mask would be perfect.
She got to her feet and deposited her bowl in the kitchen sink before going back into Haley’s bathroom. She rifled through the drawers on Haley’s side of the cabinet until she found a pot of face clay. For glowing skin , it said. She twisted her hair up, securely off her face, then applied the mask liberally, leaving two rings around her eyes.
She heard a thud at the door. Haley had mentioned that she might be getting a package from Auntie Miss, and if Jane saw it before she left could she bring it in. Jane went over to the peephole. Seeing nothing, she cracked open the door and saw the box, turned on its side a few feet away. Probably chucked it down the hall and hoped for the best , she thought with a bit of an eyeroll. She opened the door, holding it with one hand as she reached for the box with the other hand. It was heavier than she thought, so she took another step out and reached for it with both hands. She heard the sound behind her about the same time her brain kicked in with the reminder: Don’t let the door shut behind—
Click.
“Noooooooo,” she said out loud, whirling around. “No, no, no, no, noooooooooo.”
She tried the door, willing good vibes into the handle. Maybe it wasn’t really locked. Maybe if she was really gentle, maybe if she angled it just the right way, maybe if she gave the door a little nudge as she pushed. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Or maybe not. She tried again, aggressively, shaking the doorknob. It was locked. It was definitely locked. Barefoot in pajamas, with a still-drying clay face mask, no cell phone, no keys. Of course it was locked.
Think, think, think , she thought to herself, which seemed counterproductive, or at least redundant. She paced a few steps in one direction, and then in the other, looking for something— anything —that would help. Her eyes lit on the sliding glass door outside. She huddled against the brick corner of the building, assessing. Haley’s apartment was on the first floor. If she could get herself over the railing, into the balcony outside the sliding glass door, she could probably get herself back inside. It was a little high, probably to deter people from casually climbing over the railing into the balcony outside the glass door. But it was worth a try.
She peered around the corner and looked both ways, right and left. It was quiet, mid-morning, everyone at class or work or still in bed. She decided to go for it. She padded down the walkway in her bare feet, then across the grass to the balcony. The railing was tall. Taller than her. She reached up for it anyway, mentally cursing, as she did, her lack of interest in pullups or even the 10-minute beginner arm strength videos on YouTube that promised results in time for the summer. It was quickly apparent she wasn’t going to be able to pull herself up by sheer will, so she tried for momentum. She leaned her body to the left, then swung her right leg up, once, twice, finally hooking her right ankle on the railing on the third try.
She was dangling now, arms wrapped on one side of the railing, ankle on the other, like a much-less-cute koala hanging from a tree. “Now what,” she said to herself.
She heard a voice behind her, because of course she did. “Hey,” he said. “Do you need help?”
She couldn’t look behind her, so she looked up, the brilliant sunlight blinding her eyes. “Um,” she said.
He came up next to her, and just as he did, she lost her grip on the railing and started to fall sideways. He caught her, but not before she jammed her free foot hard into the ground. “Ow,” she said, crumpling into him as he helped her un-contort herself and get upright.
“You okay?”
She saw then who it was. Luke Sanderson. She knew he was friends with Haley. She knew he lived in the building. She’d seen him around, here and there. And she knew he had a world-class, famous smize that was now looking at her with a little less smize and a little more surprise. “Hi,” she said, and then she winced. “My ankle—I think I hurt my ankle.”
“Shoot.” He held onto her arm to keep her steady. “Here, try to put some weight on it.”
She could, but barely. “Ouch,” she said this time.
“You should probably get it checked out,” he said, still holding onto her.
“I’m visiting Haley,” she said, pointing at the door. “I’ll just wait until she gets home, but—I locked myself out. Obviously. Do you think …?”
“Let me give it a shot,” he said. “Otherwise I’ll run down to the management office and see if they can get someone up here with a key.”
He helped her over to the walkway and then went back over to the balcony. He studied it for a second, then stepped back a little and with a short jump and burst of energy, pulled himself up over the railing. “Stay there,” he called out to her. “I’ll come get you.”
He propped the front door open while he came to retrieve her, and led her into the kitchen. She leaned against the counter, balanced on her good foot. “Here,” he said, opening the freezer, “let’s get some ice on it at least.”
Jane grabbed a paper towel and ran it under the faucet, then vigorously rubbed her face with it while he slid ice cubes into a plastic bag. She might be standing in her pajamas like a human pogo stick in Haley’s kitchen, but she could definitely do something about the cracking face mask.
He turned back toward her and bit back a smile when he saw what she was doing. He gestured toward the side of her nose, and then at a spot on her forehead. For glowing skin , all right. Glowing with mortification, maybe. “Did I get it all?” she finally said.
“All good.” He held out his arm for her to take. “Couch?”
She nodded. He helped her over to the sofa and got her foot elevated on the coffee table, then gently placed the baggie of ice, wrapped in a dish towel, on top.
“Thank you,” she said. “So much.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “So much.”
“I’m Jane,” she said. “By the way.”
“I know,” he said.
And then he gave her that world-class, famous smize, and she died a little inside.