Chapter 19
You’d think it was impossible for someone to use so many four- and five-syllable words to say the same thing.
“Yes,” I say, nodding as I come into the room. “He’s horrible.”
“Horrible doesn’t cut it,” Olivia says, rubbing a tissue fairly violently beneath her nose. “He’s the most substandard, abominable, ignominious, louche man to ever walk this planet.”
She shakes a tissued hand impatiently at me, and I hand her a pint of ice cream. Another one.
I stand in the doorway and check my phone. Eight thirteen p.m. For two hours I’ve been plying Olivia with tissues, ice cream, cheese, and boxes of oatmeal squares, dry. I think I’ve broken her. One encouraging comment about how she could use a little “break” from her diet and this happened. This.
But eight thirteen isn’t so bad. If I can squeeze out now, I might just have enough time to meet Sam. If I hurry.
I take a step toward the hall. “I think I’ll run to the store real quick. I can pick up some things for the morning. Would you like that, Olivia? Some of that nice yogurt you enjoy?”
Olivia scowls from her floor nest, her silky blue dress in a puddle around her feet. The back of the bodice is halfway unzipped. There’s a litter of empty cartons around her feet. And the level of mascara that has run down her face and dried . . . Well, she looks like a cover for an eighties rock CD. For once in our lives, if we were in a lineup at a school dance, I’d be the one picked.
Well, I take that back. I suppose I can now say twice.
“What did I do wrong?” Olivia says, breaking off a block of cheese with her teeth. “How did it go wrong?”
I give a sympathetic shrug. “Sometimes we pick the wrong people, Olivia. We live and learn.”
“No,” she chokes out, swerving her raccoon eyes at me. “Really, Savvy. What did I do wrong? I don’t want your empathy. I don’t want frothy, girls’-sleepover-style answers. I want to know what I did. I want quantifiable data.”
“Well, you can start with that,” I retort a little tersely. “You can start with not being so snappy at everyone for everything. And you can stop calling me Savvy, because you know I don’t like it.”
“That’s good,” she says, reaching for the legal pad on her bedside table. And here she goes. Another list. She clicks a pen and starts writing. “Snappy. I can be less snappy.”
Fine. Well, as long as we’re on the subject . . .
“And less demanding,” I add.
She nods in stride, as though we’re talking about something as objective and impersonal as the latest stock-market numbers and not all her pitfalls. But it’s an enjoyable experience, telling her all the ways she drives me crazy and having her, for once, take it all in. Like a flash sale where I decide to run in and grab everything I can, I throw out every issue with her I can think of while the doors are still open.
And sure enough, she studiously writes it all down.
And for several minutes, it feels like I’m experiencing that impossible moment when you wish on a loose eyelash and then blow it away, and your wish actually comes true.
But after about ten minutes, the euphoria starts to wear off. She looks so sincere and earnest, I can’t help slowing down. I take a step toward her. Cautiously take the legal pad from her while she writes.
She looks up.
“Are you happy, Olivia?”
For a moment she gives me an incredulous look.
“I don’t mean right now. I mean, in general. Are you happy?”
She looks around her room, looking to give it real thought.
“Because I don’t know about you,” I say, “but I’ve lived under your roof for a while now, and I’ve seen the cost of what success really is. It doesn’t seem so bad at first. From a distance, when I lived with Lyla, all I heard about were your new promotions, your published papers, your marathons, nonprofit creations, and admissions into doctorate programs. But from up close, I see how hard you push yourself to do everything. Not just everything, but everything at once. Lunges while cooking for the elderly, while listening to audiobooks in French. Biking while wedding planning, while calling it a ‘date.’ Ferris couldn’t live under that kind of pressure. And maybe you might consider slowing down and really asking yourself if you can either. If you can happily.”
“Can I . . .” I can see Olivia’s hand is itching for the legal pad, and no doubt by Monday morning, if I don’t manage to really get this across to her, there’ll be a stack of self-help books a ceiling high waiting for her beside her Peloton.
“You’ve tried to persuade me to take up your lifestyle for a while,” I continue. “Why don’t you let me persuade you to live mine for a little bit and see how it goes?”
Several moments pass in silence. As if the very idea is too stunning for words.
“So . . . if I tried living like you—”
“I’d watch that attitude,” I interject.
“Then,” she continues, shifting tone, “what would you recommend I do? Now?”
“I think you should finish your ice cream and then take a nice long nap,” I say. “And on Monday morning, first thing, I think you should make an appointment for the Float Spot.”
* * *
Two tubs of ice cream later, I’ve finally deposited Olivia into bed and dashed off for Pennington Pub. I’m late. Quite late.
But given the circumstances, it couldn’t be helped.
And of course he will understand.
He’ll have to.
Any mature adult would.
Or at least that’s what I’m chanting to myself.
We’re adults. Life comes up. Family is priority.
And anyway, I know he will understand.
Because we’re adults. Life comes up. Family is . . .
On and on the broken record goes. As I dash up the creaky front steps of Pennington Publishing in my heels, I fumble with my purse for my keys. The foyer is dark through the glass. No light on to be seen through the entire building.
But that’s okay. That doesn’t mean he’s left.
I move to check my watch, then remember my wrist is naked after I convinced Olivia, in a momentous moment, to take off her watch. To lose track of time. And steps. And be free.
She insisted we do it together, then giggled nervously at me as though we were illegally going skinny dipping in the frozen lakes of Michigan. When it came off, she actually whooped.
I don’t need to know the time anyway. All I need to do is get this door open.
After a bit more fumbling, the door opens, and I glide up the stairs by the light of my phone flashlight. With every set of steps my hope loses a bit more air. When I reach the ARC room, I push through the filing cabinet and into our secret room, and the air finally escapes entirely.
Nothing.
Not even a set of lights aglow.
All that’s left is a note on top of the manuscript: Sorry I missed you.
And then I drop down onto the beanbag, feeling really crummy. Because he’s not even going to put any of the blame on me here, but act as though he’s the one who missed me.
I look around for a pen.
And start writing.
I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to meet you for dinner. I tried my best, but there was a family crisis I had to attend to—a crisis that is eating all my ice cream in tears back at the apartment, in fact. And long story short, I have a sister who is no longer engaged and an ex-boyfriend who, in the most underhanded way imaginable, proposed to me instead. It’s been a mess. But while it’s a temptation to use my family situation as an excuse for my tardiness, I can’t help but feel there was something else at play. And the fact is . . . I can’t go on without letting you know the truth.
Tonight I realized I am interested in another man.
I’m so sorry. I have loved our friendship through the pages. I just wish the relationship we had on page was the same as we share face-to-face.
Anyway, what you’ve done for me here is so much more than I can ever express in words. I am so grateful to you and the time you’ve spent with me on this project. If you’d like, I’d love to remain friends. And if you are up for that, which I hope you are, dinner tomorrow is on me. I’m turning this manuscript in tomorrow. I’d love to celebrate with you.
Waiting with bated breath,
S.
There. I sit back and look at the note scrawled down the page.
It’s raw. And painful. And it hurts me just to read it.
But it must be said.
Because in the events of tonight, I’ve learned something. Something about myself. About what I really need to remember in this life.
It turns out, racking up accomplishments doesn’t mean anything. Life is not simply some game where the person with the most plaques wins. It’s not about a perfectly organized home or acquiring degrees you’ll never use or the number of inches around your waistline or, most especially, counting steps. Life is about movement, and pause. Work, and rest. It’s about relationship. About valuing others and truly taking the time to show them they are precious. About valuing yourself, too, and your uniquely given, whispered-into-your-DNA goals and dreams.
Life is about making drippy pancakes on a Saturday morning, and leaving the dishes in the sink to sit down with Lyla at the kitchen table and talk about her new agent. It’s about making a bath and spending so much time reading in it that the water gets cold and my fingers go pruny. Yes, there should be fundraisers and shoebox drives and hard work, too, but it’s also about slowing down. Truly being present.
It’s about appreciating the miraculous gift that is existence. It’s about loving on others as much as you can. And yes, it is also about appreciating what organically makes you happy and, where reasonable, finding it.
Which is why, tonight, I had to write to Sam.
Because I realized what would make me happy.
I want another dart game with Will.
I want to sit in his truck and drive through town, talking about our past.
I want to run through a tunnel of people with flying rice and fat snowflakes, holding hands.
And unlike people like Ferris, I can’t go on dancing with other partners while really only wanting the real thing.