Book Lovers(102)

He stares at me, his eyes focused and brow furrowed as he absorbs what I said, his lips pouting. It’s his Editing Expression, and when it clears, he shakes his head and says, “No.”

I laugh, surprised. “What?”

He straightens, steps in close. “I said, no.”

“Charlie. What’s that even mean?”

“It means,” he says, eyes glinting, “you’ll have to do better than that.”

I smile despite myself, hope thrashing around in my belly like a very determined baby bird with a broken wing.

“I’ll expect notes by Friday,” he says.



* * *





The rest of the week, we’re running. Libby’s working on the fundraiser ball. Brendan’s finishing the final phases of the mortgage process. Charlie’s at the register, and Sally’s in and out nonstop, getting everything ready for the virtual book club with Dusty.

There’s a new sign in the window, reading MAKE GOOD CHOICES, BUY GOODE BOOKS, and a poster of Dusty’s face advertises both the book club and the Once in a Lifetime Blue Moon Ball.

Volunteers transform the town square, and technically I’ve called off for the week, but some things won’t wait, so I do my best to squeeze in bits of work in between giving the girls piggyback rides and cleaning up my résumé for Loggia.

I’ve always thought of myself as a creature of survival, but lately I’ve been daydreaming. About a new job. About Charlie. About having everything, all at once.

So in that way, maybe this place did transform me. Just not into a girl who loves flannel and pigtail braids.

When we’re together, Charlie and I don’t keep our distance or circle each other warily. We give in to every moment we can, but we don’t talk about the future. When we’re apart, though, we keep the story going over calls and texts.

You’ll spend Christmas in Sunshine Falls and I’ll spend New Year’s Eve in the city, he says.

We’ll get up early and train hop until we find a mariachi band, I say.

We’ll go to town hall meetings and involve ourselves in public feuds, then go back to the cottage and have sex all night, he says. And, We’ll do a taste test of all the dollar slices in the city.

We’ll get to the bottom of the cubed-ham salad at P.S., I say.

I believe in you so deeply, Nora, he says, but not even you can unlock the secret of that great mystery.

I’ll be so busy, I remind him. For the first couple months when I get back, I’ll be cramming in time with Libby and the girls—and, if I get the Loggia job, tapering off my agency work, off-loading my clients to another agent. Then there will be the learning curve of stepping into a new role.

Busy doesn’t scare me, Charlie says.

This, I think, is what it is to dream, and I finally understand why Mom could never give it up, why my authors can’t give it up, and I’m happy for them, because this wanting, it feels good, like a bruise you need to press on, a reminder that there are things in life so valuable that you must risk the pain of losing them for the joy of briefly having them.

Sometimes, I write to Charlie, the first act is the fun part, and then everything gets too complicated.

Stephens, he replies, for us, it’s all the fun part.

It hurts, but I let the dream go on awhile longer.



* * *





No one will ever convince me that time moves at a steady pace. Sure, your clock follows some invisible command, but it feels like it’s randomly spouting off minutes at whatever intervals suit it, because this week is a blip, and then Friday night arrives.

Another heat wave breaks, ushering in fall weather, and we set up the tent and air mattress again. While Libby and Brendan walk into town to pick up quattro stagioni pizza, the girls and I lie on our backs, watching the sky darken.

Bea tells me about everything she and Brendan have baked over the last few weeks. Tala regales us with a tale that is either the nonsense ramblings of a toddler or a faithful retelling of a Kafka novel.

After we’ve eaten, Libby suggests Brendan take the king bed to himself tonight, and he says, mid-yawn, “Oh, thank God.”

When he kisses the girls good night, they’re so sleepy they hardly react, except for Tala reaching her little arms up toward his face for a second before letting them flop down on her tummy.

He kisses Libby last, then gives me a side hug (world’s worst hugger), and I feel a bigger crush of love for him than I did the day he married my sister.

“What the hell,” Libby whispers, laughing. “Are you crying?”

“Shut up!” I toss a pillow at her. “You broke my eye muscles. I can’t stop it now.”

“You’re crying because you love Brendan so much,” she teases. “Admit it.”

“I love Brendan so much,” I say, laughing through the tears. “He’s nice!”

Libby’s laughter escalates. “Dude, I know.”

Tala grumbles and rolls over, her arm flinging across her eyes.

Libby and I lie back side by side and hold each other’s hands as we study the improbable number of constellations.

“You know what?” Libby whispers.

“Probably,” I say, “but try me.”

“Even if you can’t see them back in Manhattan, all of those stars will be over you too. Maybe every night, we look up at the sky at the same time.”