Book Lovers(95)

31





LIBBY CHOOSES A dinner spot in downtown Asheville, a chic Cuban restaurant with a rooftop patio. Yesterday’s storm left the air cool and breezy, a huge relief after the last three sweaty weeks.

The city is lit up below us, halfway between quaint village and bustling metropolis, and the food is divine. Brendan and I split a bottle of wine and Libby even has a couple sips, moaning as she swishes them around in her mouth.

“It kind of feels like we’re in New York, doesn’t it?” she says, eyes misty. “If you close your eyes, just the sounds of all these people, and that feeling in the air.”

Brendan’s mouth screws up like he’s considering disagreeing with her, but I just nod along. It doesn’t feel like New York, but with all of us together, it almost feels like home.

I feel an improbable wave of nostalgia at the thought of running up or down the stairs to a train platform, hearing that metallic shriek, feeling the wind gust through the stairwell, and not knowing if I’ve arrived in the nick of time or if my train just went screaming past.

What’s the weirdest thing you miss about the city? I text Charlie.

He writes back, It used to be having access to a Dunkin’ Donuts within three blocks at all times.

I smile at my phone. The DD-to-person ratio there has to be like one to five. What else?

I miss Eataly, he says, but I wouldn’t call it weird.

If you didn’t miss Eataly, we could never speak again. Because you’d be in prison, where you’d belong.

Relieved to have dodged that bullet, he says. Also not weird but I think a lot about the first day in spring that’s actually kind of warm. How everyone’s out at once, and it feels like we’re all almost drunk from the sun. People in the park in shorts and bikini tops, eating Popsicles, even though it’s like fifty degrees out.

Charlie, I reply. Those things are all objectively amazing.

He takes a while on his next reply. Early-morning commute mariachi bands, he says, or opera singers, or any singing group really. I know it’s not a popular stance, but I fucking love when I’m almost asleep on the train, and suddenly five guys are singing their hearts out.

I love watching everyone’s reactions. There are always some people who are kind of feeling it, and some who look like they’re plotting murder, and then the ones who pretend it’s not happening. I always tip because I don’t want to live in a world where no one’s doing that.

I can’t think of a greater symbol of hope than a person who’s willing to drag themselves out of bed and sing at the top of their lungs to a group of strangers trapped on a train. That tenacity should be rewarded.

I love, I write, your nightmare brain.

And here I thought you were using me for my nightmare body.

And then, a minute later, I love your brain too. And your body. All of it.

I’ve spent ten years guiding my life away from this feeling, this terrible want. All it took was three weeks and a fictional woman named Nadine Winters to pull me right back.

“Don’t make any plans for tomorrow afternoon,” Libby says, kicking my sandal under the table. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Brendan’s looking at the table, almost guiltily. Either he’s not convinced I’ll like my “surprise,” or Libby’s threatened him with murder if he gives it away.

“Brendan,” I say, fishing, “tell your wife she can’t go skydiving while pregnant.”

He laughs and lifts his hands, but still avoids my gaze. “Never tell a Stephens what she can and cannot do.”

The editing job at Loggia flutters across my mind, and Charlie’s voice saying, If I had to pick one person to be in my corner, it’d be you. Every time.



* * *





Once again, Libby has me tie a silk scarf over my eyes for the length of our cab ride—driven, unfortunately, by Hardy, but luckily it only lasts five minutes, and then Libby’s wrenching me from the car, singing, “We’re heeeere!”

“Once Unofficial Town Tour?” I guess.

“Nope!” Hardy says, chuckling. “Though y’all really gotta do one! You’re missing out.”

“Funeral for Old Man Whittaker’s fictional dog,” I guess next.

Libby shuts the car door behind me. “Colder.”

“Funeral for the iguana that played Old Man Whittaker’s fictional dog in the community theater play?” I listen for clues as to our location, but the only sound is the breeze through some trees, which could put us approximately . . . anywhere.

“There are two stairs, okay?” She prods me forward. “Now straight ahead, there’s a small ledge.”

I stretch my foot out, feeling through space until I find it. A blast of cold air hits me, and my shoes click onto hardwood floors as we take a few more steps.

“Now.” Libby stops. “Give me a drumroll.”

I slap my palms against my thighs while she unties the scarf and yanks it away.

We’re standing in an empty room. One with dark wooden floors and white shiplap walls. A large window overlooks a thicket of blue-green pine trees, and Libby steps in front of it, vibrating with anxious energy despite her grin.

“Imagine a huge wooden table right here,” she says. “And some wicker plant stands under this window. And a Scandinavian chandelier. Something sleek and modern, you know?”