Halfway to You(31)
“I think I sprained it,” he said, looking up at me.
“Do you need a doctor?”
“Maybe tomorrow. It might be fine.”
I crossed my arms over my body, resisting the urge to crouch down and hug him in my relief. “It’s not broken?”
He touched each finger to his thumb, testing his dexterity. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Are you okay other than that?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t hit your head?”
“No.”
“What year is it?”
“I didn’t hit my head.”
“What—”
“Nineteen eighty-four.”
“Good. Let’s go find Keith. We need to sober up.”
We didn’t tell Keith about our argument. I’m sure he sensed the tension between us—the way Todd angled his body away from me when we sat down—but Todd’s wrist took precedence. We told Keith that Todd had slipped when we were getting down from the roof, hence the scrapes and possible sprain. Todd insisted on waiting until morning to visit a doctor.
So we ate, got sober, and drove home. Todd rode behind me. He did not wrap his arms around me but instead gripped the back lip of the seat, tucking his injured arm against his chest. We retired to our respective beds without talk.
I didn’t entertain the fantasy of Todd coming to my room that night—this time, I was certain he wouldn’t. Instead, I lay awake hoping that maybe Todd and I could go back to normal; maybe now that I knew for certain he wasn’t interested, I could move on. But in the morning, when I emerged from my room and Todd was there on his patio sipping coffee, I knew. I knew I couldn’t do it.
I had to leave.
I ducked into my room and packed my things. I waited until Todd went inside to shower, then pinned a note on their patio table with a rock. I don’t remember exactly what I wrote, but it didn’t say much. Just that I’d had fun, but it was time for me to go.
As I was dragging my suitcase up the narrow hotel stairs, Keith appeared.
“What did he say to you?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, yanking on my suitcase.
“Yes, it does.”
I faced him, hands on hips. “Keith, why have you been throwing us together all week? You must’ve known he didn’t want—” I bit my lip.
“He’s . . . grieving.” Keith stumbled on the word, perhaps in an effort to respect Todd’s privacy. “This trip was about moving on. After Venice . . . I could tell he liked you. I was just trying to help.”
I poked my suitcase with my toe.
“Just come back to our room, okay? Come with us to Crete. You’ll see that—”
“What are the chances that Todd falls in love with me?” I asked with measured calm.
He didn’t answer.
“That’s what I thought.”
“He does care for you, Ann. And so do I. Please?”
My heart was wet paper, disintegrating by the moment. “It’s too humiliating.”
He couldn’t argue with the tears that blurred my eyes, so he grabbed my bag and carried it up the steep steps to the road. Wordlessly, he waited with me for my taxi, then gave me a long, fierce hug.
“You take care, all right?”
I nodded against his broad chest.
When we parted, he handed me a blue business card. “If you really want to be an author, get some work published. Short stories, travel articles. Then, when you finish your novel, call me.”
MAGGIE
San Juan Island, Washington State, USA
Monday, January 8, 2024
“Please tell me you convinced her to do some recording,” Grant says.
It’s nearing noon, and the weather’s surge has died down. Maggie stepped outside to call Grant while Ann searches for something in her office—letters of some sort.
“Still nothing, but the conversations are going well.”
“You can hear every juicy detail and it’ll mean nothing to the podcast without permission to use it, Maggie.”
Maggie winces. She still hasn’t told anyone about the accidental recording, nor has she deleted it; she’s holding out hope that Ann will ultimately change her mind, but she’s growing doubtful. “I still have a few days left on the island to convince her.”
“About that,” Grant says. “Joy is really on my case about this today. Without any proven progress, the podcast can’t continue to pay for your lodging.”
“Joy actually said that?”
“Joy doesn’t know about this mess we’re in. I’m saying it.”
Maggie shudders, hugging herself. She regrets not putting on her coat; though the rain has stopped, the wind is rough and carries a damp cold.
“If you’re not getting material, are you really working?” Grant explains. “SBTS can’t pay you to drink tea and chitchat for days on end—no matter how amazing Ann is. We’ll have to involve Joy eventually, and when we do, I can’t be responsible for that kind of financial loss.” He pauses, then, as if his next words are cold molasses. “You’re putting me in a difficult position.”
It’s not Maggie doing this, though. It’s Ann. Her frustration rises like a wave, but it doesn’t break. It rolls through her, followed by a trough of worry. Maggie can’t afford to remain on San Juan Island. Without SBTS paying her travel expenses, she’ll have to give up before she’s had a chance to make it right.