Halfway to You(81)

Keith’s sigh rattled the phone speaker like a gust of storm wind. “I knew. But I hoped I could—”

“Change my mind?” I chuckled, not unkindly. “What were we saying earlier about strong women?”

“I believe I said it’s exhausting.” He huffed a laugh, and the tension between us diffused.

I traced the outline of one of Todd’s letters with my finger. The edges were wrinkled and worn soft from travel, not unlike me. “How is he?”

“Todd? He’s fine. He’s . . . well, you ought to read what he wrote.”

I swallowed and—though Keith couldn’t see me—nodded.

“Just think about the deal?”

“I already have.”

“All right, okay.” When he spoke again, his strong business voice had returned. “One more thing: the movie.”

“I remember.” The premiere was set for next year, and the studio wanted me to be involved in the press tour. They were waiting on my teaching schedule to book a strategy meeting. “I don’t know where I’ll be, yet.”

“You’re going to keep traveling?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

I heard the sandpapery sound of him scratching his stubble.

“I can practically feel the opinion coming,” I prompted.

“Look, Ann, I’ve tried to be patient, I really have.”

“About?”

“The teaching.”

“Volunteering?”

“I know you think you’re doing a good thing.” A pause. “But this is just another form of running away from your problems.”

I flinched. “Teaching brings me purpose.”

“No, teaching is a distraction.”

“So, let me get this straight,” I said. “When it’s family vacations and travel articles—things that benefit you and your stake in my career—it’s fine for me to travel. But when it’s my own thing, as teaching has been—”

“Ann,” Keith cut in. “I’ve known you—what, fourteen years?—and you do this every time. You travel to forget. And sure, I’m grateful for the time we’ve spent together and the relevance your articles have helped you maintain. And I know that with teaching, you’re doing something that benefits others—but face it: just as the stamps on your passport won’t patch up your heart, those kids aren’t your therapy.”

“How dare you,” I said, outrage blooming in my body like the plume of a bomb. “This work is rewarding. Meaningful.”

“You’re trying to fix other people instead of yourself.”

“I—” It was more of a wrathful sound than a word. I opened and closed my mouth, starting and giving up on every snarling thought that came to mind. “Where is this coming from?”

“Frankly, it’s long overdue. As soon as things get real, you run. That’s what you do—what you’ve always done.”

“This is about the novel, isn’t it? You’re angry I haven’t produced something new for you to sell.”

“That’s not true.”

“I’m just a walking dollar sign to you, aren’t I?” Angry, flaming words, meant to scorch.

“After all these years, if that’s what you think . . .” I’d never heard his voice so tight and terrifyingly measured. “You know what? Stay in Peru as long as you want. Stay far away and waste your mind and heart and talent hiding from your problems. Waste away, for all I care. But from now on, leave me out of it. Don’t fucking call me.”

He hung up. Just . . . click.

I slumped.

I hadn’t meant what I said, of course. Hadn’t meant to accuse or harm. But I’d felt so good about teaching. Virtuous and purposeful. His criticism had enraged me—no, it’d wounded me. So I had wounded back.

I released the corded phone into its base with a clatter and wiped my cheeks with my fingers, pressing my palms into my eyes to blot out the threat of tears.

I sighed, deep and heavy, and stood up.

Paced.

Fretted.

I knew I should apologize.

I picked up the phone and dialed Keith’s number. It rang and rang until I reached the machine, a cute recording of Iris suggesting I leave a message. I hung up and tried again with the same result: You’ve reached the Whitakers . . . The third time, someone picked up but immediately severed the connection.

I sank to the bed again, overwhelmed by the silence of my hotel room, the strange city sounds a muted din beyond my closed curtains. Alone—I was so alone. And it was by design. My fault.

Who else can I call?

My mind went straight to Mom. I hadn’t wanted to call her in a long, long time, but within the agonizing aloneness, the grief of that urge stung behind my eyes. Eight years after my mother’s death and I was still terrified of becoming her; she had spent her whole life falling in love and landing flat on her face. After Todd, I thought I was destined to do the same—and yet I craved her advice now. I craved her candy-coated voice and her sober optimism. Because the truth of the matter was that I was just like her. Weak and afraid and cruel in anger. Hopelessly romantic and also simply hopeless.

I tried to think of someone else I could call. Usually, lately, when I was upset, I dialed Keith—a sour irony, now. I could talk to Carmella, but she wouldn’t understand my strife over Keith’s accusation.