The Break(69)

But now that I’m in them again, there seems to be a sense of me trying to claw my way out of something. My entire body feels like it’s cramping up as I read the pages over and over. I squeeze my fists and release them, knowing I need a break from this. I put the laptop on my mom’s desk and sit with Lila in the recliner opposite my mom’s bed. I’ll just watch her sleep for a bit, and then I’ll leave her a note and I’ll go.

After a while I close my eyes, just for a moment, but before I know it my thoughts are taffy, all stretched out and dreamy, and then I’m sleeping. In my dreams I look down to see a little boy wrapped in a swaddle. I carefully take him from a nurse, and this time no one tries to take him from my arms like in all my other dreams. Ghosts stand around my hospital bed, but they don’t seem scary at all.

I look down at the beautiful baby. “Gray,” I say, gathering him to me. I weep onto his smooth, unearthly pale skin.





THIRTY-EIGHT


June. Three months ago. August 4th.


We’ve been working side by side for two hours when Louisa gets up to go to the bathroom. I freeze, listening for sounds of her crying, scared she’s going to be bleeding and that I won’t know how to help her. I know it’s nuts for her even to be working today, but I also know that me being here and us working together is taking her mind off what happened. Or at least that’s what James whispered to me in the kitchen when we took a break to make Louisa lunch.

Louisa seems okay when she comes out of the bathroom. Maybe it’s really over—the physical part, at least. She stands at the edge of the bed where she’s working. I’ve been working at a little dressing table. My phone buzzes with a text from Harrison.

Haven’t seen you yet today. All ok? Lunch still on? If you’re free, I’d love to see you.

Hey! I text back. I’d completely forgotten about lunch today. I’m so sorry. Something came up. I’m working at Louisa’s today. Can we raincheck for tomorrow?



I stare at my phone, but Harrison doesn’t text back.

“I’ve got a favor to ask of you, June,” Louisa says. She’s so distracted and unlike herself that I have to focus extra hard on what she’s been telling me today so I don’t miss anything. “I’ve got one of Gabe O’Sullivan’s scripts with notes,” she says.

My heart squeezes like a fist at the sound of Gabe’s name. I don’t like it—especially when I’ve done a good job forgetting him today. (Which makes me think I maybe have some shred of decency left.) “Normally I’d just messenger it back to him,” she says. “But I don’t want to use the company messenger service from my home address. Can I let you go early today and you can drop the script at Gabe’s building with the doorman on your way home?”

Oh God.

Yes? No? “Of course,” I say, because how else can I answer this question without explaining that I should be staying far, far away from Gabe O’Sullivan?

“You sure?” Louisa asks, an eyebrow up. She’s not distracted enough to miss something strange on my face.

“I’m sure,” I say confidently.

“He’s a terrific writer,” Louisa says. “And have you read his wife?”

My heart pounds. I read her writing last night for the first time. It was terrific. “I read her debut novel last night in one sitting,” I say. “After I met them both at the reading, I was curious.”

“They’re both so magnetic,” Louisa says. “And that first novel of hers is a stunner. They’re expecting, you know, so just imagine the talent genes.” Louisa looks out the window of her bedroom to her view of Central Park. I wonder if she’s thinking about Rowan being pregnant, and how lucky she is. “The O’Sullivans are both just so incredibly talented,” she says, distracted again. “I mean, you’d hate them if you could, but they’re just so lovable, the both of them.”

I force a smile.

She looks back at me. “I’m getting pretty tired, June. I think I should probably rest. How about you take that script down to Gabe’s place?”





THIRTY-NINE


Rowan. Friday evening. November 11th.


I’m a madwoman racing Lila and myself back downtown.

It’s too dark, too hot, and I imagine the car dying and skidding off the road and the police coming to find us overheating and delirious. Lila’s asleep in her car seat—thank God for that—and down the West Side Highway I go, gripping the wheel with sweat slicking my palms and worried I’ll lose control and drive us both into a guardrail.

Fifty-Seventh Street.

Forty-Second.

Thirty-Fourth.

I try to hold the wheel tighter, but I can’t stop shaking and sweating—I can’t seem to get a good hold on the car. I brake too hard for a red light and we lurch to a stop. I look into my rearview mirror to catch Lila’s reflection in the infant mirror we’ve set up, and I can see her beautiful face, but not the rise and fall of her chest. I hope she’s all right—her neck is strained at the worst angle, and for a moment I consider getting out of the car and trying to fix her. But the light turns green and someone behind me blasts the horn. I hit the accelerator and we start again, faster, faster, and I’m so scared I’ll lose consciousness and slip away and they’ll find me dead or dreaming on the side of the road, dreaming of babies, dreaming of him again. I roll down the windows, needing the air on my skin, needing to feel connected to something outside this claustrophobic box. My phone rings. I expect it’s Gabe, but when I look down I see it’s the detective. I don’t answer.