Funny You Should Ask(49)

“I’m happy for you,” I say.

He wraps an arm around me and squeezes.

“Let’s get you two crazy kids to Montana.”





THE JAM—NEWSLETTER


THE ZEN OF PUZZLING


I’ve been puzzling for a long time.

It allows me a distraction from my own brain. To help me deal with occasional bouts of depression, of loneliness, isolation.

It gives me something to do that doesn’t require my full attention.

My perfect puzzling situation is this: Put on a movie after dinner, pop an edible, and puzzle until it kicks in. That usually happens when I can’t figure out what’s happening in the movie anymore and I’m staring at the puzzle board with my empty hand hovering above the pieces.

I like to start with the edges.

I want to create boundaries—context—for whatever I’m making. I want to know where it will end. This is not the most fun way to start a puzzle—or a project—and sometimes the edges can be a nightmare, but it’s the only way I know.

You never know if a puzzle is going to be good until you get into it.

The fun part starts when I know my limits. When I know what I’m working with. That’s when I begin sorting through my pieces, grouping them in order of color or pattern. I don’t put them down on the board—not yet—but I build piles of them outside the edges. Not quite ready to piece them together.

Until I am.

There’s no logic to it. There’s no reasoning. It’s instinct.

And there’s something deeply satisfying about finishing a puzzle. About placing that last piece, that satisfyingly soft snap of it fitting together perfectly.

That’s not my favorite part, though.

My favorite part is after I spread my hands over the smooth, assembled surface, marveling in the work I’ve completed, I then undo it all.

xoChani





Chapter

16


“You know”—Ollie leans back in his seat, one finger against his chin—“divorce suits you.”

“Jesus,” Gabe says.

“What?” Ollie elbows him before turning back to me. “It does. Your skin is glowing, your hair is luxurious. Everything about you is lighter, almost as if you got a five-foot-nine growth removed from your side.”

“Ollie,” Gabe says.

“He wasn’t five foot nine,” I say.

Ollie glances over at Gabe, and mouths, Yes, he was.

Gabe rolls his eyes.

“I’m just saying you look great,” Ollie says.

“Thank you?” I say.

“She always looks great,” Gabe says.

“She is right here,” I say.

“Ollie insults your ex-husband and you’re annoyed at me?” he asks, with more amusement than anything.

I shrug. I don’t know if I’m annoyed at him. I don’t know how I am.

“I didn’t like him,” Ollie says, determined not to be left out of this conversation.

“You met him once,” I say. “For five minutes.”

“It was enough,” he says.

Unlike with Gabe, who I’d only seen that one time in New York, I’d crossed paths with Ollie on several occasions over the past ten years. In addition to the highly publicized interview I’d done with him, we’d occasionally run into each other when I was in town.

The last time, three years ago, had been a fluke. The rare occasion where Jeremy had come with me to L.A. I’d had an interview scheduled at Little Dom’s in Los Feliz, so Jeremy had busied himself at the nearby indie bookstore, charming the booksellers and signing stock. When I was done, I texted him, but as I walked toward the door, a hand had emerged from one of the booths and gave my arm a friendly tug.

Ollie and his husband, Paul, had been drinking mimosas and sharing a plate of silver dollar pancakes.

There was a girl at the bar not-so-discreetly trying to get a shot of Ollie. When he waved at her, she’d squeaked and dropped her phone. He’d beckoned her over, taken a picture with her, and signed her napkin. She was leaving just as Jeremy walked in.

I made introductions; everyone shook hands. We talked for a few minutes, but it was enough time for Jeremy to offer to go back to the bookstore to get a copy of his book for Ollie.

“I’ll grab one on my way out,” Ollie had said.

“Do you think he will?” Jeremy had asked maybe five more times that day.

“I’m sure he will,” I’d said, even though I knew he wouldn’t.

I’d both hated and loved how superior the interaction had made me feel. Jeremy was the one who had all the clout in our community in New York. He was the well-respected novelist, I was his puff-piece-writing wife.

In L.A., however, I was the one chatting with celebrities who I knew had no interest in Jeremy’s work.

That memory did serve to prove his point, though. I didn’t love fame, but once I had a taste of it—no matter how bitter the aftertaste—I wasn’t willing to give it up.

If I was, I would tell my agent that I didn’t want to do another collection of essays. I would tell her and my editor what I really want to write. I would take a fucking risk.

“How’s Paul?” I ask Ollie, thirty thousand feet over New Mexico.