Praise for
GOOD LUCK WITH THAT
“A powerful testament to the hard work of self-love. . . . A paean to how it’s never too early (or too late) to be a little kinder to yourself. . . . [A] story of learning to love oneself and living a life that leads with that love, in all its joy, sorrow, failure, and triumph.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“A bold, unflinching look at a reality every woman thinks about every day of her life—body image. If you like stories that celebrate women’s challenges and triumphs, you’ll love this book. If you struggle with body issues and need comfort and wisdom, this book could change your life.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs
“Wholly original and heartfelt, written with grace and sensitivity, Good Luck with That is an irresistible tale of love, friendship, and self-acceptance—and the way body image can sabotage all three.”
—Lori Nelson Spielman, New York Times bestselling author of The Life List
“An important and brave book. . . . I can’t imagine a single reader who won’t recognize herself somewhere in these pages.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Elizabeth Phillips
Praise for
LIFE AND OTHER INCONVENIENCES
“Deeply touching, real, and raw, but infused with the love and hope that make life possible, despite everything.”
—Abbi Waxman, author of The Bookish Life of Nina Hill
“Higgins is a mastermind of family dynamics in this poignant novel about two different generations of women struggling to find common ground. I couldn’t put it down!”
—Emily Liebert, author of Some Women
“A shining star, Higgins writes with heart, humor, and honesty about women’s real lives.”
—Susan Elizabeth Phillips, #1 New York Times bestselling author of First Star I See Tonight
“Kristan Higgins’s new book Life and Other Inconveniences already has us hooked.”
—PopSugar
“A heart-wrenching page-turner told with warmth and humor.”
—People, Pick of the Week
“A rich testament to the power of second chances.”
—Woman’s World
Praise for
ALWAYS THE LAST TO KNOW
“A thoroughly entertaining exploration of families’ complexities—from bitter disappointment to quiet strengths.”
—People, Pick of the Week
“Filled with hilarious honesty and heartwarming moments. . . . A moving portrait of a family putting their differences aside in favor of love.”
—Woman’s World
BERKLEY BOOKS BY KRISTAN HIGGINS
Good Luck with That
Life and Other Inconveniences
Always the Last to Know
Pack Up the Moon
For a complete list of Kristan’s work, please visit kristanhiggins.com.
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2021 by Kristan Higgins
Readers Guide copyright © 2021 by Penguin Random House LLC
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Higgins, Kristan, author.
Title: Pack up the moon / Kristan Higgins.
Description: Berkley trade paperback edition. | New York: Berkley, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020042953 (print) | LCCN 2020042954 (ebook) | ISBN 9780451489487 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593335369 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780451489494 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3608.I3657 P33 2021 (print) | LCC PS3608.I3657 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020042953
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020042954
Cover design by Anthony Ramondo
Cover images: flower pattern by CSA Images/Getty; love letters by BG Walker/Getty
Book design by Alison Cnockaert, adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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This book is dedicated to Charlene Marshall. Warrior. Educator. Badass.
Contents
Cover
Praise for Kristan Higgins
Books by Kristan Higgins
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Readers Guide
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I could not have written this book without the grace, humor and generosity of Charlene Marshall, who shared her IPF journey with me. Thank you, Char. Even though we haven’t met in person yet, we’re already friends.
My team at Berkley is the very, very best, and wicked fun, too. Thanks to Claire Zion, my funny, wonderful editor, for being my teammate in shaping this book (and for crying when I told you my idea, which let me know I was on the right track). To Craig Burke, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Erin Galloway, Danielle Keir, Bridget O’Toole, Jin Yu, Anthony Ramondo, and all the folks in editorial, sales, art and marketing who do such a fantastic job getting my books out into the world . . . thank you. It is an absolute joy to work with all of you.
My agent, Maria Carvainis, and her unwavering team—Elizabeth Copps, Martha Guzman and Rose Friel—are the very best in the business, always there to guide and support me.
As always, I made ample use of information available through the Mayo Clinic, the Pulmonary Fibrosis Foundation, the American Lung Association and hundreds of articles on this complex disease. To Peter, Sophie and Richard, thank you for sharing your stories of neurodiversity and autism spectrum disorder, and thanks as well to Autism Speaks for the heaps of information they offer. Any mistakes are mine.
Personal thanks to Jen, who cheered me on, and to Joss, Stacia, K
aren and Huntley. Kwana Jackson, Sonali Dev, Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Robyn Carr, Jamie Beck, Xio Axelrod, Kennedy Ryan, Deeanne Gist, Nana Malone, Nancy Robards Thompson, Marie Bostwick . . . the list goes on and on, and my goodness, I am well and truly blessed. Special thanks to LaQuette R. Holmes, M.A. for her brilliant class, The Critical Lens.
To Hilary Higgins Murray, my dearest friend and the absolute best person to be with during a zombie apocalypse or pandemic, thank you for being the perfect sister.
Thanks to my husband, Terence Keenan, for . . . well, for everything, really. To my funny, intelligent, gorgeous children, you are my favorite people on earth. Sitting on the front porch with all of you (including you, Mike-o!) is all I can ever ask for.
Thanks to my sweet dog Willow, who was at my side these past ten years, keeping me company as I wrote, making me smile every single day. See you at the Rainbow Bridge, sweet girl.
Finally, thanks to you, readers. Thank you for the gift and honor of your time.
1
Lauren
Eight days left
February 14
Dear Dad,
I’m dying, my husband is going to be a widower, and this has been the most wonderful year of my life.
How’s that for surprising?
These past few weeks . . . months . . . I’ve been feeling things changing. Remember the time we all flew to California and drove home? I think I was ten. I remember being able to feel us getting closer to the East Coast, all those miles behind us, home getting closer, even when we still had hundreds of miles to go. You could feel it. You could tell you were getting close.
That’s where I am these days.
But I’m too busy living to dwell on that fact. Like Red says in The Shawshank Redemption, get busy living, or get busy dying. I’m going with the first one.
People carry a terminal diagnosis differently. I wanted to ride on its back like it was a racehorse, Dad. I think I have. I can’t say that being sick is the greatest thing that ever happened to me, because I’m not an idiot. But it’s an undeniably huge part of my life . . . and I love my life. More than ever.
Writing to you has been a way to keep you in my life after you died, Dad. You’ve been gone for eight years, but I’ve always felt you with me. That’s what I want to do for Josh. I’ve been working on my plan, and today, I finished. Kind of fitting that it’s our anniversary. Three years. I want to make today great for Josh, make him laugh, make him feel loved to the moon and back, because I don’t think we’re going to make it to our fourth.
We’re so, so lucky. No matter what’s coming, no matter how soon.
It’s easy to cry and even panic over this stuff. But then I look around and see everything I have, and all that joy . . . it pushes everything else away. It truly does. I’ve never been so happy in my life.
Thanks for everything, Daddy. I’ll see you soon.
Lauren
2
Joshua
February 14
ON THEIR THIRD wedding anniversary, Joshua Park came home to Providence, Rhode Island, from a meeting in Boston with a medical device company. They’d bought his design, and he was glad to be done being around people, and very, very glad to go back home to his wife.
He stopped at the florist and picked up the three dozen white roses he’d ordered. This was in addition to the chocolates he’d bought from his wife’s favorite place, which he’d hidden carefully; the leather watch; a pair of blue silk pajamas; and two cards, one sappy, one funny. He did not take anniversaries lightly, no sir.
Joshua unlocked the apartment door and found the place dark except for a trail of candles leading down the hall. Pink rose petals had been scattered on the floor. Well, well, well. Guess he wasn’t the only one who’d gone to the florist. Pebbles, their dog, was asleep on her back on the sofa.
“Is this your work?” he asked Pebbles. Pebbles wagged her tail but didn’t open her eyes.
He took off his shoes and shrugged off his coat, which was wet from melting sleet. Cradling the huge bouquet, he walked slowly down the hall to the master bedroom, savoring the moment, banishing the worry over knowing she’d gone out in this raw weather. Anticipation fizzed through his veins. The bedroom door was open a crack, and the room flickered with more candlelight. He pushed the door open, a smile spreading slowly across his face.
His wife lay on the bed on her stomach, wearing nothing but a red ribbon around her waist, tied in a bow on the small of her back. Her chin was propped on her hands, her knees bent so that her heels almost touched her very lovely ass.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said, her voice husky.
“Happy anniversary.” He leaned in the doorway and just took in the sight—his wife (the word still gave him a thrill)—her dark red hair loose around her shoulders, her creamy skin glowing in the candlelight.
“Guess what I got you,” she said.
“I have no idea.”
“It starts with ‘sexy’ and ends with ‘time.’”
“Just what I wanted.” He loosened his tie. “You’re not too tired?” he asked.
“Do I look tired? Or do I look like someone who’s about to get shagged silly?”
He laughed. “Definitely the latter.” He went to their bed, knelt down and kissed her with all the love, gratitude, lust and happiness in his heart.
“You taste like chocolate,” he said, pulling back a little. “Shame on you.”
“Is it my fault you left me alone in the house with Fran’s salted caramels?” she asked. “I think we both knew what would happen.”
“Those were hidden.”
“Not very well. In a shoebox in a suitcase on the top shelf of the closet? Please. You’re such an amateur.”
“You have a nose like a bloodhound.”
“Yes, yes, talk dirty to me,” she said, laughing. “Come on. Unwrap your present and make love to your wife.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and he did, sliding his hands over her silky skin. God, he loved being married. He loved Lauren, loved this room and this bed and the fact that she’d go to the effort of lighting candles and scattering rose petals and undressing and finding a red ribbon. Her skin smelled like almonds and oranges from her shower gel. She’d painted her toenails red. All for him.
“I’m the luckiest guy in the world,” he whispered against her neck.
“Ditto. Except woman,” she said, and she started laughing, and when they kissed again, they were both smiling.
In love wasn’t a phrase. It was how they lived, wrapped in the warm, soft blanket of mutual adoration, and in this moment, on this evening, nothing else mattered. They were untouchable, golden, immortal. He would love her the rest of his life, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that she would love him the rest of hers.
However long or short a time that would be.
3
Joshua
Twelve days later
February 26
WAS IT WEIRD to look for your wife at her funeral?
But he was. He kept glancing around for Lauren, waiting for her to come in and tell him what to say to all these people, what to do during this service. Where to put his hands. How to hug back.
She would know. That was the problem. She knew all about these things—people, for example. How to act out in the world. At her wake last night, she would’ve told him what to say as her friends cried and held on to his hand and hugged him, making him uncomfortable and stiff and sweaty. Classic spectrum problem. He didn’t like crowds. Didn’t want to hug anyone except his wife. Who was dead.
She would’ve told him what to wear today. As it was, he was wearing the one suit he owned. The same one he’d worn to propose to her, the same one he wore to their wedding three years ago. Was it a horrible thing to wear your wedding suit to your wife’s funeral? Should he have gone with a different tie? Was this suit bringing
shit up for her mother and sister?
This pew was hard as granite. He hated wooden chairs. Pews. Whatever.
Donna, Lauren’s mother, sobbed. The sound echoed through the church. Same church where Josh and Lauren had gotten married. If they’d had kids, would they have baptized them here? Josh was pretty much an atheist, but if Lauren had wanted church as a part of their life, he’d go along with it.
Except she was dead.
It had been four days. One hundred and twelve hours and twenty-three minutes since Lauren died, give or take some seconds. The longest time of his life, and also like five seconds ago.
Lauren’s sister, Jen, was giving the eulogy. It was probably a good eulogy, because people laughed here, cried there. Josh himself couldn’t quite make out the words. He stared at his hands. When Lauren had put his wedding ring on his finger at their wedding, he couldn’t stop looking at it. His hand looked complete with that ring on. Just a plain gold band, but it said something about him. Something good and substantial. He wasn’t just a man . . . he was a husband.
Rather, he had been a husband. Now he was a widower. Utterly useless.
So much for being a biomedical engineer with numerous degrees and a reputation in healthcare technology. He’d had two years and one month to find a cure for idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, a disease that slowly filled the lungs with scar tissue, choking off the healthy parts for breathing. He had failed. Not that a cure was easy, or someone would’ve done it before. The only devices on the market were designed to push air into lungs, work chest muscles or clear mucus, and those weren’t Lauren’s problems.
He hadn’t figured it out. He hadn’t created something or found a drug trial that would kill off those fucking fibers and scars. Since the day of her diagnosis, he’d devoted himself to finding something that would save his wife. Not just slow the disease down—they had those meds, she’d been on them, plus two experimental drugs, plus the Chinese herbs and traditional medicine, plus an organic diet with no red meat.
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