“Sure,” I said. “Of course.”
“Where is she?” he asked. I led him down the hall to her closed door. “You can knock if you want,” I said. “I think she knows it’s you. But don’t be upset if she doesn’t answer . . . I’m sorry, Bradley.”
He nodded and opened his guitar case. The guitar inside wasn’t an expensive one; in fact, I was pretty sure it was the same old battered one he had been lugging around since high school. He pulled it out and strummed a few chords. Suddenly I remembered something: Last year, Gary had taken Alex to a private party—a charity gala where tickets cost five thousand dollars a pop—and Sting had appeared and sung three of his classic songs. Alex had even gotten her photo taken with him. (“I could barely look at him without thinking of the Tantric sex,” she’d told me. “He’s tiny, but holy God, what a stallion!”) And now here was Bradley, with nothing but his battered old guitar, sitting cross-legged on the worn carpet in front of Alex’s room.
He cleared his throat and finished tuning his guitar, and then he began to sing. It was an old Beatles song, I realized after a moment.
Oh, Bradley, I thought. So what if his voice wasn’t all that good? What girl wouldn’t choose him over Gary with his private fund-raisers and celebrities and three-hundred-dollar bottles of wine? Who wouldn’t rather be with Bradley?
“Here, there, and everywhere,” Bradley sang, his voice gaining strength. “. . . watching her eyes and hoping I’m always there . . .”
Bradley was strumming louder now, putting his heart into his song. His voice cracked once, but he kept on singing. He kept trying to reach Alex.
Open the door, I willed her. Don’t do this to him. He doesn’t deserve to be shut out.
Bradley just kept singing. Somehow I suspected he’d stay there all night if he had to. But after just a few minutes, I saw it: The doorknob turned ever so slightly. It stopped moving for a second, then it turned the rest of the way and the door opened. Not all the way open. But just enough for Bradley to stand up and slip inside.
“Okay,” I whispered. I blinked back tears—tears of happiness for Alex, and maybe some of sadness for me. Because that door opening meant the one between Bradley and me would stay forever closed.
“Okay,” I said again. I pushed away my tears with the palms of my hands and stood there, wondering what to do next. This would be the last time I’d ever cry about this, I vowed. One final cry, and then I’d move on for good.
I put a few tissues in my pocket, then I grabbed the car keys and went out for a long drive.
Thirty-three
TWO MONTHS LATER
IT WAS DARK OUT, and I could hear the summer’s first crickets singing as I stood on the broken walkway, shining my flashlight up over the house. I’d thought it might look spooky at night, with all the cobwebs and the jagged mouth of a window in the upstairs bedroom, but as I stared at it, I realized it just looked lonely. I made my way up the creaky porch steps and fitted my new key into the lock.
A few hours ago, I’d sat in the office of a title company and flipped through dozens of papers, signing my name at the bottom of each one. As of 3:00 P.M. today, after weeks of negotiating with the druggie son in the commune, I owned this house. It still seemed surreal.
I shifted my purse higher up onto my shoulder and played my flashlight over the walls of the living room. In the semidarkness, the inside of the house didn’t look so bad. The shadows hid the cracks in the plaster and the buckling floorboards. I carefully climbed the stairs and peered into the master bedroom, my eyes roving over the huge, arched windows, the fireplace with its wrought-iron screen, the delicate crown molding around the ceiling. This house had no idea what was in store for it. It was going to be so beautiful when I was finished with it.
I walked over to the bedroom window and unlatched it and let it swing open. I leaned out and breathed in the heavy, damp air and closed my eyes.
Something had happened to me, something I couldn’t explain or even fully understand. It was as though a rupture had formed deep inside of me the day I’d gotten fired, splitting everything that was familiar to me into jagged shapes. These past months had been strange and sometimes frightening, but I’d felt more alive than I had in a long time. Maybe ever. Accepting May’s offer and buying this house meant I’d made a decision: I was embracing the unexpected new contours of my life rather than piecing the safe old ones back together. I was moving down a new path, one with twists and turns that camouflaged what lay ahead, and I had no idea where I would end up.
Earlier today, as I’d poured May a fresh cup of tea, I’d broached something I’d been turning over in my mind. “Maybe down the line, we could think about opening up another branch,” I’d said.
May had taken a sip, then nodded thoughtfully. “We could.”
“I’m not saying we’d have to,” I’d said. “It was just an idea.”
“I’ve thought about it before, too,” May had said, stretching out her legs. “We could try to take our company into New York and Baltimore and Philly. We could even go national. Of course, it would change the nature of our work. We’d have to make sure that’s what we really wanted to do.”
It would mean more travel, and longer hours, I’d realized. And more money and prestige. Someday we might decide to look into it. Right now, though, I was content with not knowing exactly what the future held.
For the first time in my life, uncertainty didn’t terrify me.
I wasn’t the only one whose life had split apart, of course. When I’d climbed into the attic the other day to finally sort and put away all the old papers I’d pulled out of boxes, I’d seen something: Alex’s modeling portfolio. It was lying beside a stack of papers, as though she’d just dropped it there and walked away without looking back. I sat down and opened the black leather book and stared at the glossy photos and tear sheets from magazines: Alex kneeling on the beach in a gauzy white shirt that hit her at midthigh, looking sleepily sexy; Alex in a long red dress and diamond necklace, her hair upswept and elegant; Alex in a tiny bikini, her head thrown back and her stomach muscles glistening with oil. Funny how I saw those photos differently now. They weren’t evidence that Alex had won the genetic lottery, leaving me with the doggie bag of leftovers; they were beautiful illusions she’d worked impossibly hard to create. Four bites of dessert a week, I thought, shuddering, as I closed the portfolio. Looking back over your shoulder at the thirteen-year-olds chasing you. What a way to live.
Funny how Alex and I had both been so wrapped up in our identities, never suspecting that things could change in a heartbeat. But Alex was already moving on. She was spending every possible second with Bradley, and they seemed incredibly happy, despite the fact that Alex was enduring nausea because of her daily radiation treatments. Bradley was the one who took her to the hospital most days, and he paced outside the room until she was finished.
These days when he came to pick her up, he didn’t wait in his car for her. He came inside, and sometimes, if Alex wasn’t ready yet, we chatted casually.
When Bradley had to work, I drove Alex to treatment, and afterward we went out for the plain bagels and ginger ale that helped settle her stomach. Sometimes we talked, and other times we shared the newspaper and sat in companionable silence. And a few nights ago, I’d walked into her bedroom and discovered her reading a catalog from the University of Maryland.
“Anything interesting?” I’d asked.
“Maybe.” She’d shrugged a shoulder. “There are a few classes this fall that look pretty good.”
I smiled now, thinking of it. Alex the businesswoman. And me with my old, falling-apart house and closet full of sexy clothes and low-stress job.
No one who’d known me in New York would’ve believed it.
No one except Matt, who’d cheered me on every step of the way of my transformation, and had consoled me when I’d phoned and told him the whole tangled story about me and Alex and Bradley. Ever since then, Matt and I had grown even closer, talking and texting
nearly every day. This morning, when I’d gotten cold feet about writing the check for my house, he was the one I’d called for reassurance.
“It’s me,” I’d said when he’d answered the phone.
“Hey, you,” he’d said in his familiar voice, and I’d instantly felt better.
“Can you talk?” I’d asked.
“God, yes. Would you believe I’m on the Hormel account?” he’d said. “If I have to look at any more photos of pork products, I’m going to start oinking. I’m trying to decide which is Spam’s best side.”
“Definitely the right side,” I’d said. “I think Spam’s agent put a clause in its contract saying that it can only be photographed from the right.”
Matt had laughed. I’d pictured him leaning back, his feet up on his desk, holding a mug of the mocha-flavored coffee he loved so much.
“So it’s the same old thing there, huh?” I’d asked.
“Actually, no. I’ve got a little news for you,” he’d said, and I’d heard the smile in his voice.
“Let me guess,” I’d said. “Cheryl got bigger implants.”
“Even better. Cheryl got dumped.”
“Are you kidding?”
“She was dying to become Mrs. Fenstermaker the fourth, but Fenstermaker is dating one of the Gloss models now. And Cheryl has to stare at the model’s face every time she works on the account. I have a feeling Fenstermaker might yank his business any day now. Cheryl’s campaign isn’t doing too well.”
“You have no idea how happy that makes me,” I’d sighed.
“Someone may have typed up a sign that says ‘Karma is a bitch’ and taped it to Cheryl’s computer.”
“Someone?”
“Some mysterious guy. A kind of superhero-like figure, really.”
“I always thought you’d look good in a cape,” I’d said.
“But not the superhero underwear and tights,” Matt had said. “That undercuts the whole macho thing.”
We’d talked for an hour.
Now I unlocked my front door and stepped inside. I looked around at my cobwebby walls and sheet-shrouded furniture, then I reached into my purse and pulled out a brown paper bag. Inside was a miniature bottle of Moët. It was time to replace my bad associations with champagne with good ones.
I popped the cork and watched the vapor rise like a ghost from the mouth of the bottle. I sat down on the floor of my living room and took a sip, then I splashed a few drops into the air, so my house could celebrate along with me.
“Cheers,” I said, lifting the bottle in a toast.
The doorbell rang.
The doorbell? I almost laughed out loud; something in my house actually worked. Probably someone collecting for the Sierra Club. I stood up and brushed the dust off my jeans.
“Who is it?” I called through the door.
“Pizza guy.”
“I didn’t order a pizza,” I shouted.
Though maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to send him away; I’d skipped lunch.
“Says here one extra large black olive and mushroom.”
“But I—” Then it hit me and I yanked open the door. “It’s you!”
“It’s me,” Matt agreed.
“But you were in New York,” I babbled.
“This morning I was,” he said. “But there’s this new invention called a train.”
“You took a train?” I still couldn’t believe it. Matt was here. He was the first person to see my house. Suddenly it made me so glad.
“First things first,” Matt said, stepping inside and looking around for a place to put the pizza box before setting it down on the floor. “Pammy and I broke up.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. And I truly was, if it meant Matt was hurting.
“It was a long time coming,” he said.
“What happened?”
He paused for a long moment. “She didn’t make me laugh.”
“Oh,” I said. My heart pounded faster. My palms grew moist. It was just Matt, I told myself. Matt, the best friend I’d ever had. Matt, who made me laugh and took care of me. Matt, who had the warmest brown eyes I’d ever seen.
My Matt.
“That’s not the only reason we broke up,” Matt said. “Remember when you told me a while ago about that guy you and your sister both liked? Something weird happened.”
“What?” I whispered.
“I got jealous.”
I looked into his eyes and remembered him in his red fleece jacket, standing on the platform as my train pulled away, his face so sad without his big smile. I thought about the night we’d watched Casablanca and how I’d caught him staring at me instead of the movie, even though it was his all-time favorite. I saw his hand reaching out between us on the table at Ruby Foo’s.
“I kept telling you to jump,” he said. “Now it’s my turn.”
I felt something unfurling inside of me, something that had been closed up like a fist.
“What I can’t figure out is if this is a recent thing, or if I’ve loved you all along,” Matt said. “Maybe it took you leaving to make me realize it.”
“You love me?” I whispered.
“I love everything about you,” he said. “I love the way you skip dinner when you’re dieting and then eat a pint of ice cream later because you get so hungry. I love the way you line up your pencils at right angles to your stapler. I love how you’re looking at me so seriously right now with this big smudge of dust on your nose.”
He stepped closer to me and gently rubbed it off with the pad of his thumb.
Everything seemed to swirl around me as I stood there, inside my new life, the one rich with so many possibilities. Inside my new house. And inside Matt’s arms.
It was exactly where I wanted to be.
Acknowledgments
MY FIRST READER IS always my father, John Pekkanen, and he’s the best editor and writer I know. Dad, I’ve got a proposal: I’ll forget about the surprise in your voice when you said, “Hey, you might actually be able to get this thing published!” and you forget about that little incident involving me and the nocturnal break-in at the neighborhood swimming pool. Deal?
Lynn Pekkanen, my mother, is a fine editor in her own right—and the most supportive one I could wish for. Thanks for believing, Mom. And thanks to my brothers Robert and Ben, both excellent writers themselves, who encouraged and harassed me along the way.
I’m lucky to have three sisters-in-law who read early chapters and gave me good critiques: Saadia Pekkanen, Tammi Lee Hogan, and Carolyn Reynolds Mandell. And other readers improved this book in countless ways: Rachel Baker, Anita Cheng, Lindsay Maines, Janet Mednick, and the gang in Hildie Block’s class at the Writer’s Center, especially Rick. And my gratitude to Susan Coll, for inspiration and guidance over sushi.
Chandra Greer generously taught me about the world of advertising, and Mike Langley and Karl Wenzel also helped fill in the gaps. The book Adventures of an Advertising Woman by Jane Maas provided both a rollicking good read and some valuable background. I hope in creating Lindsey’s fictional agency I didn’t stretch the facts too much—but if I did, please feel free to blame Mike.
I’ve been so touched by the warm welcome I’ve gotten from book bloggers, who have generously mentioned The Opposite of Me on their websites and let me post guest blogs. Thank you all for championing books, and for supporting not just me but so many other authors.
My agent, Victoria Sanders, is as smart and kind as they come—and her dedication is unmatched. Here’s proof: She once emailed me from the dentist’s chair. Victoria, I hope I’m lucky enough to work with you for many, many years. Victoria’s editorial director, Benee Knauer, pored over this manuscript and helped shape it from page one. Benee, thank you, thank you, thank you. My appreciation also to Chris Kepner in Victoria’s office.
Chandler Crawford helped this book see the world—my deep gratitude to her and to my publishers in foreign countries.
When it came time for my agent to submit this book, th
e name of one editor was at the top of my dream list. Greer Hendricks, you are my literary Harvard! I knew your reputation as being the best in the business. What I didn’t know was how kind and warm you would be—and how good you are at coming up with book titles. Thanks also to Greer’s assistant, Sarah Walsh, for helping in innumerable ways during this process, and to the entire team at Atria, including Judith Curr, Kathleen Schmidt, Jessica Purcell, Carole Schwindeller, Sarah Cantin, Anna Dorfman, and the amazing sales team. I can’t imagine a better home for a novelist. And my deep appreciation to Jennifer Weiner, for her support and suggestions.
I’ve been fortunate to learn about writing from some wonderful newspaper and magazine editors, starting with Jack Limpert at The Washingtonian, who gave me my first job in the business, possibly against his better judgment. Thanks to Leland Schwartz for hiring me at the late, great States News Service and to David Grann, Marty Tolchin, and Al Eisele at The Hill. My gratitude also to Jeff Stinson and Judy Austin at Gannett. The day John Carroll gave me a job at The Baltimore Sun will always stand out in my memory. Thank you, John, for fighting the good fight for storytelling, and for allowing me to work with Jan Winburn, who showed me how it’s done. Steve Hull of Bethesda Magazine is the kind of editor every writer should have—supportive, enthusiastic, and whip-smart. Finally, to my friend Bill Marimow, now at the helm of The Philadelphia Inquirer. Bill is that rare individual who seems happiest when he is helping others succeed. Thanks for everything, Bill. Our next round of beers is on me.
An extra biscuit to Bella for warming my feet while I wrote.
And to my husband, Glenn Reynolds, and our sons, Jack, Will, and Dylan. You all make me so happy, every day.
The
Opposite
of
Me
SARAH PEKKANEN
A Readers Club Guide
QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION
1. When you first encounter Lindsey Rose, what is your reaction to her workaholic attitude? Do you see it as justifiable in her profession?
The Opposite of Me Page 33
