I nodded. “Probably more so.”
“Well, then, you finally get it. What’s been a total clusterfuck of an emotional nightmare for you can always be exciting and, like, othering for somebody else. These things that people write, the stories they tell…they’re never just entertainment.”
“Oh, no? Then why are you smiling like that?”
“Well, I’ve been pretty fucking entertained.” She raised her arms to my shoulders, like we were slow-dancing in middle school. “I’m going to miss you, creepo. You’re something else.”
I kissed her cheek and held her close. “You’re something else, Cath Kennedy.” When she pulled away, my arms lingered around her waist. “I spent all that time being obsessed with Miss Misery, but she’s got nothing on you.”
Cath blushed. “Thanks. Don’t you dare be a stranger.”
“Never again.” I held her stare for a moment longer, then smiled and started to walk away. “Oh,” I said, turning back. “One last thing.” I handed her the extra set of keys. “Would you hold on to these and maybe check in on the place for me? I might have left some lights on, and I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
She looked unsure. “You trust me that much?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I really do.”
As I walked through the air-conditioned airport, I held my head high, my shoulders straight. I felt strong. I felt sure. And I liked it. Once again I got some funny looks from the security staff when they noticed I had no luggage, and I laughed to myself about how unlike me all this spontaneity was.
But when it was time to board, I thought of all that had happened and all that had ended on that roof, and I came to the realization that it was like me after all.
I had been wrong, you see. My life hadn’t been lived as an exercise in responsibility. What it had been was an exercise in convenience: Everything worked perfectly, so being responsible wasn’t a test; it was a given. Until the day that Amy left, shattering my plans, upsetting my routine. Then, faced with a deviation from whatever path my subconscious had set out for me, I resisted. All of the demons I had sat on for years came bubbling to the surface, and I backslid into immaturity. Into peevish selfishness. Into no one but myself.
But no longer. Flying to Europe on a moment’s notice wasn’t to right some wrong or aid some damsel in distress. It had nothing to do with lives outside my own. It was about me and it was about my life. It was about living it instead of fearing it for a change. It was about going out instead of staying in. It wasn’t about dealing or fighting or any of the convenient buzzwords I had placated my subconscious with over the past few hectic days—it was about accepting.
I had just made it to the start of the jetway, and the smiling stewardess held out her hand to take my ticket and send me on my way. But instead I hesitated and took myself out of the line. There was one last thing to do before I boarded.
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed a number I hadn’t dialed in a very long time. It rang once. Then twice. Three times.
“Hello, you’ve reached the office of Thom Watkins at Pendant Publishing. Please leave a message after the tone.”
Voice mail. How appropriate.
“Hi, Thom,” I said as I reentered the line and handed my ticket to the attendant. “It’s your long-lost writer, David Gould. Just wanted to check in with you now that I’ve been found. Listen, Thom, the book is going to be a little bit different than I imagined. Hope that’s OK. It turns out it’s going to be a novel.”
I had reached the end of the jetway, and I ran my fingers along the cold hull of the airplane for luck. Then I stepped aboard, ready for whatever would come next.
“You see, Thom, I’ve realized something about these diaries. They may be true, but they don’t always tell the truth. Because reality can be much crazier than fiction. And fiction, well…sometimes it can just end up being a whole lot more accurate than the truth.”
The day I left was perfect—at least in terms of weather. When night fell, all of the windows in my apartment were still open. And I was gone.
Acknowledgments
This book, like everything I endeavor to do, would have been impossible without the constant support, love, wit, and inspiration of my friends and family. There are a select few, though, to whom I am especially indebted.
First and foremost, thanks are due to my steadfast agent, Jim Fitzgerald, and to my new editor and friend, Ryan Fischer-Harbage, for believing in this far-fetched project from the beginning and for nurturing it (and me) every step along the way. Thanks also to everyone at Simon Spotlight Entertainment for taking a chance on a first novel and for making me feel so welcome within the company.
My parents, Anne and Michael Greenwald, acted as my best friends and fans during the writing of this book, and I truly couldn’t accomplish anything without them. Loving thanks to my grandmother, Sylvia Greenwald, for being a constant believer and my de facto publicist for Northeastern Pennsylvania.
More love, gratitude, and cocktails need to be showered on: Matt Jolly, Chris Ryan, Lara Cohen, Sean Howe, Allan Heinberg, Chris Baty, Marc Spitz, and Chuck Klosterman.
Thanks and a big shout-out to all of the kids who have reached out to me since the publication of Nothing Feels Good and especially to all of those who keep me company (and keep me honest) on the andygreenwald.com message board.
I’m extremely grateful to the Brooklyn Writers Space for providing me with a quiet place to type away at this beast—as well as for keeping me away from my Ethernet connection long enough to actually finish the damn thing.
And finally, the biggest thank-you goes to Rachel Bien, for everything you have put up with and everything you have pushed me to do. This book isn’t about you, but in every way it exists because of you. I love you.
Thank you, New York City. Good night!
Miss Misery Page 31
