I set the book down before picking it up again and walking to the counter. Gus had almost damaged me. He’d almost made me reconsider everything I’d believed about myself, turn around, and head back to a normal desk job. Almost. Instead, I’d plowed ahead and coded the best messaging program around. Then I’d sold it to one of Gus’s competitors. That one sale—the result of countless hours of work—had earned me close to a billion. That one sale had also killed Gus’s social media platform. Too bad, so sad. Of course, all of that had happened after the book was published. Wonder what Gus had to say now that everyone had stopped using his website?
I tucked the book under my arm and began the trek home to the cottage. From the shops downtown it was about half a mile to the coast, then another mile or so to my house. I had made this journey so many times that I could do it on autopilot. Walking has a way of hammering out my thoughts, always has. Something about the rhythm of footsteps. When I was coding, I’d go for long walks in the middle of the day, sometimes for hours at a time, in order to clear my head. That’s when the answers would come, when my head was clear and I wasn’t thinking about the questions any longer. That’s what happened on the walk back to the house now, when I acknowledged to myself that I’d only bought Gus’s book because I was feeling displaced irritation about Mindy and what had happened at Jai’s house.
What had happened, exactly? I didn’t even know, except I probably shouldn’t have called Mindy a SWERF. I guessed I’d internalized all of the dinner table discussions we’d had as a family about women’s agency. Mom thought women should have a right to make money however they chose, and that laws concerning prostitution are only another way for the patriarchy to control women’s bodies. Sometimes she’d go on and on about women who called themselves feminists while assuming that women who traded sex for money were victims. Intersectional feminism and the need to include all women of all races in the discussion—including those who self-identified as women—I’d heard it all, usually over some kind of baked chicken or pasta. Funny how memories from home come out in the strangest ways. But I could see Mindy’s perspective, too. She was protecting her grandmother.
A strong wind was coming across the water. It whipped at my shirt and shorts and pushed at my back. A storm was coming, and the purple clouds were blooming like a bruise. Now I was thinking about home again, back in Monterey, California. I was imagining the rugged Pacific coast and my quaint, privileged childhood. Pain was so foreign until David died. They say that into every life some rain must fall, and God knows I’d had a lot of sunny days. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t be bitter about the storms.
When I reached home, I felt that emptiness again. I tossed the book onto an end table beside the couch before shutting the windows and lighting the fireplace with a flick of a switch. By then, the rain was starting to hit the window in heavy, thick drops. I picked up the book and opened it to the first chapter, but my eyes wouldn’t register the words. All I heard was David.
You called her names on purpose. You knew it would upset her.
No, of course I hadn’t. The argument—if it could even be called that—had happened organically. I’d said something innocent and she’d overreacted. But I imagined David with that smug look on his face. He was a great guy, but sometimes he could be really smug. We both could. You like her.
“So what?”
You’re mad at her for being hung up on Chase, so you’re calling her names. What you really want is for her to like you.
“Shut up, David. Go away.”
Maybe I did like her, but I didn’t want a relationship, either. Something casual would be fine. Mindy was only in town for the summer, so that could be perfect. By the fall I’d be on to something else, something other than people walking. “So you’re wrong. I’d like to get laid. Why would I sabotage that?”
I imagined David with that know-it-all grin. So go get laid. There’s a bordello across the street.
I focused on the chapter in front of me, feeling the blood drain from my face as the words formed a story of a young man, “wide-eyed and naive,” who’d approached Gus at a tech conference and asked if he could buy him a drink.
“Just one drink,” the young man said. He was a clean-cut kid with that baby fat still in his cheeks. His mom had probably dressed him in that blue polo shirt and khakis and told him to “go network” so that he could be a tech success. But I took one look at this kid and I knew he’d never make it. He’d never worked a hard day in his life. He had the air of someone who’d had everything handed to him.
“Let me ask you,” I said. “How much is your trust fund worth?”
The young man seemed startled. “I don’t have a trust fund,” he said, shakily.
Bingo, I thought. This was one of those insulated young punks. I knew this crowd and I could read this kid’s story like it was written on his broad forehead. High school jock. Made fun of people who sat in front of computers all day. Now he sees how rich these nerds are and he wants what he believes he’s entitled to have. How the tables have turned, my friend.
I let the kid buy me a drink because even with a hundred million scattered in bank accounts and investments, I wanted the pleasure of making this punk pay for my time. Then when he told me that he was working on a messaging interface that would improve upon text messaging, I told him to go home.
The kid stared at me blankly. “Go home?”
“You don’t think I’ve seen you before? You’re the guy who’s had everything handed to you. You’ve never earned a thing. Not your car, not your expensive degree from a fancy college, not even the money you’re using to buy me a drink. You have no idea what you’re doing here or the number of sacrifices it would take for you to create the program you’re talking about.”
I thought he’d concede and leave. I almost hoped he’d get angry and toss his beer on me. I’d gotten used to being the nerd that high school jock types tried to abuse. C’mon, throw a temper tantrum. I could see him getting angry, and I wanted him to take that swing. I was kind of impressed when he kept his cool.
“You don’t know me,” he said.
“Oh, yes, I do, my friend.” I told him about the e-mails I received daily from would-be millionaires who wanted to know my secrets. Where did I get my ideas? How did I make that sale? How could someone else replicate my success? I used to answer those e-mails myself, but these days I’m too busy to respond to that volume. These days I have an assistant respond for me, but the response is always the same. The secret is hard work and a little luck. There are no shortcuts.
“You’re here looking for my advice because you’re looking for a shortcut. I don’t have it. I had a great idea and I put in a lot of time to make it a reality. So my advice? Go home, buddy. People who look for shortcuts are never going to make anything of themselves.”
I shut the book. Son of a bitch. He’d used our interaction in the very first chapter. If my fireplace had burned wood instead of propane, I would’ve tossed the book into the flames.
I didn’t have a trust fund. My parents were college professors. We lived in a nice house in the suburbs and yeah, our lives were sheltered, I guess, but it wasn’t the way Gus made it seem in his book. I’m glad I ruined your business. Not that Gus cared what happened to his website after he sold it, but the fact that it was now out of business meant that he was kind of a joke.
Gus was wrong about you, I imagined David saying. You like hard work and you don’t mind working alone. You thrive on it.
This was true. Being a people walker was outside of my comfort zone. Spending my days making small talk with strangers was not where I’d ever imagined myself. “I’m doing it for you,” I mumbled, imagining that wherever he was, David could hear me. Not like the gesture made sense—to me, to him, to anyone. Why would David care if I became a people walker? Grief makes us do strange things.
I tossed Gus’s book aside. I wouldn’t spend another minute reading that tripe, but it had sparked something in me: this competitive flame
that I’d not felt for so long, I’d started to wonder whether I still had it. But yeah, I definitely did.
My mind began churning. I went to that place where I lose sense of reality and all the ideas come. New codes. Improved systems. New applications. I flew to my desk and found a pad of paper and a pen and I began jotting down the thoughts as they came. I don’t know for how long I sat there like that, emptying my brain onto the paper, but by the time I reached the last page in the notebook it was dark outside, and I was exhausted.
I set down the pad and the pen and turned off the fireplace. The house still felt empty, but I wasn’t thinking about any of that. I was working again, and that felt great.
MINDY
I BROUGHT Nana lunch at the nursing home and we ate at the picnic area on the patio. We were sitting at a round wooden table sheltered by an umbrella. “You were right about Vaughan,” I said. “She’s a madam.”
I probably said it a bit too loudly judging by the way the women in maroon scrubs at the next table stared, but Nana didn’t give me any reaction. She took a small bite of her sandwich and looked out at the primroses. “I know you hate it,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’m trying to get her to leave. I was going through the lease and there’s something in there about illicit activity, and— It doesn’t matter. I’m trying. Because I know that’s not what you want.”
Nana set her half-eaten sandwich down and reached for the white paper bag. “You said you brought cookies?”
“Yes, here.” I handed over the bag and watched as she removed a giant chocolate chip cookie. “But you heard me, right? I’m doing this for you.”
She peeled the plastic wrap from her cookie slowly, deliberately. I wanted to say it again and explain that, see, this proved how devoted I was to her. I wanted her approval. Instead, she patted me on the hand and said, “You should bring more cookies next time. Then I can share them.”
I spent a couple hours visiting with my grandmother, and by the time I reached the cottage, it was pouring rain. The path from the car to the front door was short, but I was soaked by the time I got inside. The cottage was dark because I hadn’t anticipated the rain when I’d left, so all of the lights were off. I tossed my keys onto the counter, chilled.
Chase had texted me on the drive back from the nursing home. Hey. U coming to the party? That was literally all he wrote. No How are things? Or How come I haven’t seen you around? He only wanted to know if he had to pay for me to attend his stupid engagement party to Jackie. It soured me.
On the list of things that could happen in life, singeing my eyebrows ranked higher on the happiness scale than attending that party. Lettie had been texting me, too. She wanted to know if I was going so she could respond accordingly. I don’t know, I texted. Kind of torture.
She texted back right away. But also kind of curious?
I considered that. Yes.
Chase and Jackie were having their engagement party in a bar, and Jackie was pregnant. So yeah, I was wondering how that was going to work out. Part of me believed that in order to feel in control of this situation, I needed to be aggressively involved with Chase and Jackie’s engagement. They would fight, and I wanted a front-row seat. I wanted Chase to tell me everything Jackie said that was unreasonable, or demanding, or flat-out cuckoo, because I knew in his mind that meant he believed I was none of those things. To Chase, I was stable. Always on his side. Normal. Even if he had never wanted to sleep with me, I liked that he thought highly enough of me to complain to me about his girlfriends. Balancing that need for control with my need to not willfully hurt myself was tricky.
The party was tomorrow night. I needed to give Chase a response. Go with Brett. The thought appeared with a pulse of excitement in my stomach. Just as quickly, I remembered that Brett had defended Vaughan. You’re not marrying him. You’re only bringing him to the party to show how well-adjusted and over Chase you are. Still.
I headed to the bedroom to change out of my wet clothes and into something warmer. This was not a warm summer rain but a cold one, and I wanted to pull on a cozy sweatshirt. Pros of inviting Brett to Chase and Jackie’s engagement party: Brett was hot, kind, and a fun person to spend time with. Cons: I’d have to apologize first.
I peeled off my tank and shorts and tossed them into a laundry basket. As I was looking for warmer clothing, Beau nudged the bedroom door open and wandered in, his tail lifted straight into the air. “I know, it’s dinnertime,” I muttered. “Just let me get dressed.”
He leapt onto my bed and flopped down in the middle, a large gray bundle. The tip of his tail twitched as he studied me, flat on his fluffy gray side. I finally located a thermal tee and some yoga pants and pulled them on. “Okay, ready for dinner?”
I took a chance and reached over to stroke Beau’s head, and to my surprise he rose to his feet and lifted his head to meet my fingers. He arched his back as I scratched down to his tail, and I thought he might have even started purring. “Well now,” I whispered, afraid to jinx the moment by being too confident. “Hello, Mr. Beau Jangles. See? We can be friends.”
He rubbed his cheek against my fingers, closing his eyes. He was happy, and it was weird, because I’d never seen Beau express that emotion before. “Come on, mister,” I said softly. “I have a can of Liver Divine with your name on it.” When I left the room, he leaped down to the floor and followed me into the kitchen.
I couldn’t believe it. I’d actually managed to charm Beau. Maybe it was because I’d sage-smudged him and exorcised the bad energy from the cabin the night before? I didn’t know, but he’d never let me touch him and now he was sitting beside my feet as I opened the cabinet where I kept his food. It was like he’d suddenly realized I was good for something and adopted me. The thought made me downright fuzzy inside. It also gave me a burst of confidence.
While Beau ate the liver sludge, I texted Lettie. I’m going to the party. Then I texted Chase the same. Because, what? Chase gets engaged and I have to hide away from the world? No. I was not a shrinking violet, and I was feeling good about most things. Beau had let me touch him and Nana and I had had a pleasant visit. I’d brought sandwiches to the nursing home and after lunch we’d sat in her bed and watched her soap operas. Her recovery was going well. She’d told me about the friends she was making in the nursing home. My surly nana, making friends! And most important, I knew she was safe. She wasn’t going to fall off a ladder or be attacked by a raccoon that had entered her home when she’d forgotten to shut the back door. I felt happy about that. Before I’d left the nursing home, I’d promised to bring her to bingo night on Tuesday and she’d lit up. I felt like the great granddaughter and all-around fantastic human that Luanne Henry imagined me to be.
So really, there were only a few loose threads in my perfectly stitched life: Vaughan, Chase, and Brett. I would face Chase tomorrow night and I’d look super hot doing it. Nothing to do but pick up my dignity and throw it in his face. Vaughan—still an open question. Absent any clear help in the lease, I’d have to resort to other means to force her out. And Brett? I really felt bad about our argument. He’d definitely been wrong for taking Vaughan’s side and calling me a SWERF. I didn’t even fully understand what that meant, but that didn’t stop me from being pissed off. Still, I felt kind of bad. I’d stuck my fingers in my ears and told him to leave after he’d taken me for a nice walk, checked for wild animals, and cleaned up garbage. That hadn’t been my finest moment.
Beau finished his dinner and wandered off again, but maybe I could sleep with my bedroom door open. Maybe now that I’d petted him, he wouldn’t try to suck my breath.
The rain had slowed. I opened the window and some cool evening air came in. I didn’t even know where Brett lived. He knew so much about me, but I’d never bothered to find out about him. West Portsmouth was small, and he walked everywhere, so he must live somewhere close to the center of town. I should apologize, not let it fester.
I opened my handbag and searched for the card he’d sent with the dog bis
cuits. Shoot—I couldn’t find it. I must have dropped it somewhere—maybe at Nana’s house? Who knows. But now I didn’t have his phone number, e-mail, or address. All I knew was that he’d hung those ridiculous people-walker flyers all over town.
I had a light windbreaker shoved to the bottom of one of my duffel bags. (Yes, I’d been moved in for a week and I still wasn’t fully unpacked.) To find the jacket, I had to move the cardboard box filled with Lit Chick clothing, and I smiled a little when I remembered what Luanne had said about setting up a boutique at bingo night. If I sold all my inventory, that would be several hundred dollars in my pocket. I didn’t have the luxury of turning up my nose at that kind of money. Maybe I’d think about it, but I wouldn’t hawk my wares in a church basement while Nana played bingo. Too far.
I pulled on some wellies and went to the door. “Good-bye, Beau!” I called over my shoulder as I left. No answer, but that was okay. He was probably sleeping off dinner.
The sudden shift in temperature after the rainstorm was dramatic. I zipped the windbreaker to my chin and tied my hood as I stepped into the evening. The inn was lit invitingly, and man, was I getting nostalgic lately. The vision of the stately white inn in the evening, the smell of rain and wet soil—it all brought me back to a summer night long ago when Nana and Grandpa had brought me and Michael to eat pizza downtown. It had been one of our few outings, since our grandparents were always so busy with the inn, so it had been a treat. We’d had our pizza and then the sky broke like this one, but Michael and I wanted ice cream and no amount of cold weather would stop us. I had black raspberry and Michael … I don’t know what he had. Probably vanilla, since the kid was picky like you wouldn’t believe. We walked home in the rain with our cones, shivering and happy. It was a perfect night.
I stuffed my hands into my pockets and made sure to step in the puddles. Vaughan offended me. She was flinging mud at an inn that I loved. This would not stand.
Losing Mr. Right Page 13
