I still want those things, and in this way I am powerful. I am human. I am Providence.
My new home is in a rural area. We have strawberry farms here. More fruit, less people. I do my best to keep to myself. A woman on my route left me a six-pack of beer at Christmastime, but I didn’t leave her a thank-you note. It’s my destiny to be on my own right now. I know it. Same way I know Chloe loves me, always did. You know so much if you just believe in yourself. I just wish I could have been so sure of it years ago, before.
After my shift, I drive with the windows open. I play our songs and I feel a rumble in my stomach. I pull over to one of the emptier fields. I park. Out here, the giant sky cools my jets. It’s a blue that’s still new to me, the opposite of New Hampshire, not an ounce of gray in it. I sit in a remote part of the field and I Google the people I’ve known, Chloe, my mom, Officer “Eggs” DeBenedictus from the mall. I’m happy to see him doing so good. He looks happier in the recent pictures. I hope I had something to do with that. I left him that note because I think if you have what someone needs, you give it to them. It was almost like we were friends, even though we didn’t know each other. Sometimes you just know people for no reason. You look at them and you’re friends, even if you never talk again. It’s easy. And you know that. It’s the same with love, with Chloe.
I miss her. She’s still in New York. That’s her home, this is mine, for now. There’s nothing but now.
And now I have to get started on my other job, my research. I’m still trying to learn more about what Roger and Meeney studied for so long, the dodder vine, the contradictory nicknames for it, lover’s lace, devil’s ringlets. It’s a botanical vampire, a parasitic weed with tiny green limbs that stretch around unsuspecting tomato plants, sucking the life out of them. It’s hard to kill dodder, probably hard to kill my jets too.
I didn’t get to ask Roger if that was the right word for them. Jets. I didn’t get to say a lot of things.
I pick a strawberry, a big fat one. One of my first memories as a kid is being in the doctor’s office with my feet dangling off the edge of the table. The doctor closed the door, told us that I was allergic to strawberries. There was something in them called Fragaria allergen 1. It’s the reason strawberries turn red. My mom made me memorize those words. She was always so worried I would forget. Strawberries were everywhere. They were at school, on TV, dipped in champagne, in chocolate. They’re a sex fruit. A love fruit. But for me they were death.
I bring the berry to my lips. So sweet I could cry.
Roger Blair thought he was making me more powerful. And in a sense he did. But the power created a force field of nothingness around me, the wide blue sky, the sprawling, unpeopled field, not an eye in sight, a voice. If Chloe did appear on the horizon running toward me, I would have to run away from her. And Roger didn’t change the important part of me, my mind. I still know how to live in two places. I think most people do. It’s the thing that keeps us going, forever and ever. You can be the guy in the strawberry field, on your own with your newspaper-stained hands, missing the girl so much you might explode. And you can close your eyes and go into your mind, be the kid sitting by the girl who smells like cookies.
I might see her again. You never know.
It’s kind of like the strawberry allergy I had when I was a kid. One day, in fifth grade, it was just gone. And when I asked the doctor why, he shrugged. Think of it this way, he said. The human body has a mind of its own. Something inside of you wanted a strawberry so bad that you got one. Sometimes, things go your way. Don’t question it. Medicine is an approximate science. Just dig in.
It’s true. Medicine is an approximate science. Loneliness is a specific monster.
And love—love is just specific.
I sink my teeth into the red flesh and the juice bursts into my gums. It reminds me of opening a jar of fluff, when the invisible sweetness flies into you, and there is so much of you, more than you ever knew, more than anyone could ever know, anyone except your person, my person, Chloe.
My phone buzzes. It’s time.
We talk at seven every day. And technically it’s not talking, it’s typing, but it feels like talking. It always did.
I see her name on the screen. The history of all our conversations, our connection.
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. The color rushes to my cheeks. I lick my fingers. I fix my hair, as if she can see me. She can’t. But she can feel me. And she misses me. We’re trying to find someone who could help me get rid of this thing so we don’t have to miss each other.
Us she always says. Help us.
I take my phone out of my pocket. What happens next doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s for a few minutes. Sometimes we go all night. We talk and I send her the links. She goes out into the world and she knocks on the doors, she figures out who might be smart enough and crazy enough to believe what happened to me.
It’s my job to generate leads, links. I’m good at my job. I’m good at being me, in my bubble. I like being on my own, I like to read the papers and click on the words and paste them into the search engine and see where they take me. And then, when I finish my research, I send Chloe the links I found. She likes to click on them, to skim the paragraphs and scroll to the bottom of the page and find out where the people live, how to call them. In her hands, my links become more substantial, they transform into connections, vines. It’s a slow stretch in the dark, a lot of secret conversations, tentative shares, but it’s growth, it is. There are no kisses, but there are moments where I’m so close to her that I’d swear she was here, in the field with me, feeling the air turn cold, watching the sun go down, leaning into me. She says the same thing, she says she walks down the street and smiles so big because sometimes she’d swear I’m there with her. And this sensation of being in the shed together even while we’re apart, this feeling that we’re closer now than ever before, this makes us both feel better about the way things are. She says we’re a good team. And no matter what happens, she’s right.
I feel you in my bones, Jon.
Chloe.
Jon.
Chloe.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I read an article in The New Yorker called “Against Acknowledgments” where this writer Sam Sacks reasons that this section is sort of silly, maybe even “gratuitous.” It made me think about what distinguishes this section from the earlier pages, the ones filled with Jon and Chloe and Eggs. I remembered the childhood ritual of writing thank-you notes, the golden rule being that you had to identify the gift in the note, to make it personal. You can’t just say, Dear Aunt June, Thank you for the gift. You have to say, Dear Aunt June, Thank you for my coloring books.
That specificity of human connection was large on my mind when I was writing this book. I thought about the myriad ways to know a person, to receive their gifts. And in the process of telling this story, well, let’s just say I got a truckload of coloring books.
For example, I counted on the brilliant, caring, thinking, knowing, energetic Kara Cesare to read my work in progress. Kara love, I wouldn’t be here without your sparkling, psychoanalytical insight. You are a dream come true, a reader, a re-reader, a thinker, a champagne drinker. To my Alloy family: Lanie Davis and Josh Bank, Sara Shandler and Les Morgenstein. Because of you, everywhere I turn, there is intelligence and exuberance, patience and wisdom.
Claudia Ballard, I raise my glass to you and your team at WME. You believe in me, you accomplish great things. All that, plus you send me books!
Thank you, Random House, for being so magical, chock full of aces: Emma Caruso, Toby Ernst, Michelle Jasmine, Kelly Chian. Andy Ward, I am grateful for your enchanting office-village. It’s the stuff you dream about as a child sitting on the floor of a bookstore when you wonder about how books get made. Seriously, the vibe in there is that good.
Lena Dunham and Jenni Konner, my beloved publishers at Lenny
Books, you are powerful, creative angels and I thank you forever. You embraced my voice with total gusto, you cultivate an atmosphere of growth and expression. I love it here. You approach publishing with authenticity and enthusiasm. You are profoundly articulate and meticulous and invested. I’m so happy you read so voraciously, so happy you love my words.
Book lovers the world over, bloggers, readers, writers, Bookstagrammers, you are direct messengers of joy. You move me, you inspire me. I am fortunate to share my stories with you.
Lots of love to my foreign publishers. Anna O’Grady, thank you for the book recommendation as well as the Cinnamon hugs. Jo Dickinson, I adore you.
I’m not precious about where I write, but I’ll always romanticize the locations where it clicked: Starbucks in Hyannis, The Oaks Gourmet in Hollywood, The Boston Park Plaza Hotel, and that indoor-outdoor café at the East Village Standard. And of course, my sofa, Corky.
I took a lot of deep dives with this book; articles about the dodder vine are oddly captivating. It’s always a wild thing to spend all that time alone, then close the computer and be amongst humans in the talking way. It helps to know some great ones. Jolie Kerr, you are a powerhouse. Chad Kultgen, here’s to GUS2. Renee Carlino, thank you for crunchy water and the gift of your friendship. Colleen Hoover, this is the second time your name is in the book. Anna Todd, our brains are lucky we met. I heart you. Nicola Yoon, I send you burgers and bubbles. Deborah Shapiro, hi, this is Roanne from Off-Track Bedding. But seriously, thank you for listening. Sarah Tatting and Tim Kinzy, you are dear friends. Plus, you led me to Hippo Campus! Lorena David, thank you for your unwavering support. Matt Donnelly, your imagination is a heavenly wonder. Korbi Ghosh, thank you for being there to analyze and articulate things. Nicholas Fonseca, I love the joyride of our conversations. Crispin Struthers, you are rare, so thoroughly thoughtful. Lauren Acampora, Lauren Heller, Sophia Macheras, Jen Sackett, Amy Sanborn, you’ve always been there. Loving family, dreamy cousins, friends, thank you for putting up with me when I disappear into my words.
And finally, Mom, I can never thank you enough for reading everything I write. It started with my short stories (and my thank-you notes) and it never ends. Your tenderness and your strength are intertwined, your wit and sparkle too. Special thanks and love to you and Dad and Alex, always.
BY CAROLINE KEPNES
You
Hidden Bodies
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CAROLINE KEPNES is the author of You, Hidden Bodies, and numerous short stories. Her work has been translated into a multitude of languages, and a television series adaptation of You will debut on Lifetime in 2018. Kepnes graduated from Brown University and previously worked as a pop culture journalist—Entertainment Weekly—and a TV writer—7th Heaven. She grew up on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, and now lives in Los Angeles.
carolinekepnes.com
Facebook.com/CarolineKepnes
Twitter: @CarolineKepnes
Instagram: @carolinekepnes
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