“So, I hate to bring it up, but are you okay? What happened earlier?” Sarah whispers after Ella walks over to the freezer case to pick a flavor.
I give her the rundown.
“Wow. I haven’t thought about Nathan in years. I guess I didn’t know you still had a thing for him,” she tells me.
“I don’t,” I say, which is true, even if I can’t get his face out of my mind. “But I guess I never really dealt with our breakup and what happened with Julia. And when I saw those e-mails, it was like an old wound had been ripped open. I don’t want it to bother me. I mean, it was more than a decade ago, and I love Dave. It’s not like I’m going to leave him to go be with Nathan.”
“Are you sure?” Sarah asks, but she doesn’t sound judgmental.
“I’m positive,” I tell her, and hearing myself say it out loud makes me even more resolute. “I guess what really bugs me is that Nathan and Julia could be having a relationship. I mean, God forbid they’re actually dating, which would just be totally wrong—but them even striking up a friendship is a blatant betrayal to what she and I agreed to.”
We get our ice cream—double truffle and mint chocolate chip for me, vanilla chip and cherry cheesecake for her—and sit down at one of the small tables against the wall.
“I think this isn’t about Nathan,” Sarah says after a few minutes. “I think this about is Julia.” She takes another bite, then says, “It reminds me of this sermon I heard recently.”
“Sarah,” I groan. I should have known she was trying to convert me.
“No, hear me out,” she says, looking over her shoulder quickly to check on Ella, who is sitting with a little boy she’s befriended. “Our pastor—”
“The one with the loose wife?”
“No, the main pastor,” she says, swatting at me. “Last Sunday he was talking about loving others. He said that most people get the whole idea of love totally wrong. They think that love is about being the smaller person—putting aside your own needs and wishes to serve someone else. But the truth is, when we do that, we become resentful. It isn’t until we acknowledge our own needs and let ourselves shine just as brightly as the people around us that we can truly love them.”
“So you’re saying I’m afraid to let myself shine?” I ask, trying not to be offended.
“Don’t get me wrong, Marissa. I think you shine plenty bright. I mean, I tell my friends here what you do for a living and they act like you’re a celebrity.”
“Thanks,” I say, the compliment softening the blow of her earlier comment.
“It’s just that I’ve always gotten the impression that when it comes to you and Julia, you take the backseat. And this whole Nathan situation is a prime example of that.”
“I don’t know, Sar,” I say, but as I scrape the last of my ice cream out of the cup, it occurs to me that my sister—and yes, her pastor—may just be on to something.
Eleven
My phone beeps.
Ten seconds later, it beeps again. Then again.
Exasperated, I grab it off the dresser to turn the alert off and see that I have three new messages.
Ugh. I want to drop the $250 wireless ball and chain in the toilet and call it a day, but I realize that it’s probably in my best interest to check my voice mail in case Lynne—who, despite running the tenth most profitable magazine in the United States, somehow finds the time in her day to leave multiple vague-but-urgent messages for her staff—is trying to get in touch with me. I hit the “play” icon and lift the phone to my ear.
The first message is from Naomi. To my relief, she’s not calling with an edict from Lynne, but to give me a heads-up that I have finally, after two years of begging, been given an assistant, and that said assistant has started. This is a welcome diversion and makes the prospect of going back to my job on Monday infinitely less anxiety-inducing.
The second is from Sophie, who says she has a favor to ask and asks me to call her when I get a chance.
The third is from an Ann Arbor number that I don’t recognize. “Marissa Rogers? This is John from West Side Book Shop on West Liberty. Someone purchased a book for you, and unfortunately, we don’t deliver, so I’m calling to see if you’re able to come pick it up sometime today or tomorrow. We’re open till seven. Call with questions.”
Julia, I think as I press the pound key and beam the message up to the digital garbage in the sky. She probably felt bad about what happened with Nathan the other day and—evidence that her personality hasn’t done a complete 180—got me a present to make up for it.
I know West Side Book Shop well; I spent endless hours there when I was in high school and college. But the thought of returning doesn’t give me the warm fuzzies. Because, unfortunately, it happens to be just a few doors down from Beber.
Please don’t let this be another one of Julia’s crazy set-ups, I pray. I’m dying to see what’s waiting for me, but I can’t chance running into Nathan—not after the other day. In order to appear as incognito as possible, I borrow a big wooly hat and thick down coat from my sister and park a few blocks from the bookstore. Then I hustle down busy Main Street, where I’m least likely to be spotted by Nathan, and duck into West Side. The minute I get inside, I let out a long sigh; not only did I make it without being seen, there’s only one other customer there, and his hunched-over figure and threadbare coat confirm that it’s definitely not Nathan, or Julia, for that matter. Mission accomplished.
An aging hipster with a beard that should have been trimmed a month ago greets me from behind the counter.
“I’m Marissa Rogers. Someone left a book here for me?” I ask.
“Oh, yes,” he says, disappearing behind the wooden shelves that separate us. I hear rustling, and after a minute, he reemerges with what looks to be an ancient copy of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.
“Handle with care,” warns the clerk, and I almost expect him not to pass the book to me.
“Of course,” I tell him, fingering the fraying cloth cover. I’ve read Pride and Prejudice countless times, but that doesn’t dim my excitement at the thought of adding this copy to my (admittedly tiny) collection of old books.
“I have to say, that’s quite a find,” says the clerk. “Although it’s not one of the first editions, it’s a rare printing from the early 1900s. Not something we come across too often.” He smiles. “I’m sure you want to know who it’s from. Your book fairy left a note inside.”
I gingerly open the book cover and a small piece of paper tumbles to the ground. I pick it up and see that the note has been scribbled on the back of a receipt.
Marissa:
I feel horrible about how the other day went. I had no idea Julia didn’t warn you. I’m really hoping this book will soften that blow.
Anyway, in spite of it all, it was great to see you—it’s really been too long. Call me if you’re so inclined, or even better, stop by the restaurant. I’m there until close most days.
—Nathan
P.S. It took me a long time to come around, but you’re right: Austen was hardly a romance novelist. I’ve had my eye on this copy for a year. Now it will have a happy home.
I swallow hard. I’d been so certain the book would be from Julia that I never even considered Nathan might be the sender—even though West Side had been one of our favorite bookshops, and now his restaurant was practically its next-door neighbor.
I thank the clerk and walk out of the store in a daze, this time not looking around to see who I might bump into. Before I can even think about what I’m doing, I wander down the street. And once again, I find myself standing in front of Beber.
My usual indecision and internal fidgeting are suddenly overtaken by a bolder, more confident voice. Sarah’s right; I need to stop taking the backseat in my own life. I might as well face Nathan on my terms this time.
I fling open the restaurant door, striding as though I aim to take no prisoners. Sadly, my bravado is wasted; instead of Nathan, a pretty redhead in a black button-down an
d apron is manning the mahogany bar.
“Is Nathan here?” I ask, looking around. At eleven a.m., I expect to find the restaurant empty, but a few customers are lingering over cappuccinos and newspapers at the small café tables against a mirrored wall.
“Yes, although if you’re applying for the waitressing position, you should start by filling out an application,” the redhead responds, wiping down the marble counter with a rag.
“No, no, I’m a friend,” I tell her, although it occurs to me that this isn’t entirely true.
“Oh. Okay, give me a minute.” She picks up the phone. “Nathan? Someone here to see you. Says she’s a friend.”
As quickly as my confidence appeared, nervousness sets in, and I feel my palms growing clammy. Before I can contemplate whether this was a spectacularly stupid idea, Nathan emerges from the kitchen.
“Hey,” he says, immediately giving me a big bear hug. I stand there limply, my arms plastered to my side; I’m unable to reciprocate his affection, yet somehow unwilling to stop him. All I can think about is how good he smells, even though I can’t seem to detect a particular scent. Must be pheromones, I realize, recalling the story Svelte recently did on the chemical responses people unknowingly give off. Most of the time, they don’t make a difference—but match the right two people and they trigger a powerful sexual response. Which explains why every illicit encounter he and I shared during college is being played out like a grainy home movie in my head right now.
He releases me and the spell breaks.
“I can’t stay,” I practically mumble. “I just wanted to say thank you for the book. That was really—”
“Oh, it was nothing.” He grins. He motions for me to join him at the bar. “Come on. Let me at least get you a coffee.”
“Uh . . .” I say dumbly.
“Brooke? Two coffees with steamed milk, please,” he tells the redhead.
“No problem, boss,” she says with a wink. It occurs to me that she’s probably got a thing for Nathan, and his flirty, friendly demeanor probably does little to dissuade her. But why should I care? I ask myself, trying to ignore the tiny tug of jealousy I’m feeling. After all, Nathan’s probably in a serious relationship, or even married, although a quick glance at his hand reveals that his ring finger is bare.
“So . . .” I say.
“So . . .” he responds with a smile, “How’s things?”
My command of the English language fails me as I stare at his grinning face. “Good,” I manage.
“Well, that’s excellent. Me, too. As you can see, I finally followed through on all that crazy talk about opening a restaurant and bar,” he says, gesturing to the restaurant with obvious pride.
“I’m impressed,” I tell him, and take a sip of the coffee that Brooke stealthily slid in front of me when I wasn’t looking. “You know, you honestly didn’t have to do that,” I finally add, referring to the book. I think of the little things he used to do for me when we were dating: fresh-baked cookies slipped into my pocket on cold days, copies of my favorite poems tucked into my textbooks. Come to think of it, he and Julia weren’t that dissimilar when it came to gift giving.
“I know, but that whole scene two days ago went so bad that I just wanted to do something,” he says, looking uncomfortable for the first time. “I guess it still hasn’t sunk in how bad her head injury really is. I mean, her mom told me—”
“You talk to Grace?” I say, a tiny spark of anger flaring inside me.
“Marissa, Julia and I have been in touch for a while now,” Nathan informs me matter-of-factly. “She e-mailed me in October, and we started chatting back and forth. Then she came by the restaurant with her mom a few weeks ago, and that’s when I got a better picture of what was really going on.”
I swirl my coffee and watch frothy white foam coat the sides of the cup. “Well, I had no idea that the two of you had become so tight.”
“We’re not, really,” Nathan responds, shaking his head.
I’m about to ask him to elaborate when my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. I instinctively grab it to check who’s calling. Dave’s name and photo flash across the sleek glass screen and send a jolt of reality through my system. Now is not the time for answers, no matter how much I’m itching to know about Nathan and Julia. Now is the time to get back to my life before I plummet down some rabbit hole of memory that will leave me small and vulnerable.
“Listen, I really have to get going,” I tell Nathan, gulping down the last of the coffee. “I appreciate the drink, and the book. Really. But I’ve got to run.”
“Okay, if you must,” he says, smiling. “It’s been terrific seeing you, Marissa. I’d wondered about you over the years, so it’s nice to actually be face-to-face again. I’m guessing you don’t make it back to Michigan often, but I’m always here if you ever want to get together.” Apparently some things don’t change, I think. In college, Nathan was always available on a moment’s notice, even if it meant dropping some major project just to hang out with me. It suddenly strikes me how different this is from Dave and me. We plan nearly every date, and even which nights we’re staying at each other’s apartments, in order to make our crazy schedules work. But we’re adults with busy lives—not college students who can drop anything with few consequences—and so it has to be that way, I remind myself.
“Okay,” I tell Nathan noncommittally. I catch a glint of amber in his deep-set eyes and suddenly it’s as though every ounce of adrenaline in my body has been released. Fight or flight, I realize; I know the feeling well. Time to fly. “Well, bye,” I tell him hurriedly as I grab my coat. “Thanks again.”
“No prob—” Nathan starts to say, but I’m already out the door.
Dave doesn’t usually have time to call in the middle of the day, let alone e-mail, so I call him back the minute I get home to see what’s up.
“No, no, nothing’s wrong,” he says, shooing away my concerns. “I was just thinking about you and wanted to see how it’s going.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. I’d been complaining to him that his workaholism seemed especially bad lately (although admittedly, Julia not being around made it seem worse). I just didn’t expect my nagging to have an impact. “It’s going . . . okay,” I tell him.
“Just okay? Julia didn’t pull another screaming fit on you, did she?” he asks with concern.
“No,” I say. I know I should, but I haven’t told him the second part of the story—the part about Nathan. Later, I decide. After I’ve processed it and can figure out how to explain the situation in a way that makes some sense.
“Well, that’s a relief. Just remember, your goal is to make it through the next day. You’ll be home before you know it.”
After we hang up, I stash Pride and Prejudice in a dresser drawer in my sister’s guest bedroom. Then I sit and stare at the wall for a while, doing my own little version of meditating. Except rather than repeat something Zen, like “I am at peace,” I am thinking, Thing of the past, thing of the past, thing of the past. By the time I finally hoist myself out of the armchair I’ve been parked in, I’ve vacated my mind of thoughts of Nathan. Almost.
The next day, I wake early, shower, then pack my bags. I have decided to see Julia again before I leave; I’m still shocked about what she did, but I don’t want to end my visit on bad terms, knowing that we may not be face-to-face again for months. Plus, as I have reminded myself half a dozen times this morning, she is not herself. Frontal lobe damage, I tell myself. If she doesn’t deserve a break, then who does?
“Hi-hi-hi!” Julia says cheerily, flinging the front door open. Dressed in an oversized V-neck white T-shirt, black leggings, and purple ballet flats, she looks terrific, never mind that there are only about three other people on the planet who could pull off this outfit. If she remembers how we left things yesterday—with me peeling out of her driveway without so much as glancing back to see if she got in her house safely—she does not let on. Instead, she smiles and says, “Come on in! I’ve been
waiting for you.”
Grace and Jim aren’t around, so we go straight to her bedroom. I notice that Julia’s set up a small table near her window, and there’s a notebook, some pens, and folded newspapers scattered across it.
“My makeshift desk,” she tells me. “I’m looking for apartments.”
“Really? That’s a big step, no?” I ask, thinking of what her parents said about her not being ready to live on her own.
“It is. But Mom watches me like a hawk, and it makes me crazy; I feel like I forget more things than usual when she’s around. I could really use my own space. Something small, of course—maybe a little one bedroom with a nice kitchen. A yard, if I’m lucky, for Snowball.”
“When would you move out?”
“Well, the doctors say not for a while. But I want to be ready when the time comes.” She plops down on her bed next to Snowball, who opens one alien eye to see what the fuss is about and promptly goes back to sleep.
“That’s a good plan,” I say. Noticing that the circled classified ads are from the local paper, I add, “In Ann Arbor?”
She nods yes. “Dr. Gopal”—her neuropsychologist—“says that it’s good for me to be relatively close to Mom and Dad. Just in case. The headaches are getting better, but sometimes they come out of nowhere. And there’s still the risk of me having a seizure or stroke. Especially this year.”
It is surprising to hear Julia speak so frankly about her health. “I know, everyone acts like I don’t know what’s going on,” she says, as though she just heard my thoughts. “I’ve been doing my research. At first I felt like I was stoned out of my mind, everything was so foggy. But every day, I feel a little more like myself. I figure I might as well find out what’s happening to me.”
This is heartening. “Best thing I’ve heard all week, Jules.”
“I knew you’d be happy for me,” she says, putting her hand on mine. “Which reminds me, I wanted to talk to you about the other day.”
The Art of Forgetting Page 8
