by Emily Henry
He touched my arm gently, then turned and went inside, leaving me more mortified than I’d been in a long time. Or at least than I’d been since the night I drank wine out of my purse at book club. Unfortunately, I imagined I would now be going that route again, trying to blot out the memory of what had just happened.
Gus had turned me down. Hours after he’d had me against a bookshelf, he’d turned me down.
This was somehow so much worse than the worst-case scenario my brain had concocted when I’d weighed the pros and cons of starting something with Gus.
Why did he say that thing about wanting me for so long? It had seemed so sexy in the moment, but now it made me feel like I was a loose end he’d finally gotten to tie up. My stupid fatal flaw had struck again.
I waited beside the sliding glass door, face burning and buried in my drink, for a few minutes. I jumped when my phone buzzed with an email from Gus. My heart began to race, then sank miserably when I opened it. There was nothing in it except: Event at Pete’s Books, Aug 2, 7 PM.
I thought back to what Maggie had said, about how what Gus and I did was so different externally that “this” would be interesting. I was fairly sure I’d just committed to doing a book event with him.
Dumb bunny, dumb bunny, dumb bunny. I’d spent a month in near-constant contact with Gus. If I’d spent a month solid with nothing but a blood-drenched volleyball, I imagined I too would be crying as the tide swept it out to sea.
But no, that wasn’t true. It wasn’t just loneliness and a tendency to romanticize that had gotten me here.
I knew Gus. I knew his life was messy. I knew that his walls were so thick it would take years to chisel through them and that his mistrust of the world went nearly core-deep. I knew I was not the Magical One who could fix it all just by Being Me.
When it came down to it, I knew exactly who Gus Everett was, and it didn’t change a thing. Because even though he would probably never learn to dance in the rain, it was Gus I wanted. Only Gus. Exactly Gus.
I had set myself up for heartbreak and now I suspected there was nothing I could do but brace myself and wait for it to hit.
22
The Trip
Oh, come on, Gussy. Get in!” Maggie splashed water toward the edge of the pool, but Gus merely stepped back, shaking his head and grinning.
“What, are you afraid it will mess up your perm?” Pete teased from the grill.
“And then we’ll find out you have a perm?” I added. When his eyes cut to me, a thrill went through me, followed by the disappointing realization that the saggy one-piece Maggie had lent me made me look like a waterlogged Popsicle tangled in toilet paper.
“Maybe I’m afraid that once I get in, no one will set a timer and remind me to get out and use the bathroom,” Gus said.
At the far end of the pool, a stringy little boy and chubby little girl cannonballed in from opposite sides, their splash soaking us. Gus looked back to me. “And then there’s that.”
“What?” I said. “Fun? Are you afraid it’s contagious?”
“No, I’m afraid the pool’s already totally full of pee. You two enjoy bathing in it.” Gus went back inside and I tried not to keep checking every minute or so whether he’d emerged again.
Maggie found a beach ball, and we started hitting it back and forth. Soon enough, it was four o’ clock, and since Sonya was coming at five, I excused myself to change. Maggie hopped spryly out too and grabbed the yellow towels we’d left on the cement around the pool.
She draped one over my shoulders before I could grab it from her and led the way inside. “You can use the upstairs bathroom,” she said with a sweet smile that seemed almost like a wink.
“Oh,” I said uncomfortably. “Okay.” I gathered my clothes and went to the stairs.
The steps were creaky, wooden, and narrow. They turned back on themselves halfway before depositing me into the upstairs hallway. The bathroom sat at the end, a pink tile monstrosity that was so ugly it became cute again. There were two doors on one side of the hall and a third on the other, all of them closed.
It was almost time to leave. I was going to have to knock on them until I found him. I tried not to feel embarrassed or hurt, but it wasn’t easy.
From your first real conversation, Gus made it clear he wasn’t the type to expect anything from, January. The kind not even you were capable of romanticizing.
I toweled off and dressed in the bathroom, then came out and knocked softly on the first door. No answer, so I moved to the one across the hall.
A mumbled “Yeah?” came through it, and I eased it open.
Gus was on the twin bed in the corner, legs stretched out and back propped up by the wall. To his right, the blinds were partly open, letting in streaks of light between the shadows on the floor. “Time to head out?” he asked, scratching the back of his head.
I looked around the room at the mismatched furniture, the lack of plants. On the bedside table there was a lamp that looked like a soccer ball, and across from the foot of the bed, the little blue bookcase there was full of copies, US editions and foreign ones, of Gus’s books. “Come here to ponder your own mortality?” I asked, tipping my head toward the bookshelf.
“Just had a headache,” he said. I went toward the bed to sit beside him but he stood before I reached it. “I’d better say bye. You should too, if you don’t want Pete to blacklist you.” And then he was leaving the room and I was left there alone. I went closer to the bookshelf. Four framed pictures sat along the top. One of a baby with dark eyes surrounded by fluffy fake clouds and under a soft focus. The next was Pete and Maggie, a good thirty years younger, with sunglasses on top of their heads and a little boy in sandals standing between them. Over his head, between Pete’s and Maggie’s shoulders, a sliver of the Cinderella Castle was visible.
The third picture was much older, a sepia-toned portrait of a grinning little girl with dark curls and one dimple. The fourth was a team picture, little boys and girls in purple jerseys all lined up next to a younger, slimmer Pete, wearing a whistle around her neck and a cap low over her eyes. I found Gus right away, thin and messy with a bashful smile that favored one side.
Voices filtered up from downstairs then. “. . . sure you can’t stay?” Pete was saying.
I set the photo down and left the room, closing the door on my way out.
We were quiet for the first couple of minutes of the drive home, but Gus finally asked, “Did you have fun?”
“Pete and Maggie are wonderful,” I answered noncommittally.
Gus nodded. “They are.”
“Okay,” I said, unsure where to go from there.
His hard gaze shifted my way, softening a little, but he jammed his mouth shut and didn’t look my way again.
I stared at the buildings whipping past the window. The businesses had mostly closed for the day, but there’d been a parade while we were at Pete’s, and vendor carts still lined either side of the street, families clad in red, white, and blue milling between them with bags of popcorn and American-flag pinwheels in their hands.
I had so many questions but all of them were nebulous, un-askable. In my own story, I didn’t want to be the heroine who let some silly miscommunication derail something obviously good, but in my real life, I felt like I’d rather risk that and keep my dignity than keep laying everything out for Gus until he finally came right out and admitted he didn’t want me the way I wanted him.
More than once, I thought miserably. Something real, even if a little misshapen.
When we reached the curb in front of our houses (markedly later than we would have, due to the increased pedestrian traffic), Gus said, “Let me know about tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I said.
“The New Eden trip.” He unlocked the car door. “If you still want to go, let me know.”
This was all it had taken? He was now
totally disinterested in me, even as a research companion?
He climbed out of the car. That was it. Five PM, and we were going our separate ways. On the Fourth of July, when I knew no one in town apart from him and his aunts.
“Why wouldn’t I want to go?” I asked, fuming. “I said I wanted to.” He was already halfway to his porch. He turned back and shrugged.
“Do you want me to?” I demanded.
“If you want,” he said.
“That’s not what I asked you. I asked you if you want me to come with you tomorrow.”
“I want you to do whatever you want to.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “What time,” I barked.
“Nine-ish,” he said. “It’ll probably take all day.”
“Great. See you then.”
I went into my house and paced angrily, and when that didn’t do the trick, I sat at my computer and wrote furiously until night fell. When I couldn’t get out another bitter word, I went onto the deck and watched the fireworks streak over the lake, their glitter raining down on the water like falling stars. I tried not to look Gus’s way, but the glow of his computer in the kitchen caught my eye every once in a while.
He was still working at midnight when Shadi texted me: Well, that’s it. I’m in love. RIP me.
Same.
* * *
—
I awoke to a house-shaking boom of thunder and rolled out of bed. It was eight o’clock, but the room was still dark from the storm clouds.
Shivering, I dragged my robe off the chair at the vanity and hurried into the kitchen to put the water on. Great slashes of lightning leapt from the sky to hit the churning lake, the light fluttering against the back doors like a series of camera flashes. I watched it in a stupor. I’d never seen a storm out over a massive body of water, at least outside of a movie. I wondered if it would affect Gus’s plans.
Maybe it’d be better if it did. If he could effectively ghost me. I’d call and cancel the event at the bookstore, and we’d never see each other, and he could stick to his precious once-only non-dating rule, and I could go to Ohio and marry an insurance man, whatever that meant.
Behind me, the kettle whistled.
I made myself some coffee and sat down to work, and again the words poured out of me. I had reached the forty-thousand-word mark. The family’s world was coming apart. Eleanor’s father’s second family had shown up at the circus. Her mother had had a rough encounter with a guest and was more on edge than ever. Eleanor had slept with the boy from Tulsa and been caught sneaking back into her tent, only for the mechanic, Nick, to cover for her.
And the clowns. They’d nearly been outed after a tender moment in the woods behind the fairgrounds, and they’d gotten into a huge argument because of it. One of them had left for the bar in town and wound up sleeping it off in a holding cell.
I didn’t know how things were going to come together but I knew they needed to get worse. It was nine fifteen by then, and I hadn’t heard from Gus. I went and sat on the unmade bed, staring out the window toward his study. I could see warm golden light pouring from lampshades through his window.
I texted him. Will this weather interfere with research?
It probably won’t be a comfortable trip, he said. But I’m still going.
And I’m still invited? I asked.
Of course. A minute later he texted again. Do you have hiking boots?
Absolutely not, I told him.
What size do you wear?
7 ½, why? Do you think we wear the same size?
I’ll grab some from Pete, he said, then, If you still want to come.
Dear GOD, are you trying to kick me out of this? I typed back.
It took him much longer to answer than usual and the wait started making me feel sick. I used the time to get dressed. Finally he replied, No. I just don’t want you to feel obligated.
I waffled, debating what to do. He texted me again: Of course I want you to come, if you want to.
Not of course, I replied, simultaneously angry and relieved. You haven’t made that clear at all.
Is it clear now? he asked.
Clear-ER.
I want you to come, he said.
Then go get the shoes.
Bring your laptop if you want, he replied. I might need to be there for a while.
Twenty minutes later, Gus honked from the curb, and I put on my rain jacket and ran through the storm. He leaned over to open the door before I’d even gotten there and I slammed it shut again behind me, pulling the hood down. The car was warm, the windows were foggy, and the back seat was loaded with flashlights, an oversized backpack, a smaller waterproof one, and a pair of muddy hiking boots with red shoelaces. When he saw me looking at them, Gus said, “They’re eights—will that work?”
When I looked back at him, he almost seemed to startle, but it was such a small gesture I might’ve imagined it. “Lucky for you I brought a pair of thick socks, just in case.” I pulled the balled-up socks from my jacket pocket and tossed them at him. He caught them and turned them over in his hands.
“What would you have done if the boots were too small?”
“Cut off my toes,” I said flatly.
Finally he cracked a smile, looking up at me from under his thick, inky eyelashes. His hair was swept off his forehead per usual and a few raindrops had splattered across his skin when I’d jumped into the car. As he swallowed, the dimple in his cheek appeared, then vanished from sight.
I hated what that did to me. A tiny carrot should really not overpower the instinct in my dumb bunny brain screaming, RUN.
“Ready?” Gus said.
I nodded. He faced forward in his seat and pulled away from our houses. The rain had slowed enough that the windshield wipers could squeak across the glass at an easy pace, and we fell into a fairly comfortable rhythm, talking about our books and the rain and the blue punch. We moved off that last topic fairly quickly, neither of us apparently willing to broach Yesterday.
“Where are we going?” I asked, an hour in, when he pulled off the highway. From my online search, I knew New Eden was at least another hour off.
“Not a murder spot,” he promised.
“Is it a surprise?”
“If you want it to be. But it might be a disappointing one.”
“The world’s largest ball of yarn?” I guessed.
His gaze cut toward me, narrowed in appraisal. “That would disappoint you?”
“No,” I said, heart leaping traitorously. “But I thought you might think it would.”
“There are certain wonders that no man can face without weeping, January. A giant ball of yarn is one of those.”
“Okay, you can tell me,” I said.
“We’re getting gas.”
I looked at him. “Okay, that is disappointing.”
“Much like life.”
“Not this again,” I said.
It was another sixty-three minutes before Gus pulled off the highway again near Arcadia, and then another fifteen miles on wooded two-lane roads before he pulled over onto a muddy shoulder and told me to stuff my computer in the dry bag.
“Now this is definitely a murder spot,” I said when we got out. As far as I could tell there was nothing here but the steep bank to our right and the trees above it.
“It’s probably someone’s,” Gus said. He leaned back into the car. “But not mine. Now change your shoes. We have to walk the rest of the way.”
Gus pulled on the bigger backpack and took one of the flashlights, leaving me to grab the other bag once I’d gotten the socks and shoes on. “This way,” he called, climbing straight up the muddy ridge to the woods. He turned to offer me a hand, and after I slipped in the mud thrice, he managed to hoist me up onto the path. At least, it appeared to be a path, although there were no signs or visi
ble reasons for a path to start there.
The forest was quiet apart from our tromping and our breaths and the underlying drizzling of rain speckling the leaves. I kept my hood up, but in here, the rain mostly made it to us in the form of fine mist. I’d gotten used to the blues and grays of the lake, the yellow-golds of the sun spilling over the water and the tops of the trees, but in here, everything was rich and dark, every shade of green the most saturated version of itself.
This was the most at peace I’d felt in two days, if not all year. Whatever weirdness was between Gus and me was placed on hold as we wandered through the silent temple of the woods. Sweat built up around my armpits, along my hairline, and through my underwear, until I stopped and took the jacket off. Without a word, Gus stopped and peeled his off too. I watched an olive sliver of his flat stomach appear as his shirt caught around his shoulders. I looked away as he pulled it back down.
We picked our backpacks up and kept walking. My thighs began to burn, and the gathering sweat and rain plastered my tank top and my jeans to my skin. At one point, the rain picked up again, and we ducked into a shallow pseudocave for a few minutes until the showers let up. The gray sky made it hard to tell how much time had passed, but we must have spent at least a couple of hours marching through the woods until the trees finally thinned and the charred skeleton of New Eden came into sight ahead.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, stopping beside Gus. He nodded. “Have you seen it before?”
“Only in pictures,” he said, and started toward the nearest smoke-blackened trailer. The second fire, unlike the one from the lightning strike, hadn’t been an accident. The police investigation had found that every building had been doused in gasoline. The Prophet, a man who called himself Father Abe, had died outside the last building to catch flames, leading authorities to speculate that he’d been the one to light the place up.
Gus swallowed. His voice came out hoarse as he pointed toward a trailer on the right. “That was the nursery. They went first.”
