The wilderness therapist warned me that with my concussion, even though it was mild, I’d have a tough time with the pressure changes and noise on the plane, and I’m sorry to report, she was right. She also said that the sights and sounds of New York would be hard to take—and she called that, too.
Everything from the moment I touch down at La Guardia to the moment I tuck myself into my own bed that night feels too loud, too bright, too rough around the edges.
Small town life can definitely lull you. I’d forgotten how much La Guardia looks like a work in progess. How hair-raising the traffic is leaving the airport. My Ryde driver is a charming woman with two kids in middle school, but she darts in and out of lanes on Grand Central Parkway with the speed of a Nascar driver and somewhat less skill. Gah.
The adrenaline makes my head start hurting again.
I long for the peace and quiet of my own apartment. The pale walls, the spare decor. They always soothe me.
But when I unlock the door and set my bags down, I don’t feel soothed.
It looks like someone sold everything off with plans to move out, then abandoned the plans and kept living here. There are only a couple of photos, one of me and Annie, one of me and my mom. There aren’t a lot of things I’d call sentimental. Most of what’s in here was picked out to reinforce the Lucy Spiro brand, so when I show myself on Instagram, you can see I know how to work with color and space and style.
I wonder if, like Gabe’s house, this apartment tells a story about me.
If so, the story might be this:
When this woman was twelve years old, she discovered that at any moment, the people who say they love you will turn out to be lying to you. The people who say they’re your friends will betray your secrets. The people who say they’re your community will laugh behind your back.
Better not get too comfortable.
I want to text Amanda and say, I just realized my apartment is exactly like Gabe’s house!
And then I want to text Gabe and tell him, We’re more alike than I would ever have guessed!
But I don’t. I shower off the smell of the airplane and put myself to bed, where I sleep as badly as you might expect, jerking awake periodically as if I’ve been plunged into cold water.
Each time, I lie awake a long time, trying to relish my 600-thread-count sheets while remembering the feel of being wrapped in Gabe’s arms in a shelter in the woods.
In the morning, still headachy and out of sorts, I sit down at my desk and send an email to Gennie, officially giving my notice. After my Wilder (Romantic) Adventures presentation, Barb wrote me the check she’d promised me plus a hazard pay bonus. It’s enough to hire a virtual assistant, buy a workhorse design-friendly computer, load it up with the software and subscriptions I need, and get started.
I’m thinking about calling the new consultancy Lucy’s Look. I play around for a while in my graphics software, trying out logo possibilities. I’ve just dropped eyeballs into the middle of the oo’s and am laughing at myself for being a dork, when an email pings into my inbox. For a split, stomach-dropping moment, I think maybe it’s from Gabe, and my pulse races out of control.
But it’s not from Gabe. It’s from Gennie.
I’m sorry to hear you’re leaving Grand Plan. We’ll miss your work. I meant what I said; you’re excellent at this job. I wish you luck in whatever you pursue. Are you moving to Oregon? Instagram suggested the Wilder account, so I followed it. Cute pix of you (and those brothers are insanely hot). You look happy. Anyway, whatever (or whoever) you’re doing, I wish you the best with it.
What the…?
When I last looked at that Instagram account, three weeks ago, it was crickets and tumbleweeds. I pull out my phone. Sure enough, there are all kinds of photos on the Wilder Insta, including several of me. On the boat with Brody—looks like Connor took it—working at the big conference table—I’m pinning that one on Amanda—out in the woods building a shelter—Clark? Really? Apparently, the Wilders actually listened to me when I said they needed to be way more active about taking and posting photos.
That makes me feel proud. And, suddenly, homesick.
Homesick?
You look happy, Gennie had written.
Do I not look happy most of the time?
I spin back through my own Instagram, and the answer is, No. I don’t look happy. I look frozen. Even when I’m smiling—a just-right smile that I practiced for hours, because it’s harder than it looks to take the perfect selfie—I can tell I don’t mean it.
I look back at the Wilder photos, and there it is, a real smile. Even though I was puking twenty minutes later, in that picture my cheeks are pink and I’m grinning.
And then I scroll through Amanda’s Instagram. There are so many great photos. Of Easton and me that first night at Oscar’s, and of me (with a real smile) in the stupid cheese-bag dress, and of Gabe and me at the festival, dancing. You can’t really see Gabe. You can only see my face over Gabe’s shoulder, beaming, bright-eyed. I didn’t even know Amanda was there; I was too wrapped up in enjoying myself.
The most recent photo is one Nan took of Hanna and Amanda and me that last night at Oscar’s, the two of them flanking me. I half expect Hanna to look bored or scornful, but all three of us are smiling real smiles. And Amanda’s arm is tight around me, a hug.
I sit there for a long time, staring at that photo, feeling that hug, and then I text Amanda. Can I tell you a crazy story?
Moments later, my phone rings.
“I’m sorry if I woke you up!” I say.
“It’s three hours earlier here, remember?” Amanda says.
“Oh, right.”
“Also, you can wake me up any time to tell me a crazy story. You wore a cheese-bag dress for me.”
“Is that, like, a lifetime of favors?”
“Two lifetimes,” Amanda says. “But the larger point is, I love crazy stories, no matter what time of night. Bring it.”
So I do. I tell her about sleeping with Liam, about how Liam showed up at my office and I thought he was there for me. About getting called into Gennie’s office.
When I get to the part where Gennie threatened both Liam and me with strangulation, Amanda laughs, and then—surprising myself—so do I.
The story is pretty dang funny, actually, now that I have some distance.
Then I say, “I miss you and Han.”
“Han and I miss you, too,” Amanda says suddenly. “It’s weird. You were only here three weeks, but it felt like you’d been here forever.”
“It kind of did.”
There’s a long silence. I think maybe the conversation’s over, and I’m sad, because if I stay in New York, Amanda and I won’t have shared experiences anymore. We won’t get bread and butter at Nan’s or drinks at Oscar’s. I won’t get to play with her cute kids or hang out with her instead of going on her brothers’ stupid trips. I won’t get to help her build her business, and she won’t get to help me build mine.
“And Gabe is a total fucking mess.”
The mention of Gabe’s name does terrible, wonderful things to my stomach. “A mess?” I ask, pretending I am only asking for clarification and not filled with hope that he is a mess over my leaving.
“Believe me, if there were anything left to tear to shreds and sell, he’d be doing it. Instead, he’s tearing into his brothers and me.”
I wince. “Ooh. I’m sorry.”
“Nah. We’re tough. And we all miss you, too. That said, he better get his act together soon or we’re going to disown him.” Amanda takes a deep breath. “But if New York is where you’re supposed to be, I get it. I would be the last person to tell anyone else how to live her life. I mean, mine’s kind of a fucking mess right now.”
Startled, I say, “Wait—what?”
“Yeah, things with Heath and me haven’t been right for a really long time. We married too young. I was pregnant. He never got to choose me, he just got saddled with me—”
I try to cut her off, because I’ve seen Heath with her and I don’t think that guy looks saddled in the slightest. When he thinks she’s not paying attention, he looks at her like she invented the alphabet. And maybe toilet paper. “He’s crazy about you, Amanda. It’s all over his face.”
“I want to believe you,” she says. “But I don’t.”
If I were there, in Rush Creek, I’d take a stealth photo of Heath silently admiring Amanda, and I’d make her study it until she knew the truth.
“And none of this was what we pictured. He works like a dog since he sold that app, and I think he thought I’d be at home full time with the kids, but I’m doing the business and the house is chaos.”
“I didn’t know things were that hard,” I say quietly.
“I don’t tell many people.” Her voice breaks.
We’re both silent for a moment.
I’m thinking about something I just learned. When you let someone in, they might use what they know against you.
Or they might let you into their life. And, if you’re lucky, use what they know about you to have your back.
For the first time in my life, it feels like a chance worth taking.