Once I’m in my apartment I look around, then open the first box to unpack it. But then I stop, sit down, and pull out my phone. I text Will, hands quivering, and ask him if I can take him out for a drink, to talk. My stomach in knots, I wait for a reply. It doesn’t come. Not even a few minutes later. And despite checking my phone every few minutes, turning it off and back on multiple times, no reply comes. I shove it in my nightstand and grab my book instead. An hour or so later, my phone pings.
I yank open the drawer and grab my phone, staring at the screen.
U there? It’s Addie.
I pause. Did she mean to text me? How did she even text me, through her iPad? Or did Will get her a phone after blowing up at me? Who knows? I feel both concerned and happy to see her name, and I realize I’ve missed her.
Me: Hi Addie. What’s up?
No reply. I’m about to put my phone back down, thinking that she did make a mistake, that she didn’t mean to text me after all, when my phone pings again.
Addie: Can u come get me?
Get her? I stare at the phone, willing myself to focus. Where is she? I debate calling her, but worry that seems overbearing, not cool. Am I a friend? A parent? How am I supposed to respond? But now’s not the time to overanalyze my role. And so I text her back.
Me: U OK?
When she doesn’t reply, I call her. Screw being uncool. She answers on the first ring.
Her voice sounds weird. Weak. Like she’s scared or has been crying. Maybe both.
“Sweetie, what’s wrong? Are you OK? What’s going on?”
She sniffs but doesn’t reply. I stay quiet, waiting, wishing I could see her face. Then she speaks. “I’m at Millie’s, and…I don’t want to be here anymore. Dad’s away on a camping trip and I miss him.” Her voice cracks. “Can you come get me?”
“Oh Honey,” I sigh. I’m about to tell her there’s no way her dad would let me come and get her from Gillian’s and there’s no way Gillian would let me take her either. I’m the evil kid-hater, in their minds at least. If she really needs to leave, she should probably call Margot.
But I don’t want to tell her no, not when she’s called me. When Addie was at my place, Will told me that when she’s overtired, she gets weepy. Maybe all she needs is to get back to sleep, or a hug. And I don’t want to tell her that I’m not going to give her what she needs.
“I’m coming,” I tell her.
She gives me the address and I immediately order an Uber, then change out of my pj’s into a hoodie and jeans, pulling a jacket overtop to combat the cool fall wind. I’m almost out the door when I scour the stacks of books along the walls, miraculously find what I’m looking for, and shove it into my purse. Ten minutes later I’m walking up the steps to Gillian’s home, which is around the corner from Will’s. I ring the doorbell and wait. A few minutes pass, and I start to wonder if Gillian won’t answer the door, won’t let Addie see me. But then the door opens and Gillian’s looking at me, Addie by her side. Gillian’s eyes are narrow and she’s shaking her head. “If you think I’m letting Addie leave with you, you’re more delusional than I thought.” She stares at me, coldly, positioning herself so that Addie can’t squeeze by her.
“I’m not taking her anywhere, Gillian. I just wanted to say hi. Check in with her, see if she’s OK.” I give Addie a small smile. “Come on. It’s a nice night. Wanna sit out here on the steps with me for a minute?” I expect Gillian to protest, to remind me that it’s nearly midnight, but instead, she moves out of the way, letting Addie pass. She hands us a blanket from the chair by the door. “Here. Just in case. And just for a few minutes.”
I wrap my arms around Addie as Gillian gives me a long, hard look, then reluctantly lets the door swing closed, leaving us alone. We sit on the front steps, side by side, looking out onto the street. The streetlamps cast a white glow over the road, making it shift from light to dark every few feet. The night is quiet. I pull Addie close. “I’ve missed you.” She scooches closer to me. And starts to cry. I pull her even closer.
“Wanna tell me what’s going on? I’ve always thought I had rather big ears, and that they’re good for listening.” She pulls away for a moment to study my ears, then realizes I was joking.
“Can’t I just leave with you? I know things didn’t work out with you and Dad, but you’re not a bad person. Please?”
“Oh Honey,” I say, and wonder if she’s saying I’m not a bad person, did someone tell her otherwise? Her dad? Gillian? Margot? But this isn’t about me.
“Sleepovers are supposed to be fun.”
“Sleepovers are supposed to be fun. So what happened?” I ask softly.
Finally, she speaks. “It’s just…sometimes, when I’m here, Gillian does this thing,” she turns to look behind her, and I let go of her. When she sees the door is firmly shut, she turns back and continues, “where she hangs out with me and Millie. Maybe she’s lonely or something, but she does it in this way where they’re all mom-daughter besties and it just makes me feel so bad. It reminds me that I don’t have a mom.” She tucks her hands between her knees. “And I just want to go home, but I can’t. And it sucks. And no one gets it because everyone has a mom to call. Everyone but me.”
We’re both quiet for a moment as two people ride by on bikes. “Tell me your favorite memory of your mom,” I say quietly. She leans into me, her head resting on my shoulder.
“I don’t know,” she mumbles.
I don’t say anything, just hold her. Finally she speaks. “Well, she had this really beautiful dress she wore in the summer. It was yellow with flowers all over it. It was so flowy and I would wrap myself in it, like it was a beautiful cape, and I was a beautiful princess.” She pauses. “She also always took me to my grandparents’ house to go swimming. She never wanted to get her hair wet so she would put it in this bun on the top of her head. And she’d always wear her sunglasses in the pool, too. She liked to horseback ride, but only on vacation. In the mountains. I remember that.”
As I imagine Will and Sophie and Addie on vacation in the mountains, Addie adds: “Dad says I can’t actually remember that because I was too little. That I’ve seen the pictures and I think I remember but I don’t. I hate it when he says that. Like, maybe I don’t even really remember her. Maybe it’s all just the pictures.” Her voice is shaky.
“That’s what photographs are for,” I say softly. “I don’t think you should worry about whether you remember her without the pictures. What does it matter anyways? Either way, you remember your mom. You think about her. You miss her. That’s what matters.” I pause, thinking about my own mother.
“I have this memory of my mom and me,” I tell her. “We would look for garages—like the detached kind you have at your house. We would go out on Saturday mornings together, hunting for them. Mom said when I was older, we would open a book garage. People could come, hang out, read books, meet friends, make friends. We could host book clubs with tea and cookies. We could invite authors to come read their own books to kids. We had a whole plan, and then she died.” I pause. “And the thing is, I felt like us looking for garages was this thing we did, every Saturday morning, for years. But when I really think about those weekends, I always picture us walking the same route, seeing the same houses. We’re always wearing the same thing—Mom in light jeans and a sweater, me in flowery overalls and sneakers. So I have to wonder, was this a ritual at all, or just one memory, one Saturday that somehow stuck out in my mind?”
I’m talking aloud, looking out into the sky, the sun setting between the houses across the street. I realize I’ve probably overshared and I turn back to Addie. She’s looking up at me.
“Your mom died?” she says and I realize that I’ve never told her.
I nod. “I was a bit older than you,” I say. “So I remember a bit more. It’s hard to not have a mom, isn’t it?”
She nods.
“You’re really brave, you know.”
“You’re really brave, too,” she says. I laugh, then wrap my arms around her to hug her.
“And who cares if you only went to look at garages with your mom one time? It sounds like it was a fun time, even if it’s kinda weird.”
“You’re right. Except the weird part. Well, maybe the weird part too.” I move her hair off her face, tucking a strand behind her ear. “You should get back inside. I know you don’t really want to be here, but your dad’ll be back tomorrow, right? So just one more night. You can do one more night, right?”
“One more night. Yeah. Maybe I’ll just fake being asleep.” She grins.
I reach into my purse. “Maybe this’ll help.” I pull out The Secret of the Old Clock. Addie studies the faded cover. “Have you read a Nancy Drew before?”
She shakes her head.
“Great. Then you’re in for a treat. She doesn’t have a mom either. She lives with her dad and their housekeeper. And she solves mysteries. She’s brave, like you. I think you’ll like it.”
Addie takes the book, turning it over in her hands. “The Secret of the Old Clock.”
“It’s a whole series. This is book one. So if you like it, there are about fifty or so more where it came from. Except #24. I’m missing #24, for some reason.”
“Thanks.” Addie reaches over, and I realize she’s looking for a hug. I wrap my arms around her and squeeze her tight. When I let go, she stands. “I think I should go back inside. But thanks a lot for coming.” I stand too and wait until the door closes behind her before turning and walking down the steps.
“Kit.” I turn. Gillian’s standing in the doorway. “Can I have a minute?” Do I have a choice? I think, but nod, and walk back up the steps. She steps onto the porch, pulling her thigh-length cream-colored cardigan closed, crossing her arms over her chest. “You can’t do this anymore,” she says.
“Do what?” I keep the emotion out of my voice.
“This.” She raises her eyebrows. “Come back into Addie’s life. Into Will’s life.”
“Gillian, Addie called me.”
She tilts her head. “Yes, but she didn’t need to—and you coming here is disruptive. I care about both of them—a lot. As I’m sure you know. We’re part of their lives and they’re part of ours. It’s been that way for a long time, and it’s going to stay that way for a long time and there’s nothing that anyone that Will dates can do about that.”
“Gillian, I’m not interested in preventing you from being friends with Will,” I say. “It feels like a moot point, given I’m not even speaking to Will.”
“Right. He’s not interested in you anymore.” Anymore. The word stings. “You had your chance with him, and you blew it by lying to him. Will’s a great guy. He didn’t deserve that.”
I nod, tears filling my eyes. She’s right, and as much as that hurts, the truth hurts more. Gillian has clearly had these emotions pent up, because she bulldozes on. “And it’s confusing to Addie to even see you. You need to go away and stay away. If you don’t make sure of it, I will.” She gives me one long stare, and before I say anything in reply, she turns, opens the screen door, walks inside and closes the heavy wood door, the click of the lock echoing in the silence.
Back in my apartment, I climb into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. I’m not tired, just emotionally drained, and yet too worried to sleep. It feels like I did as much as I could for Addie, but that I still didn’t do enough. Is she going to be OK? If this is what Will goes through every day, I don’t know how he does it. I’m not cut out to think about someone else, to worry about them, and wonder if I’m doing the wrong thing, and second-guess my decisions, and know that I’ve done all I could, and it still doesn’t feel like enough.
My phone pings. Thanks for coming over.
My eyes fill with tears.
Go to sleep, I text back. Then add: Call or text me anytime.
Then I gather up my duvet and move out to the couch, where I curl up and scroll through Netflix. I’m about to hit Play on Sleepless in Seattle, but pause instead, to wonder what a sequel to this movie would’ve looked like. What would life have been like for Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks’s characters—Annie and Sam—once they got married and Annie became the stepmom? Would Jonah be so enamored with her when she was nagging him to tidy his room or clean up his chocolate milk spill on the couch? Was a sequel never in the cards because the writers knew there could be no happy ending to that movie—that inevitably little Jonah would end up hating his stepmother, the way every fairy tale ever played out? Surely there’s a movie out there that has a stepmother being kind and good, isn’t there? I find a list on my phone and then scroll through them: Ever After, Tommy Boy… the list goes on and on. Even in the fairy tales, there are stepmothers without children, like the one in “Hansel and Gretel,” which is why she hates them, and the stepmothers who do have children, like in “Cinderella,” love their own more. And the Brothers Grimm couldn’t really have it wrong, could they? Those tales were passed down for years and years. Household tales. If a kind, happy, loving stepmother existed—wouldn’t someone, somewhere, have written the story down?
I need to forget about Will and move on. There are hundreds, thousands, millions of single men without kids in the world. And maybe, even some who have no interest in ever having kids. And it’s easy to find them—that’s what dating apps are for.
And yet, despite this, I don’t want to move on.
I need to talk to Will.
Sunday passes and he still doesn’t reply to my messages. I tell myself that he hasn’t replied because he is on a camping trip. But even on Sunday night, when I know he’s home, there are no texts from him. And he doesn’t reply to my text all the following week, either. I check my phone incessantly; I try turning it off for hours at a time. Nothing works. I can’t get him out of my mind.
I keep myself busy. I make a business plan for the book garage, which includes reaching out to publishers to figure out how to stock new books in addition to my collection of used books, and half-heartedly look at houses with garages for sale online. I need to move on, I know this, and yet, I don’t want to move on without Will. I keep replaying the past few months, what I could’ve done differently. But ultimately, a lot of it comes down to timing—and me being ready to make a change. I’ve known for a long time I wasn’t totally happy with my career, and I’ve also been having the idea of the book garage take up more and more space, but I didn’t let myself fully explore either because they didn’t fit into the career I’d built for myself. But the real truth is that in both cases—Will and the book garage—I’m afraid of failure.
And now that fear is making me feel so alone. I miss Will. I miss Addie. And I have no idea how to get them back in my life.
I try to distract myself with writing—in my journal, and writing book reviews. Without the distraction of social media, I’ve been reading more than ever. One of the books I read is based on a true story about an orphanage. Jeannie had recommended it to me when I was at Dad’s, and my gut reaction was to smile politely, keep the book for an appropriate amount of time and then return it without reading it. It sounded like the kind of book I would never read—it wasn’t on-brand to read a book about children, and even if I did, I would never recommend it, or express any opinion about it at all. No one wants to hear a child-free woman’s opinion about a book that has to do with children. But Jeannie recommended it so highly that I took it. And I’m so glad I did. It was moving, and even now, days later, I’m still thinking about the story.
I sit down at my laptop and begin to write down those thoughts. I post my review with a photo of the book to my @BookKit Instagram account. Then I scroll down through the dozens and dozens of books I’ve reviewed over the years. Secretly. No one knew. Now, it’s time to share these books, these ideas, this dream with the world. I flip to the Settings tab and scroll down until I find the button to make my account public. And hit Confirm. All the pictures I’ve taken of books I’ve read, the picture of my apartment, the books stacked up against the windows, the bookshelf in Will’s bedroom, the book I read on the island when I was with Will and Addie, it’s all there now, for everyone to see.
I put on my sweats and running shoes and head out for a run, leaving my phone at home. As I jog, I think through my plan for the books, the book garage. I should call Gloria about actually going to see some of the houses with garages I’ve been looking at online, so I can begin moving forward with this new plan and what I’ve always wanted to do. But my thoughts keep coming back to Will. I don’t want to put my life on hold for some guy I can’t get out of my mind, but there’s something inside me, in my gut, telling me that my life would be better with him in it. I slow at the intersection, waiting for the light to change, and I give my head a shake, telling myself that it’s over with Will. I lost my chance and I’m not getting another one. We’re too different; I need to move on. And then I see the poster, plastered to the lamppost with orange duct tape: FOODIEXPO. I hear Will in my head, telling me that he goes every year—that he could never imagine missing it. And I know I have to go.