“You are just full of surprises,” Libby says, and pretends not to notice that the cookies are lumpy and burnt at the edges. In this scenario, my cookies are definitely the bad drawing with the penis hat, but I don’t care. She’s happy about them.
On my walk into Goode Books, Frigid’s final pages arrive. The last stretch has officially begun.
When Charlie and I aren’t in the same room, we’re emailing about the manuscript. When we’re not emailing about the manuscript, we’re texting about everything else.
On Tuesday when I bite the bullet and order a salad from Poppa Squat’s, I send him a picture of the cubed ham monstrosity Amaya drops in front of me.
I think I underestimated your sadomasochistic streak, Stephens, he says.
The next day, he sends me a blurry shot of the bickering geriatric couple from town hall caught in a passionate embrace outside the new Dunkin’ Donuts. Love conquers all, I guess, he writes.
I reply, or she’s found a discreet way to suffocate him.
What a beautiful, twisted brain you have, Nora.
He stops by one night with the wood Sally promised us, along with s’mores supplies, and helps us build a fire the night is technically too hot for. While we sit around the deck roasting marshmallows, Libby announces, “I’ve decided I like you, Charlie.”
“I’m honored,” he says.
“Don’t be,” I tell him. “She likes everyone.”
She reaches into the bag of marshmallows and flings one at me. “Not true,” she cries. “What about my vendetta against the guy in the Trivago commercials?”
“One unpleasant sex dream does not a vendetta make,” I say.
“I once had a sex dream about the green M&M,” Charlie says bluntly, and Libby and I descend into snorting laughter.
“Okay,” Libby says when she recovers. “But she can get it. She’s fucking gorgeous.”
“Fucking gorgeous,” Charlie agrees, locking eyes with me over the flames. “So much better than adorable.”
We make plans to finish our notes on the final portion of the book on Saturday. Every moment until then feels like part of a countdown. Sometimes all I want is to run down the clock. Sometimes I want to stuff sand back up through the hourglass’s neck.
He texts me things like holy shit, page 340.
And she’s on fire.
And the cat!
I write back things like I SCREAMED.
Her best yet.
And the cat stays.
To which he replies, agreed.
Sometimes he sends me texts that just say, Nora.
Charlie, I type back.
Then he’ll say, this book.
And I’ll say, This book.
It’s killing me not knowing how it ends, I tell him.
It’s killing me that it’s going to end, he writes back. If I weren’t editing it, I wouldn’t finish it.
Really? I write. You have that level of self-control?
Sometimes. After a moment, he sends another message. There are full series I love whose last chapter I’ve never read. I hate the feeling of something ending.
Instantly, my heart feels raw, rug-burned, every inch of it stinging.
This book, this job, this trip, this never-ending, days-spanning conversation. I want to make it all last, and I need to know how it ends. I want to finish it, and I need it to go on forever.
If I thought I was sleeping badly our first two weeks here, week three obliterates the notion. Charlie and I text until at least midnight each night, sometimes interspersed with quick calls to talk through plot points that leave me so energized that I have to walk a loop in the meadow to cool down.
All these years spent thinking that I had superhuman self-control, and now I realize I just never put anything I wanted too badly in front of myself.
But I’ve made it to Thursday night, which means there’s only two days until we finish the edit letter. A week and some change until I go back to the city, where The Future We’ve Agreed Not to Discuss will begin. This interlude will be over. The future will be the present, and this will become the past.
But not yet.
26
LIBBY AND I walk to the fence line with celery, carrots, and sugar cubes, but even with our best baby talk, we can’t coax the horses over.
“You think they know we’re city people?” I say.
“They can still smell Drybar all over you,” she replies.
I cup my hands around my mouth and shout out across the dusky pasture, “This isn’t the end! We’ll be back!” We hike back to the cottage, then decide we’re too hungry to cook and instead trek into town, destined for Poppa Squat’s loaded fries and cauliflower wings.
On the whole walk, Libby’s a little shaky. Beneath the streetlamps, she’s past the realm of peaked and into the territory of Straight-Up Ghostly.
Behind the glow of Goode Books’ windows, Charlie’s closing up. “Let’s invite him to dinner,” she cries, unlatching herself from me and leading the charge across the street.
Despite our early efforts at discretion, I’m positive she’s noticed the vibe between us, but she’s kept any disapproval to herself ever since Charlie helped with the surprise campout.
She pounds on the shop door with the ferocity of an FBI agent on TV until Charlie reappears, looking exactly how he always looks: tidy, overworked, well dressed, and like he wants to bite my thigh.
“We came to invite you to dinner.” Libby pushes inside, beelining toward the bathroom, as she is wont to do these days, calling, “We’re going to Poppa Squat’s.”
“Maybe you’ve heard of it,” I say. “It was on a very exclusive BuzzFeed list.”
Slow nod. Dark, gut-melting eyes. Holding his gaze feels like public indecency. “ ‘Places That Sound Like They’ll Definitely Give You Diarrhea While Really They Only Just Might Give You Diarrhea.’ ”
“That’s the one,” I agree.
He widens the door for me, but just then my phone rings. On instinct, I check it. Sharon’s calling. While on maternity leave. “I should take this.”
Libby does a cartoon screech-to-halt and turns back to me. “No work calls after five,” she reminds me.
“This is different,” I say, the ringing scritching against my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. “It might be important.”
Libby’s lips fall into a straight line. “Nora.”
“Just give me a minute, Libby,” I say. Her eyes go wide at the sharp edge to my voice. “I’m sorry — I just — I have to do this.”
I take off down the dark block, heart thudding as I answer the call. “Sharon? Is everything okay?”
“Hi, yes!” she says brightly. “Everything’s fine — sorry to worry you. I just had a question.”
The tension in my shoulders dissolves. “Sure. How can I help?”
“I can’t give too many concrete details,” she starts. “But . . . Loggia might be hiring a new editor soon.”
“Oh?” The floor of my stomach sinks. I’ve gotten enough of these calls over the years to know where this is going. Sharon’s leaving — or, rather, not coming back from parental leave.
“Yeah,” she goes on. “Looks that way. And hey, I know you’re doing great at the agency, so this might not be interesting to you at all, but I’ve been talking with Charlie, and he says you’re really helping get Dusty’s book into shape.”
“He makes it easy,” I say. “And she does too.”
“Of course,” Sharon says. “But you’ve also always had a knack for this kind of thing. I guess I’m wondering if there’s any chance you’d be interested.”
“Interested?”
“In editing,” she says. “For Loggia.”
I must be stunned into silence for longer than I realize, because Sharon says, “Hello? Did I lose you?”