“Don’t touch me.” I got up and realized what I was doing. The pendant felt dirty and I recalled, with perfect clarity, Isabella’s observation:“Josh likes the way things look.”Then his own comment,“They thought you were smart and pretty before, but now you’ve got grit,”pounded in my brain. I was no more than Logan’s ostentatious gold and silver watch, a trinket to see and be seen.
I pulled the necklace, breaking the chain and leaving a thin, red cut on the back of my neck. “I’m so blind. How could I not see? You’re a Willoughby.” I shook my head. “No, at least he loved Marianne. You’re worse. I don’t know who you are.”
“What? I’m who?”
“Never mind. Good-bye, Josh.” I threw the necklace across the table and walked out of there with my head high and my back straight. All Edmond Dantes. And I kept the tears at bay—until I hit the sidewalk.
How could I not have seen? Had I wanted normal that badly?
I went home and called Ashley, watched two Austen films, ate a whole pizza and an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s—and it still hurts.
In my books everything turns out well in the end. Lizzy and Emma and Elinor all had men who were worthy and loved them. Really loved them. Me, I picked a Willoughby and I’m rightfully alone.
For months I convinced myself that Josh’s paltry version of love was all I could expect—I wasn’t worth something better. But I know there’s more. I want the real thing. I can have that, can’t I?
Because I know it exists—in books and in real life. The Muirs have it. I’m continually struck by the ways they care for each other and for me. And Hannah—I hear it when she talks about Matt. Love spills out of these people. That’s what I want. Settling for anything less is a lie.
Josh was a lie.
Do you have it, Mr. Knightley? The real thing? Don’t let it go if you do. That’s all. I’m off to find more tissues and another pint of Chunky Monkey.
Wallowing,
Sam
JULY 6
Dear Mr. Knightley,
The evening began with a text.
Lobby 6pm?
Usually I get an indication of his plans, so I replied: ???? He sent a one word reply.
Groceries.
I smiled. Grocery shopping with Josh was a systematic and uninteresting affair. He grabbed the same fifteen items on every trip and got out fast. No imagination. Alex? This might be fun. Alex does so much without thinking—that didn’t come out right. I mean, everything is woven into a creative process; nothing is taken for granted or thrown away.
When I reached the lobby I found him slouched on a bench, texting. His brow was completely furrowed. I hadn’t noticed so many lines before.
“Give me one sec.”
I sat next to him—on his right.
“Replying to slap-down from my publisher. She’s nervous I’m not working.”
I had wondered the same thing myself. “Are you?”
He looked straight at me. And I can’t attribute that focus completely to the eye injury—Alex gets that intense.
“You have no idea, Sam. Writing is coming more fluidly now than it has in years. It’s exciting and unnerving and every moment I worry it will end . . .” He paused and smiled, more to himself and some thought dancing in his head than to me. “Yes, I’m working.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Not yet.” He tapped his phone several times before pocketing it, then reached for my arm. “I want to and I will, but not yet. Talking through stuff before I get it into the manuscript depletes its tension and magic. I have to keep it compressed or it flops.”
“I get that.” And I do. So much inside us is more powerful if drawn out at the right time and in the right way—like my January feature and the articles I’m writing now.
