“But you do owe me a coffee, so would you like to go out?”
“Yes?” Condensation from my coffee drips onto my fingers as I grip the cup.
“Is that confirmation?” He smiles.
“Yes. Sorry... Yes, it is.”
He pulls out his phone to get my number. There has to be a catch. This kind of meet-cute doesn’t happen to me. Obviously, he’s a charming serial killer who lives with his mom and her thirteen cats.
I chuckle awkwardly. “You’re not a psycho, right?’
He laughs. God. That dimply smile again. I need to pinch myself.
“Nah.”
3
As I walk into my too-quiet house with the orchid and package, I avoid looking at Philip’s dress loafers, still by the door where he left them. Dust settles around the soles, but I can’t touch them—that would mean he really isn’t coming home to wear them again. I place the orchid on the fireplace mantel and press an ice cube into the soil. I remember how Dad listened so well that wintry Christmas when rat-bastard Wes broke my heart, and I suddenly ache to talk to him.
But just as I reach for my phone, Sarah calls.
“Hi, Lizzie,” she says gently. I never tire of her charming, crisp British accent. She updates me on Japanese sales ofThe Heathcliff Saga. She tells me we have a nibble from a Brazilian editor interested in buying rights. Then, after a pause, she asks me how I’m doing.
“Crappy. But I’m drowning myself in cheesy funeral-food leftovers and campus politics.”
After a moment’s pause, she clears her throat. “You don’thave to be a big girl for me, Lizzie. I can’t even imagine how bloody awful things are for you now.”
A lump swells big in my throat.
“Listen, well—our family row house is empty for the summer. I want to offer it to you and Heathcliff, rent-free, if you just want to get away. London is so lovely this time of year, and it is such a cute place. The beds are cozy, there’s a garden bathtub in the guest room upstairs, and our housekeeper, Ms. Fernsby, is marvelous. She lives there full-time, and she’s really,reallylovely.”
Sarah’s late father was a lord in Parliament, and after he passed, she and her brother inherited the row house. I always picture her childhood home life like something out ofPeter PanorMary Poppins—ruffled nightgowns and nannies. Clotted cream and scones for breakfast.
I think about Heathcliff and me flying to London on a whim. It’s appealing. But I’m teaching this summer and I can’t wrap my mind around the logistics at this point. There’s my summer class, and legal paperwork that has to be finished. And Mirabel. And Brad McGregor and Bill Rhodes. But to fly away from it all does sound... wonderful.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Promise?”
“I do.”
“Well, then... take care of yourself, Lizzie.”
I hear the loud engine of the school bus, and the front door bangs open. Heathcliff. As soon as he gets home, he always strips off his clothes and gets into his Batman costume. It’s from last year, so it’s already a little too short, the fabric pilled.
“So Chloe told me at recess that Itotallyhad to eat the earthworm and I was like ‘No—you eat it,’ and she was like ‘I’ll give you all my Twizzlersat lunch if you eat it.’” He pulls his shirt off. “And I was likeewww. . . but I really wanted the Twizzlersbecause you can bite the ends off and drink from them like astraw. Did you know that, Mama?Did you?”
“Yes. When I was your age...”
“So Iatethe earthworm and it wriggled as it went down my throat and Ms. Hoffman—” he pulls off his pants and steps into the worn Batman costume “—Ms. Hoffman said she couldn’t believe I did that, but Chloe gave me the Twizzlers and they were good and cherry and—” he puts on the mask “—and I drankallmy apple juice with my Twizzlersstraw!”
“That sounds great,” I say, hugging him. I should be mad about the worm, but his cheek is sticky and sweaty, and he smells like little boy. He squirms away from me, one blond eyebrow raised as he looks up and down my black skirt and blouse. “Why are you dressed like the Dark Knight?”
“Well, I...”
But he’s already tearing through the house toward the backyard. It’s his last week of school, and learning is about over for him. If we don’t make it to London, we should get away somewhere this summer. Perhaps to the Outer Banks. Disney World?
Painfully, I make myself look at Philip’s dusty loafers. I also can’t get rid of his toothbrush, or his razor, or his glasses—folded neatly on my dresser. I worry if I keep touching them, they’ll lose his fingerprints and skin oil. I wonder if our son sees all these daily reminders that Philip is gone.
