And yet... stupid eternal optimist that I am—I hoped he’d fill a fraction of the gaping hole Philip left. I lost my soulmate, and I held out hope that I might mean something to August Dansworth.
No. That’s not completely accurate.
I’m even more confused.
I was less afraid to kiss August than Henry because underneath, I knew it would never last. August was a paper moon, safe and illusionary, because I feared the possibility of real love.
Finding love again feels like a betrayal of Philip.
I’m not finding my way through a labyrinth. I’m lost in a dark, tangled maze.
What would Mom tell me to do?
Mom and Ms. Fernsby would tell me to get a hot cup of tea.
In the kitchen, I pick out the prettiest antique teacup covered in a pink rose pattern with a curved handle. I reach for the tea bags before laying eyes on the brandy.
Once I’m upstairs, I get into my pajamas, crawl into bed, and call Ian. I’m still ugly-crying but the teacup of brandy warms me.
@BluestockingBadass:Two-thirds throughBlood Tiesand Inspector Hall has slept with poor Penny, a bar server, a flight attendant, and an optometrist. Who will he bed next? @ADHemmings (aka Sex God) seems to know a lot about inconstant man-sluts...
@ADHemmings:@BlustockingBadass How many women’s studies degrees did you earn to grow so bitter? Enjoy your chaste evenings with your vibrator and cats.
@BluestockingBadass:@ADHemmings Whoa. Apparently I hit a nerve. Just curious: Do you even know where a clitoris is located?
@ADHemmings:@BluestockingBadass Sod off.
23
Ian listens as I cry, sniffling and using up half a box of tissues.
I moan about what a fool I’ve been, and how I can’t believe I’m crying over one man while still grieving Philip. (“What’s wrong with me?”)
After getting over his initial shock that I’ve been cavorting with A.D. Hemmings (“Jeez... Lizzie. I can’t wait for the Netflix series to come out! I had no idea...”), Ian tells me there’s nothing wrong with me, and Dansworth can go fuck himself. Ian promises to write some bad online reviews and troll him relentlessly. Ian says a million funny things to make me laugh and feel marginally better.
“Hey, how’s Dad doing?” I ask, blowing my nose.
Ian sighs. “The same. He’s given up on the lasagnas. But he’s still down.”
“So no more dates?”
“Not that I’m aware of. He’s just kind of lost.”
“I know, Ian. I know.”
Before we hang up, Ian tells me he loves me and that my next book will sink Hemmings on theNew York Timeslist. I hang up, grateful as always for my brother.
Soon Ms. Fernsby returns from the market with Heathcliff.
I splash cold water on my puffy face to look a little less terrible before going down. She notices, kindly telling me if I want to talk with her I can. But she doesn’t prod. I help her put away groceries, trying to shelve my grief and worries. It’s difficult. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so confused in my life. After tucking Heathcliff into bed, I refill the teacup and settle into one of my bedroom chairs withWuthering Heights. Lucy peeks at me through one eye from the other chair, and I toast her. After a day like this, there’s nothing to do except read and sip brandy.
Soon my phone rings as Henry tries to FaceTime me. He’s at his home-office desk.
“Lizzie?” He takes off his reading glasses, peers at me through the screen. “Are you drunk or... upset?”
“Both. Do I look that bad?”
“You couldn’t look bad in a potato sack, but you just looksad. Do you want to talk about it?”
