“I don’t think so,” said Sam. “Except—William does have a stalker.”
“Yeah,” said Drishti, “you,” and she laughed, her glossy dark curls bouncing.
“No, I mean besides me. This woman follows him everywhere. She sent me an email.”
Drishti turned her mirrored sunglasses on Sam. “How did she get your email?”
“Everybody has my email. It’s on my author website.”
“Oh yeah,” Drishti said. “What did it say?”
“It said stay away from William.”
“Ooooooo, scary,” Drishti said, and made a jerking-off gesture.
Sam laughed. “That’s what I thought too.”
“I guess that’s a yellow flag. But didn’t you have a stalker once? If you’re a public figure, that’s gonna happen. Just keep an eye out. And text me the code if you need to.”
“LOL, I will,” said Sam.
Drishti turned back to the water. “Here’s what I want you to think about: What if there’s nothing really wrong with this guy? Beyond, like, those crazy curling parrot toenails or irritable bowel or ED or something.”
“Thanks, Drish.”
“You’re welcome. What I mean is, maybe he’s just got the usual fucking annoying things all humans have, but nothing crazy. How will you handle that?” Drishti tipped her cup at Sam. “You’ve been through a war, kid. Your survival instinct’s kicking in. But your PTSD overthinking is just as bad as not seeing danger signs. Did you ever think maybe this is just a good guy?”
Sam looked away, scrunching her face to keep from crying.
“You could just be happy,” said Drishti. “For people like us, that can be the hardest thing to learn.” She pushed Sam with her shoulder.“You want another beer?”
Sam nodded. Drishti stood and clopped off in her Crocs.
Sam took several deep breaths, watching the buildings across the water flame and waver like candles. It was so hard to believe in the happy ending—maybe because Sam wanted to so badly. More than anything in the world. She’d thought she’d found it with Hank; when they were first together, Sam had lain in bed next to him and said prayers of gratitude. For their paths having crossed, for finding the place she belonged. Then one afternoon she came home from the gym, grocery bags dangling from her hands, and smelled smoke, and she’d looked out the window over the kitchen sink to see something so wrong it took her a few moments to realize what it was: Hank, sitting in the baby pool in his Wayfarers and boxers with a fifth of vodka while their garage blazed with fire.Come on in, girl, he’d said, toasting Sam when she rushed outside.The water’s fine.
Sam lifted the hem of her T-shirt and wiped her eyes. Maybe Drishti was right. Maybe Samwasparanoid. How could she assess anyone’s behavior after what she’d been through? Maybe she just had to be open, and honest, and trust.
Drishti came back and handed Sam a beer. “Thanks, D. I owe you.”
“Yeah you do.”
They drank. “How’s the book going?” Drishti said.
“It’s not,” said Sam, which was true. Every morning she sat dutifully at her desk, trying to producesomething: a few wooden paragraphsofThe Gold Digger’s Mistress, blocks of scenes that were technically competent, the characters moving from one place to another, and completely lacking in motivation or heart. What was the point of this chapter again? she’d ask herself, once she’d backed out, and then: Oops. I forgot to put that in. “Because I don’tknow,” she said to William in frustration, during one of their nightly calls. He was almost weirdly patient during these circular conversations, perhaps as behooved a man who ran a writer support group, offering over and over to hear her out on story arc, plot points. “I’m a good sounding board,” he said. “Try me. I’m a giver.” But Sam was still deeply hesitant to disclose specifics, and the book felt dead in the water.
“William says he’ll help me with it,” Sam said to Drishti now.
Drishti rolled her eyes. “Of course he will. But that’s your side of the street. The book is YOUR responsibility. Keep him out of it. Figure your shit out for yourself.”
“You’re probably right,” said Sam. “Thanks, D.”
They drank, swinging their feet over the water. “Do you ever wonder why we are the way we are?” Sam asked.
“You mean hot and awesome?”
“I mean codependent. Why we chose the wrong men to begin with.” Sam knew all the textbook reasons. Her mom, Jill, and the six husbands: modeling. Her dad, Ethan, the only parent actually interested in parenting, who’d died too young: grief. Sam’s retired therapist, Stuart, a man she’d loved, had looked at her one day like a sweet bearded owl and said,Isn’t it sad when understanding can do so little? And Sam had said,Yes.
Drishti shrugged. “We are how we are because it’s how God made us, or our parents, or some dickhead flashed us on the T, who knows. It doesn’t matter. What matters is deciding who we want to be, then being that thing. Every day.”
