“I know.” William rubbed his emerging beard. “It was a grave error in judgment. She’s fragile, so I was gentle with her, and I thought ignoringher was the best course of action. But she’s been contacting me, and I think I must talk to her again, more emphatically. I’m sorry if this hurts you to hear.”
Sam blew out a ball of air. “It’s not my favorite,” she admitted. “But I get it. Life is messy.”
“Thank you.” William gazed down at her. “Meanwhile, Simone, maybe we should stop seeing each other for now. I’d rather mourn the loss of you than put you in harm’s way for even a moment.”
“No,” Sam said, feeling the free fall of panic. She smacked William lightly on the bicep. “I refuse. Why should some poor deranged girl have the power to decide what we do? I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—honestly, I can see this really being something serious, William.”
William ran his thumb down Sam’s cheek. “Same. It’s perishingly rare, what we have.”
“Yes,” Sam said. “I’m in if you are.”
“Have you told anyone about the threat? Reported it to the police?”
“Of course,” said Sam. “I took it right down to the station. They can’t do anything—as you know. But it’s all on record.”
William cinched his arms around Sam and propped his chin on her head. “At least,” he said, his voice a rumble against her cheek, “if we’re together, I can protect you.”
Sam laced her fingers behind his back, grateful he couldn’t see her face. When was the last time somebody had said this to her? Exactly never. She thought of visiting Hank in inpatient, the winter of his suicide attempt. The cubby in which she had to stow her phone, her jewelry, her boots because they had laces. How she had to be buzzed into the unit. How Hank’s clothes had been replaced by mint-green scrubs and the smell of his skin by rubbing alcohol. How slow and slurred his speech had been. And how, when she drove home, the sun was low over the bare trees and she sat in her study by herself, paying bills and making dinner in the Crock-Pot because somebody had to. Maintaining.
“What if,” said William into Sam’s hair, “wedogo the distance? Do you remember what I said to you at the fort, Simone?”
“Zoop?” said Sam.
William laughed and drew Sam down onto the rug.
“Yes, Zoop. But also that you’re safe with me. Do you remember? Do you believe it?”
“I’m trying to,” Sam said.
William knelt above her, swept Sam’s legs apart with his knee, bent over.
“What if you come to my house in Maine?” he said. “What if you’re naked all the time. Venus de Milo—ing around the grounds. What if you slept with me every night... and I brought you coffee every morning... and I made you a study where you could write? What if I were your in-house sounding board? What if you didn’t have to do it alone? What if you were so happy and cared for and sated... you wrote that damned book in a month?”
What if.Every fiction writer’s magic wand, the necessary plot-conjuring device. Could it survive the transition to real life? What if it did? What if indeed?
Sam moaned. William pulled out and flipped her over.
“Your back, Simone,” he murmured in her ear. “Your shoulder blades are made for angel wings. What if... we’re making the future perfect?”
The Rabbit
There’s an old saying: You can tell a lot about a woman by spending time in her closet. Actually there isn’t, I just made that up, but I can verify it’s true. I know a lot more about Sam Vetiver than I did when I first got trapped in here an hour and a half ago.
I know Sam Vetiver has a f*ckton of red clothes, dresses and pantsuits and shirts, and at first I thought it was a weird fetish until I remembered that the women on her covers wear red so it must be a #DressLikeABook thing. Which I have to admit, grudgingly, is kind of a smart idea.
I know from the perfume clinging to these clothes what she smells like, chocolate and salt.
I know that most of what she wears is from discount stores, which is kind of a surprise.
I know that even though she might not be as rich as I thought she was, Sam Vetiver still lives in an apartment that looks like f*cking Hogwarts in a neighborhood so picturesque we sell postcards of it in my own store, even though we’re over 150 miles away, for f*ck’s sake.
I know that Sam Vetiver has never shopped for hair dye in the discount bin at the Dollar Store or used EBT/SNAP stamps for food while everyone else in the supermarket line watches with impatience or disgust or tolerant smiles; that she’s never had to decide between rent or a car payment so her vehicle got repossessed and she had to walk to both her jobs in the sleet. That she’s never slept in the kitchen with the gas stove on because her landlord has turned off the heat, and that she’s had enough money to gether teeth fixed, so all her life people haven’t popped up in her line of vision smacking their lips and sayingMeeeehhhhh, what’s up, Doc?and then dying laughing like it was the funniest, most original thing they’d ever heard.
I know if I had a dollar for every time I’d heard that, I could buy a place like this.
I know that even though rich people live here, this building was surprisingly easy to get into, that for all its ivy and architecture, they forgot the most important thing—oops! No doorman! Or security. The first time, last week after I saw Sam Vetiver and her pretty nurse friend on the Esplanade, I trotted right over here with my pizza box and my bandanna pulled over my face like a bike delivery girl who didn’t want to get asphyxiated by exhaust and gloves on like a germophobe, and I rang all the doorbells, saying “Pizza for Number Three” until some crabby old guy said “Just leave it in the vestibule next time, it’ll serve her right,” and buzzed me in. Which only proves that money doesn’t guarantee kindness, but I already knew that. What I didn’t know was where Sam Vetiver kept her spare key, but I knew she had one, because that’s one thing about us single girls: You always hide a key outside your apartment, because if you get locked out with nobody to let you in, you’ll be sleeping outside. I finally found Sam Vetiver’s taped to the inside of the building radiator outside her apartment, and I pocketed it and took out the note I’d printed at FedEx:YOU’RE NOT LISTENING, SIMONE. WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO MAKE YOU LISTEN? STAY THE F*CK AWAY FROM WILLIAM CORWYN, then stuck it to her door. I put it in a Hemingway card I permanently borrowed from my store, which I thought was a nice touch.
I know she got it, because it was gone the next day when I visited.
