“What for?”
“Listen, I’m not trying to get all sappy on you, but it’s important that someone keeps track of your whereabouts. I know if your mom were here, she’d want someone looking out to make sure you’re safe.”
He’s not wrong. “You’re a sweetheart, Evan, you know that?”
“I’ve been called worse. Now go on. Just tell me the airline and the time.”
“JetBlue. It leaves at 9:00 a.m., flying direct,” I say, listening as he scribbles. “Comes back the following Friday at noon.”
“Thank you, Mel. Gotta keep an eye on the talent.”
“Yeah. Well, when I get back, we can talk about next steps. Maybe grab lunch?”
“For you? I’ll even come to Queens.”
“Thanks, Ev. You’re the best.”
“Yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.”
So now, as I get ready to lock up the apartment and head to JFK Airport, I feel an odd sense of calm. I am looked after, even though my mom’s not here anymore. I’ll go to Aruba and pay homage to her properly. I’ll bask in the sun and try to remember that life can be beautiful and good and warm and relaxing. I’ll try to open myself up to whatever the future holds for me. And when I return home, I’ll be coming back to a place that is significantly lighter. It used to be ours. But now it’s just mine. And that’s okay.
I Uber to the airport. I check my bag on the curb—no sense in dragging it around. I begin the process of making my way through the checkpoints. First, there’s the passport check. Then the shoes-off line, where I make sure to let the TSA agent know that I am transporting cremated remains. I remove the travel urn from my bag and give it to the agent so she canhand-scan it. Her face is understanding, and I’m grateful for that, but more than anything, I’m just glad that enough time has passed that I can manage to do any of this without bursting into tears or requiring heavy medication.
I walk through the X-ray scanner. Grab my shoes and slide them on. The TSA agent hands me back my ashes, and I return them to my bag. Then I meander toward my gate in Terminal 5. There’s no rush, really. I got to the airport early, and without having to worry about my mom needing to sit down or checking on her seat assignment, I have time to go grab a cup of overpriced coffee and maybe check out the airport bookstore.
I head to Dunkin’. I’d go for Starbucks, but the line is crazy long and the two coffee shops are equidistant from the WhereTraveler Book Shop I’ve got my eye on. I get my usual: a medium coconut hot coffee with two Splendas and extra cream. Then I head in the direction of the bookshop. I brace myself because I know Beckett’s book will probably be there with its own special display, and mine probably won’t have even a single copy on the shelves. But that’s okay.Good for him,I remind myself, even though I always measured success by whether or not my book was stocked at the airport. I stand by that, even now. Case in point: As predicted, Beckett’s book is in the window as well as on its own table. And mine is not even worth looking for.
But that’s really not why I’m here. I’m looking for something new to read. There’s nothing better than snagging a new book at the airport. The intrigue of starting a story when you’re about to go on an actual, real-life journey is a lot of fun. I head for the section with the beachy covers, looking for new titles by some of my favorite authors. Kristan Higgins, Elin Hilderbrand, and Jennifer Weiner all have titles on the display. Elin’s is a year old and I’ve read it already, but the other two are new, so I snag them both and head for the register.
I’m waiting in the line when I see the small rack of magazines by the counter.
Oh, fuck.
You can’t miss it.
Beckett Nash takes up the entire cover ofPeoplemagazine. He’s sitting on a stool, maybe in his kitchen? His elbow is leaning on a white granite countertop. There are massive windows behind him that overlook Manhattan. His face is not smiling. It’s stoic. And he’s holding up my book.
Not his.
Only mine.
The cover reads, “My Side of the Story: When Love, Life, and Literature Collide.”
What the actual fuck?
It’s my turn at the register. I swipe a copy of the magazine and add it to my book stack. I pay the man behind the counter and grab my coffee and my purchases and hightail it down to my gate.
I settle into one of the navy-blue chairs, place my coffee on the small table beside me, put my tote bag carefully on the ground by my feet, and pick up the magazine.
His face makes my heart pound.
He’s holding my book.
I flip the magazine open, past the contents pages and ads to the fifth page. There, I see another photo of him beside an open laptop, showing a photo of The Old Man and the Sea from their website.
I begin to read.
Author Beckett Nash has the life.
