That’s all Beckett was. He was just me taking a break. Giving my brain something else to occupy itself with.
Which obviously released a fuckload of oxytocin, essentially making me love-drunk.
But that’s not me in real life. I’m an English teacher. I live in the same apartment in Queens that I grew up in. I’m a woman in my thirties who rewatches shows likeSchitt’s Creek,The Office, andNew Girlbecause I like to laugh and I believe in the promise of a happy ending. In entertainment, anyway.
In life, not so much.
And I write. Well, used to. Who knows what I’ll do now. If thisPeoplemagazine thing happens and somehow offers me any kind of notoriety,I’ll still always be known as the woman who stole Beckett Nash’s story. Which is ridiculous, because I’ve already read the first 119 pages, and let me be clear, the only thing that’s the same is that there are two people who meet on a trip to Aruba. And, fine, the casino scene. Okay, and yes, the scene in the water from the beginning of day three, which I could not help but note was rather hot, despite eliminating the fact that we got to second—almost third—base in that salty surf. He took some artistic license there and decided that the characters would share their first kiss in that moment, and it twisted my stomach up in knots to read his version of it, which was smooth, sweet, pulsing with an undercurrent of lust that he handled quite tactfully, if I’m being honest. No mention of logistics, no tangled tongues or roaming fingers, and certainly nothing having to do with my chest; instead, he describes it using only words associated with feelings and sensations: blossoming warmth, mounting tension, that sort of thing. Beckett’s sentences are seductive and passionate without being smutty, and I prefer it that way. It’s as if my dignity has been spared.
I’ve also observed that he’s notably written my motheroutof the story—like, yes, she’s there, but the character feels thin, as if she’s not even a critical piece of anything. I hate that he’s whittled her huge persona down to nothing but an afterthought, like a potted plant in the corner of the room that you remember to give water to once a day. But I guess that makes sense. It’s hard to write a romance when someone’s mother is in the room sixty percent of the time. Who knows? Maybe he wrote all about her but a business-savvy editor said, “Nope, none of this,” and put her right on the chopping block.
Evan mentioned the sex scenes being similar, but I haven’t gotten to one yet. In real life, the really sexy stuff began on day four, so if he wrote it as it was, I’m getting close. It seems as though he’s trying to slow things down, but it’s a romance, so the sex would be inevitable even if Evan hadn’t reported the three penned incidents. I can’t even fathom what BeckettNash’s sex scenes would look like or how they’d read. All I know is that, so far, he’s crafted some admittedly lovely language, along with some accurate and well-placed imagery. As much as it pains me to admit it, he’s agoodwriter. But reading his iteration of our sexual encounters? I don’t know if I’m ready for that. Especially knowing that the behavior I exhibited in Aruba was not the real me.
It was the stupid, love-drunk version of me that I’d rather pretend didn’t exist.
So instead of reading more, I procrastinate. I leave the book on the nightstand and fold a load of laundry on the dining room table. I grade papers. It’s almost 7:00 p.m. on Tuesday evening, and I haven’t eaten dinner yet. So I reheat some shitty old pizza in the microwave. It tastes like burn-your-mouth melted cheese on cardboard, but it satiates me. I consider the next few days of work. There are year-end assemblies, awards ceremonies, and other things like that coming up. Graduation is Friday night. I have bigger things to think about right now than this man and his dumb book.
I lose myself in thought, and there she is. “Pretty Girl,” she croons, “it’s just words.”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t myself on that trip. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Of course I would. I’m your mother,” the breathy voice inside my mind explains. “Try me, love.”
“I…” my voice trails off. I try to formulate a coherent thought in my head, but it appears I am unable to string words together into a sentence. “I don’t know,” I finally mumble.
“That’s okay,” Mom says. “I already know what’s in your heart. You don’t need to say anything.”
“Is that how it works? When you die, suddenly you can just go jumping into people’s heads and hearing their thoughts?”
“No, baby. I know what’s in your heart because you’re my little girl.”
“Oh.”
“But I also know what’s in that book. And I think you need to read it.”
“Why do I need to read it? Ilivedit. And quite honestly, I don’t particularly want toreliveit.”
Can ghosts sigh? If so, that’s the sound she makes in my head. Like, even in her afterlife, I’m exasperating her. “There is information there that you don’t have.”
“Like what? Can’t you just tell me?”
“No, sweetheart, I can’t. You need to read Beckett’s book for yourself.” I feel a small breeze, which is interesting because the windows are closed. “Trust me, Pretty Girl. Everything is not what you think.”
I chew on that thought as I finish my pizza crust.Read the whole thing, and then call me.
“Fine,” I say aloud to my empty apartment. “I’ll keep reading.”
After my first day on the island, I thought I’d found a groove. I would write in the morning, then go out in search of Harmony and spend the later part of the afternoon and early evening with her and her mom. Her mother would excuse herself to retire for the night, and Harmony and I could spend some time alone together. This held true for the second day—the Chinese food/casino day. By the end of my writing session on day three, my father-son time travel story was finally starting to take shape. Something about the island was working its charm on me. I felt like being so far from home was offering me space and perspective, both of which I craved more than I’d realized.
It’s hard to reconcile the idea that a parent can leave their child. As horrific as it might sound, I can understand thenotion of leaving a pregnant girlfriend. Not that I would ever do such a thing; I’m just saying, I could understand. You don’t really know the baby yet at that point. It’s still kind of abstract, the idea of creating new life. I totally understand why women are more attached to babies than men are; for them, it’snotabstract. It’s completely physical.Theirbodies are the ones that change and mold, bend and break to house the new life within them. But men? They’re ignorant of all that, because they don’t experience it personally.
What Ican’tunderstand is the idea of leaving a child after you’ve become a family. When you’ve watched your son take his first steps, recorded him performing in his first-grade play, pretended to be Santa Claus at Christmas to give him the chance to experience holiday magic. Once you’ve taught him how to play football, how to keep the book at a baseball game, how a car engine works. Once you’ve spent your weekends cheering on his travel team as they work tirelessly to make it to the playoffs. How can a father leavethen? If the father and the mother don’t get along, I understand that. Maybe they don’t have sex anymore. Maybe there’s even another partner on the side. Again, it’s all wrong, but I can understand the idea of moving out, of getting your own place, of every other weekend. What I simply cannot fathom is the idea of disappearing altogether, as if that piece of your life—that child—never existed.
It causes damage to the child. Big time, long-lasting damage. It shapes who they are and how they will feel about themselves and their interpersonal relationships for, well, probably forever, I’d imagine.
When my father left, he vaguely said something aboutheading out west. No address, no details. I had his cell phone number, so I figured he’d let me know where we ended up once he got settled. I was fifteen years old, so I wasn’t a little kid or anything. It hurt to see him go, but my parents’ marriage was in shambles and according to both him and my mom, it was for the best. I had no choice but to believe them.
But one day, a few weeks after he packed his bags and drove off in his truck, I called his cell and the phone rang and rang until it finally went to voicemail. I waited a day or two and called him again. More automated recordings. About a week later, I sent a text message.Where are you?it read.Why won’t you pick up your phone?
