“Celia texted him,” I explain.
“Your column editor?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I was discombobulated this morning—”
“By the great sex.”
I shoot her a look, and she snorts at the look on my face. I deliberately ignore her.
“It was early and I was getting my bearings and I heard a phone beep and I thought it was mine. She texted him about a call but also about Ask Eleonora. No one else other than J would be talking to Celiaabout it that casually. So on a hunch, I texted him. I texted J, and it came up on Eli’s phone.”
“Doesn’t Eli have your number, though?” she asks, confused.
I shake my head. “With J, we’ve always texted on WhatsApp, because he gave me his British number. Eli gave me his American number. So hilariously I must be in his phone twice—as Nora in his regular contacts and as Eleonora in WhatsApp. When he added my number into his regular phone, the WhatsApp contact wouldn’t have changed.”
“That’s ... huh,” Dane says, considering, taking another sip of coffee. “But you’ve been talking to J for weeks about meeting up in London. If he lives in New York, why didn’t he just say that?”
“I don’t know,” I reply slowly, that particular question already buzzing. “I’m so confused by having to reorient my entire mind around JbeingEli that that part is making everything seem so much more complicated. Like J isn’t who I thought he was—not just because he’s a particularly damaged and difficult real man I already know, but because the J I knew wouldn’tlie. He might not share everything, but it’s just so out of the spirit of our conversations to pretend to be in London when he wasn’t. It’s like I really don’t know him at all.”
“But again, maybe you know one side of him. Or now, I guess two sides,” she says, squinting at the mental gymnastics of putting these two personalities into one person.Welcome to my morning.
But she’s not done with me yet. “You have to have known all along you weren’t seeingeverythingwith J?”
I put my forehead onto the table. This is all too much.HaveI known that all along? Or did I actually believe that J was a living, breathing embodiment of only what he told me in his messages?
How could I have believed that, really? He wasn’t claiming to be some perfectly evolved man. On the contrary, he was openly, constantly admitting to his failings in his own life and finding solace in having one person he could actually say things to. I should’ve known he was a person who wasn’t forthright in his everyday life.
Especially since I’m exactly the same.
I’m one version of myself to acquaintances, a less inhibited version with my closest friends, and another slightly different version with my family. Are any of those versions of meuntrue? Or are they just different shades of the same thing, some holding more honesty than others?
I can’t help but smile thinking of Esther’s plaque unveiling and all the versions of her that collided together in that single moment, stunning the one person who thought he knew her best. We’re all made up of so many sides, tiny jewels sparkling at different angles.
But maybe that’s why this is all the more confusing. With J, it seemed like he saw more of me, because I felt like I could speak without hedging. And he’d implied he felt the same.
So why did he hedge on the one thing that could have brought us together sooner?
“Isn’t this good news?” Dane says, interrupting my spiral. “Like ... the guy you have a crush on and just had great sex with is actually the same man you suspected you’re in love with? What am I missing that makes this bad?”
I lift my head up and stare at her. I don’t quite know how to answer that. It’s natural for me to besurprised, but why am I feeling so muchdread?
As though she can read the confusion, Dane puts her hand out and covers mine. “For a person who reads the last chapter first, I get that going out on a limb with J was already hard. There’s a lot of unknown here. And now it’s palpable. He’s a real person.”
“He was always a real person,” I grumble, taking another necessary sip of coffee.
“But this is different. Someone you’re writing to, you can write and rewrite what you want to say. Someone you write to, they aren’t standing in front of you telling you what to do or forcing you to make any choices. In words, we can be honest, but we can also be measured. Reality is messier than that. And Eli is theoppositeof measured,” she chuckles, and I scowl, not loving how much amusement she’s still deriving even when she’s switched into supportive mode. “So I get why thisis scary, Nora, I really do. I get that you had to take on the emotional labor of your dingbat parents from a young age, and the idea of adding anyone else into your equation who needs something from you is hard. And not to mention, the fear of rejection is scary.”
My mouth falls open at the succinct diagnosis Dane has given me. Damn, I always thought I liked Dane in part because she’snota therapist, but maybe I’ve underestimated her.
She’s still not done with me. “But you have to tell him. This is a good thing. It’s harder and it’s not the fairy tale, but it’s also better.”
“I know,” I say quietly. I close my eyes and rub my temples, trying to stave off the headache I can feel pulsing below the surface.
But Dane isn’t going to give me an inch. She stands up, like she’s ending the conversation for me. “So go talk to him, yeah? You talk about feelings for a goddamned living.”
“Other people’s feelings.”
She stares at me, disappointed but not surprised. And then she grabs my arm and hoists me up. “Nobody said love was easy,” she laughs, then pushes me out the door.
