She picked up five shifts a week, more than she ever had, even when she’d really needed the money. After three consecutive nights her wrists required icing. After four she added the heating pad to her nighttime routine. After five she poured Epsom salt into the bathtub and soaked until her skin raisined. Her body ached in places she didn’t realize it could ache. This level of work was not sustainable, yet it was better than returning to the page. Plus, the physical punishment felt deserved. It was nothing compared to a black eye, a bruised heart, or worse.
While Alice had cut writing from her routine, Gabby was not about to let her quit any of the other new adjustments to her life. The regular hairstyling continued, the well-tailored clothes, the nude lipstick and nail polish, the morning hike. Now that Alice was no longer a love scribe, everything about this altered identity seemed even more like a lie.
“That’s guilt talking,” Gabby said as they barreled down the hill on a new hike. After seeing Skylar and Beatriz, Alice had decided she didn’t want to press her luck. She bribed Gabby with coffee to wake up twenty minutes earlier and venture to a less popular trail on the outskirts of town.
Throughout the hike Gabby had not mentioned Alice’s stories. They’d talked around them the way they would talk around an ex-lover, carving a giant arc so wide as to pretend the relationship had never existed. Still, Alice could sense the questions on the tip of Gabby’s tongue.
It wasn’t until they were sitting in Gabby’s car outside Alice’s apartment that Gabby cautiously said, “You’re sure you want to quit?”
Alice knew she was done writing. Even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t free her mind to the muse, couldn’t craft stories for people as though she wasn’t aware of the consequences.
The moment reminded Alice of med school, when Gabby had asked her the very same thing. That was Alice. A quitter. It was not surprising that she was quitting writing. The true surprise was that she’d kept it up for so long, oblivious to the real damage she caused. Oh, sweet irony. In med school she could not handle the phantom injuries she might inflict on people. With her stories she did not recognize the harm she did.
“It’s too risky,” Alice said.
“Love is always risky,” Gabby said. “You aren’t responsible for what happens after people connect.”
“Why not?”
Gabby studied Alice’s Victorian, the bay window of her studio apartment. “It’s horrible what happened to Stefanie. It’s worse than horrible. The guy who did that to her should be castrated. Or at least in jail. There’s nothing we can say that will make what happened to her okay. But it’s not your fault.Hehurt her, not you.”
The paint on the house was chipping along the scales and sticks. If you squinted, you could see the life it had once lived, before it was carved into apartments, before it was neglected.
“She never would have met him if it weren’t for me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Well, if she was destined to meet him anyway, then there’s no point to my stories.”
“That’s not what I meant. Alice, you have a gift.”
“Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I contributed. Whether it was my fault or not, I’m part of the worst thing that’s happened to her. I don’t want to be part of the worst moment in anyone’s life.”
“So the answer is to give up? What about all those people who are counting on you?”
“You think if they knew, they’d still want my help?”
“Maybe not everyone. Most people believe they’re too strong to be with someone who would abuse them. That they’d never let it happen.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s supposed to be honest.”
Alice wiped sweat off her brow. The car was suddenly very hot. “Well, what if it was Oliver?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Gabby’s defensiveness was startling.
“I just mean, if something happened with Oliver, if he hurt you or something—”
“Why would you even say that? He would never hurt me.” If they were outside, Gabby would have stormed off. Instead, trapped in her car, she leaned against the window, creating as much space between them as possible.
“Of course he wouldn’t. I just meant that if my story had led you to the wrong person, would you want me to keep writing?”
“Is there some reason you don’t like Oliver? I know you two haven’t gotten to spend that much time together. He’s just been so busy preparing for his show.”
“This isn’t about Oliver. Oliver’s great.”
“He is. And he isn’t going anywhere. Besides, if it came to it, I could take him in a fight. His idea of working out is walking to and from the fridge. I tell him all the time that he’s lucky he’s naturally fit.”
