My heart breaks every time, and I think if I was left in charge of myself, I might wait for this clip to replay all night, just to let it break over and over again. Just to feel close to him in this small, unsatisfying way.
But I’m not left in charge of myself. Because this time, as soon as the clip is over, I hear the lock on my door turn.
And when I look up, I’m staring into the sympathetic eyes of my very best friend.
Chapter 19
Iwake up knowing Sibby is still in the apartment.
My bedroom door is mostly closed, a sliver-crack of light peeking along its length. But through it, I can hear her in the kitchen, dishes clinking lightly in that particular way that suggests someone is trying to be quiet. When I take a deep inhale, I can smell the heady aroma of her favorite strong coffee. It sounds and smells like so many other mornings I’ve had in this apartment—Sibby up early for work, me sleeping off a late night of sketching.
But of course it’s not like other mornings.
At first, I give in to the disappointment—the realization that I haven’t woken up to find that yesterday was all a terrible dream. I burrow deep into my covers, briefly indulging in my desire to hide away from all the ways last night had gotten unaccountably worse—still no word from Reid, butlotsof words from other people. Reporters who’d flooded my voice mail and my inbox. Clients who’d done the same, apparently scanning their planners for hidden messages, finding things I’d certainly never hidden. One had been convinced that I’d writtenHe’s cheatingamong the letters in her June spread. The truth is, I didn’t even know she was seeing anyone. Another thought I’d hiddenBotox, and wanted to know whether I was making an accusation or a suggestion. “That’s a good one,” Sibby had said, as she’d scrolled through the phone she’d commandeered from me shortly after her arrival. But I’d never hidden that word, either.
Still, I have a lot to answer for. And also, I want a lot of answers.
Slowly, I uncurl my body from the ball I’ve tucked myself into, tossing off the covers. I know I can’t hide from this forever, and anyway, Sibby being here last night let me do a lot of hiding already.
My body feels achy with fatigue as I pull on a light wrap over my pajamas, and my eyes are swollen and stuck-together-feeling. I don’t know when I finally fell asleep last night, but I do know that I’d been crying—steady streams of tears as Sibby and I had lain next to each other in the dark, the saddest version of our old sleepovers. In a cracking, barely whispered voice, I’d told her everything. About Reid and Avery and the program, about Reid and me and the walks. Even about thataround my heart, and what it truly stands for.
She’d held my hand and listened. When I’d finished, she’d said, her voice cracking, too, “I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.” And then she squeezed my hand tight and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, Sib,” I croak to her when I come out from my quick stop in the bathroom. I shuffle over to the couch and slump onto it. As progress goes, it’s minimal, but it’s better than staying in bed, at least.
She’s wearing her clothes from yesterday, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, and as soon as I’m settled she comes over, holding out a glass to me.
“Water before you’re allowed to have coffee,” she says, and I’m guessing this is the voice Sibby uses on her young charges. I can’t say I mind it at the moment. I take the glass and drink deeply, mostly because I want that coffee so bad.
“Thanks. Did you check the news?” I move to stand.
She puts a hand up, stilling me, but her eyes are still full of sympathy. “There’s nothing new. Stay where you are. I’ll get your coffee.”
She bustles away, and I lean my head back and close my eyes, listening to her move around the kitchen while I try—dimly, groggily—to come up with some kind of plan for today. The list of people I need to call—the list of people itching for a confrontation with me—seems endless, and even as I try to work through it, my mind keeps going to Reid. It’s odd, how I can hold in my looped heart such conflicting emotions: my overwhelming concern for him, my worry that he’s in trouble, hidden away somewhere and unable to be in touch. But also, my devastation over the things he’s apparently hidden from me—not the work stuff, because it’s clear he had to be secretive about that, but the personal stuff. What he must have told others about the program, about my letters. The way he left me so . . . soexposedto all these revelations.
So unprotected.
He should have warned me. Somehow, he should have warned me.
“Okay,” Sibby says, breaking into my thoughts. “Coffee. Instant oats, extra maple syrup.”
I lift my head and take it from her, notice that she’s poured me a pretty small cup. I know her well enough to know she’s still managing me here—worried about giving me too much caffeine when I’m already this anxious. In spite of all my sadness, I feel my lips twitch with a smile as I take my first sip.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” says Sibby, sitting beside me, pulling up her feet and criss-crossing her legs. “We get you a second line for your phone today. We’ll call the people you know to give them the new number, but this way, all the random stuff will go to the old one. You can record a new voice mail for it, basically a politefuck off. I already disabled the comments on your social media, but I think if we . . .”
She rattles off the rest of her ideas, and every single one of them is good. It’s the same way she’d handled things in the first hour or so after she’d come last night—a force of nature with my phone, answering calls and providing the briefest of responses, depending on who was on the line. For clients, a simple “I’m taking messages for her.” For reporters or bloggers or other randoms, a curt “No comment,” followed by her speedy blocking of the number. She’d even called both of my parents, though thankfully, it seems pretty clear my part in this scandal is going to stay local. She’d swept in like a superhero, my most devoted champion.
I’d been grateful and comforted. But now, uneasiness sweeps through me as I listen to her talk. Maybe it’s taking me a while to work up to the worst of my to-do list, but right now, sitting here with Sibby, one of the items on it becomes crystal clear.
“Sib,” I say.
“Yeah?” Her wingless eyes are guileless as she looks at me, maybe some slight surprise that I’ve interrupted her. This morning, and last night, too, she’s the old Sibby. Not distant, not polite. Vibrant and bold and big-talking, ready for anything, as though the last few months never happened.
I clear my raspy throat.
“Do you think it’s easier to . . . to be friends with me, when it’s this way? When I need you more, I mean. Do you think . . .” I stir listlessly at my oatmeal, trying to think of the right way to put this. “Do you think we maybe learned to be friends this way, and then when it wasn’t so . . .”
I trail off again, but I’m not trying to be indirect. I just know that Sibby’s thinking of all the same things I am, all the ways our friendship was formed and forged according to who we were when we were so, so young. Me on that bus with my Pepto-Bismol, nervous to be away from home, and her at a new school, ready to assert herself as strong and in control. Me on the threshold of an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, needing a new home, and her settling into one, eager to be the city expert to one person, at least.
