I turned.
Hank twisted his mouth, hesitating.
“Hank?”
“This is just an observation,” he said finally. “The gentleman was dressed in running clothes. He offered me a coffee on his return lap.”
His return lap. He was coming back. My shoulders slumped. “Got it.”
I made it all the way up to my apartment without opening the gold bag. Wells’s gift language was jewelry, both costume and fine. He said his mother told him that women only like fine jewelry for special occasions, which I always told him was outdated. At my one-year job anniversary, when I’d casually slipped that I wouldn’t mind something creative, he’d shown up with a candy necklace printed with positive affirmations instead. I’d loved it.
My phone dinged with a text from Caleb:
Hope you liked the exhibit,he’d written.See you tomorrow?
I did like the exhibit. I loved the exhibit. I loved the map of a world of relationships, the web of connections. But right now, I set my phone on the counter and peered into Wells’s gift. I didn’t know what I expected, but if I had to qualify what Ileastexpected, it would be this.
There was an actual gift inside. A tiny bright tangerine box that looked expensive before I even clocked its HERMES label. But I left that in the bag unopened because something else was in there, something thrown in for convenience to carry, probably, something nearly hyperbolic in nature. A curtain of moisture swept against my eyes, tears rushing toward the bridge of my nose. But it wasn’t crying I was doing, it was laughing.It’s for later, Wells had said. He’d meant it literally.
The half-empty bottle of melatonin rattled in my hand. If I’d had this exact bottle, then the odds of me seeing Cambrey’s text that night were infinitely lower. MOM ASKED ME TO GIVE THIS TO YOU, Wells had written on the stationaryembossed with his family monogram. He’d penned the words in the all-caps block letters he favored. YOU LEFT IT IN THE HAMPTONS. WASN’T SURE IF YOU WERE OUT. —W
Heat rushed to the small of my back. The amber bottle was slick in my palm. The capsules inside jostled, my big clue that I was shaking. I dropped the medicine and clapped my hand to my mouth.
I coughed once, twice, my laugh faster and faster until it morphed into a buzz against my ears. I stopped laughing, though, because the sound wasn’t me. It was my intercom, announcing the arrival of someone on their return lap. Someone who believed in the possibility of us.
I pushed against the anvil of dread. I was sick of being resigned to this destiny. I wanted so much more for myself than what my email had delivered. It wasn’t fair—nothing was.
And then I started to cry again, because I knew in the smallest parts of me what would happen next.
Forty
Something irritating about Wells was that I enjoyed the smell of his sweat. This was probably nature’s pheromone confirmation of Soulmail, but whatever brand of deodorant he used felt customized just for him, spicy and deep. I’d seen pictures of him playing college lacrosse, and even with his blond hair matted and drippy, his post-workout self was flushed, youthful, a photoshopped Prince William.
Right now, that version of Wells gulped a glass of water in my apartment. “Oh, good, you got the bag from the door guy.”
“Hank,” I said. Automatic. My phone rang with what must be the third call from Marta Jenkins, PR. “Hold on,” I said to Wells.
As soon as I answered, Marta Jenkins launched into a series of platitudes.
“There aren’t enough ‘don’t worries’ and ‘wait it outs’ in the world for this,” I said. “I knew this would come out someday. I told everyone that much in my offer meeting.”
Wells tugged open my pantry, retrieved a granola bar. He hauled himself onto the counter, tore the foil with his teeth.
“Yes,” Marta said. There was something in her tone that made me stiffen. “But we want to avoid this looking like we’re trying to spin something. Since you’ve never mentioned your sister before, it’s natural people will wonder why.”
Cold silence filled my chest. She was right, at least partially so. “Her death isn’t something my parents like talking about.”
“Understandably so. We’re sorry for your loss.” She paused. “It must have been impossible for your parents.”
I waved my hand at the sympathy, impatient. “Thank you. But now, I’d like to put together something for air, something—”
“I’m not in charge of the segments,” Marta said. “Like I said, we’re terribly sorry. We can have a meeting come Monday on how to handle this, all right?”
Handle this. Something in my life was once again something to be handled. I bristled.
“People found out about Sabrina?” Wells asked when I hung up. He shook his head, broke the granola bar in half. “I’m so sorry, Liv.”
“Wells.” A plea. “This isn’t the life I was supposed to have.” The words almost slapped the air, and at the same time, my insides wrung with buoyancy. I could float to the ludicrously high ceiling of this place.
