I’m grateful I have someone to talk to who isn’t a cockroach.
I’m grateful for the people who readSincerely, Libbybecause it tells me I’m not the only one flailing through life.
I’m grateful I don’t have time to worry about my personal problems.
That last one especially was a relief. It was like taking a vacation from herself, shutting down all the circuits that powered herworries about the future, and the past, anything beyond this moment. She was a rock deep underwater, sensing the movement of waves far above without feeling more than a surface vibration. The work was never-ending, but it was honest, and had a purpose beyond tricking people. Libby slept better at the end of a day of menial labor than “Lillibet” ever had while lounging in the luxury of her million-thread-count sheets.
It was a revelation she shared with the readers of the newly mintedSincerely, Libbyaccount, among other guess-who-pulled-her-head-out-of-her-ass observations. Libby didn’t pretend to have all the answers, any more than she fronted about her home life, but she did keep posting.Behold my many and varied imperfections, all tied up with a hairnet and rubber gloves!
Now that Jean was back, Libby even had artsy photos of her grungy state. A bandaged knuckle. Industrial-sized containers of cooking oil. Rorschach blots of teriyaki on a take-out napkin. A harrowing journey into the depths of their refrigerator, which was even more desolate now that they ate most of their meals at the food truck. But from cool angles that made it look almost intentional. The pictures were credited to Jean, with an additional disclaimer (I DIDN’T TAKE THIS), just as the pretty plates were clearly attributed to Keoki (I DIDN’T MAKE THIS). Which left Libby free to claim the words, even if theI WROTE THISwas only in her head.
And because the universe was contrary, or fond of ironic twists, or had a generally terrible sense of humor, plain old Libby was pulling more followers by the day. The numbers had easily tripled since her Lillibet days. That didn’t make her an influencer in any sense of the word, but people were reading sentences that Libby wrote. And they were lines she actually meant this time.
No amount of sweat dripping into her eyes, parboiling her hands in hot soapy water, or making fun of herself online would have kept Libby from obsessing over Jefferson, if what she lacked in willpower hadn’t been supplied by geography. It was as if he’d dropped off the face of the earth when he left the island. Libby couldn’t find a crumb of new content online, and not for lack of trying. She kept waiting for the breakup story to appear, or a big glossy profile written by someone else. Apart from a single “Trouble in Paradise?” headline (reusing the photo of a frowning Jefferson from the jewelry booth, with the display of rings cropped out), there was nothing.
His photography website was as bare-bones as ever. Watching the famous video felt weird now that she knew the real him, like her tween self kissing a picture in a magazine instead of actual boys. Out of desperation, she even checked to see if he had a profile on any of the dating sites, though it was hard to think of something less Jefferson than advertising himself on the Internet. Plus, after narrowing her search to his part of the world, marketing algorithms decided she was a survivalist with significant quantities of facial hair and targeted her online ads accordingly. All that camo might come in handy if she decided to stalk him old-school, with binoculars. Maybe some face paint. A hat covered in moss.
But for that she’d have to fly to Wyoming. And to dothatshe needed money.
Libby’s rational side tried to convince the rest of her to accept that she most likely would never see Jefferson again. Might as well go cold turkey and embrace her new life of useful drudgery.
But the part of her that believed in fairy tales secretly hoped that if and when their paths did cross, she would be worthy of himbecauseof this time spent busting her ass.
Even though her heart felt more like a thick bruise than a functioning muscle, Libby was aware that her Sad and Lonelyera could have been sadder and lonelier. She saw Keoki and Cici almost every day, and the food truck community was laid-back and welcoming. Her Internet friends provided commentary and occasional comic relief that helped her feel less invisible.
The person she saw least was Jean, despite sharing an apartment. Her roommate was still logging ridiculous hours at the resort. When Libby worried about her burning the candle at both ends, Jean swore she had it under control.
And she must have been getting some downtime during her shifts, because Jean often returned from the resort with new concept art for Keoki’s Kitchen, gradually refining his logo (a cresting wave with an anthropomorphized pineapple holding a ukulele while riding a surfboard) and sketching out the mural for the street-facing side of the trailer.
Libby posted sneak peeks of Jean’s drawings on her account, along with behind-the-scenes shots from the restaurant-in-progress. In the back of her mind, she was piecing together a longer story: “Local Boy Makes Good (Food).” A companion piece to the Tutu story, if that one ever saw the light of day. Because if you could make a restaurant out of spare parts and unexpected detours, maybe it was worth putting in that kind of work to build her career. Even if the steps weren’t quite as straightforward as sanding picnic tables and scrubbing pots.
One night when she was alone again at the apartment, Libby started writing. It wasn’t quite a food story, or a travel write-up, or a profile of Keoki, though it had elements of all three. The flavors of the North Shore, the locals who lived there, the tradition of hospitality. She was trying to capture a particular moment in a specific place. And hopefully attract as many customers as possible to Keoki’s food truck.
When she finished, Libby sent it to Jean, who was yet again working the night shift.
Where are we sending it?Jean replied, ten minutes later.Times? Tribune? New Yorker? Paris Review?
Libby smiled at her phone, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the lack of air-conditioning.Not sure yet. Probably someplace local.She hesitated, afraid of sounding full of herself.Or maybe an in-flight magazine?
Dancing dots appeared and disappeared several times before Jean finally replied:
Hold that thought. I might have an in.
When Jean’s key turned in the lock later that night, Libby forced herself not to run across the room and scream in her face,Do you have anything to tell me about my story?
“Hey,” she said casually, peeling herself off the couch. “How was your— Is that a freaking hickey?”
“No.” Jean raised a hand to her neck, covering the exact spot that had caught Libby’s eye. “You don’t want to hear my news?”
“Is it about your hickey?”
“No, it’s about your story.”
Trust Jean to play her trump card. Libby braced for disappointment. “Well?”
“I reached out to Hildy.”
“What? Why?”
