The entire situation still felt like a waking dream, with a slightly warped storyline. Although Libby mostly tried to deny it, buried underneath the other reasons she’d gone along withLove, Lillibet—boredom, to make Jean laugh, annoyance with the sort of people whose tunnel vision led straight to a mirror (hi, mom!)—there was a kernel of “what if?” A ridiculous flicker of hope that someone would see these posts and say,I can tell there’s a promising writer behind that steaming pile of excrement.
It was the same wishful thinking that made her dress up to go out, on the off chance she was about to meet her soulmate in a crowded bar, even though Libby’s rational mind knew she was headed for another guy with more hair gel than manners who would grit his teeth through ten minutes of awkward conversation before making a move, despite the total absence of chemistry or connection. At which point Libby generally fled to the bathroom… kind of like now, though obviously this was a much nicer setup than the back of a club. Her feet weren’t sticking to the floor, for one thing. Progress?
Libby pulled out her phone. Super-casual, checking the old email… or whatever. The link to the video was right there at the top of her Frequently Visited page. Go figure. Libby hit play, then levitated off the toilet when someone knocked on the door.
“One second.” Lunging for the sink, Libby tried to turn on the tap.Just in here splashing a little cool water on my temples, as one does!The faucet did not appear to have any moving parts.
“Crap.” She poked at the bronze lump that filled the space where you’d expect running water to emerge.
The door flew open. Jean scowled at her. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
Her gaze snagged on the phone in Libby’s left hand. “Hiding in the bathroom to watch a grainy video you’ve seen a bajillion times?”
That was an exaggeration. At most Libby had watched it a dozen times. Thirty, tops. “At least I don’t barge in on people who could have been going to the bathroom!”
Jean shook her head. “You’re too scared to pee here. You said so yourself.”
“That was a joke.” Mostly.
“Sure.” Jean stepped from the wide bamboo planks of the living area onto the textured slate floor of the bathroom. This one was done in shades of green, from lichen to forest. Libby had forgotten the details: something-something wood and a slab of pure blah-blah-blah for the counter. She really should have taken notes.
“Not bad for the guests’ guest’s guest restroom,” she quipped as Jean bent to sniff the impossibly fluffy white towels. It looked like Libby wasn’t the only one afraid to touch anything with her grubby lower-class hands.
Striking like a cobra, Jean grabbed Libby’s phone. “I knew it!” she said as the video started playing. “I think you have a problem, Libs.”
“Uh, yeah. So do you. We’re up to our eyeballs in it.”
“I’m not talking about our genius plan. The issue is your little obsession.” Jean waved the phone in Libby’s face.
“It’s research.”
“You don’t even know what this guy looks like. He could be somebody’s grandpa under that snowsuit.”
That was demonstrably false, given the way he’d carried the Naughty Niece (as the headlines styled her now that she was officially not dead) through the snow. For Libby, the message was clear.Here was a person you could count on in a crisis.Theman version of a St. Bernard. Unlike the last guy she dated, who wouldn’t go five minutes out of his way to drop her off because it was “just as easy” for Libby to catch the bus from his apartment.
“He’s like a fireman,” she told Jean. “Except with snow.”
Jean pressed a hand to Libby’s forehead. “The only fire is in your brain. Or possibly your pants.”
“I’m just stressed. I need something to take my mind off all this.”
“Maybe you should try yoga?” Jean suggested. “For real.”
“Is it so wrong to want to meet someone decent for a change? When is it going to be our turn to get lucky?”
“Afteryou get a job. Once you’re a star reporter, you can sleep with whoever you want.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“Yeah, but think about it. You’ll be meeting new people constantly. Perfect time to play the field.”
“I can’t have sex with someone I’m interviewing.”
“Well, not while you’re asking them questions. But after—”
“No.” Although Libby wasn’t really in a position to lecture anyone about journalistic ethics. “I want to meet someone the normal way. You’re going about your business, and boom! There he is. Like it happened for them.” She took her phone back from Jean, tapping the dark screen. “I know it was a near-death experience, but it still seems like she won the lottery.”
