“I mean, it’s not like that’sallI was doing. I got very into ordering different kinds of loose-leaf teas through various subscription services, and an embarrassingly large portion of my year involved binge-watchingVanderpump Rules, the—”
“Real Housewivesspin-off?”
“Yes, exactly,” he said matter-of-factly, before continuing. “And there was also a fair amount of walking and some attempts at a spin class, which did not help my depression—”
“Wait, I’m sorry,” she said, holding up a hand. “I’m not sure I’m really ready to move on fromVanderpump Rules.”
“That’s fair,” he said, amused.
“I need you to tell me how this happened. Are you all caught up?”
“I’ve watched every season, yes.”
There had been very few times in Merritt’s life when her jaw actually dropped, but this was one of them. “Every season.”
“Listen, I’m not proud of it, but—”
“How?” she demanded. “I mean, how did this happen... to you?”
“You make it sound like an affliction.”
She didn’t answer but gave him a pointed look.
He smiled again. “Fine. One day I was trying to write. But I was feeling sad—about Helen, yes, but also just that sort of, you know, the mindless sadness that creeps in from time to time.”
Merritt nodded, grateful that the mention of Helen had been quick and straightforward. Grateful that leading him to another unhappy acknowledgment had been relatively painless this time around. But beyond that, she was grateful that she understood him. Mindless, unasked for, unexplainable sadness was not unfamiliar to her, but no one she knew seemed to talk about it like that. She didn’t think it was depression. Just a day or week of feeling sad, sad, sad.
“Anyway, I decided to give myself a break, and I did something I never do, which is to turn on the TV in the middle of the day. And I landed on this show where these people, whom I now know are named Jax and Stassi—that’s Stassi likemossy, not Stacey likeMacy—they were arguing in a club in Las Vegas during a birthday party, and then in an instant Jax was in the parking lotphysically fighting Stassi’s boyfriend, both of them inexplicably shirtless. And that episode rolled immediately into another episode, and then another, and I became obsessed.”
Merritt waited, thinking about how this man was a published author of books that were considered cultured and literary, but saying nothing.
“I could not look away from these people who essentially talk aboutabsolutely nothingin hour-long increments. It was the most wonderful gift. A true brain-cell-eradicating time suck. Which is what I needed then, I think, to get through the days. I didn’t want to be thinking or feeling. I wanted to be watching every episode ofVanderpump Rulesin which Stassi has a dramatic birthday party, which happens astonishingly often. It is a terrible show, and it is very dear to me.”
The drinks came, and Merritt stared at Whit as he accepted the beer and bread, and then they ordered some food, and she watched again as Whit thanked the waitress kindly, genuinely. She took a sip of her wine, then shook her head. Somehow,somehow, he had made this shocking confession into something sweet and understandable. Somehow she was identifying with a man who had binge-watchedVanderpump Rules.
“That’s a lot to share with someone who is basically a stranger,” he said, after a long pull from his glass. “But that’s what I was doing instead of writing.”
Whit watched the woman across from him, this woman whom he did not know, the recipient of his foolhardy proposal. She was eyeing the basket between them, overflowing with sliced sourdough, the tiny ramekin of honeyed butter at the edge of its gingham blanket hanging on for dear life.
She held up a piece of bread and examined it as she spoke. “Somy question, again, is why do you think I’m the one who can help you with this?”
Whit felt sheepish in a way he typically associated with middle school.
“I googled you,” he admitted. “Eventually. I saw that you did an MFA at a good program, so I know you can at least put pen to paper, and you’ve been so helpful, so knowledgeable about the books.”
He fidgeted with the silverware, dropping his eyes for a moment. He felt a little like he was trying to keep a skittish woodland animal calm until help arrived.
“I dunno,” he said. “I just have this sense that you’re the right person to help me.”
When Whit looked up and saw her blank face, a hole opened up beneath him, and he fell into it. Was he crazy? Was he doing a crazy thing? Every further explanation he could think of seemed thin. He had no solution to his problems, he was as lost as he’d ever been, and Helen was gone. He couldn’t ask for her help or have her unsolicited feedback laid on him. He had hated that, the way she’d given advice when he hadn’t asked for it, but now he would give everything to hear her opinion on anything at all. He would give everything to hear her voice, and he longed to find another of her long red hairs threaded through his shirt. He was so lost.
And that’s why he’d reached out for help. But he wasn’t a drowning man grabbing whatever passed by him. He knew that he could have asked someone he knew personally. He was friendly with so many writers, far beyond the bounds of the Whelk Harbor set. But those writers had also been, to a person, friendly with Helen, and he realized, only now as he considered it after the fact, that he didn’t need more help thinking about what Helen-the-person would do. He needed someone who knew Helen-the-writer. He needed someone new.
There were a dozen other reasons he’d asked Merritt for help, beyond the MFA. Some were circumstantial—she lived close by, and she liked books. Some of his reasons were more pointed, like seeing the pin on her lanyard, the kestrel and the spoon, a symbol from the second book that fans were constantly having tattooed on themselves. (Did Merritt have a tattoo?) But the real reason he’d asked her could not really be articulated. On those singing competition shows he often found himself watching on YouTube (did he have a reality TV addiction?) they would call it the X factor. Whatever it was, Merritt seemed to have it. He felt that he could trust her, and that she would care about the work. But one could not say such things out loud.
“And I saw your pin,” he said instead, “that day at the library. The kestrel one.”
“The Sign of the Scout?”
