I step back. Steve’s face screws up in confusion.
“I have to go—change a tampon.” I cross my arms and get jostled by the rest of the dancers. Hopefully whatever I just put myself through is enough to inspire jealousy and regret in Eitan, because I can’t muster it any longer. “I’ll be—” I point God knows where and then weave my way as fast as humanly possible away from the turd who grew legs and named itself Steve.
In reality, I don’t have to go anywhere. Or maybe it’s that I don’t have anywhere to go.
Self-loathing clouds around me, creating a tunnel toward the Dark Place.Not here, I beg myself.Just have a good night.I can’t go anywhere without my fear following me. What would Louise say if she were standing next to me?It’s okay to be afraid, Gem.I imagine her raspy, radio-announcer voice.Just have a little faith.
It strikes me that Louiseshouldbe here. Why haven’t I seen her yet? She should be easy to spot. I bet she’s covered head to toe in sequins and a matching head scarf. Yet I don’t see her tell-tale shimmering figure yet.
I’m mid-sip, scanning the room for Louise, when I spot a severe woman in a champagne pantsuit, with a scarlet pixie cut and a nose that can smell bestsellers. I’ve followed Alice Sutherland’s Instagram almost religiously for three years, and there’s no doubt in my mind that this is her.
The contents of my stomach threaten to fizz and boil over. “Stay. Calm,” I order myself through gritted teeth. This is what I’ve been waiting for.Thisis the last pure piece of my puzzle to unlock post-cancer-happiness. It’s in this moment that I learn staying calm during the culmination of a years-long pipe dream is impossible.
My hand, wracked with tremors, deposits my glass on a cocktail table, and I wipe the sweat off my palms. My body is having a hard time telling the difference between approaching Alice and running for my life from a bear. I try a few deep breaths.
Now or never, a brave voice asserts in my head. If I listen closely, I’d have to acknowledge that it sounds like Eitan’s.
“Hi, Alice Sutherland?” I say as I step into her vision.
“Hello?” she asks, razor-sharp brows wrinkling.
“Hi, I’m Penelope’s friend, Ruby Hirsch.” I hold out my hand, praying it has stopped sweating. “I’m a big fan.”
A shred of recognition twinkles in her eye and she takes my hand. Hers is dry and cool, the epitome of collected. “Ah, yes, Penelope mentioned you.”
“It’s such an honor to meet you,” I gush. “I actually remember when you found Penelope, after that one poem went viral, and I had been following you for a year?—”
Alice chortles. It’s a tinkling sound like ice in a glass. “Found her? I’ve known Penelope since she was born.”
My brain glitches, and the rest of my prepared talking points evaporate. I blink a few times, making sure this isn’t an elaborate hallucination. “How’s that possible when you’ve only been her agent for three years?”
“I’ve been a friend of the family for years.” Alice lifts her Peneloptini to her mouth, her hand rattling with chunky wooden jewelry. “I’ve represented Alfred ever sinceLily in the Grass.And then Louise called me to tell me her niece was looking for representation.”
“No.” A tinny laugh erupts out of me, something coming unhinged in my mind. “That’s not how Penelope tells it. She said youdiscoveredher poetry on Instagram.”
Alice tuts. “Hardly anyone gets ‘discovered’ these days. It’s about who you know. Louise sent me her Instagram handle, I checked out her work, her following, and here we are.”
All this time, I’ve been telling myself that if I just work hard enough—write the perfect snippet, post the perfect picture, finish the perfect book—I’ll get to where Penelope is. But even Penelope didn’t achieve that.
It’s about who you know, rings in my ears. It has the same sticky residue asAfter the wedding has gone perfectly, I’d totally owe you one.
Something else has snagged in what Alice said. The words are off, like shoes wedged onto the wrong feet.
“But look!” Alice continues. “You’ve met the right people?—”
“Louise doesn’t even know what Instagram is.”
“Lou has been on Instagram longer than I have. The woman had a Myspace page for godsakes. Don’t let her schtick fool you, she’s very tech savvy.”
Aunt Lou wantseverythingto go through her, Pen said during that first, fateful call, asking for help.And she literally lives in the Stone Age, like can’t do it over email or Zoom.
I thought planning the wedding together would be a way to feel closer to Alfie, Louise admitted over the phone.
Several emotions battle for my attention. Anger at Penelope, for not recognizing Louise’s ploys to spend time with her. Disappointment on Louise’s behalf.
Foolishness, for not realizing sooner what’s been going on this entire time.
“I’ve read the first fifty pages of your manuscript, by the way.” Alice pulls me back to the present. “And I’ve got a good feeling about it, especially if you make the changes Penelope mentioned.”
