Yeah, well,Lola wrote,he probably senses the whole enemies-to-lovers plotline unfolding in that car right now.
I wrinkled my nose and then replied,That’snot going to be a thing. It literally can’t be. You understand that, right? That I could never, ever be with him?
Bubbles for a moment.
And then, finally, she sent:Yeah, okay. Right. When are you getting back? Can we still practice for my interview tonight?
Back by dinner, I replied.And yes! You know I love to role-play!
You’re absurd, Katie. Truly.
I laughed. And then, when I looked over at Tyler again, I finally got a glimpse of his phone screen.
He was watchingThe Notebook—and had just arrived at the kissing scene.
On Saturday, five days after our research lunch and two days after Selma confirmed Meredith was happy with the outline, I took the train to Westchester. Danny had to work over the weekend, and Lola and Juniper were desperate for an empty apartment. And so,by lunchtime, I was walking through the front door of my parents’ house, my overnight bag on my shoulder and the stack of dew-damp packages I’d found on the stoop wobbling in my arms.
“Mom? Dad?”
The house was dark and cold—even now, on the second-to-last day of June. Muffled echoes of a television set crept into the foyer, but other than that, quiet. I dropped my weekender and the boxes to my feet, called out for my parents again, then flicked on a light.
The entryway came into focus. Forgotten on the console table, an open carton of milk. Abandoned on the hardwood, a plaid bathrobe. Left untouched on the bottom stair, a bag of groceries—delivered, surely, and judging from the amorphous glob of cheddar poking out the very top, not particularly recently.
I pushed down my shoulders and tiptoed through the living room. There, more mess—but underneath it, nothing. A tired, gray sofa. Bare yellow walls. A spareness that sent a shudder down my spine. I hugged my arms around my elbows to halve the shiver and followed the blare of the TV into the den.
My father was in his armchair, watching a home renovation show in a pair of pajama pants. His shoulders, slumped. His beard, overgrown. He was six foot five, my dad, and impossibly small. Finally, his gaze lifted. He rubbed his eyes and smiled for a moment but did not stand to greet me.
“Oh, Katie, sweetheart. Hi. Is it Saturday already? Did Mom not... Mom isn’t here, baby. Did she not call you?”
I shook my head no. My mom had been in Washington for meetings the past few days but was supposed to return last night. Apparently, she had not.
My father frowned. His hand was still glued to the remote control. “I’m sorry, honey... I would’ve cleaned up a little. I would’ve grabbed you from the station.”
The muscles in my jaw clenched. They were begging to downturn, to show themselves, but I would not allow it. Slowly, through the blue-lit haze of the room, in all the unused space between us, a scene unfurled. It was a vision I knew better than to try to wrap my fingers around: A clean, warm house. A space that felt like my own. Parents who planned their whole lives around the twenty-four measly hours their only child decided to come back home.
I pushed the fantasy out of sight, then whispered, “No problem,” and cleared a couple of crusted cereal bowls from the coffee table instead.
I went to a spin class. I went to another spin class. I took myself out to lunch, texted Tyler a Heathcliff meme, sexted Danny a recycled nude, and then put on a very smutty audiobook and wandered around a neighborhood that was barely mine until I was so hot, sweaty, and lightheaded I had no choice but to turn around and head home.
It was three in the afternoon by this point, but still, darkness. Upstairs, more TV. This time, seeping through the closed door to my parents’ room at the end of the hall. I was already halfway to my own bedroom when I found myself turning the knob to my mother’s office. I wasn’t sure why I’d opened that door.
Maybe I had wanted to feel it.
Maybe I had wanted, in that moment, for it to hurt.
And so I stood there, a shopping bag full of plastic gemstones from the craft store at my feet, and I waited. I studied the rustedtrophies and the tattered press clippings and the faded photographs, and I waited. I looked into my big brother’s eyes, and I waited, I waited, I waited.
And then, when nothing happened, when the tears never came, I clicked my tongue and shut the door.
The next morning, my dad took me out to breakfast before I caught the ten a.m. back to the city. A local diner—nothing special. Maroon booths, big laminate menus. The smell of bacon and burnt coffee and the occasional slice of too-toasted rye.
I sipped my orange juice. He did the same. I pushed around a packet of whipped butter. He pushed around a shriveled purple grape. And then he rubbed his beard and, for a moment, looked right at me. His smile quivered, almost, as it flashed across his face.
“Did you make that?” he said.
“Oh.” I ran my fingers over my jacket. I’d spent the bulk of Saturday evening holed up in my not-quite-bedroom, bedazzling it. Thick, distressed denim now charmed with jewel-like pops of purple, pink, and blue. “Yeah. Last night.”
He smiled again, then opened his mouth to speak. His face warped as his lips searched for the next few words to say. My breath caught, and my heartbeat hung on to the silence. Was this our moment? Was he going to reach for my hand? Tell me everything was going to change? That, from now on, things were going to be different? That he was going to try to get down to the city at least once every few months? That he’d finally gotten the chance to read the books I’d written, and they were fantastic? That hecouldn’t believe how remarkable I was? That he was sorry? That I was still his little girl?
