Page 24 of Only Lovers in the Building

“You’ll have to open it to find out,” she says. “He set it aside for you last week.”

A current of judgment runs through her words. You could’ve laughed in her face. His father had waited a week for his visit? You’d waited a lifetime for visits, phone calls, birthday cards, a letter of explanation. You owed the dead man nothing.

Most fathers were a mystery to their sons; yours was a total stranger. What you knew of him were facts and opinions found in books and articles. Everyone agreed—critics, scholars, former wives, jilted lovers, everyone the poet had ever encountered—that he was great. A great man of letters!

Early on, at ten or twelve, you’d been fool enough to believe that life had spared you. No father to look up to meant no legacy to uphold. You could be whatever, do whatever, and what did you do? You wrote a poem and won a prize.

Life father, like son! they cheered.

You hadn’t been spared a thing. His legacy was a weight that would drag you to the bottom of the sea if you let it.

The box is heavier than expected. It holds a collection of journals, letters, a few photos, and a watch. It slides from the seat to the floor as you drive off the lot. Bougainvillea trees line the road.

Death in late spring.

Full blooms for a funeral.

Birds sing a eulogy.

Daisies push through the grave.

Chapter Eight

The App Formerly Known as Twitter: “At the end of the day, we all just miss our plants.”

Post.

Delete Post.

Lily had to quit this pity party on social media and start her days journaling, like the wellness gurus recommended. Besides, it wasn’t smart; someday, her dark thoughts could be held against her in the court of public opinion. She missed her Monstera and the rituals of watering, pruning, and repotting it when necessary. Tending to it in the morning calmed her before heading into the office. The plant had been a housewarming gift from her mother when she moved into the apartment in Murray Hill. But why long for an emotional support plant when new rituals were taking shape? She was meeting Ben by the pool, around nine.

New bikini, flip-flops, floppy hat, sunglasses, sunblock, sarong, a swipe of red lipstick (because why not?), iced coffee (which she’d gotten herself like a grown-up), a tote with corporate branding . . . and Lily was out the door, Roxanna’s warnings trailing behind her. The plan was to get to the pool early, settle down, and maintain a steady heartbeat. He’d arrive after his run to find her, as she’d found Noah the other day, looking like a sun goddess, immersed in the book.

Nothing went according to plan. Ben was already there. His stuff was piled on a chair along with his copy of Blurred Lines, its pages flipping in the breeze while he swam long, lazy laps. Lily marched to the pool’s edge and dropped the tote at her feet. He swam over and emerged like Triton. There was no controlling her heart rate now.

“Good morning, beautiful!”

“Don’t call me that. You know it makes me crazy.”

He wiped water out of his eyes. “I’ll stop.”

“Don’t! Obviously, I love it!”

“It’s not that obvious,” he said, grinning. “What’s the matter?”

“You’re early!” she said reproachfully.

“I decided to come down for an early swim instead of a run,” he explained. “Why is that a problem?”

“Never mind.”

She felt foolish for making such a fuss. Life wasn’t a staged event. She would never have pulled off sun goddess, anyway. Lily was about to suggest reading sprints when he nodded toward her drink.

“I see you have coffee,” he said stiffly. “I was about to head up to make you some.”

She raised her stainless-steel cup. “This isn’t real coffee. It has so much caramel syrup it’s more like dessert.”

Drops of water had gathered at his lashes, making his eyes sparkle as he gazed up at her. “What happened? Mr. Coffee didn’t deliver?”