Dear Mr. Knightley (25 page)
The interns all went out tonight, but I came home to write you. No, I didn’t. I had plans with Josh, but he canceled. Remind
me never to work in advertising. It sounds fun, but the hours are excruciating. So I came home to edit another article for McDermott and knock out a few ideas of my own.
I also called Ashley. I told her about Alex and now I regret it. It felt very glamorous in the telling, but now I feel small and selfish—like I betrayed a friend. Alex guards his privacy with such a
tenacious will
, and I blabbed about his life, plans, and lunch menu. Not his book title, I didn’t tell that. But that’s it. No more blabbing about Alex. Can I still tell you, Mr. Knightley? I must tell someone.
I didn’t do all the talking, though. Ashley relayed plenty.
“He was right there in the bar, not five feet away, Sam, and I just walked away.” She sounded surprised.
“Are you playing games with Will? Not a great idea, Ash.”
“I’m not, Sam. I saw him there and felt tired. I’m not the kid he knew. And I won’t chase someone who sees that girl rather than me. So I walked away. I’m done.”
“How does it feel?”
“Oddly liberating.”
“Are you seeing anyone else?”
Ashley’s always got a boyfriend. Nothing ever serious, she’s just never alone. And why would she be? Guys adore her.
“All done with that too—for now. Time to put old habits to bed, so to speak.”
“Let them die, don’t put them to bed.”
“Very funny.” Then she turned serious, almost tentative. “You’re coming to the wedding, right?”
We’ve debated this for weeks. “Ash . . . you were so nice to wrangle the invitation, but this is your family’s deal. Your mom and Constance won’t want me there.”
“Sam, you’re my best friend. Mother’s gone postal, and Constance is a Bridezilla. I need you in my corner.”
I couldn’t refuse that, Mr. Knightley. So in a few weeks I’ll be kicking it up in your hometown at the Constance Walker/Bradley Douglass Wedding.
Back to work,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Josh and I broke up tonight—at his office, of all places. It was humiliatingly awful. I went to grab him for dinner after work and found him collecting storyboards in a conference room.
Prior to walking into that room, I thought we were fine. I’d say we had fun this spring. Sure, he’s been busy and we haven’t spent much time together, but when we did go out, it was lighter and nicer. And it was a lie.
He’s been seeing someone at work. I mean “seeing” someone—for months. I feel so stupid.
I opened the conversation with Alex. Nothing is going on, but I figured if I’m going to be friends with Alex, Josh should know. After all, I received another text two days ago.
Lunch Thursday? Spiaggia on Michigan Ave. 1 pm?
My immediate reply was:
See you then.
So if there will be lunch, there will be honesty. Turns out I haven’t been able to keep my adoration of Cole Barker and Alex’s writing much of a secret. Josh pounced.
“What? Cole Barker’s here and you’re having lunch with him?”
“You do know Cole Barker is fictional.”
“Cole Barker is your perfect man, Sam, just like that Darcy or Wentworth. You don’t think I’m going to be furious?”
“You know Darcy and Wentworth? How much Austen have you read?”
“None, Sam. But no one can spend two minutes with you without being bludgeoned with every ridiculous detail. And now you’re hanging with one of your heroes?” He crossed the room to loom over me. “Don’t tell me you’re not intrigued. Will he compare? Can he live up to your impossible ideals? He can’t, Sam. The writer is flesh and blood and probably an arrogant jerk, not some figment of your great imagination, not some perfect hero who will sweep you off your feet or wait around while you dally in Fantasyland!”
Speechless—that was me. I sputtered a bit while Josh collected himself. “How often do you see him?”
“Not much. Only one dinner and a lunch . . . Oh, and another lunch Thursday. We’re friends, Josh. Can’t I be friends with the man?”
“Sure you can—with the man. But nothing’s ever simple with you.” He paused. “Look, I need someone else. We’ve had fun, but I need more.”
That’s when I knew this was bigger than Alex. My stomach clenched. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been seeing Lucy.”
“Logan’s girlfriend? Who comes out with us all the time?”
“She’s not Logan’s. She’s mine.” He let his tone linger . . . and suddenly I understood all Logan’s looks, his tittering at dinner, the meaning behind his innuendo, his grabbing Lucy and squeezing her tight.
Logan wanted me know. He wanted fireworks. He wanted to humiliate me.
“Eww . . . that’s so . . . You all must have had a good laugh.” I looked around the glass conference room. It felt like a fishbowl with everyone staring in and laughing at me, though in reality no one else was around.
But I knew they’d all been talking. Logan must have loved it. And Josh. One look in his eyes and I knew he loved it too: the secrets, the attention, and the game—all at my expense.
“Why didn’t you dump me? Why keep me around?” My fingers, of their own accord, fiddled with the star pendant around my neck.
“There was always the chance—” “Don’t say another word.”
“Sam . . .” He reached for my arm.
“Don’t touch me.” I got up and realized what I was doing. The pendant felt dirty and I recalled, with perfect clarity, Isabella’s observation:
“Josh likes the way things look.”
Then his own comment,
“They thought you were smart and pretty before, but now you’ve got grit,”
pounded in my brain. I was no more than Logan’s ostentatious gold and silver watch, a trinket to see and be seen.
I pulled the necklace, breaking the chain and leaving a thin, red cut on the back of my neck. “I’m so blind. How could I not see? You’re a Willoughby.” I shook my head. “No, at least he loved Marianne. You’re worse. I don’t know who you are.”
“What? I’m who?”
“Never mind. Good-bye, Josh.” I threw the necklace across the table and walked out of there with my head high and
my back straight. All Edmond Dantes. And I kept the tears at bay—until I hit the sidewalk.
How could I not have seen? Had I wanted normal that badly?
I went home and called Ashley, watched two Austen films, ate a whole pizza and an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s—and it still hurts.
In my books everything turns out well in the end. Lizzy and Emma and Elinor all had men who were worthy and loved them. Really loved them. Me, I picked a Willoughby and I’m rightfully alone.
For months I convinced myself that Josh’s paltry version of love was all I could expect—I wasn’t worth something better. But I know there’s more. I want the real thing. I can have that, can’t I?
Because I know it exists—in books and in real life. The Muirs have it. I’m continually struck by the ways they care for each other and for me. And Hannah—I hear it when she talks about Matt. Love spills out of these people. That’s what I want. Settling for anything less is a lie.
Josh was a lie.
Do you have it, Mr. Knightley? The real thing? Don’t let it go if you do. That’s all. I’m off to find more tissues and another pint of Chunky Monkey.
Wallowing,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
The evening began with a text.
Lobby 6pm?
Usually I get an indication of his plans, so I replied: ???? He sent a one word reply.
Groceries.
I smiled. Grocery shopping with Josh was a systematic and uninteresting affair. He grabbed the same fifteen items on every trip and got out fast. No imagination. Alex? This might be fun. Alex does so much without thinking—that didn’t come out right. I mean, everything is woven into a creative process; nothing is taken for granted or thrown away.
When I reached the lobby I found him slouched on a bench, texting. His brow was completely furrowed. I hadn’t noticed so many lines before.
“Give me one sec.”
I sat next to him—on his right.
“Replying to slap-down from my publisher. She’s nervous I’m not working.”
I had wondered the same thing myself. “Are you?”
He looked straight at me. And I can’t attribute that focus completely to the eye injury—Alex gets that intense.
“You have no idea, Sam. Writing is coming more fluidly now than it has in years. It’s exciting and unnerving and every moment I worry it will end . . .” He paused and smiled, more to himself and some thought dancing in his head than to me. “Yes, I’m working.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Not yet.” He tapped his phone several times before pocketing it, then reached for my arm. “I want to and I will, but not yet. Talking through stuff before I get it into the manuscript depletes its tension and magic. I have to keep it compressed or it flops.”
“I get that.” And I do. So much inside us is more powerful if drawn out at the right time and in the right way—like my January feature and the articles I’m writing now.
“Thanks for coming with me. Now I have an excuse to drive north to the grocery in Winnetka. It’s the only one I know around here, and grocery stores can be scary places.”
“They can?”
“I get Fresh Direct in New York. Haven’t been in a grocery store in years.”
“You’ve been here three weeks.”
“My point exactly.”
We drove north talking about nothing in particular. I grew quiet because I know driving makes Alex nervous.
“You’re not talking.”
“You’re concentrating.”
“I’m not going to kill you, Sam. I’m not blind.”
“I don’t think that. I was being considerate.”
He threw me a scowl.
“You want me to talk? Fine. How was your day?”
“That’s better.” He smiled. “Cole was good today. Got in a bit of a fight with a Chicago detective, but they’ll get through it. I think he likes her.”
“He needs a girlfriend.”
“Does he?” His tone lifted suggestively.
Are we talking about Cole?
“Yes. Why hasn’t he had one? Four books and no girl. It’s odd. A relationship would help your market grow.”
“My market’s growing just fine.” He glanced over at me and smiled. I thought he was going to hide in the banter and not answer my question, but he looked back at the road and started talking.
“Cole doesn’t see women clearly. He doesn’t understand what they want from him, and he fears he’ll disappoint. Think about what you already know. He disappointed his dad and never got to make it right before his dad was killed. His mom blames him for that. His one brother holds it over his head, and every woman has betrayed him one way or another. I don’t know that he can let a woman in. It’s a risk.”
“Probably one worth taking—with the right girl.”
“You think?”
I thought about Josh, but there was no way this conversation was turning to my relationships. “In theory, yes. In experience, I don’t know.”
We pulled into the grocery store and that ended it. We both needed a change of subject. But if I’d known what was coming next, I would’ve launched into Josh. He might have been safer . . .
Everyone knows you begin shopping on the outside aisles of a grocery store and work your way across. Produce first.
Dairy last—or however the particular circle works. Not Alex. Straight to the center and then some pinball push outward.
We started in cookies. I never go down that aisle—not enough disposable income. And I don’t eat many sweets. Yet here we stood, surveying a thousand packages of cookies. He grabbed some Fig Newtons and I stood stymied by the Oreos. I almost cried. I turned quickly to walk on, but Alex noticed.
“You want to explain?” He pointed to the Oreos. “Pretty strong reaction to creamy vanilla goodness inside two crispy chocolate wafers.”
“Shut up.” I smiled. I wanted to share, because on some level I believe Alex is safe—slightly safe. I don’t feel nervous with him as I did with Josh, like one butterfly was always flying loose.
I ventured out and described Mrs. Chapman, my first foster mom. “My . . . aunt used to give me three Oreos each day after school. It was first grade. I sat in her lap and she read to me while we ate. Every single day.” I fingered one of the packages. “I loved her, I think. I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”