AN HOUR LATER, Connie and Eric appear in the foyer. They don’t knock, but then I don’t know why they should. They are doing me a favor.
“How long has your car not been starting for?” Connie asks.
“Um . . . I’m not sure.”
“Let me rephrase—when’s the last time you drove it?”
I glance at Eric and mumble a response.
“What?”
I clear my throat. “Nine years ago.”
Eyebrows shoot up on Connie and Eric’s faces like a succession of fireworks.
“Wow. OK,” says Connie, bobbing her head a little. “That, um . . . that really makes sense. The fuel tank is completely rusted. I don’t think vinegar’s going to touch it. I gotta drain that, put in new gas and an additive. Plus, you need a new battery, all new fluids, spark plugs. Oh, and new tires, too. They’re just not safe after six years or so—especially since they’ve been exposed to weather conditions all this time.”
Overwhelmed by this influx of information, I look from Connie to Eric. He shrugs, as if in apology.
Connie continues. “I could do the fluids, spark plugs, all the basic stuff. I might even be able to change out the fuel pump, although those can be a bear, depending. But the rest? It’s exceeding my mechanical talents. I think it’s better in the hands of a professional. I’m sorry, wish I had better news.” She glances at her watch. “I gotta get to the office.”
Eric walks her to the door and I manage to squeak out a thank-you before she’s gone.
“I’m happy to call a tow truck for you. Get it to a mechanic,” he says when he comes back in the room.
“Oh, gosh, I’ll take care of it,” I say, with no intention of doing so.
“I don’t mind,” he says. “I’ll do some research this afternoon, figure out the best place—”
“No,” I say, with more force this time.
This pulls him up short.
“I’m just . . . I’m fine with my bike. It’s no big deal.”
“Let me just do this for you,” he says, not skipping a beat. “Really. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me!” I say, recognizing the irony that on the way home from the hospital I didn’t feel like he was grateful enough, but now it’s just too much. And I wish he’d leave it alone. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You saved—”
“No!” I say, a little louder than I intend. Even Aja glances up from his iPad, and then looks back down. “I did what any other warm-blooded person would do in that situation.”
He doesn’t immediately respond, giving me a hard stare. Neither one of us blinks for a few moments, and I start to squirm under his scrutiny. It’s like we’re locked in some kind of battle now, but I don’t understand what he’s fighting for. He did what he came to do—look at my car—and now we’re even. He’s out of his obligation.
He breaks the silence. “What if I just give you a ride home from the library, just until you get enough money to fix your car?”
My eyes fly open. This is getting ridiculous. “No, really—” I start.
But he keeps talking like I haven’t even spoken. “It’s close to the train station so it’s not even out of my way. Plus, it’s bad enough that you’re riding your bike in the cold, but the dark, too? You don’t even have any reflectors on it. And what if it snows?”
Why do you even care? I want to shout. I cross my arms in front of me. I hate the way he’s talking to me—it’s patronizing, like he knows better. And I hate even more that he’s a little bit right—I hadn’t thought about snow. “I’ve just ordered reflectors and a headlamp,” I fire at him. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
He takes a step back and I think I’ve won, but then he opens his mouth again and says quietly: “Just let me help you. Please.”
“I don’t need your help,” I say firmly. “You’ve done more than enough. Thank you.” I gesture toward the door with my left hand. I know it’s rude, but I’m beyond caring. I just want him out of my house.
He takes another step back and nods, slowly, his eyes never leaving my face. “OK,” he says, reaching in his pocket for his knitted hat. The fight has left him and I know I’ve won. He turns to Aja. “You ready, bud?” he says loud enough for Aja to hear over his earbuds.
Aja gets up, tucks his iPad under his arm, and shuffles out the door. Eric turns to go after him but then fixes me with one last look. “Good-bye, Jubilee,” he says.
I stare at him, hard, trying to hold on to the anger that was just coursing through me. But I can’t. There’s something in his eyes I haven’t seen before—a quiet anguish, maybe?—that softens me, and all I feel is a twinge of regret for being so harsh. But before I can say anything, he drops his gaze and then he’s gone, the door shutting with a click behind him.
fifteen
ERIC
I’M AN IDIOT. Stephanie always said I didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. That when I lock onto something, I push too hard. And I did it just now with Jubilee. But what I’m trying to figure out while driving home is why. Yes, she saved Aja’s life. And I do feel indebted to her in some way. But she made it clear she doesn’t want my help—doesn’t need it. So why couldn’t I just leave it alone? It occurs to me that it may very well be ego driven, some deep-seated desire to feel needed by someone—anyone—to stem the now quite regular feeling of being so utterly useless to everyone else in my life.
I glance over at Aja in the passenger seat, where he’s tapping at that ridiculous screen with his thumbs. I look back at the road, trying to clear my mind, concentrate on the street signs and other traffic, but it seems the more I try not to think about Jubilee, the more I find myself thinking about her.
She was wearing my sweatshirt when she opened the door. The Wharton one. The one I lent her when I took her home from the hospital. And I know it probably doesn’t mean anything—it was probably the shirt nearest to her on the floor when I so rudely woke her up with my banging, and she threw it on to come greet me.
And yet. For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about that sweatshirt. And the places where the material met her skin.
“Eric,” Aja says beside me in his usual monotone, interrupting my thoughts.
“Yeah?” I jerk my head to him.
“You just ran that red light.”
“What?” I glance in the rearview mirror. Sure enough, the light is red. “I did?”
But Aja is looking back down at his screen and he doesn’t respond. I run my hands through my hair and exhale, wondering what in the hell has gotten into me.
WORK IS SO crazy on Monday that I only have time for a quick call in the afternoon to make sure Aja got home OK and Mrs. Holgerson is there. When I finally get on the train at six fifteen, I pull The Notebook out of my bag. I only have about fifteen more pages, but instead of opening it, I close my eyes and lean my head back against the chair. And I wonder, not for the first time, if I really want to be partner.
Is it worth all of this? It’s what I’ve been working toward my entire career. The canned response I gave Stephanie every time she complained about my long hours, about my absence from the family, about my level of engagement with her, with Ellie, with home. “It’ll get better,” I always promised her. “When I make partner.” What I didn’t point out was that I was a better parent than so many of my colleagues. I actually left work early once in a while for a teacher conference or a softball game or for the regional science fair where Ellie placed second as a sixth grader against all other middle schoolers. I couldn’t understand, then, why she got a D on her progress report for science in the eighth grade.
“It’s your favorite subject,” I said to her on one of the too-few weekends I got to spend with her post-divorce.
She rolled her eyes, a new habit that I couldn’t stand. “Not anymore.”
“Since when?”
“Since now,” she said. That was right before she told me she was going to Darcy’s to spend the night—our first blowout argument.
At least the first one I remember, not only because it was the first time she told me she hated me, when I forbid her from going, but because she also said: I totally get why Mom divorced you.
Now I wonder if I just should have let her go. If maybe that was the beginning of the end.
But of course I know that relationships don’t dissolve over one event, one fight. It’s a thousand blows delivered over time—uppercuts, jabs, crosses—some you barely even feel. And then before you know it, you’re on the ground seeing stars and wondering what the hell happened.
I think of the text she sent me Thursday.
What are you trying to do? Just stop already.
A response! My daughter, my Ellie, acknowledged me. The first nine words I’d heard from her in more than four months. Not exactly the overwhelming emotional reunion I was hoping for, but I’d take it.
I spent two hours trying to craft the perfect reply. I racked my brain for other The Virgin Suicides and The Bell Jar quotes with which to impress her while I was pan-frying hot dogs for dinner. I invented lengthy explanations while loading the dishwasher and wiping down counters. I concocted witticisms while checking the front-door lock, turning out lights, and stopping at Aja’s door to tell him and The Dog good night.
But when I got in bed later that night, I had discarded every possibility—too cheesy, not funny enough, too obtuse, too long-winded—and the only thing that remained was the truth, which I tapped out one letter at a time with my index finger:
I can’t. You’re my daughter. Love, Dad
When I step off the train into the dark night, the wind hits me square in the chest and I dip my head lower so that my ears can find shelter under my collar. I think again of Jubilee on her bike in this weather and fervently wish she had accepted my offer to give her a ride.
I stride briskly across the parking lot toward my car. I slide into the front seat and turn the heat up full blast, rubbing my hands together to warm them. I glance at the clock. It’s 6:56. The library closes at 7:00. And I’m suddenly compelled to drive there, even though I know I shouldn’t. To try one last time.
A BLOCK AWAY, it occurs to me she might not be there. It’s 7:04 now and she very well could have already locked up, gotten on her bike, started on her way home. But no. When I pull into the parking lot, she’s there, standing at the door, her back to me. My blood starts to pump faster at the sight of her and I realize I’m nervous. I hear her voice in my head: I don’t need your help. I swallow. Why did I come here?
I should leave. But it’s too late. My headlights, illuminating her silhouette, have gotten her attention and she turns, holding a set of keys in her right hand, using her left to shield her eyes from the brightness. With a flick of my wrist, I turn off the lights, so as not to blind her. She blinks, staring into the car, and then her eyes widen in recognition. I swallow once more and then lift my hands, palms up, and shrug, hoping to convey the very nonthreatening manner in which I’ve come, rather than the creepy, stalkerish behavior it just now occurs to me I’m most likely expressing.
I hold my breath as she stares, motionless. And then she slowly shakes her head from side to side. And then I see it, the corner of her mouth slowly turning up. It’s all I need. I open the door and stand up.
“What are you doing here?” she says, but her tone is full of wonder, not anger. Relief floods through me.
“I told you it was on the way home,” I say. “Just thought I’d drop by. See if anyone needed a lift. I mean, not you, of course—you’ve got your bike.”
She smiles now—a full one that stretches her lips and lights her eyes. “I do,” she says. “Have my bike.”
I nod, thinking quickly. “You know, I was wondering, though, if you could help me out.”
She cocks her head at me, curious. Waiting.
“I need help deciphering the hidden meaning in all these books I’m reading that are hopelessly over my head. And you happen to understand them,” I say. “I was thinking, maybe, we could make a deal—you tutor, while I drive.”
At this, she throws her head back and laughs—a full sound that takes me by surprise. And I know I’ve got her. Warmth fills my belly.
When she stops laughing, she fixes me with a look. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re annoyingly persistent?”
I nod. “Once or twice,” I say. “So we’ve got a deal?” I step out from behind the car door and move toward her, my hand out in front of me. But when I see the look on her face, I stop moving. Her relaxed smile has turned into what looks like sheer terror. Her body is tense and she’s staring at my hand like it’s a snake coming to bite her. I drop it and clear my throat. She looks up at me, her face changing again just as quickly. “I just, um . . . I gotta go get my bike,” she says, sticking out her thumb and gesturing to the bike rack.
“Uh . . . OK,” I say, following her a few steps behind, but keeping my distance. I don’t know what that was, but I don’t want to freak her out again. When we reach the bike, she walks around to the left of it, so I go right, putting my hands on the frame to hoist it up at the same time that she grabs the handlebars.
“Oh, I didn’t mean . . . I can get it,” she says, not letting go.
“I know,” I say. “But I’d like to do it.”
Her eyes meet mine. “Aren’t you doing enough?” There’s a smile on her lips but her gaze is strong, unyielding. Jesus, she’s stubborn.
“Just let me get it,” I say through clenched teeth, picking up the bike more forcefully than I need to in my frustration, giving her no choice but to drop her grip on the handlebars.
She takes a step back, eyeing me, and then trails me as I walk to the car, bike in hand.
“So what’s the next book?” she says, standing at the passenger door as I put the bike in the trunk.
I raise my brow at her. “Huh?”
“That we’re discussing. I tutor, you drive—remember?”
“Oh, right,” I say. “Uh, it’s The Notebook.”
“The Notebook?”
“Yeah.”
She lets out a cackle. “If you need help understanding The Notebook, we’re in trouble.”
I pause, my eyes meeting hers. “I’d say we’re in trouble, then.”
I’M NOT SURE what happens, but when we get in the car, the relative ease with which we bantered in the parking lot vanishes and an awkward silence hangs between us. As I ease the car out of the parking lot, the ticktock of my blinker fills the air, suddenly sounding as loud and threatening as a nuclear bomb set to explode. I glance over at her and see her gloved hands clenched in her lap. She looks as uncomfortable and tense as I suddenly feel, and I wonder if this was a bad idea. She’s clearly independent, but I’ve been surrounded by strong-willed women my entire life, and it seems like it’s more than that. She’s hard to read—not that I’ve ever been good at reading people. But she runs hot and cold like a bipolar faucet, and I never know what I’m going to get. Like at her house on Saturday, it almost felt like she didn’t even want us to be there. But then when I came in from working on the car, she and Aja were laughing together. I was stunned, and not just because I hadn’t heard Aja laugh like that in, well, forever, but god—her smile. It took up the entire room, and I was actually jealous—jealous!—of a ten-year-old. My own son. That he was the one she was beaming at like that.
I massage the stubble on my face. What am I doing? I just came out here for a temporary work gig and to give my daughter some space and now I’m acting like a schoolboy with a foolish crush on the librarian.
“Are you OK?”
“Huh?” I turn my head. Jubilee’s staring at me.
“You made a noise. Like a groan.”
“Oh . . . right. I’m fine,” I say, embarrassed. “Er . . . just a rough day at work.”
“Ah,” she says.
Before she can ask about it, I clear my throat and change the subject. “So, um . . . The Notebook,” I say. “I just finished it on the train.”
“You did?” she says,
and I don’t know if it’s my imagination or if her body relaxes a little. “Did you cry?”
“What? No,” I say. The light in front of us turns yellow. I press the brakes. “Why would I cry? Did you cry?”
“Yeah. I cry every time I read it.”
“Every—” I narrow my eyes at her. “Wait, how many times have you read The Notebook?”
“I don’t know. Six or seven. I haven’t read it in a few years though.”
I look over at her, gobsmacked. “Why on earth would you read a book six or seven times? It’s not like you don’t know what happens.”
She shoots a look at me—one I’m familiar with from Ellie—conveying it’s hopeless to explain if I don’t already know.
“OK, but this book?” I continue. “It’s so cheesy.” I reach into the backseat and snag my copy out of my open bag on the floorboard. With one hand on the wheel I use the other to flip to the example I want to offer.
“What are you doing? You can’t read and drive.”
“We’re at a red light,” I say, scanning the pages for what I’m looking for.
“Not anymore,” she says. I look up and sure enough, the light is green. I glance over at her and she’s grinning. A car honks behind us, and I toss the book down.
“Well, it’s the part where in the war, he had Leaves of Grass in his shirt pocket and it took a bullet for him. Do you remember?”
She nods. “Yeah.”
“C’mon, a book of poetry saved his life?” I say, laughing. “It doesn’t get cornier than that.”
She chuckles. “OK, yes, maybe it’s clichéd in some of the details—but it’s also an amazing love story. It’s like the Romeo and Juliet of our time.”
“Now Nicholas Sparks is Shakespeare? Oh god, I think that’s blasphemy. He’s got to be rolling over in his grave somewhere.”
Though I’m meant to be paying attention to the road, I steal a glance at Jubilee. She’s unguarded, smiling, her lips stretched across her face, and a small buzz travels up my spine. The same buzz I got when she was smiling at Aja, except now it’s directed at me.
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