I stare at him. “Was that supposed to be a compliment?”
“No,” he says. “But this is: Driving you home from the library is easily the best part of my day. Of any day. And despite your wild hair—or maybe because of it, hell if I know—you’re more beautiful than anyone has a right to be. But more than that, you have somehow become the light shining into the dark and narrow tunnel that has been my life these past few years. And I don’t want to let you go.”
My breath catches in my throat. “You don’t?”
“No.”
Tears spring to my eyes as we stare at each other, a heavy silence settling over us, fraught with tension. I sit there waiting for the euphoria—the great joy at knowing it wasn’t all in my head, that he feels the same way I do—but it doesn’t come.
“Well, I don’t see what any of it matters,” I say, the anger at his leaving blooming fresh again.
“But what about the treatment?”
“What about it?” I snap.
“Don’t you want to at least try it?”
“What’s the point?” I say, though not even a month ago, when the thought of not being able to ever touch Eric became unbearable, I was almost convinced to do it. Almost. “What—are you going to wait around in New Hampshire to see if it works?”
“Yeah, why not? It’s just five hours. We could still see each other.”
Though I’m flattered, I know he’s still just holding on to the fantasy that I’ve been living in the past few months. It’s time to face reality. “Eric, listen to yourself! Your whole life is there, your daughter. Mine is here. But even forgetting all that, Dr. Zhang said it could take up to a year to even find the protein, never mind the time it will take to do the therapy. And what if it never works? You’d just wait forever—not move on with your life?” I sigh, some of the anger dissipating. “I wouldn’t expect you to wait—I could never let you do that.”
“Then don’t do it for me!” he explodes. “Do it for yourself. Stop living your life like you’re terrified of it, squirreled away in your house with all your books. You deserve more, Jubilee! God, you deserve so much more.”
I stare at him, stunned. I open my mouth to shout back at him—how dare he tell me how to live my life? But then I see his olive-green eyes, the passion in them, the same pain that mirrors mine—and the last bit of fight left in me drains away.
A lump forms in my throat. “I’m going to miss you,” I say, my eyes filling, blurring my vision.
“But you don’t have to, you know,” he says. “We can keep in touch. I’ll call. Email. I want to know how you’re doing. What you’re doing.” Then he smiles and adds: “What you’re reading.”
I stare at him, taking this in. It sounds so tempting, staying in his life. Hearing his voice on the phone. But I realize I don’t want just his voice. I don’t want just a piece of him. Maybe it’s greedy, but I want all of him. And I can’t have him. And inevitably someone else will. What happens when he starts dating someone? Am I supposed to grin and bear it like I’m just another friend in his life? The thought alone guts me.
I shake my head at him slowly. “I can’t,” I say. “It’s just . . . I can’t.” I want to tell him why, to explain that it’s not fair to me—or to him, really—but what does fair have to do with anything? The world is unfair. Merciless and punishing. And looking at the pain in his eyes, I realize that’s something he already knows.
He bobs his head slowly like a boat rocking on gentle waves. And then rubs both hands over his face. I stare at them, the knobby knuckles, the strong veins coursing from his fingers to his wrists, and I feel a last pang in my heart, knowing with utter, devastating confidence that I’ll never feel their touch on my skin.
“So this is it,” he says with a finality that I knew was coming—that was inevitable—but that I wasn’t really ready for. An ache starts in my core and radiates throughout my bones, my limbs, like the reverberation of a gong that’s been struck by a giant. And I realize then that I have never known pain. Not really. Not when the kids taunted me on my bench at recess, not when Donovan kissed me and set fire to my throat, constricting my airway, not even when my mother died. Not until this moment, staring into Eric’s eyes and feeling the full unfairness of this being the end, when we never even got to have a beginning.
“What do we do now?” I ask, my voice cracking with emotion. I’m barely aware of water dropping to the floor from my eyes.
Eric stands up, and I know this is it. This is good-bye. And I almost wish he had never come at all. Almost.
“Now,” he says, his eyes growing dark as he grabs the blanket draped over the back of the couch. He starts unfolding it, bit by bit. He holds an end in each hand, stretching is out as far as his arms will reach. “I am going to suffocate you.”
My body involuntarily pulls back, confused, and then I remember our conversation in the car. Me blubbering on and on about my mom. And a chuckle escapes my throat, and then I’m full-on laughing.
“C’mere, you,” he says.
I stand on shaky legs and fall into the blanket, into him. He wraps me up like a burrito, holding me tight. My shoulders shudder from laughing, but he doesn’t let go.
Not even when his shoulders start to match the movement of mine. Not even when neither one of us is laughing anymore.
twenty-six
ERIC
IN THE TENTH grade, when I got home from my date with Penny Giovanni, my mom was waiting up for me at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. In all her infinite wisdom, she sensed that something was wrong. I confessed my disappointment at not getting to hold Penny’s hand and confided I was worried maybe there was something wrong with me (this, of course, was prior to my realization that there was something wrong with me in Penny’s eyes—my gender). Mom waved off my concerns. “Love is all about timing,” she said, and the logic of that explanation spoke to my rationality. It comforted me. It demystified the frilly feelings and fluttering hearts that girls always talked about in movies and books.
But leaving Jubilee’s house, I now realize that what she should have said is: “Relationships are all about timing.” Because love—it’ll show up when you least expect it, when you’re not at all looking for it, in the middle of a small-town library with a wild-haired woman wearing a nightgown. When it comes to timing, love doesn’t give a flying fuck.
“I’VE FOUND A therapist in New Hampshire that I think would be great for Aja,” says Janet, sliding a card across the table to me. “He’s made a lot of progress, and I don’t want him to backslide.”
I take the card and sit up a little, so I can stuff it into my back pocket. “No, of course,” I say. “I’ll call as soon as we get settled.”
Aja has made progress in that I’ve been sharing stories about his dad and he lets me tell them. He even laughs at some of them (like the Fourth of July Dinesh ate thirty-six hot dogs on a bet that he could beat the Coney Island champion, and was sick for three days after). He also hasn’t been practicing telekinesis as far as I can tell or trying to control electricity (I was worried he might start after the library incident), and I think maybe we’ve moved past that, which is a relief.
But his big, brown eyes are still rimmed with sadness, and some nights, late, I’ve even heard him cry. Though, to be honest, since leaving Jubilee’s, I’ve not exactly been a paragon of joy. We’re what my mom would call a couple of sad sacks.
“How long does this . . . grieving process usually take?” I ask, unsure if I’m asking for Aja or myself.
She presses her lips together in a kind smile. “Longer than you’d expect,” she says. “It gets better, but it never really goes away.”
I nod.
“Keep the lines of communication open. And just keep being there for him,” she says. “Just like you’ve been doing.”
I put my hands on my knees and push down, using the leverage to help me stand. “Well, thank you,” I say. How do you say good-bye to a therapist? A handshake? Are we supposed to hug? I opt f
or a little wave. “You’ve been so helpful. To both of us.”
She nods. “Just doing my job.”
I walk toward the door and reach for the handle.
“Oh, and Eric,” she says from behind me.
“Yeah?” I turn around.
“It’s about Jubilee.”
I freeze.
“I think Aja would benefit from saying good-bye to her. He seems a little—bereft, when he talks about her, and how their relationship ended so . . . abruptly. I think they grew quite close.”
She squints at me and I wonder how much she knows, or suspects, anyway. I nod and hold my hand up at her in acknowledgment. “Thanks,” I say.
ON THE WAY to the car, I pull out my phone and text Ellie. I’ve been texting her every day, even though she doesn’t always respond. Some are serious and some are like this one:
Been thinking of getting a nose ring. Should I go hoop or stud? Dad
I slip my phone back into my pocket and turn to Aja. “Pizza for dinner?” I ask as we both get in the car.
“I don’t care,” he mumbles, pulling on his belt buckle.
We drive for a few minutes in silence. I wish I had escaped from Janet’s office before she had the chance to say anything, but I know she’s right. I can’t just sweep Aja and Jubilee’s relationship under the rug, as much as I want to try to put Jubilee behind me. To move on. It’s not fair to Aja.
“Hey,” I say.
He looks up.
“You know it’s not Jubilee’s fault you had to stop going to the library.”
He raises his eyebrows. “It’s not?”
“No,” I say. “It’s mine.”
He doesn’t ask why, and I’m glad not to tell him. “I know she misses you. Do you want to try and see her once more before we leave?”
He bites his lip and looks out the window. After a few minutes he says: “Yeah. I do.”
“OK,” I say, dreading having to say good-bye again, while at the same time dying to see her. “We’ll go on Saturday.”
My phone buzzes and I pull it out at the next red light.
God, you’re such a dork.
I smile.
“WHAT ABOUT RUFUS?” Aja asks that evening as we’re packing up the final boxes in the kitchen. I’m writing COFFEE MUGS in big black letters on the cardboard where I stashed my collection, so I don’t lose them again.
The dog barks when he hears his name. “What about him?” I say, folding the flaps of the box over themselves.
“I think we should leave him—with her,” he says.
I pause. “Who?” I say, even though I know exactly.
“Jubilee,” he says.
“Why?”
He shrugs. “She likes him,” he says slowly. And then he drops his head. “I’m afraid she’ll be lonely without us.”
I nod. My fear is selfishly, jealously the opposite. I’m afraid she won’t be lonely for long enough.
“Yeah, bud,” I say. “We can give her the dog.”
At that, Rufus barks, and the matter is settled.
ON SATURDAY EVENING, I pull the car up in front of Jubilee’s house, but not in the driveway, having decided that as much as I want to, I can’t see her again. Not face-to-face.
Aja gets out and opens the back to get Rufus.
I peer out through the darkness as he walks through the yard up to the front door, knocks on it, and waits. The porch light comes on. The door opens. Rufus jumps up on Jubilee, almost knocking her down. I’m surprised, realizing just how much he’s grown in the few months since we first got him. She kneels and he’s licking her face with his pink tongue, while she giggles. She strokes his fur, calming him, and then her face grows serious as Aja explains why he’s there.
She shakes her head, once. Twice. And then Aja says something to convince her and she smiles, nodding.
Then she disappears inside, shutting the door. I wince, like I’ve been punched in the gut. She didn’t even look at me. Didn’t wave. And I wonder, though it’s only been a week, if maybe she’s already over it. Maybe her feelings weren’t as intense as mine.
But then I notice Aja hasn’t moved. He’s not coming back to the car. So I wait along with him, for whatever is about to happen next.
And then, the door opens. And Jubilee is standing there with a blanket open wide. I open my mouth to say something. Shout. Warn her that Aja hates being hugged. But it’s too late. She engulfs him in the blanket, squeezing tight. And—miraculously—Aja doesn’t move. He stands there, letting himself be loved.
Over his blanket-covered head, I see Jubilee’s eyes look toward the car, searching for mine in the darkness. I don’t know if she can see me, but I smile at her so hard, my cheeks will be sore for a thousand tomorrows. And I think, how silly of me not to realize that out of all the people in the world, Jubilee would be the only one that could touch him.
twenty-seven
JUBILEE
INSTEAD OF WALLOWING in self-pity like I’ve been doing most evenings this week after work, last night I decided to distract myself by reading On the Road. It was so good I stayed up until three a.m., until my eyes wouldn’t stay open anymore. I’m just finishing the final few pages when Madison comes barging into the library on Friday morning.
“Where in the world have you been?” she demands.
I lower the book. Look up at her. “Right here,” I say calmly.
“Oh, don’t give me that. You know what I mean. You haven’t answered a single call and you even had Roger lie to me. I know you were here that day.”
I lean back and sigh. I knew this confrontation was coming—I’m actually surprised it took this long. “Where have you been?” I ask, turning the question on her. “That was what—two weeks ago?”
“The kids have been sick.”
I instantly feel bad. “Oh god,” I say. “Are they OK?”
“Yes, just puking all over me and themselves.” She pulls a face. “Hannah got it first, but with kids it’s like dominoes and it’s one after another.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Not as sorry as I am,” she says, and the way she’s looking at me, I know she’s no longer talking about her kids. “Donovan told me what he said to you. The jerk.”
“Is it true?” I ask, holding on to the sliver of hope that he was lying.
“Yeah,” she says, looking down.
“Why’d you do it?” I ask.
“Jealousy.”
“Of me?” I cackle. “You had everything in high school. I just don’t understand how that’s possible.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “You were so pretty and you had this whole air of mystery about you. And Donovan . . . whatever, it doesn’t matter now. It was stupid. I was stupid.”
“I wish you had told me. Wish I didn’t have to find out from him.”
“I know,” she says. “I should have.”
“So was any of it real? Your friendship? Or was it just out of guilt—some pity project for you.”
“No! Jube, I . . . I mean, I guess it started out that way—”
I cut her off. It’s what I thought, but it stings to have it confirmed. “And god, Louise? I mean, she got fired. She’s worked her whole life here. What were you thinking?”
She looks down, chagrined. “I know, I know,” says Madison. “I feel terrible. I’ll think of something, I swear.” Her eyes meet mine again. “But you have to understand—”
“I think I understand perfectly,” I say. “And I think we’re done here.”
“Jubilee!” She doesn’t make any motion to leave, so I abruptly get up from my chair and go into the back room, because it’s the only place I can think to go. She doesn’t follow.
My head is ringing with anger, and it makes my nose tingle and floods my eyes until it overflows, rolling down my cheeks in the form of water. I feel so stupid. About Madison. About Eric and Aja’s leaving. About everything. It’s like I was living in some fantasy high school land where the most popular girl wanted to be
my friend and I could fall in love and have a boyfriend like a normal person.
“Grow up,” I mutter to myself, embarrassed by my naivety. God, things were so much easier when I was alone. But luckily, except for this job, I guess I’m back to where I started. Alone. And that’s just fine with me. Safer, even, considering. I straighten my back, wipe my face, and take a deep breath. Then I go back out to the circulation desk.
Madison is gone.
LATER, I’M RESTOCKING the biography shelves when I notice Michael, the pillow golfer, standing at the printer, muttering to himself. It’s weird to see him anywhere but at his carrel staring at that ridiculous green screen and teeing off or whatever he does in that video game.
I move a little closer to investigate. “Damn it!” he says under his breath, then lightly taps the top of the machine with his fist. I jump, startled. He looks up.
“Oh, sorry,” he says, looking a little like a schoolboy who’s been caught writing on his desk. If I wasn’t so miserable, it would be kind of endearing.
“Can I help?”
His eyes go wide, as if it didn’t occur to him to ask for assistance. “Yeah,” he says. “If you can—I’ve been trying to print this thing for thirty minutes and the paper keeps getting stuck. I’ve wasted, like, four dollars in quarters already. I thought I got it out but now it’s telling me it’s still jammed or something.”
“It’s finicky,” I say, remembering Louise telling me the trick on my first day. I reach down and pull a drawer out of the bottom of the printer where we store the paper. He’s right next to the paper tray so I look up at him. “Can you stand back a little?”
He takes a step back.
“A little more?”
He moves two more steps.
“Thanks,” I say, and then fill the tray to the top with paper. I turn to him. “It has to be at least halfway full of paper or it won’t work properly. Just one of those things.”
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