This Close to Okay

by Leesa Cross-Smith

  She knew from their last texts that Rye had moved to Nashville and liked his job at the restaurant where he cooked. Also, he’d met a woman. Tallie’s stomach had tickled with surprise and jealousy, but she told him she was happy for him and meant it. Then Rye went radio silent. She wrote him about Florence and the food and the art attack she had when she finally saw David—how her heartbeat quickened and she felt like she was floating, how they stood there for hours with Nico reminding her to take breaks, to close her eyes when she needed to, to stay hydrated; how he put the oyster crackers from her bag into the cup of her hand one by one, reminding her to eat them—but Rye hadn’t responded. And she’d sent him a picture Zora had emailed her. A photo someone had taken of her and Rye at Lionel’s Halloween party: Mulder and Scully, embracing on the patio. They were smiling and unaware of the camera, lost in each other’s eyes.

  She’d tracked down what she thought was his parents’ phone number, but it’d been disconnected. She searched Google in vain, not finding anything new. She reread article after article about his trial because it made her feel closer to him. She missed her friend and continued texting him, even when he didn’t respond.

  hey rye remember it’s ok to let ppl take care of you. this is exactly what you would say to me.

  you matter.

  i hope things are ok. i miss you and think abt you a lot. so do the cats. say hello to nashvegas.

  lionel called you “my mysterious superhero” friend the other day. he’s right! he asks abt you. he’d love for you to call him!

  did you ever finish prisoner of azkaban? give me yr address so I can send you a copy?

  heard sam cooke today and thought of you. it was raining too. you’d be so proud of my gutters!

  happy birthday rye! sending you love! <3

  * * *

  happy halloween eve, rye! sunday afternoon in louisville at the speed art museum tomorrow? a few days late, but we could celebrate your birthday! one o’clock? by the brancusi, you can’t miss it. we could make buttermilk roasted chicken.

  and only if you felt up for it, we could drop by lionel’s party? he’s still having it, of course. he’s unstoppable. but i won’t make you put on a costume, i PROMISE! everyone would just like to see you.

  also! i have a surprise for you. please come?

  easy heart.

  don’t dream it’s over.

  tender loving care.

  pls talk to me.

  i also want to say this bc you are my friend: i love you. i do. i love you, rye and i care abt you.

  rye, pls?

  She left him a voice mail, too, and obsessively checked her phone for the rest of the day, praying for a response.

  RYE

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  It’s time and this is goodbye. I’m sorrier than you know about having to write this. I don’t want to write this. I don’t want to do this. I’m so tired and nothing is working. I miss Christine too much. I miss Brenna too much. And nothing I can do will fix that. Except this. If I do this, maybe I can start over somewhere in the afterlife. Try again. I don’t want to do this. I love you both so much. I can’t express how much. You’ve never stopped being there for me and I know you never will. This shatters me and my heart is already irreparably broken. I want you to know how much I love you and how much I will miss you when I’m gone and the rest of the money is in my closet. Top right corner under my yearbooks.

  From: JoelFoster1979@gmail.com

  To: Talliecat007@gmail.com

  Subject: Re: i still care about you too

  Tallie, Ben told me about Lionel’s accident. I tried calling. How bad is it?? Please let me know how he’s doing? I’m thinking of flying down there.

  From: talliecat007@gmail.com

  To: joelfoster1979@gmail.com

  Subject: Re: i still care about you too

  Hey Joel. This is Rye Kipling. I’m deleting this email account, but I wanted to say I’m sorry for any trouble I caused. And to reassure you that your secrets are safe with me. What you wrote about Lionel and the woman in NYC, what you wrote about him knowing about you and Odette. Tallie never saw that stuff and I’ll never tell her. There’d be no point. Again, I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to end this except by saying that.

  From: JoelFoster1979@gmail.com

  To: Talliecat007@gmail.com

  Subject: Re: i still care about you too

  I appreciate it.

  Rye had been admitted to a psychiatric hospital in Nashville for a short stay after his return to Bloom. The psychiatrist his parents had found thought it best for him to have focused treatment, and Rye went willingly. After being released, he made his new home there in Nashville, cooking at a trendy new restaurant that served food on cutting boards and had more than twenty locally brewed beer options. Hipsters, tourists, industry insiders, and country music lovers kept the place popping, more than happy to spend fifteen dollars on a tiny bowl of slow-cooked collard greens and bacon.

  His parents visited him often. Hunter and Savannah came to town, too. Rye held their daughter and spoke softly over her, listening and retelling them everything about Tallie and the Halloween party. How the weekend changed his heart.

  Hunter and Savannah’s baby girl was Daisy Christine.

  * * *

  The picture Tallie had taken of them and the one she’d taken of herself were still on his phone. So was the one she sent him that someone had taken at Lionel’s party. He considered keeping them there forever. He loved forgetting about them, then remembering. At times he’d search Google for Tallie, not happening upon much. He’d search for Lionel, too. There’d been a small article written up in the newspaper when Lionel was released from the hospital, although he’d also been in touch with Tallie then, and she’d told him. There was another write-up about Lionel attending a ribbon-cutting ceremony after the new year and another one in the summer about his wild, sprawling home in Architectural Digest. Lionel, a pregnant Zora, and River sat on their long suede couch, smiling at the camera. Rye went out immediately and bought the print copy of the magazine, read every word about the house he’d been in, which seemed like a dream on Halloween night. The article had mentioned the accident, with Lionel saying a friend of his sister’s had basically saved his life. After Halloween, he and Lionel had texted and talked occasionally, Lionel telling him during that first conversation that he knew the truth about who he was and didn’t give a shit about any of it—Rye was his friend for life.

  * * *

  Lionel had called Rye after the holidays and asked him if he’d ever considered opening a restaurant of his own. They spoke at length about how—when and if he was ready—Lionel would love to help him out and be one of his investors. Lionel floated the idea of Rye opening another lake restaurant or a fleet of food trucks. Rye was stunned with gratitude and told him he’d definitely be the first person he called once he could get to a proper headspace about something that huge. And the last time they talked, Lionel had reminded Rye that he had an open invitation to come to Louisville and hang at his place, but Rye hadn’t responded. He kept the copy of Architectural Digest by his bed in his new small, cozy apartment, and he’d gotten a candle that smelled like one of Tallie’s. He’d never lit it, but he liked to take the top off and sniff.

  * * *

  He went quiet on Tallie, too, feeling like it was better for her to move on. She had a great life, and he worried his darkness would swallow her up. He had nothing to offer her, and she had so much. And besides, what were they to each other? Friends? Casual acquaintances? Two people who’d hooked up and spent a wild, weird weekend together? More than that? Nothing? It was spring, and he hadn’t seen her since that Sunday after Halloween. And every time he picked up his phone to respond to her, a voice in his head told him it was the wrong time.

  He thought of her every day. He tried not to dwell on whether she was seeing Nico or anyone else. He didn’t know if what he felt was jealousy, but it was close enough. For so long he thought nothing mattere
d. How could it? But he knew Tallie mattered. Her kindness and patience and forgiveness had changed his life by making him want to keep it.

  With his parents’ support, and after finding new medication that worked, he’d gotten through the holidays and found himself lifted at the promise of warm weather. He met a woman in the spring whom he enjoyed spending time with after work. She was pretty and smart and funny, and they’d see lighthearted movies together and go for long trail walks, but her pharmaceuticals sales job took her away to Indianapolis. She’d hinted that maybe he could come with her, but he didn’t want to leave Nashville yet. He’d made a close friend at the restaurant where he worked and liked spending time with him and his wife, their families. Rye’s apartment was a ten-minute walk from the restaurant, and he enjoyed the familiar, comforting chaos of his cooking schedule, plus the rituals of grabbing Saturday afternoon coffee at the joint on the corner before work and the walk back to his place late on Sunday nights. Staying busy during the week with only Mondays and Tuesdays off helped keep his mind as occupied as it needed to be. When he wanted to be around people, he could do that. And when he wanted to be alone, he could make that happen, too.

  Rye joined a small church in his neighborhood, and some of the people in the congregation knew his story. He tried his best to take 1 Thessalonians 4:11–12 to heart. Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business and to work with your hands, just as we told you, so that your daily life may win the respect of outsiders and so that you will not be dependent on anybody.

  He began painting during his hospital stay. Art therapy. He didn’t think about it too hard, just put his brush to the canvas, loving the feel of it. He’d simply paint an entire canvas one color, then cover it with another. His apartment was filled with canvases leaning against the walls. Some of them hanging. The smell of paint soothed him, reminding him of dreams and a future he’d previously kept unwritten.

  Rye melted, cooling hard and flat when he saw a kid Brenna’s age, and he knew that would never go away. Brenna would be seven; Brenna would be seven and a half. And the same thing happened whenever he encountered a woman who reminded him of Christine. Christine’s eyes, Christine’s hair, Christine’s face. Christine would be thirty. The stabby math of grief would never add up. It would always be as if Christine and Brenna had gone on a long trip without him, never to return.

  But one day. One day, he’d get his ticket, too.

  * * *

  He’d gotten Tallie’s art museum voice mail and texts and thought of writing her back I love you too and I’ll be there if you’re sure it’s okay. Wrote and deleted it four times before putting his phone down, leaving it unsent. After hearing about it, Hunter had urged Rye to go to Louisville. “It sounds like she really cares about you…you have to accept that. There’s no way around it. Do you care about her? If you care about her you should go, simple as that. She asked you to. Dude. Go!”

  A Sunday Afternoon in Louisville at the Speed Art Museum

  Rainy. Halloween. Tallie hung around the Brâncuși until 1:15, walking over to visit the Chagall, the Pollock, and the Picasso beforehand. She had her daughter, Andromeda Lee, slung around her; Andromeda, who was now three months old. Tallie had adopted her from a teenage mother in Louisville she would stay in contact with and took the baby home a day after she was born. Her family and girlfriends had thrown Tallie and Andromeda a bringing-home-baby party, showered them with clothes, chiming plush animals, and bamboo blankets, soft and small. Nico was there, too, filling her home with so much love, swelling her heart.

  Nico was there more often than he wasn’t, the three of them making a nest in her bed, a new family in her home. And Andromeda looked every bit a celestial being—tufts of black curls, glowy gold-brown skin—a baby girl made of starlight. Nico was entirely smitten, calling her popje in a moony, bite-size voice he used only for her.

  * * *

  Tallie swayed to keep her daughter sleeping and satisfied by the Brâncuși in the gallery bustling with families and couples, docents in the doorways. She looked one last time, thinking of how much of a blessing it’d be to see Rye’s lilac puff floating through.

  * * *

  There was a gold canvas gift in Rye’s truck. He’d painted it for Tallie—the color of her energy. He saw her immediately, through the crowd. She’d cut her hair. Gold was how he felt when he looked at her, how he felt when he thought about telling her he was taking Lionel up on his offer of investing in a restaurant. She was magnificent under the gallery lights. Sfumato, a tender work of art. When she turned, he could see Tallie had a baby slung around her with lavender fabric. She swayed by the Brâncuși as if blown by the slightest breeze. He whispered her name.

  * * *

  Rye.

  Rye was there with sunflowers, and he was real. His eyes weren’t haunted; he looked healthy and good. She wanted to run to him and tell him. Instead, she watched his mouth move from across the room. Was he saying her name?

  * * *

  When he got to her, he said hi and smiled. “You don’t know how good it feels to see you.”

  “You don’t know how good it feels to see you. You stopped talking to me.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been responding, but…I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.”

  “Happy birthday, Rye. And wow, you look really—”

  “You do, too. I—”

  “This is Andromeda, my surprise.”

  * * *

  Rye put one hand on the lavender half-moon curve of Andromeda’s back, his finger in her tiny fist.

  The baby, sleeping, squeezed it tight.

  (See. There is soft light. There are small mercies.)

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  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  I’m a firm believer in holding fast to good, lovely, beautiful things as much as I can in this world, even when times are hard. I want to comfort my characters when they are sad, depressed, or grieving. I love filling my books with coziness, warm drinks, and sweet conversations, even when I am making my characters’ worlds crumble around them. In life, I try my best to look for the light and to look for small mercies, even when things are dark and scary. It’s important for me to leave this book on that: a hopeful note. If you are looking for a sign of hope, a sign of light, a sign to hold fast, please let this be it. New mornings mean new mercies! And if things do get too dark for you, please speak up and reach out for help. You are not alone. You matter. You are so loved.

  x,

  Leesa

  National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255

  Acknowledgments

  Big love and thanks to my agent, Kerry D’Agostino, for being sunshine and for every little bit of hard work, patience, care, and thoughtfulness you pour into this world. Big love and thanks to my editor, Elizabeth Kulhanek, for being so incredibly lovely, fantastic, and such a joy to work with. I couldn’t ask for more, really. To papers under pillows and kindles of kittens!

  Thank you to everyone at Curtis Brown, Ltd.

  Thank you to my beyond amazing publicist, Linda Duggins, for being the best. XO! Thank you, Alli Rosenthal and Alana Spendley, for being so wonderful to work with. And many thanks to Barbara Clark, Tareth Mitch, the art department, and the legal department at Hachette Book Group and Grand Central Publishing.

  Special thanks to my dear friend and lieve schat, Stephanie Graf, for answering my questions about the Dutch language.

  Special thanks to my BFF, Elisabeth Clem, for the X-Files inspiration always and forever (among other things we could talk about all night).

  Special thanks and love to Wendy C. Ortiz.

  I listened to Jake Gyllenhaal sing “Finishing the Hat” from Sunday in the Park with George about a million times while writing this novel, so I want to thank Jake Gyllenhaal and Stephen Sondheim for that. “Look, I
made a hat!”

  Oh, Sam Cooke, my heart. Thank you, Sam Cooke.

  And thank you to Vincent van Gogh for his art and letters. I treasure them and him in a very special place in my secret heart where no one can touch them.

  Thank you, dear reader. I hope you are cozy.

  Thank you to my family. I love you.

  R and A, I love you madly and will always write it here to be in my books forever.

  And Loran, I couldn’t do this without you. Who would make my tea? Who would make dinner? Thank you for doing those things and thank you for all you do for me, for us. Most important, thank you for loving me like Jesus, for being you, and for being mine. Love you forever.

  About the Author

  Leesa Cross-Smith is a homemaker and the author of Every Kiss a War, Whiskey & Ribbons, and So We Can Glow. She lives in Kentucky with her husband and children.

  Facebook: LCrossSmith

  Twitter: @LeesaCrossSmith

  Instagram: @LeesaCrossSmith

  Also by Leesa Cross-Smith

  Every Kiss a War

  Whiskey & Ribbons

  So We Can Glow