Otherwise Engaged

by Lindsey Palmer

  Russell took one of the books out his bag now: Pride and Prejudice. The dog-eared page indicated where he’d left off: Chapter 3. He began reading, and little by little, his surroundings dropped away: the glittering river, the shouts of children, the distant dinky tune of the carousel. If he hadn’t been so focused, he would’ve noticed that he hadn’t felt this focused in years.

  So, at first, he didn’t notice the girl sit down beside him. As she settled onto the next rock, kicked off her sandals, and unwrapped her sandwich, Russell was absorbed in the meeting of Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy. Only when a border collie bounded up and deposited a tongue’s worth of slobber onto his lap did Russell look up from the page.

  The girl was laughing at him. Her laugh was unflattering, her mouth flung open to reveal a piece of lettuce wedged between two teeth.

  “You’re quite a sight,” she said to Russell. “Covered in dirt, reading 19th century chick lit.”

  Russell protested: “What about you, wearing a shirt for a band nobody’s listened to in a decade?”

  I smile, thinking of the threadbare Matchbox Twenty shirt that’s a regular in my pajama rotation; Gabe used to like to stick his fingers through its holes while spooning me in bed.

  “Have you never heard of irony?” She arched an eyebrow.

  Russell volleyed: “I believe it’s also been a decade since wearing ironic t-shirts was cool.”

  “Is that right?” she asked, but she was smiling. She bit into her sandwich.

  “That looks delicious.” Russell realized he was ravenous.

  “Here.” The girl held out the other half of the sandwich, and Russell accepted it—why the hell not?

  He took a bite, tasting stale bread and dry turkey. “Actually, this isn’t delicious at all.”

  The girl laughed again and lobbed a potato chip at him. “Ungrateful much? I’m Olivia, by the way.”

  “Russell.”

  They ate, watching the river, watching each other. It wasn’t love or even lust at first sight. It was lunch. A conversation. A beginning.

  The End.

  I close The Charms of Dahlia just as the subway pulls into the station. As I exit the train and walk the few blocks to the riverside park, I consider what I’ll say to Gabe about his book: I loved it, or I hated it. I wish he’d never written it, or I’m so glad he did. It destroyed us, or it saved us from each other, or it brought us back together, or it has nothing to do with us at all. It’s trash, or it’s a powerful story with characters I cared about. I’m disappointed in him, or I couldn’t be prouder.

  All of it’s true, in a way. I wonder, will I apologize to Gabe, or will he apologize to me? Will we forgive each other, and renew old promises or make new ones? Or will this be a kind of send-off, one last gathering, a final moment of grace before we part ways for good? I remember my vow, to be honest about what I want, and do what’s best for me—although right now, honestly, I don’t know what that is. But I’m excited to figure it out. As I approach the water’s edge and spot the broad back and the chestnut hair that could only belong to Gabe, a paperback clutched in his hand as he slouches against a rock, I feel ready for anything.

  Acknowledgments

  THANK YOU TO my agent, Joelle Delbourgo, my champion and cheerleader. I am so grateful for your continued faith and confidence in me. Thank you to the wise women of Skyhorse: to Chelsey Emmelhainz for bringing me on and offering strong early insights, to Alex Hess for ferrying me along with thoughtful feedback, to Kirsten Kim for contributing with astute notes and infectious enthusiasm, and to Caroline Russomanno for helping me over the finish line with great skill and attention to detail. You’re a quartet of powerhouse editors! Thank you to my teachers, especially Tom DePeter, Max Apple, and John Browne, and to my mentors through magazines, schools, and beyond. How privileged I’ve been to receive such a rich education, and to continue learning from such brilliant minds throughout my career. Thank you to my early readers: to Paula Derrow for your invaluable feedback, your generosity, and your friendship; and to Amber Bryant for your encouragement and wisdom, and for joining me each week in our shared commitment to the page (as well as to wine). Thank you to Konditori and various other Brooklyn coffee shops for providing the precise amount of caffeine and ambient noise for peak productivity. Thank you to my parents, Nancy and Al, for your bottomless love and support, and to my brothers, Seth and Adam, for being friends of the finest caliber. Thank you to my daughter, Emilia: You were just a glimmer in my mind when I began this thing, you grew inside of me along with a first draft, and during revisions, you were my delicious-smelling good luck charm snuggled against my chest—then eventually toddling around and attempting to add in a few edits of your own. Finally, thank you to Damian for being by my side through draft after draft of novel after novel, for picking up the parenting slack while I work, and for devoting yourself to co-writing a much bigger story with me.