Finding peace, p.20
Finding Peace, page 20
Anica clearly spends too much time reading fiction. She doesn’t understand real life or the reality of someone like Phillip. If she understood, if she had been through what I have, she wouldn’t think I was controlling Ana. I’m trying to keep her safe. Eliminating one option, a dangerous option, isn’t the same thing as trying to control what she does. She can do literally anything in the world, except seeing Phillip.
I slam my hand into the steering wheel again, but this time the horn honks and a neighbor pokes their head out the front door. I slam it into drive and peel out down the street.
I could stay and try to go after Anica, or I could call her, or I could . . . I don’t know.
But I don’t think any of those things will help. She seemed completely calm, composed, and in control of her feelings and thoughts. When I get angry, I always go for a run. Or I get in a fight. Or I go surfing.
By the time I get home, my initial frustration that she wasn’t listening wears off and I realize that for once in my life, I’m not angry. I don’t need a run. I don’t need the calming influence of the ocean. I don’t even want to punch someone.
What overwhelms me with its potency is my sorrow. And I don’t have a coping mechanism in place for devastating sadness, because I’ve never felt this way before. I start to think about what she said, but it hurts too badly. I shove it away, and I curl up, and I cry while Partner licks the salty tears from my face.
But no matter how many times I push it away, Anica’s words keep coming back to me. She can’t trust me—and neither can Ana—because I don’t know how to love someone.
As badly as I want to scream and argue and fight, deep down, I know she’s right, and like my bio dad, for the first time, it occurs to me that it might not matter whether Anica can forgive me. It might not matter whether she can trust me.
Because despite my flaws, I love her down to my bones. And I’m beginning to realize that she might be better off without someone like me. Sometimes broken things can be fixed, but when something is utterly shattered, you’re better off walking away from it. Which is exactly what my brilliant, beautiful, strong girlfriend just did.
I hope I’m strong enough to let her.
16
Anica
I spend the first week hoping that Ethan’s processing what I said. I check my phone every few minutes—and almost text and call him over and over. The only thing that gets me through is focusing on my writing. I may have just lost my happy ending, but I’m going to make double sure this new couple gets theirs.
When the next week rolls around without any word of any kind, something clicks.
I think we’re done.
Ethan listened to what I said, and he disagrees with me. He either thinks I abandoned him, or he thinks I’m so clueless that I don’t understand. Either way, I’m afraid he’s closer to his emotionally constipated father than I can handle. I won’t marry someone who will make my decisions for me if he decides that I’m not qualified.
I close my eyes and imagine his utter tenderness. His smile. His laugh. How can he not understand—someone whose parents stole his life with their selfishness—that it’s unacceptable to force something on someone you love?
No matter how much time I spend staring at my computer, I can’t think of a single happy thing to write.
Which means it’s the perfect time to work on Ashes.
I pull the manuscript out and realize it’s been so long since I wrote on it that I need to read over what I’ve written.
But when I do . . . it becomes clear that it’s awful. It’s stilted, and contrived, and forced.
It’s not a French-style tragedy, beautiful in its pain. It’s more like a Frankenstein-shaped ball of sadness: like I taped together every depressing thing I could think of and I forced them upon the reader in quick succession. No wonder Henri hated it.
My finger hovers over the file for a moment, wondering whether perhaps this isn’t the best time for me to make this kind of decision, but then I do it anyway—I delete it. Seconds later, my phone bings. For a split second, I hope it’s a message from Ethan.
I hate that I’m still hoping that he’ll suddenly get it.
But no, it’s from my bank—my first deposit for my IP project has hit my account.
I have plenty of money saved thanks to steady work at Golden Gloves, but for some reason this feels like a sign. I’ve deleted Ashes. I’ve been paid for my new book. It’s time for me to leave the comfort of my past—Luke and what he represents—and create a place for myself. Bonus—it won’t be a place that’s full of memories with Ethan.
I’ll still come see Amy and Chase, of course, but I won’t have to wallow any more.
I get in my car and I drive, but not to the closest apartments I can find. No, I drive to apartments that are across town. I drive until I see a unit that’s perfect. Huge trees. A big pool. A gym, not that I’ll use that. I fill out an application on the spot and pay my first month’s rent and deposit, pending my background check.
Right around the corner, there’s an IHOP.
The universe has a real sense of humor. I stop in and fill out an application, and the manager offers to interview me immediately. “Things are slow right now,” he says. “You timed it perfectly.”
Just in case I thought maybe I needed to wait around for Ethan a little longer. . . What more do I want? A signed letter from the guy upstairs? Anica, move on. Don’t waste away like you did last time.
I hope I’ve grown enough not to repeat that mistake. When I get home, I look over the two-thirds of a book I’ve written and I decide it’s not epic, but it’s pretty good. While I’m high on the momentum of the last few hours, I write a one-page query letter and send it to a dozen agents I’ve always admired. I could send it to Henri, since I’ve given up on Ashes, but I’m sick of waiting for people who don’t support me no matter what.
Conditional love isn’t love.
She didn’t even have the decency to tell me it sucked and why she thought it sucked. If you’re going to do something hard, go all the way.
I stay up until almost three a.m. and write three more chapters. I’ve got, maybe, three more to go. It feels good. I finally shut my laptop down, only to realize that my blanket is missing. Chase is always taking it and dragging it all over the house. Now that it’s officially fall, it’s chillier at night and I want it.
I peek out the door and into the hall. I really don’t want to wake up Andy, because her barking will wake up everyone else.
So far, the coast is clear, but when I reach the living room, Luke’s already there, rocking Jack.
“Anica?”
I swallow.
“What are you doing up?”
If I needed another sign that it’s time for me to move. . . I’m a grown adult who has to account for her behavior like she’s a sneaky child. Lizzie would be dying laughing right now. “I think Chase took my blanket.”
He chuckles. “You woke up because you’re too cold? We can turn up the thermostat, you know.”
I shake my head. “I was already awake. I’ve been writing.”
“Oh.” Jack starts to wail.
“Need another bottle?”
“Thanks,” Luke says.
One magic button later, and I’m handing it to my brother-in-law. “Hope he settles down soon.”
“Why are you up writing so late?” That’s when I realize he isn’t asking for an accounting like a mother might—he’s not scolding.
He’s worried about me.
Something constricts in my chest and tears threaten. “It’s been a rough couple of weeks.”
He pats the sofa. “What’s going on?”
I sit down. “Ethan and I broke up.”
“I figured that when I stopped seeing him abruptly.”
“It’s a long story, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“What else is wrong?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “But I think it’s time for me to move out.”
He frowns. “Why?”
“I think I need my own place, Luke. I can never tell you how much it meant to feel like I had a home again, even with Lizzie gone. It’s just not the same with Mom and Dad. I can’t explain it. They just moved on like nothing had happened at all.”
“Eventually, I did too.” He jiggles Jack.
“You did and you didn’t. You mourned her deeply, like I did, and you didn’t settle for half measures.”
“What do you mean, half measures?”
I start to bawl then. “Lizzie would be so ashamed of me.”
Jack has fallen asleep and Luke sets him in his bouncer and hugs me. “Nothing about you would make her anything but proud.”
“I should’ve made her take that kidney,” I say.
Luke lets me go and looks me dead in the eye. “She didn’t want it.”
“The docs said she could’ve had—”
“They didn’t know how much more time she would’ve had, but her cancer was terminal. That was a Band-Aid over a bullet wound.” He squeezes my knee. “It always was, and she knew that.”
“Do you know what I would give right now for another few months with her?” I sob louder, and I clap my hands over my mouth, desperate not to wake anyone else up.
“I would have given anything too,” he says, “but you honored her wishes. That was the right decision. She was in a lot of pain, Anica. She put on a brave face when you were there, but they wouldn’t have been great months.”
“She told me that she wouldn’t take it because she wouldn’t be able to rest, knowing her life might shorten mine someday.” I sigh. “She wouldn’t let me make that decision, but if she’d listened, she could have known her son.”
Luke looks back at Jack. “I understand what you’re saying, but there’s not a lot to know until they’re a little older. A few months wouldn’t have made a difference.”
“She told me to live brilliantly. She said the world needs my words.” I can’t stop then—I fold in half and bawl like a baby. Sometimes the pain crashes over me in a wave, like it’s just time for the universe to sucker punch me.
Luke wraps an arm around me. “She believed what she said, and I agree with her.”
I finally get it together enough to sit up, and I realize what has killed my ability to write. “But my words aren’t valuable, Luke. I write fluff, literary cotton candy.”
He grows so still beside me that I turn to face him.
“What?”
“Why would you say that?”
“I write love stories, Luke. You know they’re nonsense. They’re great for, you know, bad days, or whatever. It’s women’s fiction of the worst kind—like eating a bowl of caramel corn when you feel bad. It helps for a moment, but ultimately, it’s filler.”
He shakes his head, and then he keeps shaking his head. “You’re wrong.”
“What?”
“Your sister read your books over and over. She loved them. She has extra copies from that first print run in boxes for Chase and Amy.”
“What?”
“She didn’t want you to write anything but the stories you love, the ‘fluff’ as you call it. And I think you should think long and hard about why you think it’s not valuable.”
“Patrick said—”
“That man was a waste of space.” Luke practically growls. “He was the biggest mistake you ever made. I bought a cake the day I heard you broke up. I told the kids we were celebrating freedom. Amy thought March eighteenth was Independence Day for months after that.”
I laugh. “You didn’t.”
“I absolutely did. I did that for Lizzie. She hated him more than I did.”
“What?”
Luke leans toward me. “What do you think is the most important decision we make in our lives? What do you think does more to bring us joy and support and peace in our time here on earth?”
“The single most important?” I ask.
He nods slowly.
“Well, I mean, everyone says your wedding day is the best day of your life. Are you saying . . . it’s who you choose to marry?”
“Loving someone—that’s the most important choice. But what the books get wrong is that it’s not a thing you do one single time. You do it every single day. It’s a choice, it’s an action, it’s ongoing. Your books get that right. Your books show girls and boys how to focus on what matters. Home. Family. Nurturing support. They do it in unique and fascinating ways, and that has value. More value than books about social justice. More value than books about scientific research. And in case you never actually read any of that drivel your idiotic ex writes, let me tell you, your stories have a heck of a lot more value than some thriller with a few timely and popular social themes thrown in for flavoring.”
“But—”
He shakes his head again. “No buts, not about this, missy. Your sister knew what I know. That you already write stories that matter. That your words, your stories about joy and finding peace and hope and faith and love, those are the best kinds of stories out there. It’s the highest form of storytelling. Teach humans how to use their hearts the right way, and how to recognize how to live their lives to the fullest.” He stares me in the eye and doesn’t look away.
He’s serious.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You think about what I said,” he says. “And you never spend another second thinking that you can’t write the stories that brought Lizzie so much joy and pride because they aren’t meaningful.”
I stand up. “Okay. I’ll try.”
“You’re smart. Once you’ve had time to think about it, you’ll believe me.”
I snort. “You try and get some sleep too.” I turn and stumble over my blanket. I pick it up with a smile on my face. “You’re a good man, Luke.”
“And you’re a good woman, Anica. Don’t forget it.”
I’m off the next day, so I plan to sleep in. Until my phone rings and rings and rings. Finally I roll over and pick up. “Hello?”
“Anica?”
Henri? “Yeah.”
“I received a strange call this morning.”
Weird. “So did I.”
“Cute.”
“What do you want, Henri? I was sleeping.”
“It’s almost noon.”
“I’m sorry, Mom, what’s your point?”
She clears her throat. “One of my colleagues called me at eight a.m. She had been up half the night reading sample chapters she happened to click on at midnight last night.”
“Okay.”
“They were from you, and she wanted to confirm that I was fine with her offering representation.”
“On the basis of sample chapters?” I blink and rub my eyes. What’s going on?
“Did you or did you not query a romantic comedy yesterday?”
“I did, but pardon my irritation when I say, it’s not any of your business that I did. We have a provisional agreement that is now complete.”
“This is a very small industry, Anica.”
“I know that.”
“Why would you send a new manuscript to Phoebe?”
“Um, because I don’t have an agent, Henrietta. Why else would I do it? I want to sell it.”
“I’ve wanted to sell romantic comedies for you for years.”
But she hasn’t had my back, not when I needed it. Any guilt I felt over moving on is beyond gone. “I’m going to hang up, Henri, and if I don’t get a call from Phoebe soon, I’ll sue you.” Then I hang up.
It feels unbelievably good to shut her down, even if it was probably a little emotional and immature.
Phoebe calls me twenty minutes later. And two hours after we chat, I get an email from Emery. All told, six more agents contact me, all of them offering representation on a sample. I ask for a week to decide. And to finish the book, obviously.
A breakup. A move. Possibly a new job. A new agent. It’s been a weird few days.
But after thinking about it and writing a few chapters to clear my head, I eat dinner with Mary and Luke and their beautiful kids.
“I have some news,” I say.
“Uh-oh,” Amy says. “That’s not good.”
How sad that my niece assumes any news I have will be bad. “Actually, I think it’s good.”
Amy glares at Luke. “You said you tried.”
“What?” I glance at Luke.
He picks up his fork and takes a bite, and then he points at his mouth. “Full.”
“Dad said you wanted to move out but that he’d told you that you shouldn’t.” She glares at him again. “That’s not your news, is it?”
I open my mouth, and then I close it. Amy and Luke want me here? They’re not just okay with me being here. They want me to stay?
“We should listen to her reasons for wanting to leave,” Mary says. “Maybe she can’t sleep well here, or you kids are wearing her out.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Look, it doesn’t have to do with any of that, but I’m an adult and I ought to have my own place.”
“Dad’s an adult.” Amy crosses her arms.
“But he has kids,” I say. “That’s different.”
“Mary’s not a kid,” Chase says. “I don’t want you to go. We’re okay with adults living here too.”
I haven’t felt wanted somewhere in quite a while. “Alright,” I say. “I put a deposit down on an apartment, but I guess I can stay here if you really want me to.”
“Yay,” Amy says. “Dad, does that mean we can get out the cake?”
Mary nods and Amy and Chase run for the fridge.
“You got a cake?” I pin Luke with my strongest stare.
“We like cake,” he says with a grin.
“I can’t argue with that.”
And Luke did get one thing right—all my problems seem a little smaller when I’m shoveling cake into my mouth.
I call Barbara after I assume the dinner rush is past. “Hey Barb.”
