Better in the Morning, page 23
“He called me Hurricane Junior. He says that all the time. He said it when I missed the free throw shot the other day, in front of everyone.”
I hugged him. “He’s going to stop that. I’ll talk to him. I don’t like when he says that either. He thinks he’s just teasing, but it’s not funny.”
Oh, that jerk. This poor kid.
The boy wiped his nose and threw the tissue in the garbage while I sipped the coffee I was still holding. We went back into the family room, where John Jr. walked toward the tree and started quietly unwrapping the rest of his gifts. The other boy—Anthony—was on his hands and knees rolling a miniature tank along the floor and making vroom sounds. The little girl was brushing a doll’s hair. I sat down next to John.
“How’s the crybaby?” John asked.
“I need to talk to you later.”
“About what?” he asked, glaring at me defensively. “Let’s talk right now.”
We went into the same bathroom off the kitchen.
“You’ve got to stop calling him ‘Hurricane Junior.’ You’ve said it in front of his friends. You’ve embarrassed him. Do you know what this is doing to his self-esteem? Please stop it.”
“Listen, that kid’s got to learn. He’s a disaster. He is Hurricane Junior. What kind of man is he going to be? I’ve got to straighten him out now before it’s too late.”
“He doesn’t need to be straightened out. If you constantly harp on him and call him names and embarrass him, what do you think that is going to do to him?”
“It’ll help him!”
“Help him? How? You’re too hard on him. On all of them. On me too. You can’t expect people to be perfect. You’re not perfect. You have to stop. So please, stop it.”
“Veronica, you need your head examined. You were a lawyer once. You make no sense sometimes. I never said I was perfect, but I need people to try a little. I give you a great life, this house, your car, your vacations. You don’t have to work, and what do I get? I get one son who’s a sissy. He can’t make a fucking basket to save his life. He trips and breaks vases while unwrapping Christmas gifts with, let’s be honest, a little too much excitement. I get a middle son who’s fat. We’re going to have to put Anthony on a diet. What the hell are you feeding him? And our daughter, let’s face it, she’s not the brightest. John Jr. was doing everything she does when he was half her age. You better start working with her instead of getting your nails done and your hair done all the fucking time.”
I shook my head.
You’re just going to stand there and shake your head? Fight back!
Then, the bathroom door swung open. It was my grandparents. My grandfather clapped his hands once and said, “Seen enough?”
But I shooed them away. I had to see more. I saw my arms were crossed and I was staring at the floor, but then I looked up and said, “What kind of father calls his children these things? A sissy? Really? And fat and stupid?”
Yeah! Tell him!
“Are you kidding me?” John practically spat the words out. “Like you know what a good father is? I grew up in a normal household with two parents. I know what I’m doing, Veronica. I know I’ve got three kids who need straightening out.”
“There’s no talking to you. No reasoning.”
“Reasoning? What do we have to reason? It is what it is.”
I looked down again. Defeated. Pathetic.
Lift your head! Tell him off!
I saw myself grab my coffee cup on the edge of the sink and walk out of the bathroom, up a back stairway off the kitchen. John went back into the family room.
Upstairs, there was yet more marble. I followed myself down a marble hallway through French doors and into a large bedroom. My grandparents followed current me and older me up there.
I saw myself open another set of French doors that led into a large walk-in closet. It wasn’t even a closet. It was a room, really. In the center of the room was an island with drawers.
I got on my knees in front of the island and opened a bottom drawer. Socks. I reached to the back of the drawer and pulled out a sock that had something in it.
Pills? They weren’t even in a prescription bottle. Just loose pills.
I swallowed a handful of them. It seemed they were hard to swallow, and I reached for my coffee cup. I squinted and swallowed again. I put the sock back, shut the drawer, and rested my back against the island. I slowly closed my eyes.
“Oh God. Oh no. I don’t die, do I?” I looked at my grandparents, who were looking at me on the floor.
They said nothing.
“What am I doing?” I said louder, knowing “I” couldn’t hear me.
They said nothing, just stood with their arms crossed, still staring at me on the floor.
“Oh God, what are you showing me?” My heart beat faster. “Do I die?”
“No,” Grandpa Sal said calmly.
“I don’t die?”
“No.” Grandma Ant shook her head. “You take these pills to… I don’t know, calm you down, make you feel better? I really don’t know. But no, you don’t die. That’s not what this is. This isn’t how you die.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Then, Grandpa Sal moved closer to me and motioned toward the floor, palm up. “But would ya call this living?”
Chapter 31
My eyes flashed open. The room was almost completely dark except for a dim ray of light from the street lamps coming in through a gap in the curtains. I checked the clock. 3:04 a.m.
I placed my hand on my chest and peeked over at John. He was still sleeping soundly. Thank God.
I quietly lowered my left leg to the floor for leverage as I reached for my tote bag and grabbed my diary. Then, I pulled my hair back, wiped the sweat from my forehead, and wrote with the help of the crack of light coming through the window.
The World According to John:
1. Pants should never be folded and stuck in a drawer. They should be hung in the closet on all the same type of hanger. Plastic. White. From left to right, darkest to lightest.
2. Did you wash that apple? You’re supposed to use a dime-sized amount of liquid dish cleanser. Did you know that? You never heard that? Do you live under a rock? I don’t care what you do. Eat pesticides then. That’s what you’re doing. Don’t complain to me if you get sick.
I always wanted to say, “No, I don’t want to eat pesticides, but I don’t want to ingest liquid dish cleanser either.” But I never did.
3. Your wallet is so disorganized. Look at mine. Bills face the same direction and in denominational order, smallest bill facing outward. No wonder you’re always fumbling around whenever you’re checking out of a store.
4. When you pay the bill at a restaurant with your credit card, put in a tip amount that results in a total amount with zero cents. It looks cleaner on your credit card bill.
I always wanted to say, “Who gives a crap how clean your credit card bill looks?” But I never did.
5. Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to put coffee cups and bowls away in a cabinet? Don’t stack them on top of each other like that. There’s enough room to line them up in rows.
6. When you have a cold, don’t blow your nose so much. It irritates your sinuses.
I always wanted to ask “What about all of the snot up there? Where’s it going to go?” But I never did.
7.You’re doing it wrong. Everyone does everything wrong—the bank teller, the guy at the deli counter, the cab driver, the waitress, the bartender, the doorman, the flight attendant, the concierge, the tailor, the dry cleaner, the cashier, the masseuse, the hostess, the receptionist, the doctor, the chiropractor, the mailman, the guy on TV making little pastries. Everyone. No one takes pride in their job anymore. No one.
I finally looked up from the page after I came up with forty-seven Johnisms. I craned my neck to peek at him. Still sleeping.
Jerk.
I placed my hand over my heart again. Although it had slowed while I wrote, it fired up again, angrier after I read each Johnism back to myself. I had planned to lay there until the sun came up as I figured out what I wanted to do next. But somehow, I ended up falling back to sleep.
I was drinking coffee in Syd’s kitchen while eating a bagel with cream cheese and jam. Bridget Jones’s Diary was on television. I looked up from my phone to watch my favorite part—when Bridget’s friends are sitting around her dining room table, and they toast her with, “To Bridget, just as she is.”
Syd walked out in a towel. His broad chest was still wet from his shower. I stood to refill my coffee and kissed him on the lips.
“What are you smiling at?” he asked.
“Nothing.” As I poured milk in my coffee, it overflowed.
Syd leaned over to kiss me. “Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you.”
“What time’s the bus?”
“Uh, I think it’s at 11:14. I have to check. My mother will pick us up at the station.”
“What’s on your shirt?”
I looked down. “Strawberry jam.”
“Oh, I was afraid it was blood.” He sniffed my shirt.
I laughed. He took a sip of my coffee then headed back to the bathroom.
There was a fly in the room, in December. I started to swat it away, but my attention was brought back to Bridget. She couldn’t cook, but they loved her anyway.
I woke up suddenly and sat up in bed. I checked the clock. 7:14 a.m.
John was awake, leaning against the headboard with a newspaper spread out in front of him. “You breathe so loudly, especially in your sleep.” He shook his head. “The shortest, choppiest, loudest breaths.”
I rubbed my eyes.
He didn’t look away from the paper but continued to talk. “You breathe like a baby. It’s because you weren’t an athlete growing up. You’ve got no lung capacity.”
I got up slowly from the bed, not bothering to adjust my pajama bottom that was twisted to the left. I stared at him as I took off the ring and walked around to his side of the bed. I placed it on the end table next to him. It made a high-pitched clink sound as it hit the glass.
He glanced up from his paper, rolled his eyes, and went back to reading.
That was when I started moving quickly. I gathered my clothes off the floor. I went through every drawer. I pulled my suitcase out of the closet and filled it. Clothes, shoes, makeup. What am I forgetting? I went to the bathroom and changed into what I’d worn on the plane, my work clothes. That day seemed so long ago.
“Cut the fucking charade, please,” John said. “Are you always going to be this sensitive? We have to work on that.”
When I finally zipped my suitcase and realized there was nothing left in the room I wanted—nothing at all—I said, “Merry Christmas.”
“What?” He looked up from the paper, incredulous. The headline read, “Longue vie a la France.” It was July fourteenth, Bastille Day.
I lifted my suitcase off of the chaise, grabbed my tote bag, and headed toward the door.
John got out of bed. His white V-neck T-shirt that fit him perfectly looked a little too white in the artificial hotel light. His silk boxers also appeared to be reflecting light as he moved toward me. “What the hell has gotten into you, Veronica?”
“Merry Christmas!” I repeated, louder. As I opened the door, I felt a rush of giddiness.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he yelled.
I rushed into the hallway. I couldn’t believe how fast I was moving, considering how heavy my suitcase and tote bag were. A bellboy nodded as I rushed past him in the hallway.
“Merry Christmas!” I called out.
He nodded again and smiled.
Then I saw a middle-aged woman setting her room service tray outside her door. I pointed to her. “And a Merry Christmas to you!” I didn’t have time to see her expression, and I almost didn’t recognize my own voice, which held shaky excitement.
When I heard John in the distance—“Where the fuck are you going?”—I started running. I glanced down at my feet. The gold triangles along the burgundy carpet in the hallway whizzed past. I didn’t trip once. When I made it to the elevator, I caught my breath as a couple stepped off.
“And a Merry, Merry Christmas to the both of you!” I was out of breath. “Merry, Merry Christmas!” I stepped onto the elevator and pressed the lobby floor. The couple turned back and stared at me with wide-eyed confusion as the elevator doors closed.
Chapter 32
“One way?”
I grinned. “Yes, please.” I’m the only person in history to be ecstatic to leave Paris.
The woman behind the counter was skinny with jet-black hair and sharp features. She spoke English with a barely discernable French accent. “The next flight is not for another five hours.”
“That’s fine.” That would give me about eleven hours, including flight time, to prepare my speech. I didn’t wish the woman a Merry Christmas. When she handed me my boarding pass, I wished her a “Happy Bastille Day.”
She didn’t respond or smile or even nod. Is she Kate’s long-lost French cousin? I brushed the thought of Kate out of my mind and practically skipped away from the counter, boarding pass in hand, humming Jingle Bells.
Syd, hi. Listen, I know you might feel like you’re seeing a ghost right now. After all, I’m the girl who took off in a whirlwind with her ex-boyfriend… but surprise! I’m back. Ha ha. This is going to sound completely crazy, and I don’t blame you for thinking I’m a flake or worse, but you have to know that this is not typical of me. I’m more grounded than this. I think you can tell that. I just kind of went temporarily insane. A buildup of things. I don’t know. Anyway, I have come to my senses.
I envisioned he would then cut me off and kiss me passionately as I tried to tell him about Paris and what happened, how John was not the one for me, and that I realized that now. Then, we would hug and hold each other. We would probably laugh at what a nut I was and wonder what I’d been thinking, then we would pick up right where we’d left off.
At least, that was what I kept envisioning… and prayed for over the next eleven hours.
I didn’t sleep on the plane. I arrived at LaGuardia with dark circles under my eyes, and I was pretty sure I didn’t smell like roses. But I wasn’t particularly tired. I was no longer humming Jingle Bells, but I was still excited. And anxious.
As I waited in the cab line for forty-five minutes, I reviewed my emails and texts. There were several from Dave that were increasingly frantic in only the past few hours.
Selma Renner is blowing up the Internet. Have you seen how many Facebook likes and tweets your story has gotten?
Is Selma in Florida? How can she be reached?
Where are you? What’s your Twitter handle?
I left you a voicemail and tried you at work. Someone named Margaret said you’re out of the country? Your work email is disabled? Do you know how many other news outlets are picking up your story? You and Selma are hot right now, and I’m pretty sure neither of you know it. CALL ME. Class may be over, but you’re getting extra credit, girl.
Wow, people are reading my article? Someone other than my mother was watching my story? I felt giddy again for a moment. I typed a reply to Dave as I moved up in the taxi line.
Hey Dave, that is awesome! I’m so happy to hear that the story is so popular. And I’m so sorry for the lack of response. Yes, I’ve been out of the country. It’s a long story. I’ll try you later.
One explanation at a time. Syd first.
I wondered if I should make sure that Syd was home before I just showed up. But I decided that arriving unexpectedly was more romantic and would have more of an impact.
What if he’s not home? Should I shower first? No, I couldn’t wait any longer.
When I opened the cab door, there was a shiny penny on the seat.
“Where to?” the cab driver shouted.
“Uh, yes.” I got in. “West Broadway and Houston, please.”
I moved the penny to the other side of the seat. Thank you, Gram. Thank you, Grandpa. Syd will be home. He won’t mind that I’m a little smelly right now. And he won’t mind that I left for a little while… because I’m back now.
Half an hour later, I rested my suitcase against the wall in Syd’s hallway and pushed my hair back before knocking.
He opened the door, and I felt instantly at ease. He looked relaxed and comfortable in a gray T-shirt and jeans.
“Hi,” I chirped.
“Hi.” Syd’s brow furrowed. He was clearly stunned.
“The doorman wasn’t there,” I explained. “Some guy was leaving just as I was entering, and he let me in, even helped me with my suitcase when the wheel got stuck in the doorway. You have nice neighbors.”
Not exactly the intro I’d planned. My nerves got the best of me, and my voice started to shake. “Um, I know this is weird… Can I come in?”
Syd looked down. “Now is actually not a good time.”
“Listen, it’s a bit of a long story.” I swallowed. “And I’ll explain, but can I come in?” I thought about just blurting out my speech, but it didn’t feel right. I had to get comfortable first.
Then, I noticed the sound of the television. A movie was on. And that was when I heard the flush from the bathroom. “Is someone here?”
“Veronica, listen, do you want to call me later?”
“Is there a girl here?”
At that moment, a woman about my age with long, curly brown hair came out of the bathroom, wearing short shorts and a tank top. She glanced quickly toward the door as she moved into the living room.
I hugged him. “He’s going to stop that. I’ll talk to him. I don’t like when he says that either. He thinks he’s just teasing, but it’s not funny.”
Oh, that jerk. This poor kid.
The boy wiped his nose and threw the tissue in the garbage while I sipped the coffee I was still holding. We went back into the family room, where John Jr. walked toward the tree and started quietly unwrapping the rest of his gifts. The other boy—Anthony—was on his hands and knees rolling a miniature tank along the floor and making vroom sounds. The little girl was brushing a doll’s hair. I sat down next to John.
“How’s the crybaby?” John asked.
“I need to talk to you later.”
“About what?” he asked, glaring at me defensively. “Let’s talk right now.”
We went into the same bathroom off the kitchen.
“You’ve got to stop calling him ‘Hurricane Junior.’ You’ve said it in front of his friends. You’ve embarrassed him. Do you know what this is doing to his self-esteem? Please stop it.”
“Listen, that kid’s got to learn. He’s a disaster. He is Hurricane Junior. What kind of man is he going to be? I’ve got to straighten him out now before it’s too late.”
“He doesn’t need to be straightened out. If you constantly harp on him and call him names and embarrass him, what do you think that is going to do to him?”
“It’ll help him!”
“Help him? How? You’re too hard on him. On all of them. On me too. You can’t expect people to be perfect. You’re not perfect. You have to stop. So please, stop it.”
“Veronica, you need your head examined. You were a lawyer once. You make no sense sometimes. I never said I was perfect, but I need people to try a little. I give you a great life, this house, your car, your vacations. You don’t have to work, and what do I get? I get one son who’s a sissy. He can’t make a fucking basket to save his life. He trips and breaks vases while unwrapping Christmas gifts with, let’s be honest, a little too much excitement. I get a middle son who’s fat. We’re going to have to put Anthony on a diet. What the hell are you feeding him? And our daughter, let’s face it, she’s not the brightest. John Jr. was doing everything she does when he was half her age. You better start working with her instead of getting your nails done and your hair done all the fucking time.”
I shook my head.
You’re just going to stand there and shake your head? Fight back!
Then, the bathroom door swung open. It was my grandparents. My grandfather clapped his hands once and said, “Seen enough?”
But I shooed them away. I had to see more. I saw my arms were crossed and I was staring at the floor, but then I looked up and said, “What kind of father calls his children these things? A sissy? Really? And fat and stupid?”
Yeah! Tell him!
“Are you kidding me?” John practically spat the words out. “Like you know what a good father is? I grew up in a normal household with two parents. I know what I’m doing, Veronica. I know I’ve got three kids who need straightening out.”
“There’s no talking to you. No reasoning.”
“Reasoning? What do we have to reason? It is what it is.”
I looked down again. Defeated. Pathetic.
Lift your head! Tell him off!
I saw myself grab my coffee cup on the edge of the sink and walk out of the bathroom, up a back stairway off the kitchen. John went back into the family room.
Upstairs, there was yet more marble. I followed myself down a marble hallway through French doors and into a large bedroom. My grandparents followed current me and older me up there.
I saw myself open another set of French doors that led into a large walk-in closet. It wasn’t even a closet. It was a room, really. In the center of the room was an island with drawers.
I got on my knees in front of the island and opened a bottom drawer. Socks. I reached to the back of the drawer and pulled out a sock that had something in it.
Pills? They weren’t even in a prescription bottle. Just loose pills.
I swallowed a handful of them. It seemed they were hard to swallow, and I reached for my coffee cup. I squinted and swallowed again. I put the sock back, shut the drawer, and rested my back against the island. I slowly closed my eyes.
“Oh God. Oh no. I don’t die, do I?” I looked at my grandparents, who were looking at me on the floor.
They said nothing.
“What am I doing?” I said louder, knowing “I” couldn’t hear me.
They said nothing, just stood with their arms crossed, still staring at me on the floor.
“Oh God, what are you showing me?” My heart beat faster. “Do I die?”
“No,” Grandpa Sal said calmly.
“I don’t die?”
“No.” Grandma Ant shook her head. “You take these pills to… I don’t know, calm you down, make you feel better? I really don’t know. But no, you don’t die. That’s not what this is. This isn’t how you die.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Then, Grandpa Sal moved closer to me and motioned toward the floor, palm up. “But would ya call this living?”
Chapter 31
My eyes flashed open. The room was almost completely dark except for a dim ray of light from the street lamps coming in through a gap in the curtains. I checked the clock. 3:04 a.m.
I placed my hand on my chest and peeked over at John. He was still sleeping soundly. Thank God.
I quietly lowered my left leg to the floor for leverage as I reached for my tote bag and grabbed my diary. Then, I pulled my hair back, wiped the sweat from my forehead, and wrote with the help of the crack of light coming through the window.
The World According to John:
1. Pants should never be folded and stuck in a drawer. They should be hung in the closet on all the same type of hanger. Plastic. White. From left to right, darkest to lightest.
2. Did you wash that apple? You’re supposed to use a dime-sized amount of liquid dish cleanser. Did you know that? You never heard that? Do you live under a rock? I don’t care what you do. Eat pesticides then. That’s what you’re doing. Don’t complain to me if you get sick.
I always wanted to say, “No, I don’t want to eat pesticides, but I don’t want to ingest liquid dish cleanser either.” But I never did.
3. Your wallet is so disorganized. Look at mine. Bills face the same direction and in denominational order, smallest bill facing outward. No wonder you’re always fumbling around whenever you’re checking out of a store.
4. When you pay the bill at a restaurant with your credit card, put in a tip amount that results in a total amount with zero cents. It looks cleaner on your credit card bill.
I always wanted to say, “Who gives a crap how clean your credit card bill looks?” But I never did.
5. Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to put coffee cups and bowls away in a cabinet? Don’t stack them on top of each other like that. There’s enough room to line them up in rows.
6. When you have a cold, don’t blow your nose so much. It irritates your sinuses.
I always wanted to ask “What about all of the snot up there? Where’s it going to go?” But I never did.
7.You’re doing it wrong. Everyone does everything wrong—the bank teller, the guy at the deli counter, the cab driver, the waitress, the bartender, the doorman, the flight attendant, the concierge, the tailor, the dry cleaner, the cashier, the masseuse, the hostess, the receptionist, the doctor, the chiropractor, the mailman, the guy on TV making little pastries. Everyone. No one takes pride in their job anymore. No one.
I finally looked up from the page after I came up with forty-seven Johnisms. I craned my neck to peek at him. Still sleeping.
Jerk.
I placed my hand over my heart again. Although it had slowed while I wrote, it fired up again, angrier after I read each Johnism back to myself. I had planned to lay there until the sun came up as I figured out what I wanted to do next. But somehow, I ended up falling back to sleep.
I was drinking coffee in Syd’s kitchen while eating a bagel with cream cheese and jam. Bridget Jones’s Diary was on television. I looked up from my phone to watch my favorite part—when Bridget’s friends are sitting around her dining room table, and they toast her with, “To Bridget, just as she is.”
Syd walked out in a towel. His broad chest was still wet from his shower. I stood to refill my coffee and kissed him on the lips.
“What are you smiling at?” he asked.
“Nothing.” As I poured milk in my coffee, it overflowed.
Syd leaned over to kiss me. “Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you.”
“What time’s the bus?”
“Uh, I think it’s at 11:14. I have to check. My mother will pick us up at the station.”
“What’s on your shirt?”
I looked down. “Strawberry jam.”
“Oh, I was afraid it was blood.” He sniffed my shirt.
I laughed. He took a sip of my coffee then headed back to the bathroom.
There was a fly in the room, in December. I started to swat it away, but my attention was brought back to Bridget. She couldn’t cook, but they loved her anyway.
I woke up suddenly and sat up in bed. I checked the clock. 7:14 a.m.
John was awake, leaning against the headboard with a newspaper spread out in front of him. “You breathe so loudly, especially in your sleep.” He shook his head. “The shortest, choppiest, loudest breaths.”
I rubbed my eyes.
He didn’t look away from the paper but continued to talk. “You breathe like a baby. It’s because you weren’t an athlete growing up. You’ve got no lung capacity.”
I got up slowly from the bed, not bothering to adjust my pajama bottom that was twisted to the left. I stared at him as I took off the ring and walked around to his side of the bed. I placed it on the end table next to him. It made a high-pitched clink sound as it hit the glass.
He glanced up from his paper, rolled his eyes, and went back to reading.
That was when I started moving quickly. I gathered my clothes off the floor. I went through every drawer. I pulled my suitcase out of the closet and filled it. Clothes, shoes, makeup. What am I forgetting? I went to the bathroom and changed into what I’d worn on the plane, my work clothes. That day seemed so long ago.
“Cut the fucking charade, please,” John said. “Are you always going to be this sensitive? We have to work on that.”
When I finally zipped my suitcase and realized there was nothing left in the room I wanted—nothing at all—I said, “Merry Christmas.”
“What?” He looked up from the paper, incredulous. The headline read, “Longue vie a la France.” It was July fourteenth, Bastille Day.
I lifted my suitcase off of the chaise, grabbed my tote bag, and headed toward the door.
John got out of bed. His white V-neck T-shirt that fit him perfectly looked a little too white in the artificial hotel light. His silk boxers also appeared to be reflecting light as he moved toward me. “What the hell has gotten into you, Veronica?”
“Merry Christmas!” I repeated, louder. As I opened the door, I felt a rush of giddiness.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he yelled.
I rushed into the hallway. I couldn’t believe how fast I was moving, considering how heavy my suitcase and tote bag were. A bellboy nodded as I rushed past him in the hallway.
“Merry Christmas!” I called out.
He nodded again and smiled.
Then I saw a middle-aged woman setting her room service tray outside her door. I pointed to her. “And a Merry Christmas to you!” I didn’t have time to see her expression, and I almost didn’t recognize my own voice, which held shaky excitement.
When I heard John in the distance—“Where the fuck are you going?”—I started running. I glanced down at my feet. The gold triangles along the burgundy carpet in the hallway whizzed past. I didn’t trip once. When I made it to the elevator, I caught my breath as a couple stepped off.
“And a Merry, Merry Christmas to the both of you!” I was out of breath. “Merry, Merry Christmas!” I stepped onto the elevator and pressed the lobby floor. The couple turned back and stared at me with wide-eyed confusion as the elevator doors closed.
Chapter 32
“One way?”
I grinned. “Yes, please.” I’m the only person in history to be ecstatic to leave Paris.
The woman behind the counter was skinny with jet-black hair and sharp features. She spoke English with a barely discernable French accent. “The next flight is not for another five hours.”
“That’s fine.” That would give me about eleven hours, including flight time, to prepare my speech. I didn’t wish the woman a Merry Christmas. When she handed me my boarding pass, I wished her a “Happy Bastille Day.”
She didn’t respond or smile or even nod. Is she Kate’s long-lost French cousin? I brushed the thought of Kate out of my mind and practically skipped away from the counter, boarding pass in hand, humming Jingle Bells.
Syd, hi. Listen, I know you might feel like you’re seeing a ghost right now. After all, I’m the girl who took off in a whirlwind with her ex-boyfriend… but surprise! I’m back. Ha ha. This is going to sound completely crazy, and I don’t blame you for thinking I’m a flake or worse, but you have to know that this is not typical of me. I’m more grounded than this. I think you can tell that. I just kind of went temporarily insane. A buildup of things. I don’t know. Anyway, I have come to my senses.
I envisioned he would then cut me off and kiss me passionately as I tried to tell him about Paris and what happened, how John was not the one for me, and that I realized that now. Then, we would hug and hold each other. We would probably laugh at what a nut I was and wonder what I’d been thinking, then we would pick up right where we’d left off.
At least, that was what I kept envisioning… and prayed for over the next eleven hours.
I didn’t sleep on the plane. I arrived at LaGuardia with dark circles under my eyes, and I was pretty sure I didn’t smell like roses. But I wasn’t particularly tired. I was no longer humming Jingle Bells, but I was still excited. And anxious.
As I waited in the cab line for forty-five minutes, I reviewed my emails and texts. There were several from Dave that were increasingly frantic in only the past few hours.
Selma Renner is blowing up the Internet. Have you seen how many Facebook likes and tweets your story has gotten?
Is Selma in Florida? How can she be reached?
Where are you? What’s your Twitter handle?
I left you a voicemail and tried you at work. Someone named Margaret said you’re out of the country? Your work email is disabled? Do you know how many other news outlets are picking up your story? You and Selma are hot right now, and I’m pretty sure neither of you know it. CALL ME. Class may be over, but you’re getting extra credit, girl.
Wow, people are reading my article? Someone other than my mother was watching my story? I felt giddy again for a moment. I typed a reply to Dave as I moved up in the taxi line.
Hey Dave, that is awesome! I’m so happy to hear that the story is so popular. And I’m so sorry for the lack of response. Yes, I’ve been out of the country. It’s a long story. I’ll try you later.
One explanation at a time. Syd first.
I wondered if I should make sure that Syd was home before I just showed up. But I decided that arriving unexpectedly was more romantic and would have more of an impact.
What if he’s not home? Should I shower first? No, I couldn’t wait any longer.
When I opened the cab door, there was a shiny penny on the seat.
“Where to?” the cab driver shouted.
“Uh, yes.” I got in. “West Broadway and Houston, please.”
I moved the penny to the other side of the seat. Thank you, Gram. Thank you, Grandpa. Syd will be home. He won’t mind that I’m a little smelly right now. And he won’t mind that I left for a little while… because I’m back now.
Half an hour later, I rested my suitcase against the wall in Syd’s hallway and pushed my hair back before knocking.
He opened the door, and I felt instantly at ease. He looked relaxed and comfortable in a gray T-shirt and jeans.
“Hi,” I chirped.
“Hi.” Syd’s brow furrowed. He was clearly stunned.
“The doorman wasn’t there,” I explained. “Some guy was leaving just as I was entering, and he let me in, even helped me with my suitcase when the wheel got stuck in the doorway. You have nice neighbors.”
Not exactly the intro I’d planned. My nerves got the best of me, and my voice started to shake. “Um, I know this is weird… Can I come in?”
Syd looked down. “Now is actually not a good time.”
“Listen, it’s a bit of a long story.” I swallowed. “And I’ll explain, but can I come in?” I thought about just blurting out my speech, but it didn’t feel right. I had to get comfortable first.
Then, I noticed the sound of the television. A movie was on. And that was when I heard the flush from the bathroom. “Is someone here?”
“Veronica, listen, do you want to call me later?”
“Is there a girl here?”
At that moment, a woman about my age with long, curly brown hair came out of the bathroom, wearing short shorts and a tank top. She glanced quickly toward the door as she moved into the living room.
