Chapter 2
The phone didn’t ring, but that just made George more tense. And more guilty. She and Sera had never had the best relationship, but it had never dissolved into outright animosity. What if her sister was really, truly mad enough at her this time to stop speaking to her permanently?
Nah. Sera would call back. Soon. She knew she would. George rolled out the bottom layer of dough. Phone didn’t ring. She tossed the apple slices with cinnamon and sugar and a bit of flour. Still nothing. She spread the filling and scattered pats of butter on top. Silence.
Against her better judgment, she allowed a feeling of calm to steal over her. Maybe Sera really had given up. Maybe she wasn’t as bullheaded as she used to be—maybe being a mom had softened her or something. Whatever the reason, if it was true Sera had mellowed, George welcomed it. Her sister had always been darned prickly. Getting rid of a few rough edges would be a nice change.
George stared at the assembled pie, knife in hand, wondering what to cut for a vent before she put it in the oven. When she was with Thom, she always put a stylized double “T” in the middle: Thom’s initials, which also looked like the symbol for pi. She’d thought it was clever, and he’d always given her a pleased little smirk when he saw it—less so as a nod to her cleverness, she realized now, than in appreciation for the boost to his ego.
God, she’d been so blind for so long.
But no more. Last year she’d finally woken up and broken free, busting out of what looked like the “ideal” relationship (on paper, at least) but in reality was sucking her soul dry. She’d stunned Thom when she informed him she was moving out. He thought they were doing great. Sure,
he’d
been happy, so of course everything was fine, right? Wrong.
She had bailed so quickly, packing her things and finding this apartment within a week, she’d shocked herself as well. And then the doubts crept in. For a while, she berated herself for giving up instead of trying to see the value in their two-year relationship—two seemingly compatible people, both mild mannered (they never had screaming, plate-flinging arguments), both intelligent. Well matched. What was wrong with that?
It was wrong because it was the emotional equivalent of being smothered by a comforter—killed by acres of bland softness. Thom had been too calm. Too in control. Too sedate. And too blind to the fact that George was turning into a ghost right in front of him. Or—no, he wasn’t blind. It was the way he wanted it. She’d figured it out eventually; it came to her in sudden, alarming stabs of realization, usually late at night or when she was doing something mindless, like cleaning the bathroom, that parts of her were leaching away, a little at a time. She had been allowing bits of herself to be killed off to accommodate Thom, because he didn’t like having competition—a vivid personality, strong opinions (hell,
any
opinions), even responsibilities or interests that divided her attention, kept her from focusing on him one hundred percent.
Being half alive was no way to live, so George cut ties abruptly, practically climbing out the window in the middle of the night using a rope made from bed sheets knotted together. Well, it wasn’t that dramatic an escape, but it might as well have been. That was what it felt like. She was breaking away from her psychological keeper.
So she’d hunted for a roommate situation she could tolerate, in an apartment building she could afford with the last of her piddly savings, while she dealt with her post-relationship trauma and worked hard on regrowing a spine. Her blog, Down on Love, helped her self-analysis process. She’d started the blog solely to have a place to jot down her thoughts and make sense of her feelings. The last thing she expected was for it to catch on. She never thought
one
other person would read it, but in record time, thousands of people were following her. And then tens of thousands. And now, if she was very careful with her money, the ad revenue paid her half of the rent on the hovel on Comm Ave.
The hovel that was closing in on her at the moment. She glanced out the window; it looked like a beautiful day—one that shouldn’t be spent inside. She hurriedly cut a question mark in the center of the pie and put it into the oven. When it was done, she’d work on her blog out in the fresh air.
George had made a good call, getting out of the apartment, and an even better one to spend the brilliant late-spring day among the crowds at Harvard Square. She enjoyed losing herself in the throngs by the T station and the university, but when it got to be too much, she wandered the tiny back streets, dropping into every minuscule secondhand bookstore she could find, even if she didn’t care for the genres. Graphic novels, mysteries, travel books—she’d spend time in all the shops, if only to run her fingers over the yellowed paperbacks and splitting hardcover spines and breathe that special perfume emitted by old pages.
When she was loaded up with several books she probably didn’t
have
to have, but they’d decided to come home with her all the same, she stopped at her favorite indie coffee shop for a rest, an espresso, and a quick e-mail check. Because blogs never sleep.
She placed her order at the counter, then tucked herself into a back booth in the perpetual gloom of the black-painted walls covered in strange, moody paintings by local artists. Her laptop cast a lurid glow over her hands as she typed. Almost instantly, she was drawn into all the new e-mails from DoLlies, the avid followers of her blog, and her double espresso cooled as she read all their complaints about their significant others, lovelorn screeds, fresh tales of woe, and plaintive pleas for advice—even though they were well aware the requests would always elicit George’s most frequently used command: Dump his ass. Or her ass. But her readership demographics dictated it was usually a male ass that needed dumping.
She was so wrapped up in one DoLlie’s account of her husband—who installed surveillance equipment to catch her with another man, then forgot about the cameras and ended up capturing his own antics with another woman instead—that at first she barely noticed the young man who had sat down at the next table with a massive ceramic mug, the cappuccino’s foam sliding over the rim and down the side.
But when she finally reached for her now tepid espresso, she took a closer look. He had the casual scruffiness of a grad student—beard, lanky hair, second-hand (well, “vintage”) clothes, including a brown wide-wale corduroy coat with a fuzzy collar that wouldn’t have been out of place in an episode of
Welcome Back, Kotter
. She may have looked at him a second or two too long, because he glanced over the top of his tattered paperback (some obscure philosophy tome, she noted). His eyes met hers and crinkled with a smile she couldn’t see because most of his face was still behind the book.
George quickly looked back at her laptop, pretending to be engrossed in whatever was on the screen, but it was no good. Now there was an extra . . .
something
in the air. She was keenly aware he was observing every movement she made, and she couldn’t help but notice whenever he moved, took a sip of his cappuccino, or glanced over at her to see if she’d look back at him. Which he did a few times.
So what? she asked herself. He was just a guy. He wanted to introduce himself. So what? She could do that. It wasn’t like she had to marry him. Two people could chat in a coffee shop, couldn’t they? But even as she told herself this, her stomach tied itself in knots, her throat constricted, and she could barely swallow her espresso.
As always, she retreated to her blog to sort it all out.
Hola, DoLlies!
I am bringing you the news
as it happens!
Right now I’m sitting in my favorite coffee place in Cambridge, and a pretty cute guy is here as well (don’t get excited—he’s at the next table), reading a book and drinking a cappuccino that looks so good it’s making me regret choosing an espresso.
So what would a normal person do in this situation? Right—strike up a conversation. Simple chitchat, maybe about what he’s reading. Am I going to do that? No, I am not. Why? I am completely unable to. I am absolutely paralyzed. I can’t even remember how to make my mouth do the word-forming thing.
This is what I’ve been reduced to. I have an opportunity to talk to a guy—and why shouldn’t I, since he looks interesting and he’s glanced over here a couple of times? But it’s not happening. Because although my first thought is to get chatty and maybe flirty, my very next thought is “remember what happened last time.”
I’m not even denying something I want. I
don’t
want. And I blame Lucifer, of course. That ex of mine reduced me to this—someone who only sees men as the symbol of inevitable letdown. Why
ever
start something if it’s going to end badly?
Yes. I realize this is not healthy. And maybe someday it will change. But not today. What I should want and what
I’m actually capable of at the moment are two different things. It’s a good lesson: I still have healing to do.
But damn, I’m pissed I’m not ready to talk to this guy. Who, by the way, has tweaked to my disinterest and has packed up his things and left. Oh yay, way to waste the best years of my life. Go me.
Despite the invasive noise of the city as George fought her way through the crowds to get back to the T station, she could hear rustling, then whispering on the other end of the line. It had taken a little longer than she expected, but Sera had indeed called her back, just as George knew she would. She could just make out her sister saying, “Say ‘auntie.’ Say ‘auntie!’”
“Oh, don’t you dare—”
“Your niece wants to plead her case.”
“It won’t work, Sera.”
More rustling, then a gurgle or two.
“Say hello to your niece.”
“Sera, no, I—” More gurgles, and Sera’s voice grew fainter as she evidently pushed the phone up to her daughter’s ear. Dammit. “Hi, Amelia,” George cooed as she stood on a corner, waiting to cross the street.
In response, she got an earful of “Doe doe doe doe,” and then a high-pitched squeal.
“Ow.”
Sera took the phone back. “Sorry about that. So, did she have a convincing argument?”
George leaped at a reprieve—another call coming in. “Hang on a minute.” She looked at the phone screen. Oops. Nope, her sister was the better choice at this point. “Never mind.”
“Problem?” Sera asked. They may not have seen each other in the flesh for years, but the sibling psychic connection was powerful juju.
Sighing, George muttered, “That was
Thom.
” Her irritation blooming all over again, she pronounced the “H” in his name, just because she knew he hated it. She hoped that right then, even miles away in Brookline, he felt a disturbance in the Force. “He says my blog is ruining his reputation and keeping him from picking up women, so I shouldn’t write it anymore.”
Sera snorted. “Typical. Still jealous, I see.”
“What?”
“It’s not about his
reputation.
He’s jealous of you. You were all meek and timid when you were together. Now you’re running rings around him, success-wise. He
hates
that. Of course he’s going to try to take you down.”
“Nice analysis.”
“There’s more where that came from. But you’ve got to come and get it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You’re going to give me a complex.”
“Don’t care.”
“You’re such a freaking brat, you know that? You always have been.”
“Not winning me over.”
“You won’t break out in hives if you come back to New York, you know.”
Sera again, catching her as she stepped off the B line train at the stop in the middle of Comm Ave.
“You don’t know that. Can’t I just send you money?”
“That’s just cold. Besides, you don’t have any to spare. I’m not that uninformed about Internet income.”
George hated to admit it, but her sister was right on that count. But she still wasn’t ready to back down, baby gurgles or not. “Right. Which means I have to work.”
“And I didn’t fall off old Bob Weidener’s turnip truck yesterday, either. You can work from anywhere. Behold the power of the intertubes.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Did you not hear me? I said please. I never say please.”
“I’m
very
well aware of that.”
George trudged across the westbound traffic lanes and up the hill toward her apartment, her sister wheedling the whole time. She never should have answered the phone again, but she was sort of curious about how Sera would try to sway her. Saying “please” was impressive; she couldn’t remember the last time Sera had used that little pleasantry. It just wasn’t in her repertoire.
“Please.”
“Again? Wow, that’s—dammit!”
Before going into her apartment building, George had taken a small detour to move her car to the other side of the street before the parking rules changed. She hardly ever drove anywhere in Boston, mainly because it was easier to take public transportation—not to mention driving was a death sport in the city—so most of the time behind the wheel was spent moving her ancient, once vivid magenta, now faded pink, Dodge Neon from one parking spot to another. Today, however, she was too late.
She recognized the piece of paper from half a block away. Secured by her windshield wiper, dusted with dried-up fallen blossoms, the yellow pollen of spring, and the grit of the city, and curling up at the edges . . . “I got a freakin’ parking ticket!”
“All the free off-street parking you need here.”
“Shut up.”
Doing the car-parking tango took George about twenty minutes. Still, she’d seen worse. If the colleges had been in session, she could have driven around for an hour and never found a spot. She wedged the Pink Lady into a space fit for a Smart Car, nudging the bumpers of the cars in front and behind (but not enough to leave a mark), congratulated herself on a parking job well done, then headed to her apartment. She was hoping for a little peace and quiet, but as she walked out of the elevator and down the hall, her phone rang again.