The Year We Turned Forty (22 page)

“I think I do.”

“You have no idea how hard it is to raise a child alone.”

“Oh really? It's pretty much all you've talked about since we got here. Your problems with Emily.”

“Right. Because parenting is hard, it's really fucking hard. For one person or two. You have a rock-solid marriage, Gabs. Why would you trade that for a baby that doesn't even exist?”

“Because maybe I've changed. And if you can't understand that, then maybe you have too.”

“If that's true, then I'm not sure it's for the better. For either of us,” Claire said coolly before scooping up her purse and heading to the room, leaving Gabriela sitting in stunned silence.

•  •  •

Gabriela pushed the button for the fourteenth floor of her publisher's office the next morning and fingered her
abuela
's
necklace. As the elevator ascended, she clutched her laptop bag, wishing she could magically make the manuscript she was supposed to write appear. Last night, she'd deliberately waited an hour before heading up to the hotel room, when she knew Claire would be asleep. And when she woke up this morning, Claire was already gone, a note on the nightstand saying she was sightseeing and would be back in time to get a cab to the airport. She hadn't wanted to face her anyway, to think about the things she'd said to Claire, to consider she might have been wrong. To accept that she was lashing out at her even though it was Colin who'd disappointed her. And her body—it had always been a pillar of health, pushing through the wall she hit at mile twenty-one during her first marathon. Even as her lungs expanded as she heaved, her legs feeling like dead weight, she still was able to will herself to the finish line. But now her body had betrayed her in this last stretch, and her personal finish line was starting to look further away than ever. So, yes, she was angry with Colin. But she was also pretty damn pissed off at herself.

She'd sat up in bed until 2 a.m. with her computer on her lap, willing the words to flow from her as effortlessly as they had the first time she'd been forty. She'd never struggled with writer's block, her characters always leaping onto the pages and almost writing themselves, often taking her in a direction that was better than the one she'd plotted.

But this time, writing felt like trying to run while waist deep in the ocean—
impossible
. And even after struggling to come up with the ten thousand words she had, she knew her pages were amateurish at best, coming off exactly as she'd feared, like she was trying to copy herself. But she obviously couldn't tell Sheila the truth—that she must have lost her talent while traveling through time.
Now
that
would make a good book
, she thought.
Not that she could write it. Or if she was being completely honest, had the desire to write it. Because she was starting to realize that perhaps she no longer wanted to be a bestselling author. While she'd enjoyed telling stories that resonated with people, she'd always hated the rest of it. The pressure of meeting deadlines, the stress of pleasing her editor, the lack of control over her creativity. She hadn't been able to articulate it when she was in the thick of it. But now, with some distance and perspective, she understood. Aside from her readers, the only thing she liked about being an author was the actual writing. And for some reason, the universe had decided to take that ability away from her too.

“Gabriela!” Sheila exclaimed, hurrying around her desk and hugging her tightly. Gabriela inhaled her Chanel perfume, the smell instantly taking her back to the countless lunches they'd shared, parties they'd attended. She'd always considered Sheila one of her closest friends, but today she felt distant, like an old acquaintance she hadn't seen for ages. It felt like another life, someone else's life. And maybe it was.

“Hi, Sheila. You look great!” Gabriela said, regarding her toned arms in her sleeveless shift dress, her glowing complexion.

“Thanks. It's Pilates! It's becoming really popular out here. Is it big in LA too?” Sheila said. And Gabriela noticed immediately that she didn't return the compliment. But she didn't blame her, she knew she looked tired, bloated, miserable.

“How's Colin?”

“He's great, thanks.” Gabriela thought about the dozen or so calls from him she'd ignored since she'd hung up on him last night. “How's Jim? The kids?” Gabriela glanced at a framed picture of Sheila and her family at the beach—their last Christmas card photo. Gabriela remembered how she'd tacked it up on the
corkboard in her kitchen alongside all the others, never feeling a pang in her gut as she studied the grins of the children. Now she could barely look at it.

“They're doing well! Can I get you a bottle of water?”

“Sure,” Gabriela said as she took in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the wall of Sheila's office, filled with the many novels and memoirs she'd edited, some of which hadn't been published yet. Gabriela fingered the spines of several, finally resting on her debut,
The Life Not Taken,
a book she'd written just after graduating from college, about a woman who discovers her mother has been leading a double life. She'd completed the first draft in just three months, but then worried it wasn't right, spending the next several years writing and rewriting it at night and on the weekends, while working her day job at an independent bookstore, until she'd finally been ready to find an agent. Hands shaking, she'd mailed her query letter to her dream agent, Angelina Cross, on a Friday afternoon, with Colin gently warning her she might not hear anything—he'd had a friend who'd queried fifty agents and never gotten a single response—but one week later, Angelina had called to request the full manuscript and asked to represent her after reading it.

“Your first book, still my favorite,” Sheila said, clutching two bottles of Evian.

“You say that to all your authors.” Gabriela smiled, turning the novel over in her hand and examining her image on the back. She remembered that shot. Colin had taken it in their backyard. The wind had blown her thick hair just so and the light had been beautiful. They'd laughed when the finished copies showed up on their doorstep and Colin was given the photo credit, because he'd never taken a decent picture before that, usually shaking the camera so a photo ended up blurry. She recalled holding her
novel for the first time in her living room, beaming, and she'd began cradling the tome like an infant. “My book baby,” she'd said with a giggle. “I'll only birth from here,” she'd pointed at her head. “Not here,” she'd added, gesturing at her abdomen, pretending not to notice that Colin wasn't laughing with her.

“No! It really is your best,” Sheila said, interrupting her thoughts. “You had such raw talent.” Sheila paused when she caught Gabriela's frown. “Not that you don't still have it!”

The room fell silent, Sheila shifting her weight awkwardly. “Sit, please!” she finally said as she settled into a sleek leather chair.

Gabriela sank into a plush sofa across from Sheila, her first novel now resting in her lap. She stared at the cover, pale blue with a distant image of a woman standing at a fork in the road, remembering her reaction when she'd first seen it. She'd closed her eyes and said a silent prayer that she'd like it before ripping open the envelope Sheila had sent with a picture of the cover inside. She'd finally opened just one eye and squealed with excitement. She'd been so invested back then, in all the parts of publishing, emailing her agent and Sheila constantly with ideas, from publicity to sales and marketing. What had happened to that earnest young author?

“So, Gabriela, I wanted you to come to New York so we could talk in person. The way we used to.” Sheila took a breath and Gabriela remembered back to the beginning of their relationship, when she'd call Sheila about a book idea she was trying to flesh out and they'd end up gossiping for hours like a couple of schoolgirls. “I feel like things have been different between us in the last six months. I can't explain it exactly, and maybe it's all in my imagination, but I've felt a shift in our friendship, in our working relationship, and I'm wondering if that has something to
do with why your pages aren't ready. Did I do something? Was it our last phone call? I didn't mean to come down on you so hard about missing your last deadline.”

“You were just doing your job!” Gabriela tried to sit up, but sank back into the couch. “You've been great. You've always been great. It's not you, it's me.”

“You sound like you're breaking up with me.” Sheila let out a nervous laugh.

“No!” Gabriela smiled. “But isn't that what
you're
doing? Aren't I here so you can tell me in person that the publisher is dropping me?”

“Not at all,” Sheila said, and Gabriela felt herself exhale in relief. Maybe she wasn't ready to give this up after all. Maybe she was still that hungry writer with the raw talent who'd simply been distracted by trying to have a baby, and if she stopped stressing so much, she would regain her writing mojo.

Sheila shifted in her chair. “You mentioned you've been trying for a baby. How's that going?”

“Unfortunately, not very well,” Gabriela said with a sad smile.

“Do you think that's distracted you a bit?” Sheila asked gently.

Gabriela put her hand over her abdomen, her eyes welling with tears as she tried to formulate a response.

“Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. I've probably violated dozens of HR policies.” Sheila pulled a tissue from a box on the table next to her and handed it to Gabriela.

“It's okay, we're friends too. And you have a right to ask.” Gabriela wiped under her eyes.

“I'm here for you if you need anything.”

“I know you are,” Gabriela said. “And I'd be lying if I told you it hasn't been a distraction. But I promise, moving forward, it won't be.”

“This explains a lot. Because the first chapter you sent me just seven months ago was brilliant, like the beginning of a book that would get you number one on the list and, please don't take this the wrong way, but what you've sent me since reads like someone else wrote it. It's not your voice at all.”

“I know,” Gabriela said solemnly, removing her debut novel from her lap and noticing a coffee stain on her skirt from when she bobbled her coffee as she crossed the street earlier.

“What can I do?” Sheila asked.

“Give me some more time?” Gabriela said, praying Sheila could actually grant this request.

“So here's the deal. I've already talked to the publisher and I can give you an additional six months, but not a day more. The manuscript would be due on June 11, and hopefully it won't require major edits or we might have to push the pub date. I've already told Angelina and she agreed.”

June 11
. Gabriela almost laughed out loud. What were the odds? That's Claire's birthday. The day they were supposed to decide whether to return home or stay here.
Of course.

“Why are you frowning? I thought this would be good news. Do you need even more time?” Sheila smiled, but her eyes pleaded with Gabriela to say no.

“I'm sorry. Thank you so much for the extension. That's plenty of time.”

“You're welcome,” Sheila said. “Now that you have extra time, I'm counting on you to write me the bestseller I know you have in you. Don't let me down!”

Gabriela's heart started to pound. Could she write a bestseller and get pregnant in just six months? This was her one chance to have a baby. If she returned back home, she'd be fifty again and her fertility would be nonexistent. But this was also
her one chance to write
the
bestseller,
the
book that would catapult her into another stratosphere of authors. So the question was, which version of her life did she want more? Because she was quickly realizing it may be impossible to have both—which meant at some point she'd have to choose.

Jessie lay in child's pose on her mat, fiercely willing her body to give in to relaxation, jealous of the peaceful looks and spaghetti-like limbs of the other people in the class. She breathed deeply and attempted to let in the light the way the instructor had directed, but each time she tried to imagine a blank space where her thoughts lived, fear and anxiety, not to mention her huge to-do list, seemed unwilling to vacate.

Claire had suggested yoga. They were supposed to meet here every Tuesday and Thursday at 8 a.m., but Claire had made it only once, the rest of the times canceling at the last minute, blaming her clients, her mom, her issues with Emily, and most recently, her trip to New York with Gabriela. But Jessie had seen Claire's face during that first class, grimacing while trying to hold her body in a tree pose, and she'd realized then that Claire had just wanted to get Jessie there, never intending to follow through and become a yogi herself. Jessie should have known. Claire had never been one to work out. Her idea of breaking a sweat was having a heated negotiation with another Realtor. But she'd
appreciated her friend more than ever since then, realizing that sometimes someone who loves you knows you better than you know yourself.

Jessie had found it almost impossible to stay present the first time she'd been forty, so she was even more determined to find her inner Zen this time around. Before the affair, when she'd felt the small fissures in her marriage turn into a gaping crevice that Peter had slipped through, she would barely notice life happening right in front of her. She would daydream while Morgan and Madison shouted her name as they climbed across the monkey bars. She and Grant talked, but it never felt like they were
listening
to each other.

Sure, she was
living
, waking up and smiling and even enjoying things. But somewhere along the way she'd started to feel like her best moments were behind her. She missed when Grant's bourbon-laced kisses felt naughty instead of sloppy, when she felt like there were still stories he hadn't told her yet, when their flaws were endearing to each other rather than grating.