Page 39 of Happy After All

I want to know. I don’t talk to other writers in person that much. It’s funny to me that of all the people I interact with regularly, I have a very big thing in common with him.

A new book? An unexpected deadline? Maybe an unexpected rewrite, which I’ve definitely had before. But it’s not like he couldn’t work on that somewhere else. Yet again, I’m perplexed by the mystery of him being here.

Honestly, he is to Rancho Encanto and the Pink Flamingo as he is to me in general. He’s here talking to me; he doesn’t have to be talking to me. He doesn’t have to be here at all. He acts resentful about it, but there’s clearly a reason.

I want to crack him open. I want to look inside his head.

I want to treat him like one of my fictional characters. I’m not sure I know enough about him to even do that.

I need his inciting incident. The thing that made him the way he is.

I have an author bio. That’s it.

“Well, I’m glad that you ...” I trail off. He’s told me he didn’t choose the motel. So maybe it’s not the best thing to thank him for coming again.

I know, because it’s in his bio, that he lives in Washington. On Bainbridge Island, actually. It’s one of the things about him that has always struck me as extra strange. He comes to a place that is practically on fire during the summer, from the very rainy Pacific Northwest, and I would imagine someone like him doesn’t especially care for the heat. That it would make more sense to come this time of year routinely. Getting a reprieve from dreary wet.

I can’t imagine living in weather like that all the time. I don’t mind a rainstorm, but without the sun, I think I would perish.

“How is ... I don’t know the older lady’s name. The one who fainted during the fire.”

“Oh,” I say. “Gladys. She’s doing great. She ... she’s good.”

“Glad to hear it.”

I decide maybe the weather and the Pacific Northwest might pass for neutral subjects. “So how is Washington?” I ask.

I can feel him looking at me and not looking ahead at where he’s going.

“Beautiful,” he says. “Particularly if you like rain, and the color green.”

“I assume that you do?”

“Yes,” he says slowly. “Generally.”

“I’m from Bakersfield,” I say. “I’m not sure if you’re familiar.”

“I pass through Bakersfield on my way here. It’s where I cut over.”

I map it out in my head. I’ve never been as far north as Washington. I’ve been to Portland, but only a couple of times, and it’s been years. Still, I’m familiar with the long, desolate drive up I-5. So I know exactlywhat he’s talking about. He takes the straight route on the interstate and goes east once he arrives in Bakersfield.

“You don’t stay there, do you?” I ask.

“I have,” he says.

“Well, my deep apologies. You know what they say about Bakersfield, right?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t say that I do.”

“The only time I want to see it is in my rearview mirror.” He doesn’t laugh. I clear my throat. “Anyway. There’s a reason I left.”

I’m okay talking about Bakersfield. I don’t want to think about LA. Bakersfield is fine. Those are old wounds; they don’t really hurt anymore.

“You weren’t a fan?”

I’m surprised he’s continuing this conversation. Maybe it’s because it would be awkward otherwise. He can’t exactly go sprinting up the sidewalk to get away from me. We’re headed to the same location.

“It’s really hard to say if I dislike Bakersfield or if I needed to get away from my mother.”

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