Page 43 of Same Time Next Summer

“You could use a glue gun every day of your life.”

I laugh. “Exactly. That’s exactly what I want to do.”

Jack reaches for my hand, and as dumb as that confession is, I feel heard. And if Jack thinks it makes sense, maybe it’s possible.

“But you’re an HR consultant. It’s your whole résumé. So you’ve just got to make the best of that.”

I’m quiet for the next thirty minutes, and as we head through the tunnel, I start to feel afraid. I’ve reconnected with Wyatt and we’ve said goodbye. I feel a dread that reminds me of the drive back to the city after Wyatt and I said goodbye on the beach, my mother seething. I have an irrational premonition that I will be abandoned and stop sleeping again. And Gracie’s not coming back for a month.

I text Travis: I know you knew about Wyatt. It’s unbelievable that you didn’t tell me. We can fight about this later, but give me his number.

Travis: I figured if it mattered to you you’d google him

Me: Who fucking googles people

Travis: Everyone Sam

He sends it, and I text Wyatt: It’s Sam. Travis gave me your number. Just wanted to say goodbye again. And wow. Also congratulations.

Wyatt: Ha, thanks. I’m headed back to LA tomorrow

Me: So can we be in touch? Like say happy birthday and send funny internet stuff?

Wyatt: Like cat videos?

I’m smiling at my phone and I check to make sure Jack isn’t looking at me. He’s not.

Me: Yeah, like that

46

I wake up on Monday morning in our bed on Sixty-Third Street. It’s six, and I don’t need to be anywhere until ten, but I get up anyway to have coffee and gather my thoughts. I close the door to our room quietly so as not to wake Jack. His first patient is at nine, I think he said. But first, it’s push day. Or leg day. I forget.

I walk through our living area into the kitchen, and it’s all a little stark after having been at my parents’ house. “Clean lines” is what Jack said on repeat as we were looking to furnish this place. It’s pretty, but it’s a little ungrounding. I think of how Granny compared it to a prison. All this gray and white and chrome makes me wish there was something red to rest my eye on. It doesn’t help that we are on the fourteenth floor, which everyone knows is really the thirteenth floor. We are high up enough that the cars down below seem like toys. I sometimes feel like I’m floating, like I’m inside someone’s thought bubble.

I make my coffee and sit at the counter with my phone. I email my dad and ask if I can see photos of sketches fromhis new horizon series. This is pushy and presumptuous, as it’s possible he still hasn’t put anything on paper, but I do it anyway. I can’t remember the last time I asked my dad about his work, but I feel a little opening between us.

I check to see if I’ve missed a text from Wyatt, which is dumb. We just agreed to stay loosely in touch. No one sends daily cat videos.

Jack comes out of the bedroom dressed for the gym. “Man, it feels good to be home.”

“You said that yesterday,” I say.

“Well, it still does. Everything’s so damp at the beach.” He stops to kiss me on the forehead before mixing his pre-workout drink. He doesn’t have coffee because that pre-workout drink has as much caffeine as six cups, a thought that makes me slightly nauseated.

“I’m trying to figure out what to wear to my meeting this morning. Do I go casual because it’s summer or do I dress up to be appropriate for the gravity of the situation?”

“The decision’s been made; you could go in your pajamas if you want.”

He’s right, of course. Eleanor isn’t inviting me in to negotiate. Jack’s grabbing his gym bag and heading to the door. “I guess I’ll call you after?” I say.

“Yes, sorry.” Remembering himself, Jack comes back to give me a hug. “It’ll be fine. There’s tons of HR in the city.” He pulls away and gives me a smile. “You’ll be back to whipping people into shape in no time.”

He leaves, and the words “whipping people into shape” hang in the air. I’ve never really thought of my job that way. I like to think I’m setting the rules for a game they canwin, using data to keep score. I smile, remembering the moment everyone in the flash mob finally got the steps right. They were so excited about it, and I admit it was a little infectious.

I’m humming “Dancing Queen” as I refill my coffee and get back in bed. I have half an hour before I need to get in the shower and put on whatever one wears to get fired. I scroll through my phone. Emails from companies who think I should buy more sweaters. Ninety-six people liked my Instagram post of the Old Sloop Inn lit up at night. “Possible wedding venue,” I said. I took that photo right before we walked into the restaurant. Wyatt must have been parking his car then, knowing full well that our dinner was being made possible by his celebrity.

I’m having a hard time knowing what is real. I survived losing Wyatt by believing that he was an addiction, that I was just boy crazy. But he wrote all those songs, with so many details of our relationship. He remembers it as clearly as I do. I need to look away from the possibility that what we had was real, because it could undo me. All of that laughing and touching is exactly the kind of freedom you’d feel if you threw yourself off a cliff. I don’t want to be broken again.

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