Page 1 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
Chapter 1
I was a real-life Gollum. You know the meme, right? Gollum darting out of his cave to retrieve his packages? That was me. I got a little too comfortable in my work-from-home lifestyle—undoubtedly a shock for anyone who knew me before—and online shopping became my main joy in life. My cozy apartment progressively got cozier with my online shopping addiction. West Elm, Pottery Barn, Anthropologie. The packages piled up, each one a little dopamine hit. I lived in a safe cocoon full of scented candles, chunky throw blankets, and Netflix binges. (So many Netflix binges—one might say I became more Claire Fraser than Mallory Rosen.) But I’m far from the Scottish Highlands now. And I’m far from my Seattle apartment. In fact, I’m the farthest from home I’ve been in over two years, surrounded by more people than I’ve seen in just as long.
I’m in a beachside hotel on the Gulf Coast of Florida, sitting on the bed to apply my makeup as my twenty-year-old cousin sobs in the shower. She’s been in there for forty-five minutes.
It’s weird being here, and not just because I’m so far from home. It’s my family. I haven’t spent this much time with my aunts and uncles and cousins in years. The last time I was with them, I was twenty-four. My post-college plans hadn’t exactly panned out the way I’d dreamed they would, but I made the best of my remote, entry-level tech job by traveling as often as possible. I was suntanned,arms stacked with leather bracelets from my travels, casually referencing places I’d recently been, like Koh Lanta, Oaxaca, and Rome. The difference between the Mallory back then and the Mallory of today is, apparently, noteworthy, based on the not-so-veiled comments I’ve received so far. My uncle Ron, at least, seems to find it hilarious (“Guess you don’t see much of the sun anymore up there in Seattle! You’re like a vampire now!”).
I’ve laughed off their comments, because, honestly, I’m comfortable with who I am now. When I think of the Mallory who took advantage of her remote job, toting her laptop around the world, stubbornly ignoring the risks she was taking until it was too late… Well, the point is that I enjoy being a homebody now, and I don’t need to travel to far-flung locales to find joy in life.
I squint at my reflection and dust some bronzer onto my cheeks (maybe Ron’s vampire comment did get to me) as my sister Maeve knocks on the door of our room. She’s staying down the hall with her husband and their baby.
“Are you guys ready?” Maeve asks. I nod my head toward the bathroom, where the shower finally turns off. A wail emanates from behind the closed door. Maeve gives me a look of mild surprise. “Guess that’s a no.”
My sister raises a tentative hand, poised to knock on the door, when it opens. Maeve takes a hasty step back from the onslaught of steam.
“Aren’t you guys evensad?” Ellie clutches a towel around her body and glares at us with mascara running down her cheeks. “Lottie isdead.”
I flinch. Maeve places a protective hand on my shoulder. Our grandmother—who insisted that we all call her Lottie—died two weeks ago. I’m stung by the question. And by the presumption. Do I have to sob in a hotel shower to prove that I’m sad?
“Of course we’re sad. And we better go. We’re supposed to be onthe boat in ten minutes.” I stand and smooth the black linen shift dress I’d borrowed from Maeve. It was a puzzle trying to decide what to wear to a Florida boat funeral in April. On one hand, I want to be respectful; on the other hand, it’s hot as balls. My online shopping hobby mostly runs toward furnishing my apartment; I never really buy clothes for myself. I mean, most people only see me from the shoulders up on Zoom. Luckily, my older sister has some fashion sense and a job where people have to see her in person, and she’s generous with her wardrobe.
Ellie runs a brush through her wet hair and raises an eyebrow at me as I give my lipstick a final touch-up.
“Who are you trying to impress?”
“Trying to look nice for… Lottie, I guess.” I’m not literally trying to impress my dead grandmother. But Lottie cared about appearances. She told me once that she liked to wear makeup because it was a reminder to herself, and to the world, that she was trying.
A memory swims to the surface of the last time I visited my grandparents, when Lottie asked me to do her makeup for her. The cancer was already taking its toll. I remember marveling at the deep creases and folds of her eyelids as I gently swiped on a dark-gold eye shadow.
“This is a pretty color,” I’d said, guessing that the palette was well over a decade old. “Maybe we can go shopping for new makeup together. That could be fun.”
She’d given a little smile and patted my hand. “Maybe next time, sweetheart. Maybe next time.”
There it was: the sadness. Less of a loud wail, more of a hard fist clenched in my chest. I let out a loud exhale and followed my sister and cousin to the elevator.
Outside the hotel, we find Maeve’s husband, Blake, sheltering in a thin strip of shade underneath an awning as though the sunny pavement is lava. He cradles baby Adam in a thin white blanket and keeps checking to make sure his face is covered by the brim of his baby sun hat. Maeve gives them each a peck on the side of the head.
“It’s too bright.” Blake holds a hand out in the sun and glances skeptically up at the blinding blue sky. A true Seattleite, my brother-in-law. “I don’t know. Should we put sunscreen on him? They say not until six months, but, I mean…”
Blake’s talking becomes background noise as we make our way across the marina. The walk over to the unmistakably loud group of people can’t be more than a hundred yards, but I’m covered in a sheen of sweat by the time I get there. The air is like hot clam chowder.
“Mallory, hi,” my aunt says with an exaggerated pout, drawing me in for a hug.
“Hi, Trish.” I rub her back in what I hope is a comforting way.
A man who I assume is the captain starts trying, gently, to herd us all onto his vessel. A few people—my dad, me, and my unfailingly polite Gen Z cousin Max—follow the captain’s orders.
Eventually, my great-aunt Lenore bellows at the top of her (sizable) lungs: “GILBERSTEINS! ALL ABOARD!” Within two minutes, everyone has taken a seat on the boat.
Mom settles in between Trish and Lenore. The three of them hug one another as the boat’s engine roars and we take off into the Gulf. My gaze slides past them to the tall, reedy man sitting with his arms crossed, his white hair blowing in the breeze. Gramps. He’s surrounded by family but looks impossibly alone. I swallow, feeling like maybe I should go talk to him. It’s just that he looks like he doesn’t want to be bothered.
I cross my own arms and look out toward the horizon. The boatis zipping along now, bumping gently over barely there waves. Now that we’re moving, the weather feels perfect. Warm sun, cloudless sky.
The buzz of my family’s chatter is rather pleasant when it’s not directed at me. My younger cousins are laughing together. My mom is murmuring with her sister, their curly heads bent together. Lenore has asked Maeve and Blake about the baby, and now Blake is expounding on the miracle of infant gas drops.
“He would be crying, and then we’d give him the drops and”—Blake snaps his fingers—“like that, happy again. We went through an entire bottle in—” I tune him out. I’ve heard this story before.
After ten minutes or so, the captain slows the boat to a stop and the chatter fades. Everyone looks around to see what’s supposed to happen next. We all stand and make our way to the front of the boat. Gramps walks unsteadily forward, clutching an urn that I realize with a lurch must be full of Lottie’s ashes. Suddenly, the mood feels unbearably miserable.
