Page 99 of Come Back to Bed
My aunt looks at me with an expression that I so rarely see in her or anyone’s face when they look at me: pity.
“No. I don’t. Now, I don’t know any details of why you two aren’t together anymore, because Bernadette is nothing if not discreet. But she did say that she’s unclear as to where things stand with the two of you. I know you’re not exactly a spoiled golden boy, Matt. You work hard, you’re a good guy, but you haven’t really had to fight for anything in your life. If you want to make it work with Bernadette, you’re going to have to fight for this one.”
It’s possible, very possible, that my aunt understands me better than my parents do.
“Way ahead of you, Aunt Dolly.”
“Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge on a Saturday is a nice gesture, but that’s not going to cut it.”
“I’ll cross all the bridges for her.”
She smiles, her lips pursed. “That’s the cheesiest thing I ever want to hear you say, but good for you.”
“Can you look after Daisy for one night?”
“It would be my great honor.”
“Okay. I’ll bring her back here, on my way to the airport.”
“You think she went to the farm?”
“I’m sure of it.” I’m up and nearly out the door when I remember to say: “Oh hey, and thanks. For introducing us.”
“It’s my pleasure. Thanks for buying new sheets for the guest bed.” She winks.
That’s my cue to leave.
* * *
For a guy who spent most of his New York life sticking to the lower half of Manhattan up until a few months ago, I think I deserve some kind of romantic medal for going back and forth between Brooklyn and the Upper West Side twice in one morning and then to LaGuardia for an afternoon flight.
I can’t believe I’m rushing to the airport, like the end of a fucking movie that I’d never watch, but I swear all I can hear is cheesy music swelling in my ears, and all I can see is a montage of all my favorite moments with Bernadette. There are a lot of them. And not all of them are naked, either.
It takes less than two hours to fly into Burlington, Vermont, but it feels like two years. When we land, I turn on my phone as soon as I can, but there’s still no message from Bernadette. I know in my soul that she’s at her parents’ farm, and I know they get shitty cell phone reception there, and I know in my heart that she’s probably in some barn painting something amazing and I just need to get to her.
I panic when I get into the cab, because I don’t know where to tell the driver to go. I don’t even have the number for her parents’ landline. I could call my aunt to see if she has it, but even if she did there’s no guarantee that anyone would answer.
“Do you know where Good Culture farm is?” I ask the driver, because I might as well ask.
“No,” he says. “Do you?” He doesn’t offer to look it up. He must be from New York.
Then I remember that I put the farm’s address into my Waze app when we drove there. The driver tells me he can’t drive that far out of the city, and that’s when I know for sure that he’s from New York. So I have to get back out, go back into the airport, and rent a fucking car.
I remember the cell phone reception got really spotty as we got nearer to her parents’ place, so I expect to lose the signal every now and then, and I also recall that every damn country road that led off of the main one we took to the farm looked the same to me, but I’m prepared to drive down every one of them until I find her.
In Vermont, in Manhattan or Brooklyn—all roads lead to Bernadette.
