Page 45 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

Ted’s smile slips off his face and hardens, sharpening into something else. “A writing retreat?” There’s something ugly in his voice now, something that makes my stomach tighten.

“Um, yeah. Sorry, I didn’t have a chance to tell you last night. But it’s a really good opportunity for me—it’ll allow me to get to know other writers who are at the top of their game.” I’m rambling and he’s going to know something’s going on.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Only two nights.”

“But we’re supposed to go back to the Bay Area tomorrow.” I wish he’d stop walking toward me. He stops short of being within touching distance, and all of my instincts are alert, on standby. “And how much is this going to cost?” And just like that, The Sigh comes out, long and slow. “Look, sweetie, I know how exciting it must be to be sent to your first ever convention. I mean, I agree it’s a huge change of pace from what we’re used to, but we can’t afford to get swept up in all this hobby of yours.”

“Hobby?”

He must have detected the dangerous tone in my voice because he stiffens and straightens up. “I didn’t mean to say hobby. Sorry, it’s obviously more serious than a hobby, but like—” The Sigh again, this time a quick one. “It’s not really a job, is it? It’s not like it’s earning much money at all, and I have faith that you’ll earn more, with time,” he adds quickly, “but I just don’t think that now’s the time to be splurging on things like a fancy retreat in the Hamptons. I mean, Christ, Jane, it’s probably going to cost like a grand or something. We can’t justify it!”

I hate him. I despise him, this small man who’s trying to make me smaller so I can fit him, so I won’t ever outgrow him.“Well,” I say, getting up and walking away from him, “that’s fine, because this is being paid for by Harvest Publishing. I guess unlike you, they see my potential and think it’s worth investing in me.” The lie burns coming out, sizzling in the air with its falsehood. I don’t see how anyone could possibly believe this; it’s just so far-fetched. I’ve never even heard of publishers sending their authors on writing retreats, unless maybe said author is of Stephen King status. A small part of me wants him to call me out on it so that we can spiral into a proper fight, finally, one where I unleash all of my fury on him, breakable objects whizzing through the air and shattering against the walls.

Instead, there is a long silence, during which I busy myself packing and refusing to look him in the eye.

“They’re paying for it?” he says finally. “Is this a retreat organized by them?”

I don’t have a moment to consider what would be the most believable answer, so I just say, “Yes.”

“Huh.” Silence again. I stuff more clothes into my bag. “So I’ll just... wait here for you then?”

“If you want. Or you could go back to the Bay Area first and I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

“Oh.” It comes out so small and so sad that before I can stop myself, I look at him. He looks even smaller than before, all of the bluster gone, leaving just my husband behind, old and saggy and sad.

“Ted,” I sigh.

“No, it’s fine. This is really good. I’m happy for you; you deserve it.” He turns away from me and looks out the window. “Yeah, I’ll just... yeah, you’re right, I’ll fly back myself. I’ve got a ton of work to do anyway. So. Yeah.”

“Great.”

“Yep.”

I wonder, fleetingly, if this is the end of my marriage. The thought is a surprisingly painful one, though as soon as Thalia texts to let me know she’s here, the pain disappears, fading like the San Franciscan fog in sunlight.

I’m in a dream. This can’t be real, this can’t be my life. I’m not really here, in Thalia’s convertible, driving out of Manhattan toward the Hamptons. The entire drive there, we glance at each other and grin like,holy shit, can you believe that we’re finally reunited after all this time?And we’ve shed our baggage, left both our husbands behind in the city while we drive out into the sunlight and ocean breeze. We talk about nothing and everything. Books, agents, things about publishing that I have never discussed with anyone because no one in my life is that interested in the nitty-gritty details, and I’m not big into the book community, which consists of people who are too cheerful and too wired for my liking.

Before I know it, we’re entering into the driveway of an incredible property. How incredible? Well, so amazing that it has its own name: Graystone House. The name is displayed proudly on a bronze plaque at the gate.

“Isn’t it crazy?” Thalia says as the wrought iron gate swings open. “Six bedrooms, plus a guesthouse. There’s even a heated pool and a Jacuzzi. We went all out for this retreat.” She drives slowly up the driveway and stops a little ways from the front door. “Hey, so.”

Something in the tone of her voice leeches the easygoing mood from the air. I turn to face her.

“I haven’t told the others that you’re coming yet. I’m kind ofwaiting for the right moment. You know how writers can be so precious about their retreats,” she says with a roll of the eyes, followed by a smile.

A knot tightens in my stomach. “But—” I don’t even know where to begin. They don’t know I’m here? Me, someone who’s already an outsider, is now about to show up unannounced? This feels bad. The kind of thing that makes me want to burrow into a deep, dark hole and never come out again.

“Don’t worry about it!” Thalia says. “Look at me, Jane.”

I do so, and am lost in those deep brown eyes of hers.

“They’re going to love you,” she says. “But maybe give me like ten minutes to prep them before coming inside?”

If it were anyone but Thalia telling me this, I would not be okay. I would beg them to let me drive the car out of here. And if they didn’t agree, I would run all the way back to the city. Okay, I wouldn’t actually run, but really, all of my insides are shriveling up and I just want to hide away. But then it strikes me that all my life, I’ve just wanted to hide from everything, and I can’t do that now, not when it’s taken so long to find Thalia and she’s invited me to, of all things, a writers retreat! Who gives a fuck about all these other writers, right? I’m not here for them; I’m here for Thalia. For my own writing. I’m here to soak up her presence and everything she can teach me about writing, and it’s obvious she has a lot of knowledge to impart.

I nod and watch as she gets out of the car and takes her bags from the trunk. She waves at me through the window with what I think is supposed to be a reassuring smile, then she walks up the steps and through the front door and is swallowed up by the house.

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