Page 50 of A Storybook Wedding

None of this is real, I promise myself.

I try like hell to believe it.

CHAPTER 8

Nate

Between our wedding day and the residency, things mostly go back to normal. All around me, it’s the busy holiday season. I continue drafting my new book. I had started writing a sequel to Work, discussing how the nature of work has evolved since the pandemic ended, but I found that—other than finally being able to find my voice—it wasn’t really going anywhere. But something happens at the end of November that gets me all stirred up, and the words can’t fly out of my fingers and onto my screen fast enough. It’s the story of a man who lets his professional success mute his ability to create success within his personal life until he meets a woman who he sees very much going down the same path. He can only recognize his own mistakes by watching her make them too. Essentially, it’s a story about the other struggles that have been magnified by the pandemic, mostly shining a light on our society’s inability to form meaningful connections with one another due to the way we view achievement and the rise in technology replacing physical interactions. The working title is Success. I don’t know for sure, but I feel a fire in the writing and an urgency in the words in a way that I haven’t felt since composing the early drafts of my debut.

I don’t see CJ again until the winter residency begins on December 27. We speak a lot over the course of the month, mostly via email and sometimes on the phone. Part of me wants to see her, but I don’t want to confuse or complicate things any more than they already are. I really enjoy her company, but I’m so excited about the fact that I’m writing again and that this new manuscript finally seems to have some direction, I’m a little afraid that if I pull away from my writing practice (which has become a seven-day-a-week scenario, at least for now), I will somehow jinx myself.

Anyway, she’s busy too. CJ works at the Forest Hills branch of the Queens Public Library, and this time of year evidently manifests itself in a variety of craft classes that she puts on for the children called “Snowflake Workshops.” Apparently, they used to be called “Santa’s Workshops,” but she changed it when she stepped into her current role because she wanted it to be more inclusive for the patrons and their children. They paint wooden dreidels while she reads a Hanukkah story. They make patchwork stockings out of old socks while she reads a Christmas story. They dip their own candles for the kinara while she reads a Kwanzaa story. The series keeps her busier than usual, and coupled with holiday shopping and preparing for her first winter residency, she explains that she doesn’t have time for much else.

She’s also been spending a lot of time researching literary agents and drafting query letters. She sent me her first one—it was all about New Year’s resolutions and was quite honestly one of the worst things I’ve ever read, so I’m trying to coach her away from making the mistake of putting too much of her personal self into the letters. I’ve been careful not to use words like desperate or pathetic in her critique, because hurting her feelings is not on my to-do list. But I would love to see her get an agent, which is why I don’t think this is the opening she should go with:

Dear ,

Some people think New Year’s resolutions are stupid. I don’t. In fact, every year, I try to make and keep reasonable, attainable resolutions. Unfortunately, like most of the world, life gets in the way, and by February, they are usually a thing of the past.

Not this year.

This year’s resolution is the culmination of a dream I have had since I was a child: to become a published author. There’s no guarantee that sending you this letter will get me there, but it’s a big step in that direction.

* * *

Wow…no. Just no. I gently explain that truly nobody gives a shit about her ability to make or keep resolutions and that she should really read several articles written in industry books that reference the idea of “the hook, the book, and the cook.” The hook is your pitch—your quick line or two that gets someone interested in learning more. The book is obviously where you roll out what could eventually become draft jacket copy, and the cook is a short bio.

Nowhere in that recipe does it call for one’s sad musings on New Year’s resolutions.

I also happen to know—since CJ is my wife and we have filled out forms to prove it—that her birthday is January 1. And not just any birthday either—her thirtieth. The last thing she needs is an inbox full of rejection as a birthday gift. I’ve seen her cry twice, and I swear, both times I felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest by a twisted, violent serial killer. I can’t stand by knowing she’s about to destroy all hope of literary representation with that sorry attempt at a query opening and not do something to prevent it.

Instead, I guide her through a variety of drafts. By Christmas Eve, we’ve gone through six different iterations. I almost suggest we get together so we can just bang it out (the letter—get your mind out of the gutter, please), but I know her family keeps her busy on holidays, and I don’t want to launch an inquisition among her parents and sisters. I mean, sure, we’re technically married, but not by the standards they’d want, and I figure we’ll see each other in a few days anyway on the island.

By the time we end up with something much more respectable and professional, it’s December 26. In the wee hours of the morning that follow, I’m not surprised that when I knock on the door to CJ’s apartment, she’s clutching Jeff Herman’s Guide to Book Publishers, Editors, and Literary Agents with Post-it notes sticking out of it in four thousand different directions with a determined look on her face.

I’m not sure why, but my throat gets tight when I see her standing there. She’s wearing black leggings, UGG boots, and a cable-knit gray sweater. She looks like a snuggly bubble of hope dressed up as a fuzzy winter owl—because always, the glasses.

“Hey,” I say. “It’s five a.m. You’re reading?”

“No, silly. I’m packing it. And hi! It’s so good to see you!” she exclaims. She throws her arms around my neck and hugs me.

I’d like to reciprocate—her hair smells like coconut and sunshine—but my hands are full. When she releases me, we stand there awkwardly, me holding several bags and her with that book.

“Come in! Come in,” she says and ushers me inside. “I feel bad I didn’t just pick you up at the train. I didn’t expect you to be carrying so much stuff.”

“Well, this is actually for you,” I say, handing her a shiny red shopping bag. I drop the rest of my stuff on the ground by the front door and swing it shut.

“You got me a gift?”

“Yeah. For Christmas.”

“Really?” CJ’s eyes get wide. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

She grins, and it illuminates her whole face. She holds up a single hand. “Wait here,” she says and walks into the bedroom. She emerges with a small rectangular box wrapped in silver paper with green ribbon. She extends her hand to me. “For you.”

I take the box reflexively, trying not to notice the fact that I still feel like I can’t swallow. On the box, there’s a gift tag that reads For my husband in neat cursive scrawl with a smiley face beneath it.

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