Page 78 of Room for Us

“No,” I croak.

“There you have it. The only thing you have to do now is put one foot in front of the other. And make an appointment with my colleague.”

“Huh? For what?” Then I get it, and grumble out, “Therapy. Ugh.”

She laughs and points at my bowl. “Eat.”

I do.

A few bites in, I mumble, “He was here for two weeks. How is this possible?”

She knows what I’m asking.

“Two weeks of essentially quarantining together is a bit different than two weeks of dating, wouldn’t you say?”

“Mmph.”

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Be gentle with your heart, Zoey. Seems to me neither of you expected the connection that developed.”

“But he left. I rejected him and he left.”

She’s quiet for a few breaths. “Yes, he did.” Standing, she clears my empty bowl. “I’m going to start some laundry while you clean up in here.” Before she leaves the room, she pauses. “Ask yourself something, dear. Would he still be the man you care for if he’d stayed?”

Tears sting my eyes. “Dammit, Mom.”

“I love you. Now do the dishes.”

43

As much as I’d like it to be otherwise, there’s little as motivating, artistically speaking, as heartbreak. I consider myself a newly indoctrinated expert in this fact—case in point: I’ve never been heartbroken before, and I’ve never churned out a manuscript this fast in my life.

That’s not to say my life hasn’t had its share of ups and downs. I’ve grieved. I’ve languished in despair. Turned to alcohol and cigarettes to temper my existential dread. Used women for the same, and let myself be used in turn.

But I’ve never felt what I felt with Zoey. The inexplicable joy. The freedom. The sweetness of existing entirely in the present with someone, without the desire to be somewhere else. Nor have I had those delicate triumphs taken away with such finality.

That’s what she was—my freedom. I came to her wrapped in the chains of self-delusion and lifelong angst, and each day in her presence broke another of my bonds until, for the first time in my life, I felt free. Truly myself. Connected to life, my art. Connected to her and to my own heart. I felt seen. Known. Accepted.

I may be wrapped now in a different form of self-delusion, but I can’t believe the unlikely magic of us wasn’t as real for her as it was for me.

“Time for a break?” asks Janice.

Blinking at the unexpected voice of my kid’s mom, I look up to find her and Daphne in my office doorway. Before I can panic that I’ve missed something important in my daughter’s life, Janice shakes her head and laughs. Daphne, grinning, lopes into the room with two plastic takeout bags.

“Surprise visit! I told Mom you probably weren’t eating much. Since, you know, you fired your assistant, and we weren’t sure you even knew how to go to the grocery store.”

“Very funny.” I smirk, eyeing the bags. At the aroma of fresh, hot food, my stomach rumbles. When was the last time I ate?

“I hope you don’t mind,” Janice says, a bit hesitant as she enters the room.

She feels bad about the Britt fiasco. Like really bad. To the point where I’m a bit sick of her apologizing. She meant well. If Britt hadn’t showed up, would the Zoey-adventure have ended differently? Maybe. But probably not. The problem wasn’t Britt. It wasn’t even me, really, or Zoey herself.

The whole thing was just bad timing.

“I don’t mind at all,” I answer. “I’m starving, actually. I have one more thing to do, then I’ll meet you guys downstairs, okay?”

“See?” Daphne pokes her mother as they head for the door. “Told you he isn’t a Grinch anymore. Not since Idaho.”

I wait for them to leave, then return my focus to my laptop. I hit Send on the email to my agent informing him that the manuscript is finished. I don’t feel the intense rush I usually do. The feeling is deeper, soft and sweeping. More than any book before, this one leapt from my gut to the page. It’s raw, painful, heartbreaking. And ultimately—I hope—redeeming.

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