Page 26 of It's a Love Story

Dan is just across from me, an arm’s length away in the bottom bunk. He’s on his back, still in the white T-shirt he traveled in. He looks younger when he sleeps, and his face is monochrome without the flash of his blue eyes. His black eyebrows look penciled in, like he’s an ink drawing. The straight line of his nose makes me think of the statue of David. His lips are at rest; they’re not preparing to debate me. They’re just resting there, soft. He turns toward me, and the thing I want more than anything is to not be caught staring at him while he sleeps. I slam my eyes shut and count to thirty. Then I stretch a little in my sleep and make a big show of just having awakened. It’s a waste of perfectly good acting because he’s still sound asleep.

I will the bed not to creak and beg my body to be light as I peel off my covers, stand, and grab my suitcase. I cannot risk the sound of a zipper unzipping in this tiny space, so I take my whole suitcase into the bathroom with me. When my teeth are brushed, I rinse with a tiny, silent stream of water and get dressed. Unfortunately, the toilet has to be flushed, and the sound roars throughout the house.She’s up! She’s peed!the toilet screams.

I carry my running shoes as I tiptoe by the kitchen to the front door.

“Coffee?” Cormack is at the kitchen table with theNew York Postand a big mug.

“Good morning. No, thank you. I’m going to go for a quick run first.”

“Where?”

It’s a great question. I’m not really sure where I am. “Maybe I’ll run twenty minutes in one direction and then turn around.”

Cormack tears off a corner of the newspaper and scribbles something on it. “That sounds like a terrible plan. Call me if you get lost.” He holds out the paper to me without getting up. He’s written “Dad” and his phone number. Maybe it’s because I’ve just woken up and I’m still tangentially close to that dreamlike state where anything is possible, maybe it’s because I am on the hell path of memory lane and I’ve been transformed back into Janey Jakes, but looking at that word makes my throat burn with prickly tears. It’s a noun that’s magically transformed into a name just by capitalizing the first letter, like “dawn” or “rose.” It’s a name that could have been on the bottom of so many birthday cards but wasn’t. I tuck it into the back of my phone case, and leave without saying anything.

It’s a cool morning and perfectly quiet. I normally run to the melody of the cars on San Vicente Boulevard, but here I don’t hear anything. Potatoes grow in complete silence. I run alongside a mile of fields until I get to the left turn that takes me to town. On Main Street I start to smell the salt in the air. There’s a faint crunch of sand on the sidewalk as I run, left by yesterday’s kids coming straight from the beach for ice cream. It’s hard to imagine this town overrun for a week with concertgoers and rock stars. I pass a gift shop called Sundries with a rainbow of Oak Shore T-shirts in the window.

When I’ve reached the edge of town, houses line the road, and beyond them is the ocean. The sun is low still, dappling pink light on the water. I turn around at the end of a big park and head back to town. Chippy’s Diner is the only place open. I order a black coffee to go, and the man behind the counter asks me if that will be all. Without thinking, I take the little scrap of paper out of my phone case and text Cormack: It’s Jane. I’m at Chippy’s, want anything?

Cormack: Yes! Can you get me a blueberry muffin? The kind without the flaxseeds and stuff

I ask for six of them, and while I wait, I add Cormack to my contacts. Where it says name, I type: Dad. I don’t know why I do this, though I do know why.

*

CORMACK’S SITTING OUTon the patio with a little blackhaired girl, maybe six, at his feet. She’s Aidan’s, I think. I stop before I get to them because the view has changed. Instead of the old shed blocking the rows of bushes, there’s an arbor covered in ivy that perfectly frames a bit of the potato field. It’s the thing you’d stand under to recite your wedding vows. The lines of crops converge in the distance, brown stripes of dirt alternating with green rows of bushes.

“What is this?” I ask, handing him the bag of muffins.

“It’s art or some nonsense,” he says and hands one to the little girl. “Top secret,” he tells her. There’s steam coming out of the bag, and he lets it touch every part of his face. He smiles at me. “Thank you.”

I take a muffin and settle in next to him. “Hi,” I say to the little girl. She’s arranging pebbles on the deck.

“I’m Ruby,” she says and looks up at me with Dan’s eyes. It’s astounding, the resemblance, and also her mass of loose black curls.

“I’m Jane,” I say.

“I know,” she says and goes back to work.

“Aidan’s,” Cormack says. “The rest of them will swarm this place soon. They’ve all taken some time off this week. I don’t know why. It’s August, not Christmas.”

“Where did this arbor come from?” I ask him. “Wasn’t there an old shed there?”

“It’s Danny. An old project of his. You know he’s a little . . .” He moves his hand like he means Dan’s so-so. “It wasn’t a shed. It’s the frame of their old swing set. When he was about thirteen, he moved it to that spot, removed the swings, and then trained all that ivy crap to grow up the sides.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“I suppose,” he says. “He comes home and trims it, and then he takes pictures and stares at them like the potatoes are Greta Garbo.”

I laugh.

“It is nice to have Dan back,” Cormack says. I feel that old ache for that simple thing—a dad who would be happy to see me.

“It must be hard having a child live so far away.”

“Well, yes, I guess. We always thought he’d come home, get a real job.”

“In LA, working in movies is a pretty real job.”

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