Page 19 of The Ghostwriter

We eat crusty French bread with giant plates of chicken parmesan. Jack and Matt banter in a way that includes rather than isolates, and I feel a warm glow pooling deep inside of me, human contact nourishing me more than the food. After the meal, Jack props his chin on his fist and says, “Tell me about the marriage.”

I laugh. “Craig. The infamous French downhill skier.”

“How did you meet him?” Matt asks.

“It’s not very interesting,” I warn. “My roommate in Paris was Craig’s sister’s best friend. He was handsome and reckless and the kind of guy any twenty-year-old would fall in love with.”

“What happened?” Jack asks.

I take a sip of wine, an expensive red Matt filched from the winery. “We were young,” I tell them.

“Nope, sorry,” Jack says, sitting back in his chair. “We need thereal story, not the sanitized version you’d tell my mom.” Matt nods in agreement.

“There really isn’t one,” I insist. “He traveled a lot. Partied a lot. Cheated a lot.” Jack winces and I hurry to explain. “Honestly, it was a marriage in name only. I stayed long enough to get French citizenship and then we went our separate ways.”

“A marriage of convenience,” Matt says.

I nod, but I can see understanding bloom on Jack’s face. What it might have meant to me, to shed my old name. My old identity. To return to the United States as someone new.

“So what brings you back to Ojai?” Matt asks.

“I’m here to help my dad,” I say. “He’s got Lewy body.”

Matt touches my hand. “Oh, that’s rough. I’m sure he’s glad you’re here.”

Jack nearly chokes on his wine, but Matt ignores him. “How long are you planning to stay?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Jack tells me you have a partner in Los Angeles?”

Cool air floats in through an open window, low music playing from hidden speakers, a full stomach and the buzz of alcohol making me feel relaxed. “His name is Tom. We met when he designed my writing studio.” Matt and Jack are quiet, and it feels good to talk about Tom. To bring him into this space with me. “We’ve been together a couple years, and it’s one of those relationships that just clicked, right from the beginning. He doesn’t mind my chaotic writing schedule, and I don’t mind when he becomes consumed with a new project.

“We have this way of always knowing where the other one is. Not just where in the world, but in our minds. Our hearts.” As I speak, I feel the widening distance between us. How much fear and pain I’m carrying, while he believes I’m somewhere simply working on a book.

I notice Jack and Matt share a quick glance and I recognize the gestureas something Tom and I do as well. A quick, silent connection. A confirmation that we are of the same mind. But I don’t want to grow morose, so I turn toward a painting on the wall and say, “Is this original? I love it.”

Another glance passes between them, and I pretend that I don’t miss the ghost of the person I love, sitting at my shoulder, getting to know my childhood best friend and, in the process, getting to know me.

***

As I’m leaving, Matt says, “Tom should come up one weekend. We’d love to meet him.”

I search in my purse for my car keys, so I don’t have to look at them when I lie. “I wish he could, but he’s pretty busy on a big project right now.”

We say our goodbyes and Jack walks me to my car. “Tom doesn’t know about your father, does he?”

I sigh and look up at the night sky, at the same wild riot of stars I can see from my deck at home, and I wonder where Tom is. What story he’s telling himself about the book I’m working on, certain it’s nothing close to the truth. “I don’t want to be here, dealing with this. And I certainly don’t want to drag him into it.”

“You can’t hide from who you are.”

“It’s worked well so far,” I say.

Jack looks down at me, his gaze skeptical. “Has it?”

***

Later that night, when I’m in bed, the lights dark, I scroll through my phone looking at pictures of Tom and me. I trace the progression of our relationship—early photos of the construction of the studio, Tom in his white button-down shirt, plans tucked beneath one arm, smiling nextto the framing. He’d always arrive at the end of the day, and I’d begun to expect his white truck to come bouncing down my long driveway around three o’clock. I’d have coffee ready, and we’d chat about our respective work—he’d discuss a renovation he was doing in Malibu, and I’d talk about the book I was working on—the connection between us instant and powerful.

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