Page 6 of Kill Your Darlings

“Georgetown, really. That’s where the Airbnb is. I booked it for the first weekend in May, and then I remembered that you’d mentioned something about Peter coming to visit—”

“Oh, that’s not happening,” Thom said. Peter was his closest friend from college, and notorious about making plans and then canceling them.

“It isn’t?”

“No, sorry, I forgot to tell you. He canceled, the fucker.”

“Good. You’re free for a trip, then?”

“Probably. Is it this weekend?”

“No, next one. Just three nights. A Thursday through a Sunday.”

“D.C., huh?”

“It will feel like actual spring there. And if the weather’s not great, there are all the free museums, and the apartment I rented is adorable. I don’t know why I’m trying to sell you on this, I’ve already booked it. You’re coming whether you like it or not.”

Back in his office, Thom checked his email and saw that Wendy had sent a link to the Airbnb that she’d booked. He clicked on it. It was something called an English basement apartment. It looked cozy, had a fireplace and hardwood floors, and boasted that it was in walking distance of Georgetown Cupcake. Thom brought up a map. It looked like a cool area, and he began to check out nearby pubs. Maybe it would be a nice trip. Things had been a little chilly betweenWendy and him of late, and maybe she was genuinely hoping for a romantic weekend. And it might be a good time to tell her about the book he was working on. He didn’t want it to be a secret, his mystery novel, but he knew if he brought it up that she would be upset. He just needed to convince her that it really wasn’t autobiographical.Shemight read something into it, but no one else would.

Thom looked at the map some more, using two fingers on his trackpad to check out the area. It was only when he saw the link for the Exorcist Steps just down from their rental that he suddenly understood the real reason why Wendy had booked this trip. Why hadn’t he thought of it immediately? Washington, D.C., and especially Georgetown, had been the site of the very beginning of their romance. Two lifetimes ago, really. Thom and Wendy, in their eighth-grade year, had gone on the three-day school trip down to D.C. They’d sat next to each other on the bus ride down, talking mostly about horror movies, and howThe Exorcisthad been filmed in Georgetown. And it was there, in Georgetown, on the last night of the trip, that Thom and Wendy had kissed by the steps that were featured in that film. Thom’s first kiss ever, and Wendy’s as well, or at least that was what she’d told him. And even though he hadn’t thought of that school trip for many years, he remembered it now with startling clarity. It had been spring, as well, the air smelling of flowers and rain. They’d eaten one of their meals at an old-timey Italian restaurant with red-and-white check tablecloths, and he’d dropped a meatball down the front of his shirt. D.C. had been all right, but it really just seemed like one big museum, every element some sort of ode to history. Georgetown had felt alive, though. All these town houses tight together. College students strolling by. For some reason he also remembered the smell of clove cigarettes in the air. To him it was the smell of sophistication.

Suddenly he was excited to return. For some time now, it had been clear that everything he did seemed to disappoint his wife. Hedrank too much and talked too much and slept too late. Sometimes he caught her looking at him with true disgust in her eyes. The problem was that he believed he deserved it. His whole life he’d been waiting to be punished, always thinking that it would arrive in the form of a catastrophe. Something Old Testament. A debilitating disease. Chronic pain. The deaths of loved ones. Something awful happening to Jason. But Wendy and he had had a successful life. They both had good jobs. They had more than enough money. They had their lovely, kind son. They surely didn’t deserve happiness in marriage as well. They didn’t deserve love. Despite that, the thought of returning to Georgetown for a weekend, his wife having made the arrangements, filled Thom with something he hadn’t felt for a long time. A sense of hope.

At the end of his office hours Emily knocked at his open door.

“Come in, come in,” he said, a little bit in a daze. He’d been reading lists of the best restaurants in Georgetown and D.C.

“First of all,” Emily said, a file folder hugged to her chest, “thanks for such a nice time last week at your house. Your wife is a very good cook.”

“She is,” Thom said.

“Did she tell you that we talked about her poetry?”

Thom was confused, but because he was used to not remembering the details of his life, he said, “She did mention it, I think.”

“I’m a huge fan.”

“Of Wendy’s poetry?”

“Yes. She’s good, don’t you think?”

Thom, still a little confused, said, “Of course. When did you come across her work?”

“A while ago, I think. I don’t really remember. She wrote a poem called ‘The Coyote Watches Me Watching Him.’ It’s one of my—”

“Yes, I remember that one. Do you know she made it up? I remember after reading it that I asked her when she had a stare-offwith a coyote, and she told me she was just imagining what it would be like if she had. It’s funny. For some reason I always imagine that fiction is truly fictional, and that poetry is always somehow the truth, but I don’t think I’m right about that.”

Emily was quiet for a moment, so Thom quickly said, “Is that for me?”

She remembered the file folder she had brought into his office and pulled it away from her chest, saying, “Oh, it is. I just need your signature on this purchase order. It’s the books you requested for the fall semester.”

“Right.”

She moved around to his side of the desk and put the order in front of him. Her proximity made him feel that odd mix of attraction and solace, as though he might at any moment bury his head against her shoulder. She handed him a pen and pointed to where he needed to sign.

“Who’s Annabel Majorino?” he said, seeing the name of the person who’d initiated the order.

“Oh, me. That’s my real first name. Annabel. Emily’s my middle name and the one I use.”

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