Between the Pages: A Novel (20 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Emerson

DECEMBER 21, 2008

I am numb. And it’s not from the sub-twenty-degree temperature at the cemetery. It’s because the woman I loved, the woman I couldn’t save, is gone. I shove my hands into my wool coat and peek out from behind the tree.

A mass of people, all in black, stand as they carry her coffin to its place in the ground. I feel hot tears burn my cold cheeks. I look down at the red roses I bought from a bodega down the street. Chloe deserves better than bodega flowers. I’m not even sure she liked red roses. Something tells me she did, but in an ironic sort of way. Like the way she only drank Starbucks.
“Might as well give in to societal inclinations
,” she would say, grinning and sipping her raspberry mocha.

Give in. Or give up?

I angrily kick the snow underneath me. Fuck Chloe. Fuck her for leaving me. She was my solace. She understood me in ways that nobody else ever had. She pushed me to write
Underground Love.
That book was
her
doing. That book was ALL HER. And now she’s gone—my muse is dead, cold in the ground.

I slide onto the ground and watch the rest of the funeral. Everyone begins to leave, slowly trickling out. I wonder how many of them knew Chloe—
really
knew her. I wonder how many of them will think of her after today, next week, a year from now . . .

And then I see her.

Finley Matthews.

Take care of her.

Those four words have been on repeat every day since the day Chloe left me.

Everyone is gone now, but she sits, staring at the fresh dirt before her. I’m at least one hundred feet away, but I can see her shaking from the cold. My heart rips in half, and some sort of compulsory instinct takes over. I take the picture out of my pocket and look at it for the hundredth time. In the picture Chloe gave me, Finley is younger. Her face is open, free, youthful. I clutch it to my chest and stand.

Take care of her.

I slowly slide out of my jacket and move quietly toward her. She’s in some kind of weird trance. Her eyes are open, but she’s not watching anything. I carefully slide the jacket over her shoulders, and she doesn’t even flinch. It’s mammoth on her tiny frame, but at least she won’t be cold now. I back away, hoping she doesn’t decide to turn around.

She doesn’t.

Take care of her.

I rub my arms as I walk away. The chilly air permeates my thin wool sweater, but I don’t care. As long as Finley is warm, that’s all that matters to me.

Chloe’s dying wish will be my new purpose.

I hope it’ll save me as much as it’ll save her.

Finley Matthews.

Take care of her.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Emerson

JANUARY 14, 2009

I sit down in front of the dean of the NYU Stern School of Business. I’ve only ever met with the dean of the Tisch School of Arts. I let out a tight breath—the one that’s been building ever since I received an email from him ten hours ago. I clasp my hands together and vow to tell the truth. Maybe the truth will save my job—maybe not. But I can’t pretend it didn’t happen anymore.

“Emerson,” he says, his voice rich and concerned.

“Sir,” I reply seriously.

“I’m going to ask you once and only once. Were you involved in the death of Chloe Matthews?”

I look down. “I was present when she . . .” I look up, and I can feel my eyes narrow. “If that’s what you mean.”

Professor Cooley sighs. “The statement you gave the police states you were having an ongoing affair with Ms. Matthews. Is that true?”

I nod and sit up straight. “That’s true.”

He sighs and runs a hand across his bald scalp. “This is a problem for us. Do you see that?”

“Yes,” I whisper. My heart is beating a thousand beats per second. I’m going to lose my job.
What does that matter? I have already lost my life. My love.

“A senior with a promising future commits suicide down the street, and you’re purported to have been there
and
to have been having relations with her. Even if you had nothing to do with her death—”

“I had
nothing
to do with her death. I tried to stop her. I
loved
her.” I hiss the last sentence, and spit flies out of my mouth.

I’ve startled Professor Cooley. He’s watching me with raised eyebrows. “However it unfolded, this is a PR disaster for the university.”

I start to shake. “I’m being fired, aren’t I?” I look at him defiantly.

He nods. “We have to let you go, Emerson. It’s against policy to have relations with a student. Too many people know what happened between the two of you. Turns out, you weren’t very discrete. We’ve had multiple people come forward. I’m working with Mr. Martins at Tisch to cover this whole thing up. Ms. Matthews’s parents have agreed to look the other way. Now it’s time for you to move on.”

Look the other way?

Are they fucking insane?

Their daughter killed herself. They know she was involved with me. They. Should. Be. Screaming. For. The. Loss. Of. Their. Daughter.

Looking the other way?
I’m speechless. I’m in agony missing Chloe so much. I feel like an empty shell.
They’re looking the other way.
Fuck, Chloe. You deserved so much more.

I stand and shake his hand. “I’ll go pack up my office.”

*

The next day, I direct the moving van to an open parking spot outside of my new building in the East Village. The air has gone from blustery and cloudy to cool and sunny. My breath comes out in puffs before me. I direct the movers to the fifth floor, sighing in relief when they’re done. I shake their hands and tip them well, sending them on their way. I look up and down Third Street.

A fresh start.

A new apartment.

A new job. Well, a new-ish job as a full-time writer. I’m finally taking the plunge.

It’s time to keep my word to Chloe. I lean against a tree and pull my cap lower as two women walk past me to their apartment one block away. The taller one with brown hair has her arm around the smaller one. I smile when I realize she’s still wearing my jacket.

I look up at the sky.

Take care of her.

Am I doing a good job?
I ask Chloe. Fresh tears find there way down my face, and I rub them away as I jog up the steps and into my new building.

I won’t fail you.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Emerson

JUNE 26, 2015

I stare at my computer for over an hour.

I tried to get my own words down on the computer—really,
really
tried this time around.

I go to my kitchen and grab a beer. I check the clock—9:04 p.m. It’s Friday night. Ace Bar it is.

I change into a grey T-shirt, black jeans, and Vans, throwing a baseball cap over my messy hair. I grab my wallet, keys, and phone and head out. Just as I close my door, I hear giggles from the bottom of my stoop. I turn to face the door, pretending to lock up—I know whose laugh that is. Once they pass, I slowly walk down the sidewalk. I’m about fifty feet behind them. I pull my hat lower and follow them, because I know we’re going to the same place.

That
is a coincidence. Finley and I happen to like the same bar. We both frequent the place. It’s convenient for me—it allows me to keep tabs on her without actively following her. The fact that I know she’ll be at the bar at the same time as me every couple months is a huge comfort.

I follow them the block north up Avenue A, past St. Mark’s bookshop. I casually glance at them. Finley’s friend—I never could figure out her name—is wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Finley’s hair is long and loose, hanging behind her. She’s wearing some sort of denim thing. I like it.

I shove the thought to the back of my head.

The girls enter the dive before I do, and once inside, I quickly take a seat at the bar. My job is done now—for the time being, anyway. Finley seems happy and healthy. I order a martini and begin to relax once the alcohol hits my bloodstream. Maybe that’s why I don’t notice Finley walk right next to me until she begins to speak.

“Two Old Fashioneds, please,” she says, her voice light and tinkling. I spin around and watch her from behind my drink, hoping I’m not too obvious.

I’ve never heard her speak before. I look down at my gin martini. Out of my peripheral, I see her produce a card. I quickly glance up, and she’s biting her lip nervously and watching the bartender raptly.
No.
She’s watching her card raptly.

“Declined. Do you have another card I can try?” the bartender asks.

I see her visibly deflate. My chest begins to tighten. Is she struggling for cash? I know she does ghostwriting on the side—I’ve heard about her from other authors. I reach around to my back pocket, producing a twenty-dollar bill. Finley hands the next card to the bartender.

“Umm, try this one,” she asks uncertainly.

Declined.

She closes her eyes and sighs. “Okay, umm, never mind about the drinks then.”

I don’t have time to think—I swivel to face her, instantly getting her attention.

“I’ll buy them,” I blurt.

She squints at me, a look of passive gratuity passing over her face. It’s the first time I’ve looked into her eyes. For a panicked second, I think she might recognize me, but she doesn’t. Her eyes sweep over my face, but there is no recognition. I hand the bartender the twenty—enough for the drinks and the tip. I don’t break eye contact—I can’t. Her eyes have me mesmerized.

What am I doing?

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “My card must be broken.” She blushes and I want to reach out and move the crazy, stray hairs out of her face.

“It’s no problem at all,” I answer, trying not to smile.

Take care of her.

“Well, thank you again,” she squeaks, taking her drinks and leaving.

I’m left wanting more. I pay for my drink and quickly leave before Finley and her friend notice I’m gone. I jog home, and once inside, I open my laptop and look her up on Facebook. In all the years I’ve been keeping an eye on her, I never once checked her Facebook. Why tonight?

I sigh. Does this make me a stalker? I’m not sure. The horrifying news: her profile is set to public. She needs to lock that shit down. I make a mental note to tell her the next time I see her.

If
there’s a next time.

I read through her status updates for the last year. One from last week in particular catches my eye.

Hannah and I will henceforth be accepting donations of the following kind: wine, Chinese food, chocolate (not the bitter kind), and Netflix passwords. Kthx.

I read through the comments. Most people comment “LOL” but a few people ask if she’s okay. Her response:

We’ll survive, but money is tight. :) Just trying to make light of a tough situation.

I scroll farther. This girl will check herself in everywhere. The doctor’s office, the gym (two years ago, I laugh at that), St. Mark’s Bookstore, Diptyque, the bodega down the street.

She really should make her page private. I don’t like that any crazy psycho has access to her locations in real time. Also, I’m disgusted
I’m
even looking.
Why
am I looking? Her profile picture is of her and Chloe from when they were younger, for God’s sake. I’m pretty sure when Chloe said to take care of her, she didn’t mean stalk her on Facebook for two hours. I shut my computer and lay my head down on my crossed arms.

When I wake up ten hours later, my head snaps up and I look around, confused. How much did I drink last night? I open my computer. The first thing that comes up is Finley’s Facebook page. I refresh it like a fucktwat, and right before my eyes is a new check-in.

Remedy Diner.

She’s been there before according to Facebook. Forty-seven times. I look at the timestamp. She checked in an hour ago. If I’m going to do this, I have to do it now.

I quickly brush my teeth and throw on the only shirt I can find—a black button-up. I swipe on some deodorant and run my fingers through my hair. I grab my wallet, keys, and phone. At the last second, I comb through my filing cabinet for an old contract. I take the stairs two at a time.

I’ve barely formed a plan in my mind when I see her. The truth is Finley Matthews has a reputation in the ghostwriting community. Authors covet her. I know this, as does every other author looking for a bit of help. They call her the bestseller maker. I’ve worked with Madeleine Martel before. I know she used to represent Finley. I can use that as my connection—Finley doesn’t have to know it’s not true. And the contract? I look down and skim the terms. It’s fairly standard, though I do pay my writers about twice as much as the going rate. After all, it’s their words on the page, not mine. They deserve to be fairly compensated.

When I get to the diner, I see her sitting in a booth against the window. She’s eating her French fries quickly and staring at the computer screen. I see her down her coffee even quicker, and I have to keep myself from smiling.

I walk in, my game face on.

Here goes nothing.