Boston (18 page)

Liesl is silent for a second, then she says, “If you ever want company, Abby? I will be there in one heartbeat. You know that.”

“I need to do it alone, but thanks.” My voice cracks, then I force it to straighten out, like pulling a wrinkled string taut again. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you later this evening. You said seven, right?”

“Yeah.” Her voice is cautious.

“Okay. Love you.”

“You, too.”

I hang up and wipe my eyes. I might as well get my cemetery visit out of the way. Sometimes I hate that my mom died right on my birthday, but then again, I suppose—would it have been so much better to have it happen a day before or a day after? Death is death, after all, and my sadness wouldn’t be less just because of the happenstance of the calendar.

***

I hate the rush of anxious adrenaline that surges through me when I spot the cypress trees. I want to cut them all down and plant flowers, roses, tons and tons of vines and gardenias. I hate the ugly marble benches with cracks in them, and I hate that someone has left a Snickers wrapper on the ground, and it’s blown into some brown dead-looking bushes, and it waves at me in the cold breeze. I pick it up and stuff it in my pocket to throw out later, hoping the person who had it didn’t get contagious phlegm on it or anything. Then I suppose that perhaps the litterer was like me: So anxious, so sad that they could barely remember the name of their book, let alone how to properly dispose of a wrapper in the cemetery.

I crumple the plastic in my pocket and fist it, hard, my nails biting into my skin. My mom’s grave is a flat shiny stone on the ground with her name and the dates and a carving of a dove. I don’t care for the dove, and I didn’t order it, but that’s how it came, and it didn’t seem important to change it afterwards. Besides, I had no energy at the time, and now I trace the contours in my imagination, wondering about the person whose job it is to etch doves and praying hands and crosses into marble slabs all day, every day. Unless they mix it up and do some random artistic stuff, too? Or is it done by machine these days, and a laser?

This is the kind of random thing my mom and I would talk about in the last days together. I read a poem about someone dying in that book from Marr, and their last conversations were described as pocket change being spent, used up. It was like that, but better, because every conversation with my mom was interesting, fun. She could make anything sparkle.

I open my purse and take out a blue rock. I got it at the Lizzadro Museum of Lapidary Art in Chicago a few years ago, and I like the way it sparkles. I lay it down on top of the stone and smile. The sadness never goes away, but I remember my mom’s laugh and the way she told stories, and it gives me the kind of memory that leaves a smile on my face for a long time, not just a second, but lots of seconds all strung together like a necklace, a smile that keeps coming and coming, like waves on the ocean, one after the other, blending together.

I hear footsteps behind me and my shoulders stiffen. Seriously? In this whole entire graveyard full of a million graves, someone has to encroach on my private moment? This is like the supermarket. There are a hundred cars, and the only other one that’s trying to pull out is the one just. Behind. Me. Never fails. Could they just visit a different dead body, one farther from my mom’s? Then I giggle, because that’s the kind of joke my mom would like. She was irreverent as hell, and so witty. She told me to keep laughing.

I sigh as the steps come closer. I’m going to have to make awkward eye contact now and nod; cemetery etiquette. Fuck. Or at least step out of the way, if they have a huge armful of wreath or something.

But when I turn, my heart skips a beat, because it’s Boston, his black coat open and flapping along his strong body. He’s still wearing the suit from the interview and he takes my breath away, even through my sadness and surprise. He has a plastic grocery bag in his hand and an uncertain look on his face.

“Boston.”

“Abby.” He hesitates. “I, ah, told you a while back that I’d go with you. I meant it. So here I am.” He stands a few feet away. “If you want me here, that is?” he adds.

I nod and tear up. “I do. I do want you here.”

“Okay.” He nods back, then comes closer and puts his arm around me and I lean into him. “Okay,” he repeats, and rubs my shoulder with his fingers. “Okay.”

I rest my head against him, and feel a wave of nostalgia at his smell: Cologne and him, the smell I remember. Flashes of our night together blink in and out of my memory, my cries and his. Our bodies. But that’s not for now.

Boston lets go of me and fumbles with his bag. “I remember you said about the blueberries, and I wanted to get you some. But all they had was frozen.” He pulls out a white and blue plastic bag and gives it to me. “Do you think your mom will mind?”

I stare at the bag, feeling the hard marbles roll around in my fingers through the thick plastic. “You brought frozen blueberries to my mom’s grave?”

He nods and shrugs. “I guess.”

“I love that! That’s the best thing ever.” And suddenly I’m laughing, and his face lights up, his anxious expression turning to one of relief and then humor, and he laughs, too, and we’re both laughing so hard that I can’t catch my breath.

“You—brought—frozen—blue—!” I can’t even finish. My stomach hurts from laughing, and it feels so good, and I think my mom would like this. She would like to still be part of the joke, part of the happiness.

“But that’s not all.” He reached into the bag again. “Blue ribbon.”

It’s the kind you wrap around presents and make curly with a scissors, and it’s still on its spool, and this also strikes me as very humorous, and I start laughing again. “Other people bring flowers, and we bring—blueberries and string!” I lean into his chest and hug him as hard as I can, squeezing with all my strength, hanging on, and my laughter is also sobs, and he drops the bag and holds me, just holds me, while I laugh and cry, safe in his arms.

After a few minutes, I’m cried and laughed out, and I give a deep quivering sigh and look up at his face. “Let’s pour the berries out,” he suggests, “into those bushes over there. They can either be food for birds, or fertilizer for later. But if you leave the whole bag here it will end up being a mess if, like, a raccoon rips it open or something.”

I agree, and he works quickly, and we scatter blueberries under the bushes, our fingers picking up purple lines and spirals, crazy modern art tattoos, from the melted berry juice. Then Boston finds a stick from somewhere and rips off a piece of the ribbon and makes a really sloppy bow with it, and plants it in the ground in front of the grave, and I start crying again, this time not from sadness, but from gratitude for this man who’s standing here, helping me survive this day. I don’t know what we are to each other but I am so very glad he’s here for me, with me.

When we leave, he takes my hand in his and holds it, and I grip him back. I never want to let go. When we get back to the parking area, I don’t see his truck. There’s a sleek black car parked beside my hybrid, though.

“Did you get a new ride?” I point.

He nods. “Yeah. The truck was on her last legs, pretty much. I’m—Abby, we made a ton of money. I mean, I bought this and it wasn’t even a big deal.” His voice is quiet. “And I’m booked for the rest of the year, for shoots and book covers.”

“I’m doing well, too. I actually got a deal with a huge publisher, like a real one, you know? For a three-book series. They gave me, I’m embarrassed to even say how much they offered me as an advance.” I still can’t believe the number, but when I asked, it was the correct number of zeros. Insane.

He’s still holding my hand and we both talk at once.

“That girl at the studio, she’s just a publicist—”

And I’m saying, “I’m sorry about what happened back at the studio—”

And then we both stop fumbling and just look at each other. I can’t believe how awkward I feel, but I know it’s because I care so much, too much, and I’m going to die if he doesn’t want to be with me, but I can’t live another minute without knowing.

His voice is rough. “Tell me why you walked out on me that night at the bar, Abby. I need to hear why. Please be honest. We can’t move forward if we can’t get past this. I’ve given you a lot of time to think things over, and I’m done waiting. We need to figure this out now.”

My eyes well up with tears. “At that moment, it just seemed that we… didn’t fit. I guess. I’m so sorry I didn’t talk about it. I was all tied up inside.”

“You thought we’re not right for each other?” His eyes burn.

I touch his arm. “I mean, when we’re alone together, I feel like everything is perfect. But then when other people mix in, I feel like I’m not right for you. Or that you think you’re not right for me. And Erik…”

I’m going to say that Erik and Annalise were able to make something like us work, but he interrupts.

He steps back. “So what you’re saying, what had you confused, is that you need someone like your ex? I’m fine to pose for your pictures and sell your book, I’m good enough for your bed for a quick fuck, but I’m not right for you.” His voice is harsh and he runs a hand through his hair, but his eyes are pained, pleading. “Abby. I thought we meant more to each other than that.”

“Boston!” I’m shouting, all of my emotions surging to the surface and cracking me open, raw, letting my insides spill. “Don’t you dare put that on me. I don’t think that. I think you’re smart and fascinating and amazing and wonderful and clever, okay? You’re just as smart as Erik with his PhDs and whatevers, and I mean that, from my heart. You don’t get to where you are today without being smart.”

I stifle a sob and continue. “What you said that one night, about being as good as Maxwell and the others? You’re right. You are. You’re better than they are! And I lo—that’s amazing.”

I gesture up and down my body. “It’s about me, okay? I’m not like the girls you usually date. I’m not a fitness fiend who can lift weights and run four-minute miles and who loves healthy food. I’m not, and I never will be. What if you get tired of me someday and think I’m not enough for you? I’m happy with who I am, Boston, I finally am. But I was worried that you weren’t.”

I break off and step away from him, my eyes filling with tears.

He takes my arm. “No. You do not get to walk away this time. We need to finish this. Are you going to disrespect what we have together just like that? Again?”

But when he sees my face, he softens and touches my cheek. “Seriously? You think I care that you can’t run a four-minute mile? Because I don’t fucking care. Is that what you really think?”

I shrug. “At first, I did think that. You know, the Greeks had a motto,
Sound Mind In A Sound Body
. I’ve always been a perfectionist, Boston. And when I worked hard enough, I could do anything I wanted. I could get straight A’s, get a great job, write books, sell them. But I don’t have the same level of control over my exterior. I can eat better and maintain a healthy weight, I can work out and stay fit, but no matter what, I’m not going to be a cover girl. And even though that shouldn’t have bothered me, it always did. I thought, deep inside, that I wasn’t good enough, because I didn’t look like a Victoria’s Secret angel or something. Like an Annalise. And there are a lot of handsome guys in the world who only date the skinny, beautiful girls. You know that’s true.”

He makes a noise. “Abby. Jesus. You know, yes. There are a lot of guys like that, it’s true. And. In the past, I used to date fitness models exclusively. I did think it was something that matched me. But you know what? I met you. And I realized I was goin’ about it the wrong way. I was trying to date a concept, not a person. And I finally met the person who I want to be with. I find you so fucking beautiful, and I do not care how you compare to Annalise or anyone else. When I look at you, I’m not thinking of anyone else but you. Understand? Just. You. And you know what? If you can just be honest with me, like you were just now, we can make anything work. I swear it. Because if we have truth between us, nothing else will matter.”

I lift my eyes to his tentatively, afraid to check what lies there, but the spark of arousal gives me confidence. “Really?”

He touches my face. “Abby. Is this why you’ve been running from me? Because you think that someday I might think that you’re not enough for me?”

I nod, tears falling down my face.

“But that’s insane!” His voice is frustrated. “You have a genius brain, and the cutest smile in the world, and I love your smart-ass comments, and in bed, I mean, holy Jesus! Abby, that was the best I ever had. I’m never gonna stop liking you, Abby. Never.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.” He cups my cheek with his hand. “I haven’t been with any other women since that night you walked into that club and refused to dance with me. Oh, Abby, please, you gotta realize how much I care for you.”

I blink at him. “You do?” I push my face into his touch. His hand is strong and warm, and a waft of his cologne drifts from his wrist, beaten out by his pulse.

He sounds like he’s in pain. “It’s been only you since I met you, and it’s killing me that you keep running away from me, from us. I thought you were too good for me. Now that I’m over that, please don’t ruin this by thinking you’re not enough for me. How many times do I have to say it?”

“I don’t know.” I touch his face with one finger. “Maybe just once more, so my heart understands.”