LIBBY AND I walk to the fence line with celery, carrots, and sugar cubes, but even with our best baby talk, we can’t coax the horses over.
“You think they know we’re city people?” I say.
“They can still smell Drybar all over you,” she replies.
I cup my hands around my mouth and shout out across the dusky pasture, “This isn’t the end! We’ll be back!” We hike back to the cottage, then decide we’re too hungry to cook and instead trek into town, destined for Poppa Squat’s loaded fries and cauliflower wings.
On the whole walk, Libby’s a little shaky. Beneath the streetlamps, she’s past the realm of peaked and into the territory of Straight-Up Ghostly.
Behind the glow of Goode Books’ windows, Charlie’s closing up. “Let’s invite him to dinner,” she cries, unlatching herself from me and leading the charge across the street.
Despite our early efforts at discretion, I’m positive she’s noticed the vibe between us, but she’s kept any disapproval to herself ever since Charlie helped with the surprise campout.
She pounds on the shop door with the ferocity of an FBI agent on TV until Charlie reappears, looking exactly how he always looks: tidy, overworked, well dressed, and like he wants to bite my thigh.
“We came to invite you to dinner.” Libby pushes inside, beelining toward the bathroom, as she is wont to do these days, calling, “We’re going to Poppa Squat’s.”
“Maybe you’ve heard of it,” I say. “It was on a very exclusive BuzzFeed list.”
Slow nod. Dark, gut-melting eyes. Holding his gaze feels like public indecency. “ ‘Places That Sound Like They’ll Definitely Give You Diarrhea While Really They Only Just Might Give You Diarrhea.’ ”
“That’s the one,” I agree.
He widens the door for me, but just then my phone rings. On instinct, I check it. Sharon’s calling. While on maternity leave. “I should take this.”
Libby does a cartoon screech-to-halt and turns back to me. “No work calls after five,” she reminds me.
“This is different,” I say, the ringing scritching against my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. “It might be important.”
Libby’s lips fall into a straight line. “Nora.”
“Just give me a minute, Libby,” I say. Her eyes go wide at the sharp edge to my voice. “I’m sorry—I just—I have to do this.”
I take off down the dark block, heart thudding as I answer the call. “Sharon? Is everything okay?”
“Hi, yes!” she says brightly. “Everything’s fine—sorry to worry you. I just had a question.”
The tension in my shoulders dissolves. “Sure. How can I help?”
“I can’t give too many concrete details,” she starts. “But . . . Loggia might be hiring a new editor soon.”
“Oh?” The floor of my stomach sinks. I’ve gotten enough of these calls over the years to know where this is going. Sharon’s leaving—or, rather, not coming back from parental leave.
“Yeah,” she goes on. “Looks that way. And hey, I know you’re doing great at the agency, so this might not be interesting to you at all, but I’ve been talking with Charlie, and he says you’re really helping get Dusty’s book into shape.”
“He makes it easy,” I say. “And she does too.”
“Of course,” Sharon says. “But you’ve also always had a knack for this kind of thing. I guess I’m wondering if there’s any chance you’d be interested.”
“Interested?”
“In editing,” she says. “For Loggia.”
I must be stunned into silence for longer than I realize, because Sharon says, “Hello? Did I lose you?”
My mouth’s gone dry. It comes out small. “Here.”
This must be how people feel when their water breaks. Like they’ve been carrying a new future around inside themself and suddenly it’s gushing out, ready or not.
“You want me to be an editor?”
“I’d like you to interview, yes,” she says. “But I totally understand if you’re not interested. You’ve made a name for yourself as an agent—and you’re great at it. This might not make sense for you.”
I open my mouth. No sound comes out.
I’m stumped.
“I don’t need a concrete answer yet,” she says, “but if you’re at all interested . . .”
I expect to have to swim through the soup of my thoughts and feelings, to have to give a hacking cough to get out some words.
Instead, I hear my voice as if through a tunnel: “Yes.”
“Yes?” Sharon says. “You’ll meet with us?”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose as pressure rushes into my skull. This isn’t the kind of decision you just make. Least of all when your sister’s in the middle of a potentially very expensive crisis.
“I’d like to think about it,” I backtrack. “Can I call you in a couple days?”
“Of course,” she says. “Of course! This would be a big decision. But I’ll admit, when Charlie said you might be interested, I was very excited.”
I barely hear the rest. My mind has become one of those FBI corkboards with zigzagging red string between every pushpin it can find, trying to make things add up, to make all of it fit into one uninterrupted pattern, proof that this can work, that I can have this, that it’s not too good to be true.
When I hang up, I sit on a bench beneath a streetlamp, waiting for the daze to fade. After six full minutes, I still feel like I’m inside a fishbowl, everything surreally bent and distorted around me. When I finally walk back, the bells over the shop door seem to chime from miles off, but Libby’s voice is close and jarring. “There you are, finally.” With obvious annoyance, she adds, “Can we go to dinner now, or do you have a board meeting to get to?”
I feel brittle, stretched too far in too many directions, and when she rolls her eyes, something in me finally snaps: “Can you not do that, Libby? Not right now.”
“Do what?” she says. “You said you’d be fully present after five, and—”
“Stop.” I lift a hand, trying to hold off the fresh onslaught of red string and pushpins raining down on me, reality crashing in from every direction.
Because even if I want this job, I can’t have it.
Just like I couldn’t last time. But at least then, Libby told me what she was going through. At least I wasn’t throwing darts in the dark, hoping they’d plug up the holes of a sinking ship.
“What’s going on with you?” she demands, brow lifted, face torqued with dismay.
An unstoppable wave rises through me. “Me?” I repeat. “I’m not the one sneaking around, disappearing, not answering her husband’s texts, keeping secrets. I’ve been fully present, Libby, all month, and you’re still keeping me in the dark.” My pulse feels erratic. My fingers tingle. “I can’t help if you don’t tell me!”
“I don’t want your help, Nora!” She pales at the thought, sways between her feet. “I know I used to rely on you a lot, and I’m sorry for that, but I don’t want to be another excuse for you not to have a life—”
“Oh, right,” I fume. “I don’t have a life! ‘The only thing that matters to me is my career.’ Guess what, Libby? If that were true, I’d be an editor right now! I wouldn’t have passed on the job I actually wanted to make sure you could afford the best fucking doula in Manhattan!”
Her face is white now, her brow damp. “Wait . . . y-you . . . you . . .” Her breath is shallow. She turns, setting one palm on the counter. Her other hand rises to her forehead, eyes fluttering closed. She shakes her head, gathering herself.
“Libby?” I take a half step toward her, my heart in my throat.
That’s when she collapses.
