Weird.
I searched hashtags and found more pictures of them stepping out of limousines and restaurants. Vivian’s tall, slender frame was incredibly elegant. John was always a step behind her. I could swear there was a disconnect, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Below, a link to a tabloid article:Bond Girl Vivian and New York Times Bestselling Author John Kater — Trouble in Paradise?
Ah.
The comments from the girls at the store came back to me, “I heard he and his fiancée are having trouble. BuzzFeed did a whole article about it.”
I felt weird, internet-stalking John Kater. I didn’t care what he did or who he was with. If the universe had any pity on me, I’d never have to see John Kater ever again.
Outside, the light had shifted to a bruised, thin gray as dawn broke. I rolled over and turned offThe X-Files, staring at the little shelf beside the window holding all my copies ofCaptain Caruso—Dad’s books. I imagined the new book that would fill the empty space on the shelf.
Just as my eyelids drooped, my screen lit up.
I swore in all the colors of the rainbow and then some. But it was Mom. I sat up straight.
Maybe it’s time. Can you be here today?
My stomach twisted. If she was up now, I knew she’d been drinking.
It was one thing to remember the corners of the shop where I did my homework while Dad stocked the shelves, where I hid with Terry Pratchett, wrote Mulder, Scully, and Krycek fanfics, while the cool kids went to the mall and started dating. TheSundays when I taught Otis how to play D&D, Mom bringing us apple pies, and Dad stealing a kiss from her every time she walked by.
But it was entirely another thing being “up there,” tiptoeing around an obstacle course of Dad’s belongings—his jacket draped over the dining chair, his shoes coated in a thick layer of dust by the entrance, his toothbrush on the sink.
There was remembering, and then there was denial. I was desperate to hold onto the warmth of my dad, to keep his memory vivid.
Mom… it was like she was stuck. Unable to move through time without him. Like she was still waiting for him to trudge up the stairs after his shift, listening for the heavy thud of his boots on the creaky steps—the telltale sign Skye’s had closed for the day. The jingle of his shop keys as he dropped them in the ceramic UFO I made in fourth grade. Waiting for the wet smack of his lips on her cheek.
Downstairs and upstairs were like two different universes of grief. I liked to think mine was the healthy one.
Sure. I’ll be there right after work.
Chapter Four
German food is superior to all others.
Love is worth the pain.
I guess I have a boyfriend now.
If my morning were made into a TV show, it would, without question, beThe Walking Dead. After shelving Brandon Sanderson in the non-fiction section—twice—I had to admit I wasn’t exactly functioning at full capacity. Three customers came in. Two bought books. One seemed deeply disappointed that there was no romance section.
An hour before the longest workday in human history finally ended, Otis walked in, looking like the literal sun.
“Ah. You got laid,” I said, raising my hand sluggishly for a high five.
He left me hanging. Rude.
“No.” He shook his head. “I mean yes, but that’s not the point. I met the director last night. He thinks I’m perfect. Nora, are you asleep?”
He poked me with a pencil.
“What?” I blinked open eyes I hadn’t realized I’d closed. “Sorry.”
Otis sighed dramatically. “Here.” He walked behind the counter, nudged me toward the sofa, and handed me a cup of espresso. “Take five, then be the good friend I know you are.”
I slumped onto the sofa, eyelids already half-closed. “I love you. You’re the best. One in a million.” I yawned so wide it cracked my jaw. “Oh, can you come to Mom’s for dinner?”
