Page 95 of If I Go Down with This Ship

I shower and shave, and when I wipe away the steam and look in the mirror, I almost resemble a past version of myself.Except for the purple bags beneath my eyes, the tanned skin scattered with freckles, the small, puckered scars marking my many injuries aboard his ship, and the long, unruly blond curls that I tuck behind my ears.I comb my hands through them, but there is simply no taming to be had.

When I’m as close as possible to the Laszlo the world once knew, Louise comes to stand beside me.She wraps an arm around my shoulders and smiles at our reflection.

“Whatever happened to you,” she says, patting my cheek, “you and I look more alike now than ever.”

“What are the odds,” I say, smiling weakly.

Switching off the light, I follow her out.She grabs her purse and jacket, and my hands automatically reach for his.My fingers graze the blue wool, toying with the brass buttons.I can feel my chest aching, my throat tightening as I yearn to pull it on, to breathe in the scent of him.I’ve worn it every day for six months.

“Why don’t you wear this one instead?”she asks, holding out a long black coat.

It is so plain in comparison.I peer back at the blue coat, his coat.I know eventually I’ll have to move on, hang it up in the back of my closet—or, worse, throw it out.It physically pains me to step away from it, to take the black coat from Louise’s outstretched hand and shrug it on.Sir settles down on top of the coat as if he knows I need to move on.I scratch his head and follow Louise out.

This coat feels wrong.It is too light and too thin, and the fit of it is too tight.And it smells like a closet, nothing like the warm scent of burnt sugar and tobacco.And without his jacket, without the blue wool surrounding me, I don’t have the strength to face all these people, to see the world to which I have returned.

As if she can sense my thoughts, Louise slips her hand into the crook of my arm and steers me to the bookstore.I’ve been to this store countless times for countless events.The line ofpeople waiting to be seated snakes out the door and onto the street, and there in the window display is my book, framed by blue tissue curled into waves, a boat folded from paper, and a pirate flag set in the background of the stand.

Mynewbook.I still don’t know where the strength came from, how I managed to sit down and write an entire novel in two weeks, but I did.I thought if I wrote about it, even if it severely departed from my original outline, it would help me heal.And I thought I was getting better as I was editing, but when I finished it, it only sent me farther into a downward spiral.

Writing this book brought every memory back to the surface, and editing only made it worse.But they sped up the process for me—a “crash,” as they described it.I felt like I was drowning in the words, but I didn’t have time to stop and think, fully immersed in the work, but when it was done and I came up for air, I could hardly breathe.Even now I’m struggling to keep my head above water, and as if the sky is mocking me, it splits open, fat water droplets spattering the ground around me, dripping down my back and making me shudder.

I stop before the display and press a hand to the glass, my eyes straying to the cover.To the image of a sinking ship, to his words as the title.I breathe shakily, curling a hand into my shirt above my heart like it will stop the pain.

But it never does.

“Lasz?”Louise prompts.“Let’s head inside before you get soaked.”

A store associate appears next to Louise before I can say anything.She’s a woman in her mid-thirties with clear frames and a badge on her collar with her name on it, and a smallSHE/HERbeneath.

The store associate holds out a hand, and I shake it.“I’m Chloe, and I’ll be introducing you before you start our talk.Are you ready?”

Louise stares at me over Chloe’s head.I glance one last time to the display before nodding and following them in.

Chloe leads Louise and me through the maze of the store, around the back of the shop, and up a set of stairs.A few people in line recognize me and wave, and I force a closed-mouth smile before hurrying up the last few steps.I scan the crowd, recognizing a few people near the front, but nothim.

I can’t help but feel disappointed.Was I really expecting to find him here?

“Lasz?Laszlo?”I blink and refocus.The store associate is gone, hurrying to the front as she picks up the microphone, but Louise stands to my left, watching me with that same concern she’s had for the last six months.She takes my coat, slinging it over her arm.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, my vision going blurry.

I don’t want to be here.I don’t want to talk about this book or the man who saved me.I want to curl into a ball, press my face into Sir’s fur, and cry.

Chloe introduces herself and thanks the audience for coming.As the crowd applauds, I hang my head and curl my hands into fists at my sides.I should be happy to be here, surrounded by people who wish to celebrate me and my new book, but there’s only one person I want to see right now, and he’s been dead for three hundred years.

“And here’s the man of the hour, Laszlo Morgenstern!”

The crowd whoops and claps as I make my way to the stool.I smile numbly and wave to them as I squint against the bright lights they’ve set up, the heat of them already making mesweat.Louise settles into a seat in the second row, and I can see her hands are clenched in her lap, her worry only seeming to worsen.

“I apologize,” I say with an awkward laugh into my microphone.“I haven’t been to one of these in some time.”I glance at Louise, and she smiles encouragingly, tilting her head toward me as I struggle to find the words.

“Tells us about this book,” Chloe asks when I don’t go on.She holds up her advance reader copy.The paperback is battered and worn, several tabs sticking out from between the pages.“You did a lot of research for this one.Can you tell us a bit about what inspired you?”

My mouth goes dry, and I squirm in my seat.If I close my eyes, I’m there on the deck with my crew, in the mess at the swinging tables, in the bed nook with his head resting on my chest.If I breathe in deeply enough, I can taste the tobacco in my mouth and the salt on my skin.

Home.These things are home.

I look out into the audience, the faces blurred by the lights.Would anyone believe me if I told them?