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So why wouldn’t he have with that?
Yeah, that made sense. Or at least, it made enough sense that she could focus on her actual job here. Instead of focusing on intense weirdness that made her want to scream into a pillow. And she did focus on it, too. She started organizing her notes and typing up the things she knew he’d let her include.
Which wasn’t much when she really got down to it.
Because no matter how good he thought she was at getting things out of him, he was undoubtedly better at evading. He led her down the garden path so many times she lost count. And to such a degree she actually found herself just listening to his bizarre tangents. She found herselflaughingover them.
Seeing as she could now that she was alone.
She was allowed when he couldn’t see her finding him funny and fascinating.
And weirdly, it seemed to help. Because when she tried actually getting something down, when she wrote an opening forthis memoir—just on a whim to see if she could do it—she found she could. In fact, it felt easy. Like she could already hear his voice in her head. She could feel it, deep in her chest.
It was a part of her, somehow.
As second nature as her own self.
He’s the other kid with you in the assembly, her mind said, about an hour in.
And though that was an unsettling thought, she couldn’t deny it was true. It felt to her as if she’d always known him. As if she’d once been friends with him, years ago, and now they’d been reunited somehow. They had seen each other on Facebook, or heard about a divorce one of them had had via a brother-in-law of somebody’s cousin.
Something like that.
And now they were catching up.
They were talking aboutRepair ShopandWuthering Heightsand bad dads, like nothing had ever happened. All of which was good, it was a very good thing, she knew it was a very good thing. She was not going to see it as anything but a good thing. And especially when Greg was suddenly calling her, in the middle of the afternoon. Now, she thought, she had great news to report.
Progress has been made, she imagined herself saying.
But unfortunately, she didn’t get that far.
Because it wasn’t Greg.
It was his number, his name that showed up on her phone. However, it was definitely someone else who immediately started talking. Clearly it was, because they sounded so different from Greg in every single way that she wanted to whack her phone to make sure it hadn’t just malfunctioned. And possibly started sending her messages from the lead in a production ofOklahoma!
Considering the guy who was talking started this conversation with the wordhowdy. Then he just launched right into loads more absurd talking, without even giving her a chance to process that first thing.
“Real sorry for calling you at whatever time I am calling you at. I think it’s a reasonable hour but I can’t be sure, seeing as I’m jet-lagged as all get out and not quite sure what hour it actually is. Anyhoot, you’re probably wondering why the heck this fella is calling you. Well, here’s the thing: ole’ Greg decided what was best for him was to take a leave of absence. And by leave of absence there I mean a polite way of saying he fled in the night for no reason anyone can think of. So I threw my name into the hat to help out with this whole mess, and here we are.”
She could practically hear him spreading his hands on those last words.
Hell, she could practically see him. His voice was so quick and expressive and full of character that he was easy to picture. Most likely he wore bow ties; she’d bet anything he had lines pressed down each leg of his jeans. And if he didn’t have a jaunty mustache she was a monkey’s uncle.
In fact, she almost said it to him.
You have hair on your upper lip, don’t you.
But then he was off again, like a rocket made of rainbows.
“And now you’re probably thinking hold your horses there, buddy, before we get to the mess we need to be properly introduced. Which, well, you’d sure be right about. So the name’s Henry Samuel Beckett, though folks generally call me Beck. And I believe you are Mabel—any nickname there I should know about?”
She managed a no, and not much more. Partly because he was still clearly brimming with things to say. And partly because she was starting to get a sinking feeling about those brimming things.
“Well, that’s great. So Mabel, lemme just start out by asking you: Have you by any chance recently perused social media of any kind? Because I may have noticed a thing or two this morning that I felt might be good to bring to your attention. You know, just so I could be a little soft landing for you on that, if you’re in need of one.”
Soft landing, she thought. Then had to force herself to bringup Twitter, as Henry Samuel Beckett kept right on talking. “I sense that you’re probably looking right now as we speak, so I’ll just go ahead and reassure you: I personally have no problems with people believing you are a new mystery woman spending time with one Alfred Harding. You need have no fear that we here at Harchester Publishing Incorporated are not behind you one hundred percent.”
And that was nice of him, she thought. But honestly by that point she was already not listening. She was clicking through her socials on her iMac with what felt like a combination of terror and intense confusion.
