The Novelist and I used to play a game called the Perfect Day. We’d usually play this game on the few evenings when we could afford to go out for a nice dinner.
The Novelist had a very detailed, very specific Perfect Day that required more luck than money. He loved the beach, especially ones with those old-fashioned boardwalks. His Perfect Day would be at one of those boardwalks on the East Coast. It would be summer, hot but not unbearably so. We’d get a hot dog and a frozen lemonade, then, by some wonderful chance, the moment we wanted to get out of the sun, we’d walk by a bookshop. We’d duck in to find that they were about to host one of the Novelist’s favorite writers. One of the literary Jonathans, like Safran Foer or Franzen. It would be a small, intimate event that hadn’t been advertised at all. In fact, we’d be the only ones there. And the literary Jonathan would look out into his audience of two and say, “What the hell, let’s just go grab dinner together.” And we would. A fancy seafood restaurant where we’d eat lobster in those plastic bibs. The Novelist would get a funny picture of the two of them. They’d talk about books and the literary Jonathan would say something like “that idea sounds incredible. Here’s my personal email—send it to me when you’re done. We’ll get it published.”
My Perfect Day was different in almost every way, except it also involved walking around and finding a bookstore. Fitting, I suppose, since that’s where the Novelist and I met.
I didn’t have a specific place where my Perfect Day would occur. I just knew it would be somewhere that it got cold. I wanted to be wearing a cozy sweater and warm jacket. It didn’t need to be freezing, but I imagined the weather would be chilly enough to make my cheeks red. I’d be in a small town. The kind of town where people knew you. Where you’d walk past a store and the owner would pop their head out the door trying to lure you inside to see the latest jewelry they got in stock, or to try a new recipe they were testing. At some point, I’d get a hot chocolate with lots of marshmallows, using the heat from the cup to keep my hands warm. I’d walk down a street lined with twinkly lights and garlands draped between lampposts. Everyone I walked past would say hello. When it got just cold enough, that’s when I’d walk past the bookshop. It would smell like cider inside and sure enough, there would be a little beverage cart near the door with cups and a cheery sign that would read Help yourself. I’d switch out my hot chocolate for a cider and wander around the store. It would be large but full of books and leather chairs and maybe even a cat lounging on some shelves. Every book I wanted to buy would be in stock and I’d find a few more that I hadn’t even known I wanted. But the thing that made it the Perfect Day would be that when I went to check out, the salesperson would recognize me. It’s you, they’d say, and then point to a shelf where my book was prominently displayed. Would you mind signing some copies? they’d ask. We’re big fans of your work.
That, I think, would truly be the Perfect Day.
xoChani
Chapter
21
My head hurt and my tongue was fuzzy. I felt queasy and I knew that if I tried to go back to bed, all I’d get was a few hours of weird, uneasy sleep and possibly bad dreams mixed in as well. I’d feel gross and tired and I knew that I was going to be spending the rest of this day lying in bed.
Then I realized I wasn’t home. And it wasn’t daytime.
It was dark, but there was light coming through the floor-length curtains—enough for me to get a decent view of where I was. A bedroom. A big bedroom. The bed was ridiculously large. I’d never been in a king-sized bed before but this seemed even more massive than that. Like I could start rolling to one side and it would be morning before I got to the edge. The sheets were really nice—soft and luxurious. They smelled good too.
It took a moment for me to realize exactly what they smelled like. An expensive, exclusive cedar tree.
I sat up fast, my head hating me.
I was in Gabe’s house. In Gabe’s bed.
Looking around, I confirmed that I was alone and—except for my shoes—I was fully clothed. I slumped back against the very nice pillows.
Shit.
I didn’t know what was more embarrassing—that I’d passed out in Gabe’s bed or that I was in Gabe’s bed alone.
I could practically hear my roommate groaning.
“You were that close to fucking him and this is what happened?” she’d say to me.
I definitely needed new friends.
I tried to piece together the rest of the evening. I’d had a sip or two of whisky, followed up by a bucket of jelly beans. Then we’d been playing Running Pyramid, and I’d been very bad until I wasn’t, probably around the time my jelly bean sugar high hit, and at some point, we had been celebrating winning. Gabe’s dog had been jumping and barking and everyone had been laughing and after that I could remember lying down on the dog bed next to the puppy, who had been so tired and overwhelmed by the party that she’d put herself to bed, and I apparently had tried to do the same thing and now I could remember Gabe trying to get me off the dog bed, laughing as he did, while I kept trying to swat him away.
My stomach and heart both gave a lurch as the rest of my memory came back. Gabe had knelt down next to me—his face close to mine.
“Are you ready for bed?” he’d asked.
I must have nodded or snuggled in even closer to his puppy, who had let out a sigh of contentment, and I think I said that I would just stay there with her, but Gabe said that I couldn’t sleep on the dog bed and then he had put his arms around me and lifted me up against his chest. I wasn’t a small person—I was tall with lots of lanky limbs—and yet, he’d picked me up like I was the puppy herself and carried me into this room.
Into his room.