“No one is saying it wouldn’t be good, I was just saying that—”
“You motherfuckers!” Natalie shouted, turning to everyone. “Shut up, and you, motherfucker”—she pointed at me—“what the hell are you doing here? And Polly, here, take ten dollars and we’ll call it done for the day.” She shoved a fistful of cash at Polly and her swear jar, which she carried everywhere nowadays. Kid was going to be able to pay for her own college at this rate.
“Clara.” Roxie smiled. “Are you here for . . . ?”
“Yes, yes, I am.” I nodded happily. “Do you know where he is?”
“He’s down by the mangler,” Mrs. Toomey interjected, and Mrs. Banning told her to hush up.
“He’s up on the third-floor balcony,” Roxie said, beaming. “They’re about to do the Fourth of July Porch Jump.”
Yes! That’s it! That’s the tradition I couldn’t remember, the Porch Jump. Since the hotel had been built, guests and staff alike had been jumping from the third-floor balcony into the lake below to celebrate our country’s birthday. It was the oldest and most beloved tradition. Short of the hot cross buns. And they jumped promptly at 5 p.m.
I looked at the grandfather clock across the lobby just as it started to chime.
Bong . . .
My heart leapt into my throat. I took off running for the staircase. I took the first three steps in one leap, taking the next few entirely in double time. Behind me, I heard my gaggle of people give chase, crashing into each other as they tried to follow me up the stairs, but I had a huge head start.
“Where are we going?”
“Weren’t you listening? The third floor, come on!”
“This is so exciting!”
“I’m so glad I already have popcorn!”
Bong . . .
I was on the second-floor landing, striding fast and passing guests on the left and right. Even though I was running, even though I was racing to find the man I loved more than anything on this planet, I couldn’t help but notice they’d removed the carpet and the fucking wood floors underneath were incredible.
Bong . . .
My feet hit the first step to the third floor, and I nearly took out a potted palm tree—hey, that was new.
I hit the fifth step. I wished I had time, more time, to think about what to say now that I was here, now that I’d be seeing him again. What could I say to make him hear me and know how sorry I was that I left the way I did? Could I make him see me, hear me, love me again? What if he didn’t love me anymore? Oh shit.
Bong . . .
“Can you see her? Where is she?”
“Pinup, quit hitting me, that doesn’t make me go faster.”
“Sorry, sorry, so sorry, excuse us, pardon us, so sorry, excuse us.”
“Mangler, I’m telling you, the mangler will take care of her.”
“I’m worried about you, Prudence.”
“Why would anyone jump off a porch?”
“Why wouldn’t everyone jump off a porch?”
I cleared the last step, looked around wildly. There was a crowd of people all gathered around the balcony, some in bathing suits and some still in their summer dresses and Bermuda shorts, all teetering on the edge of the wooden railing, poised and waiting for something, some kind of signal, to jump into the lake below.
I burst into the room, my peanut gallery less than ten feet behind me, pushing my way toward the front, elbowing like a groupie at a concert, trying to get up to the front before—
Bong . . .
Five p.m.
There. Standing dead center in the middle of the railing, perched and ready to jump. He turned around with a whistle in his mouth, ready to sound off and let everyone know it was time.
I pushed through the crowd, one particularly robust man throwing a wide arm and almost causing me to hit the deck, but as I gave one more strong push with my runner’s legs, he saw me.
His eyes met mine and my eyes met his and in his surprise and shock and my delight and happy kicky balloon lovestruck . . . well. The world just plain faded away.
But my forward momentum was still kicking.
And just as he blew on his little whistle I crashed through the last string of cheerleaders and leapt up onto the railing, smashing into his chest as I threw my arms around his neck . . . and carried us both right off the ledge.
He tweeted his whistle the entire way down.
They say time is elastic. Sometimes an hour passes in an instant while you scratch and cling at every second as they go by, willing them to slow down. Sometimes, an instant stretches out to an hour, when everything runs in super slow-mo, time itself elongated as the edges blur and the colors run.
I fell three stories with Archie Bryant, and it was a lifetime. I knew he was blowing his whistle, there was a part of me that could even hear it, shrill and pitchy as we plunged toward the lake below. But inside that bubble, the part of me that was inside that space where time stood still, I knew nothing except what it felt like to feel his skin under my touch and to be able to just stare into his eyes, searching for a hint of anything, anything that might tell me where I stood.
In those three stories, his eyes spoke to me, volumes and volumes of words and sentences and paragraphs collected into pure raw emotion.
Hurt.
Sorrow.
Fear.
Passion.
Heat.
Anger.
Disappointment.
Elation.
Joy.
Hunger.
Need.
Hope.
And finally, just before we hit the water . . . once more, hurt.
We splashed down, hitting the glacial lake as one, plunging under the cold, clear water, descending down into the watery depths, the chill taking my breath away.
Also, to be clear, he tweeted his whistle the entire way down.
Once underwater, I let go of him, and upon surfacing we were several feet away from each other. He surfaced . . . angry.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he huffed, brushing his hair out of his face. “Who does something like that?”
“I didn’t plan to do that, I just got excited when I saw you and I didn’t want you to jump without me so—”
“So you threw us both off a balcony?” he sputtered. I tried to swim closer, but he paddled away.
“Technically, I did the Porch Jump. I just didn’t know I was going to do it or I would have taken a moment to take off my aspirational sandals.”
“Inspirational sandals?”
“Aspirational, as in, I bought them before I could afford them, years ago, when I was trying to show the world what I was aspiring to be. You know, it’s like dressing for the job you want instead of the job you have? Anyway, I saw these expensive Kate Spade sandals in the window at Saks one time and I just knew I needed to have them. Yellow and turquoise with a peep toe and a kitten heel, they looked like exactly the person I wanted to be. And eventually, they became like my good-luck shoes.”