I sigh happily, but as the breath exits my body, a nervous feeling replaces it. The more I think about Will the swoonier I get, and the swoonier I get the more confused I become. I mean, could Will really be written for me? Am I really just a character Lucy Keating created? Is everyone? I glance over at my dad. And worse: Did Lucy Keating seriously construct my parents’ divorce just to add a plot layer to my story? An “inciting incident,” Epstein would call it. It frustrates me that in the back of my mind I can still hear Lucy’s voice, telling me this was all her plan. What did I do to deserve this?
Feeling restless, I put down The Elements of Style and decide to Google Lucy Keating on my phone, where a new Interview Magazine article pops up. It’s a photo of the author on a sunny chaise at an old-Hollywood type haunt, and the title reads: “The Irony and the Ecstasy: Lucy Keating was known for her tragic endings. Could the collapse of her marriage have finally turned her into a romantic?”
Q: You recently went through a fairly private divorce with a fairly high-profile man, Edwin Clarke, the youngest-ever CEO of Clarke Industries, which owns two of the biggest media agencies in the world.
LK: [Smiling] Is there a question in there?
Q: Forgive us. We’re prying.
LK: Edwin and I met at Brown. We were English majors, aspiring writers. Everything was different then. I got an MFA; he got an MBA . . . let’s just say that sometimes people can change together, and sometimes they can’t.
Q: Did the heartache over the breakup inform any of your work?
LK: Not yet. But oddly enough, I had found kind of a cult following in the tragic. People read my books knowing they would go from up to down again, that in the end they were going to get a good cry out of it.
Q: But not anymore?
LK: I’ve done enough crying.
Q: So where do you go from here?
LK: Well, a lot has changed for me in the past year or so. Now I’m in sunny California. I just adopted another dog. He’s a pain in the butt, but I love him. I want to try and take myself a little less seriously. I want my characters to be happy.
Q: And how’s that going?
LK: I’m getting some pushback.
Q: From your editors?
LK: [Smiling again] From my characters.
Well, this pisses me off. I mean, excuse me for having an opinion on my life being a total freaking construct. I realize how ridiculous I sound, and I want to scream, but then I glance up to notice the women next to me reading over my shoulder.
“Sorry.” She gives a bashful shrug. “I just love her.”
I attempt a smile.
“You know they’re making Across the Sea into a movie?” the woman asks.
“I didn’t,” I answer, and in my head I wonder, If my story became a movie, who would play me? Then I shake the image from my mind. This is all bananas.
“Who are you waiting for?” I ask, nodding toward the exam rooms and trying to change the subject.
“Tuna,” she answers.
“A fish?” I ask, surprised. I didn’t realize people took their pet fish to the vet.
“Tunafish is a hamster,” the woman clarifies then, and I can’t seem to find the right words to respond to this.
The vet comes out through the swinging doors and walks over to her, holding a small shoe box. “He’s still a little groggy, but he did very well,” he says. Tunafish’s human companion thanks the vet profusely and my father gives me a look over the top of his iPad, then notices the book in my lap.
“Where’d you get that?” my dad asks, pointing to The Elements of Style after Tuna and his caretaker have left.
“A friend,” I say, feeling my cheeks get warmer.
“A boy?” my dad asks, with raised brows.
“Yeah, a boy,” I answer.
“I remember that book from college. He must really like you,” he observes.
“Why do you say that?” I ask, my voice getting weird and high.
“Because he must really be paying attention,” my dad replies, looking back at his iPad with a small smile.
I’m in a weird mood when I open the door to my bedroom at home, which makes the sight of Elliot, lying on my couch and reading my creative-writing notebook, particularly infuriating.
“These stories suck,” he tells me.
“I know,” I say, snatching it out of his hand and walking over to my desk. “But thanks for your support. And also, get out of my room.”
“I am being supportive, Bellybutton,” Elliot explains, sitting up. “You’re a quasi-genius. You win awards for your writing. And those stories look like they were written by, well . . . me.”
“Can you leave?” I ask again.
“Whoa,” Elliot says, holding his hands high in the air like he’s not responsible for whatever is happening on my face. “Annabelle. Relax. I’m kidding.”
“No, you’re not,” I say, my voice starting to shake. “They suck, I know. I don’t even want to be taking this stupid class. I have to. Do you think I like being bad at school? Failing doesn’t come so easily to all of us.” This last part was unnecessary, I know, but I need him out of here. His presence is a reminder of just how out of control my life is becoming.
“Is there a shot you can take when your bitchiness becomes unchecked? Because if so I will gladly give it to you,” Elliot retorts.
“Good one,” I say.
“You asked for it,” he says back.
“No, I didn’t, actually,” I say. “I didn’t ask for you to be in here. Why are you always in here?!”
Elliot raises his hands silently again, his face still, and starts to walk toward the door.
“I don’t even know how to explain it,” I hear myself say, rearranging the top of my desk over and over again to try to calm myself down, before laying my head in my hands. My eyes have become wet. “Do you ever just feel like your life is, like”—how can I even explain this to him—“written for you?”
To my surprise, Elliot stops, and nods. “Sure,” he says.
“Really?” I look up.
“Yeah, really.”
“Then what do you do?”
“I give it the middle finger,” Elliot says seriously, and a small laugh escapes my lips.
I think about how I tried to avoid Will all day, but he kept showing up, and then he gave me that freaking book, the sweetest thing imaginable. All I wanted was to get away from the person—the character—Lucy Keating had written for me, but then there he was, being so . . . great.
“But what if you can’t? What if you try and it doesn’t work?”
“Is this about your parents?” Elliot asks, sitting down on my bed. “Because I’ve been there.”
“It’s not about them!” I cry, and I want to throw something. But maybe it is, in a way. Maybe it’s about the fact that a week ago my life was great. Maybe not perfect, but pretty close. I had it all under control. And now I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t even know what’s real.
“Annabelle, if you don’t like the way your life is going . . . rewrite it,” Elliot says, having no idea how much sense he’s making. He’s leaning over and wresting his elbows on his thighs, the closest he’s been to me since the concert.
“I’m trying,” I whimper.
“So keep trying,” he says back. “You worry too much.”
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. He’s still so close, and just then I have an insane urge to stick my head in the crook of his neck, and keep it there. Will may smell like laundry, but Elliot smells like warmth. He smells like where warmth begins.
“Annabelle?” Elliot asks.