We’ve had to resort to spending days apart, just to get some work done. Today was not one of those days
“Ash? Hey.”
I wake with a start. I’m sprawled face down in the middle of Jake’s bed and look up blearily to find him sitting next to me, freshly showered and fully dressed.
I sit up and rub my face. “Hey. How long was I asleep?”
“A couple of hours. If I didn’t have to go to this blogger thing with Sid, I’d still be in there with you.” He puts a fresh cup of coffee next to me. “I’ve made it extra strong, so drink it, and then look over those edits I did yesterday. There’s something not right about them, and I need your incredible brain to tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
“Yeah. Okay.” I still feel dazed. I’ve never done a lot of drugs, but I can imagine that an orgasm hangover is much like coming down from a high. Everything hurts in the best way possible, and all I want to do is order takeout, snuggle with Jake, and binge-watch something on Netflix.
“Ash? You’re awake, right?”
“Totally.” I flop back and then arch as I yawn and stretch. Jake’s focus tries to roam everywhere at once.
“Dammit, woman.” He leans over and kisses my hip bone. “Turning me on before I have to get on the subway …” He kisses up the side of my ribcage. ”… could get me arrested.” He finishes by cupping my breast and planting a light kiss on my nipple. “Put that weaponized sexiness away. At least until I get home.”
He pulls the comforter up to hide my nakedness. And when he grazes his fingers over my cheek, I take his hand and kiss his palm as I work up the nerve to ask him something. There’s been a thought niggling at me for a while, and I’ve put off asking him, because I know I might not like the answer, but I can’t avoid it forever.
“Before you go, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
I look at his fingers to avoid his face.
“I know you said you’re over Ingrid, but … do you ever think of her when we’re together? Maybe wish she was here with you instead of me?”
Jake’s face falls. “Jesus, Ash … no.” He’s denying it, but I can tell he’s not telling me the whole truth.
“It’s okay,” I say, feeling stupid for asking when I knew it would make me feel like crap. “I get it. She’s your soul mate. You spent a year writing poetry about her. In a couple of months, you’ll be the published author of a book about her. I just know that when it comes out, the only thing people are going to want to hear about is that relationship, and … well, I’ll be standing in the background like some sort of consolation prize.”
He takes both of my hands in his. “Asha, you’re no one’s consolation prize. Ingrid is past history. You’re my future.”
I look at him. “But you don’t know for certain she’s over you. I can’t shake the fear that she’ll read this book and decide she wants you back. I mean, the way you write about her … the obvious passion in your words. How could any woman read that and not be moved?”
Jake looks down at our hands, his expression conflicted. His jaw is tensing like crazy, and he keeps looking like he’s about to say something but then stopping himself.
Finally, after a few hitching breaths, he looks at me and says, “I’ve been so wrapped up in this whole thing - the book, having you back in my life … I didn’t even think how the Ingrid thing would affect you. I’m such an asshole.”
I start to disagree, but he stops me. “Ash, this is on me. Not you. There are things I should have told you a long time ago, and because I didn’t …” He shakes his head like he’s angry at himself then looks me in the eyes. “I don’t have time to get into it now, but let’s talk tonight. Meet me at Dad’s place. Eight o’clock.”
I nod. “Okay, but why there?”
“Just meet me, okay?” He looks at the clock and swears under his breath. “I gotta go.” He takes my face in both hands and kisses me with so much tenderness, it takes my breath away. “See you tonight.”
He grabs his keys and wallet and heads toward the door. When he opens it, he turns back to me. “And for what it’s worth, my feelings about you are in a different universe to how I felt about Ingrid. There’s no comparison.”
He closes the door behind him, and I wait until his footfalls fade before padding over to the bathroom and turning on the shower. I know he was trying to reassure me, but that last statement could be taken either way.
Standing under the warm spray, I let my thoughts twist around themselves until they come up with the most pessimistic outcomes. I’m not usually a paranoid person, but when you love someone as much as I love Jake, a certain amount of suspicion comes with the territory. I’ve never really dealt with the jealousy I felt over Ingrid being so important to him, and those thoughts keep prodding at old bruises, making them ache.
After getting dressed, I throw myself into my work to keep my mind busy. I speed through Jake’s chapters, red-penning the areas he needs to rewrite or refine, and then I look over the final production schedule that Serena has sent through. All of the artwork for the book is now completed, and we only have a week to complete the final edits and formatting before it heads to the printers. If we’re going to have any chance of getting this thing done in time, Jake and I are going to have to spend most of our days apart.
After I’m done replying to all my emails, I rub my hands together and go over to the bed. As the weather gets colder, it gets more and more impossible to work in this place without bundling up. I grab the comforter, and as I pull it off the bed and wrap it around my shoulders, I manage to knock over a stack of Jake’s storage crates.
“Oh, you sonuvabitch.”
When they hit the floor, their contents explode everywhere, and I crouch down to make sure I haven’t broken anything. I check his camera first. The lens cap came off, but otherwise it seems okay. As I’m gathering up all of his photos, I notice a loose piece of paper, so I pick it up. It’s a handwritten letter.
Dear Jake,
I can’t believe this is goodbye. These past few months with you have been the happiest of my life. I thought I’d never find someone like you, and after everything with Roger, I wasn’t even looking. But as I peered out from the deck at the Zen Farm, there you were, and from the first time I saw you, I knew you were meant to be mine. You’re the first man to whom I’ve given everything: My heart, mind, body, and soul. And no matter where you go, or what you do, you will always carry part of my soul with you.
I wish I could convince you to stay. I know you have your reasons for going home, but I feel like we’re ending before we even began, and whenever I think of you getting on that plane, my heart splinters and breaks.
Every day we’re apart, I’ll pray you change your mind about us. And if you ever do, please know, I’ll be waiting.
All my love, always,
Ingrid.
When I’m done I just sit there, staring at the letter, trying to force it to make sense.
After five minutes of rereading, I still have no explanation as to why Jake’s account of their breakup and this letter seem to be polar opposites. All this time I’ve been telling myself that she’s out of his life forever because she chose the other guy. But she didn’t. She chose him. And he’s been lying about it this whole time.
I grab my phone off the coffee table and hesitate before making the call, but I know I need to do it.
“Hey, Jo. Do you still have that link for Ingrid’s Facebook? I need it.”
TWENTY-THREE
____________________
House of Cards
THERE’S A COLD BREEZE AS I walk through my old neighborhood, but I’m angry enough that I don’t feel it. Whatever Jake has planned tonight, I’m going to need a shitton of answers.
After a few minutes, I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of the house in which I grew up, and a strange sense of inevitability washes over me. It’s as if little pieces of me have been making their way here ever since Jake walked back into my life, a
nd now the rest of me is catching up.
We reminisce about this place all the time, replaying moments from our childhoods, but the home in my memory bears little resemblance to the house in front of me. That’s the porch where Mom had her morning coffee, but it’s narrower than I remember. There are the front steps where Jake and I would stage terrible one-act plays, but I’m sure they were bigger. Even the Tree of Love in Jake’s yard seems stunted and less vibrant.
They say you can never go home again, but that’s not true. You can, but you’ll always be astounded by how small everything seems. Jake’s dad stayed in their old house until the end, but I don’t even know who lives in ours these days. Both houses are dark, so maybe Jake’s not here yet.
I tilt my head when I hear music, and right away I know where it’s coming from. For years Jake and I shared walls and porches, backyards, and beds. But the one place that was truly ours stood by itself.
I walk around the side of the house and down the driveway. At the end, huddled in the shadows of a huge oak tree is the garage. Because Jake’s dad didn’t own a car, it was used for storage, and there was an attic area that Jake and I claimed as our own. It was dank and musty, but to us, it was the most magical place in the world. When we were little, we used to steal any spare blankets and pillows and carry them up the rickety ladder. And then we added books, and toys, and pencils and paper. One time, Jake found some old fairy lights that one of the neighbors had thrown away. Somehow, he got them working, and we draped them over nails in the roof, so we could pretend we were somewhere exotic, lying under the stars.
Right now, light is spilling out of the garage windows, and as I get closer I can make out that the music is an old Natalie Cole album. It was one of Mom’s favorites, and it’s what we used to listen to when we wanted to smooth over the rough edges of our lives.
I pull the door open and step inside, and the sight that greets me isn’t at all what I expected. In the space that used to be packed with storage boxes and old holiday decorations, there’s now a large Persian rug topped by a huge wooden desk; the kind that would have looked at home in a lawyer’s office in the fifties. On the desk are stacks of notebooks, similar to the ones at Jake’s apartment.
My first thought is that if they’re all full of words, Jake’s more prolific than I ever imagined. But then I realize there’s no way he filled all these books in the last couple of years. He’s been writing a lot longer than that.
I glance over to where Jake’s leaning on the edge of the desk. When he sees me, he stands, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. When I go over to him, he tries to take my hand, but I pull back. I need to hear what he has to say before I let him disarm me.
He nods like he understands. “I’ve run through having this conversation with you a thousand times in my head, and it was never easy. But I don’t think I ever thought I’d feel like I want to throw up.” He rubs the back of his hand on his chin. “Ash, I haven’t been honest with you, and I hate that my lie made you feel like you weren’t the most important thing in the world to me, because you are.” He looks at my hand again but doesn’t touch me. “I know you’re worried about Ingrid changing her mind and coming back, but that’s not going to happen. Ingrid didn’t break up with me. I left her.”
“I figured that out already.” When I pull Ingrid’s letter out of my pocket and hand it to him, he crumples it up.
“I wasn’t snooping,” I say, as if it matters how I found it. “I knocked over your storage boxes, and it fell out.”
He drops it on the desk, agitated. “Goddammit. I’m sorry I didn’t come clean with you before. It’s my fault for waiting so long.”
“I also looked through Ingrid’s social media today. You’re all over it. As recently as a few days ago, she was re-posting a memory of you two and saying how much she missed you and loves you. What the hell, Jake?”
He drops his head. “I was so stupid to lie about it, but I didn’t know what else to do. You were sold on the story of me pining over the soul mate I lost, and Ingrid was the obvious choice.”
“So, it’s all been bullshit? All the poems … those beautiful, passionate poems were just words? You made up a false narrative to make them seem more profound than they were?”
He stares at me for a few seconds, like I’ve connected the dots but failed to see the picture they formed. “Those poems weren’t fake, they were from my heart. Every emotion in them was real. I just didn’t write them for Ingrid.” He takes a deep breath. “They were about you.”
My heart falters as the memories of all those incredible words flood my mind. I’m too shocked to form a reply.
“It’s always been you, Asha. How do you not know that by now?”
I’m trying to piece everything together in my mind, but I can’t. “So, the travel … Ingrid … the poems didn’t start until after her.”
“I left Brooklyn to get away from you, but I was an idiot thinking I could outrun how I felt. Instead of pining for you here, I sat in front of the Taj Mahal and did it. I stared out from the top of the Eiffel Tower and wanted to show you the view. I longed for you on every continent, in front of every piece of art that made me grateful for life. But it all ended up meaning nothing without you there to share it.”
He gestures to the crumpled note on the desk. “And then I met Ingrid, and I thought, my God, finally. A woman who might be able to take your place in my heart. And I tried with her. I did everything in my power to give her just one small piece of myself. But it was no use. You owned me. All of me.”
Everything is clicking into place in stages, but none of it makes me feel better.
“All this time I believed she was your soul mate and I was your second choice. Do you have any idea how that made me feel?”
He comes toward me cautiously. “Ash, I never wanted to hurt you. That was the last thing I intended. Haven’t you ever gotten yourself into a lie so deep, you didn’t know how to get out? I sat in front of you and your bosses and spun a whole mess of crap about Ingrid. And then I had to continue it, because I knew that if I admitted what I’d done, you would have looked at me like you’re doing right now. Disbelief. A little disgust.” He takes my hands. “I’m so sorry. I hate that I deceived you.”
I pull away, too angry to be touched. “Not just me, Jake. Everyone. We all bought your story. Your fans literally bought it. You sold us all a lie. And I look like the biggest idiot of all, because you’re the person I thought I knew everything about. No one is going to believe I wasn’t in on it. My reputation will be dragged through the mud along with yours.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. This is all on me.”
“No, it’s not, Jake. That’s the problem. This is on all of us. Every single person at Whiplash. This book was supposed to revive our failing company. You were going to be our savior. There are hundreds of thousands of pre-orders all over the country, and now … all of that is trashed.”
“What if we change Ingrid’s name? Make her a fictional character.”
I sit in the chair behind the desk and drop my head into my hands. “The reason this book has gotten so much buzz is because everyone thinks it’s auto-biographical. There are a million fictional romances out there. This one was supposed to be the real deal. If someone finds out it’s fake, and they will, we’ll all be labelled frauds.”
We fall into silence, and I feel like we’re a high-wire duo who’s just come crashing to earth. Everything was going so well. The book. Us. And now I can’t see a way forward. Every mental path I try to go down rips us to shreds.
Jake puts his hands flat on the desk and looks at me. “There must be something we can do.”
“There is,” I say, tiredly. “I go to see Serena in the morning and tell her the truth. She’ll cancel your contract, order you to repay the advance, fire me, and then probably announce that Whiplash is closing its doors due to bankruptcy.”
Jake’s nostrils flare. “That’s not an acceptable outcome.”
“Well, that’
s the only one I can foresee.”
“And what happens to you and me?”
I shake my head, unable to form cohesive thought about anything, least of all us. “I can’t even think about us right now.”
“Listen, Ash, I’m not going to let my stupid mistake ruin us or your career. I’m going to fix this.”
“How?”
He pulls out his phone and dials. “Still working that out. Leave it with me.” He heads out the doors, and as he goes, I hear, “Hey, Serena. It’s Jake Stone. We need to talk.”
I rub my eyes and roll my neck. I don’t see any way for this situation to be redeemed, no matter how confident Jake seems. If he can talk Serena into some sort of compromise, it will be a miracle.
I glance over at the ladder leading up to the attic space. The fairy lights are on, and they take me back to a simpler time, when my most complicated issue was whether to have an apple or grape juice box.
I walk over and scale the ladder, mindful that I’m a lot bigger than when I was here last. When I get to top, I smile despite my shitty mood. Not only does it look exactly as I remember it, but Jake must have spent time cleaning up and washing all the pillows and rugs, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen the place look so spotless. On the upturned trash can we used as a table, there’s a book. When I go pick it up, I see it our old dictionary, the one we found in Mrs. Garcia’s trash. I think about what Jake said, that every word needs another word to describe it. Right now, if there was an entry for “Jake and Asha” in there, the definition would be ‘totally and utterly fucked.’
I hate that he lied, and I hate that everything could go to hell because of it. What was he thinking? Did he really believe it wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass one day?
Somewhere deep inside me there’s a tiny sliver of relief that I’m not his second choice after all, but right now, it’s buried beneath layers of anxiety and fear, not just for myself, but for all my friends who will lose their jobs if Jake doesn’t make things right.