This Story Might Save Your Life(101)
“You’re back.” He opens his arms, and I tuck into his embrace. His white undershirt gives off the warm scent of eucalyptus and sleep, of Benny, and I burrow my nose into it.
“I’m back.”
“How was it?”
“I…” I take a moment. “I think I’m speechless.”
He asks no more, only squeezes me tighter, and we remain this way, without another word, until the dogs scratch at the back door.
“The internet is blowing up,” he says after letting them out. “Reviews are all good so far.”
I cover my ears, half joking. I told him I didn’t want to read any reviews, much less talk about them, but maybe I only meant the bad ones. My stomach flutters as I ask, hesitantly, “Yeah?”
He opens his mouth, and before my thoughts have a chance to catch up, my hands are waving for him to stop. “Never mind, I didn’t ask. Tell me nothing. Not a word. I don’t want to know.”
“But how do you really feel?”
I laugh, but it sounds hollow, even to my ears. “When do the interviews start?”
Glancing at the clock on the microwave, he says, “We have another hour.”
“Sixty minutes for you to read those reviews you’re never going to tell me about?”
“Sixty minutes for me to show you your surprise.”
“Surprise?”
His eyes twinkle as he leads me outside to the Zen Den, which was rebuilt, again, and christened as our full-time recording studio four months ago. A squirrel scampers to the roof, and our dogs turn frantic circles, sending wood chips flying in all directions as Benny opens the door.
I stop at the threshold.
On the opposite wall, behind our new recording desk, is a floor-to-ceiling painting of the family living room from the Happy Days studio set. However, pictured in it is not the original Happy Days cast. The only OG character is Fonzie, the king of cool, standing in the background with his thumbs up. In the foreground, on the iconic blue floral sofa, Benny and I sit squished together holding hands between our furry beagle-mutt costars, Richie and Potsie. The edges are painted to look like a seventies television, and the colors are saturated, and I immediately start crying when I see it.
“Oh no.” Benny touches my cheek, searching my eyes. “It’s too much, isn’t it? I knew it was too much. Fonzie—I shouldn’t have—that was stupid of me. I can take it down.”
He makes to remove it, but I grab his arm. “No.”
Several months ago, we threw the Fonz in the trash. The statue had too much history. But the fact remains that those two thumbs have saved my life in multiple ways. This gesture takes them back, gives them new meaning. From here on out, these happy days are Benny’s and mine. Live, and in Technicolor. “I love it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Not too on the nose?”
“It’s absolutely too on the nose. But also perfect.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
He wipes a stray tear from my cheek. “Let’s say you’re finally together with your best friend, whom you’ve loved since the day you met, and you’re so excited about your new life together you might spontaneously combust. What do you do?”
“What do I do?” I wrap my arms around him. “Tell me first. Am I alone in my tandem kayak, or is he joining me this time?”
“He’ll join you, but you have to promise to stop sacrificing him to wild animals.”
“Fine. But only if he lets me have—” I angle back to meet his eye.
He waits for it. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
“Of course not. You’re going to do it willingly.”
Shaking his head, as if he can’t believe this is actually happening, he says, “Fine. You can have a sword.”
Through the windows of the recording studio, we see a flash of fur as the dogs chase another squirrel. Beyond that, slightly obscured by morning haze, is the jagged LA skyline. The air is warm, the promise of another hot fall day, and the wind is picking up strength. Unafraid, I tighten my hold on Benny as it whistles through the trees.
Acknowledgments
Eighteen years ago, while living in a small Spanish revival in Mount Washington beside a paparazzo and a judge, I decided to give this whole novel-writing thing a try. I’d caught the fiction bug long before, but I was a Dutch dairy farm girl with a business degree. Far too practical to let myself believe I could ever make a career in the arts. That all changed when I became pregnant with my son Mason. As the pregnancy progressed, I kept a journal of wishes for him, and at the top of the list was my hope that he would have the courage to pursue his dreams. Only then did it occur to me: If I wanted to lead by example, then why wasn’t I doing the same?
Cue montage of the next two decades: online classes, a handful of moves, a second son, an MFA. Three literary “practice” novels. A couple of close calls. A big relocation to Atlanta in 2021, where I stopped playing it safe and wrote the book of my heart. And finally, in 2024, the deal that made it possible for you to be reading these words right now.
A month after signing my contract, in the most tear-jerking full-circle moment of my life, Mason wrote about TSMSYL in an essay for one of his college applications. The prompt was to discuss a book that inspired him, so he turned it back toward my publication journey—about how a lifetime of watching me chase (and finally achieve!) my dreams has given him the courage to pursue his own. (He got in.)