This Story Might Save Your Life(3)

I’m still frozen in place when the electricity hums back on.

“It’s the window,” Benny calls down a few seconds later. “Latch broke.”

The words sink in one by one. “What are the dogs barking at?” I call back.

“Coyote. Teasing them through the fence again.” A pause. I hear the door to the balcony open and close. “There’s no one out there, Joy. Nothing to worry about.”

Nothing to worry about. I take a deep, shuddering breath as they discuss DIY fixes upstairs. Toggling through my open computer applications, I find my half of the memoir I’m writing with Benny and scan the chapter I hastily typed out last night.

It’s strange seeing your life unfold through the pages of a memoir. These past few months, I’ve often wondered what Benny and I would’ve done differently if we’d known this career was going to make us famous, if we could’ve foreseen how it would all play out.

When I reach my final words, my stomach clenches.

I can’t do this. I thought I could do this. I thought I could share my side of the story, but now, knowing it will soon be read, I feel sick.

Closing my tabs, I make a split-second decision. On a scrap of paper, I scrawl out a note, conceal it in my fist, and wait for Mallory and Benny to return. When they do, just a few minutes later, my body—so unpredictable of late—has already grown heavy.

“Shall we get this episode in the can?” Benny asks.

“Actually,” I say, “I’m sorry to do this, but would you mind telling me how I’m going to escape this whale tomorrow? I’m starting to fade.”

Mallory glances at the clock, no doubt noting I’m off schedule.

Benny shrugs. “Fine by me.”

We agree on a time. When Mallory’s not looking, I tuck the note—now damp from my sweaty palm—into the fraying pocket of Benny’s shorts and press a finger to my lips. Shh. He half smiles with confusion as I urge him along. Mallory trails him out, and through the ceiling, I hear Benny call to his dog, followed by the pitter-patter of paws circling in excitement. When the sounds upstairs fade away, I move into my bedroom.

Sleep will come soon, whether I’m ready or not. I set my alarm and slip into bed, picturing Benny unfolding my note, squinting curiously at my request. He was wrong when he said there was nothing to worry about. There’s plenty to worry about. Clutching my pillow, I listen to the howling wind and wait for the storm to come.





Benny Abbott


Day One

The tree fell at midnight, but all I could see then was the silvery shudder of leaves illuminated by the moon. Now I take in the full destruction with a sinking stomach. My shed, once a pint-sized version of my mid-century ranch, has been reduced to a heap of rubble beneath a half ton of eucalyptus. Richie sniffs at the wreckage, burrowing under a dense branch until all that’s visible is his pointy white-tipped tail.

There’s a metallic squeal, the slamming of a door. Over the fence, I spot my neighbor Ted plodding onto his back porch. He’s in his bathrobe, white belly exposed and straining his belt. We say nothing—we’ve spoken only through lawyers this past month—but I note the I told you so written all over his face. He’s been warning me about this tree since I moved in.

“Richie,” I call. “Come on, boy. Let’s go.”

He ignores me.

“Treat? Do you want a treat?”

This does the trick. He comes running, leaves and bark stippling his fur, and we dart inside. Richie knows the drill. In the kitchen, he sits and waits by the counter where I keep his snacks. Crinkled beside them is Joy’s note: Meet me tonight. Here. 7pm sharp. Very important.

Seeing it, my hangover flares.

I hadn’t known what to expect when I first dug it out of my pocket. Given Joy felt the need to be sneaky, I thought this “very important” meeting might have something to do with Mallory. Or the live shows. Or, relatedly, the “incident” this past August. Joy and I were overdue for all manner of heart-to-hearts, including how distracted I’ve been since my divorce. I arrived at 7:00 p.m. sharp as instructed, ready to talk. But what came next was unexpected, and no matter how I replay the scene in my head, I’m still not sure what happened. One minute she was greeting me with a hug, the next … disaster.

For the twentieth time since I rolled out of bed, I check my phone. Not a single response to the humiliating texts I sent after I left, the latest of which asks if we’re still recording today.

Richie wags his tail, and I realize I haven’t yet given him his treat. I award him with two for his patience and have just started making coffee when my phone buzzes. My heart jolts, but it’s not Joy. It’s a calendar notification: Cleaning Day.

Of course it is.

Resignedly, I survey the kitchen through my house cleaner’s eyes—the overfull trash can, the pile of unfolded laundry on the breakfast table, the half-empty bottle of Michter’s, the pizza I burned and left out on the stove. Ordinarily, I would have made an attempt to tidy the worst of it, to perpetuate the fiction that I’m still a capable adult.

Ordinarily, my whole body isn’t thrumming with regret.



* * *



IT’S 1,528 STEPS from my front door to theirs. Joy calculated it when I moved in. 1,528 steps for me, 1,600 for her, and roughly 4,000 for the pups. Richie pulls at his leash, and we hopscotch through palm fronds and other wind-related debris, sticking to what shade we can find beneath the cedars and oaks. The second Joy and Xander’s bougainvillea-laced fence and white stucco home come into view, a knot forms in my chest. People say dogs mirror our energy, but our mirror must be broken because Richie bounds eagerly down the terraced yard the instant I lift the latch.