This Story Might Save Your Life(53)
“But it didn’t go through.”
“Right. Because Xander stopped it.”
She nods knowingly, biting her lip.
“Oh.”
“You’re not going to like my next question, but I have to ask it.” She takes my hand. Squeezes. “Has Joy been wearing different clothes lately? Scarves? Turtlenecks? Long sleeves when it’s hot?”
My stomach drops so fast I feel like I’m going to be sick. “Oh my god.”
“Shit.” She encircles me with her arms and presses her cheek to my shoulder. “We don’t know anything for sure.”
My eyes fill. I rest my head on top of hers. “This isn’t good.”
“No. But whatever’s happening, I’m here for her, and I’m here for you, and we’re going to do our best to fix it, okay?”
“Thank you for coming,” I manage.
“Did you really believe I’d let you go through this alone?”
We remain here, on these same stairs Joy and I sat on a hundred times, watching the jacarandas tremble in the breeze until a notification pings on Sarah’s phone. She reads it and sighs. “Search party starts in thirty minutes.”
Joy Moore
EXCERPT FROM UNTITLED JOINT MEMOIR WITH BENNY ABBOTT
Nine Months Ago
The online posts held steady throughout the holidays, with photos of me in restaurants, in grocery stores, on drives with Xander in his MG. You know that tingle of self-consciousness you get when you’re being watched? I felt it constantly. My stalker—by this point I too had adopted the word—was nowhere and everywhere. We documented, blocked, and reported, and he unfailingly returned. What worried us most was his unwavering focus.
I was so consumed by these thoughts I almost didn’t hear what Benny said as he sat down for an early January recording. “You’re—I’m sorry, what? What did you say?”
Benny glanced over at Xander, who was standing in the doorway to our bedroom. “Luna and I are getting a divorce.”
“B-but you were working things out. We just got your Christmas card.” They looked so cute, grinning in their ugly sweaters beside the caption “These sweaters look better when we wear them together.” I’d had pangs of jealousy for days. “And you said … you said no San Francisco.”
Benny reached for our lucky statue, but instead of rubbing its head, he picked it up and cradled it in his lap. Pressing his thumbs to Fonzie’s, he said, “It’s not about that.”
“Then what is it?”
“A lot of things. The fighting, the baby stuff.” The baby stuff. My heart tugged as he shrugged miserably. “When it all came down, we couldn’t find enough reasons to stay married.”
“Oh, Benny.” I went around the desk and hugged him tight. The scent of his shampoo hit me with an olfactory wallop, and I realized how long it had been since we’d last touched. “I’m so sorry.”
He looked to Xander, perhaps expecting a similar offering of sympathy, but Xander only frowned.
* * *
JANUARY AND FEBRUARY sucked. Benny moped. Luna wasn’t answering my texts. Xander was in such a foul mood, I found myself hiding from him whenever we were alone. Taking naps even when I didn’t need them. I was desperate to leave the house, but I couldn’t leave the house without being followed by my invisible stalker, and so I channeled my energy toward my best friend, needling him, begging him to open up. The more I prodded, the more he pushed me away. “You’re making things weird,” Xander said. “If he’s not ready to talk, he’s not ready to talk. Wait for him to come to you first.”
But I wasn’t going to fall for that again.
And so, in March, I did two things.
First, I brought Benny out to view a house a few blocks away. He might not have been ready, but I reasoned he’d never be ready. He needed the push, and I needed him nearby, and to my great relief he decided to give Mount Washington a try. Now Benny would be within walking distance. 1,528 steps for him, 1,600 for me.
Second, I suggested we add an employee to the mix. Someone to serve as buffer in the room when things got tense. Not that I said this, not in so many words.
What I said to Xander was, “You need an assistant.”
He grinned smugly into the mirror as he plucked an errant hair. “I think I’ve got this covered.”
“Not with grooming. A proper assistant. A producer.” As our sole non-talent executive producer, he managed our researchers, merch distributors, social media specialists, webmaster, ad partners, lawyers, PR reps, accountants, and god knew who and what else. All remotely. “You’re stretched thin. You know it, I know it. We need someone in the office. Someone who can intuit what you need, right when you need it. We should’ve done it ages ago, really.”
He stared at my reflection.
“You work so hard,” I said, rubbing his back.
He returned the tweezers to his vanity case and removed a jar of face cream. I watched him apply a dab to each cheek, hope draining with each passing second as he spread the moisturizer with gentle upward strokes. “Okay.”
“Okay?” It was too easy. “Seriously?”
“It’s actually perfect timing.”
“It is?”