This Story Might Save Your Life(96)
He shakes his head in a bewildered way, as if he can’t believe what he’s about to say. “My lips are sealed.”
“And you’ll try not to be mad?”
“Joy,” he says. Because what I’m asking is complicated, and fraught, and messy, and when it all comes down I don’t like it any more than he does. But this was what we agreed on. The incomprehensible promise I made to Luna in appreciation for saving my life.
“Promise you’ll try.”
“Fine.” He spreads his fingers wide, releasing them from the rail. “I’ll try.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Nodding, he scratches his beard. “I have another question.”
“For you, Benny, I might have another answer.”
“Did you post a message? On our website?”
I’d almost forgotten. “Ayyy.”
“It was you? I thought it was you. It kind of sent me spiraling, but in a good way.” He explains that this post led him to find the surveillance camera above the desk, which then led to Luna, who ultimately gave up my location.
“I’m impressed.” I posted the message right after I met Mitali. Remembering our conversation in the computer lab, the only true conversation we had, I feel a ripple of sadness. I deeply hope she never has to give her husband a break from himself again.
Benny kisses my forehead, saying he’ll leave me to rest, and as he’s walking away, I blurt, “What you said that night.”
He’s already waving me off. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
“What I should’ve said was…” Because this is not a conversation for another time. Because he’s waited long enough to hear it. Because it’s true. “Me too. I should’ve said me too. I just … I need a minute.”
His entire demeanor visibly lifts, and in turn my body fills with helium. “Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” I say, matching his smile. My heart swells so quickly it hurts in every possible, complicated way. I have to catch my breath before saying, “One last thing.”
“Anything.”
“You never told me how that woman got out of the whale.”
He laughs, and it’s the best sound on earth. “You really want to know?”
“I’ve been waiting for ages.”
He grins. “Humpback whales can’t swallow humans. Their throats aren’t big enough.”
“You’re kidding. So he could never have eaten her in the first place?”
He shakes his head, and then his face grows serious. “She didn’t know that, though. When she was swept into that mouth she thought she was as good as dead.”
I hear what he’s saying. My eyes fill with tears. “You’ll visit tomorrow?”
His smile returns. “And every day after.”
Benny Abbott
Day Three Hundred and Eighty-Five
My stomach is a hornet’s nest. Beside me in the shadows, Joy runs in place, punching the air.
“Is this thing ever going to start?” she asks, panting.
“Not until you’ve done at least fifty deep breathing exercises.”
She fans herself and adjusts her dress—white with black polka dots, new for the occasion. “I feel like I’m gonna puke. Do you feel like you’re gonna puke?”
I nod, though you’d think we’d be used to this by now. It’s been a year of nerve-racking waits. First, for Xander’s death to be officially ruled an accident after it was determined—fairly quickly, thank god—that all of our stories aligned. Then, for my charges to be dropped—Ted’s because I sucked it up and apologized with a grotesquely expensive camera, and the other as a matter of exchange. While it’s excessive to accuse someone of concealing evidence in a murder investigation when there is no murder to begin with, the courts still had a claim, seeing that Xander’s death wasn’t believed to be an accident at the time. They only dropped their charges after Philip threatened to sue the LAPD for “exacerbating my injury” while cuffing me—a lucky break, if you will. After that, there were months of back and forth with Apex Plus as we discussed how to best move forward. And finally, the book-related waiting—for notes, copyedits, foreign rights contracts, cover reveals.
And now, this. The launch of What Doesn’t Kill You: A Tragicomic Story of Survival.
“What if people hate it?” Joy asks, not for the first time. “What if they think—”
“Stop.” I press a hand to her cheek and let it linger, thumb rubbing her soft skin. It still sends thrills down my spine that I get to touch her this way. “It doesn’t matter what people think. But for the record, they’re going to love it because it’s you. Because you told the truth, even though it was hard. And because you’re an excellent writer.”
“I wasn’t worried about that half of the book,” she says, and I laugh.
Beyond the curtain, on the Orpheum Theatre’s forestage, is a bloodred rug, a round bar table covered in black cloth, and two black leather stools. It’s like a goth living room in a French baroque palace, spotlit with enough wattage to burn a horde of undead. Beyond the orchestra pit are two thousand fans chattering in their seats, well on their way to being drunk.