Another message comes in. A page from the Bigfoot Christmas book, featuring a particularly egregious use of decking the halls, as well as a reference to a sex move called the Voracious Yeti, which doesn’t sound remotely anatomically possible.
Libby walks into my periphery. “Already done with the Wi-Fi?”
“Thoroughly unplugged,” I reply. “Have you ever heard of the Voracious Yeti?”
“That a children’s book?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll have to look it up.”
My phone vibrates with another message: I find the Voracious Yeti highly implausible.
I find myself smiling, possibly with knives. So disappointing. Really pulls the reader out of an otherwise stunning work of realism.
12
I SIT UP, GASPING, cold, panicked.
Libby.
Where is Libby?
My eyes zigzag across the room, searching for something grounding. The first rays of sunlight streaming through a window. The sound of pots and pans clanking. The smell of brewing coffee drifting through the door.
I’m in the cottage.
It’s okay. She’s here. She’s okay.
At home, when I’m anxious, I cycle. When I need a boost of energy, I cycle. When I need to knock myself out, I cycle. When I can’t focus, I cycle.
Here, running is my only option.
I dress quietly, pull on my muddy sneakers, and creep down the stairs to sneak out into the cool morning. I shiver as I cross the foggy meadow, picking up my pace at the woods.
I leap over a gnarled root, then thunder across the footbridge that arcs over the creek.
My throat starts to burn, but the fear is still chasing me. Maybe it’s being here, feeling so far away from Mom, or maybe it’s spending so much time with Libby, but something is bringing me back to all those things I try not to think about.
It feels like there’s poison inside of me. No matter how hard I run, I can’t burn through it. For once, I wish I could cry, but I can’t. I haven’t since the morning of the funeral.
I pick up my pace.
* * *
“I’ve found him!” Libby squeals, running into the bathroom as I’m trying to coax my curtain bangs into submission, against the express wishes of the unrelenting humidity.
She thrusts her phone toward me, and I squint at a headshot of an attractive man with short, chocolaty hair and gray eyes. He’s wearing a down vest over a plaid shirt and gazing across a foggy lake. Over his picture is BLAKE, 36.
“Libby!” I shriek, realization dawning. “Why the hell are you on a dating app?”
“I’m not,” she says. “You are.”
“I am definitely not,” I say.
“I made an account for you,” she says. “It’s a new app. Very marriage minded. I mean, it’s called Marriage of Minds.”
“MOM?” I say. “The acronym for the app is MOM? Sometimes I worry about the severe lack of warning bells in your brain, Libby.”
“Blake’s an avid fisherman who’s unsure if he wants kids,” she says. “He’s a teacher, and a night owl—like you—and extremely physically active.”
I snatch the phone and read for myself. “Libby. It says here he’s looking for a down-to-earth woman who doesn’t mind spending her Saturdays cheering on the Tar Heels.”
“You don’t need someone exactly like you, Sissy,” Libby says gently. “You need someone who appreciates you. I mean, you obviously don’t need anyone, period, but you deserve someone who understands how special you are! Or at least someone who can give you a low-pressure night out.”
She’s looking at me now with that hopeful Libby look of hers. It’s halfway between the expression of a cat who’s dropped a mouse at a person’s feet and that of a kid handing over a Mother’s Day drawing, blissfully unaware that Mommy’s “snow hat” looks only and exactly like a giant penis.
Blake is the penis hat in this scenario.
“Couldn’t we just have a low-pressure night out together?” I ask.
She glances away with an apologetic grimace. “Blake already thinks he’s meeting you at Poppa Squat’s for karaoke night.”
“Nearly every part of that sentence is concerning.”
She wilts. “I thought you wanted to switch things up, not be so . . .”
Nadine Winters, a voice in my mind says. It takes me a second to recognize it as the husky, teasing timbre of Charlie. I suppress a groan of resignation.
It’s one night, and Libby’s gone to a lot of trouble for this very weird gift.