It wasn’t until she started walking down the hill that she realized she had no idea where she was going. It had felt so urgent for her to get out of the house right away that she hadn’t she googled a bookstore or coffee shop or any destination. She stopped a few houses down and pulled her phone out of her pocket. Perfect, there was a bookstore about a mile and a half away. She usually walked way more than that on just a regular day in New York. It was still overcast, but the sun would probably be out soon. And it would be good to stretch her legs and expand her view beyond what she could see from the bathtub.
Not to denigrate her bathtub, her only true friend in the house.
As Izzy set off down the hill, she realized something else: There was no sidewalk. She had to keep as close as possible to the high fences and gates and hedges of the other big houses to stay away from the cars that zipped by her going downhill. But once she put her headphones in and put on her favorite podcast, she sighed with relief. This felt normal, for the first time in days.
When she found the bookstore, she walked inside, then stopped and took a long, happy breath. God, she loved that moment when she walked inside a bookstore. Books were stacked everywhere, with friendly little signs directing you to local authors or signed copies or bestsellers.
A bookstore employee smiled at her. “Hi,” she said. “Welcome. Looking for anything specific today?”
Izzy beamed at her as she looked around. “No, nothing specific. Just…browsing. This is a great bookstore.”
Izzy wandered the aisles for over an hour. She peeked at the acknowledgments for one of Marta’s books that had just come out to see her name and browsed the shelves for other books she’d worked on or read recently and loved. It felt good to see them there. It made her feel sort of at home, like she must have something in common with the people who lived here in this strange place on the other side of the country, if they bought and read and loved the same books she did.
At one point, she saw a book she was looking for, high up on a shelf, at least a foot or so out of her reach. But right next to it was a rolling ladder, one that could slide along the whole wall. She’d always wanted to climb up on one of those. She looked to the left and then to the right.
“I won’t tell,” the woman behind her said.
Izzy grinned at her and climbed up the ladder. She grabbed her book and then turned to look down at the bookstore from above. It was fun up there. She should have done that years ago.
When she finally left the bookstore, it was with two new books in her bag, a smile on her face, and warm, happy feeling in her chest.
One of the bookstore employees had recommended a nearby coffee shop, so she walked a few blocks until she found it. Izzy ordered a latte and a pastry and took them to a table outside. It was still overcast, but she didn’t mind. She snapped a picture of her latte art and sent it to Priya as proof she’d left the house, and then sat there for a while, people watching and greeting the many dogs that walked by. Why didn’t Beau Towers have a dog? Then at least she’d have a dog to hang out with this weekend.
He was probably too mean for a dog.
When she’d finished her coffee and pastry, she sighed and stood up. She didn’t want to go, but she couldn’t sit here forever. She already felt better than she had this morning. This walk had been a great idea.
She turned her podcast on as she walked back down the busy commercial street, laughing to herself at the Californians who were bundled up in this sixty-degree weather in puffy coats—but also still wore flip-flops. After a while, the businesses fell away, the sidewalks disappeared again, and she started up the hill toward the house. And up. And up.
Why, why, hadn’t she realized, when she’d walked downhill all the way to the bookstore, that she’d have to walk uphill all the way back to the house? It wasn’t like she was that out of shape—she walked a lot!—but walking up these hills did not feel the same as walking through New York City. And the hills just…kept going up.
When she first felt water on her face, she assumed it was just sweat, since by that point she was sweating profusely. But then it happened again. And again. Oh no. She looked up at the sky. California had betrayed her. It was no longer just overcast, but raining steadily.
She knew where her umbrella was: sitting in her suitcase, under her bed, in the house that was still a mile up the hill. And she was wearing jeans, a cotton T-shirt, a cardigan, and ballet flats. Fantastic.
She checked the rideshare apps on her phone to get a ride back to the house, but every car was at least twenty minutes away. She didn’t want to wait for twenty minutes in the middle of the street, or loitering outside some random person’s house, in the rain, because again, there was no sidewalk.