I’m also glancing around nervously because of what I’m reading.
“This.” My voice squeaks, trying to weasel its way out of this conversation.
I pop the glove box and steal a piece of Tobin’s gum from under the paper maps of northern BC and the Yukon (where the cell coverage is too patchy for Google Maps) and the roll of wrenches and other truck-fixing things I don’t know the names of, which Tobin treats like the One Ring of Sauron.
This book in my lap looks almost like a real book. Evidence that it’s not: on the front is a bright red sticker shouting, “ADVANCE READER COPY: UNCORRECTED PROOF.” Also, first among the authors is Lyle McHuge.
McHugh. Whatever.
The book is enormous, like its so-called author, a textbook-sized softcover. Its background is the deep matte black of a box of Magnum-sized condoms.
“Thiiiiiiis,” I try again, tapping the cover. “Isa sex book.”
I haven’t skimmed more than the first few pages, but I guarantee these chapters are crammed with soft-porn role-play and “creative” uses for chocolate sauce.
Tobin knows it. A few minutes ago, he gingerly handed me the book like an airport rando asking me to watch his bag for one minute as the sniffer dogs close in.
“It’s arelationship repair manual.” Tobin’s wedged against the door, hands held awkwardly against his abs.
I can’t remember ever sitting next to him without some kind of physical contact (unless seat belt laws were in effect). When we watch TV, he goes extravagant, arranging me on top of him in outrageously luxurious positions he’s engineered for maximum contact and optimal ergonomics.
Now I catalog all the cracks I’ve never noticed in his aging vinyl bench seat, because I was hiding them with my ass as I cuddled up to him. We’ve done a lot more than cuddle in this car, quite frankly. Which brings me right back to the book.
“They want you tothinkit’s a relationship book.” I glance at the open window funneling my words to the neighborhood.
Tobin enjoys feeling like he’s outside at all times. He’s practically allergic to enclosed spaces. Now that I don’t live with him, no one tells him indoors and outdoors should be different temperatures. The half-dozen open windows on the front of the house tell me he’s enjoying his new climate control privileges. He’s changed from PJs into shorts and a T-shirt, like he doesn’t even feel the damp, foggy chill washing down from the glacier.
I turn back to the book.The Second Chances Handbook,it declares in a trendy, aspirational font. And below that:Rules for Rebooting Your Relationship with Improv. McHuge has added “Dr.” before his name and “PhD” after.
The hell he is.
“Where did you get this?” I trace the raised letters. This is an expensive treatment. It looks… quite real.
“Lyle. We’re lucky to have it. His agent made him send the rest of them to BookTokkers with huge follower counts. I had to promise to leave five-star reviews on all the bookseller websites.”
McHuge the amiable slacker has anagent? I thought he mushed his dog team, steered his raft, and dominated Tinder in his peace-and-love downtime. Instead, he’s written a book and gotten an agent and is allowed to call himself “Doctor.”
I cross another name off the list of people who might make me feel better about myself by also being thirty and non-amazing.
And, chugging directly toward that first train of thought: McHuge, my improv instructor, whom I have to see every week, lent a “relationship” handbook to my husband.
The only life option left is to find a comfortable hole with Wi-Fi and a pipeline of chocolate-covered strawberries. I will commit the rest of my life to writing emo journal entries about how, if I were a superhero, my superpower would be opening up bottomless crevasses as a public service.
“McHuge… wrote this book?”
“Amazing, right? He doesn’t brag about it, but his dissertation got a lot of press in the psychology world. His program gets better results than conventional marriage counseling. And, well. Book deal.”
Tobin’s twitching the way he does whenever he tries to sell something. He’s terrible at asking people for things. He hates the end of his rafting and dogsledding trips, when he has to talk up prepayments for next year’s trips.
He’d rather charm people into giving him things. Wait for clients to askhimabout rebooking at a discount. Then he can say,yes,he’d love to see them again.
“Yes” is his favorite word. “No” is the word I get to say so he doesn’t have to sully his shine in front of Girl Guides selling cookies or political candidates selling themselves.
Or his parents.
I google “Lyle McHugh,” looking for a reason to say no to this, too. My screen floods with TikTok videos, some of them boasting view counts into the six figures. What the hell, McHuge? I click one. A gorgeous twentysomething waxes rhapsodic about the book, a thirsty slideshow of McHuge photos playing in the background—scraped from West by North’s website, I note, with a preference for shots where his clothes are wet. Yup, sex book.
Switching strategies, I search for McHuge’s original publication instead. Bingo. “It’s not better than couples’ therapy. They didn’t reach statistical significance.”
