Ava’s cabin is noticeably calmer and less messy than Benji’s. That is, of course, the difference between twelve-year-old girls and ten-year-old boys. I help her make her bed on the top bunk and get her toiletries organized. A friend she’s spent three summers with shows up, and they fall into a quick hug and then sit on the bottom bunk to start catching up. After a few minutes, I tell Ava I should probably go. She excuses herself and says she’ll walk me back to the car. She’s never done this in all of her years of camp.
“Write to me at least twice a week,” she instructs. “If you fall in love with Josh or some other guy, I expect a separate letter, please.”
The kids have asked about my dating life a lot lately. Dr. Lisa and I agree the reason is twofold. First, they genuinely want me to be happy and in love again. They are old enough to understand the ways that relationships can enrich your life. I’m certain Ben’s absence has made them realize this in a sad way. The second reason they care so much is that all they’ve known is a traditional family structure. At the end of the day, they want someone to play the father figure. This thought breaks my heart.
I give Ava the biggest hug and tell her I love her about twentytimes. Then she turns around and walks back to her cabin and her summer of freedom. I reluctantly climb into the car, feeling like I’ve lived a hundred years this morning.
—
“No interviews today,”I tell Josh when I arrive back at the house so he knows that he’s free to make as much noise as he needs. “It’s my last day of relaxation before I dive into the work, so I’m going to sit on the creaky, old porch swing and finish this book that’s been on my nightstand for over a month.”
He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows at the book I’ve just held up. “You’re reading a bookthatthick while also writing a book? Very brave,” he playfully observes.
“I’m writing a memoir, and ironically, it’s not been my favorite genre of book to read over the years,” I explain. “So I’ve spent the last nine months reading memoirs to get a better sense of how I want to structure my book and learn what sorts of techniques I do and don’t want to use.”
“What sort of techniques?” he asks. I can tell the question is genuine and he’s interested in my process. James did tell me that Josh is a process guy.
“Well, for example, this book isn’t told in chronological order. It skips around and there area lotof flashbacks,” I say. “The writing in this book is superb, but as a reader, I struggle with this narrative structure. My memoir is shaping up to be more linear.”
I take a moment to decide if I want to add on the next thought and just go for it. “This book is also written at about a thirtieth-grade level. It’s very literary and beautiful, but it’s not somethingeveryone will pick up and enjoy. It’s definitely not a book you buy at the airport. Most people don’t like needing to look up new words every few pages.”
“So, will your book be more accessible?” he asks.
“It will,” I answer, deciding that I like that word: accessible. “My column inThe New York Timesis written so that as many people as possible can relate to it, and I think that’s part of what’s made my work so popular and occasionally viral. Why mess with a good thing?”
He nods. “Well, then, with all that in mind, I think I’ll stop on the window casings for now and switch to the cabinet repair above the refrigerator. That’s going to be loud as hell and not easy, so good to take care of it today when you don’t have work stuff,” he says. “But if you hear me cursing from the comfort of your swing, don’t worry.”
I wish him luck and grab a fluffy sofa pillow off the only piece of furniture currently in the living room to make the swing a bit more comfortable. I lie down, place the pillow behind my head, and hang my legs over the opposite armrest. I open to page 363 and promptly fall asleep.
When I’m startled awake what feels like a minute later, it’s because Josh is trying to quietly sneak out of the house. He sees me open my eyes and wince in pain from being in one position for too long. What time is it? I’m notthatold.
“Sorry,” he says with a tense smile. “I was trying really hard not to wake you.”
I look at my watch. Holy shit—it’s been two hours. If he’s been doing loud construction inside, I somehow slept through it. I close the book that has been spread across my chest without progress.
“Please tell me you were silently working in there,” I say, embarrassed.
“Do you want me to tell the truth?”
“I guess I didn’t realize how tired I was. The last few weeks have been relentless.”
“The good news is that the cabinet is fixed and securely attached to the wall. It was never installed properly in the first place. You don’t have to live in fear of it crashing down anymore.”
“Thank you. Thanks for everything you’re doing here this summer. I still feel so terrible about how little I’m paying you.”
“Remember—it’s helpful to me, too. I’ll be back tomorrow morning for a full day of work.”
I sit on the porch swing and watch him drive away. Then I grab the pillow and book to go inside, read a few more paragraphs, and fall asleep once again.
Chapter 9
I leave a small notetaped to the front door when I leave the house bright and early at 8 a.m. so that Josh will know to let himself in.Working from The Drip this morning. Back at noon for an interview.
Chapel Hill is a small town, according to most people in my life (who nearly all live in big cities), but at home I would never broadcast “Hey, my house is empty—come on in!” like I feel comfortable doing here in Canopy. Josh seemed sensitive to invading my space and hesitant to keep the key, so this feels like a small token of welcome that I can leave. The guy is repairing my run-down house, after all.
Initially, I wanted a place farther removed from downtown, but today I’m appreciative that we landed a few blocks from every creature comfort that I need: restaurants, bookstore, gift shops, and, my favorite, an utterly charming coffee shop.
The Drip is a converted single-family home on Main Street, and it’s only a three-minute walk from the house. The front is a glass-enclosed porch that I assume at one point must’ve been open. Thedark steel frame of the sunroom contrasts against the light-gray paint that covers the rest of the brick house. To the left, a large gravel patio is filled with tables and chairs of all sizes. A few early risers have already set up shop with their laptops and books by the time I arrive. It’s a perfect morning to work outside, with a slight chill still hanging in the air before the day heats up. My mind, however, wanders in the fresh air, so it’s best if I stay indoors to kick off my summer of writing.
