The Way We Break

  She pauses for a moment, staring off into the distance as if she’s trying to remember something. Then she turns back to me and sighs. “Anyway, the point is she helped me change some really shitty elements in my plot. She also corrected some of my grammar gaffes. I thought she was being kind of petty at the time, but when that manuscript got me my agent, I silently thanked her. Then I thanked her again by sending her a copy of that book two years later, with a letter about how I was happily married and living in Mountain View, California.” She takes a long drink of tea then looks me in the eye. “She sent me a letter congratulating me and thanking me for the book and, I regret, I never tried to get in touch with her again.”

  “What happened after that? Did she just call you and ask you to help me edit my book?”

  She nods. “Pretty much.”

  “And after all these years you just said yes?”

  “I think I was more surprised that she actually remembered me than the fact that she was asking me for such a strange favor.”

  “You obviously don’t know my mom. She probably couldn’t stand the idea of my finishing this book without her having some sort of input.”

  “Heh. I can see that.”

  I laugh louder than both of us expected. She really does know my mom.

  “But how do you know Houston?” I ask, taking a sip of tea to fill the quiet space between my question and her answer.

  “Well, I suppose he’s the one whose enormous erection I’ve become quite familiar with over the past few weeks.”

  I spit my tea all over the table and she laughs as she shoots up to get a towel. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry,” I say, searing heat rising in my cheeks as I hold out my hands for her to toss me the towel.

  I catch it and swiftly sop up the liquid I just spewed onto her white shabby-chic table.

  “I’m so sorry. I hope it doesn’t stain.”

  “Please stop apologizing. I should be apologizing for the crude remark,” she says, taking a seat across from me again. “The truth is I’ve never spoken to Houston. Your mother contacted me first, and when she told me what she wanted me to do—to help you with the story of you and Houston—I knew I couldn’t speak to him. I didn’t want my impression of him tainting your picture of him. So we communicate solely through your mother and text messages.”

  I can’t help but smile at this answer. “I can’t believe you’ve gone through all this trouble just to help me.”

  She shrugs and her smile disappears. “Yeah, well, you might not be so grateful when you hear that your mom has been helping me edit your manuscript.”

  “What?” I say, my voice cracking slightly as I’m gripped with shock.

  She laughs, actually, it’s more of a soft girlish giggle that gives me the impression she’s nervous. “Yeah, I told her I could only help with the developmental editing, but she would have to do the copyediting. She’s the English teacher, after all, and I’m on a pretty tight deadline myself. So, yeah, she’s read at least half your book. But—”she holds up her hand“—before you say anything, let me just tell you that she loves it. It breaks her heart and she’s cried to me a few times, but she loves it. And you know that’s big praise coming from Patty.”

  I cover my face with both hands, shame rising inside me like hot steam. “Oh, my God. My mom read it? Oh, my God. She must think I’m so screwed up and…” My hands drop as a sobering reality hits me. “She read the sex scenes?”

  At first she shrugs, then she nods, her face screwed up with pained regret. “Yeah, but I really don’t think it’s anything to be worried about. I’m not kidding when I said she loves it. And so does my agent.”

  “What?”

  Hannah’s red-lipped smile returns. “Bernadette loves it. I sent her the first fifty pages a week ago and she wants more. She asked me to send her the full manuscript when you have it, but I told her she needed to decide now.”

  “You told her that? But it’s not finished.”

  “Not to worry. Bernadette and I have a strong relationship. She knows I wouldn’t back a project I didn’t fully believe in. Anyway, after a little back and forth, and a couple of days of radio silence, she responded to my email yesterday asking me to call her about the manuscript. I figured I’d give her a call next week when we have more of the manuscript edited, but then you called me from Starbucks and plans changed. First thing I did when we got off the phone with you was call her. She wants to meet with you.”

  My mouth goes dry as I try to think of how to respond to this, but words escape me. “I… I don’t know what that means.”

  She lets out a hearty chuckle. “It means she wants to meet with you to discuss brokering a deal. You’d work with a cowriter—a screenwriter—to turn the manuscript into a screenplay.”

  “Holy shit,” I whisper, then I clap my hand over my mouth. “Sorry.”

  “Honey, I witnessed the beast come out of you a few minutes ago when we went to get your dog. And I’ve read your book. I don’t think anything you say can faze me anymore.” She smiles and takes another sip of tea. “Does that smile mean you’re not upset about your mom correcting the typos in your sex life?”

  “Ha. My sex life could probably stand to be shredded and completely rewritten.” I let out a deep sigh. “I guess there are far worse things than your mom knowing your approach to blow jobs.”

  “Yes, there are. So, shall I agree to the meeting? Bernadette is in Manhattan. If you want to meet her, you’d have to fly out sometime between Sunday and Thursday. That’s when Rick Bender will be there discussing his contract on a Nicholas Sparks film that’s in the works.”

  “Why does she want me to discuss turning it into a screenplay? She doesn’t like it as a book?”

  “Oh, yes, she still wants to submit the book to the usual suspects, but she and Rick have been tossing around the idea of trying to develop a manuscript and a screenplay at the same time to sell the rights simultaneously. It’s not the way things are usually done. But she liked your book enough that she’d like to at least discuss it with you and Rick.”

  My skin tingles as I imagine myself sitting in the office of a literary agency in Manhattan, probably nodding and pretending to know what the fuck I’m talking about. As scared shitless as this thought makes me, I’d be an idiot to pass up that kind of opportunity. But how am I supposed to get to New York? I’ve been unemployed so long, I can’t even afford a plane ticket from California to Oregon.

  These people are so rich, they can just hop on planes, probably first class, and jet off to meetings on the other side of the country. Maybe I should just give up now. I’m obviously not cut out for this career or lifestyle. Unless…

  “This was Houston’s idea?” I ask.

  She nods. “The man is determined to make your dreams come true.”

  My lip trembles from the effort of trying to hold back a flood of tears.

  “Honey, you can cry here,” Hannah assures me. “I mean, I saw what happened with your boyfriend today. Holding back those tears won’t do you any good. You need to let it out so you can go to New York fresh-faced and all business.”

  I smile as I swipe the back of my hand over my damp cheeks. “I’m just… overwhelmed, I guess. I never in a million years would have expected Houston to do something like this.”

  She raises her eyebrows at me. “Really? The guy who bought you a car for your first Valentine’s Day together? I would say grand gestures are kind of his M.O.”

  I laugh as I realize how right she is. This woman I didn’t know a month ago knows Houston almost as well as I do now.

  “Hannah? Can I ask you a question? And I’d really prefer an honest answer.”

  She chuckles as she leans back in her chair. “I don’t do bullshit. You should know that by now.”

  I nod and take a deep breath. “You’ve read the truth about Houston and me. You’ve probably formed your own opinions, which you may or may not want to share with me. But… Do you think Houston and I belong together?”


  She smiles at this question, as if she was expecting it. “Honey, I don’t know much about love. I’ve been divorced for three years and still can’t figure out the dating game. But I do know this. Many times in your life, you’ll be expected to choose between two roads. Not like the Robert Frost bastardized ‘Road Less Traveled’ metaphorical road. I’m talking actual roads.” She begins ticking off the different “roads” on her fingers. “Go to California or not? You chose to go. Go to New York or not? I think that’s a no-brainer. Go back to Houston or go back to your old apartment and your old life? That’s up to you.

  “It’s always tempting to choose the safer road. The one you think will get you to your destination in one piece. But as you learned today, sometimes the safe roads are nothing but dead ends. And I’ll tell you one thing I know for sure. No matter what your destination is, there’s no safer road than the one you take with someone you love.”

  The earliest flight out of Portland to San Jose isn’t until 5:30 p.m. After four and a half excruciatingly long hours, they finally start boarding Alaska Airlines flight 7116. Once I’m seated on the plane, I shoot off a text to Rory.

  Me: Just boarded the plane. Should be there in about three hours. How are you doing?

  Rory: I feel like my insides have been scraped raw, but other than that I’m just happy to have Skippy here with me.

  Me: Can’t wait to see him. And you too, of course.

  Rory: I knew you only liked me for my dog.

  Me: Busted. Guess I’ll just have to learn to love you since the two of you are a package deal.

  She’s silent for a moment and I wonder if maybe she misinterpreted the joke. The plane begins to taxi away from the gate toward the runway. Pretty soon I’ll lose the signal. The pilot comes on to relay the flight information and weather conditions, then my body is pressed into the seat by the force of inertia as the plane sets off down the runway. As the jet lifts away from the tarmac, I get a notification of another text message.

  Rory: I miss you.

  Me: I’ve missed the fuck out of you. I’ll be with you soon.

  As soon as the plane lands in San Jose, I race through the terminal, past the throng of travelers gathered around the baggage claim, toward the ground transportation area. I hop into a cab waiting at the front of the taxi line and blurt out Hannah’s address.

  The cab pulls up to Hannah’s townhouse fifteen minutes later and I tip the driver handsomely. He drives away as I stand on the curb staring at the front of the peach and beige house sandwiched between two other similar houses. My heart hammers in my chest as I realize this is it. I’m finally getting another chance to be the man Rory needs. Not the scared-shitless boy I was six years ago. I can’t fuck this up.

  Before I even reach the front steps, the door opens and Hannah’s standing there with a sober look on her face. This is the first time I’ve seen Hannah, other than the pictures I found on the internet when I googled her. She looks exactly the same in person.

  “I’m sorry I got here so late. It was the earliest flight they had.” I offer my apology, but she just shakes her head.

  “No need to apologize,” she says, opening the door wider. “I’m just glad you’re here. She’s… she’s not doing well.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  I step inside and my gaze lands on Rory curled up in a large armchair with Skippy.

  Hannah closes the door then leans closer to me so she can whisper. “She wasn’t able to get her laptop back. And Liam deleted her manuscript from her Google Drive before she could download it.”

  “It’s all gone?”

  “I was able to recover the first fifty pages from my agent, and I have a few chapters I printed a couple of weeks ago, the ones she hadn’t taken home with her to edit yet, but that’s it. She’s lost at least 150 pages and… a lot of emails from you and Hallie that she had saved.”

  “But how about Patricia? Doesn’t she have a copy?” I whisper, unwilling to believe that someone could do something so supremely evil.

  Hannah shakes her head. “I gave her my log-in to access the document so she could edit the manuscript without Rory knowing. I feel so terrible.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I know. I just wish I had downloaded the whole manuscript instead of just pasting the first 50 pages into that email I sent to Bernadette. If I’m this frustrated, I can’t begin to imagine what she’s feeling.”

  I try to process this information, but all I can think is that I’ve never wanted to murder someone more than I do right now. I make my way toward Rory, and Skippy opens his eyes at the sound of my footsteps. As soon as he sees me, he leaps off the chair and rushes toward me, his butt wagging along with his tail.

  Rory sits up, hugging her knees to her chest. Her eyes are pink and puffy, her hair damp with tears and plastered to the side of her face, but she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She stares off into the distance as I kneel before her.

  “Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

  She lets out a soft sigh then looks me in the eye. “Take me home.”

  Houston stands up and holds his hand out to me, an offering of support that feels more like a lasso thrown around my heart to keep it from falling apart. I take his hand and he pulls me up, crushing me in the rigid warmth of his arms as he kisses the top of my head.

  I coil my arms around his waist, clenching the soft fabric of his shirt in my fists as I sob into his solid chest. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Shh. You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

  Every breath I take, my senses are overwhelmed by the crisp masculine scent embedded in his shirt, the feeling of his skin on mine as he grasps the back of my neck firmly. I try to focus on his solid presence and how happy I am to see him instead of the years of work I lost today, but it’s not working.

  “I feel so defeated,” I whisper, placing my hands on Houston’s chest as I look up.

  He looks down at me and shakes his head. “You’re not defeated.” He plants a firm kiss on my forehead. “You’ll see. You’re gonna rewrite that book and it will be even better. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes. You know, like Dumbledore’s bird in Harry Potter. That will be your book.”

  I can’t help but smile at this as I’m reminded of the weekend we spent watching all the Harry Potter movies while lying on the sofa in our PJs. I was appalled when Houston admitted he’d never read the series, but we both agreed it would be too weird for me to read those aloud while naked. So we settled for a movie marathon that culminated in a different kind of marathon. Needless to say, I found popcorn kernels in odd places after that weekend.

  “You’re just trying to make me laugh to distract me from the truth,” I grumble.

  “I’m serious, Rory. I’ll help you rewrite the book. We’ll all help you.”

  His gaze wanders over my face as he strokes my hair, and I feel more relaxed than I’ve felt in weeks. I want to say something, but my limbs feel leaden and my mind woolly, as if I’m in a trance. I close my eyes and he kisses my forehead again.

  “You colored your hair?” he whispers.

  My eyelids pop open in a panic. “You probably hate it.”

  “Are you kidding me? It’s beautiful.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  He smiles as he rubs a piece of my hair between his fingers. “I’d love you if your hair were burnt sienna. Oh, wait. It is burnt sienna. Gross.”

  I smack his chest and he laughs. “That’s not nice.”

  “I’m kidding. Get your stuff so we can leave.” He kisses my cheekbone before he lets me go.

  “Are we flying home tonight?”

  He shakes his head as he steps back so I can get around him. “There aren’t any more flights to Portland tonight. But there are a bunch tomorrow. We’ll be home by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

  I pat my leg and Skippy stands from where he was lying on the rug and comes to me. Hannah was gracious enough to l
et him hang out with me indoors after we discovered what Liam had done and I became pretty much inconsolable. I grab Skippy’s insulin kit off Hannah’s coffee table and head toward the front door, where she stands wearing a careful smile.

  “I know you told me to stop apologizing, but I’m so sorry all your work was lost,” I begin. “You’d probably have your own book done by now. Instead, you’ve been helping me, and now—”

  “That’s enough,” Hannah says, cutting my apology short. “None of this is your fault, and I have absolutely no regrets. I’m actually very glad I took on this project.” She looks back and forth between Houston and me. “I feel like I’m watching your story being rewritten as we speak.”

  I reach my arms out tentatively and she smiles as she envelops me in a warm hug that makes me miss my mom. God, I can’t wait to go home. When I let her go, she sniffs as she wipes a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just being a silly woman.” She waves off my concern. “Go on. I’m sure you two have lots of catching up to do.”

  I watch Houston as he uses an app on his phone to call a cab, then I turn back to Hannah. “I’ll find a way to repay you for what you’ve done. I swear I will.”

  “I told you, you don’t owe me anything.”

  I fight the urge to cry as Houston grabs Skippy’s collar and opens the front door. “Thank you, Hannah, from the bottom of my heart, for helping me believe in myself.”

  She nods as we step outside into the sparkling January night. The cab arrives a few minutes later, our chariot is here to whisk us away to a hotel in Palo Alto. I spend the twenty-minute drive huddled safely in Houston’s arms with Skippy’s warm body snuggled against my hip. The whole time, I have to keep reminding myself that everything happens for a reason. Maybe Houston’s right. Maybe the next version of my book will be even better. Or maybe I’ll give up on the book. Maybe I’ll decide to live the story instead of writing it.