"Good night, Mom."
"Good night, Jasper."
When I made my way to my seat, I grabbed a notebook from my bag along with the flannel shirt I'd nabbed from Linden the other day because I was mad at him and wanted him to think of me every time he went looking for it. I draped the shirt over my shoulders like a shawl and flipped to a fresh page in my book.
I stared at it, pen poised over the paper, for a ridiculously long time. Long enough that I had to stow it in the seat-back pocket during takeoff and wait until the plane leveled off to return it to my lap. I stared at it through the beverage service and through half a bag of Cheez-Its, and then I wrote: The Person I Want to Be Now.
30
Linden
There was something about the sun on crisp November mornings. It cut through the clouds at harsh angles and pierced the thick fog in a way that made those lazy billows glow. Mornings like these made me feel quiet yet very much alive.
Maybe it had nothing to do with November or glowy fog but everything to do with a long night spent celebrating the safe arrival of my new nephews. Add in the stress of driving my sister to the hospital in rush hour while she whisper-screamed at her husband to get the hell home as rapidly as he could manage and the past eighteen hours were some of the craziest of my life.
It didn't end at getting her to the hospital—and then collecting Rob from the airport because an hour-long flight bested a nearly four-hour train ride in this situation. It was then, after Rob and Magnolia were reunited but before the babies arrived, that my sister remembered we'd forgotten her Boston terrier back at my parents' house. Since my father was within twenty minutes of the city—he'd been golfing with his phone off and last to hear the news—I volunteered to drive back to New Bedford, fetch the dog called Rob Gronkowski, and ferry him back to Boston where he'd spend the next few days with Ash and Zelda before meeting his little brothers.
That was Magnolia's expression, not mine.
Once Zelda and I had the pup situated, we got word the babies had arrived and all involved were healthy. The hospital kicked everyone out—including my mother, who'd pulled herself out of the scatterbrained spiral just in time—and my father decided this called for a celebratory dinner. That led to a great deal of confusion since my parents were at the hospital, Ash was at the office, and Zelda and I were at their apartment.
I'd call it a clusterfuck but the entire day had been a clusterfuck of proportions I'd never imagined.
Eventually, we circled up at a steakhouse my parents favored. There was champagne, probably more than made sense for the occasion but that didn't slow anyone down. There was steak, a perfectly reasonable amount for any occasion. And there were stories. So many stories. The day Ash, Magnolia, and I were born. The day our parents took us home. The day we wouldn't stop crying, not a single one of us, and the day Ash and I crawled under the living room sofa and stayed dead silent while our mother went nuts trying to find us.
It was a night well spent but there wasn't a single minute where Jasper's absence didn't stab at my sides. Where I didn't have to choke down the desire to turn to her, reach for her, whisper something private into her honeyed hair.
I wanted to share this with her. I wanted to fill her champagne flute again and again and tell stories with her. I wanted to pass out in Ash's guest room with her in my arms. I didn't want to do this or anything else alone. I wanted her here and I knew that made me a greedy bastard but I couldn't help it. I'd tried. I'd tried since sending her on her way to California but I couldn't do it anymore.
The only thing I wanted to do—aside from chasing away this throbby champagne headache—was feel sorry for myself. It was a selfish answer to a selfish problem but I didn't care. I'd shower and dress, chug some coffee and feed myself anything but toast, and slog through my day with all the self-pity I wanted.
It seemed only fair, considering Jasper was long gone. I hadn't heard from her in—well, I wasn't sure how long it had been since the days were a blur of babies and dogs and strange dreams but it was long enough to know she'd moved on. I was sure of it.
Except—
I came to a hard stop in the middle of my street, right where the dogleg bend opened up to reveal the pair of cottages at the end of the cul-de-sac and Jasper's old station wagon parked at a drunken angle in the driveway.
I stared at it for a long moment, blinking to make sure I wasn't hallucinating from the hangover, the adrenaline, the terrible nights of sleep I'd managed since letting her go. I blinked again and no, no, I was not hallucinating. Yet I didn't trust any of this. There were plenty of reasons for her to be here. It meant nothing. It couldn't.
I told myself this but I parked in my driveway and marched straight into her yard, not stopping for anything.
The front door stood open and I glanced inside. She'd abandoned her shoes and carry-on bag in the entryway. I decided that meant nothing. Same with the vague thumping I heard coming from the direction of the back bedroom. She could be packing the last of her things or knocking down a wall, or anything in between. That was how Jasper operated.
Part of me didn't want to find out. I didn't have the stomach to walk away from her again.
I followed the sounds of the low thuds until I found myself in the doorway to her little bedroom. It was such a sliver of a space, though I couldn't focus on that, not when Jasper was busy throwing shoes into an open-top box with bananas printed on the sides. At first glance, it seemed like she was packing, but this wasn't packing. It was demolition.
"Hey. The door was open," I said.
She turned, two different shoes in each hand. "I don't want these anymore," she said, her dark eyes brimming with as much determination as I'd ever seen them.
I shoved my hands in my pockets. It was all I could do to keep myself from reaching for her. "Okay."
She chucked the shoes into the box. "I don't want any of them. I don't want to need high heels to feel powerful."
"Fuck the shoes. You're already powerful."
"I don't want to do this anymore." She stared at the box of shoes and the clothes she'd piled on the bed. "I don't want to be a nightmare. I don't want to be known for that." She blinked up at me, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. I fisted my hands in my pockets. "I don't want to go to California. I don't want the job. I don't want any job like that one. I don't want to win at any cost and I don't want to sell my dirty tricks. I don't know when I stopped being that person but I don't want to go back."
"You don't have to." I had a million questions but there was only one I really needed her to answer right now. "What do you want?"
Jasper thumbed away her tears and turned toward the bed where she rifled through the clothes heaped there. From somewhere near the bottom, she produced a notebook. If I knew anything about Jasper, I knew that book was full of lists.
She flipped through the pages, saying, "I spent all night on that."
"Is that how long the front door has been open?"
She shook her head. "I landed in Boston at six this morning." She stopped at the right page and glimpsed at me before reading, "I want to have friends who are unrelated to my job. I want to surround myself with people who care about me and don't measure my value by the access or information I can grant them. I want a job that means something to me but not one that means everything. I want to wear clothes I find comfortable, not those that function as armor or intimidation. I want to get some hobbies and I don't care if I'm very bad at them." She glanced up from the book. "While I am very bad at baking and home renovation, I don't think either of them qualify as hobbies I want to continue."