Next Year, for Sure Read online

They talk without economy, nothing saved for later, nothing portioned out. Chris wishes he could write everything down, so that later he could go back over each moment and take it apart like a clock.

  Emily talks about growing up in San Francisco and what brought her here. (A train, she says in the end.) Chris talks about growing up in a small town and the sister who never left. They talk about Emily’s parents, who are still in love, and Chris’s, who maybe never were.

  They talk about Halloween—her love of it and his dread. It is only the first week of October, and already some of the houses have cobwebs and skeletons showing. Chris despises it, Halloween, and has since he was a kid—the gore and malevolence, the marauding teens, the bottle rockets. But even as Chris is listing his grievances, he finds himself warming to the holiday, because Emily said, simply, I like it.

  They talk about ghosts and whether they believe. (They do.) They talk about music and promise each other mixes. They talk about the spinal problems of basset hounds and the nasal passages of pugs. And how did anyone figure out that rhubarb was edible? Did someone say, Well the leaves are deadly, now let’s try eating the stalks?

  Sometimes a single sentence will branch out in a dozen different directions, and yet Chris and Emily follow them all, looping around, dropping nothing. Chris feels breathless and switched on like a current.

  All week, Chris has been telling himself that once he gets to know Emily, as she becomes more defined and specified and real, he will be able to think about her reasonably, without chest pain.

  What if the opposite is happening?

  —

  In the first bookstore, Emily wanders away and Chris loves that. He is embarrassed for couples who proceed side by side through the shelves, reading the odd title out loud and making their little commentaries. The joy is to go your separate ways, to find your separate treasures, and then bring them to each other.

  Today, Chris finds pearls in every section. Science. Religion. Biography. Everything looks good today. All subjects seem possible and necessary. He keeps culling the books he is carrying, keeping only the best, replacing the perfect book with an even more perfect book until the stack is a work of art.

  When he finds Emily, she is sitting in a wicker chair with a cat on her lap. The animal is in some sort of rapture, purring like an outboard motor.

  Did you find anything? Emily says.

  Chris shows her the titles one by one. The cat turns its head as if to look, but does not open its eyes. Chris reads a line or two from each book, and he and Emily talk about why he picked it, what makes it special.

  Then Chris puts the books back where he found them.

  You aren’t going to buy any? Emily says.

  I don’t think so, he says. He doesn’t feel right buying books if Emily isn’t getting any.

  Outside it is starting to spit.

  —

  They eat with their hands, like gods. Tiny foods tucked into other foods, unknown pleasures pressed into pockets and fried. Morsels, Emily says. Whenever a plate is placed before them, she says: Mmmmmorsels. Chris thinks it is the best sequence of sounds he has ever heard in a single word.

  —

  In the next bookstore, Emily strikes up a conversation with the owner. Chris can hear them from the back of the shop where he is looking at dictionaries. For twenty minutes, Chris pretends to look at dictionaries, but in fact, stands listening to Emily and how she talks to people and the way she is in the world.

  It isn’t small talk. It’s actual conversation, generous and curious and real. It fascinates Chris, it attracts him, but he does not move to join in. Rather he hides, lingers in the back of the shop longer than he wants to, waiting for the encounter to die down so he can emerge safely and not be introduced.

  What Chris does not want Emily to know about him, not yet, is that he doesn’t generally talk to people. He can talk to Kathryn, of course. And Emily now. He could talk with them all day and night. But other people? Most people make Chris tired.

  His sister says he’s superior, that he thinks he’s too good for people. But Chris likes people. He likes the owner of this store, whose name he knows is Carol. Carol hosts readings every couple of months—quiet, cozy affairs with folding chairs and tea—and Chris admires her knowledge of the authors’ other books and her insightful introductions. Chris reads her blog. He listens in when she recommends books to other, chattier customers. But he’s never spoken to Carol. What would he say?

  He doesn’t need to pal around with Carol the way some customers do. He wants to nod politely when he comes in, and again when he leaves, and otherwise just think well of each other.

  But Chris wants, also, to be like Emily. Or at least to stand beside Emily and feel the gravitational force of her. So Chris does, at last, wrest himself from the dictionaries and walk out into the open. Emily introduces him immediately.

  Carol, this is my good friend Chris.

  Carol reaches out and shakes Chris’s hand. I see you in here all the time, Carol says.

  That’s true, Chris says stupidly.

  Your store is his favourite, Emily says. He’s been taking me on the rounds.

  Carol smiles fondly at Chris, as if they are childhood pen pals who’ve finally met in old age. She asks if he saw the Barthelmes over in New Arrivals. (He hadn’t, what with hiding.) Chris asks how the Kevin Chong reading went last week, and Carol lights up with funny anecdotes. She says if there’s ever anything Chris is after, he should tell her, and she’ll put it aside for him. Chris can think of several things right off.

  They go on like this for fifteen minutes and it’s not unendurable. Now he’ll have to think of something to say to Carol every time he comes into the store.

  —

  They eat a mouthful here, another mouthful a mile away. They chew slowly. They lick sauce from little saucers.

  In ten years, Emily says, I will still remember every single bite.

  They tip extremely well and leave hungry. It feels good to carry this hunger along, with just the tickle of satisfaction in their mouths.

  —

  In the back of another bookstore, Chris discovers a cloth-bound copy of Charlotte Brontë’s Villette. It’s $100. It has a green satin ribbon to hold your place and wide creamy margins. Emily finds Chris there just holding it.

  It’s Kathryn’s favourite novel, Chris says. Have you read it?

  Emily shakes her head.

  It’s good, Chris says. Supposed to be her best.

  What’s it about? Emily says.

  Chris tries to remember. He has read it. Kathryn brought her copy to the projection booth, years ago, along with some curry noodles, and left it for him to read. Chris had loaned her Reasons to Live the week before. This was back at the very beginning of what they would later regard as their courtship, when they were urgently handing each other beloved novels and favourite albums.

  It’s about a woman, Chris says. He wants to say more about the woman—Lucy? Sylvie?—and about her particular situation, but he can’t bring it into focus. He knows there was longing and suffering, but for Chris, when he read it, the book was about Kathryn. It was about Kathryn being with a man who didn’t like her and not knowing what to do.

  Chris remembers Kathryn talking about the book, excitedly, both before he’d read it and after, and using the word indefatigable. And he remembers wondering what it would be like to kiss someone who used the word indefatigable.

  Are you going to get it for her? Emily says.

  Her copy is falling apart, he says. He can’t put the book down.

  You should get it.

  Chris holds the book up to his nose. It smells like a book Kathryn should have.

  —

  At the Indonesian place, the staff seems tense around Emily. The venerable old woman who fills water glasses will not look at Emily and will not smile at Chris. The woman has always smiled at Chris, at first because he drank so much water, which pleased her and gave them a silent bond, and later because he began to
surprise her with diligently-practised phrases in Indonesian. Thank you. You are very kind. I always feel thirst.

  Chris and Kathryn have been coming here since Kathryn was still in grad school. They were here last week for Chris’s birthday. Normally, the owner comes out to welcome them and talk for some minutes about her son who is in university now and might become a pediatrician. She’ll say something like, Do you remember, we were so worried about him? Because when Chris and Kathryn first started coming here, the son was in high school and getting into trouble. Maybe drugs?

  Tonight he and Emily are not welcomed by the owner, or by anyone.

  Their one appetizer takes forty minutes to appear, though the restaurant is empty. Chris imagines the people in the kitchen talking about him and Emily, using words he will never find in his Indonesian dictionary.

  When the owner does come out, it is with the bill.

  And how is your other friend? she says, as Chris signs the receipt. She is at home?

  —

  Outside the restaurant, three men start hugging Emily, and she, them. They all seem overjoyed to have found each other. Chris steps back, out of the way. They are huddled under the awning. It is really raining now.

  Emily introduces the men to Chris.

  This is Chris, she says. She pulls him into the circle. Chris works in a film archive, she says.

  The men are impressed by this. They nod approvingly. Chris has already forgotten their names.

  Hey, what are you up to right now? the one man asks Emily.

  We’re just hanging out, Emily says.

  Chris wishes now that they were not just hanging out, that there was another word for what they are doing, a stronger word they could use with these men so they would understand.

  You guys should come to the Make Room, the man is saying. He says a friend of theirs—of Emily and these men—is doing something at an open mic.

  This friend of theirs is a genius, Emily tells Chris, and could probably be a star, but he won’t do the same piece twice. You have to see it the one time, or you never see it.

  What kind of stuff does he do? Chris asks.

  The friends debate this for some time, inconclusively.

  You should come, the man says. You should both come.

  I don’t think so, guys. Chris made this whole plan for us.

  Now Chris is ashamed of his plan. His plan is all wrong. It should be more spontaneous. It should be a non-plan.

  The man is working on Emily.

  I don’t know, she says. Then turning to Chris: What do you think?

  Sure, Chris says, all spontaneous.

  Emily is silent for a moment. Everyone watches her think.

  No, she says, I think we’re going to do our thing.

  The men look disappointed. Then more hugging.

  Hey, any word from Chris? says the one man.

  Emily shrugs. He calls, she says.

  The man nods. Well, say hi.

  —

  The men head off in one direction, regrettably the same direction that Chris and Emily must go. They trail behind the men for several awkward blocks. Chris considers changing course, abandoning the remaining bookstores. Everything is all wrong. He shouldn’t be here. He should be home with Kathryn. If Chris was home right now, he and Kathryn would be brushing their teeth, taking forever as usual, because they can’t stop telling each other all the little things that happened to them today. He would rub Kathryn’s feet until she fell asleep, and then lie beside her and read his book, or maybe start Villette again. Chris knows how to be with Kathryn. He knows how to be what Kathryn needs.

  And let’s be honest: He doesn’t have the capacity to be with Emily. He could never make her happy. He is sure the Other Chris would’ve said yes to unexpected performance art. The Other Chris would have grasped the hands of those men and cared to learn their names. And Emily should have that. Emily should have someone who is vital and outgoing and full of life, not stunted and broken.

  How you doing? Emily says.

  Good, Chris says. Great.

  Yeah? She slows them to a stop with a hand on his arm.

  I feel a little off, he says.

  Here, she says, and pulls him into the doorway of a darkened dry cleaners. She sits him on the step and stands in front of him, then digs her thumbs hard into his face. It’s a welcome pain. Her hands are small and powerful. She works slowly on the ridge of his eye sockets, his cheekbones, his eyebrows. He can feel things shifting around inside.

  The people in that restaurant think I’m cheating on Kathryn, he says finally.

  Emily sits down beside him. She is looking at him, Chris can tell, but he cannot look back. She takes his hand and laces her fingers into his.

  Do you think you’re cheating? she says.

  He sits with the question while it accumulates around him. The voices of the men are distant now, almost gone.

  Okay, Emily says, who are the people affected by this?

  By what?

  By you and me. This. Emily waves her hand to take in the little stoop and awning and them sitting there. Who does this affect?

  Kathryn, he says. It is Kathryn he is thinking about, above all. And you, he adds. And me.

  Anyone else?

  Chris thinks. It seems like he’s forgetting someone.

  How about those people in the restaurant? Emily says.

  Chris laughs, once, through the nose. It feels good to listen to her.

  So, she says, there are three people who get a say in this.

  Chris nods.

  Let’s go in order, she says. What does Kathryn want?

  I don’t know.

  What does she say?

  She said it’s a date.

  Okay.

  Chris looks up now to catch Emily’s expression. He notices she does not deny it is a date.

  What else? Emily says.

  She said go. Have fun.

  Alright, next up, Emily says, what do you want?

  I want to not be an asshole.

  Oh my friend, she says, and she puts her head on his shoulder. Her weight feels good on his bones.

  Do you want to head home? she says.

  Maybe.

  They sit on the steps and watch cars driving too fast in the rain and people walking by in twos and threes. Chris keeps hoping for one of these people to turn and notice them sitting here like this, holding hands, on a date, but nobody does.

  Come on, Emily says, pulling him to his feet. Walk me home.

  —

  They talk on the way home about being an asshole, about people they have wronged, about the objects they swallowed as children. They talk about Emily’s brother who sometimes doesn’t want to live.

  They take turns asking each other questions. Chris asks, What do people misunderstand about you? Emily asks, What do you think you’ll be like when you’re really old? Chris asks, Do you know another Chris?

  The Other Chris is a guy she knew—knows—a good guy, a musician, who decided it made more sense to just stay on tour.

  He was your boyfriend? Chris says.

  Not entirely.

  But sort of?

  We were seeing each other, Emily says. We dated.

  They talk about who they have dated, about who made them the people they are, about who broke up with whom and why. It is cold and raining, but they are not miserable.

  —

  They stand in front of Emily’s house for several minutes. The conversation subsides in waves like a tide rolling out. Then they’re not talking anymore and there is an interval where it feels like something should happen. Chris wonders if they are going to kiss. Is that what he wants? He isn’t sure that it is. Unless it’s what Emily wants, and then he wants it more than anything.

  Can we do this again? Emily says.

  Yes, he says. After today, his calendar is blank.

  She puts her arms around him and holds him.

  I always call you, he says. Is that weird?

  Should I cal
l you?

  You certainly could.

  Then I will, she says.

  Chris bounds the sixteen blocks home. He imagines himself living in a world where the phone rings and it’s Emily.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Right Thing to Feel

  I’ll be back by eleven, Chris says.

  I should hope so, Kathryn thinks. It’s not even two thirty in the afternoon. What could they possibly do for almost nine hours on this non-date? Does Chris have nine hours of conversation mapped out in his little book? Can he even stay awake past ten anymore? It all seems unlikely, this eleven o’clock.

  Still, Kathryn doesn’t like the possibility that Chris might say eleven and then—through no fault of his own—come in at 11:05. He might be legitimately delayed. Someone could have a seizure on the sidewalk and Chris would stop to help. But then there would be these five minutes that would have to be dealt with, would have to be absorbed somehow, a concrete betrayal that can be measured in international units.

  Or worse, that he’s right on time, but he’s right on time because he said to Emily: I wish I didn’t have to leave. I’d rather stay here with you, but I promised Kathryn.

  Better to be late than to come when you don’t want to come. Better to not set a time at all.

  Besides, he has already said eleven. Once Chris says he’ll do something, he does it. Even when you pretend it’s not important. Even when you sincerely release him from obligation, he is unswerving.

  So it’s easy to say, Don’t set a time. It’s easy to be generous and unconcerned. Because you know he’ll be home by eleven.

  —

  By seven o’clock, Kathryn has watched a toxic amount of sitcoms. She can feel deposits forming in her fatty tissue—the smirking gags, the cheap innuendo—settling in and becoming part of her like mercury in a slow-moving tuna.

  She had planned to work all afternoon, ideally all evening. She needed the time. She has had this manuscript on her desk for a month already, and not one word of the index is done. The thing goes to the printer in less than a week. Impossible. Still, a lot could be achieved in nine hours.

  Instead, she had watched Chris disappear through the peephole and then sat down in front of the TV and turned on the worst show she could find.