Either a hard-backed case that could survive space travel or a soft shell that can somehow charge my cell phone.
Guess it depends. Are you going to the moon?
St. Louis.
She doesn’t realize it until she types it. But she needs to go back before she moves into the mansion. She needs to say goodbye to Harry. She needs to clean the crumbs off the counter. Turn off the water. Pack up her things. Get it ready to sell. Set herself up for the next part of her life. She feels strong enough now to face it.
Oh, Gary writes. That moon.
Not forever, she writes. Where are you?
In the hot tub.
Don’t move.
SHE TAKES A cab back, but there is so much traffic, she decides near the end that it will be quicker to run. But running with a giant suitcase is difficult, and she is tired and sweating by the time she makes it back to the hotel.
In the lobby, everything is so still and serene, she slows down. This is one of those really great moments, she thinks. This is everything she loves about life. She wants to savor it. She leaves the suitcase with Pauline. She trails her fingers on the wall like she is already the winter keeper, checking for dirt. She admires the trim along the bookcase. Flips a book around, then nods at the new wedding people. Pours herself a glass of the spa water, which she knows is just regular water with cucumbers in it. It’s not magic water. But everything feels like magic inside of her.
Outside, there is Marla, two legs in the tub. Juice, submerged up to her ears. The clouds, protecting them all from the vast, unknowable void. And there, underneath it, the groom.
THE GROOM IS no longer a groom. Now he is just a man in a hot tub, wearing an orange bathing suit so bright Phoebe can see it glow through the water.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been here this whole time?” Phoebe asks Gary.
“It’s become medically unsafe,” Gary says.
“Dad’s having a spa day,” Juice says.
They laugh.
“He deserves it,” Marla says.
“It’s no Bourbon Bubbler,” Gary says. “But it’ll do.”
Juice stands up. Her face is flushed. “I need to get in the pool.”
“You should get out, too, Gary,” Marla orders.
“I will, when my back stops hurting.”
“You need to see a doctor about that when you get home,” Marla says.
“He is a doctor,” Juice reminds them.
“But you can’t be the doctor of your own back,” Marla insists.
“That’s certainly not how I’d go around phrasing it,” Gary says.
They all laugh.
“Hi, I’m Gary. I’m a doctor of my own back,” Juice practices.
“See?” Gary says. “Doesn’t sound right.”
Marla gets out. “Time to go.”
“Time for the pool,” Juice says, and does a cannonball before Marla can reach her.
Phoebe dangles her legs in the water. She feels nervous for a moment but then remembers: This is Gary. It’s okay to say anything to Gary. Gary has watched a woman die. Gary has been left at the altar. Gary is just a regular man in a hot tub.
“So,” Phoebe says.
“So,” Gary says.
They both laugh again.
“How are you doing?” Phoebe asks. “You know, besides your back.”
“Oh,” he says. “I’m feeling very weird right now.”
“Weird how?”
“I have been having some very weird thoughts.”
“Go on.”
“Well, a butterfly landed on my forearm a bit ago, and I thought, Oh, how sweet. How nice. But then I thought, What if it’s not nice?”
