You

53

THE mail I typically receive is boring and financial, bills, coupons, crap. But today, almost three months after your passing, I receive the first wedding invitation of my life, via the United States Postal Service. The envelope is so big the postman had to walk it upstairs and lean it against my door. I know I’m not an expert, but it’s a beauty, Beck, and I have it with me here at the shop. I’m enamored with the triumphant romance of the thick, embossed cardstock juxtaposed with the delicate, gold, italicized cursive. Who knew Ethan and Blythe were royalty? A lot happens in three months. Exclamation Point Ethan and Blythe have gotten engaged and invited me to their wedding in Austin, Texas. A lot doesn’t happen in three months. The HELP WANTED sign is still in the window; Ethan got a corporate job, marriage is expensive.

But, this invitation has altered my perspective. I haven’t felt this hopeful since exiting Dr. Nicky’s office, since entering you. The future exists again because of this invitation. This invitation necessitates that I mark dates on my calendar. And it feels good to flip ahead through the calendar in my phone. Before this invitation arrived—addressed to Mr. Joe Goldberg and Guest!—I was only flipping through months gone by, inventing anniversaries for our life that’s gone. You above all others know the importance of moving on; you like new things, you liked new things. Life is not a Dan Brown book; you are dead and you are not coming back. But life is better than a Dan Brown book because at long last, I have something to look forward to, a wedding. I have to decide between steak and fish and I am genuinely torn about the decision and I have to make this decision within the next forty-one days, according to the rules on the reply card.

The bell chimes on this slow day that’s neither summer nor fall. An unremarkable man in shorts asks about Doctor Sleep. I point him to Fiction G–K and I think of the time I saw you in Fiction F–K and what a fool I was in the days after. I have rearranged the shop; I couldn’t look at F–K anymore. I genuinely believed that reshaping the shelves would make it easier to live in the world without you, the world I built with my own two hands, the world that won’t allow me to tell you that I know you stole your Ritz robes from Peach. I still get flashbacks. I still cringe. I am eating again, but only because I hate fainting. Everything has been an exercise until now. I will always feel indebted to the United States Postal Service, to Ethan, to Blythe. And I will never again underestimate the power of anticipation. There is no better boost in the present than an invitation to the future.

The loner buys the King and leaves with the King and I am going to need to buy a suit. It’s wonderful to have a project and I celebrate by visiting Chet and Rose’s online love nest. I feel like I’ve gotten to know them so well since that dreadful night in the woods. I want to tell them about the invitation. I’ve become obsessed with Chet and Rose, but how could I not? They gathered in the woods to be married so that I could still believe in love. I love them. I’ve watched their honeymoon slideshow hundreds of times. They were there for me. What timing. I used to play the slideshow and pretend that we’re the ones on a honeymoon in Cabo San Lucas. But these days I’m less bitter. I know that we all don’t get to be Chet and Rose. It is an indisputable fact: Some people on this earth receive love, get married, and honeymoon in Cabo. Others do not. Some people read alone on the sofa and some people read together, in bed. That’s life.

I will probably die alone. Karen Minty will probably die married; lots of people love The King of Queens. And I am fine with my fate. It was my decision to spare you the pain of life. I let go of you. I forgive you. It’s not your fault that you carried your demons awkwardly in that big Prada bag, in those giant used robes from Peach’s Ritz. You were toxic, not vicious and the men who did leave you are thriving; that Hesher guy has a television show that doesn’t suck. An online registry at Babies “R” Us shows that your father is about to become a father, again. Some people get it all, they do.

I think you would be happy to know that your voice carries. I am the sole reader of The Book of Beck. I had your short stories bound at FedEx. But millions of people have devoured the story of your life. Everyone knows about the twisted psychologist who murdered you. You never were published in the New Yorker but you did make the New York Post.

You changed me, Beck. I will not grow lonely like Mr. Mooney. I have Ethan and Blythe. I have the girls they periodically foist upon me. The girls are always terrible, wan and patronizing or shallow and simple. I am like Hugh Grant in Love Actually minus the love, which isn’t so bad when you realize that in real life, Hugh Grant is single, like me. Once again, not all animals are destined to pair off. Yes, I understand that we are built for companionship; God gave us vocabularies. We need to speak. We need to listen. I fuck occasionally, girls from the Internet, girls from the shop. But mostly I keep to myself. No longer do I open petal by petal and you were right, Beck. You were not the girl I thought you were and Barbara Hershey wasn’t the one for Elliot in Hannah and Her Sisters. The doorbell chimes and I look up from a photo of Chet and Rose on paddleboards and see a girl, a girl I know, sort of. She wears a University of Pittsburgh tank top and jeans. She squirms. She waves. I wish there was music playing right now. She liked my music last time.

“I saw the sign in the window.” She swallows. “Are you still hiring? Sometimes they forget to take down the sign. Sometimes it’s bullshit. I’m sorry. I’m swearing.”

I forgot about the sign but I did not forget about Amy Adam and her stolen credit card and her fraudulent academic attire and her large chestnut eyes. We are still hiring. She comes over. She glances at my wedding invitation and nods. “I love Austin.”

“So, how have you been?” I ask and it’s a silken maneuver on my part. I am the gentleman, assuming the role of the one who remembers so that she may be the lady, remembered. She fawns, almost curtsies. She is flattered and happy. She is staring at me and it feels good in her eyes and she hands me a résumé.

“I used to work at a little bookstore in Williamsburg, but let’s just say that it didn’t work out because of their shortsighted policies about what they call stealing.” She grunts. “Like I shouldn’t bring books home and read them. And exactly how do you even read a book without marking it up?” She is loud. “Excuse me if I’m not one of these ultramodern Kindle people, but I like pens, paper, real pages I can rip and touch.” She shakes her head. “And if you bought a book and found notes in the margins, I mean who wouldn’t love that? It’s a bonus.” She doesn’t want me to answer. She blinks. “I’m sorry. I’m going off. But it has to be said.”

She needs my acceptance. I smile. “No apology necessary.”

Now it’s her turn and she complies, playful. “I probably sound like a lunatic. Do you guys hire lunatics?”

I tell her that we only hire lunatics and she thinks I am funny. She has a lilting laugh and she likes it here with me. She will be my cashier and my girlfriend and the next time I’m invited to a wedding, it will be addressed to Joe Goldberg & Amy Adam and I won’t have to worry about finding a Guest. You are gone, forever and she is here, now.