Page 52 of The Book Swap
“I’d love to,” I say, meaning it.
He runs off to his bedroom and I follow, shaking my head at the view from his room. At age three he’s got some of the best real estate in the city and, to add to the extravagance, a double bed which sits opposite a rack of books, and a blue wooden chest of toys.
“Wow...this all yours?”
He nods, thrusting a book into my hand before doing a very energetic roll into bed, as Elliot appears in the doorway with a ball of Jordan’s clothes in his hand.
“Oooh. Be Kind. Good choice, buddy. Good luck with that one,” he adds to me, smiling.
Jordan pats the bed and I go to lie beside him, reading to him all about a little girl who’s sad because she’s spilled grape juice on her dress.
By the second to last page, I’m wiping under my eyes as I try to keep my voice from breaking.
“...So that we can be kind,” I say. “Again. And again. And again.” I turn to Elliot. “Fucking hell,” I mouth at him, blown away by the power of a book with fewer words than the first chapter of my novel.
“Told you,” he says, laughing. “Okay, night, J.J.” He walks to the window, pressing a button to close the blinds and then bends down to kiss him. I lie there for a second, unsure what I should do, but Jordan throws his little arms around me.
“Night,” he says, kissing me, and then he rolls onto his side.
Swallowing, I stand up and leave the room. He looks like Elliot as a boy and that, combined with the emotion from the book—and the jet lag, and the past thirty-six hours—is enough to almost tip me over the edge.
“So where is Carl?” I ask, once Jordan has stopped coming out and being put back to bed and has actually, finally, fallen asleep.
Elliot hands me a glass of champagne and sits down on the big white chair opposite the sofa.
“LA,” he says, raising his glass and downing some.
“Must be hard.” I glance toward Jordan’s room. “Having him away so much.”
He shrugs. “I’m used to it, I guess.” He starts spinning the watch around his wrist. “I think it’s harder for Carl. Missing out on so much. It’s like he’s away, and J.J. and I find our own way of doing things—and then he comes back, and it’s like he can’t find the place where he fits in, you know? He gets pretty down about it. Beats himself up. Wants to be able to do it all. Businessman. Provider. Perfect dad.” He sighs, staring into his glass. “He doesn’t seem to get that he doesn’t have to be perfect, he just has to be here. To give J.J. some attention. Not time, but attention. He fools himself into thinking that giving Jordan his bath, while on his phone, is quality time, but Jordan notices that stuff. Kids are scarily smart.”
“I’m just starting to learn that,” I say, glancing off toward Jordan’s bedroom.
“How’s stuff with you, anyway? Dad said you’re writing a book.”
That’s the thing with Elliot. He’ll tell you something heartbreaking. Something that definitely requires many more conversations, and then he’ll shut it down. I know him. If I push further on what he’s just said, he’ll backtrack. I just have to leave it. His admissions about his life never come from me asking about them. They come when I least expect them.
“Yeah,” I say, going along with this avoidance tactic. “I am. Or...I was.” Thinking about Ten Ways to Say Sorry now only leads me to Erin, which leads to the library and onward until all I can see is her disgusted face on the bus. “Stopped for a bit.”
“How come?” He’s finishes his champagne and walks across to the kitchen to top up his glass.
“Just not sure it’s any good. There’s an agent who said she’ll read the first three chapters though, so that’s something.”
He sits back down. “Have you got three chapters?”
“Yeah, I’ve nearly finished the whole book.”
“Can’t you just send her the chapters now? Then you’ll know if it’s any good.”
I forget how Elliot is. He never really sees problems. It’s why we had such different experiences at school, and why he has so much to offer career wise. He could be doing so much with his life. Probably making as much money as Carl, or more, if he really put his mind to it. I never understand why he doesn’t.
“I suppose I could,” I say. I’ve rewritten those first few chapters so many times, I’m pretty sure they’re as good as they can be. Would it be foolish to send them when the book isn’t finished? Just thinking about it makes my head start to spin, and I don’t think the champagne or time difference is helping. “How about you and work?”
He shakes his head. “No time.”
“But Jordan’s in nursery now, right?”
He looks at me. Holds my gaze. “Preschool, yeah. For a few hours, and while he’s there I have to prep meals, do housework, get Carl’s clothes dry-cleaned. I already need more hours in the day, without throwing work in.”