The Plot полностью

Or perhaps, at long last, she had entered his name into a search engine during some idle moment at work or gone out for a post-yoga coffee with some acquaintance who’d said: Hey, don’t you live with Jacob Finch Bonner? What a drag, what they’re doing to him.

So far, it still hadn’t happened, but—when it finally happened—because it had to happen at some point—would she accept some version of Matilda’s reassurances (Yep, that’s me: accused plagiarist! Guess I’ve really made it now.) or some pained excuse about sparing her the trauma of it?

He was thinking: no, she would not. And then she would truly see who he was, not just a person who’d been accused of an awful thing, but a person who had hidden the accusation from her. For the entire length of their relationship. And that would be that: off she would go, this loving and beautiful woman, back to the farthest end of the continent from where he was, and she would stay there.

So he’d continued to not tell her, and to justify not telling her:

How could she possibly understand? It wasn’t as if she was a writer.

“You’re right,” Jake told her now. “I should try not to be so much of an artiste. Just, right now, I’m feeling a little bit—”

“Yes. You said. In the weeds.”

“It means—”

“I know what it means.”

The waiter arrived, bringing Jake’s fraldinha and Anna’s mussels. When he departed, she said, “My point is, whatever’s making you feel so in the weeds, would you consider sharing it with me?”

Jake frowned. The answer, of course, was: No fucking way. But there were several excellent reasons not to say this.

He lifted his glass. He was hoping to get back onto a more anniversarial track. “I’d like to thank you.”

“For what?” she asked, a little suspiciously.

“You know. For dropping everything and moving to New York. For being so brave.”

“Well,” she said, “I had a pretty good feeling, from the start.”

“Checking me out at Seattle Arts and Lectures,” he teased. “Deviously arranging for me to come to your radio station.”

“Do you wish I hadn’t?”

“No! I just can’t get over the idea that I warranted so much effort.”

“Well,” Anna smiled, “you did. What’s more, you do. Even if you’re walking a lonely road.”

“I know I can be a bit of a downer sometimes.”

“This is not about you being a downer. It’s about you being down. I can take care of my own moods. But I’ve been a little worried about yours.”

For a very uncomfortable moment, he wondered if he was about to cry. As usual, she saved him.

“Honey, it’s not my intention to pry. It’s clear to me that something’s wrong. All I’m saying is, can I help? Or if I can’t help, can I at least share?”

“No, nothing’s wrong,” said Jake, and he picked up his fork and knife, as if this proved his point. “It’s so sweet of you to be concerned. But really, my life is great.”

Anna shook her head. She wasn’t even pretending to want to eat. “Your life should be great. You’re healthy. You have a nice family. You’re secure, financially. And look, you’re successful at the only thing you ever wanted to do! Think of the writers who haven’t accomplished what you’ve accomplished.”

He did. He thought about them all the time, and not in a good way.

“What’s the point of all of this, if you’re not happy?” she asked.

“But I am,” he insisted.

She shook her head. He had a sudden, terrible thought that she was saying something important here. Something along the lines of: I came all this way for someone I thought was a vital, creative, appreciative person, only to find this morose creature undercutting his own happiness at every turn. So I’m going back where I came from. His heart was pounding. What if she really was going back? Here they were together, and he was a fool, failing to appreciate what he so obviously had: success, health, Anna.

“I mean, I’m sorry if it seems I don’t appreciate … all of the wonderful things.”

“And people.”

“Yes.” He nodded fervently. “Because I’d hate to …”

“What?” she said, eyeing him.

“I’d hate to … not articulate how grateful I am …”

She shook her silvery head. “Grateful,” she said with disdain.

“My life,” Jake said, stumbling into the apparently foreign thicket of the English language. “It’s … so much better with you in it.”