Page 89 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

We were interrupted by the arrival of Brett: the doctor, the fiancé, the man I loathed with every fiber of my being. He pecked a chaste kiss on Sloane’s cheek and smiled down at her with a look that I’d have wiped right off his face if I were twenty years younger.

“How old ismysoul?” the fiancé asked. “Or is it better if I don’t ask?”

“Yours is brand new,” she said, and so quickly that I knew she’d thought about this before. “Everyone in your family is. It’s what I like best about you.”

“About me?” Francine echoed. She teetered on the edge of offense, unsure whether or not she was being insulted and unwilling to commit until she knew.

“Yes, about you. Aboutallof you.” Sloane swept her eyes around the room. I had yet to be introduced to any of the rest of this family, but there was no need. My soul was plenty old, so I knew exactly what I was looking at. Pomp and self-consequence at every turn. Everyone was well-dressed and far too pleased with themselves considering the only books on the shelves were Reader’s Digest collections. “You’re never anything except what you advertise.”

The woman’s nostrils pinched even tighter. “And what’s that?”

Sloane smiled blandly up at her fiancé. “You’re accepting. Uncomplicated. Kind.”

Each of those words cut through me like the swing of a scythe. Those were the worst three words I’d ever heard used to describeanyone, let alone the man Sloane was a few short months away from chaining herself to forever. I was no phone psychic, but even I could see what the future held for her.

A life that was accepting and uncomplicated and kind, sure. But also one that wasn’t worth living.

“Bah!” I said, since I didn’t have the words to say what I truly felt. Maisey would have been ashamed of me, but this wasn’t like apologizing to a few nurses for my bad temper.Thatwas just a matter of stringing the right syllables together and forcing them out. This was something else altogether, something I’d never been able to do.

That was the truth of the matter, and it had to be said. I, Arthur McLachlan, didn’t have the right words. I’d read thousands of books, absorbed the wit and wisdom of thousands of authors, but I’d never be able to do what they did. To bleed onto Hemingway’s oft-quoted page, to take a piece of myself and hold it up for everyone to see.

Ineededthat blood. Ineededthat part of myself. I’d already lost so much as it was.

At the sound of my outburst, one of the well-dressed, self-consequential family members laughed out loud. Out of all of them, she seemed the least obnoxious. She had the same twinkle in her eye that had first drawn me toward Sloane.

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” she said as she came forward, her hand outstretched. “I’m Rachel, by the way. I don’t think we’ve formally met.”

I didn’t take her hand. To encourage familiarity with this group would only lead to a repeat invitation. Unfortunately, this only caused her to laugh harder.

“Oh, wow. You’re every bit as rude as Sloane said.”

“Rachel, I didn’t! I said he was…difficult, that’s all.”

“Don’t apologize on my behalf, girl,” I said. “Iamrude. And difficult. I find it’s the best way to avoid dinner parties like this one.”

The new girl—Rachel—wound her arm through mine and gave my hand a friendly pat. I was so startled by this overture that I forgot to fight back until it was too late. She had a grip like an Amazonian.

“It’s official,” she said. “When Sloane’s gone, I’m adopting you in her stead. My friends will get such a kick out of you.”

I ignored the implication that I was a stray dog who needed to be swept up off the streets to focus on the more important half of that statement. “Gone? What do you mean, gone? Where’s she going?”

“Oh!” The Amazonian grip relaxed enough for me to get my limb back. “Didn’t she tell you? She and Brett are—”

“Rachel,don’t.” Sloane spoke with the same severity she’d used the other night at my house, when I’d felt the world slipping out from underneath me and had lashed out at all of them. The world was slipping again—and taking me with it—but there was nothing to lash myself to this time.

“Wait—you haven’t told him yet?” The fiancé spoke with a severity that suited his surroundings, an assumption of power that had nothing to do with merit and everything to do with circumstance. “I thought we decided on this, my love. The sooner the better. In the best interests of everyone involved.”

“If that isn’t just like you, Sloane.” Francine tsked. “You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached. It’s always up in some cloud.”

I took umbrage at every part of this speech, but I had no time or energy for a woman so comprehensibly wrong about Sloane. Her head wasn’t in the clouds; it was bent low to the ground, refusing to see anything but what lay in her direct path.

“If you must know, Mr. McLachlan, Brett has been offered an incredible opportunity on the East Coast.” Francine turned toward me, puffing up with enough maternal pride to inflate a hot air balloon. “Some old college friends of his are starting up a health and wellness center, and they can’t do it without a doctor of his stamp to lend them credibility. He’s very sought after.”

It was clear this barrage of nonsense required a response. “A doctor? I thought he was a chiropractor.”

The hot-air balloon began to overheat. “Heis.”

“Please. He might as well answer phones at a psychic hotline and have done with it. At least Maisey doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what she is. I can respect that.”