Page 131 of Bad Words
My disturbance stilled like the surface of a lake after rain.
This was how it felt, then, to love someone: To sacrifice clarity. To let go the illusion of objectivity. To give every word the benefit of the doubt.
And with Parker, if I had to choose between a clean and confident judgment and this—this mess of contradictory feeling, this stew of complication; if I had to choose between the neat and comprehensible outside and the inexplicable inside, then, for the first time in my life, I chose the inside. I would love him right into my own uncertainty.
And even though he didn’t want me back anymore, he’d given me this much. This understanding. It was something I’d never lose.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Feb 19, 10:23 PM
Subject: Re: Author fight
Hi Mom and Dad,
I’m not sure if you’ve seen the article about me in a magazine called the Bay Now, but unfortunately it mentions your names. I can’t say how sorry I am.
Over the past month, I’ve thought a lot about your last message. I’m not sure I’ve told you this, but I’ve understood your worries about my career for years now. Criticism can be a volatile and thankless job, and you’re right: Sometimes you say things you can’t take back.
But whenever we’ve spoken about my work, you’ve always brought up my future. You worry about stability. Longevity. I don’t know if you’ll understand, but even if my career ends tomorrow, I’ll still be proud to have spent my life building it. Something doesn’t have to last forever to matter.
You asked in November if I’d call you back. Maybe we could find a time for that soon.
Selina
Chapter Twenty-SevenParker
My life had changed. I was no longer Parker Navarro, the author of the most hated book of the decade. Now I was Parker Navarro, the New York Times–bestselling author of the most hated book of the decade.
It was with this news, eight days after High and Dry published, that Arthur returned my phone and laptop to me. “I’m so proud of you, bro,” he said.
“You mean for lasting more than a week without a phone?”
“Yeah. New York Times who?”
I sat at our dining room table, the devices stacked before me. “Thank you,” I said. “Seriously. I’m sorry you had to—”
“I didn’t have to do anything.”
“Yeah, no, I just”—I let out a breath, angry with myself—“you take on so much already, and I told myself after college and the first book that I’d stop letting things get bad, and you’re still here, like, having to look after me, or whatever.”
Arthur shrugged on his coat. “You planned stuff for me when I got dumped. You cooked for us that whole month.”
“Well, yeah, but that was a normal—”
“This is normal. That’s what I’m saying. Not everything is a brain chemistry problem. Sometimes it’s a ‘life kicks people in the teeth and then they have to wait for their teeth to stop bleeding’ problem.”
I watched Arthur do up the buttons of his coat and tried to come up with some counterargument, but nothing came to mind.
“If you want to square things off,” he said, “you can buy me one of those stupid twelve-dollar Japanese ice creams.”
“That seems like a false equivalence.”
“You’re right. Three fancy ice creams. That’s my price.” He shoved his wallet in his pocket, clapped me on the shoulder, and left me to reenter the internet for the first time in a week.
I left my laptop shut and handled the phone gingerly, allowing myself only cursory glances at my email. But reading through my sibling and San Francisco group texts, settling back into the collage of text styles and voices, felt like a kind of homecoming, and soon enough Lauren and Bill called to congratulate me. I deleted the Chan Pan Support Group thread, then blocked all four numbers individually, feeling a deep satisfaction each time, as though I were turning the world’s heaviest dead bolts with each tap of the thumb.
