In September, Jess goes to Washington state to meet a new author, the first time he's been away from Willa for more than one or two days since he brought her home. All things considered, he doesn't handle it particularly well.
"You slept with who?!" asks Matthew. Jess can hear both of the Chrises laughing in the background. The only time they ever get along, it seems, is when they're making fun of Jess, which is just super.
"Nobody you know, I slept with - okay, well, she's married," Jess says. Matthew groans. "It was just a girl at a bar! But, uh, her husband works at my hotel, turns out, the only hotel actually, and, well - "
"Jesus Christ," says Matt.
"Fucking small towns, I swear to God," Jess says, looking around his new accommodation, which doubles as a sort of aviary. There are no less than four birds in here, two of which aren't even in cages. Jess eyes the green one with trepidation. "Well the good news is, Sheila's a great writer. She's also a very nice person, generally. And she really, really likes parrots."
"You didn't tell her we'd publish her book just so she'd let you sleep on her couch, right?"
"No, I told her we'd publish her book because it's a good fucking book," Jess says. "The couch was a sort of secondary bonus."
"Is she married?" Matthew asks archly.
"She's sixty-four years old, Matthew," Jess says.
"I notice that you didn't answer the question."
"This is why people call you a bitch all the time, you know," Jess says.
Somebody laughs again in the background, and Jess sighs, inching his foot away from the green bird, which seems to be inspecting his boot. Sheila had said they were friendly, but she also scooted out of the room pretty quickly, making sure to only open the door wide enough to slip through. Jess is wary. He doesn't have a stellar history with birds.
"Can I ask you a question? A serious question."
"I'd rather you didn't," Jess says honestly.
"Have you ever been involved, romantically speaking I mean, with anyone who wasn't committing adultery in some way?" Matthew asks. He does sound serious, and sort of earnest in the way that he usually is, which makes it really hard to actively be annoyed by him. That's the problem with Matt - he's a ridiculous person, but he really means it, is the thing. "I ask this as a friend, and not a judgmental colleague."
Jess has to think about it, which is just pathetic, even he can admit it. "Yes," he says, wincing when it comes out defensive, even to his own ears. "There was this girl in high school."
"Okay," Matthew says slowly.
"And," Jess says, and pauses. "Well I mean. Yes, there are others. Tons...of others."
"Okay," Matthew says again.
Jess sighs. "Yeah, so. Great. Therapy hour's done. Can you put my daughter on the phone, please?"
"She's asleep, man," Matthew says, with genuine regret. "The Chrises got her to go down about an hour ago. We could wake her up?"
Jess genuinely considers it, and very nearly tells him to do it, but the logical, responsible part of his brain that's tripled in size since he became a parent is too insistent to ignore. "No," he says, and kicks vindictively at the air around the green bird. It squawks at him angrily and finally flutters away. "No, don't, it's fine. She'll be up all night if you do that."
"Sorry," Matt says.
"It's fine," Jess replies, even though it's not fine. It's terrible, actually. Jess hasn't felt this not-fine in a long time, since - well, since before Willa, really. "The whole thing was stupid, really. I know better."
"I really don't think I have the right to give you shit about impulsive romantic decisions on business trips," Matt says.
"I need to quit doing this shit," Jess says. "I really do. I'm too old for it, and - I need to do better."
"You're doing fine," Matt says gently, because that's the other thing, with Matthew. He always knows exactly what the real problem is. "Nobody expects you to be perfect, man. You can't be superdad every day of your life, it's gonna drive you crazy."
"Yeah," Jess says.
"Not even perfect parents are perfect, and anyway, Willa deserves a dad who does fuck up every once in awhile," Matt says. "That's how kids learn, sometimes. And it'll help her to see you as a human, so she knows she doesn't have to be perfect."
Jess rests his forehead on his free hand, staring at the floor. "Yeah," he says.
"You're a really good father, Jess," Matt says fervently.
"Sure."
"This isn't helping, is it?"
"Not really," Jess says, and rubs his eyes. He's had a monster headache ever since he woke up to the concierge pounding down his door, and it's only gotten worse. This entire fucking room smells like bird shit. "Thanks, though."
"No problem," Matt says earnestly. "You're better than your dad ever was, at least. Better than mine, too. That's something."
Jess' chest aches. "Yeah, that's something, alright," he says, with a bitter laugh. "Whatever. Thanks, dude. It's fine, though."
Matt clears his throat, and acknowledges the silent request. "The book's really good, huh?"
"It really is," Jess says, and means it.
"Are there birds in it?"
"Actually, no," Jess says, grinning at the sudden realization. "But the main character is called Robin."
"Of course it is," says Matt.
Sheila of the birds is also allergic to caffeine, but in a display of either generosity, pity, or gratitude for her newfound side career as a novelist (or maybe a mixture of all three), she goes out and buys Jess a gigantic cup of coffee before he even wakes up.
"You look like the sort," she says, "no, it was no trouble, really. You wanna know a secret?" She grins at him. "The guy at the teashop and I flirt sometimes. So there's ulterior motives, see."
Jess gives her a bro nod, which she seems to find incredibly entertaining. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Sheila says, nudging the pile of croissants towards him pointedly, in a grandmotherly fashion. Jess takes one obediently.
She looks like Jess' mother will probably look at age sixty-four; a long, grey-streaked braid, peasant skirt, faded tattoos, dangly earrings. She'd wasted most of her cover letter on her manuscript talking about chakras; Jess almost hadn't read it. Boy Chris still thinks he's wasting his time, reading the full novels that come in on the slush pile, but Jess doesn't want it to be that kind of publishing company. So he read it anyway.
She needs a better opening chapter, and an agent, which Jess is planning on telling her, as soon as he finishes his coffee. But he'll gonna publish her book without either of those things if he has to, and it really, honestly isn't because she let him sleep in her aviary. He woke up with a bird on his chest, so - as far as bribes go, Jess has received better.
She's friendly, and doesn't seem all that impressed by him, despite the fact that she probably knows the final decision is his, as far as her book goes. If anything, that makes Jess like her more. If there's anything in the world that can turn Jess off quicker, it's an older person with an agenda. "So. I know I really shouldn't ask, but," Sheila says, as they slowly work their way through her basket of croissants. "My God, I so want to ask."
"It was a misunderstanding," Jess says. "That's what you're supposed to say, right? A misunderstanding, or - miscommunication."
Sheila laughs. "A private matter?"
"Right." Jess snaps his fingers at her.
"You know this is all anyone's gonna talk about for the next, oh, year or so," Sheila says. "Maddie and that businessman of hers - they're always like this. It's better than reality television."
Jess winces. "Awesome."
"I wouldn't feel bad or nothing, though," Sheila says, looking infinitely amused. "You're from out of town. You couldn't have known."
He had known, actually. Maddie, whom he'd met at the hotel bar, was sadder and drunker than he was, and she'd blurted it out in the elevator up to his room. He'd told her he was married too, on impulse. He's not quite sure why he did that. Maybe pity, maybe to make her feel better. But he doesn't think so.
It isn't often that Jess feels guilty about his terrible decisions, particularly when it comes to this kind of thing. He's never cheated on anyone, but he's helped plenty of others do it - as Matthew had so helpfully pointed out last night - but he doesn't feel bad about it. Honestly. There was something rotten there already, if they were capable of loving Jess back, the way Mari did, the way Rory did. And as far as himself - well, he's used to wanting things that are just slightly out of his reach. Close enough for hope, but far enough for pain. It's possible Jess needs some therapy.
There's a part of him that will never grow any older than sixteen, angry and obstinate and contrary. He doesn't feel guilty for being selfish, for wanting things that aren't his to take. He's not capable of the kind of empathy that people like Matthew and Rory have, where they're decent to everyone, just for the sake of being decent. And for most of his life, he didn't want to be different; he honestly didn't care if he was, at his core, kind of a jerk. He'd embraced it, come to terms with it. Talked to God and Hemingway and sorted it out with the both of them, resigned himself to who he was, to the parts of his personality he really didn't know how to change. Then he had a daughter, and now every time he thinks about the shitty things he's done, the women he's used and treated badly, the booze and the drugs and the fights and those wretched eight months in California that Jess couldn't even talk about with Hemingway, a part of his heart shrivels and curls in on itself in shame.
Everything changes, with kids. Jess knew that, intellectually, when he made the decision to say yes, when he spent those first two months driving an hour and a half every day just to sit outside Mari's house, just for the chance of seeing his baby. But he didn't really know. He didn't know that it'd change the way he looks at himself. He really, really doesn't know what the fuck he's doing. He's never known, but it never mattered as much before as it does now.
So. "Thanks for the excuse," Jess tells Sheila, "but I don't need it."
"Fair enough," Sheila says, and looks vaguely impressed. "You want the last one?"
"Nah."
"Okay," Sheila says, and stuffs the entire croissant in her mouth. Jess hides a smile as she chews. "So, your flight's not until five, right? You want to get out of town for awhile? We could talk business in the car."
"I would absolutely love to do that," Jess says.
"You ever seen the mountains?" Sheila asks.
"Not sober," Jess says honestly.
"Rad," Sheila says excitedly. "I love virgins."
Boy Chris calls in the car and lets Jess talk to Willa, who, being hours ahead in Philly, has just woken up from her afternoon nap. Jess feels very little shame about how hard he's grinning as she babbles into the phone, and Sheila seems to find it charming anyway, the way most women do with baby-related displays such as this one.
"How old is she?" she asks, after he hangs up. "Toddler, maybe - two?"
"Not quite," Jess says. "About eighteen months."
"Oh, mercy," Sheila says, "no wonder you needed to get laid."
Jess laughs out loud.
"I got a son," Sheila tells him, reaching over to pull down the sun visor on Jess' side. There're are a few pictures stuffed beneath an elastic band, and Jess flips through them slowly. There's a blonde kid in all of them, at various stages of life, with various expressions of resentment on his face. Jess has an eerie feeling of deja vu, looking at them. "Peter, is his name. He lives in Florida."
"You keep in touch?"
"No." Sheila shrugs, pushing her sunglasses up her nose. "He lived with his daddy after the divorce. You know how it goes."
Jess slides the pictures carefully back into place, trying not to bend them. Sheila was only in one of them, wearing a power suit and expensive jewelry. Nobody starts out as a New Age hippie, Jess knows, you just sort of end up there accidentally.
"You really think my book is good then, huh?" Sheila says. "It's about him, you know. Peter."
"I figured it was about somebody," Jess tells her. He squints out at the horizon. The sun piercing, even with the borrowed aviators he's got on. "Yeah, it's good. It's smart, it's engaging. And it says something important, which is the vital thing, when it comes to a novel."
"You think so?" Sheila gives a small, quirky little smile. "The last couple places I sent it to said it was too 'genre.'"
Sheila's book is about a man who wakes up and discovers he has superpowers. Jess grins at her. "If you'd compared it to Kafka in your cover letter, they might've thought differently."
She laughs. "Good point."
"A book can be genre and literary at the same time," Jess tells her, and means it. "When I was younger, I thought the same way about it. I read a lot of arrogant fiction, you know. Burroughs, Bukowski, Bret Easton Ellis - "
"As one does, when one is a young man," Sheila says, forgiving him once more.
Jess shakes his head. "Yeah, well. You either grow out of it or you don't, and the difference is what you're open to reading, what you're open to seeing. The truth is, there's a lot of literature out there that says nothing, and a lot of genre that says a lot. And who gives a shit where the author got their MFA? Not the person picking it up in the store. Not the person reading it. They don't care - all they care about is if it's good, if it tells them something, if it shows them a way they've never seen before. Writing's not about the writer, it's about the reader. Everything else is just ego."
Sheila is quiet for a moment, driving in contemplative silence. "So you do think it's genre," she says, "but you're gonna publish it anyway?"
Jess laughs. "Well, I'm a publisher. Publishers love genre."
"I can see that." Sheila laughs along with him. "I'm okay with being genre. I guess I just thought...I didn't want to be underestimated because of it."
"I know the feeling," Jess says.
They drive in silence, again. Jess thinks about the mountains, and Willa. He wants her to see things like that in a good way. On family vacations and stuff. He doesn't want her to experience the world like he did: secondhand, through a bus window, a postcard backdrop to his latest nervous breakdown. He wants beauty and wonder to be real, tangible things for her, not faraway concepts that she can only imagine by how they're described in a novel. He wants, just, so many things. So very many things for her, and he doesn't know where to start.
He wants to do better, but he wants to mean it, is the thing. Maybe he can start with the mountains. Apparently he hasn't lost all of his virginities yet. The thought is oddly comforting.
"So what do you read?" he asks. "You didn't put that in your cover letter."
"Oh, mostly romance novels, nowadays," Sheila tells him.
Jess laughs again. "Okay. I can see it."
"I watch a lot of TV, though," Sheila says. "Movies, too. I could recite the entire script of The Shining to you, off the top of my head. That's what I used to do, actually - I was a producer for Paramount for twenty years."
"Movies are underrated too," Jess tells her. "As an art form, I mean."
Sheila beams at him. "I knew you were my kinda publisher."
"Well, I'll try to be," Jess says.