Ghosted: A Novel

When the hysterics had finally subsided, Jenni had sat on the couch between me and Javier and methodically binged her way through everything we hadn’t already eaten. I’d ignored the scream of jet-lag tiredness and stayed with her until midnight, eating the odd sliver of cake to keep myself awake.

Now morning was here: the bright hot morning of which I’d dreamed, my first back in LA. During my final week in England I’d become certain that this first morning would bring with it renewal and hope: a sense of perspective I’d been unable to find in London or Gloucestershire. I would be happy. Purposeful.

In reality I was bloated and uncomfortable, and far too cold after a night with the air-conditioning at superfreezing. I curled up in Jenni’s spare bed, too exhausted to get out and turn it down. I stared at myself in the mirror across the room. I looked puffy, white, unwell. Before even realizing what I was doing, I reached out to check my phone in case Eddie had replied to my farewell message. He hadn’t, of course, and my heart ballooned with pain.

Add friend? Facebook asked, when I looked at his profile. Just to check. Add friend?

•   •   •

An hour later, still awaiting serenity, I left the house for a run. It wasn’t yet eight, and Jenni and Javier—for once—were still in bed.

I knew that running wasn’t kind, after a transatlantic flight and an evening of emotional tumult. Not to mention the sleepless night I’d had in London the night before, or that the thermometer on Jenni’s deck was already scorching its way to a hundred degrees. But I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t be with myself. I needed to move so fast that nothing could stick to me.

I had to run.

•   •   •

Three hundred yards down Glendale Avenue, I remembered why I didn’t run in this city. I swayed on the corner of Temple, pretending to stretch out my quads so I could grab a lamppost. The heat was suffocating. I looked up at the sun, soupy and indistinct today behind a smear of marine haze, and shook my head. I had to run!

I tried again, but as the Hollywood Freeway loomed ahead, my legs gave way and I found myself sitting on the grass by a municipal tennis court, sick and dizzy. I pretended to readjust my shoelaces and admitted defeat.

Somewhere I could hear Jo’s voice, telling me I was a fucking fruit loop, and did I have any respect for my body? And I agreed with her; I agreed wholeheartedly, remembering how sad and sorry I used to feel when I’d seen skinny women rasping up the hills of Griffith Park in the scorching heat.

I went back to Jenni’s, showered, and ordered a cab. It didn’t look like Jenni was going to make it to work anytime soon, and I couldn’t sit there a moment longer.

•   •   •

During my journey to our offices in East Hollywood, I planned next week’s pitch to the directors of a hospice company in California. We were so used to having our services solicited by medical units nowadays, that I was a little out of practice at the art of sales. Vermont was all snagged up so I got out at Santa Monica and walked the last two blocks, rehearsing the pitch under my breath while sweat dripped, plock, plock, plock, down my back.

Then: Eddie?

A man in a taxi, waiting in the traffic jam on Vermont. Heading straight toward my office. Cropped hair, sunglasses, a T-shirt I was sure I recognized.

Eddie?

No. Impossible.

I started to walk toward the car. The man inside, who I would swear was Eddie David, was looking out at the confusing proliferation of street signs and checking his phone.

The traffic started to move at last, and honking started. I was in the middle of a six-lane road. Just as I was forced to turn away from the taxi, I saw the man take off his sunglasses and look at me. But before I could see his eyes, know for sure it was Eddie, I had to run or be run over.

Eddie?

•   •   •

Later that day, sent home by my colleagues (“We’ve got this, Sarah—go get some rest”) but unable to sit still, I walked home. I stood at that same busy intersection for fifteen minutes, watching cars and taxis. An air ambulance landed on the roof of the Children’s Hospital and I barely noticed.

It was him. I knew it was him.