Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [102]
“How do you . . . ?” Ainsley starts, then shuts her mouth abruptly. I can see that I’ve given something away—I’ve only visited Ainsley’s twice before, at least in this new life—but now, it’s irrelevant. The guise doesn’t matter.
“Look, I need some information,” I say, sitting down opposite her. “Don’t ask me why. It’s too hard to explain.”
“Is Jack cheating on you?” Her eyes grow wide. “I don’t know anything about it!”
“What? No! Wait, what?” I scowl. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, nothing. I just . . . you look like you do . . . so I assumed you had a fight . . . and now you’re here.” She waves her hands in the air. “I figured you were trying to track down some dirt on him or something.”
“No,” I mutter. “No, nothing like that.” Though part of me is disturbed at the idea of Jack’s unfaithfulness. Even though I’m desperately running back to Henry, part of me still hangs like clinging lint to Jack. I try to shake it loose but it loiters. Maybe that’s just how it will be, I consider. Maybe part of me will always be tied to him, no matter and irrespective of how much I love Henry.
“No, look, I need to know how to find your masseuse—Garland,” I say. I’d already called information from the train, but the spa at which he works in the future has not yet opened.
Ainsley’s eyebrows skew downward in confusion. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even have a masseuse.”
“Of course you do!” I cry and my voice nearly cracks. “Garland. Black hair, huge arms. All of you guys love him!”
“Jilly, I think maybe you should lie down.” Ainsley places her hand over my arm. “You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine! I’m fine! I just need to find him.” My pitch snakes into hysterics, and I can feel a tear squeeze its way out of my left eye. Garland is my chance to set this right. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might not be around to do that.
“Okay, okay, let’s look in the phone book,” Ainsley says soothingly in a tone she’d later reserve for her son’s renowned meltdowns. She rises and pulls out the Yellow Pages from underneath a cabinet, and the pots and pans next to it clang in response. “If you just need a massage, how about someone else? I’ve heard great things about the one down at the club.”
“No.” I shake my head and begin to purge real, unstoppable tears. “It has to be him.”
She thumps the phone book onto the table, then flips it open toward the middle.
“Machine . . . mass waste . . . massage. Here we go.” She runs her finger down the entries. “I don’t see anyone named ‘Garland,’ though there is a ‘G. Stone.’ Could that be him?” She looks up at me hopefully.
“Maybe, I don’t know. I’ll try.” I tear out the entire page, then grab Ainsley’s car keys and kiss her forehead, her mouth still hanging agape. “I’ll be back before you even know that I’ve gone.”
And then I hurry out the door, like a flash of lightning—one minute there, the next leaving only electricity in its wake.
THE ADDRESS FOR G. Stone is off the main street in town, past the kitschy coffee shop where I’d grab my nonfat lattes between Katie’s playdates and just north of Mrs. Kwon’s dry cleaner. I kill the engine and stare at the slightly dilapidated, black-shingled home with fading gray paint curling on the corners of the wood-beamed facade. I’d never noticed it in the two years I’d lived here in my former life. The shades are pulled shut, and the house appears totally motionless, resting, not yet ready to be woken. But still, I am here, so I push open the door to Ainsley’s SUV—and this time, I do hear the dings as it waits for me to slam it closed—and when I finally do, yes, then, just as before, six months back and seven years in the future, I hear the quiet.
The bricks that line the walkway are cracking—snow is nestled into the crevices, and frozen leaves crunch below my heels as I make my way toward the door. I ring the bell, and it echoes throughout the house, much like I imagine it would