Barcelona Days

own. She felt him watching her read, watching her mark up the draft. She had nothing to prove to him, she was as good as anyone at what she did. She didn’t need to write something in the margin to show that she had notes to make, that she had thoughts. It was only Will, after all. It was Will, who she knew better than anyone in the world, who knew her better, too. And yet she felt only his scrutiny, felt him like a stranger. She hated the script, they’d never make the show, it was a waste of her time. But she’d been away so long, she needed to do all that was asked of her for at least the first week back. She’d go straight into the office this morning, even. She knew she’d be asleep by the time the cabin pressure settled, and so wanted to get as much done as she could before the full reality of her new situation flooded her. Before she realized that everything would be different from this point forward, that there was no turning back ever again, and that this—this here—was the very first moment of the rest of everything else. She turned another page, she’d skimmed it, she couldn’t track what she was reading anymore. They would figure things out tomorrow or the next day. They would go home to the apartment they shared, and after talking about anything else, they would sleep it off. And then, and only then, after really thinking it through, for a few days or maybe a week or two or three or four, they would try to figure out what the rest of their lives were going to look like.

They were up next. They could feel the airplane turn its big wide ninety. She’d forgotten her seatbelt and so buckled in. He heard hers and buckled his, too. Click. Click. They were next to each other but as distant as they’d ever been, operating on discrete frequencies all their own. It was over, wasn’t it? She knew it was probably the case and so did he—but only probably, not certainly. They would figure it out when they got to New York. The only thing to think about now was getting off the ground, getting turned back west, back in the direction home. Things would never be the same, she knew. They would never return to the way things were, yet they must. But that was a riddle for tomorrow, or some day next week. She would never stop loving him. She really did love him more than anyone in the world. She felt his breathing next to her, his face flanged open. She hated the shape of his head just then, but she knew that she would love him forever.

She crept her hand beneath the armrest and placed it in his lap. He was out. He probably hadn’t even noticed. But then she felt it. She felt his hand grab her hand. She felt his fingers thread her fingers. His palm below, hers above. His eyes were still closed, so she closed hers, too. They might not survive another day beyond this one, but this was okay for now, wasn’t it? They heard the surge of the engines, felt the thrust at their backs, were pressed into their seats as though commanded by hypnosis. They could decide to be happy, they both knew it was their choice. They knew that’s what they had to do, or at least that it was an option. They could be helpful still, they could be generous and gentle and kind. They could provide for one another the outcome that each desired most deep down. They could be happy—all they had to do was decide.

But the decision was for tomorrow, or some day next week. For now, it was simpler than that. It was as simple as two hands. Two hands, clasped. Him and her. Will and Whitney. They would be okay, after all. They would be okay they would be okay they would be okay. They felt the wheels separate from the runway. And then, on a silent shared count of 1-2-3, somebody squeezed.

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Acknowledgments

Utmost gratitude to the book people in my corner: Josh Kendall at Little, Brown and Kirby Kim at Janklow & Nesbit. And everyone else in their halls who had a hand in getting this novel into shape and out the door—in particular, Reagan Arthur, Ira Boudah, Nicky Guerreiro, Alexandra Hoopes, Sareena Kamath, Maggie Southard, Elora Weil, Ben Allen, Allan Fallow, and Eloy Bleifuss.

To the writers and editors in my life, especially in magazines. Magazines are more fragile than ever—read them, subscribe to them, indulge their paywalls, please.

To early readers on this project: Angelica Baker, Sarah Colombo, Sarah Goldstein, Alice Gregory, Alyssa Reichardt, Patti Riley, and Claire Stapleton.

To the many friends who tolerated the weekends of writing.

To Mom and Dad and Patons and Pattisons and Rileys and Glenns and Goulets, for basements and beaches and understanding the difference between fiction and non-.

To Icelandic volcanoes (c. 2010) and European Airbnbs (c. 2017–19), for inspiration and accommodation, respectively.

To Barcelona, for letting me drop in from time to time.

And to Sarah Goulet. I love you even more than visiting Europe.

About the Author

Daniel Riley is the author of Fly Me and a correspondent at GQ. He grew up in Manhattan Beach, California, attended Duke University, and lives in New York City with his wife.

Also by Daniel Riley

Fly Me