Chapter 69 Annie

CHAPTER 69 ANNIE

November 2013

New York

My first-ever book event was eight months later. By then I’d sold something like seventy-one million books worldwide and twice been named to the TIME100 list of most influential people. These facts worried me. I didn’t have the polish of someone with that bio. Would people be disappointed?

So, when the staff at the Strand offered me a back room, I declined. I needed to watch the audience file in—not for my ego, but for my sanity. My anxiety was simmering on medium heat, threatening to boil, and watching people arrive helped me acclimate to the moment. Plus, the alternative was alone in a back room with my brain. No thanks.

It was thirty minutes before showtime, the place half-filled, when I felt someone slide next to me. I glanced over: a man, trimmed beard, chocolate eyes.

“Jake,” I said formally, nodding once.

“Hello there,” he said, leaning back against the wall.

“Thanks for doing this.”

“Are you kidding?” he said. “Thanks for asking.”

No doubt he was hoping for a longer moment between us, but right then I saw Amanda roll in, a young woman holding the door for her. Amanda said something and the two shared a laugh, her smirk suggesting that she’d just deployed her trademark wit. She was wearing a black leather jacket with the collar turned up, gold hoop earrings, crisp white blouse beneath—just effortlessly cool. For the thousandth time since our reunion, I was reminded of how deeply I’d underestimated her all those years ago. Nothing could keep her from herself.

I thanked Jake again and walked over, catching Amanda’s eye halfway there. She’d tucked herself just out of the way, nestled in front of a bookcase. Someday the fact of Amanda’s existence wouldn’t make me giddy. The high would wear off. But it hadn’t yet, and I savored the feeling as I bent over and wrapped her in a hug. I held her for an extra beat, breathed her in.

“How was your day?” I asked. She was coming from the theater; they were a month from opening The Very Last on Broadway. Ryan was directing, Amanda was playing Samantha in the third act. I had wanted to produce, but Ryan said absolutely not, with Amanda adding hell no . They both believed I needed to move forward.

It was the right decision, obviously. But I admit I felt a little left out.

“They’re doing final fittings right now,” Amanda said. “Ryan told me to say good luck and that she’ll try to make it later.”

Amanda, though, wouldn’t be missing a second of it. This event had been her idea.

“It would be so poetic,” she had said. “The full circle of it is too irresistible!”

“But an event—it’s not enough time to explain everything. And what if they hate me? Maybe let’s just wait for the book?”

“Nobody could hate you,” she had said. “Trust me—I tried.”

And now, the night was upon us.

“I’m so nervous,” I said, kneeling beside her as people streamed past. She patted my hand like, there, there , and I asked her if that was all the support she could muster for my pivotal life moment.

“Annie-baby,” she said. “Don’t let that brain of yours trick you: you’re not nervous, you’re excited .”

“Wow,” I said.

She shrugged, turned up her palms—“I know, I know. I’m a fountain of wisdom.”

“No, not that,” I said, putting both hands on my bent knee, grimacing. “It’s my knees, I can’t sit like this anymore. Oh my god, we’re getting old.”

“Indeed we are. But any thoughts on my wisdom?”

“Yes, obviously,” I said. “The depths of it are stunning.”

“Thank you,” she said, then paused and caught my eye, steadying me. “And also—it would be an honor.”

I loved when she did this, took a buried layer of our conversation and surfaced it. My curiosity was piqued. How bored I’d been all those years, with no Amanda to talk to.

“What would be an honor?” I asked.

“Oh,” she said. “You know—getting old together.”

We looked at each other for a few seconds—earnestly, seriously—then she started gesturing for me to turn around: the event coordinator was walking toward us, apologizing, saying that I was needed in the back.

The event was standing room only. I walked out with Jake— in conversation with , as they like to say. Within seconds, I remembered how good it felt to be onstage, my mind crystallized by the audience’s attention. (Amanda, as always, had been right: I was excited.)

As we settled in our comfy chairs, I noticed the door open slightly, and watched Ryan step inside. Her head was down as she unwrapped her scarf. A minor miracle, such moments—seeing your person before they see you.

In the months since, I often wished I could have been Ryan, on the night she found me outside my childhood apartment. But I couldn’t be greedy; we each get our moments.

That night in Bolton Landing had this fuzzy, ethereal quality. I was back home, Amanda was alive, and I felt connected to the world again. My life had been restored to me. I was sitting in that green Adirondack chair and the sun was hitting my eyes just right and so when I opened them, the light refracted and Ryan appeared, a dozen of her, like I was seeing her through a kaleidoscope. My eyes felt like love beams.

“Hi,” I had said dreamily.

Now here Ryan was, appearing again. Jake was welcoming the audience as she stealthily crossed the back of the room and carved out a space next to Amanda, then dropped her hand to Amanda’s shoulder and left it there. With her other hand, she gave me a little wave.

Be still my heart.

Over the next hour, Jake asked every question, from every angle: take us back to what happened, why you ran away, why “Cate Kay,” and what about this, and then what?

This was my first time telling the story. Some things were off-limits, of course—this book you now hold was only half-written at the time.

After an hour of questions, Jake closed his notebook and placed it on the little table next to him, said, “Okay, last one before we open it up to the audience: If you could tell younger Annie—”

“Jake, no,” I interrupted. “Please.”

“What?”

“It’s just that, I should probably never give anyone advice.”

“But it’s not advice for them”—he gestured at the audience—“it’s advice for you .”

I threw him a look. “What’s the difference?”

He put up his hands.

“Okay, okay, I got this,” I said, smoothing over the awkwardness I’d introduced. Everyone laughed. They were a generous audience, and I was grateful for their warmth. When I’d explained what happened on that island so many years ago—my heart galloping in my chest—there’d been a few sharp inhales, noises of disapproval. I had willed myself to look at Amanda as I finished our story, and she gave me a nod of encouragement. Miraculously, the audience had kept listening. And now I wanted to give them my most honest answer to Jake’s final question.

I dropped my head in thought, imagined my childhood: a blur of colors and movement and smells, and I thought about everything, flying through moments and memories, trying to distill it all down—sifting my life for a golden nugget of wisdom.

Then, I had it.

I looked at Jake.

“I’d tell her that only love will fill the black hole—that it’s the only thing worth chasing.”

He considered this for a moment, said, “Sounds like there’s a backstory, maybe?”

I laughed and said, “Always—there’s always a backstory.”

“I bet it’s going to be in the book,” he said.

“It will be,” I said, winking. I debated the wink in the microsecond before it happened, then regretted it immediately. (Two-time TIME100 here, folks.) Jake then turned to the audience. “She’s all yours now,” he said, leaning back.

A bunch of hands shot up. A microphone was brought to a woman near the back. She stood to receive it with shaking hands.

“Hi, I’m Violet,” she said softly, clearly outside her comfort zone.

“Hi, I’m Annie,” I said, and it felt good saying my real name.

Violet continued, “Okay, so, um, my question is, why did you name the book The Very Last ?” She immediately returned the mic, relieved, and sat down; the book-event equivalent of I’ll hang up and listen .

“I didn’t name it actually,” I said. “That was the publisher’s choice. I had no say.”

Violet didn’t have the mic anymore, which seemed to upset her—now she had a follow-up! She was gesturing for it back, then gave up and called out, “Will you tell us what your original title was?”

The title popped into my mind. In the years since, I’d realized that the publisher had been right to rename the book. My title had been too personal, too specific.

“Sure,” I said, then paused. I looked out at Ryan, at Amanda next to her; I thought of my mom, waiting patiently for me at home, doing her best to repair things between us—these women who were my world.

“You know,” I said. “Actually, I think I’m going to keep that one for myself.”