This wont end well, p.1
This Won’t End Well, page 1
PRAISE FOR THIS WON’T END WELL
“Never has a quirky lead character been so lovable or well drawn as Annie, the lovelorn chemist who carries This Won’t End Well. Though she pretends to be closed off to the world, in fact she can’t stop caring—and that push-pull of who to let into her life, and under what terms, is something we all understand at a soul-deep level. Annie’s journey from oblivious in love to aware and empowered had me cheering and turning the pages madly, unable to tear myself away. If you want to laugh and lose yourself in a great read, this is the one for you!”
—Kelly Harms, bestselling author of The Overdue Life of Amy Byler
“Witty, wise, and of the moment, This Won’t End Well is a story of unlikely friendships, calculated risks, and taking a stand—even when it’s easier to maintain the status quo. Charmingly flawed and endearingly real characters combine with a unique format to make Camille Pagán’s latest page-turner her best book yet.”
—Kristy Woodson Harvey, bestselling author of Slightly South of Simple
“Camille Pagán writes with deep compassion for her characters and for all of us who try so hard to do the right thing by the people we love. Annie, the protagonist at the center of her latest novel, is no exception. Quirky and occasionally clueless, charming and vulnerable, Annie’s so real that you’ll want to make her your best friend by the time you’ve reached the last page. This Won’t End Well is Pagán at her finest—capturing readers with warmth, honesty, and keen observations about keeping love simple in a complicated world.”
—Ann Garvin, USA TODAY bestselling author of I Like You Just Fine When You’re Not Around
OTHER BOOKS BY CAMILLE PAGÁN
I’m Fine and Neither Are You
Woman Last Seen in Her Thirties
Forever Is the Worst Long Time
Life and Other Near-Death Experiences
The Art of Forgetting
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Camille Pagán
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542014809 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1542014808 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781542014823 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1542014824 (paperback)
Cover design and illustration by David Drummond
First edition
Dedicated to women in science—especially my inimitable friend Stefanie Galban.
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ONE
July 14
TO: Jon Nichols
FROM: Annie Mercer
SUBJECT: What I didn’t say
Dear Jon,
Hello seems like such an innocuous word, but it’s really a portal to loss. One minute you’re exchanging small talk with a green-eyed stranger; the next thing you know, five years have passed, that stranger is now your fiancé, and he’s just informed you that he needs time to get his head on straight before marrying you.
While I’m being a bit glib, Jon, I actually understand—I really do. You’ve been pining for Paris for ages now, and it was shortsighted of me to suggest we go to Quebec instead. What French teacher wouldn’t want to visit the motherland? I should have surprised you with a trip for two, but it’s not too late to plan a Parisian honeymoon. (I hope you’re taking notes as you saunter down the Champs-Élysées.) At any rate, I’m truly sorry. You listen to me ramble about graduate school all the time; maybe I haven’t been giving your dreams equal attention.
I’m also sorry we fought about having children last week. I thought we were on the same page about the world’s overpopulation problem and the inherent risks of creating small humans who share at least some of my parents’ genetic material. I’ll be the first to admit that I discounted your desire to carry on the Nichols name. I was wrong—but we can talk about this. Well, we could if you were here in Michigan instead of on the other side of the Atlantic, or at the very least had not announced that you intend to be out of touch for a whole month. (Yet you’re no doubt checking email multiple times a day as you always do, and because you love me—you told me that yourself when you called to say you were leaving—I trust you’ll do me the courtesy of reading this message. I will do my best to make it the only one I send.)
You swore this wasn’t cold feet, but if you find yourself reaching for a pair of socks, I forgive you. Certainly you wouldn’t be the first groom-to-be stricken with premarital angst, and I do hope these next four weeks prove to be fruitful. Now that I think about it, perhaps my father wouldn’t have flown our family coop if he, too, had gone on a personal fact-finding mission before marrying my mother.
I know that it’s been just two short days since you and I last spoke. It was only after you were already en route to Charles de Gaulle that I realized there was so much I should have said while I was standing in my mother’s driveway, staring at my phone with my mouth hanging open. For example, I’d be remiss not to point out that your timing was less than ideal. Obviously, I’m struggling with the fact that my career was just derailed after Todd groped me in my own lab. (I’m aware that you believe I should’ve let SCI fire me so that I could at least collect unemployment, if not sue them—but as I pointed out the last time we discussed this, resigning was the only proactive action I could take, now that I know how deceptive and irrational Todd truly is.) But to add insult to injury, Leesa and I are no longer speaking.
Naturally, I called her yesterday to tell her about your leaving, and she rushed right over to comfort me. Instead of words of wisdom, however, she offered to sell me a chunk of rose quartz and a vial of frankincense essential oil, which she claimed was most effective when inhaled through a $131 diffuser (“friends and family discount,” my foot!). These products, she said, were best for healing a broken heart. When I explained my heart was not broken, as your absence is temporary, she suggested I consider a piece of lapis lazuli for “truthfulness.” At which point I informed Leesa that the truth was that lately, my oldest friend only seems to have time for me when she’s trying to peddle a bunch of shiny rocks and scented mineral oil with absolutely no scientific evidence to support their so-called curative properties. I mean, really—has she forgotten I’m a chemist? Anyway, she got all huffy and said that her other friends appreciate her entrepreneurial spirit, and she didn’t know why I couldn’t, too. I’ll be honest, Jon; that hurt. Because by “other” friends, she, of course, means the mommy-and-me crowd she took up with after Molly and Ollie were born. Leesa and I have known each other since kindergarten, and like two ions with opposite charges, our differences have always brought us closer together. But now it seems as though just because I don’t drive around town in a minivan and count the hours in espresso shots until wine o’clock arrives, she can’t relate to me.
Or maybe I can’t relate to her. Because if I realized one thing yesterday, it was that Leesa’s lost her ability to be objective—and I don’t know where that leaves us, let alone what it means for her status as my matron of honor.
At any rate, I still blame myself for your leaving. If I had moved in with you last year when you asked, maybe we would’ve had more opportunities to work through some of the issues that you’re now tackling alone in a foreign country. When you get back, I’ll be ready to discuss what’s bothering you and find a home together prior to our wedding. Maybe we can look for something with several bedrooms, in case we do decide to have children.
Mostly, though, I’m writing to let you know I already miss you. I’m sure I’m overreacting because of my father—and of course, you’d be the first to say that my predisposition to cynicism leads me to seek out the worst-case scenario until solid data p
Please provide evidence to the contrary, Jon. I eagerly await your response.
Love always,
Annie
TWO
July 15
I must have fallen down an existential black hole, because I haven’t kept a journal since I was a child and my dear neighbor, Viola, gave me a pink plastic-coated one with a tiny heart-shaped lock. While I continue to question the value of writing to oneself, I do recall the many aha moments I experienced when scribbling my childhood angst on those lined pages. Granted, I’m typing in a word-processing document this time instead of putting a pen to pink paper—but research supports the efficacy of both mediums. Here’s hoping I find some clarity yet again, because to be honest, I feel like the events of the past week or so have sapped my greatest strength: the ability to think clearly.
Anyway, I need to do something other than overload Jon’s inbox. Maybe this will help me stay in a productive headspace in preparation for his return so we can work through—well, whatever it is that’s caused him to take such drastic measures. I’ve been searching the far corners of my mind for days trying to figure out why he did this, and I’m not coming up with anything concrete. Wouldn’t there have been signs if he were in the midst of a crisis?
I certainly didn’t notice any when we had dinner together last Tuesday. Now, he did wait until my mouth was full of chicken satay to relay Carolyn’s “concern” about my twenty-seven-year-old eggs, which she feels are fast approaching their expiration date. And yes, I shut that conversation down as soon as I’d swallowed—as I maintain that Jon’s mother has no business weighing in on anything pertaining to my pelvic region. But we made love at his apartment afterward, and while he did seem a bit preoccupied, it’s not like there was a packed suitcase beside his bed. And when he kissed me goodbye at the end of the night, I never got the sense it was for a whole month.
Then Thursday afternoon, he called to say he was off to Paris.
Without me.
“I’ve been so stressed, Annie,” he said. “You know that.”
Did I? Because last time I checked, he had the entire summer off to decompress. Teaching won’t make him rich, as Carolyn and Charles are forever reminding him—but it does come with that perk.
“And it just seems like . . . well, like it’s now or never,” he added.
“Now or never? You have your whole life ahead of you,” I said.
“Roger probably thought that, too,” he said.
Yes, there’s the issue of his childhood friend dying of cancer. While it was awful, it happened a full year ago. Maybe the anniversary triggered Jon? Or maybe being unable to ask Roger to be in his wedding party reminded him of the fleeting nature of life. I’m speculating, of course, as he didn’t fill me in. Worse, he seemed eager to get off the phone.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I asked, already calculating the cost of a last-minute ticket. My steady paycheck has been replaced with a slim stack of small bills from my housecleaning clients, but I do have savings.
“That’s the thing. I really want to do this alone—it’s the only way I’m going to be able to fully immerse myself in French. Think of it as a Buddhist retreat.”
“I don’t think they serve Bordeaux and coq au vin at those,” I pointed out.
He sighed, which was when I really started to get nervous. “I just need to get my head on straight, Annie. Can you give me a month?”
“Give you a month? What does that mean?”
“I’ve asked my family not to be in touch while I’m away. I’d like it if you’d consider doing the same.”
“Okay,” I said, staring at my mother’s lawn and willing myself not to cry, for fear my mother would notice and begin to ask questions she didn’t actually want the answer to. “I understand.”
But I don’t understand at all. Jon has always been a careful, advance-planning kind of person—just like me. That’s one of the many things I love about him. So I’m supposed to accept his spontaneous departure as normal?
Maybe it’s normal on some continuum I’m unfamiliar with. Because four days later, I’m still shocked and somewhat appalled that he would leave, especially so soon after my career collapsed. (Did I talk about that too much? I know he felt I should have taken action against SCI, but would my decision really have sent him running? It seems improbable.)
Well, I suppose everyone is bound to be selfish from time to time, as some of the people closest to me seem intent on reminding me. I’m determined to allow Jon this sole indulgence so he can get over it, and we can move forward with the life we’ve planned.
Step one is staying busy. As soon as Viola learned that I was out of a job for the foreseeable future, she asked me to come clean her house again, as I used to when I was in high school. I’m sure some college-educated professionals might have turned their noses up at such a request. But cleaning is honest work, and I like to think of myself as an honest person—if only because I don’t harass and assault my coworker, just to cry foul when she pushes me into thousands of dollars’ worth of lab equipment. (I wish I could stop replaying that scene in my head over and over. Though I do wish I hadn’t behaved so rashly, Todd doesn’t deserve a nanometer of my mental space.)
Viola’s home is always sparkling clean; she doesn’t realize that I’m aware she’s really asked for my help because she wants to assist me financially, and since Ned died last year, she could use the company. How could I say no? After my father left, she was the one to swoop in and save seven-year-old me. Now, my mother fed and clothed me, and made sure I saw the doctor when I was ill. She did her best, but my father’s leaving was the inciting incident for her depression, and she had very little to offer by way of emotional support, especially for that first year. Viola somehow knew this, because soon she was inviting me over after school for a snack and asking me how my day had gone, and later, letting me set up experiments in her kitchen. Though it took a while for me to warm up to her, it wasn’t too long before she became a surrogate parent of sorts. My mother did improve—well, up until her regression two years ago—but it was still Viola who encouraged me to go to college and live out my dreams. I may have had to set my MIT hopes aside (as any person in my situation would have), but I can’t stick my nose up at a University of Michigan degree. And while I won’t say all’s well that ends well, I did become a scientist, as I planned to.
Anyway, upon the news that I was in need of work, Viola’s old mothering instincts kicked back in, and she called Bess Rogers and Donna Guinness to see if they might need cleaning assistance, too. And just like that, I had three clients instead of one.
Yesterday, I dropped by to bring Viola some oranges—my attempts to get my mother to eat healthfully continue to be less than successful, and I can’t go through that much produce on my own—and she mentioned that a couple had recently moved into the area and were looking for a cleaner. She knew this, she explained, through the neighborhood Listserv, and suggested I subscribe to it. “But in the meantime, Annie, would you like me to pass your information on to them?” she asked.
Living with my mother for the past two years has helped me pad my savings, but it won’t last forever. So I was about to tell Viola yes when it hit me: Why would I open myself up to new problems?
By problems, of course, I mean people.
I love Jon, naturally, and I’m glad we were seated beside each other on that fated flight to St. Louis. Yet if I’d not made small talk with him, and he hadn’t been instantly smitten with me, as he claimed he was when he asked me to dinner that same night, then I wouldn’t find myself having to debate whether or not to email my own fiancé after he decided to take a month-long sabbatical from his life and—though this went unsaid—from our relationship.
Likewise, if I’d only finished applying to graduate school rather than accepting Todd Bizer’s fool’s gold of an offer, I would not have wasted my time doing someone else’s research, only to find myself banned from the entire field of chemistry for two whole years.
And while I won’t fault my kindergarten self for succumbing to Leesa’s gift of gab and ending up as her best friend, I did have a choice when she introduced me to Simone last year. We were both childless professionals, and Simone seemed intelligent and interesting. But as if it wasn’t bad enough that she implied I could “manifest” away the raging rash I got from the essential oils I tested at Leesa’s last LITEWEIGHT sales-pitch party, now Simone’s been texting me to see if I won’t make amends with Leesa, whose “feelings are hurt.”
