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Back Devotion Save as PDF
Chapters (47)
  1. Cover
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. Acknowledgments
  46. About the Author
  47. About the Publisher

“I read a lot just because I’m bored,” I said, but she nodded with her head tilted as if to say, Keep telling yourself that.

17

THAT NIGHT WE DECIDED TO GET DRUNK. OR, RATHER, LONNIE decided to get me drunk. I didn’t understand her aim. I assured her I was perfectly capable of reading five pages in front of everyone regardless of my level of inebriation, but she lined up four shots on the counter before we left the cabin, did one herself, and then pushed the others toward me. I’d never taken a shot of straight gin before, but it was the only alcohol we had in the house. Dutifully, I tossed them back all in a row. The juniper flavor reminded me of pine trees.

We were late arriving at the A-frame and I stumbled in loudly, tripping on the threshold, nearly laughing, catching myself just in time to notice Gigi, framed by the wall of windows, in the middle of some kind of one-woman performance. Lonnie had put William in a fancy wrap and he was already asleep against her—his eyes darting back and forth under his eyelids in the midst of a dream, his fingers drooping out of his mouth, slick with saliva.

There was no formal dinner that night and the big table had been replaced by rows of chairs. Lonnie and I tiptoed over to the bar, where glasses of wine were set in neat rows. I already felt warm and light enough but I took the glass she passed me anyway, and told myself to pretend to drink, putting the wine to my lips without swallowing.

“Don’t be nervous,” Lonnie whispered to me.

In fact, I felt calmer than I had at dinner earlier that week, partially because I knew now they all accepted my false identity but also because it seemed far easier to just read something than to attempt to discuss work I hadn’t done.

Lonnie and I watched from a pair of chairs in the back row as Gigi scratched at her face in some kind of trance, repeating, “My cunt, my country, my cunt, my country.”

Though I actually found the performance arresting, when I glanced at Lonnie she crossed her eyes and hung her mouth open in a terrible look of stupor. I choked a little, trying not to laugh, even if I thought she was judging Gigi too harshly.

When it was my turn Lonnie grinned and squeezed my arm. Tibby Walbridge pulled over a microphone stand and started talking about the great things that were expected from the release of my book. Was Lonnie working on a book?