Shelf By Shelf

Hi, Y’all! Glad You’re Here—

My Granny was under the impression that I was meeting Julia Roberts. When I called her on my way to the train for an event with Elizabeth Gilbert, she asked, “Who’s this woman, again?” and I explained, “The woman who wrote Eat, Pray, Love. She leaves her husband and travels the world, then finds enlightenment and falls in love.” I could hear my Granny clicking her tongue, like she always does when her mind can’t immediately find the answer. She was in the middle of making breakfast for her latest husband and was a little distracted by the sizzling of grease. She hummed, then gasped, went, “Oh!” and said she loved My Best Friend’s Wedding. This always happens when my Granny hears me talking about authors who’ve been played by famous actors; she conflates the two and refuses to acknowledge that an actor and the person they’re portraying could possibly be two separate people.

“What’s this book about?” She asked.

“It’s called All The Way to The River. It’s…” I paused. The premise sounded simple enough; A woman discovers that her best friend, the love of her life, is dying. She leaves her husband, she and her best friend become partners, and somewhere along the line, it all falls apart. This was my first impression of the book, when it was announced. It wasn’t until the first reactions hit the internet that I realized the book would be so polarizing. People were shocked to discover just how toxic the relationship became, how much these two people who were supposed to be in love could hurt each other—a particular sticking point was Gilbert’s admission that she attempted to murder the love of her life. The internet had only given me an attention-grabbing headline to what I assumed would be a nuanced and radically honest examination of what it means to turn into the worst version of yourself. It was a feeling I recognized, having felt like I’d spent the last year becoming the worst version of myself. I wasn’t sure how to give a good answer. Instead, I just said, “Who knows! I just love the cover.”

Granny told me to get an autograph and hurried off the phone to say grace.

I arrived in New York around 9:20 a.m.—the event didn’t start until 10. When I found the Starbucks location that was hosting the event, there was a barista outside taping signs on the doors that read “closed for a private event’. I stood there with my shoulders up to my ears, waiting for her to see me, and when she did, I awkwardly pointed through the glass and said, “I think I’m supposed to be here.”

“Just a sec,” the barista said, smoothing a piece of tape to the top of the sign. She was short and curly haired, with a nametag that read ‘Amari’. I took note in case I ever saw her again, like I do with every barista I meet. When she made sure the sign was secure, she held open the door and told me to come on in.

The cafe was almost empty, with the exception of a man and woman sitting on the couch near the back. Two women standing by the door stopped me and asked for my name. Part of me was nervous that this had been a mistake, that I wasn’t meant to be invited, that I’d be kicked out. As they looked down, searching for my name, I apologized for being so early, explaining that I grew up in South Georgia and was terrified of getting lost in a big city, of being late to an important event. They laughed politely and told me to find a seat.

Another woman, clearly important based on her striped shirt and tan slacks, told me to help myself to coffee and pastries, and Amari suggested I get a Pumpkin Spice Latte, since “tis the season!”

“No thanks,” I said. “I already had a large coffee, and an energy drink this morning, so it’s very likely that I’m already at risk of a heart attack. This is why I could never do hard drugs, because I have too much anxiety and can’t even handle caffeine.”

The important woman smiled politely and smoothed out her slacks. Amari and another Barista, Jada, laughed and smacked the counter.

People slowly trickled in and found their seats, reaching for the carefully placed copies of All The Way to The River that were scattered throughout the cafe, though I couldn’t discern if this was due to genuine interest or as a way to avoid conversation. I picked up the copy closest to me and saw that it was signed, assumed they all were signed, and flipped through, reading the first page before putting it back, nervous that I might be accused of stealing.

The first person to talk to me was a gorgeous woman in a blue dress who asked, “Are you an insider?” Before I could get the word “no” out of my mouth, or even ask what she meant in the first place, someone answered for me, saying, “He’s not, but I am.”

This was how it happened with every new person who walked in. I’d try to talk to them, they would ask what I was, and when they realized I wasn’t important, they would turn away.

I curled into myself. Literally. I crossed my legs and then twisted my left ankle around my right calf and then crossed my arms and tangled myself up so much that I imagined a cat joyfully pulling me apart. It was cold in the cafe. I’d worn the tiniest shorts and a sleeveless top that I was convinced might make Elizabeth Gilbert fall in love with me, despite the likelihood that I wasn’t her type. The caffeine I’d overdosed on was coursing through me, making my left eye twitch and my tongue buzz. Just as I felt my eyes turn red with tears, I heard someone ask, “You okay?” and saw Amari looking at me from over the counter.

She waved me over and I told her I was just nervous, that I wasn’t sure how to socialize in these situations, and she laughed and said she found that hard to believe. I explained that I had always been the kid who made friends with the lunch ladies at school, the person who stood by the snack table at parties, who was too shy, talked too much, had a hard time making friends. She gave a sad smile and said, “Today, I’m your lunch lady.”

More people got in line for coffee, and Amari had to get back to work.

I turned to the door, ready to leave, when a tall, familiar-looking woman walked in. She sported a buzz cut and had glasses atop her head, wearing a stylish black jacket, smiling serenely at the crowd gathering around her; it was Elizabeth Gilbert. While I knew what she looked like from the author photo on the inside flap of her books, my Granny’s confusion had become contagious, and I found myself looking for Julia Roberts. Elizabeth made her way around the room, and I stayed by the counter, worried I’d overwhelm her with my caffeinated excitement.

The Riverhead team had walked in just behind her. I’ve loved Riverhead for years, have big dreams of being published by them someday, but more than anything else, I’ve always been grateful for their overwhelming kindness. When Jynne, the VP, spotted me, she rushed over to say hi. “I’m so happy you could come,” she said. “I really wanted to have you here.”

“You’re her favorite person,” said a woman beside her. “She told me I had to meet the famous Hunter when I got here.”

“This is Margaret,” Jynne said. “She’s Liz’s friend.”

At first, I didn’t know who this ‘Liz’ was that Jynne was referring to. Then, when it clicked, I tried to hide my sudden recognition.

“I almost left,” I admitted. “I’ve been doing a terrible job of making friends. And I thought I used my best anecdotes, too!”

I then proceeded to recount the story of the time I picked up pills for my Momma behind the library, only to be held at gun point by a man in the passenger seat of a pickup truck. Jynne and Margaret laughed, and Margaret said, “I love that that’s your go-to anecdote to tell at parties.”

I told more stories, oversharing like I always did. This was my magic trick—turning the worst moments of my life into something so funny that people would throw their heads back with laughter. Margaret told me to pose with Liz’s book so she could get a picture, and I flamingoed my foot like Mia Thermopolis getting a kiss in The Princess Diaries. Within a matter of minutes, I’d gone from being the least important person in the room to the person entertaining two of the people I considered most important.

Eventually, a woman walked out with a microphone, and the crowd gathered round. “Elizabeth will be reading a passage from her book,” the woman said, almost a question, as she looked to Liz. “If you would like to start.”

Liz moved around the high top until she was facing the crowd, then began to read a passage that described Rayya, the woman who this book was partly about. The chapter, which Liz explained was an attempt to help the reader see Rayya as the beautiful human she was, reads almost like a love letter. It begins with facts about where Rayya was from, where she grew up, what her family was like, how she moved through the world, and culminates in a list of all the things Liz loved so much about her. The prose is lovely, but it’s the tenderness in Liz’s voice that makes it so deeply heartbreaking. It was just further evidence of why she’s been such a beloved author for all these years.

While I knew there would be parts of the book that resonated with me, I didn’t expect to see so much of myself in Liz, so much of my life falling parallel with hers. When she first described herself as a love addict, I almost dismissed the term, thinking it wasn’t that serious—but then she explained how she would idolize her partner, put them up on this pedestal, expecting them to save her, and be unjustly angry when all of the hope she poured into them hadn’t given her the expected result. There were many people I had grown obsessed with over the years, who I worshipped and devoted all of my attention to, convinced that if I gave them everything, they could save me from whatever it was I was running from.

Liz had left her husband, a man she wrote so lovingly about in Eat Pray Love, to be with Rayya. She felt that she literally could not live without her. They had been friends for seventeen years before becoming romantically involved, though Liz admitted to having these feelings for some years earlier. I wanted to know what her relationship with her ex-husband was like, if she still loved him in any way, if she regretted leaving the stability he offered, even if they weren’t in love. I wondered if she could still hear the heartbreak in her husband’s voice as she ended their marriage, if it played in her mind on a loop—or if that was only happening to me.

I nodded along throughout the rest of the conversation, partly to communicate that I was paying attention, but mostly because I felt so seen.

When the conversation was over, the woman turned to the audience and asked if we had any questions.

Somewhere to my right, a woman shouted, “I have a question!” in a cadence so distinct, the crowd cheered before even laying eyes on her. From the Starbucks kitchen walked Oprah, waving and smiling, with this awareness that can only come from being one of the most recognizable faces on earth.

She walked up to Liz, and they embraced. I thought of every single moment I had seen Oprah on my TV, watching her with my Granny, watching her with my Momma, watching her on YouTube talking with Maya Angelou and Goldie Hawn; I wondered if this was what it felt like when you died, all of your hours watching TV rushing through your mind in one quick flash.

Oprah talked about the importance of this book, how much she loved it, how excited she was to see the reaction of readers all over. Liz looked just as moved as all of us, just as in awe. I wondered if she felt as starstruck, or if she’d been in fame’s orbit for long enough that she wasn’t even fazed.

Oprah turned to the crowd, asking what brought them to this event, what compelled them to Liz’s book. She walked up to a woman sitting in front of me, who admitted that she was just standing in for a friend, but that hearing about the book had her intrigued. I watched as Oprah’s smile dropped. She looked around the room, a bit bewildered. Then she turned to an attractive man with a mustache and tight pants and asked him the same question; he admitted that he was just here because he was an Oprah fan. Nobody had given a real answer to her question. Her eyes searched for who to approach next, and I prayed to God, willing her to see me.

When I was younger, my Granny used to sit in church praying that the pastor would come up and lay his hand on her, so that she could be a conduit for the Holy Spirit. She said it wasn’t her speaking in these moments, that she never knew what was going to come out. I’d never had that experience. But when Oprah held the mic to me, for the first time in my life, a feeling came over me and my mouth quivered, my voice trembled, and whatever funny, charming thing I initially planned to say left my mind. All I was left with was the truth.

“I read Eat Pray Love on my honeymoon almost nine years ago,” I said. Oprah turned back to Liz, smiling. “I remember being almost sad and didn’t understand why I wasn’t feeling the things I wanted to feel. I had a really hard past year, and I was so scared, and I started reading about this book and thought, maybe…maybe this is the truth of what my life is. Maybe all the hard things…it’s okay, and I can move past it. Eat Pray Love wasn’t my truth, but maybe there’s a harder truth I can confront.”

My hands were shaking, the corners of my mouth turned down. How did I explain that I had been looking for a book like this, to hear someone tell me what Liz was saying, so I could maybe find the answers, to know how to move forward with my life. To not make the same mistakes. I felt my desperation. I tried not to cry.

“You have some hard truths?” Oprah asked, looking from me to Liz. “You’ll see some hard truths in this book. So…was Eat Pray Love, was it too light for you or…”

“I think I wanted to have the experience of finding joy in my life,” I said. “I was on a honeymoon in South Africa where everything was lovely, and I was so sad because it wasn’t everything I wanted, and it was so confusing, because I’d done what I was supposed to. I came from a very hard childhood and married somebody who was kind and successful. I was trying to find success. And I said, okay if I do all these things, I’m going to have this Eat Pray Love kind of life, where I find everything in the end. I separated from my husband earlier this year, and when I read about this book, I thought, this is the truth I want to find.”

This was a truth I’d never admitted to anyone, not even myself. And now I was admitting it to a room full of strangers. And Elizabeth Gilbert. And Oprah.

Liz gave me a knowing smile. “I also thought I was going to live an Eat Pray Love kind of life in the end,” she said. “It’s a good guess. You know, I think when I look back on Eat Pray Love, a good subtitle for it would have been Good Guess. It seems like the things of the world should make you happy, it seems like it should work, right? And it sort of works for a while, but if there’s a deep underlying, unhealed pain, then you’ve got to look beyond this world for the relief from it. I have to, I should say. I wish you so much love, and grace and thank you for sharing.”

“Out of everyone I’ve known,” Oprah said, taking my arm, “all the celebrities, all the most successful people in the world…they all go through this. They’re all unhappy, trying to do the thing they’re supposed to do to be happy. But you’re going to make it through. I can see that, and you’re going to make it through.”

The crowd applauded. I tried to metabolize the hopeful words these two women had just given me. I tried not to think about the head wound still healing under my hair from just a few weeks before, when I thought I wasn’t strong enough to make it through. Oprah let go of my arm, smiling at me as she moved on.

As the event wrapped up, people asked to get a picture with Oprah. She sternly told us to get in a single file line, phones ready, that there wasn’t going to be all of that fumbling around.

I stood with my phone ready, and the girl next to me said, “I thought it was very brave, what you shared.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m not sure if I’d use the word brave. I’d say it was just anxiety and the power of Oprah.”

She laughed, which restored my nerve.

The line moved up, and then it was my turn. Oprah wrapped her arm around me, and we smiled for the camera. Her cameraman handed me my phone, and because I’ve never known time and place, I said, “very quickly, I have to tell you—I was once in the middle of a hurricane, and the winds were so strong that I turned to everyone hunkered down with me and said, ‘these are more than Gale force winds; they’re Oprah force winds.”

Oprah was clearly confused, blinked, then offered a delayed smile, and I walked away.

Liz’s friend Margaret was standing off to the side, and I joined her at the high top.

“I don’t know why I just told Oprah that joke,” I said. “I’m always oversharing with everyone.”

“It was funny,” she said, reassuringly.

“You know, a few months ago I met Patricia Lockwood at an event, and I got so nervous that I blurted out a really funny story about an unsuccessful suicide attempt involving a plastic bag full of cream cheese and chives crackers (my least favorite flavor), and how I choked on them and realized that was NOT the way I wanted to die. Thankfully she found it funny.”

Margaret’s eyes widened and then she threw her head back, laughing, and said, “Hold on, you’ve got to tell this to Liz, she’s going to love it.”

She called Liz over and had me tell the story again. Liz laughed just as hard, grabbing my arm, saying, “that’s great. That’s amazing.”

Margaret took our picture, and I resisted the urge to hold Liz tight. I had this compulsion to make her my savior, which, I quickly reminded myself, was the very thing she was warning us not to do. She hugged me and said, “You’re my people,” and offered me a sticker that said, ‘you are loved’.

The crowd dispersed. Oprah left, and then Liz, and then it was just me and Margaret. And the Starbucks baristas.

“Where are you headed?” Margaret asked, after we’d talked a short while longer.

“My train’s not until three, so I’m just gonna wander around until then.”

We walked outside and carried on with our conversation, where I shared too much and she listened with generosity. She shared things about her own life, about her photography, which was beautiful, about her family, which was sweet. She said she’d been friends with Liz since they were eighteen, and I thought how lucky Liz was, to have a friend like this.

When we reached Margaret’s train, she waved goodbye, and as she walked down the stairs, she said, “you were the most exciting person I met today. You first, Oprah second.”

I thought about how happy I was to meet her, this person I never even expected to meet.

As I walked back to Penn station, I called my Granny to tell her about my day. She asked about Oprah and about Liz. She asked if I was famous yet, if I talked to anyone about my book. She’s always been convinced I’m going to be discovered one day. “I’m not famous yet,” I said. “But I did talk about my book. I also met some really wonderful people today.”

“Well that’s good, little baby,” she said, and I could hear so much joy in her voice I could weep. “Now send me a picture so I can show all my friends.”

I went through my pictures and sent her one of me and Oprah, and one of me and Liz. Just as I got on the train, she sent a text back asking, “who’s the bald one?” And I laughed so hard I peed.

I may not have met Julia Roberts on this day. Even meeting Oprah, as exciting as it was, wasn’t as life changing as you might expect. But meeting Margaret, this lovely, quiet person, made me happy I lived for another day.