Michael shrugs, cool as a cucumber. “People tell me things. You can tell me things. Anytime. About anything. You know that, right?”
“I know.” I release a tight sigh. “And I’m glad you came. I need to move on. This will be good for me. So . . . thanks.”
He smiles slightly. “I’m going to go, then. Stella’s parents are coming over for dinner, and I haven’t gone grocery shopping yet. Unless you want to come?”
“No, thanks,” I say quickly. Stella’s parents are nice and all, but they’re so proper and wholesome that hanging around them always feels like a trip to the principal’s office to me. I’ve spent too much time in principals’ offices as it is.
“Let me know how it goes, okay??
?? Michael asks.
I feel stupid about it, but I give him a thumbs-up.
With a wave good-bye, he heads off. Only when he’s disappeared around the corner do I recognize the hollow pang in my chest. I miss him. It’s the weekend, nighttime is rolling around, and I’m super aware that I’m all by myself.
I open up one of my old apps and start editing my profile.
FOUR
Anna
The next morning, I awaken on my couch in the same exact position as when I collapsed last night, too tired to go the extra distance to my bedroom. I slept like a corpse, and I basically feel like one today. My head aches, and my muscles are sore. It’s like I have a hangover even though I missed the fun of actually getting drunk. Yesterday was too much. The looping hell of violin practice. Therapy. Dinner with Julian. The blow job. Our discussion.
Ugh, I’m in an open relationship now. I need to decide if I want to start dating. Groaning, I cover my face with a throw pillow. I should get up and start my day, but I have zero desire to do anything.
My purse vibrates against my thigh, and I plop a limp hand inside and half-heartedly fish for my phone. If my mom is yelling at me about something, I’m going to ignore her until lunchtime. I just can’t deal with her right now.
It turns out it’s not text messages from my mom. It’s a picture of Rose’s fluffy white Persian cat in a pink tutu. She’s only sent the picture to me because Suz is a late riser.
What do you think? she asks.
I laugh silently to myself as I reply, You take your life into your own hands every time you do that to her.
I know. I’m lucky I still have all my fingers. But she looks so pretty dressed up! she says.
She looks like she’s plotting your murder, I tell her.
But she’ll do it IN STYLE, she says, pausing briefly before she messages me again. How are you today?
I don’t have energy to go into it, so I keep things simple. I’m okay. Still processing. Thanks for asking.
I really do think you should try dating. I meant what I said about it helping to empower me, she says.
I’m considering it, I reply, and because I don’t want everything to be about me, I ask, Are you exhausted today? You were texting past midnight your time.
Yes, so tired. I couldn’t sleep last night. I’m supposed to hear back from the producers for that special project on TV this week.
I think you’re going to hear good news. You’re exactly who they need, I say.
I hope so! I really, really, really love this piece.
Envy sparks in my chest at her remark, and I dislike myself for it. I wish I still loved music like she does, that it brought me joy instead of this suffocating pressure. I will be happy for her if this opportunity pans out, though. I’m not a complete monster.
How are you doing on the Richter piece? Any progress? she asks.
I hate talking about my progress on the Richter piece—because there never is any—so I keep my reply short. Nope. But I’ll keep trying anyway. I should get to it.
Good luck! she says. One of these days, everything is going to flow right out of you. You’re just creatively constipated right now.