Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
The next week passes in a blur of long hours at work, swimming at the community pool, and hot, sticky nights catching fireflies in the backyard with Emmy.
Jasper is in Berlin, seven hours ahead, and calls every few days, usually as I’m getting into bed. He likes me to guess: “Am I just coming home or just waking up?” I ask him to describe the night he just had or the day ahead of him, and he peppers me with questions about Emmy and what I’ve been thinking and making. We don’t talk about when we’ll see each other next, but it hangs around heavily in the background.
When we hang up, the texts roll in:
Thinking about you.
Remember that time in Marfa? When we pulled over on the side of the empty road?
God, I adore you. Where are you right now?
—
Some mornings, I drive the long way to work, slowing down as I pass Oliver’s renovation, sometimes catching a glimpse of him working outdoors. For the past couple days, he’s been constructing the front steps. At first I found it inspiring, watching him toil away at something he loves. But with each passing day, I worry more and more about the money he’s spending. Since he moved out our bills have been steadily mounting—there’s the reality of our mortgage, combined with rent on a second place. Today as I drive past, there’s a large stack of paving stones out front near the zinnias, and this stack looks different from the stones that have been laid so far. I have the sinking feeling he’s going to rip out the ones he just laid and begin again.
At the end of the week, Liam, Kirby, and I move our things into Petra’s empty offices, in a three-story white brick building on the edge of town. Petra’s PR firm is run from the top floor and we’ll be just below. No one is there on the weekend when we arrive, but she has the security guard meet us out front and show us up to the second floor. It’s a pretty space, bright and light, with thick-planked oak floors and a big window that takes up most of one wall and looks out over the street. I move in Oliver’s old drafting table and some canvases and set myself up against the window’s bright light. Kirby takes a small office for herself, then she and Liam get to work soundproofing a recording space for me. Liam takes an empty desk for himself, right up front near the kitchen. He brings Kirby coffee and heats up lunch for them both.
Once we’ve unpacked, I find a mostly empty notebook and sit on the blue love seat that Petra has lent us. I listen back to an interview and re-create the woman from memory. I start by sketching her most distinctive features—full lips, soft wavy hair, sharp nose, the slope of her neck.
When I take off my headphones, I hear Liam and Kirby laughing. Kirby is perched on his desk, our site pulled up on Liam’s monitor.
“What’s so funny?” I stand and stretch, needing a break from drawing.
“We’re reading the comments.”
“Where are the comments?”
“Have you ever visited a website, Diana? Scroll down.” He sits me in his chair and leans over my shoulder. He smells like coffee and peppermints, which I imagine he pops just for Kirby. “Some are clearly from the ghost of Newt Gingrich but most of them are really cool. Look…” He scans the page, reading as he goes:
Love the honesty of these interviews. Why aren’t there more?
YES. Going back to listen again.
Paintings are very pretty. Are they for sale?
“Liam…I can see you scrolling past all the mean ones.”
—
The next day, I drop off Emmy at Oliver’s for the long weekend. He’s taking her to his mother’s annual Fourth of July BBQ and I’m thrilled not to be invited to spend the afternoon in the judgmental swim of Vivian and Allen.
“I think my mom wants to set me up with her friend’s divorced daughter.” Oliver sighs. “Someone from her DAR chapter, of course.”
It’s no surprise that Vivian has moved on so quickly from me, but it still stings. I change the subject. “How’s the house coming?”
“A few hiccups but getting there.”
When I don’t respond right away, looking at a point somewhere over Oliver’s right shoulder, he snaps, “Please don’t, Diana. Not right now.”
“What?”
“What what ?”
“Oliver, I didn’t say anything.”
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“You’re the one overreacting,” I say, annoyed that he can still read my mind.
We slip into old patterns so easily, arguing like children. Emmy stands nearby, focused on her colorful stack of friendship bracelets but absorbing the tension between us.
Oliver lowers his voice. “You’re nervous about the money and how long it’s taking. Why can’t you just say what you mean?”
Anger whips through me. “You’re giving me communication advice? Like how you overcommunicated about spending our money.”
“At least I’m trying.”
“What does that mean?”
Oliver puffs up his cheeks, then slowly exhales. “I don’t want to do this. Not right now.”
“Of course you don’t. You never do.” I paste on a smile and grit my teeth. “Have fun with the socialite. Maybe she can give us a loan!”
—
My anger dissipates on the drive home—the heat of my outrage cooled by a frosty coat of shame for being so childish and allowing my buttons to be so easily pushed. I remind myself of today’s victory: not having to stand around Vivian’s backyard eating mayo-soaked food that’s been baking too long in the sun. That counts for something, right? The twinge of triumph is short-lived. As I near home, I remember the yawn of three days alone in the house. I had thought that after Paris it would feel different, that I wouldn’t mind being home alone and I would sleep fine once again. It’s still not true—the house without Oliver and Emmy feels strange. When I picture the empty rooms, my body tenses.
But as I turn into my driveway, Jasper is waiting for me.