Chapter Sixteen - Terms of Contact
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Terms of Contact
I gave Eli a schedule. That felt stranger than giving him a legal boundary.
Priya sent the terms through his lawyer at nine on Monday morning.
Two meetings a week. Forty-five minutes each unless I chose otherwise.
Public place or another location I selected in advance.
No unannounced visits to the cabin. No gifts routed through Ada, Cal, the library, or anybody else in town.
No public statements about me without written approval. No asking when I was coming home.
I added the last one myself.
Then I added another. Counseling. Not as proof that we were saving the marriage. Not as a condition for me staying in it. As a place where neither of us got to turn memory into argument and call the louder version truth. Priya read the list once.
“You want me to send all of this?”
“Send it.”
“Do you want to specify a therapist?”
“There’s a marriage counselor above the pharmacy. Ada gave me the number.”
“That sentence contains more faith in small-town infrastructure than I expected from you.”
“I checked the license.”
“Naturally.” I had also checked whether the counselor had any public connection to Eli, whether she treated celebrity clients, and whether the office had a separate exit. I had become romantic in extremely specific ways. Eli’s response came back eleven minutes later. Agreed to all terms.
No edits. No request for more time. No sentence about how painful the rules were. I read the email twice anyway, looking for the hidden negotiation I had been trained to expect. There wasn’t one. Our first scheduled meeting was Tuesday at three in the back corner of Switchback Cafe.
Ada put us in the booth farthest from the counter and then demonstrated her commitment to privacy by loudly telling Cal that if he turned around one more time, she would rotate his chair herself.
“I’m not looking,” he said.
“You’re looking with your ears.”
“I don’t think that’s anatomically—”
“Face your coffee.” Eli waited until Ada walked away before glancing at me.
“I like her.”
“She is indifferent to whether you like her.”
“That might be why.”
He looked tired but cleaner than the last time I had seen him. Jeans. Dark sweater. No stage face. No watch worth more than Cal’s truck. I had noticed the watch was missing. I disliked that I noticed. A small timer sat beside my phone. Eli saw it.
“Forty-five minutes.”
“That’s what we agreed.”
“Then use the timer.”
I pressed start. He almost smiled.
“Efficient.”
“Don’t romanticize the timer.”
“I won’t.” For a moment neither of us spoke. We had discussed rights, lies, managers, money, consent, seventeen years of accumulated damage. I had no idea how to begin a normal conversation. Apparently neither did he.
Finally Eli asked, “How’s the cabin?”
“Cold in the mornings.”
“Fireplace still smoke when the wind comes east?”
“Still.”
“Your aunt used to open the kitchen window and swear that fixed it.”
“It did not.”
“You’re right.” He rubbed one thumb along the edge of the table.
“Did you get the back step fixed?”
I studied him.
“How did you know about the step?”
“You mentioned it in the garden.”
“I did?”
“Cal was coming to fix it.”
I had forgotten saying that.
“Yes. It’s fixed.”
“Good.” Silence again. The waitress came over. Not Ada. A woman in her twenties with a nose ring and no visible interest in country music.
“What can I get you?”
“Coffee,” I said.
Eli met my eyes.
“Coffee?”
“Please.” The waitress waited.
Eli recovered. “Same.”
She left.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You made a face.”
“I thought you stopped drinking coffee after noon.”
“I did.”
“Did?”
“Three years ago.” His expression changed.
“I didn’t know you started again.”
“It isn’t a major life event.”
“It isn’t.” The word carried more weight than it deserved. The coffee arrived. I added milk. Eli watched my hand.
“You take milk now.”
“Sometimes.”
“Since when?” I put down the little metal pitcher.
“I don’t know, Eli. There wasn’t a press release.”
He flinched.
“That sounded stupid.”
“It sounded revealing.” He nodded.
“Fair.” I took a sip. The coffee was too hot. He did not tell me to wait before drinking it. That should not have counted as progress. I was beginning to understand how low our standards had become.
“What do you do in the mornings?” he asked.
I almost said, What kind of question is that?
Then I realized I could not remember the last time he had asked.
“Library.”
“You’re volunteering?”
“Not volunteering.”
“Reading?”
“Writing.” He went completely still. Not theatrically. Just enough that I saw the question he stopped himself from asking.
“What?”
“You’re writing?”
“I am.”
“A song?”
“A song.” He looked down at his coffee. I waited for the next question. Is it about me? Can I hear it? Would it fit the next record? None came.
“How is it going?” he asked.
The question was so ordinary it hurt more than any of the others.
“Slowly.”
“Good slow or bad slow?”
“I can’t tell yet.”
He nodded.
“What does the room sound like?”
I studied him.
“The room?”
“You always cared about the room.”
That was true.
“The piano is terrible.”
He smiled.
“How terrible?”
“Middle C thinks it’s in another key. The pedal squeaks. Two high keys stick when it rains.”
“That sounds unbearable.”
“I like it.” His smile softened.
“I can see that.”
“No, you can’t.” The words came out before I could decide whether they were fair. Eli’s expression settled.
“You’re right.” I looked away. Outside the window, a woman crossed the street carrying two dry-cleaning bags over her head because it had started raining. I had not meant to turn the conversation into another test. But maybe ordinary conversation was a test now.
“What else?” he asked.
“What else what?”
“What do you do here?”
I considered refusing. Then I remembered my own rule. Access conditional and reciprocal did not mean I had to punish curiosity because it arrived late.
“Sunday supper.”
“At the cafe?”
“Every Sunday.”
“With Ada?”
“And half the town, depending on who has food.”
He smiled faintly.
“You hate group dinners.”
“I hate industry dinners.”
“You used to say you hated group dinners.”
“I was wrong.” He absorbed that.
“Who goes?”
“Cal. Mrs. Velez from the library. Beth. Robin. Jonah. The sisters from the hardware store.”
“The sisters have names?”
“They do.”
“What are they?” I started to answer. Stopped. Then laughed. Eli did too.
“I walked into that one,” he said.
“Completely.”
“What are their names?”
“Marcy and Ellen.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t have to study them.”
“I’m not.” He studied me.
“I’m trying to know the life you’re actually living.”
The sentence landed too carefully. I did not reward it.
“Then ask questions you want answers to.”
His gaze stayed on mine.
“All right.” He did. What had I eaten at Sunday supper?
Chicken. Who made the pie? Ada, probably, though Cal’s theft had compromised the chain of evidence. What was I writing on?
Paper. I still hated writing lyrics on a laptop. Had I been sleeping?
Better. The cabin did not feel too isolated at night. Did I miss Nashville?
Some things. Which things? My bathtub. That surprised a laugh out of him.
“The tub?”
“It has water pressure.”
“I thought you were going to say me.”
“That would have ruined the moment.”
“Completely.” The old ease arrived for three seconds. It was dangerous because neither of us had to build it. We had twenty years of shortcuts to intimacy.
Then Eli asked, “Who’s Tessa?”
I froze.
“How do you know that name?”
“You said it just now.”
I replayed the conversation. I had not. He saw my face.
“No. Sorry. Your notebook.”
I looked down. My notebook was half visible inside my open bag. MARA — FOURTH NOTE was written across the top of one page. He had not touched it. He had read what was visible.
“Tessa is a teenager who practices violin at the library.”
“She any good?”
“She will be if she stops attacking the E string.”
He smiled.
“Does she know who you are?”
“I don’t know.”
“That must be nice.”
The observation landed exactly right.
“It was.” The timer showed twenty-six minutes remaining. We had used nineteen talking about my life. I realized I knew almost nothing about his last week beyond what attorneys had produced.
“What are you doing with your days?” I asked.
Eli blinked. It occurred to me that I had not asked him an ordinary question either.
“Mostly meetings.”
“That is not a life.”
“Fair.”
“What else?” He considered it.
“I found a diner outside town that doesn’t care who I am.”
“Ada will be offended.”
“I’m not telling Ada.”
“What do you order?”
“Turkey club.”
“You hate turkey.”
“Apparently not anymore.” I gave him a long look.
Then both of us laughed. The sound came too easily. I let it. Reciprocity did not have to mean symmetry. I did not owe him equal vulnerability because he had finally started paying attention. But I could ask one question because I wanted the answer.
“Where are you staying?”
“At the Ridgeline Inn.”
“That place still has floral bedspreads?”
“Very floral.”
“Good.”
“I deserve them.”
“Do not turn upholstery into penance.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The old phrase slipped out. His face changed before mine did. He used to say that in the studio when I corrected a lyric. I looked down at my coffee. Eli did not fill the silence. That might have been the most unfamiliar thing he did all afternoon.
When I was ready, I said, “Counseling.”
He straightened slightly.
“I agreed.”
“I know. I want to be clear about why.”
“Go ahead.”
“It is not a step toward me moving home.”
“I understand.”
“It is not proof I’ve decided to stay married.”
“I understand.”
“And I don’t want a therapist whose job becomes convincing me that forgiveness is healthier than leaving.”
“Neither do I.”
“You don’t get to choose that for me.”
“I don’t.” I studied him.
“There’s an intake process. Separate first, then joint if the counselor thinks it makes sense.”
“Send me the appointment.”
“No staff scheduling it.”
A faint flush moved up his neck.
“Fair.”
“You call yourself.”
“I will.”
“And if your schedule conflicts?”
“I move my schedule.”
“No grand sacrifice language.”
“I move my schedule,” he repeated, flatter this time.
“Better.” The timer chimed. Both of us looked at it.
Forty-five minutes. Eli stood immediately. No Can we have five more? No We were finally talking. He put cash beneath his coffee cup.
“Same time Friday?”
“If the counselor doesn’t schedule us then.”
“Same time unless it changes.”
He started toward the door.
“Eli.” He turned. I had not planned to say anything.
“What?” I looked at the empty cup in front of him.
“Turkey club?” He smiled.
“Apparently.” Then he left. I remained in the booth with two cooling coffee cups and the timer between them. Its screen had gone dark.
I picked it up only after the door closed behind him.