Chapter 4 – “Sleep Like a Baby Tonight” — U2
CHAPTER FOUR
HENRY
“Henry, you look like death on a scone,” Julian says after giving me a head-to-toe survey and finding me lacking, which feels generous, given the circumstances. “Why didn’t you go straight home from the airport?”
“I need to sign that document you said I need to sign.” Ugh. Too tired to think straight, but I won’t be able to rest if I have undone tasks hanging over my head. It’s easier to suck it up before I try to sleep.
“I didn’t mean you couldn’t go home first. When was the last time you got some rest? Why do you resemble deep-fried dog shite?” He has a way of making even vulgarities sound posh—it’s the British accent.
“And I’m so tired I accidentally ordered an Uber to the office instead of home.”
“Henry?”
“Yes, Julian?”
“Didn’t you park there?”
Sigh. “Yes.”
“I wish you would have called. I could have taken an Uber and driven you back. Now you’ll have to trek back to O’Hare and pay an extra day of exorbitant parking.
” Julian takes his job responsibilities seriously.
He’s even added duties never included in his contract, such as being an obnoxious mother hen.
“Did you get any winks on the plane? I booked you one of the high fancy seats that turn into a bed so you would rest.”
“No.”
“Did you sleep last night?” he asks.
“Not so much.”
He gives me a knowing nod.
“I still submit that you should call that Bedtime Stories place,” he says with a mischievous grin and an innocent tone.
I don’t respond. I give him a hard look, but instead of being chastened, Julian laughs. Sometimes I wonder who the boss is here. I’m increasingly certain it isn’t me.
“I’ll drive you home,” he says, looking me over. “You shouldn’t be behind the wheel.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re barely sentient. I’ve seen worms with greater brainpower than you possess right now.”
He’s not wrong.
“Give me your keys. I’ll go get your car while you get some sleep.”
I protest him going out of his way like that, but he insists. “You’ll be doing me a favor. I can grab some tea on the way back from the Other Bean and get some fresh air.”
“Fine.”
He hustles me to his SUV, and I’ve already touched the fabric on the passenger seat to move it when I realize it’s a pair of thong panties and drop them. Julian shoves them in the glove box, where there’s a strip of condoms and even a little wallet-size packet of lube.
“Have you considered having sex in a bed? Or with the same woman more than once?” I sound like an ass. A jealous ass. But that doesn’t stop my mouth from working. “You could start a side hustle selling used panties at the rate you collect them.”
“Maybe. Have you considered having more sex and less judgment in your life?” he snarks back at me.
“Maybe. Have you considered knowing the names of the women you have sex with?”
“Maybe you’re a stick in the mud.”
“Maybe you should give me some hand sanitizer. Jesus, Julian, if anyone ever uses one of those Law he just raises one eyebrow at me and waits. Maybe he has the right of it, not giving women any more chances to hurt him and being a good-time guy.
“I’m sorry,” I say, with sincerity. “I am both tired and grumpy.” And maybe a smidge envious.
We’re not even out of the parking lot when he starts in on the therapeutic value of orgasms. “When was the last time you got laid? Was it that awful girlfriend of yours who—”
He stops talking when I start to bang my head against the glass of the passenger window, like a demented zoo animal attempting escape via blunt force trauma.
“Fine,” he says. “We can talk about something else.”
“Fine,” I agree.
I hate that he has to specify which awful girlfriend he’s talking about.
“So, Bedtime Stories—”
I start banging my head on the glass again, and he goes silent. He laughs at me first, but he quits asking questions.
“Can we have a normal conversation?” I ask. “One that doesn’t include my sex life or your new role marketing phone sex as sleep therapy?” His faux wounded face makes me smile.
“How was Ireland?”
I love Dublin. I love the hotel I stay in. It isn’t quiet. Drunken merrymakers roam the street long past the time normal people are asleep, but the noise makes being awake and alone easier, almost like I’m among friends. It makes me wish my town house were in a louder part of town.
“Lovely as always.”
It takes ten minutes once I hit the door to be showered and in bed, ready to sleep.
I get back up and close my blackout blinds, then tug the curtain closed against the blazing afternoon sun. No dice. I turn the temperature down. I fluff pillows. I loft down. Still awake. I could call Kait. No. I can do this.
No, I can’t do this.
I can’t.
I call.
“Henry! I’m so happy to hear from you.” She always says that. There’s real pleasure in her voice, and for a second, I’m sure it’s genuine, not a work persona. Still, I can resist her. I proved it by waiting fourteen minutes before calling the number discreetly saved in my contacts under Sleep.
“Kait, how are you?” My bland greeting says nothing about the sheer exertion required to resist the lure of speaking to her. It’s pathetic, but when I’m talking to her, I’m settled, calm, and… happy. The urge to speak to her is a constant buzz in the back of my brain.
“Better now that I’m talking to you. Three weeks is too long between calls. I’d prefer hearing from you once a week if I get a vote.” She must have looked it up on the computer.
“I would’ve said four,” I say. “Too long, regardless.”
“I’m thrilled to hear your voice again.” Her words have a ring of sincerity, and her voice is like a wave of calm washing over me. I stop fidgeting. “Does not hearing from you for weeks mean you’ve been sleeping better or something fun like vacation?”
“Uhm.” It means I’ve been resisting the urge to call.
We’ve talked three, no, four times, including today.
I can’t pinpoint my need for her, aside from her wizard-like ability to magic me to sleep.
Well, that and the simple fact that Kait sounds like a fresh-from-the-oven cinnamon roll, dripping with real vanilla bean icing.
The kind that melts like warm butter on your tongue.
“Well, your timing is perfect. I have a date with my chair. We can both relax, just the way I like it.” Her footsteps are soft in the background, and then I hear the clink of metal. “I made a pot of tea. I’m fixing this cup, then I’m all yours.”
If she doesn’t have a fancy tea party cup and saucer set, she needs one.
“I’ve been thinking of you, wondering how you’re doing, if you’re sleeping.”
I’m sure she says things like that to all the callers, but I get a tiny thrill at her interest. She’s sweet. I’m accustomed to loaded questions. Kait is a welcome respite.
“Do you prefer talking at home or at the office?” I don’t want to bother her during her free time.
“I like you, so I prefer here. When I’m not in the office, it’s optional to take calls, but I’d happily talk to you anywhere,” she says before taking a sip.
“I decline if I don’t want their energy in my space.
It’s icky to be in my bed, talking to a guy I don’t like.
Some calls are… not pleasant and mess with my dreams.”
The shush of her clothes against the velvet of her chair betrays her movements. “Speaking of, how have you been sleeping?”
“I’ve been doing all of the things—going to bed at the same time every night, regardless of time zone, no blue light before bed, lukewarm showers at bedtime. It’s not great, but it’s improving.”
“Small victories. It was never going to happen overnight. What do I hear in the background?”
“U2, even when I’m not in Dublin…”
“Are you a huge fan of U2? You were wearing a concert T-shirt the first time we spoke.” She either has a mind like an iron trap, or she has a dossier on me. I favor the iron trap.
“Huge fan. I see them whenever they tour. I have everything they’ve ever released on vinyl to the best of my knowledge.
I’m a music person in general, kind of obsessed with music from Ireland and the UK, 1960s and on.
All of it. Julian and I—he’s my closest friend and only coworker at our Chicago office—go to a lot of concerts. ”
“Favorite song?” she asks.
“‘Lucky Man’ by The Verve. It’s the one song I go back to over and over.”
“I’ll have to listen to it. Why that song?”
“I really like it on its own merits, but a group of us were hanging out drinking at a bar, and asking weird questions, you know, killing time. ‘What one food would you want on a deserted island’ stuff. The question that night was ‘What song best summarizes your life?’ and Julian says his is ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together’ by Taylor Swift, and everybody is howling because he had an epically bad breakup. Then my other buddy chimes in and says his life is best summed up by ‘I Need a Lover That Won’t Drive Me Crazy’ by John Mellencamp, which is also hilarious because his girlfriend is, uh, problematic. ”
“So ‘Lucky Man’ best summarizes your life?”
“‘Lucky Man’ is the song I want to summarize my life. One day, sitting in a rocking chair and reflecting on my life, I want to know I’m a lucky man.
The song reminds me to work for my luck, to value every day.
You build and earn that life day after day, year by year.
‘Lucky Man’ is a reminder of what I want in my life, what I’m aiming for. ”
“Are you a lucky man, Henry?”
“I feel like one right now.” Ugh. Worse than a cheap pickup line at closing time. I sit in silence, not knowing how to recover from the beyond-cheesy comment, when she graciously saves me.
“Hmmm. ‘Lucky Man,’ huh? I don’t know The Verve.”