Chapter Thirty-Seven
TWO WEEKS PASS. I don’t hear from him at all. Not a single text back, nor an email. I’d be afraid for his safety if I didn’t see him working in the Dropbox folder. He’s alive, at least, and well enough to work.
The same goes for me, but that’s about it.
Before we left Maine, we divvied up the remaining things to do for the score and made a promise that we’d help each other out if we ever got stuck in the tiny details of orchestration.
It seems that particular promise is cooked, but he’s holding up the rest of the deal, just like I am.
Everything will be fully written and ready come January.
Every time I see his edits in a file, or a note he left for himself on our to-do list document, my skin grows hot and my stomach somersaults.
Does he feel the same way when he sees my name all over the work we share?
Does he ever look back at the texts I sent him that night, like I do? Is he having trouble sleeping, too?
This is what I think about when I lie in bed at night, unable to sleep.
For the most part, the Lineage work occupies my days, but Damian does send over the script for Debra Cain’s project like he said he would.
I read the whole thing in one afternoon and am immediately obsessed with it.
It’s a multigenerational saga about a family of El Salvadoran immigrants who wind up in Chicago.
My brain buzzes with ideas for how to tell the story with music.
It takes me forty-five minutes to craft an email response with the right ratio of enthusiasm to professionalism and the correct amount of exclamation points. Damian’s response is simply, “ok more soon.”
So, I wait. I rot in my apartment and try to block out my neighbors’ noises; the upstairs guy replaced his treadmill with a weight bench while I was gone, so that’s a fun new development.
The temperature outside drops, Christmas trees go up in department stores, and menorahs are placed in windows.
I buy some earplugs to help me sleep; it doesn’t work.
Occasionally I drag myself up to the Heights to have dinner with my parents and whichever sister is free that night, which is usually Rosa, since Amanda is on an overtime kick with hospital staffing shortages.
It’s a Tuesday, or maybe a Thursday, when there’s a knock at my door.
I’m lying in bed watching an old season of Battle for Love while also pretending that I’m not thinking of the night Oliver was entranced by this silly show.
Confused, I look to my door but don’t bother to get up.
I’m not expecting anyone and didn’t buzz anyone up. This must be a mistake.
They knock again. I ignore it.
The key turns in the lock. This time, I don’t panic. I know it’s a sister or two. I stay where I am in my bed, curled up under a blanket.
It takes them a while, but eventually they get my lock to cooperate, and soon Amanda is stepping over my threshold and taking off her winter jacket. My brows flatten as I look at her. I thought she was working today.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Nice to see you, too,” she mutters, kicking off her shoes. “I came to hang out with you. Duh.”
I look at my phone. It’s actually Wednesday night, which explains why she’s still in her scrubs. “Did we have plans?”
“No.” She rolls her eyes, pads over to my bed, and crawls in next to me. “Do I need to preschedule time with you? Are you, like, super busy right now?” Her tone is laced with sarcasm as she looks from me to the TV.
“Shut up. I’m taking a break, okay?”
Amanda does shut up; that’s the difference between her and Rosa. She also steals half my blanket as she burrows underneath it. I’d complain, but I appreciate the warmth.
For a while, we watch six men mud wrestle each other for the chance to go on a date with a twenty-seven-year-old marketing manager from Des Moines.
“I love this show,” Amanda says with a sigh. “This is absolutely insane.”
I snort. She’s not wrong, but I know she didn’t come all this way to watch a show that streamed three years ago. I turn on my side, prop my head on my hand, and ask, “Why are you here?”
She sighs and takes the claw clip out of her hair before turning to me. “I’m worried about you.”
“What? Why?”
“I know you, hermana,” Amanda chides. Her wavy hair is a frizzy cloud around her head. “I know things are looking up for you with that script you got to read and all that, but I could tell something was off at dinner last week. When Rosa tried to poke fun at Oliver, you got all quiet and sad.”
My lungs deflate. I thought I’d deflected well enough that night. Guess I was wrong.
“And since I don’t think you told anyone else about him, I figured I’d come here in case you wanted to talk or something. You tend to, like, shoulder your problems on your own. I think it’s a big-sister thing, because I do it with Rosa, but not as bad as you. But you can talk to me, you know.”
“There’s not really much to say,” I reply, then flop back into the pillow and proceed to talk for almost an hour.
I tell Amanda everything about Oliver—from the day we left for Boothbay Harbor, up until the night of Chris’s dinner.
The only parts I keep to myself are the horny moments and the specifics of what Oliver told me that morning by the water.
That confession of his feels too big, too precious to share, even with my sister.
I’ve had enough time to stew on all this now that I understand why he’s so hurt. How it must have felt for him to hear me say those things to Damian after everything we said and did together. Oliver did what he had to do in response—he chose himself, to protect all that hard-won growth.
For her part, Amanda is an engaged listener, her eyes going wide for every dramatic moment in the story, her gasps like little dynamic flourishes.
“Do you think I did the right thing?” I ask, once I’ve caught her up to speed.
She blows out a breath and rubs her forehead.
“I don’t know, hermana. Your situation fucking sucked.
Here’s the big shot Hollywood dude asking you about your love life, but you don’t want him to think you’re messy, so what are you supposed to do?
I would have said the same thing you did, for what it’s worth.
Doesn’t mean it’s right, but it’s true.”
“I just wish Oliver hadn’t overheard it.” I groan.
“Even if he hadn’t, he probably would have found out.” She bites her bottom lip as she considers this. “These movie people sound like real gossip queens to me, and that’s saying something, coming from a nurse.”
I huff out a laugh as I stretch; my body is going stiff from being horizontal for so long. “Maybe you’re right. I don’t know. I just hate how it went down. I hate that I hurt him. I hate that I was a rock in a hard place, just trying to get a job doing what I love.”
“A rock in a hard place!” She cackles and slaps the blanket. “I love our dad. But yeah, you’re right. You’re just trying to get by. This has been your dream for so long.”
“I wish it wasn’t like this,” I mumble. “It shouldn’t be this way.
I always felt like I didn’t understand this game that everyone was always playing.
Like there was no transparency and the decisions were already made but if you guessed right or something, you might still get to keep playing?
” I shake my head, aware this won’t really make sense to her.
“I don’t know, I thought I’d get better at it as I got older, but I still feel like I’m losing. ”
“Then change it,” Amanda says simply.
I blink, confused. “What do you mean?”
She looks at me with one eyebrow raised. “You’re on the verge of making it, Celia. When you do, change things up. Do it differently. Your way.”
As soon as she says it, I know that’s what I want—to not only make a name for myself, but to also change things once I do. I don’t know how I’ll do that, but that’s a problem for future me. The present me still has to get through the next few weeks without falling apart.
FROM: Oliver Barlowe
TO: Celia Garcia , Rebecca Eagan
CC: Chris Ross ,
DATE: Wednesday, December 2 at 4:47 PM
SUBJECT: Lineage recording sessions—NY Philharmonic, January 12
All,
Our date with the New York Philharmonic is set for Tuesday, January 12. We’ll record at Trio Studios in Midtown. Call time TBD.
Rebecca—are you able to join us?
Chris—we’ll come in under budget for this. The orchestra cut us a deal.
Oliver
FROM: Rebecca Eagan
TO: Oliver Barlowe
CC: Celia Garcia , Chris Ross
DATE: Wednesday, December 2 at 5:02 PM
SUBJECT: RE: Lineage recording sessions—NY Philharmonic, January 12
I’ll be there! Can’t wait.