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Is it working? No.
In between trips, I’ve thrown myself into researching the best areas to open the next batch of tech hubs—as if that passion could fill the hole left by my passion for Charlotte. And I’ve done it from home to avoid any chance of bumping into her, only going into the building when absolutely necessary for things it was impossible to do from here—even then I was in and out as quickly as I could.
But I did bring home a bunch of the hardware from the pile in the corner of my office and get a load of that fixed up. So that was satisfying. Momentarily.
After all that frenzied activity, my brain’s finally reached capacity, and today it’s refused to focus on new software ideas, the résumés of the top applicants for the business development manager’s job, or which areas of Mississippi and New Jersey might benefit most from a future First Byte location.
So I gave up, went for a punishing run in the blistering New York City heat, changed my bedding, and chiseled off the bit of burnt something that’s been stuck to the stove for months. Now all the plants are watered and I’m pretty much out of mindless activities.
I stretch out on the sofa and turn on the TV. A twenty-four-hour news channel telling me about all the tragedies in the world seems fitting.
After a solid month of activity, just thirty seconds of being motionless is strange. And not particularly good.
The second my mind stills, the image of Charlotte’s smiling, glowing face looking up at me from the bed at the Plainsville hotel while I was still inside her, reappears in my mind. It’s my brain’s new go-to whenever it has nothing else to do. And often even when it does.
I switch to the movie streaming options and select Back to the Future. A back-to-back marathon of all three will be like a warm, comfortable blanket.
Just as I lie back on the sofa, letting the familiar tick-tocking of Doc Brown’s clock collection in the opening shot wash over me, my phone rings.
My heart sinks. Conversation is something I’m definitely not in the mood for.
Oh, actually, it’s not that bad. “Hi, Dad.”
I pause the TV and pull a pillow under my head. Dad’s calls usually involve a long story about something or other, with a twist at the end that leads to a tech problem he wants me to fix. Under normal circumstances I’m desperate for him to cut to the chase. But right now, listening to him tell a tale for half an hour sounds perfect.
“Do you have a minute?” he asks.
“As many as you like.” I put my glasses on the coffee table and close my eyes. Might as well settle in.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice softer than normal.
“Yeah, of course. Why?” I’ve never talked to my parents about my love life and, even if I were going to start, I wouldn’t kick things off with this tragedy.
“You seemed a bit discombobulated when you were here.” Dad says. “And being out of sorts isn’t like you.”
“Just super busy with work.” Lying to him makes me inwardly squirm. “With Owen’s honeymoon going on forever, you know. And the nonprofit just getting going. Super busy traveling all over the place.”
“Right.” Dad sounds skeptical. “Must be why Max hasn’t heard from you for weeks. Since the wedding, I think he said.”
Too fucking right Max hasn’t heard from me since then. I can’t imagine a time when I’ll ever be able to hear his voice without wanting to punch him where the sound comes out.
“Yeah, I haven’t heard from him either.” This cuts both ways. “He’s probably busy too, what with spending more time up in Warm Springs.”
Warm Springs, upstate, is where Polly’s from. She and Max have almost finished building a house across the street from her mom’s place. Their wedding is next on the list, and they’re talking about having kids. So weird how tough old Max has gone all gaga at the idea of changing diapers since he’s been with Polly.
Shame he couldn’t have shown some of his newfound compassion to me and Charlotte. You’d think having to fight to get the woman of his dreams might have given him some empathy with our situation.
All that stuff he said at the wedding about being torn between whether to side with me or his policies was such utter bullshit. Of course he’d always side with whatever is best for his goddamn business.
“Maybe,” Dad says. “It reminds me of a time when me and your uncle Eric didn’t speak for a while.”
Eric is Owen's father, my dad's hippie brother. There are four of them—or rather were, until Walker and Tom's dad, Charles, died. That left my dad, Uncle Eric in his commune in California, and Uncle Bob in England. It's Uncle Bob and Aunt Linda who Tom went to live with when he was a teenager.
Dad’s parents were English. They had all four boys here, but when Bob was in his twenties, he went on a trip to the UK to research his heritage, met Linda, and that was that.
“I didn’t think you and Eric spoke much now,” I say. “Looked like you were avoiding each other at the wedding.”
“We just have nothing in common,” he says. “He might have driven me to distraction at one point and we might have had big fights—not least about how they raised Owen and Gwyneth—but he’s still my brother. I still love him.”
