Creatives.
Creatives with insomnia …
I call Ash and pray she’s not asleep.
She answers on the second ring.
“LUCY JANEY JANE! My friend! How did you hear?”
Confusion makes me clear my throat.
“Hear what?”
“I’M ENGAGED! Rusty asked me a few hours ago, and I knew you were on stage, so I’ve been dying to tell you but didn’t want to interfere with anything, and I’ve been debating waiting untilMemphis to tell you, but I suck at secrets and I’M ENGAGED! Can you believe it?!”
Why does this make me cry?
Why do tears spill out of my eyes?
Why does my throat throb with pain hearing the happiest possible news?
“Oh my gosh, Ash!” I croak. “That’s great! I’m so happy for you!”
But Ash’s gushing stops.
“Lou? What’s going on?”
“Nothing!” I lie in my brightest voice. “My throat’s just raw from the concert and interviews. Tell me everything!”
“Are you sure? I wish I could see you right now. You have a poker voice.”
“I’m sure,” I insist, willing my throat to obey. “Now tell me exactly what happened! How did he propose?”
Ash launches into the story of how three of the old men in town—the Chicks—crashed their date on the riverwalk in Sugar Maple. She tells me how their boat capsized, how Rusty jumped into the water to save their lives, and soon, my laughter mingles with my tears, until I’m feeling every emotion at once.
After nearly an hour of talking, of hearing my best friend sound so happy, she sighs.
“Thanks for taking the time to call,” she says. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” I say.
“Oh,” she says before I can say goodnight. “I forgot to ask—how’s Patty feeling about his dad’s surgery next week?”
Her words hit like a slap.
“Uh, he’s not talking much about it.”
“That sounds like Patty,” Ash says. “I can’t believe how intense it’s gonna be. A week in the hospital, all those weeks after needing around-the-clock care. Poor Danny. I hope it relieves the pain.”
My tears resume, and this time, I don’t hide my emotion. “I hope so, too. Has—have you heard how much it’s going to cost them?”
“Rusty wasn’t sure, but insurance isn’t covering it. So I’m guessing it’ll be a lot. Hundreds of thousands of dollars, and that’s before all the PT. If Sean can get drafted, his contract will be more than enough to cover it?—”
“Or if Patty can make something happen on tour,” I mutter.
“Uh, yeah, I guess? Are you guys working on something?”
“We’ve been co-writing music,” I say, closing my eyes, feeling like I’m about to be sick. “Maybe we can do something with it.”
