Was he right? Had Amy taken things one way while I'd run with it in the opposite direction? She'd definitely seemed comfortable at the party, acclimated to the idea that marriage was this normal thing normal people did, and that she was a member of that group. Maybe I needed to accept that just because I saw her one way, and I saw myself the same way, perhaps I'd been completely wrong. After all, she had been younger than me. She'd witnessed less than I had. And of course, she hadn't been the catalyst for the ultimate bad. She hadn't set the demise of her own family in motion. Amy didn't have to live with that.
“Maybe you're right. Maybe I need to stop looking at it like that.” I knew then that I needed to get my attitude straight. Amy deserved better than a maid of honor who was being a complete pain in the ass.
“I could be wrong.”
“Nope. It’s a great suggestion. You make me a better person, you know. You always have.”
“Do you really think that?”
I thought back to the way I'd been with him the first time, so full of sunny optimism, not at all the way I was right now, but I could admit it was a place I wanted to get back to. “I do, Eamon. I really do.”
Chapter Eight
The quiet ofthe apartment had become insufferable. I found myself turning on the TV the minute I walked through the door after work every night, just to fill the void. I'd turn on game shows, Jeopardy if I got home in time. Amy and I used to love to watch it together. Now I watched just to see faces and hear people talking. It was inexplicable to me. I'd never liked people all that much. I abhorred idle chitchat. But still, I found myself seeking it out. I'd even struck up a conversation with the cashier at the bodega down the street the other night. As if that guy gave a flip about whether or not I'd had a hard day at work.
Dinner every night was also an adjustment. I'd forgotten how depressing it was to cook for one person. The portions never worked out. You always ended up with too much food. So then you had to address the leftovers. If you hated what you'd made, you were still going to have to eat the rest later. I didn't like to waste food. Too many people in the world were starving and suffering for me to go around tossing it in the trash.
Tonight, I didn't have the energy. I'd had a bad run at the office over the last several days. Mr. Ashby was already proving to be a pain in my ass, or as he would say, arse. Unlike quite literally every other person I worked with, Miles put zero stock in my abilities. He'd said that my eyesight was both “curious” and “convenient”. When I showed him the changes I was suggesting to next year's color forecast, he didn't trust what I was telling him, nor could he see what I was showing him. It was like trying to negotiate with someone in a language you didn't understand. I'd ended up slinking out of that meeting with my tail between my legs, feeling wholly unsure of my purpose at NACI. If Miles thought I couldn't do my job, how long would I be able to keep it?
So I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner, poured myself a glass of wine, and curled up in the chair in the corner, the one with the best view, out the back of my building. The sun had already set, and the sky was a field of inky layers—indigo, violet, and sapphire, all of it glowing from the ever-present lights of the city. Dead tired, I nearly fell asleep while staring out the window, but then my phone dinged and I jumped.
Can you talk?
I grinned at the text and washed down my last bite with wine. Eamon didn't have a show tonight, but he did have a rehearsal with his band to work on songs for the new album. He'd said it could end up going until the wee hours. I called and he picked up right away. “I thought you were working late tonight,” I said.
“I did. I'm done.”
“Wait. What time is it?”
“After ten.”
“That’s not late for a rock star.”
He laughed. “We’ve talked about those words, darling.”
I shook my head and sank back in the chair, pulling my knees up to my chest and resting my feet on the edge of the seat. “I’m tired. I stayed at work way too late.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“Thankfully, no. In fact it almost never happens, but I have a new boss and he's putting me through my paces.”
“I don't like that tone in your voice.”
“I’m fine. It's just work. It's no big deal.”
“Glad I never had to get a real job. I don't know that I could handle the stress.”
“But songwriting is stressful. You told me yourself. There's a lot of pressure to write a big hit, right?”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Huge.”
“How's it going with that? The writing.”
“It's coming. Slowly, but that happens. I'll get it done.”
“Ten songs by the end of the year, right? How many do you have done?”
“Why do I feel like I'm being interviewed right now?” His voice had taken a turn, almost defensive.
