“Heya.” He bent over to kiss me on top of the head, then did the same for Fiona. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, but had that expectant look on his face. He needed to talk.
I pulled Fiona's bangs from her forehead. “Hey kiddo, your dad and I are going to go have a chat. You okay to hang out here and watch TV?”
“You aren't going to be having sex, are you?”
“Fiona, where in the world did you get that idea from?” Eamon seemed genuinely annoyed, which only confirmed my worries. He had endless amounts of patience with Fiona.
“On the internet.”
“I’ll change the wifi password,” I offered.
Fiona stretched out on the couch, letting her head hang halfway off the cushion. “I think I'll just lie here.”
I crouched down. “Come and get us if you need anything.”
“I will.”
I took Eamon's hand. “Come on. Let's talk.” I led him back to my bedroom and closed the door part way. “Before you tell me what happened, I just need to tell you that I quit my job today.”
Eamon sank onto the bed and flopped back in frustration. “Are you kidding me?”
“I had a huge fight with Miles. He hates me and I hate him. It's not worth it anymore. Plus, he was being a royal asshole around Fiona and I guess he pushed me too far.”
He sat back up. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I'm fine. I'll get another job somewhere. Don't worry. I have plenty of money saved.”
He leaned forward and planted his elbows on his knees, turning his head to look at me. “Money is the last thing I'm worried about. Married or not, you and I will be just fine.”
“Oh. Okay.” Eamon and I didn't talk about money, but he had insisted on paying the rent soon after he essentially moved in.
“Well, we'll be fine for at least a few years if I can't manage to write a new album. Assuming you want to stay together.”
“Eamon. Of course I want to stay together. And you'll get the album written. I know it.”
“The label's not only pissed I'm not ready to go into the studio next month, they hate the songs I finished. Every last one of them.”
“What? No.”
“It's true. They want me to collaborate with another songwriter.” He ran his hands through his hair. “They do it in pop music all the time. And in Nashville. But that's just not me.”
“Did you tell them you'd think about it?”
“I refused. I'm not singing somebody else's songs. I'm not going to turn into their puppet.”
I wished I understood more about what he was going through. His process already mystified me, but one thing was clear—he was frustrated as all get out. “Why do you think you're having such a hard time writing?”
He pressed his lips together tightly and shrugged. Something about it made me think he had an inkling of the problem, but didn't want to admit it.
“Maybe nothing is inspiring you?” That idea was more than a little disappointing. I'd hoped our reunion would make him want to write anotherSunny Girl.
He shook his head. “It's not that.”
“Then what? Even if you're guessing, just tell me, so I can at least understand what you're going through.”
He looked off into space and shook his head. I'd never seen him look so lost. “I’m too happy.”
It took me a minute to absorb what he’d said. “Is there such a thing?”
