“Yes, those vows.” V shakes her head. “The whole thing made me sad. I’m not even sure why.”
“The imbalance between them?” J asks, thinking of poor Skye.
“Maybe that. But honestly, they didn’t seem to mind the imbalance too much. At least not in the beginning. I think that can be navigated, if both sides know what they’re doing. It was just so...performative. And, look, I know all weddings are performative, and that you’re a wedding performer. But now everybody is performing all the time, aren’t they? I think it would be hard to be an actual performer during the mass performance our culture is becoming. There are so many times when I’m sitting in meetings about Secret Project, thinking about how people are going to use it, and I haveto tell you—it exhausts me. All of it exhausts me. How performative we’ve all become. But it’s not like I’m going to bring that up with Thor or the investors. It’s the whole reason we’re there. To monetize people’s desire to control how they’re seen, to get gratification from how their words and images are received. To give them the platform to exploit themselves...at least until the next platform comes along and makes ours a relic, a floating vessel of dead profiles lost in a sea no one sails anymore.”
“Those certainly sound like the words of an exhausted individual,” J ventures. “You seem tired.”
V grunts at the obviousness of this observation, then says, “You think?”
“You need your sleep.”
This isn’t just an adage on J’s part. It’s something he and V have talked about. While he has the ability to be both a night owl and an early bird, she grows shakier the less sleep she has. Many nights he would come home very late from a gig and he’d crash on the couch, knowing that even the slightest noise in the bedroom might cause a ripple effect through her day.
V seems to understand that J’s words aren’t empty, that they are being offered by someone who knows her. She doesn’t have a sarcastic response. Just more tiredness.
“I’ve been trying to sleep,” she says. “Honestly, I have. And Thor is good about that—the workdays are long, but when they’re over, they’re over. The problem is more with the days themselves, and what they take out of me. That’s what it feels like at this point; the taking is outpacing the giving.”
“Can’t you get a few days off to recharge?”
“No. Not now. I have to see it through...and then, who knows? I used to wonder about those people who left Facebook or Google early in the ride.How ridiculous!I thought.Cashing in before the real cash came to town. But I’m starting to get it. You have to get to a point where you’re compensated for all you’ve done...andthen you can step away before it takes over more of your life. I don’t know yet if I’m looking to get to that point or not. It’s a day-by-day thing. And in the meantime, I perform.”
“Do you enjoy it at all?”
“Sure. It feels great when we’re winning. But I get the whole shark tank thing now.”
“Shark tank?” J asks.
“I’m in with the sharks, and they all see me as a fellow shark. But my secret is that I know I’m not a shark at all, and I have to keep up the shark pose so they’ll let me keep swimming with them. Otherwise, best-case scenario, I’m left behind. Worst-case, they eat me alive.”
“And where do I fit into this shark tank?” J can’t help but ask.
“That’s exactly it,” V says. “You’re on the other side of the glass. I know you’re there. I know you can see I’m not a shark. But there’s nothing you can do to help me. If I think too much about you out there watching me, I will lose my place.”
“Is that what this is about? Is itworkthat’s separating us?”
V takes a sip of coffee before replying. “I don’t know how to explain this without hurting you. In a way, yes, it’s the work. I have no doubt that if I’d never met Thor, if the company hadn’t gotten the attention it’s gotten, I’d still be back home with you. Thathasseparated us. But when I think about the end of my time in New York, when I think about what my next step should be...going back to you feels like going backward. It feels like trying to squeeze myself into clothes I’ve outgrown. I know you want to know why, and I can’t tell you why. Last night...it would have been so easy to invite you over. And enjoyable. But I am super conscious of not misleading you. Or myself.”
J feels there is something he should be able to say here, some bridge he can create for her to use to cross back to him. But he can’t find his way to those words. He understands she is in the shark tank without him. He knows he can’t break the glass between them, thatthere isn’t any safety for either of them in doing that. This isn’t intimidation, really. It’s more like the perils of self-awareness, the inability to wrestle the situation into a form that can be pinned down.
“I am here for you,” he tells her. “I can stay here for you as long as you might need me. If you want me to come over, I’ll come over. If that doesn’t feel right, I understand.”
Something has shifted, because she doesn’t push this offer away.
“I appreciate that. But I don’t want you sitting around waiting for me. Here or anywhere else.”
“It’s okay for me to stay longer,” J assures her. “I have another wedding to play next weekend.”
As they eat their sandwiches, he tells her about Tara; somehow, V has never heard the story behind the payphone song. She doesn’t even seem familiar with the song itself. (J is not offended; it’s averydeep cut.)
When he’s done telling her the story, V says, “Her husband-to-be can’t possibly want you to play that song at their wedding.”
“Why do you say that?” J asks. He explains about the payphone Hugh bought for her.
“He was trying to neutralize your influence, take some of your territory. Why would anyone want to hear another man’s song about his wife at their wedding?”
“It’s not about her, really.”
“That’s not how he sees it, I’m sure. At the very least, he thinks you slept together, and that it’s your night of passion, as much of the song, that Tara remembers.”
