“I thought maybe you were done with me,” he said over his shoulder. “When you turned in early last night and then I didn’t see you all day.” In another context the statement would have been loaded, but he didn’t seem bothered.
Did I…wanthim to be bothered by the idea that I was done with him? Which I most decidedly wasn’t.
I was overthinking again. “Not done with you,” I said. “I’ve just been preoccupied.”
I waited for him to ask with what, but he only said, “Mm,” as he flipped sandwiches.
“I’m afraid when I go back to my regular life that it’s not going to be enough for me anymore,” I blurted, and whoa, I hadn’t known I felt that way until I said it.Yelledit—I’d gotten rather vehement there.
He turned around and leaned back against the counter. “Well, shit.”
“Exactly.”
“You want to elaborate?”
“I spent the day choreographing. For the kids, but also… for me.”
“That’s… great?”
“Is it?”
“I don’t know?”
“I made the beginning of this… I don’t even know what to call it. Dance. Story. Story-dance. But I have no idea what to do with it. How to finish it. Whether to finish it. I barely even know what it’sabout.”
“Making new things, newkindsof things, is scary as hell.”
“Right. But here’s the part that’s new for me: the idea ofnotmaking them is, suddenly, also scary as hell. Or not scary, really, but, I don’t know… soul destroying?” I laughed at myself. “That’s too melodramatic. I’m just in a weird headspace.”
He was looking at me really intently, gearing up to give me advice, I was pretty sure. I somehow knew it was going to be a speech on how I couldn’t let go of this new creative side of me, how I had to make room for it in my life. Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one who had his entire professional and financial future on the line, tied up in a very expensive new building.
“I think your fancy poor-people sandwiches are starting to burn,” I said, sniffing the air.
“Shit!” He danced around the kitchen for a minute. “I think I’ve saved them.”
He plated them—he had made three sandwiches and cut each into quarters, so we each had six little squares. He poured some Cheetos on my plate and set it in front of me with a flourish. “Milady.”
“Thanks,” I croaked, suddenly emotional. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had cooked for me. Someone besides Rory and her husband.
“Oh my God,” I said through my first mouthful. “Why are these sogood?”
“Mm,” he agreed. “I wonder if you can get cheese spread in New York.”
“Ha. I’ve converted you.”
“Maybe so,” he said thoughtfully, and after a minute of silent munching, he added, “You know what I do when I’m all up in my head over a song?”
“What?” A moment ago I hadn’t wanted his advice, but when it came like this, with a window into his creative process, intohim, I found myself desperate to know.
“I do the next thing. I write the next line, or I let a chorus I’ve been humming and ignoring come out. I try not to overthink it. I just do one thing.” He paused. “Now, I’m not saying I always do this. But when I can make myself do the next thing without worrying about how it’s all going to fit together—ifit’s all going to fit together—it usually works out.”
“Hmm.”
“I’m aware that I’m saying this like it’s simple, and I’m aware that it is in fact not simple, but ask yourself, What’s the next small thing?”
“I need to dig a hole,” my mouth said.
“Literally?”
