"Right,” She mumbles. “Not after what happened yesterday.”
"Sorry about yesterday, but I’m okay now."
"Ah huh."
Ana grins and goes back to her guitar.
Jeremy walks past, staring at me. "Are you in your luteal phase?"
I roll my eyes. "You can’t ask me that Jeremy."
“I’m in a band with three women, I’m allowed to know."
I don't argue. I just play.
Later, locked in the bathroom again, phone warm in my hand.
The label's third email about Sandy.
I don't reply yet.
Instead I text Lena:What are you doing right now?
Working. You?
Bathroom hideout. Thinking about you.
My thumb hovers over the send button. I delete and change it to:
Bathroom hideout. Thinking about your city.
Eight days until I’m in your city. Not that I’m counting.
Seven, actually. But I’d never admit I’m counting too.
Should I be flattered or concerned?
Maybe both.
I leave the bathroom.
I’m smiling and I can’t help it.
I can’t wait.
Sandy finds me in the van before I leave. She slides into the passenger seat and doesn’t ask permission.
“I owe you an apology,” she says.
“Sandy—”
“No, let me.” She turns a guitar pick over in her fingers. “The club photos. The emails you’ve been answering because of me. I know it’s you who cleans it up. Every time. Not anybody else, not the label. You. And I’ve never once said thank you, or sorry, which is what I actually owe you.”
I don’t know what to do with that, so I look at the steering wheel.
“I’m not going to magically stop being a disaster,” she says. “But I see you. I see how much you carry. And I’m sorry that so much of it is my weight.”
“It’s okay,” I say, and I mean it more than I expected to.
