Page 21

I put my earbuds in and try not to think until I’m stumbling into the airport in Maine. It’s not busy; it rarely is, so it only takes a few minutes to get to the taxi pick-up spot outside. I ordered an Uber to take me home. I’m so tired, I don’t trust myself to make the drive. The car pulls up a few minutes later, and the driver gets out to help me with my bags. He’s an older gentleman with a kind face, but I can tell he’s not likely to talk much. I appreciate that as we settle into a companionable silence.

Everything hurts. I could sleep for days.

My head aches as I roll my head from side to side, cracking my neck. I don’t sleep, but I do close my eyes for most of the drive. Sometimes I do that to try to trick my body into thinking it got some real rest. The early morning sun stings my vision when the car stops at the curb. The driver reaches for the door, and I clear my throat.

“It’s all good, I can get my bag,” I say.

“Alright,” he says. “Pleasure.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

He nods, and I get out, slamming the door. Northeast Maine is cool and rainy today. I’m damp by the time I have my bag from the back and the car drives off. Overhead, the sky is an insipid gray. Winding before me like a dark snake is the endless driveway leading to my house. I guess I could have had the driver take me to the door, but I could use the chance to stretch my legs. And clear my head.

I tap in the code. The gates slide open, and I start the trek up the mountain. It feels good to get my blood moving. And clear my head. Deep down, I was hoping Serena would be there when I showed up in Wyoming. I maybe got a fresh haircut and shaved my beard, gave my mustache a trim, thinking she’d be there. Why? I don’t fucking know. All this time, I could have her…

It would have been so easy.

Pick up the damn phone and tell her I’d like to see her again.

Except…I’m still running from what I felt when I looked at her. I’m still running from the ghost of Mom leaving, then Dad dying, then Coen coupling up, and everybody leaving in the end, anyway. I’m the fixer, the rock in the middle of stormy waters. I’m supposed to appear when needed, then fade away when the problem dissolves.

I’m not good for someone like her, all bright and full of things she’s never done or seen.

And a lot of talent.

I heard her play and sing. I could do something there. I could wrap her up, tie her with a bow, and sell her to Houston-Best Records. Her life would never be the same.

She’d be filthy rich.

Her life would be ruined, though.

That’s why I ran. I see what she could become, and I can’t do that to someone again. That and the way I stayed up half the night watching her sleep.

I pause outside the door, unlocking it. The door whirs, and I push it open, stepping inside. I built this house overlooking the bluffs. It consists of two floors, modern furnishings, and a wide balcony, with a small pool and hot tub on the upper porch. I’ve never used it, despite paying someone to clean and refill it. Actually, I’ve never used the kitchen, either, now that I’m thinking about it.

I shut the door and sling my keys and wallet on the counter.

I’m a lonely motherfucker, I guess.

The house smells like sea salt and lemon, which means the cleaners were here yesterday. I drag my luggage into the kitchen and drop it at the bottom of the stairs. Through the main hallway is my studio. The door hangs open, revealing the circular walls. A soft bit of sunlight comes through the window, lighting up the piano.

I pause, gazing at it.

It’s been a long time since I played anything that wasn’t a client’s music. As a teenager, Dad put me in piano lessons, and the only option available was classical. It rarely comes up because I’m a country music agent and expert, but I have a classical music background. It’s a cutthroat genre. I knew early on I wouldn’t be able to compete, nor was I willing to live in a city for that long. I think I crave the quiet a little too much.

Dust glitters.

The bottom falls out of my stomach.

I think I need a nap before I deal with the day. My inbox is overflowing. My voicemail is full of messages. My unread texts are well over a thousand at this point. The to-do list on my phone is over two notes in the app.

It feels like the world is turning in a slow circle around me. And I’m the only one standing still anymore.

I go to my bedroom. The sun is up, cutting across the enormous, empty bed. I hit the button to draw the shades and start unbuttoning my shirt. The automatic lamp comes on over the bed as the blackout blinds lower. I undress and pull on my sweatpants, ducking into the bathroom to locate my sleeping pills.

The light flickers on.

I look real fucking tired.