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This was when his phone buzzed. Owen looked down at the caller ID, his face darkening. He clicked decline.
“Who was that?” I said.
“Avett,” he said. “I’ll call him later.”
He clearly didn’t want to talk about it, but I couldn’t leave it there—not when I felt the heat coming off him. Not when he was getting this worked up just from a call he didn’t take. “What’s going on with him?
“He’s being a little irrational. That’s all.”
“About what?”
“The IPO,” he said. “It’s not a big deal.”
But it was flashing in his eyes—a mix of anger and irritation. Two things he rarely displayed. Two things he had displayed more recently. And, of course, he was standing in my workshop as opposed to in his own office.
I tried to choose my words carefully, wanting to help, but not wanting to undermine him. I didn’t have to work in an office, didn’t have to deal with the politics of having a boss I had to answer to—someone, like Avett Thompson, with whom I might not agree. And yet, I wanted to figure out how to say it—that I saw Owen’s stress level rising. That it was just a job. That, as far as I was concerned, he could always find another.
Before I said anything, the phone buzzed again. AVETT showing up on the caller ID. Owen looked down at his phone. He looked down at it, like he was going to pick it up, his fingers hovering there. But he hit decline again, pocketing his phone instead.
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter how many times I say the same thing. Avett doesn’t want to hear it,” he said. “What we need to make this all work.”
“My grandfather used to say that most people don’t want to hear the thing that will make it work better,” I said. “They want to hear what will make it easier.”
“And what did he say to do about that?”
“Find other people. You know, for starters.”
He tilted his head, took me in. “How do you always know what to say to me?” he said.
“Well, it’s really my grandfather saying it, but sure…” I said.
He reached for my hand, a smile spreading across his face. Like nothing happened, or at least like it wasn’t as important as he’d thought it was.
“Enough about this,” he said. “Let’s go see my chair.”
He started pulling me to the door, toward the backyard and the deck where the chair was drying—sanded, newly polished.
“You know you can’t have that chair,” I said. “Someone commissioned it. She is paying us a lot of money for it.”
“Good luck to her,” he said. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
I smiled. “What do you know about the law?”
“Enough to know if I’m sitting in that chair,” he said, “no one else is going to take it.”
Delete All History
At 10 A.M., the hotel café is already busy, the lights dimmed.
I sit at the bar, drinking an orange juice while most of the people around me are starting in on morning cocktails—mimosas and Bloody Marys, champagne, White Russians.
I stare at the row of televisions, all tuned to different news shows. They come at me in closed captions, most of them reporting on The Shop. PBS shows footage of Avett Thompson being handcuffed and escorted away. MSNBC has a preview of Belle’s Today show interview, Belle calling Avett’s arrest a travesty of justice. CNN’s chyron keeps warning that more indictments are coming, on repeat. It’s almost like a promise, mirroring Grady’s promise, that Owen will be in even more trouble soon. That whatever he is running from is about to catch him.
This is what gnaws at me, over and over, when I think of my husband—that something is coming for him, for all of us, that he couldn’t stop. That he has left me to try and stop it for him.
I take out my notepad and go back over what Grady said during our phone call—trying to recall every detail, trying to hone in on what may be important to glean from it. I keep coming back to how he said that Owen might have erased his own online history. And, as wrong as that feels, I try to move myself there, to that assumption, to see what it shows me.
Which is when I land on it. That there are certain things we can’t erase, certain things that we reveal to the people closest to us despite what we may or may not know we are telling them.
