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“If this is how you eat every night, I’ll find more excuses to visit,” I tell him as I swallow the last bite of what turns out to be a terrific meal.
Evan laughs and beckons me to follow him to the couch as he grabs the glass I prepared for him. “Maybe I’ll teach you to cook. What do you think? I wouldn’t want you to come here just to bring these concoctions for me.” He looks suspiciously at the greenish liquid.
“Or maybe you could take some time to rest. What doyouthink?” I raise an eyebrow while sipping from the cup of coffee he gave me.
Evan smiles. “Did you come to preach to me? It’s become an annoying habit, you know?” he asks me grimly while he drinks. I have to admit it doesn’t taste good. It’s bitter and leaves a deathly aftertaste in your mouth, but it works.
“No, I came here because I’m worried about you. You threw up in that alley today. I understand the tension from the meeting, but it’s a bit of an extreme reaction, don’t you think?” I don’t hold back. I really care about him and this problem is killing him.
“It was something I ate. It doesn’t usually happen, especially not when I’m tense. Food poisoning, for sure.”
He can’t possibly believe his own lies. “And you’re telling me this after you’ve made dinner for me?” I raise an eyebrow challenging him to contradict me.
He laughs heartily. “You worry too much. I’m fine, really. Did I yell at you when you arrived here tonight? By the way, forgive me for that. I was angry with Anthony and lost control. I have no excuse for how I treated you.”
I study him for a moment. He’s good at changing the subject to divert your attention. But I don’t let myself get distracted by his words. “You know that if you talked about it, the Jailbirds would help you solve this problem, don’t you? You don’t have to be carrying the weight of this whole thing alone.” I don’t let up.
He nods and sips again to buy time. “I know, but give me some time. Don’t deny me this opportunity. If I see that I can’t do it, I’ll ask for help, I promise.”
I nail him with my gaze and think about it. “I’ll give you a few days, no more. I’ll talk to the two bands myself if I see it getting worse.”
“You’re a thorn in my side.” He smiles as he says it.
“You’re aware that you’re using an escort service to have sex because you don’t even have time to look for a woman, right? When will you start living your life, Evan?”
He smiles and shakes his head. “I’ll have all the time in the world when I retire.” He raises the corner of his lips in a mocking grin to cover his embarrassment.
“Will you ever retire?”
I see the dark circles, the worried look, those smiles that are becoming increasingly rare, and the sleepless nights spent at the computer. I see his emails at four in the morning, the countless cups of coffee, and the boxes of supplements that promise to give you a boost. I see the clean clothes left in the Jail Records’ closet, and I see the mornings when he changes in the bathroom of the record company because he didn’t go home. I notice when he sneaks upstairs to take a shower at Thomas’ house, and I also see when the hours go by, and he is so focused on work he forgets to eat.
I see all the signs of a person sabotaging himself and stubbornly refusing to get help. And it scares me to death because the mere idea of seeing him break under these responsibilities makes me want to scream. A life without Evan is something I don’t even have the strength to contemplate.
“Did you even sleep?”
Emily’s voice brings me back to reality. I look up at the conference room door and realize, from the light that filters from the entrance behind her, that it’s now daylight. I look down at the documents in front of me, then at the slightly unbuttoned shirt and the tie resting on the table, and I can’t lie. Anyone can see I didn’t go home to change. A couple of weeks ago, when she came to my house, I promised her I would take better care of myself. Just fifteen days have passed, and I have already blown my promise.
“I had to finish reading some documents and lost track of time.”
Emily approaches, beautiful as always, wrapped in a white dress with a light jacket that makes her look both professional and sexy. She places the laundry bag I usually use on the chair next to mine, and I look at it frowning. I didn’t ask her to go and pick up the suits for me. She is my assistant, not the maid. I look back at her face: she is studying me, worried.
“Yesterday, the woman from dry cleaning called saying it’s been fifteen days since you last dropped off your stuff without picking it up. Knowing how precise you are in meeting deadlines, she thought something had happened to you. When she discovered your cell was off, she called here. I went last night to pick it up. If you want, you can change and use these,” she explains, and I wonder how I missed that.
What the hell was I doing while all this was happening under my nose? The answer scares me: I don’t remember. I’ve been so busy between my personal lawyer and Jail Records I don’t know where I spent my time, who I talked to inside this office, or whether I ate or not.
“Thank you.” I get up from my chair to have some coffee.
“My suggestion would be to go home and get a good night’s sleep. But if I dare suggest something like that, you get angry, and I don’t want to ruin my whole day at just seven in the morning,” she says as she pours the hot liquid into a cup.
I turn to her and notice her serious face. Under normal circumstances, I would have told her that I’m not angry about that, but these days I’m so tense I’m not sure how I would react. I hang my head, a little ashamed, because I’ve never been someone who picks a fight or responds in irritation, but I’ve noticed that even the Jailbirds are staying away from me.
“Can I help you with these documents?” she then asks with a sweeter tone and concern in her eyes. The smile doesn’t illuminate her face as usual, and knowing it’s my fault makes me angry and reconsider all the choices I made these days.
I should tell her it’s personal and has nothing to do with work, but it’s not true, and I need to talk about it with someone.
I don’t even know where to start explaining the situation to her. “These are the conditions of my trust fund,” is all I can manage to say.
Emily smiles and shakes her head seeing the papers scattered across the table and the countless pencil annotations I’ve made overnight. “I forgot that rich people have trust funds.”
