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Mrs. Power scoffs. “You’re replacing that bottle, Will.”
With drinks in-hand, we’re directed to sit on a love seat. Catherine and I are pressed close together so I put my arm around her back to make more space for her shoulder. We find a comfortable position and catch up with the conversation which seems to be focused on Mrs. Power’s frustration that she’s sixty-five years-old with four adult sons who seem to have made it their life purpose to not give her the pleasure of grandchildren to spoil.
“Eric, how old is your son now?”
“He’s twenty-one.”
“Twenty-one. Wouldn’t you love to have another?”
I bark out a laugh. “Uh, not on your life. Diaper days are done for me.”
“Hmph.” She purses her lips and wrinkles her brow at me, like I’d answered wrong. She turns to Catherine with a smile and a nod. “And how’s Sammy? Missing their mom?”
“Please! As long as there’s money in their bank account to cover food and rent, I’d say I’m an afterthought in their life right now. Which is perfect. We want our kids to build lives independent of ours, right?”
There’s a pregnant pause and Mrs. Power breaks it with a clap of her hands. “Well, you’re a fine couple, aren’t you?”
I turn to Catherine.
“We kind of are, aren’t we?” she asks.
“We really are.”
12
CATHERINE
We’re at exactlythe half-way mark of our six-weeks of forced proximity life, if you consider being true to a bet as forced. But even if one of us quit early—Eric stopped spending his days learning how to live a life confined by circumstance or I stopped getting into his Tesla each day at six to accept the ups and downs of living with and sharing a bed with a lover every night—the other bet would still stand.
It’s said that it takes just twenty-one days to form a habit and until this experiment, I’d have argued that that was baloney. But Eric has become a habit I’m quite happy to have. Which kind of messes with my head since this isn’t how I expected the experiment to go. This isn’t my life. It’s a blip. A Texas-sized blip, mind you, but still just a wrinkle that will flatten back out over time.
That’s the thought in the back of my head as I make my way to the fourteenth floor of the building where Will Power will be featuring me on a livestream, as promised to his mother. It’s not the best mindset to be in, but I’ve been listening to The Will Power Hour podcast for years and know the pattern and rhythm of how he guides the conversation so I feel relatively relaxed.
Talking about art and purpose is my passion and something I don’t need to prepare for.
“Good morning, Ms. Clay.” A sparkling energy greets me as I step off the elevator. “Mr. Power is in the green room. Please follow me to hair and make-up.”
I stop walking and she doesn’t notice until she’s at the door down the hall.
“Ms. Clay, this way, please.” Her voice is low and she motions for me to come to her.
I shake my head—a head of clean hair that does not need to be styled with sprays or a stranger’s brush, thank you very much.
She comes back to me. “It’s a livestream. The room has studio-like lighting. Without a touch of make-up, you’ll look washed out, like a vampire. You won’t want that.”
I stand agog that this twenty-something executive assistant, or whatever she is, has the gall to tell me what I want.
“Thank you for your opinion, but I’ll pass. I’m fine with the way I look.”
She shrugs and motions for me to follow her down the same hallway. She opens a door across from the make-up room and invites me in.
She wasn’t kidding. It is a brightly lit room all right. It’s furnished with two modern arm chairs positioned so the seats form one side of a square. Will and I will have our knees virtually touching. I notice three cameras with operators—one pointed toward each chair and a third to capture the two of us together in conversation.
“She needs make-up,” the cameraman facing me says, as if I’m not worthy of addressing directly.
“I’m right here and I’ve chosen to go without.”
Will walks in at that moment. “You’ve chosen to go without what?” And then he sees me and apparently, it’s obvious since he scowls and points right at my face. “You can’t go on like that.”
