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“Good,” I say.
“Where’s Catherine now? I’ve tried to call her. She’s not picking up.”
I shake my head. “No idea. Maybe at my place. Maybe not. She’s not answering my calls or replying to texts. And I cannot express how fucking angry I am with you, Will.”
“You have something good with her,” Will says.
“Or did.”
“I’m envious. You get to have that. I don’t.”
“Do not make this about you, asshole.”
He raises his hands in surrender. “Fair.”
“Do you think your mother watched the livestream?”
“I know she did. She’s booked a four PM with me.” Will inhales long and exhales hard. “I’m not sure why she’s so invested in this woman but she was even angrier than you are.”
“They seem to have a connection, that’s for sure.”
“I think in some ways Catherine is living the life Mother would have liked a chance to live. Or she has the voice, the ability to speak her mind the way Mother never has. You know,” Will moves back to his desk and sits, “maybe it’s time to have a female CEO. Or train a new Come Into Power seminar leader. A woman. Catherine might be perfect in that role.”
“A female version of you?”
Will shakes his head. “I’d sure as hell hope not.”
* * *
It’s beeneight days since Catherine left. As many since I’ve heard from her.
I debated breaking my commitment to spending my days inNestrogensince Catherine broke her promise to spend her nights being brought to bliss by me.
Instead, I double down on my egg incubation duties, not by spending more hours in the nest, but by living my daily twelve hours entirely online, livestreaming for anyone who’s interested to see.
I set aside the hour that I arrive and the hour before I leave to read and answer all the questions in the comments. At least, as best I can since many of them are questions that only Catherine can answer.
I hope she’s watching, but if she is, she’s left no digital trace. No comments that I can tie to her.
Spending most of my waking hours in this strange public isolation, able to work, but not in the way I’ve been operating for over a decade, I’m starting to appreciate the pull of small-town life. The limited distractions, not being able to step out my door and have any whim fulfilled, any time of day. This experience has significantly cut off my access to so many things I thought I needed, but it turns out, I really don’t.
The one thing I can’t get used to is the isolation. And I know that if I’d been forced into this situation when I was in my early twenties, I’d probably still be married. I have a new-found appreciation for how challenging it is to have your freedom to come and go as you please taken away.Nestrogenlife has changed me, and for the better, I suspect.
Mostly. There’s one habit it’s pushed me to develop that’s less than ideal, unless you’re the town gossip columnist of note.
Living above the activity in the lobby, people seem to have forgotten that I’m here and probably never appreciated that sound waves travel up. I’ve figured out what the best spots in the nest are for eavesdropping on conversations below.
Without ever looking down to see who’s speaking—though there are a few voices I can connect to specific people, like all of the Power brothers—I’ve learned about secret babies, and surprise anniversary parties gone wrong, and unrequited crushes, and schemes to get revenge on heartbreakers. I’m surprised at how few of the overheard conversations have been about work or career. The majority have been about life and love.
Which makes me realize how little life I’ve let myself live beyond work. And how few friends I’ve made who I’d share details as intimate as the ones I’ve glimpsed from my perch. It all makes me crave Catherine’s company even more since she and I had many conversations that would fuel the rumor mill if overheard.
When the scaffolding starts its roll across the lobby to set me free for the evening, I’m already at the door. I’m a fool, but I’m holding hope that before the last day of my nesting, Catherine will be standing at the foot of the scaffold again.
16
CATHERINE
One perkthat comes with having the name Catherine Clay and my curriculum vitae is that I can approach virtually any socially progressive university in the world and have them offer me studio space on my terms—and my terms, one week ago when I arrived at Stanford where Sammy’s doing their second year of a Psychology major, were quite generous.
