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I hate feeling this out of synch with Lacy, and it’s clearly gotten to my head. With a heavy sigh, I get up to clean up the kitchen. Maybe a nap will clear my head. I’ll go down to the studio later, after I’ve gotten some rest. I’m too stuffed to concentrate on music right now anyway.
The days that follow pass similarly, and they all go by in a blur. It’s hard to tell one day from the next, and I completely lose track of time. I try to engage with Lacy, but she remains distant and cool. Like there’s a wall between us now, and she’s silent and digging in on the other side of it. She spends most nights working late and when she goes to sleep, she goes to her own bed instead of getting into mine.
I miss waking up next to her. The few times I’ve tried to touch her since we got back from LA, to wrap my arms around her or give her a kiss, she’s been stiff and unyielding. What the hell is going on? I want to crack open this tension between us, but she’s not giving me a chance, not letting me in.
She’s also doing more of the Rose Manor work without me. One morning, I’m surprised to discover that she’s completed the last bit of renovations by herself. There’s seemingly little left to be done at Rose Manor. The house looks great. Which means it’s probably going to be listed soon.
But Lacy and I? We are clearly not great. And I’m still not 100% sure why. And I’m also wondering what happens when our time at Rose Manor is done. I want to talk to her about it, but I’m so uncertain about where we stand, that kind of conversation seems out of reach. All I know is, the clock is ticking.
One morning when I come down to breakfast, I’m shocked to find Lacy’s suitcases packed and waiting at the foot of the stairs. She’s standing next to them, biting her lip anxiously. Those lip-bites had a different meaning until only recently, but now they seem to be some indication of further troubles.
“Hey,” I greet her, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “What’s going on? You look like you’re ready to bolt.”
“My interview day got changed,” she says, her voice fraught with obvious frustration and anxiety. “It’s been moved up. I’m talking to Maisie later today.”
“Woah, what?” I jump to attention, suddenly wide awake. When people move up an interview date, it’s usually a bad sign. It means they’re trying to catch you unprepared. At least, that’s been my experience. But I don’t want to make Lacy more nervous than she clearly already is, so I don’t tell her any of this. “How do you feel?”
“I’m nervous,” she says honestly, her voice small.
“Oh, Lace,” I reply comfortingly, stepping toward her and enveloping her in a big bear hug. It’s the first physical contact we’ve had in a couple days, I realize with a sudden jolt of panic. With Lacy preparing for her interview and me in my studio, trying to get past my latest bout of writer’s block, we’ve barely spent any time together beyond those brief encounters in the kitchen. “You’re going to do great,” I say as I pull back from our embrace.
“Am I? I don’t feel ready at all,” Lacy answers, blinking her eyes rapidly. “And you didn’t help me prepare like you said you would,” she adds, her voice desolate.
“Lace, I didn’t realize you wanted my help! The last time we talked about it, you said you had gotten that list of questions from your PR team and were going to prep the answers!”
“Right. And you didn’t even offer to help,” she replies, her tone harsh, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
“I mean, I’m sorry, Lace, I thought you’daskif you needed something,” I reply, bristling at the edge in her voice.What am I supposed to do, read her freaking mind?
“I thought it was implied in our ‘deal’ that we made,” she replies. “You were supposed to help me with my PR prep, and I’m supposed to help you with your album.”
“Um, yeah, well if that’s the game you want to play, I wouldn’t say that you held up your end of the bargain either!” I retort, now really feeling myself get warm with frustration. She’s been this silent, surly ghost around the house for days, she’s clearly been avoiding me, and now she’s dropping this in my lap as she’s walking out the door? “You haven’t exactly been helpful with the album since we got back from LA, Lace,” I add.
“I helped youplentywith your freaking album, Ben! Um, hello, the listening party in LA? The journalistslovedyour track. It was a hit. A track thatIhelped you write.”
“Great, Lace, well in case you aren’t aware, one track does not make a full album. There’s still work to be done. And every time I try to talk to you about it, you run off!”
“Yeah, because I have my own shit to focus on, Ben, remember? Like this interview. And my book launch. And all the interviews that will come after that.”
I can hear the fear and frustration in her voice, and part of me wants to comfort her. I want to believe that she’s just acting this way because of nerves, but something’s been off with Lacy ever since we got back from LA. Still, ‘she’s nervous’ is the easiest excuse to reach for, since Lacy seems to be a closed book otherwise.
“Look, I’ve been here ready to help you at any time,” I say, “Don’t take it out on me now because your interview date got move up and you’re scared.”
“That’swhat you think this is about? Youidiot,” Lacy’s voice is vehement with rage, anger she’s presumably been holding in for days.
“I don’t know what this is about, Lace, because you don’t talk to me. It’s been like living with a stranger since we came back from LA.”
“Yeah, maybe you can do some digging and think about why that is, Ben. You’re not stupid. Figure it out.”
What is wrong with her?
“Why do I have to ‘figure it out’?! Why can’t you just tell me!?” I ask pointedly.
“You know I’m not good with talking about things like that!” Lacy practically wails. “I’m a writer. I can write out my emotions. I’m not good at stuff like this,” she gestures between the two of us, “whateverthisis.”
“That’s not an excuse, Lacy,” I say quietly, my voice seething with irritation. “Yes, you’re a writer. But you’re also a good communicator. I’ve seen you in an interview. You can hold your own. And I know how honest and open you’ve been with me.Usedto be with me,” I correct myself. “So, stop falling back on some bullshit excuse that you can’t handle putting yourself out there. And stop expecting me to figure out what the hell is with your attitude lately! I’m not a mind reader, you know. I’m a musician.”
“Yeah, I’m well aware that you’re a musician,” Lacy spits back sarcastically. “I saw you in action in LA, schmoozing all your music biz buddies.” She wrinkles her nose in disgust at the words.
