Page 71 of The River in Spring
“Are you? For real?”
“For real. Call me after your session. I’ll be waiting to hear the good news.”
A genuine wish is in there somewhere. But I know sadness sits behind it. The timber in the voice and the rhythm of the statement is skewed. I don’t think anyone but me would notice. It isn’t his natural joy. The sense of happiness coming in waves has stilled. He’s trying though. He’s trying so hard.
20
Nobel
It’s the pivot point. I’m a little drunk, but not enough to miss the indelible writing on the wall. Here we are. Everything has happened fast. She wouldn’t agree with that take. After all, they worked their asses off for years already. I’m only judging from my first look at her. Then to now is just a moment. I down the last swallow of whiskey and pour a refill. That’s the most I’ve moved in two hours. Sitting in the dark living room, watching the sun and my hopes fade is exercise enough.
It’s going to take the rest of the bottle to stand by my decision. Why prolong the inevitable? Being under the influence when making a decision is pretty stupid. I don’t have the courage to do it another way. Rip the band-aid off and be done with it. It would be cruel to prolong telling her. This way, she can be finished with the personal drama. I wonder if any of her friends sense she is struggling with our relationship? Do they see a difference in behavior or mood?
I bet they hate seeing her not fully present. Am I paying enough attention to my boyfriend seems a teenager’s problem, not a woman’s. It would be cruel having to constantly be checking my emotional temperature, as if I was lacking the confidence of a man. Oh God. I’d hate doing that to us. We would lose the spontaneity. That would be the first thing that would happen.
In a matter of two weeks, every fucking thing has changed. Recording “Mined”, signing with James Records, and beginning to record another song that was written a few years back. She said Arthur is acting like he’s discovered buried treasure. He’s right. She wept when she told me.
That Archangel dude is the unknown. He hasn’t offered anything concrete yet, but she says talk of Archangel’s tour in November has come up a few times. She thinks he is waiting for the release of “Mined” next month before he decides. If he knows what’s good for him and his band, he’d grab ahold of Montana now.
There was barely a moment when I wasn’t thinking about her these last weeks. About us. About them. It rolls around my mind on a loop, unmerciful in its persistence. If it happens now, before the effect of fame, what would it be like after?
Asked and answered. Last night when I was just about to say I love her, the call from Michael Angelica interrupted. Not that I’m jealous of the guy in the general sense of the word. It’s just that there doesn’t seem to be a space for us. Not one that shuts out every other demand. And that’s what I would turn into. A demand of her time and attention.
What kind of life would that be? That may be oversimplification, but it reduces to that. The realization makes up my mind. Has everything been illusion, not magic? A man’s attempt at believing love exists? Bullshit. I love her and I willneverdeny the truth. Trouble is, I love her enough to let her fly. I’m going to tell her that when she calls. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Leaning my head back on the chair, I put the drink down and close my eyes. Just for a minute. Maybe I can stop thinking.
Fuck. I peek out of one sleepy eye. It’s dark outside. At least an hour or two has passed and my back feels like shit for sitting crooked. In my stupor, posture didn’t factor into the equation. It fits though. This has been one clusterfuck of a day. Nothing has changed, except for a desire to be drunker.
The cell sounds. Grabbing the phone with one hand and the whiskey bottle with the other, I tap the name and take a long pull.
“Hello?” Dove says, wondering where the fuck I am. Why I’m not speaking.
“I’m here. Right fucking here.” It is said with a slight slur I hadn’t noticed before.
There is a pause before her response. “Are you drinking? You sound like it.”
“I am. Good deduction, Sherlock.”
Didn’t realize it would come out with an attitude.
“Maybe I should wait to tell you the news,” she says with an attitude of her own.
“Tell me now. How much worse could it be?”
The pit bull in her voice bites back. “Worse? What news have I given you that was bad?”
I chuckle and within the sound is the desire to tell her what I really want to say. This is the spot to lay it out. I’m drunk and angry enough to pull it off.
“The list is too long. Let’s just get to today’s headline.”
She pauses, and I ask again.
“Tell me what spectacular thing happened to you today.”
“No. You don’t deserve to know, and I don’t deserve this bullshit attitude.”
I take another swig of whiskey.
“See. I already stole your thunder. This isn’t going to work, Dove. For either of us.”
