13:53 Sam:I think you miss me and want me to tell you some dirty stories
I really, really did. On both counts.
13:54 Tiel:I’ve always been a captive audience
13:55 Sam:unfortunately for you, I have to present a proposal but believe me when I say I’d rather talk about your tits than a 3 million dollar renovation
13:55 Tiel:I’ll find a way to survive without
Needing more coffee, I headed down the street to the café I favored in this neighborhood. I was happiest with a cappuccino in my hand, and a steady stream of caffeine was my only real luxury. It wasn’t like I could afford many more luxuries; playing music and going to grad school were damn expensive, and it looked as though I’d be paying for my education for several decades. That fact gave me periodic flashes of panic, and it proved I didn’t have a plan for dealing with life yet.
When I came down from those bouts of hysteria, I reminded myself I preferred the unplanned life. I knew there’d always be special kids who needed my help, and I could figure it all out as I went along. There was no need to carve a future into stone or declare myself, forever and always, for any particular path. I craved the freedom to wander: travel the world, get a different degree, learn another family of instruments, join the circus, or whatever.
That didn’t mean I was blowing off my dissertation. I liked academia enough, but I wasn’t sure I was willing to kill myself for a tenure-track professorship. It was an enormous commitment, and I worried that I’d drift away from the things I loved: working with kids, and playing and sharing my music.
But there was a convenience associated with the never-ending story of my doctorate. My schedule gave me the flexibility to work one-on-one with kids, and spend the summer with a noisy crew of geeks at band camp, and the fluidity of my research allowed me the space to study and explore.
When I stepped away from all that and looked at it from a squinty side view, I knew I was also building a life free from expectations. No real obligations or responsibilities of any kind. I couldn’t disappoint anyone if I didn’t commit to anything, and no one could reject me if I didn’t stick around long enough to be rejected.
Most days I told myself I was unfettered by materialism or career-obsession, and that was a joyous gift in this world, but I knew it was so much deeper than that.
I could handle any amount of criticism of my work—the music, the therapeutic sessions, the teaching—but I couldn’t deal with rejection. It was less devastating to walk away from relationships, to be the one who stopped calling or broke it off with vague clichés about focusing on myself or not looking for anything serious right now.
I slept better when I wasn’t worried whether I was good enough for anyone else. I chose not to worry about the future, and the possibility that I’d end up sad and lonely and wishing I’d done it all differently.
With my iced cappuccino, I wandered through stylish shops on Newbury Street. As I ran my fingers over a display of vibrant ties, it occurred to me that Sam hid from rejection, too. The cavalier attitude, the consumerist approach to sex, the distance he required.
Perhaps that was what I recognized in him: the bitter taste of abandonment, the one that never fully dissipated.
Thatwas how I knew him.
“ALL RIGHT, JUST a few more things on my list,” Shannon said.
Those exact words had passed her lips twice already, andI was tempted to clarify her definition offew.I was tired and irritable, and after lifting weights for two hours in the middle of the night, my arms protested every time I reached for my coffee.
I loved Shannon, I really did, but there were moments when I was convinced she just liked hearing herself speak. It was phenomenal that she managed all the non-architectural elements of the business by herself, but that didn’t mean I needed to hear about it every goddamn week.
Shannon turned toward Patrick. “Do you want to talk through the Wellesley issues?”
He rolled his eyes, murmuring something to himself while he shook his head at his laptop screen.
“I’ll take this,” Andy said. “We’ve updated the energy systems and done a fair amount of restoration on the interior, but there’s quite a bit more that should be done. I would argue that, given the age and craftsmanship, we should be talking about more extensive preservation. I see this as a project we’ll carry for a longer term.”
When that quiet bomb detonated, the temperature in the room dropped. Everyone sat back in their chairs, eyes were averted, and silence lingered.
I knew it was just a house, but I also knew this house was much more than four walls, a roof, and some dirt.
It was true what they said about never being able to go home, and not just because my father told me never to step foot on his land again when I was eighteen. If, by some fantastical turn of events, I found myself at Wellesley—the shorthand we used to refer to our childhood home—it wouldn’t be the same place that spawned my fondest memories and worst nightmares.
I alternately loved it and hated it, wanted to keep it in our family for eternity and wanted it burned to the ground, thought about visiting and promised myself I’d never pass through those doors again.
Shannon cleared her throat, a sure sign for everyone’s attention. She said, “The real question, at least from my perspective, is whether we want to carry the property for another calendar year. Knowing that we can’t close out Angus’s estate until the house is sold. Any additional work means we’re leaving the estate open longer. We’re also paying property taxes on the house.”
Angus and his fucking will.
It wasn’t bad enough that the bastard took three full weeks to die after his stroke, but he needed to leave us with an obstacle course of a will, too. He wanted his money given to certain people (his non-existent future grandchildren, of course) and spent on specific things (restoring that godforsaken house), and even in death, he wanted to maintain his public appearance with contributions to all the right institutions (Cornell, the regional hospital).
“And what are the implications of that?” Patrick asked.
