“Are you sure about that?”
“One hundred percent. But take it easy on yourself, Mara,” she says gently, the tension returning to her voice. “Don’t go crazy for this guy.”
“I’m not. It’s a good thing to have a bit of a revamp whether he comes or not,” I say, not wanting to get into a conversation about Joe with her again. I don’t need Charlie on board at this point. The universe is really testing me here, but the universe does not understand that I am completely committed and will not be put off. Joe is coming.
“Of course it is,” she says now. “I really don’t want you to think I’m not supportive. But don’t put all your eggs in his basket, is what I’m saying.”
“Let’s not bring my eggs into it yet,” I say, and this makes Charlie laugh lightly, more relaxed.
After we hang up, I feel flat again. It’s becoming a recurring theme with my interactions with Charlie.
I walk to the fridge, open it, and look around for a beer. Nothing.
Then I check the cupboard in case there is some wine that was miraculously left there for some reason I don’t know about, but I only find a quarter bottle of black sambuca. Better than nothing, I suppose. I pour out a small shot and knock it back. Then I take another.
When the warm fuzz kicks in, I wander blindly around the house, banging into a wall here and a sideboard there, halfheartedly cleaning up, and I end up outside Ash’s room, hand hovering on the door handle for a moment. I have wondered for a while what he does in there every day.Ishe a secret gamer? Does he watch sports? Who actually is he beyond this easygoing guy who never cleans the butter off his knife before shoving it into the jam jar but always remembers to put the bins out?
“You’re going to snoop,” I say out loud. “The question is, do you feel okay about that?”
“Yes,” I answer myself. “Besides, you can hardly see.”
I open the door wide and have to look around in all directions to take the full picture in through my partially obscured view.
Clothes everywhere. Boilersuit, jeans, socks, boxer shorts, strewn across the bed, an empty laundry basket on the floor, two coffee cups on his desk. I recoil momentarily, and then, my fascination outweighing my shame, I keep looking. There are folders and large academic-looking books piled up next to his computer, which is blinking with a screen saver of a rocket ship launching into space. I laugh. It reminds me of my brother’s obsession with space when we were kids. I edge closer to see what he’s doing at his desk, but my eyes are too swollen and my head too sore to really focus. I need to lie down for a bit.
His bed looks as though the covers were thrown back and he literally jumped out and ran. His plaid pj’s are still sitting up stifflywith the underpants visible, like they were dumped and stepped out of. I’m surprised. Ash is even more untidy than I am.
But the room isn’t dirty. It screams stress. It’s someone who is juggling too much and hanging on by a thread, just focusing on the finish line. Would it be an invasion of privacy to clear it up for him? I wonder how on earth he can hear himself think in here.
I feel a rush of guilt and make my way quickly back out of his room.
Then I turn on the TV and open various streaming services until I find the largest selection of musicals I can. My happy place. My safe place. I decide to rewatchCalamity Janefor the hundredth time, mostly for the makeover scene. Then I grab some peas out of the freezer and lie on the couch with the bottle of sambuca.
As the music plays, I pull out my phone and look at Joe’s Instagram. There’s nothing new, and I find that I’m somewhat angry at him for my eyelash extensions. As if it’s his fault. Him and his stupidly high beauty standards that I have imagined upon him.
I scroll through his feed again. A plush red-and-gold concert hall. A cello in its case. A view of mountains. A mushroom. His sexy long fingers caressing the neck of the cello. A street busker playing the violin. A train. Another grand, gilded concert hall. A Siamese cat. The view out of a plane. I feel suddenly frustrated that I have to wait as long as I do to see him again. I look again at his latest photo—it’s a shot of a glass of something—brandy? Whisky? And then, because I’ve had two more shots of sambuca, I comment:
Yumand then add a drink emoji.
Then, before I hit Post, I stop myself and dissolve into self-hatred. Jesus Christ, what was I thinking? I toss my phone on the ground.
I think about Samira and how I’m going to have to cancel on her after months of saying no and then making a big fuss to organize a day out with her.
Three hours later, I wake from a drooling sofa sleep to the sound of Ash’s key in the lock. I feel a huge wet patch next to me from where the peas have fallen off my face and onto the couch, and then I feel the throbbing in my eyes.
“Mara,” Ash says, wincing when he sees me, the wet couch, the sambuca. And, most likely, the state of my eyes.
“Hi,” I say glumly.
Ash moves slowly toward the armchair and perches on the edge.
“Are you... okay? I mean, have you spoken to the doctor?”
“No. But I spoke to the receptionist, who said eye drops, wash with a warm, clean hand towel, unless I’m in severe pain, which I’m not in, not really, so it’s hurry up and wait, I suppose. She didn’t seem very concerned. But then, she’s not a doctor.”
“Do you have anything you need to do this weekend?”
“No, I just have to cancel my plans with Samira.”
