And I finally rest deeply. Healingly.
Chapter 13
Dave is gone when I wake up in the late afternoon, but he left a handwritten note on the nightstand, which simply saysKyle MacLachlan and Elle Fanning. His handwriting is eloquent, and gorgeous, and full of beautiful cursive loops. It’s artistic and so surprising.
Who even knows cursive these days? This Dave guy seems to.
It takes me ages to get out of bed, but I’ve started to accept that I’ll just live my life in grief and pain. It’s fine. Everything is fine.
Whiska swings at me and hisses when I bring him food before my shower, and I just tell him that he’s a good boy. For some reason, he’s not scared off by the echoing water, so he stays with me while I sit on the tiled floor and let this rain shower envelop me. My arm is wrapped in a long plastic casing, and I hold it out of water’s range. Occasionally, I lift myself to reach the products Dave left out, scrub my hair and body, and rinse off. This shower is so fucking awesome that if my life is going to be nothing but depressing, moving here could be nice.
Can I live in a shower?I wonder. It’s cozy and nice here. Very spacious.
I somewhat irrationally decide that I can make it work.
Eventually, I get all wrinkly and decide to leave. Dressing is such a hassle, but I manage to get on a very unattractive sports bra that is hidden away by a luxurious top-and-bottomset, which I paid too much for, but felt justified about buying because I can fit my cast through the sleeve. My hair situation is still pretty dire, and while I still can’t pin it up in any sort of presentable manner, I at least manage to smear some products in. Maybe my red curls will dry with not-insane frizz? God, every little thing feels insurmountable right now.
It’s going to be a mistake to check my email and phone calls, but I’m a glutton for punishment, so I look anyway. And regret it immediately. My agent is livid that I haven’t gotten back to her. She wants this book deal and the Netflix stuff done. Because it benefits her.
When I check my socials, it’s fun to see how much people love what I shared about Dave’s lobster roll and the very kind comments about my shattered wrist and the loss of my friend. Not everyone is vile and hateful, I’m reminded.
While sitting outside in the cold again that night, with a hot drink in hand, a few things hit me. I’ve always been pushing forward, everything in my life moving so fast, and now I’m forced to sit with myself and ready myself the pain that I didn’t realize had been brewing for long. Even before Patrick and my shitty break stuff. How I’m depleted after giving to so many, even though I always want to help. How much is being demanded of me, the way my agent is pressuring and draining me. She is thinking of herself, not me.
Who is thinking of me?
Maybe for the first time, I appreciate that I goddamn built this wild career on my own. It belongs to me.
I’m allowed to feel proud. For once.
Another fact? While it may appear as though I have a million friends, I really have none. None who are not dead. None who I can call to drive me to the hospital when I have a fucked-up wrist.
My level of depression is growing.
And now there is the damn cat that I took on during the worst possible time. I open a tube of pureed food, and Whiska actually comes out of his cube in the bathroom. He licks this magic treat off my hand before retreating, but it’s a success. One we both needed.
Without warning, Dave barrels in, and again, I hear him drop bags in the kitchen.
“Hungry?” he asks.
I try and fail to grab a scrunchie to put my hair up as I rush out, hoping I look sort of normal. At least I’m in a set of loungewear that is not sushi-themed this time.
I slink to the kitchen and snag a spot on a stool. “Sure, okay.”
As Dave begins to prepare food, he pauses and looks at me with a warm, kind smile.
Slowly, he walks over, takes a tie from my arm, and gently gathers my hair. “I know this bothers you. And your hand is still weak. You’re always cute though.” He kisses me on the forehead like he’s done this a thousand times, as though it were our routine.
David winks and then shucks clams that he presents to me on the half shell, and I suck them down while he prepares a roasted cod with a spicy sauce of fennel, capers, tomatoes, and Calabrian chilis. While this feels sort of private, I also cannot resist pulling out my phone, and with his permission, I capture his skill at work and the final dish. Somehow getting video that isn’t shaky.
He sets a plate in front of me with some kind of herbed oil and then pulls bread from the oven and tears off a few pieces.
He watches me as I inhale the smell and take a few bites. “Good?”
It’s not often that I taste something totally new, a flavor I can’t identify, but I’m at a loss for this dipping oil that starts off sweet and then hits with a salty punch.
“What? Seriously, what is this?”
“It’s called Nile Dukkah. Hazelnuts, ground with a few things. Pretty good, huh? You can also mix it with heavy cream and Parmesan for a pretty insane pasta sauce.”
