After I’m sort of calm, he asks, “Did you see the Super Bowl where Prince played the halftime show?”
“What?” I shake my head. Why is he asking me this? “I think so? But I’m not sure I remember it.”
“Okay, that’s a tragedy already, so you’ll have to look it up, especially after I tell you this.” Dave is now all animated as he rolls me over to face him and wipes his fingers under my eyes. “Picture it, okay? Prince is primed to perform at the most watched show ever, right? The fucking Super Bowl.Like, each year, it’s one of the most viewed performances. But then weather steps in. It’s not just rain, okay? It’s a Miami deluge. Everyone is freaking out, all with legit concerns. His dancers are wearing high heels, the glass stage is going to be soaking wet, there are however many electrical plugs involved, his four electric guitars. And as the rain gets even worse, Prince gets a call and is told that it’s really time to call it off, and do you know what he asked? Theonlything he asked?”
I have no idea.
“One thing. He askedonething.”
“Tell me.”
Dave holds me as I fade into him. “He asked, ‘Can you make it rain harder?’ ”
I laugh lightly because it’s so ironically lovely. So brilliant. Sonotwhat most of us would say in the face of a nightmare situation. “He wanted that challenge. He liked the rain?”
“And then Prince played the wildest show. There was ‘Purple Rain,’ ‘Baby I’m a Star,’ ‘Let’s Go Crazy.’ His own stuff, plus ‘All Along the Watchtower,’ ‘Proud Mary,’ ‘Best of You.’” Dave snuggles me in. “Prince took that a night—one with a thousand things going wrong, things that would have ruined and gutted any other performer—and he gave us the most epic, gorgeous performance. Stuff no one could have imagined. Like, the rain hit the lights and emitted a beautiful, glorious steam. It was all just wildly flawless and unexpected.”
This story is awesome, and I’ll have to go and watch the videos, but I don’t get why he’s telling me about someone so crazy talented and special, especially because he tightens his hold as though I’m somehow worthy of championing.
“I know you didn’t want a hard rain, but you got one. Make this mess of pain your Super Bowl.”
Oh. Dave thinks I’m stronger than I am. He seems to believe in me.
I roll back into him.
He’s probably wrong.
But maybe he’s not. Maybe Icansurvive all of this.
“Did you have your own hard rain? Your own Super Bowl?” I ask.
“We all have one.” Dave sighs and snuggles me against him and waves a hand. “But now I have my food truck.”
Chapter 18
Iwake up all cozy, but snuggle back up into the bedding. My phone has blown up with texts and emails that I don’t want to deal with, and I can’t find a reason to get up. Really, why would I want to be awake? After another hour of burying my head under the sheets, I lug myself from the bed, but it’s only because there’s a Nespresso and a hungry Top Cat waiting for me. And because it’s getting dark outside and getting out of bed at this time is humiliating. Yet darkness shouldn’t show up this early when I am grieving. Like, maybe after eight p.m., but not after four p.m. Fucking Daylight Saving.
Dave will be back soon, and I can’t let him see me getting out of bed at this obscene time. Especially after last night.
I feed the ungrateful one, make a Nespresso, and then send Megan Madonna footage of the lobster crew from the other night, Dave cooking for me, and the true love for his food truck. I note that she should for sure focus on the fact that he has fried oysters, which are inexplicably so hard to find. I post my own pic of me and Anjanette and a separate profile of her as a female lobster woman, plus some shots of the beautiful harbor.
He shows up at our place, and I pretend I’ve been awake for hours. I sit outside with him as he grills on the snowy deck and serves me another million-star dinner, including a mussel risotto from his favorite restaurant in town.
As I’m sucking down more seafood, I curse his new Wi-Fi when my phone starts going nuts. I can’t even look and just throw my phone his way. “Ugh. Can you see what crap has been coming my way? I can’t bear to look.”
David grabs my phone and spends a few minutes looking through all my messages. “So, it’s all requests for your time. To review high-end places. Stuff about advertising. That book contract. A TV thing. Your assistant isn’t sure what to say. How to reply.” He sighs with some sympathy. “You don’t want this, do you? That was clear in Puerto Rico.”
“No,” I admit. “It’s really not fun anymore. It’snotwhat it started out to be. Yes, the high-end restaurants are amazing, and I don’t want to stop going to those, but the core of what I do has always been yelling about how special the smaller spots are. Directing people to the unheard-of restaurants that deliver divine food, unique food. Food from countries most of us never would even think of visiting. Helping those who deserve to thrive.”
“So, fuck it,” David says. “You hate this, right? I heard you on vacation. Blow it all off. You don’t need the money, right?” He is suddenly so animated and emotional. “Do what you love, not what you’re pressured to do. Enjoy yourself.”
He sounds like Patrick.
“There are so many people who rely on me. It feels impossible to say no.”
“Nois a full sentence. You just have to use it. Just give to the people who you want to rely on you.”
He’s right.
