I loved her for trying.
“That’s your response?”
“I’m processing.”
“You’re making a joke.”
“That is how I process. Also, Facebook still thinks I work at a frozen-yogurt shop in Knoxville. It is not a reliable legal authority.”
I put both hands around my glass.
“They said it’s temporary.”
“Of course they did.”
“Until I’m established.”
“Are the songs not enough?”
“They want people focused on the music.”
Claire looked toward the living room, where one of her ceramic birds sat on my bookshelf between two songwriting awards.
It was small, blue, and slightly cross-eyed.
“They’re very focused on your music,” she said. “So focused they’ve started managing who’s allowed in your bed.”
“They didn’t say that.”
“No. They used nicer chairs.”
I looked down.
Claire set her glass aside.
“Hey.”
“I haven’t agreed.”
“You haven’t said no.”
“No.”
She crossed the kitchen and stood in front of me.
“What do you want?”
It was the obvious question.
That did not make it easy.
“I want the album to work.”
“It is working.”
“I want the next one to work too.”
“Okay.”
