Good at Being Alive(43)

“Bex…maybe instead of reading an encyclopedia, you should be thinking about the future a little? The show is going to end and yes, you’ll have money, but will that be enough?”

She stretches out fully and stares at the ceiling. “I read this book once where they surveyed the happiest countries and the most miserable, and you know where it said people are super miserable? Dubai. Primarily that the native population doesn’t have to work at all—it’s like an entire country full of people who’ve won the lottery, and the lack of purpose makes them miserable. Isn’t that fascinating?”

“I’d think you’d find it instructive more than anything else.”

She rolls toward me, hitching a shoulder. “The thing is, you have to be interested in something or competent at it to have a purpose, don’t you? I’m not interested in anything, nor am I especially competent at anything.”

“Give me a break. Are you interested in gamma-ray lasers?”

She shrugs. “Well, yes, but they’re pretty amazing because—”

“Are you interested in downregulation? Reynisdrangar? Amsterdam during its shipping heyday in the sixteen hundreds? The answer is yes, to all these things. You’re interested in everything, and you seem to have a photographic memory, so it basically comes down to you just deciding what job you’d like. There’s not a job on the bloody planet you couldn’t do.”

She tugs on her lower lip. “Is sleeping with rock stars a job? If so, I’m willing to take that on, though I don’t see how the photographic memory will serve me.”

My eyes narrow and my irritation is not entirely feigned—I am her husband, after all. Even if it’s fake, I don’t need to hear that she really wants to bang multiple rock stars. “Bex.”

She throws back her head with a throaty laugh, my new favorite sound. Every time I groan her name like that she’s delighted. I have no idea why.

“I guess you could teach me how to manage the office here so you don’t have to lose years of life due to jet lag.”

“You would hate managing the office and the woman we’ve hired is getting up to speed anyway. But if you’ve got this time free while we’re filming, I wish you’d spend it figuring out what your purpose is or what you’re interested in.”

Her mouth opens.

“Other than banging rock stars.”

Her mouth closes.

I rise to my feet and gather my things. “We can talk about it while we run tomorrow.”

She frowns. “I’ve been pushing myself to run more. You don’t need to force me.”

“I just ran with you in Amsterdam. I’m somewhat familiar with how much you’re pushing yourself.”

She pulls the blanket over her head. “I’m busy tomorrow!” she shouts. “I’m finding my purpose!”

I laugh quietly. I meant to get a full day of work in, rather than fucking around for the entire morning in a place I dislike. And I can’t wait.

I didn’t shake a single thing off in London.





Bex


Theo forces me out of bed at an indecently early hour, smirking as I stumble around the living room, bleary-eyed. “It’s easier for you,” I say, flipping him off as I put on my running shoes. “You’re still on London time.”

“You must have another friend on London time,” he says, “because someone’s blowing up your phone.” He slides it toward him, the kind of gross invasion of privacy I thought only I’d resort to. “Who the fuck is Brian and why is he sending you all this rubbish?”

“Are you reading my texts?”

“Obviously,” he says without apology. “That’s how I know my wife is getting texts from someone named Brian with whom she has clearly been intimate.”

I jump up and snatch my phone away from him. “You know, you’re awfully wishy-washy about when you want to play the ‘my wife’ card. I don’t notice you referencing that when I ask about your complication.”

“Rebecca,” he says, nostrils flaring, “you could ruin the entire fucking show if you’re meeting random guys when we’re—”

“He’s not a random guy,” I reply. “We dated on and off for like two years. And you’re not really my husband, so stop reading my texts.”

“Just don’t fuck things up,” he barks, heading for the door. If he were anyone else, I’d say he sounded jealous.

We run in surly silence. I’m annoyed at him for doing exactly what I did on the way to London. He’s annoyed for reasons that still aren’t clear.

“Is Brian the guy who took your passport?” he asks. We’re a mile in and he isn’t even breathing heavily, whereas I’m pretty sure I have at least one collapsed lung.

“I’ll answer if you’ll slow down,” I gasp. I wouldn’t be inclined to answer his questions except I’ll say anything to make this run get easier or stop entirely.

“Fine,” he says, slowing.

“I’ll answer if we can walk.”

He rolls his eyes skyward. “You have got to get in better shape, Rebecca.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I say, stopping entirely, bent over with my hands pressed to my thighs. “I can promise you that I won’t be running six-minute miles during this marathon, so let’s just accept that we won’t be running it together.”