She wiped her hands, turned around, faced Doug fully. “Of all the gin joints,” she drawled.
“God damn!” Doug enthused. “How’d I miss that backside this time?” He laughed, of course, and Sewanee wished they could go another eight years without this happening again.
“So, uh, yeah, no,” she said, steering him back to the topic of the house, “Mark will never sell.”
“Well, minds are meant to be changed. Tell him to give me a bell. I been lookin’ fah one of these old places in the hills fah years.”
Damian took one more chug and returned the mason jar to the fridge. “I gotta go export the files. Nice working with you,” he lied, and Sewanee wanted to tell him she’d export the files and could he please stay, please? But Damian was already gone and then there were two.
Doug smiled with all his teeth and Sewanee smiled back with pressed lips. Now what?
Doug pointed to his eye. “Still rockin’ the patch, huh? Damn, how long you gotta keep it on?”
“Uh. Forever,” she said, and, off his head tilt, added, “It was a bad accident.”
“Oh.” His grin wavered. “That’s brutal. I thought it was something temporary . . .” The grin officially went out. “Shit. And you were so good. I mean, I’m sure you still are. Fuck. I’m so sorry.”
Doug’s sincerity, while perhaps fleeting, reminded Sewanee why she had felt some little something for him way back when. Even if that something had been just as fleeting. “Thanks.”
“When’d it happen?”
“Seven years ago.”
His silence got to her and she found herself reaching for words. Any words. “Did you enjoy recording–”
“Don’t give up,” he said suddenly. “The business has changed. You know what I’m sayin’？ People are more open to . . . you know.” He waved a hand. “Diversity.”
She knew he meant disability, but either way he wasn’t wrong. She had considered it herself. She still wanted to act, sometimes so desperately she had to go lie down until the yearning passed. But she knew that doing so would force her to face the truth, or at least her truth: she couldn’t reclaim who she once was when who she once was no longer existed.
After a moment of gazing at her, he closed the distance between them and pulled her into a hug. It wasn’t sexual, fortunately. It was delicate. A bit careful. The way you might hug someone you felt sorry for, but who also might be contagious, you weren’t sure. Better safe than sorry. Still, it was Doug’s version of trying. Of being a good guy.
She pulled back first, anything that could give her the illusion of having the upper hand, and glanced at the sink, hoping he’d sense she had to get back to work.
He did. He stepped fully back, but said, “Hey. Didn’t you used to hang with Adaku Obi?”
She smiled. “Still do.”
His smile came back, too. “Man, say hi fah me. We keep missing each other at awards shit. Tell her I’d like to connect.”
Sewanee said, “Will do.” But Sewanee thought, Will not.
He backed away, out of the kitchen. “And tell Mark–Mark?–I want this house. Serious. Gimme a bell.” He winked. “Here’s looking at you, Kid.” Again, with the terrible Bogart impression.
An hour later, when the house chores were done and Damian had finished exporting, Sewanee let herself into studio 1 to start recording for the day. It still smelled like cologne. His cologne. A cologne he hadn’t changed in eight years.
She stepped out, turned up the fan in the booth, and went down the hall to studio 4. She sat down inside and tried recording, but she was tripping over every other sentence. This only happened when she was tired, PMS-ing, or . . . just plain bothered.
She wanted a hug. A real one.
Instead, she picked up her phone.
SEWANEE:
Question: what happens after we die?
He responded immediately:
We don’t have to record Romance anymore.
She smiled.
Another text appeared:
Unless we go to hell. Which is pretty likely tbh. Then that’s all we do.
SEWANEE:
You really don’t like doing Brock McNight, do you?
BROCK:
Would YOU like doing Brock McNight??
SEWANEE:
How DARE you ask me that?!
BROCK:
Walked right into that one.
Sewanee paused, considering how to respond. Her decision was made easier when her phone lit up again.
BROCK:
You know, the problem with sexual innuendo is . . .
you can’t keep it up.