Thank You for Listening(103)

“Yeah?”

“I’m happy. Right now. In this moment. In this very real life of ours.”

He sighed. She heard his smile. “Me too.”

She was so happy that even after they hung up she couldn’t stop smiling. She had been exhausted thirty minutes ago and now she was wired. She wanted to do something. Put on some music and dance? Watch an old movie? And then it came to her.

She knew exactly what she wanted to do. She had been thinking about doing it ever since Nick had mentioned it.

She went online and found her demo reel.

Just seeing the thumbnail of her old face . . . could she really do this?

She took a breath and pressed play. Once she was looking, she couldn’t stop. It was weird. It was sad. It hurt. It was great.

Glued to the screen, she could not recall a time when so many emotions colored her, as if she had all 120 Crayola crayons at her disposal. She had thought watching this would make her feel so much less of herself, but the opposite was true.

She had been good. She belonged there. She was captivating. She had thought it would be like watching someone else. Except it wasn’t. It was, undeniably, her. A part of her that had come home. Was welcomed home. A part of her that would live with her now. A part of her to be proud of.

The reel ended and the feeling that lingered when all the other colors faded was contentment. Similar to how she’d felt sweeping up the Tea-For-One: regretful but accepting.

It was a past she no longer wanted back. It was simply a part of her present and she was free to pursue her future. Heart full, Sewanee pressed play and watched it again.

She loved it.

THREE DAYS LATER, she picked Adaku up from the hospital in a garage under the back alley most people didn’t know existed. The “High Roller Exit,” Adaku snarked. They’d waited until 1 A.M., but it hadn’t made any difference. Adaku sat in the passenger seat looking at her phone. “My neighbor says there’s five or six of them camped out in front of my house.”

“Well,” Sewanee sighed. “You feeling strong enough to tackle sixty-four steps?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

So they went back to Sewanee’s. And they spent the next few days reading, watching movies, and sitting outside talking and talking and talking. Adaku eventually called Manse back–he’d never called Sewanee again–and told him she wasn’t returning to Georgia. And then she told him that she was done jumping through hoops for the Angela Davis project but that he should feel free to do his job and get her an offer for it and, oh, she wanted a producer credit on the film, too. When she hung up, they high-fived.

The night before Adaku had decided to go home, Sewanee went to the store and bought sour cream and taco seasoning. It was comically delicious.

They sat out on the porch dipping carrots, celery, chips, and anything else they found in Sewanee’s cabinets. They game-planned their next steps as the sun went down. Adaku asked her what she might do with the June French books and Sewanee told her some initial thoughts she’d had. “You know what Nick said to me after we recorded together in Venice? He said, ‘You’re a director.’”

“Really. Who would’ve thunk? I’ve only been saying that for a decade.”

“You have not,” Sewanee said like a third grader.

Adaku gave it right back. “Have, too! Have, too!” She dipped a carrot into the bowl of Birdie’s Delight and tossed it into her mouth. “I even said it a couple weeks ago! When we did that self-tape.”

“Nuh-unh!”

“Yeah-hunh!” She held a celery stalk up to Sewanee. “All seriousness: Can we sell this shit? Clooney has tequila; I could have dip.”

“Do you still have the recipe?”

They laughed and Sewanee’s phone dinged. The way her mouth went all smiley when she checked it prompted Adaku to say, “Let me guess.”

“He sent a cut of the final episode.”

“Ohh!” Adaku clapped. “Play it!”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

The absolute face Adaku threw her had Sewanee raising her hands in laughing surrender. She went inside, retrieved her Bluetooth speaker, and connected her phone. She sat back down next to Adaku, right where, three months ago, she’d listened to Brock’s voice for the first time.

“–THIS HAS BEEN Casanova, LLC, episode eight. Written by June French. Performed by Sarah Westholme and Brock McNight. Thank you for listening.”

Adaku jumped to her feet and applauded.

Sewanee’s face lit up. “Yeah?”

“Oh my God! Babe, that was–what did you do to him?! Send it to me immediately, I gotta listen again.” Sewanee laughed. “At home, by myself, in the–”

“And now,” Brock’s voice said from the speaker, “an original song written and performed by Nick Sullivan.” Adaku and Sewanee’s mirthful eyes collided. “It’s called ‘Swan Song.’”

Sewanee grabbed the phone and pressed pause. Startled, all playfulness gone, she looked back up at Adaku. “You heard that, too, right?”

“Oh, I heard it.” Adaku crossed her arms. “You gonna press play, or do I have to?”

Sewanee stilled. She’d known Nick was writing, but she hadn’t expected anything so soon. And she especially hadn’t expected to be the song.