Thank You for Listening(54)

The room ahhhhhd again.

She turned her attention back to Sewanee. “I repeat, amazing.”

“And I am more than happy to repeat, thank you so much.” She’d never been in a room this friendly before.

“You attended Julliard with Adaku, correct?” Colin asked.

“Yes. That’s how we met.”

“And you’ve been wasting away in audiobooks. Shame.”

Sewanee paused. “Well–”

“Well. Let’s see if we can change that, eh?” Colin smiled. “Are you ready?”

Was she. “Absolutely.”

“Off you go.”

“Who will I be reading with?” Sewanee asked.

A younger woman next to Colin raised her hand. Sewanee nodded at her. The man running the camera said he was rolling.

The room took on the hollow silence of a church. Cell phones were put aside, a few throats cleared, and every pair of eyes fixed on her. It was the moment before the music started for an ice skater. The moment before a diver took the first step toward a triple twisting two and a half somersault. The moment before the starter pistol fired and a sprinter ran the 100-meter dash.

Sewanee stilled, took a meaningful breath. Then she stepped into the role and onto the field.

She felt like the person she once was. She felt whole. She felt unstoppable.

It was a gold medal performance.

From: Brock McNight

To: Westholme, Sarah

Date: March 5, 4:23 PM

Subject: RE: CASANOVA, LLC–and hello!

I understand. I do. Onward, absolutely. If and when you want to tell me about it, I’m here. (Please note the word “tell” not “talk.”) So, after reading your email, I went for a run, came back, took a beer up to my roof, and read it again. Here’s what I think: We both believed in something, in ourselves, and we lost it. And we want it back. Can we have it back? And what happens if we get it back? Can’t we lose it again? And then what?

We’re both scarred. (SCARRED, not scared, though both are probably true. God, I ALWAYS misread those two words. SO many pickups.) Anyway. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. Obviously not getting anywhere.

Other than it reconfirms why I want out of Romance. HEA is too much of a setup. It makes you believe we just need to get back what we lost and life will be rainbows forevermore. But it doesn’t address what happens if you try to get it back and fail, does it?

There’s also the possibility it’s not a problem with Romance, it’s a problem with us?

IDK. Maybe I should have taken a longer run.

AFTER THE AUDITION, Sewanee realized she’d never told Mark about Doug’s interest in the house. So she told him now in passing, bringing paper towels in from the garage, while he was adding more ink to his printer. It was only when she got to the kitchen that she metabolized what he’d replied and walked directly back into his office. “Did you say you’ll give him a call?”

Mark looked up from the disemboweled printer, brow furrowed. “Huh?”

“Are you seriously considering selling?”

Mark jerked his head toward the office door. She closed it and came over to his desk. He was back to fiddling with the printer. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Now might be as good a time as any.”

“But . . . now now?”

He shrugged.

“You’ve been saying no for years.”

“That’s before I got old.”

“Stop it.”

“I can’t even change an ink cartridge anymore.”

Sewanee snorted and stepped forward, taking over the printer. Mark dropped into his chair and sighed. “I’m tired, Swan.”

“You know you never sleep well this time of year.” His partner, Julio, had died on Leap Day fifteen years ago after losing a brutal battle with esophageal cancer. Early March was never good for Mark.

He sighed again. “This is different.”

Sewanee stole a glance at him. “You want to retire?”

He didn’t look at her. “Doug Carrey would pay a lot for this house.”

Sewanee took longer to change the cartridge than necessary, buying herself a moment to think. “And what about the studio?”

Mark sat in thoughtful silence, then abruptly leaned forward and began typing. “I want to show you something.” He hunted around, clicking the mouse, scrutinizing the screen the way he always did, as if it were the first time he’d seen a computer.

Sewanee snapped the printer back into place, put the old cartridge in a bag for recycling, and came around the desk to peer over his shoulder.

Eventually, he found what he was hunting for. A web page featuring the cover of a book. Under the image, he clicked a play button and a strong male voice came through the speakers. Sewanee listened for about a minute until Mark stopped it. “What do you think?”

She straightened. “He’s good. A bit generic, maybe. But good tone, good cadence. It’s a pretty straight nonfiction read. The end of his phrasing needs some work, but sure.” Mark was staring at her. “What?”

“Kid. There is no him.” He pointed at the text below the book cover. “That’s a real book, a real publisher. And a bot narrating.”

Sewanee stared at the screen.

This was the monster under the bed.