Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(30)

“Fine!” Quentin proclaimed. “We rehearse tomorrow and try it out. Once Victory Spontaine gets in, whenever that is, we decide once and for all.” He clacked the ice at the bottom of his glass. “My drink is empty.” He twisted in his seat to look for a waiter.

I hadn’t realized until that moment that the rest of the restaurant found our gathering very interesting. Black rectangles hovered over heads, and little phone flashes went off. The dinner was publicity. I hadn’t thought of that. I wished I’d worn lipstick or done something with my hair.

Omar, who was next to me, leaned close. “I’m fighting for you to get the chorus.”

“Why?”

“Because you have the most unique voice I’ve ever heard.”

I swallowed. “Well, my point stands.”

“If we want to sell the record, it has to be a great record. That’s the number one priority.”

I couldn’t believe he was saying that to me. Omar D’Alessio. Holy shit. I couldn’t believe he was even talking to me.

“You’re pretty great, Omar.”

“I never said I wasn’t.” He put his arm around me. “But there’s room for another.”

He kissed my cheek, and I felt accepted as a musician and artist. Jonathan was the only thing missing from that moment. I wished he could have seen it.

chapter 19.

JONATHAN

Laurelin puttered around the kitchen, putting ingredients into two blender jars that were meant to hold me for two days. She put measured portions of vitamins, greens, milk, powdered puke, and dried shit into a healthful grotesquerie of layers that would be in the fridge for my reluctant consumption.

I didn’t have to think about it. I just had to blend it and choke on it. She’d already taken my blood pressure (one-ten over seventy), drawn blood (a monthly task), and hooked me up to an EKG (looked good). The meds for the week were set out so I didn’t have to count them. The privilege of money. I could pay someone to keep me from the mundanities of my illness.

“Where’s he taking you?” I asked.

“We’re driving up to Monterey,” she replied in a singsong voice. “Donny is staying with Grandma, so it’s kind of a last hurrah before I get huge.”

“Good for him.”

“I have everything you need here until Wednesday. Then you follow this list on the fridge to make new. I’d make them for you for the whole ten days, but the ingredients are perishable.”

“I wish they’d perish,” I said in passing just to make a joke. I was looking at the news on a tablet and was on humor autopilot.

“Oh stop. Be cheerful.” I looked up at her to see her holding up her finger. “Twenty years ago, you’d be the one who perished. And when you complain, people think you won’t do with you’re supposed to when they’re gone.” She winked and went back to arranging my fridge.

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Attitude is everything.” More lilting vowels to express something serious. “You missed a few days in your log.” She flicked her wrist at my little blue leather book. “You need to take it with you everywhere. Even if you’re going to a restaurant.”

I rolled my eyes and immediately felt like an adolescent or worse. I ran through the international news as if the tablet was on fire, trying to not feel over-mothered. I hired her to do this. I couldn’t get mad about it. “Okay,” was all I could get out.

“What is this?” She took a plastic container out of the crisper and held it at my eye level.

I looked at it then back at the tablet. “Monica’s Brazilian chimichuri. Her mother was over the other night. The two of them ate it like… I don’t know.” I waved my hand. “They slather it on everything like they’re trying to scald their faces. It’s blowtorch-hot.”

“Oh, that sounds good.”

“Does spicy food bother you? With the pregnancy?”

“Nope.”

“Take it then.” I scrolled through the financials. “We have two.”

“Really?” She peeled the top off and took a whiff. “Oh my God, this smells so good.” She put it under my nose, and I pushed her away. “Oh, I forgot. Well, I understand. Donny doesn’t like spicy food either.” She put the container in her bag of medicinal crap.

“Donny’s three,” I said.

Laurelin shrugged. “He’s a good boy.” She patted my shoulder. “Like you.”

I didn’t want to f*ck my nurse at all. Not even a little. But I wanted to spank her. Hard.

I turned back to my tablet and tapped the local news, missed, and hit entertainment, which I couldn’t care less about. But I let it load, and probably because Monica’s name was associated with my account, or the wifi, or because it was the top entertainment story of the minute to people who weren’t married to her, her picture was front and center.

Her and some swarthy guy. His arm was around her. He was kissing her cheek at a restaurant, and she was smiling, looking at the ceiling. She looked happy and carefree. In her element. And on his face? That was a simple prelude to f*cking her. I couldn’t take my eyes off the picture and that look in his eye. His fingertip was on her shoulder as if testing his right to touch her.

I knew my wife didn’t have cheating in her heart. But I also knew men, and that * had her body on his mind. He wanted to f*ck her. My wife. Mine. I wanted to take his skin and peel it off him. Rip him apart.