Spin (Songs of Corruption #1)(37)

A blob of hummus plopped onto the counter. I swiped it up and ate it. The residual paste was the only disruption of the pristine surface.

What the hell had happened with Antonio? What was I thinking? Had I been trying to get away from Daniel in the most violent way possible? Was I trying to reject not just my comfort zone, but my lawfulness? Wasn’t there an easier way to do that than by getting involved with someone I had nothing in common with? No matter how my body reacted to him. No matter how excited or how free he made me feel. No matter how alive I felt around him.

But I couldn’t shake the sense of profound regret. I’d dodged a bullet but fallen onto a knife.

I let the paper towel roll drop from my hand. It rolled from the kitchen island to the front door. I needed something in my life besides a job and a man. I needed a purpose. I had nothing to care about besides myself. No wonder Daniel’s infidelity had thrown me so far off the deep end.

I whipped the stepstool around to the refrigerator and reached into the cabinet above it. As a kid, I’d collected porcelain swans. I didn’t know why, but I loved swans. Their grace, their delicacy. But when we moved to the loft, the mismatched animals didn’t make sense, so I hid them in the highest cabinet, where they wouldn’t get broken.

I took the first one out. It had a blue ribbon that flew in the wind as it raised its wings to take flight. It had cost a shameful amount. I put it on the counter. The next one was Lladro. Cheap, with a little cupid. There was a black one. An ugly duckling. One with an apron. Laughing. Swimming. Necks twisted together. I put them all on the counter until I came to the little white one in the back.

It was made of Legos. It had a red collar in flattish bricks and a bright yellow beak. My nephew David had made it for me some random Christmas. Hyper and brilliant David. How old had he been? Four? Aunt Theresa loved swans, and he’d made her a bird with such care. And she’d put it in the back of a cabinet she couldn’t even reach because it didn’t go with the décor.

“Fuck you, Aunt Theresa.” I got down from the stepstool and put the Lego swan in the center of the island.

I opened my dish cabinet. I loved my dishes. They had blue stars with gold flourishes. Why were they in a cabinet? I took them out and laid them on the counter in piles that specifically made no sense. My flatware had been chosen with utmost care. With no room on the counter, I threw the silver on the floor like pick-up sticks.

All of it came out. Everything in the cabinets I’d ever chosen. Everything I liked. Everything beautiful and worthy. The glass jelly jars and inherited Depression glass. The gold-leaf embellished glass rack from my great-grandmother. I didn’t break anything, but the frosted glass tray we got as an engagement gift almost slipped off the sink. I caught it and continued. Out of style napkin holders. Stained plastic containers. A red sippy cup Sheila had left behind on some visit. Out out out.

When I got to the last cabinet and found the dust and dirt in the back of it, I stepped into the living room where I could see the open kitchen. It was a wreck. I’d left all the cabinet doors open, and nothing was neatly or safely placed.

I reached over the island and moved some stacks until I found the little Lego swan. I had a date with my empty bed. I could figure out what to do with my life in the morning.

The bed still seemed too big. The mess downstairs offered a momentary peace then irked me into wakefulness. But I refused to go down and clean it. I had put my Lego swan on the nightstand, and when I wondered if I should just go put my life back in the cabinets, the swan clearly said no. Go to sleep. Think about the mess tomorrow.

Katrina came in. Lights went on. The TV went on. The toilet flushed. The water ran. The TV went off. The lights went off. I slept.

twenty-two.

hat happened?” Katrina asked as she pulled a swan-shaped coffee cup from the pile. Its neck was a handle, and its wings wrapped around the bowl. “I can’t find the spoons.”

I picked one up from the floor. “Here. I’ll wash it.”

She snatched it and blew on it. “Sanitizing pixie dust. Knife too, please.”

I picked one of my best silver butter knives off the floor and handed it to her without offering to wash it. The sink was full of china cruets anyway.

“I’ll put it all away later.”

“Whatever.” She cleared a space in front of the coffee pot and poured herself some.

“But we have to be on set today, then I have work on Monday. I’ll get Manuela on it when she comes Tuesday,” I said.

“Whatever.”

“Are you mad?”

“Mad? No. I almost broke all these damned dishes last night in a rage, but not because of them. Only because they were in front of me.”

I handed her a dish. “Go ahead. Break it.”

She took it and waved it up and down, balancing it on her fingertips like half a seesaw. Then she put it on top of its stack. “It’s pointless.” She put the heels of her hands to her eyes and growled in a tantrum.

“What?”

“Apogee fell through,” she shouted, as if yelling at the entire Hollywood system.

“What? They won’t distribute it?”

“No, they backed out of post-production.”

“Why?”

“Because.” She shook her hands as if she was at a loss for words. “Lenny Garsh moved to Ultimate, and the new guy’s only backing projects he believes in. Completed projects.” She stamped her feet. Full-on tantrum. “Fuck f**k f**k f**k. I have the editing bay and ADR place booked, and I can’t pay.”