Funny Feelings (77)

I pat him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. He won’t be as bad once he’s here and sees it for himself,” I reply. His eyes round and he coughs. I feel Shauna and Kara’s laughter die down and their eyes turn our way.

“What? I mean, I know he won’t be at every show, but he’s not crazy or anything. He knows what happened before was a weird, freak thing. I’ll make sure he doesn’t drive you guys insane when he’s gone.” I huff out a laugh that goes unreciprocated.

“It’s my understanding that he won’t be at most of the shows, though, right Clay?” Shauna asks, looking between Clay and I.

“What do you mean?” I shake my head, lost.

“I thought he would have talked to you by now,” Clay responds, and I feel my eyebrows shoot up.

“What are you talking about?” They all look silently amongst each other.

It’s Kara who speaks up, finally. “Farley, Meyer withdrew from his management contract for the tour. He told us he wasn’t planning on managing… at all, going forward.”

“He appointed me as sole tour manager, and left a clause in there for you to be able to find your own should you want it,” Clay says, swiping at his forehead.

I sit at the same time that my phone rings.

I ignore it.





34





NOW





“My life needs editing.” - Mort Sahl





MEYER


When I don’t hear from Fee after the fifth call this morning or the tenth text, I know I fucked up. And I know she must’ve found out about the management contract. That’s the only thing it could be.

I put on a brave face for Hazel, because I am excited and feel almost whole having her back with me, but… It’s a bit like that time last summer when I set out super early, before anyone else was awake, in order to set our stuff up on the beach and reserve us a spot. I’d thought I was doing something considerate—smart, even. But I’d forgotten that the tide was rolling in.

“I thought Fee would be picking us up?” Hazel asks when the Uber arrives.

“She just had something come up. Don’t worry, the bus gets back tonight,” I say after I load the luggage.

But she doesn’t come by that night, and I outright lie to Hazel and say that it got delayed.

I feel sick.

Sicker when I go to my bathroom and find her toothbrush still at my sink. On my side, even though there are two. She’d forgotten it in her panic the morning we sprinted to the airport, and we had to pull the tour bus over in a San Jose Target for her to get a new one.

She, Shauna, and Kara ended up spending three hours in there while the rest of us set up camp chairs in the parking lot and grilled hot dogs when we got hungry.

I know it’s a low blow, but I have to try one more time, and come at it a new way.

I type out the text in Notes. Edit, delete, rewrite it five times before I finally settle on the words.

Me: Fee, I’m sorry for not talking to you first. There’s no excuse. But I hope you’ll let me explain myself, please. We promised that we wouldn’t lose each other and that we wouldn’t let this hurt Hazel. Please.

The three dots finally pop up and the lurch in my chest has me thinking that I need to make an appointment to have my blood pressure and cholesterol checked.

But then they disappear.

They don’t come back up.



I pace around my house and find all the places that she’s touched. Where she’s already made it her home. I rub my at a spot on my chest when I think about how I asked her to live here, how happily shocked she’d looked. How, barring a miracle, that won’t be happening now.

I find my tie from the premier slung over one of the stools at the counter, wrap it around my fist like a tourniquet, the skin above it fading to a bloodless pale.

I end up lying down on the couch, eventually. The bed is still unmade in my room, and I can’t bear to look at it. Each time that I do I see her through blurry eyes, woken by her kissing a path up my leg, swiping her sweet tongue over my tattoo. I think of her smiling over her shoulder at me after she slung a leg across my middle, planted her hands on my thighs and rode me in reverse, my thumbs pressing into the dimples on her back, the ends of her hair swaying against her waist with every grind and roll of her hips.

I look at the dirty pan still in the sink and don’t want to wash it. I shred at my soul remembering her and Hazel decorating Easter eggs. Pasting Valentine’s together for Hazel’s class, signing made difficult by glue-covered fingers.

I let myself imagine the things I never dared to before, too, punishing myself with them.

Fee with a rounded belly and a smile, putting Hazel’s hand in a spot to feel the baby kick. Hazel guiding her sister around the pool in a floatie, one of those ridiculous infant sun hats strapped to her head. I imagine us taking Hazel to Europe, maybe to see that play we never got to see. I imagine popping out of my office to ask for her thoughts on whatever it is I want to write, her opinions and feedback critical to me, always.

I slice at my mind—my heart, over and over again until I exhaust myself with it, until my burning eyes finally close.



WHACK

I startle awake when Hazel slaps my arm. I blink the bright lights away. Hold up a hand to ask for a minute, sit up and manage to open one eye with a wince.