“You do care,” he protests, hot on my heels as I make a beeline for the bathroom. I slip in, shut the door, and lock it. “You care so much it’s crazy. I’m not going to do a job that you’re going to be unhappy with.”
“I don’t care. I’m going to be about ten million miles away by the time you crack open a can of paint. Just do whatever Jamie wants, liability free.” Time to get these feelings together like loose sheets of paper. Tap them into a stack. Stick them into a shredder.
“I’m so sorry.”
Time to leave before I do something I can’t undo.
“Open up, please,” Tom says, knocking again. Does he have no self-preservation? “I really didn’t mean it how it sounded. Of course you aren’t a liability.”
“You never lie.”
“I do lie. Every day.”
I look at myself in the old speckled mirror. I look terrible. Under each eye is a purple mark. Each cheek has a vaudeville spot of color. I’ve studied Megan at every Christmas party I’ve been home for. I’m telling you, she is poreless.
“Go away,” I say because I can feel he’s still there. He can’t follow me here. I pull my clothes off and look down at my weird body, with its too-big joints and waffle-belly fatness. The piercing on my nipple now looks like it’s part of a costume.
“I could unscrew the hinges,” he says in a friendly voice. I think of myself last night, lying on the floor outside like a hound.
“If you do that you’ll be scarred for life. I’m taking a shower.”
“Don’t go back into your shell. It’s okay that you care about this house. And I want to hear how you picture the finished product.” Through the door, he says in a new tone, “DB, please get dressed so I can hug you and tell you I’m sorry.”
“You heard your boss. Make it modern.” My voice sounds even harder when it bounces off the tiles. I crank the shower and it spits and steams. Then I stand in the water and when I cry, the tears wash away. The perfect crime.
I’m standing in the exact same place that Tom Valeska stood naked.
I’m not going to think about things like that anymore.
Chapter 7
An electrician arrives after lunch, walks in, and flips the switch beside the front door. There’s a pop sound, the lights blink, and the electrician curses, snatching his hand back. The house is a viper today. It wants to hurt somebody.
This mug says #1 ASSHOLE on the side. It would be the perfect birthday gift for Jamie. If we’re on speaking terms by then.
I click the camera, turn the mug slightly on the little white turntable, take another shot, and then record a three-hundred-sixty-degree rotation. Then I transfer the digital files and label them with serial numbers. I tick the checklist. If I lose track of which mug is which I will lose my mind. It’s slow, boring, meticulous work.
If I think about the fact that I won the Rosburgh Portrait Prize when I was twenty, I get a shake in my hand and have to redo the set. Why did Tom have to remind me of that? I’d nearly left the memory under Jamie’s bed, along with the canvas print.
“Number one asshole. Maybe I need this one,” I tell Patty, who is asleep on a cushion. “I’m pretty sure it’s my mug.”
I pick it up and spy out the window at Tom, who is currently looking professional and competent, all slid into his clothes in the right way, pointing up at the roofline with a saggy tradesman nodding by his side.
I have lost my goddamn mind in a short period of time. If I had my phone, I’d look at the photo of Megan’s engagement ring again to recalibrate myself. I close my eyes and I can picture it: cushion cut and colder than ice. Like she could press a button on the side and a white lightsaber would come out.
I wouldn’t want something like that. I’d want something like Loretta’s ring: a black sapphire. I should clarify: I want Loretta’s ring, full stop. The fact she left it to Jamie in her will is inexplicable to me. She knew I loved it. She let me borrow it for weeks at a time and said to me, Oh, sweetness, doesn’t it suit you. Was it her way of punishing me for something?
I offered in the solicitor’s parking lot to buy it from him, which was a tactical error. His gray eyes shifted into blue. “No,” he replied with relish.
Now that he knows how badly I want it, that ring is worth more than the Mona Lisa. Luckily for me, no one would be insane enough to marry Jamie either.
It’s sunset when I decide I should grow up and get things back to normal. I find Tom in the backyard alone, writing in a notebook. The tip of his tongue is caught between his teeth.
“Look at you, being all meticulous.”
“Sure am.” He takes a photo of the back stairs with his phone. I’ve never really noticed them before, but they are beautifully rustic. I clomp down them, feeling them bounce.
“I’m so sorry—” he begins what is probably a rehearsed statement. I wave him silent.
“It’s fine.” I take his phone and look at his last shot. “You could probably win an award with that shot. How annoying, I should have been the one to see that. Is there anything you can’t do?” I’m not really joking.
“Plenty. Why don’t you get your camera and do it? Or maybe you could start taking photos of people again.” This might be the closest he’s going to get to asking me to shoot his wedding. He hesitates, and I know it’s about to come. The request that I won’t be able to say no to. “If taking a photo of me—”
A big wave of don’t fucking ask me almost knocks me over. I interrupt him instantly.
“I’m taking more photos than ever, and I’m never going back to people again. Mugs don’t complain. They don’t have little mental breakdowns and ruin their mascara. They don’t write reviews online.”
“Did someone do that?” Googling me would never occur to him.
“Scathing” is all I can say. Apparently, I very much deserve those empty screw holes by the front door.
Unprofessional. Late. Hungover—possibly still drunk? Distracted. Poorly presented. Surly and rude to guests. Blurry. Badly framed. Ruined my memories. Contacting my lawyer.