“You sound like my agent,” Gavin says.
“Thank you,” I say, because Gavin’s agent must be smart or else Gavin wouldn’t be working with him or her. “Do you get nervous when you’re on TV and everyone’s looking at you?”
“Yeah. But it’s a good kind of nervous.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had the good kind of nervous.”
“Really? I live off that feeling.”
I’d like to know what the good kind of nervous feels like because I’ve only ever felt the bad kind. “Thanks for taking me on this trip. I can’t wait to go home and see if I can make the song better now.”
“I meant to tell you. I’ve had your chorus stuck in my head ever since you played it for me.”
I clap my hands together just one time. “That’s amazing! That means it’s in your system!”
“The thing is, I couldn’t remember any of the lyrics.”
I’m learning that when Gavin says something nice, there’s always something else that comes after it, so I think from now on, I need to listen to only the first thing he says and then quickly run out of the room.
“I knew the word memory was in there,” Gavin says, “but I didn’t know how. You need something else to make it stick. Like Jay-Z’s song ‘Ninety-Nine Problems.’ He doesn’t have a bunch of problems. He’s got ninety-nine of them. That’s what makes it memorable.”
Memorable is a tough word to understand. Everything feels memorable to me. How am I supposed to know what’s memorable to everyone else? I want to lay my head on the table because I’m feeling very tired, but the tabletop is too sticky. “Where are we going next?”
I think I did it again, said the wrong thing, because Gavin makes his mouth very tight and he drops my half-eaten slice on his plate and tosses his dirty napkin on top. “There’s one more stop I’ve got to make.”
14
We wait for the broker on Thompson Street. Her name is Claire. After talking to Paige last night, I sent an e-mail to Syd’s real estate agent in L.A., who wrote me back this morning and directed me to Claire in the New York office.
“Are you nervous?” Joan asks.
“No. Why?”
“Your foot is tapping really fast.”
I look. Joan’s right. I take a deep breath to compose myself. Perfectly timed, because here she comes, her high heels clacking down the sidewalk. She extends her hand well before actually reaching us.
“Claire,” she says.
“Gavin.”
“Pleasure.” She gestures to Joan. “And who is this?”
“I’m Joan Lennon.”
“Nice to meet you, Joan.” Claire looks back to me for further explanation, but I don’t offer any, just a broad smile.
We follow her inside. When we spoke on the phone earlier today, Claire confirmed that she did indeed show Syd a property in Manhattan. Not this exact property—the one they saw has since sold—but one just like it and in the same neighborhood. Also, it wasn’t in January, like Paige had suggested, but in February. This is the first piece of proof I’ve obtained that Sydney really did travel to New York a second time this year.
Claire points out the doorman, mentions a gym. She keeps pitching, but again I’m missing words, too distracted by the possible revelations ahead. We reach an elevator and go up.
“How is he?” Claire asks, our three bodies pressed tight.
“Who?”
“Mr. Brennett.”
I didn’t get into it on the phone, didn’t see the point. I simply asked Claire if she could show me more of what she showed Sydney. Now we’re face to face, inches apart, and I’ve got a little girl peering up at me, waiting for my answer.
I grab Joan’s hand and squeeze gently. “He’s great.”
Claire smiles.
The elevator lets us out and Claire guides us to a corner apartment. She’s giving us the whole rap: square footage, river views, bedrooms, bathrooms, amenities, finishes. But Claire is wasting her breath. I’m not buying anything.
She leads us to the first of two bedrooms, then, after an apology, excuses herself to take a phone call. Joan has to use the bathroom so I send her into the en suite.
Alone now in the master bedroom, I take a seat on the queen bed. We have a queen at home. I wanted to upgrade to a king, but Syd wouldn’t do it. He joked that we’d never see each other again.
It takes a lot of searching and luck to find a partner worthy of your bed. Sleep is so precious, and a partner cuts your space in half. They hog your blanket; they snore. But then you fall in love and you gladly invite one in. Over time your sleep patterns are no longer your own. The two of you form a joint routine. Years pass, and you barely remember the value you once placed in having a solitary bed. Until one day your partner travels for business and the bed is all yours again. You stretch out in every direction. When your pillow gets stale, you swap it out for the cold one. You sleep deeply that night. But then the second night arrives and it’s harder to find peace. The balance of the bed is off. You can’t achieve the right temperature in the room. Nothing you do fixes the problem. It’s a bed for two, not one. Your partner returns. You’re not so much relieved as stabilized. Things are back to normal. You tell him to roll over, he’s snoring. A part of you wishes you were alone again. Until the day comes when your partner never returns. You realize how wrong you were for not always cherishing your shared bed. You forgot the earliest lesson of love: a little discomfort is a small price to pay.
Joan exits the bathroom. She notices we’re alone and takes advantage of it. “Why did you lie about Sydney?”
I tell her the truth. “Sometimes it’s easier to lie.”
I’m not sure it’s the right lesson to teach her, but what can I say? I’m doing my best to navigate an awkward situation. Besides, it was just a fib. I’m here to uncover the real lies.
I look around the room, searching for potential clues. Syd was never in this exact room, but he was somewhere not too far from here, perusing a similar space. What was he looking for? If it was intended for both of us, why didn’t he let me know?
“I’m sorry about that,” Claire says, returning.
I stand up from the bed.
“So, this is the master bedroom.” She keeps her phone in her hand, pointing with a closed fist. “As you can see, the size is quite generous. You get gorgeous light through the window here. The closet is definitely roomy by city standards. And, of course, the en suite bath.”
“It’s very nice,” Joan says.
Claire smiles and turns to me. “Any questions?”
“Not at the moment.”
Claire pushes on with the tour, leads us into a modest second bedroom. “This could work for an office or maybe a child’s room. I know Mr. Brennett was envisioning a place suitable for a family.”