I pull a pen from my pocket, and after grabbing a napkin, I quickly jot down my name and number. I quickly stand and hold it out for her. "Well, take this at least. And if you find some time before you leave, call me or something." I stand holding that napkin out for what seems like eons before she takes it.
"Oh, sure," she says, a nervous smile twitching over her red lips. "Sure…" And with that, she turns and leaves.
I throw two fingers in the air and clear my throat. "Two more, Eddie. Jame-o."
“Faces”—The Ratells
"You better have a real good goddamn explanation, Janine. And real fucking quick!" I bark into the phone, a blinding migraine sending surges of pain deep within my eye sockets and temples. The intense throbbing makes me wish I could take a fucking ax to my own neck.
"You said if she needed anything—anything at all—to take care of it. She called me… scared. And she wanted a ride to the city. She didn't feel safe there with your crazy ass. You never said anything about letting you in on our every move," she says with such a sense of calm it actually irritates me.
"Dammit, Janine, what if I’d felt inspired? What if I needed her to write? You know it can hit at any moment. You fucking know that. This is unacceptable."
"Listen to me… she may not even want to write with you anymore. You scared the shit out of her with that nasty temper. Throwing shit and belittling her."
She lets that sink in for a second, and to my surprise, it actually does. I actually feel a little guilty.
"You need to record yourself sometime when you get like that. It's frightening to—"
"Okay, okay, I get your point." I'm not one to be lectured. "Just bring her back. Now. I want to write."
"Are you not hearing me? She doesn't know if she wants to come back. She's thinking about going home. And I'll tell you the truth, I don't blame her. I've experienced you like that many times myself and—"
"Enough," I say with a bite. I’m overcome with the intense desire to hurl the phone against the fucking wall, and if Janine were here, I’d bash her damn skull in with it. "I don't need to hear this shit. Just do what you must to get her back. Money, a massage, a fucking dildo for all I care. Just get her ass back here. I want to write."
"I've already talked to her a little bit tonight, and I will again first thing in the morning, but it's gonna take more than just me doing something here…" She takes a deep breath before continuing. "Just show her your good side. I've seen it. I know it's deep down there somewhere underneath all the arrogance and ego."
She snickers, and it makes me want to rip out her vocal chords, but… she's right. If I'm ever going to make something out of this book, if I'm ever going to get the weight of critics' bullshit off my shoulders, I need her.
"She's irreplaceable, Edwin. I'm the one that read every story. Countless hours. Page after page after page. She's the one. She's the only one," she says with sincerity, and an awkward silence follows.
"Okay," I whisper, resigned in what I must do.
"She'll be just fine here with me tonight. I'll give you a call in the morning. Okay?"
"Okay," I repeat and hear a click on the other end of the line followed by a dial tone.
I keep the receiver against my ear for a moment longer, peering at nothing in particular, my thoughts wandering to places they shouldn't go. I finally hang up, grab my coat from the butcher block, and make my way to the front door.
It’s time to relieve a little stress.
Janine's Camaro pulls up to the cabin at a quarter past noon, her convertible top down and some shitty Top 40 single blaring. To be a professional woman of forty years of age and listening to some Justin Bieber bullshit is just a travesty. What can I do? I hate the woman. I'd hack her to death if she weren't so damn good at her job. She’s certainly dug her roots in nice and deep. Right about now though, I couldn’t care less about her musical tastes. I'm just happy she's bringing Miranda back. My Miranda.
I didn't sleep well last night, tossing and turning and thinking about how I may have overreacted.
I open the door and step onto the porch just as Janine hits the top step with Miranda's luggage. Miranda is a few steps behind her, and she's not looking at me, her eyes instead running loops across the gravel drive.
"Janine…" I barely look at her. My eyes are locked on Miranda, waiting for her to look up. "Miranda… good to see you both."
Miranda scoffs, and when she finally does look up, she smiles weakly. "You too."
It's barely audible. Her gaze once again falls to the ground, and she makes her way in after Janine. I take a moment on the porch, my eyes flitting over the rough edges of the mountains on the horizon as I give them time to get her stuff situated. My gaze trails down to my pine-tree-riddled property, thick aging pines that stand as a border to everything… and everyone.
Taking one last deep breath of the rich country air, I head inside to meet them. They're talking in hushed tones in the office. Of course, the conversation quickly changes to normal volumes when I approach. As if I don’t know they were discussing me.