Page 51 of Master Debater

Lights from a car illuminated the living room in stripes, and from my spot on the couch, I pried the slats in the blind apart so I could see if it was the Porsche. But it was too dark.

Van Gogh meowed as he jumped up onto the back of the couch. His whiskers and ears twitched with the outside noise, and the blinds rattled together as he forced his way onto the window ledge. Then he glanced over his shoulder at me, happy to join in on what he assumed was a fun game instead of an act of desperation.

“Looks like it’s just going to be you and me tonight, kitty.” I clicked on the TV and turned it up nice and loud to help drown out the impulse to glance at every little noise. And it’s not as if my neighbor were home to complain.

I couldn’t keep doing this to myself. Waiting. Aching. Staying up too late, just in case. Not only could I not afford to slip up at work, but I was also preparing to spend a lot of time, energy, and resources on recording demos. With a piano player who wasn’t Nate.

It’ll stop being fun and convenient.

“No. That’s not what’s happening,” I said to the voice in my head that wasn’t powerful or harmonious, but grating and smug. “Nate’s just busy, and so am I.”

The novelty will wear off sooner or later.

* * *

He has no idea how needy you can be.

“I deserve effort,” I said aloud, to combat my ex’s voice, doing my best to superimpose Leah’s over the top of mine.

Instead of looking at yourself, you’ll wonder where the spark’s gone.

“That’s not it,” I said, my empty living room echoing the words back to me. Did it have to amplify the uncertainty in the statement too?

At the vibrating chime that came from my front pocket, I whipped out my phone to read the text. The first thought I had was Not Nate, proving I wasn’t fooling anyone by pretending to be all casual and cool about the entire situation, not even myself.

I blinked my eyes, refusing to let tears form, and read the text again. Deep down, I knew I was happy. Thrilled, even. It was just hard to feel through the unsettling fog that rolled in thicker and thicker with each passing day.

* * *

Rashida: the associate director heard you performing today and says one of his music publishing contacts have been searching for a song like yours. As soon as we have the demo recorded, he’ll set up a meeting.

* * *

Rashida: See? I told you that you were brilliant, and that once you flapped your wings again, you’d fly, fly, fly!

* * *

The second message was such a mom-like thing to say, and the enormity of what it could mean began to seep in. As well as the vision of calling up Mom and conveying the news to her. I’d fantasized about this moment for a long time, and here it was, coalescing in front of me. I refused not to honor it the way it should be honored.

“I’m going to get to meet with someone at a music publishing company and discuss my songs. Isn’t that cool?”

Van Gogh leaped to the floor and rushed in the direction of the food bowl. Evidently, he wanted to celebrate by me feeding him more treats.

I decided I deserved a treat as well and grabbed a fudge-covered ice cream bar out of the fridge. Two parts celebration, and one part consoling myself over the fact Nate wasn’t here to toast to my success, with dessert or with wine, and that he hadn’t brought up my song since I’d asked for his help with it a week and a half ago.

I’d figured it out on my own, which, yay, but my dream had been eclipsed by some lawsuit that’d been brought against a pharmaceutical and biotech company.

Sort of like the time Eric celebrated our fifth anniversary with the person who’d invented an oral scanner that was going to change the game. Somehow, I was constantly being outshone by old white dudes.

Here I was, on the precipice of my dream, and Nate was acting much the same as my ex had—that his work was more important than my art and dreams would ever be.

I’d just tossed the wrapper and wooden popsicle stick in the trash when the sound of a loud knock broke through.

My heart lurched in its direction, racing faster than I could, even with all the bike riding.

Nate and I will talk, and I’ll remind him about the song, and I’m sure he’ll make time to listen to it if I convey how important it is to me. Then we’ll have sex and cuddle, and it’ll all be okay.

The cool breeze that drifted over me as I opened the door held the promise of crispy leaves on the ground and the availability of pumpkin spice-flavored treats in every coffee shop and bakery.

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