Page 8 of Last Chorus

Now that I’ve seen through you

You can take your pretty words

Stuff them in your throat

And choke

Lying on my side in bed, I watch the digital clock on the nightstand creep slowly toward 4:00 a.m. Outside of its muted blue glow, the bedroomis swathed in velvety black. The dense, textured heaviness would have terrified me years ago, but now it’s as familiar as the keys of a piano.

As I gaze into the dark, I think about that famous Nietzsche quote. How if you stare long enough into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you. Reaches out and touches you.

Perhaps he’s right, and in some obscure way, I’ve become what I fear.

I can’t find the energy to care.

3:36 a.m.

With twenty-four minutes before I can get out of bed without garnering suspicion, I roll over. Clay lies in his usual position facing away from me. I stare at the slope of his shoulder under the coverlet, tracking its rhythmic rise and fall.

The three feet between us might as well be a thousand. We only traverse the space during sex, something that’s become an increasingly rare activity over the last six months.

I may be perpetually sleep-deprived, but I’m not blind. More than our sex life has changed since we moved in together. Outside of weekly date nights—always in public with the pressure of paparazzi watching us—we don’t spend time together like we usedto. No more casual nights just the two of us, chatting and laughing and enjoying each other’s company.

I thought living in the same city, the same house, would bring us closer. But the opposite has happened. He works late most evenings. When he does come home at a decent hour, after dinner, he disappears into his office or our home gym. In the last month especially, the time we do spend together is set to a soundtrack of his passive-aggressive disappointment and my apathetic avoidance.

I know I should care more. Feel something…bigger. About him. About my life and its current trajectory. But I’m insulated underwater, dark and cold. Everything around me is slightly distorted, colors and sounds muted.

I roll over to face the clock.

3:45 a.m.

Fifteen more minutes until I can make coffee and sneak out to the pool house where I’ve hidden caramel creamer in the mini-fridge. Two hours until I have to choke down egg whites and toast with a smear of avocado. Four hours until?—

Sheets rustle, the sound jarring in my silence-attuned ears. I wait for Clay to settle again, but instead, the mattress behind me dips with his weight. I suck in astartled breath as his arm slides over my waist. He draws my back against his front and kisses my shoulder.

“I know you’re awake,” he whispers. “I could hear you thinking in my dreams.”

There’s a smile in his voice.

I relax against him, my worry dispersing. He’s not going to leave me, and I have no reason to leave him. Besides, no relationship is perfect. Intimacy ebbs and flows over the years. What we have is reliable, and that’s what matters.

Deft fingers slide down my stomach and lift the hem of my nightgown. “How about an early New Year’s gift?” he murmurs.

In reply, I cover his hand with mine and guide it between my legs. His touch doesn’t incite overwhelming need, but that’s okay. Passion isn’t all that important in the scheme of things.

I can pretend.

The little lies don’t matter, anyway.

When I stepout of the shower an hour later, Clay is shaving at the bathroom sink. His lean torso is on display, tanned and toned. Hazel eyes track me as I towel dry.

“The stylist should be here around two so we can pick out your dress for tonight.” His gaze lowers to the sink as he rinses his razor. “Hair and makeup start at four, and the car will be here at seven. Drink lots of water today, and make sure you take a nap this morning. Ten to twelve would be a good time for it. I have to do a little work, but we’ll have lunch together at twelve-fifteen.”

I make a sound of agreement, then trade my towel for a robe and move to the second sink to brush my teeth. As I squeeze toothpaste onto the brush, I wait for a reminder to floss. When it doesn’t come—he’s distracted rinsing his face with cold water—I’m almost disappointed. Not because I actually enjoy his micro-managing, though most days it doesn’t bother me. Sometimes it’s even a game.If I dothis,or don’t dothat,what will he say?

Lily hates that Clay is so controlling. I understand her concern, I really do. It makes perfect sense why she and Rye don’t like him. What they can’t see, can’t possibly understand, is the lure for me. The relief I feel being taken care of—and the necessity of it.

When I ran into Clay at an awards show afterparty two years ago, I was floundering. Flickering like a dying light. Eminently close to giving up on… everything.

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