Page 124 of The Muse
“Okay then.” I laugh, swiping out of the texting screen. “Nice knowing ya, June.” I keep eating my sandwich even though I’m no longer hungry, and my chest aches. I don’t want it to be love. Nope. No broken heart shit for me.
My phone vibrates, and the screen lights up.
June: How long is your sentence?
My sentence? Does she mean how long do I have to work for the Rawlings?
Flynn: No clue. Afraid to ask
June: I bet you’re the highest paid convict ever
What happened? Was she distracted? Is that why she didn’t respond right away? Maybe she’s practicing her cello, but that doesn’t make sense because she texted first. No. She paused,needing a moment to digest what I confessed. And she has no idea how much irony there is in her word choice.
Flynn: I asked for a pay cut
June: Who does that?
Flynn: People who want to stay focused on what matters
Again, she doesn’t respond. What’s wrong with wanting to stay focused on other people’s struggles? Not wanting the love of money to turn me into someone who looks the other way?
June: Can’t talk. Need to stay focused on my terminally ill grandmother
“Shit …” I smack my phone face down on the counter and sigh.
I don’t need emojis to tell me she’s pissed.
I hop off the barstool and pace the room. Then I grab my phone and call Monroe.
“What’s up?” he answers.
There’s clinking and grinding noises in the background. Typical sounds in an auto repair shop.
“I think I should just say ‘fuck it,’ and be a rich asshole. I don’t know if there’s a heaven, but I bet a few rich people get in if there is. So what’s the point, ya know? What’s the point of keeping a level head if I can just pick a charity to Venmo a few thousand bucks to every month from my yacht? Where is the alternative getting me in life? I’ll tell you, nowhere. I just keep sticking my foot in my mouth which makes me look and feel like an asshole, so if I’m going to be an asshole either way, why not be a rich one?”
“Well,” he chuckles, “first, I’m working. Second, that’s a lot to unpack. Third, it must be nice to have the option to be rich or stay poor. I would choose rich seven days a week. So judge me all you want, but I don’t know why you think being poor is some ethical choice poor people are making. And if being rich is so awful, why are you still working for rich people? Go to jail. Hang out with your tribe of poor criminals. You already sound stuck-up and entitled by calling me at work to rant about your dilemma that everyone else would love to have. And I say all of this with the most love possible. Okay?”
I sigh. “June’s grandma is terminally ill.”
“Sorry to hear that. But everyone is going to die. If you make it to be a grandparent, I don’t think anyone should feel cheated when you die. Now, if we’re done here, I have to work.”
“Thanks, man,” I say.
He laughs. “I didn’t do a damn thing, but you’re welcome.”
I set my phone on the counter and exhale. What is this life of mine?
“FUUUCK!”
The voices in my head return. I don’t even know whose they are, perhaps a mix of every person who has ever tried to tell me anything. So I go for another run, using memories of Zoya playing Bach to propel me around the lake.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
After six miles, I drop in the same spot, stare at the same sky, and wait for a different outcome.
