Page 5 of Love Out Loud

“She likes you.”

“Who doesn’t?” I deflect.

Noah huffs. “Does it get heavy carrying that giant ego around with you everywhere?”

“It’s why I have to work out, man. Gotta stay in shape to lug it with me.”

The truth is that Jessica probably does want to sleep with me, but I would never. She’s far too young, and frankly, she’s almost definitely more interested in what I can do for her than what I can do to her, which is not a dynamic I like in the bedroom.

“Okay, well, we have a meeting tomorrow. I’ll see what everyone says and let you know. This might delay us a month or more, and I probably can’t keep Silas from taking another job in the meantime.”

Silas Matthews is the male narrator Jessica finally settled on. She actually cast him first, which is no surprise. He’s incredibly sought after. It probably also helps that he’s good looking and charming. Losing him would mean the whole project would likely fall apart. I don’t particularly like the guy, but I have to admit, he does good work.

“He can’t record his part now?”

“I can’t ask him to commit the time to a project we don’t know is happening. You know that,” Noah chastises.

He’s right. I do know that. A guy can dream, though.

“Fine. I’ll go through my little black book and see if anyone comes to mind,” I say as I pace to the other side of my bedroom.

Noah snorts. “You’re getting old. No one has a little black book anymore.”

“It was a metaphor, asshole.”

“Whatever you say. Talk tomorrow.” He hangs up, leaving me staring at my phone screen.

I flop onto my bed in defeat. Seven-thirty on a Sunday evening, and the week ahead is already shaping up to be a disaster. I could find someone to go out with me and drown my worries in drinks and loud music, but the only person I want to talk to is two thousand miles away and likely already asleep.

Ever since we were kids, Lark has had a way of making shitty situations feel less awful. When I was sixteen, we had to put my dog down. Daisy was a golden retriever my nomadic parents had bought for me as a puppy in a rare fit of guilt about moving me around the country whenever the wind blew a certain way or a job opportunity came up. That dog had been with me through three moves, my early adolescence, my first breakup, and a hell of a lot more.

Lark loved Daisy, and Daisy loved her. There was no question about it. Even when Daisy’s arthritis got so bad she could barely make it out of her doggy bed, she’d come padding over to Lark whenever she came over. I have a picture of the two of them sitting in the grass at a park, just looking out at nothing. But when we put Daisy down, Lark was there. She held my hand in silence while I tried—unsuccessfully—not to cry. And then when it was all over, she went home for a few hours. I remember thinking I just wanted her to stay, but I understood that she needed some space. Turns out she crafted a whole shadow box with pictures and Daisy’s favorite toy Lark had swiped from my room.

I would have stolen her collar, too, but you wouldn’t let it out of your sight, she had said. I laughed then—a huge, wet sound that caught me completely off guard. I still don’t know why I thought that was so funny. Something about Lark has just always made it easier to laugh.

I could use a laugh right about now. This certainly isn’t at the level of losing Daisy. I’m not even all that worried about losing my apartment or this gig. I’ll find something else if I have to. But it complicates things enough to be really inconvenient.

Ten-thirty Michigan time isn’t too late to call her, probably, and I really want to see her face, so I push the Call button without thinking too hard about it. I sit on the edge of my bed while the phone rings a few times.

When she answers, the room is dark. I can barely see the outline of her face in the ambient light from her screen, and she’s clearly in bed.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say quickly.

“You didn’t.” She’s not facing the screen, and her voice is heavy. Not with sleep, I realize, but with sadness. A quiet sniffle confirms it.

I sit straight up in my bed, my knuckles going white as I grip my phone. “Lark, are you crying?”

“No,” she says obstinately. She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. “Maybe.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Who do I have to kill?”

She huffs a laugh. “Father Time?”

I’m not getting it, but I can play along until I do. Just like that improv class she made me take in high school. Yes, and…

“He’s a dirty thief,” I grumble as my hand loosens on my phone.

She wipes her face again, then finally turns to look at the screen. Her nose and eyes are puffy and red, indicating she’s been at this for a while. One minor inconvenience and she’s the first person I want to talk to. She’s been crying for what looks like a long time. Why didn’t she call me?