Page 39 of Side Piece

It’s been seven muthafreaking days since I’ve been inside Tess. Texts, calls, and Facetime suck. I need to feel her skin, touch her, and smell her. I’m a man obsessed, but our plan works. If we know when we’ll see each other, we get a shit ton of work done. She’s leaving Dallas as I arrive, best we could come up with. I’ll settle for kissing her soft and sensuous lips in an airport lounge. I told my dad about her, then my sister called with a million questions. My family has no secrets.

MOM: Honey, I looked at the Instagram, and she’s quite lovely and popular. I’ve shelved many of her books. I might read.

ALEX: They’re racy, Mom.

MOM: Who doesn’t need a touch of spice? Your father would love it.

ALEX: Stop. Just stop. I’m almost at the airport.

MOM: Well, let me know when it’s time to bring her around. I’d like to have a chat with the woman who’s kept your attention long enough to tell your father. Where do her people come from?

ALEX: This isn’t an Austen novel; she doesn’t have people. She has married brothers. And there’s a father who lives in Florida.

MOM: I read about the mother and the cancer—poor girl.

ALEX: She’s stronger than you’re giving her credit.

MOM: Give her my regards.

ALEX: I will.

Sometimes my mother forgets she hasn’t lived in England in fifty years. Regards, and people.

IV

Multi-Tasking

28

Tess

I’ve accomplished a lot in the airport lounge, but now his flight’s delayed, and mine’s not. We’re a missed connection. Maybe he doesn’t care. This frenetic pace of long-distance relationship building is exhausting and depressing.

I call. “I saw.”

“Sucks. Sucks so hard. I can’t change my schedule.”

“Mine’s immovable. Can you come to Rhode Island?” I say kind of snotty.

He throws it back, “Not fair, Tess. I can’t be the only one who. After the election, we’ll have time, but I’m sure there’s a lot of time you’re not traveling and just writing.”

“Excuse me? Just writing?”

He huffs out a frustrated breath. “You know what I mean.”

“I do. But bad phrasing. I have to put this all to the side. I’m so obsessed with carving time I’m constantly losing my train of thought.”

“I’m fucking pissed. I want to figure out if this is what we both hope it could be.”

And suddenly I’m sad, not mad. I don’t see a way through. I could move to LA, but he hasn’t asked, and it seems presumptuous to move across the country on a hunch. I sigh and say, “The way you talk.”

“Can you just write the perfect scenario for us?”

“I could, but it wouldn’t be us.”

“My interview’s vitally important and a secret. I can’t upend it all for you.”

I snap, “Dude. Don’t do that. Don’t overexplain, just say you have to work.”