“Yeah,” I answer. “That should definitely come first. But does taking care of her mean that you can’t have a life of your own, too? I’m not trying to take you away from her at all. I’m just asking where you see me in your life.”
I’m starting to feel like I’m nagging him, and I don’t like that feeling.
Maybe it would be simpler if I just shut up and went with it. Sooner or later, it’ll be clear exactly what we’re doing, and in the meantime, I am enjoying myself.
Still, I wouldn’t be this persistent—it wouldn’t even be this strong on my mind if I weren’t already emotionally involved to the point where I really do need an answer if we’re going to keep going.
Maybe it would just be simpler if we just called the whole thing off.
“I’m going to go make some coffee,” he says.
“All right,” I tell him. “Make a full pot, will you?”
“Always do,” he says.
That seems a bit wasteful.
He’s out of bed and out of the room.
Well, that didn’t go the way I hoped it would.
I know what I’m doing right now. I’m pushing a wedge between us because I’m freaked out about actually getting close to him.
I think I would have been happy if he’d said we’re in a relationship, but with the uncertainty having gone on for weeks now, if he’s going to keep hedging his bets, I’m going to keep pushing him away.
That’s only fair, I think.
I get up and cocoon myself in my bathrobe. Damian is in the kitchen pouring water into the coffeemaker, and for a moment, it almost looks like a traditional, domestic scene.
I shudder.
“What are you doing today?” I ask.
“I’m working,” he says. “What are you doing today?”
“I’ve only got a couple of scenes today, so I’ve got a radio interview scheduled for later,” I tell him.
“Fun,” he says. “Fuck it up.”
“Why would you think I would I fuck it up?” I ask, ready to turn a bit of tension into a full-blown argument.
“Whoa,” he says, turning around with his hands up. “It’s the same thing as telling someone to break a leg before they go onstage. I forgot that I haven’t said that to you before.”
He’s suitably penitent that I let it go.
I actually kind of like that, telling a person to fuck it up before they have some kind of performance to give, and make no mistake: radio interviews are performances.
“All right,” I tell him. “You’re forgiven—but watch it.”
“All right,” he says, laughing, “all right.”
Things aren’t perfect. His mind is elsewhere a lot of the time, though his reasoning for that is sound enough. I don’t know if we’re friends or fuck buddies or lovers or on our way to a big wedding one day, but all in all, I’m happy with the way things are, and so I ask, “How’s the coffee coming?”
* * *
On the set, I’m starting to notice something odd.
When I come around a corner or out of a room, everyone seems to be staring at me, and as much as I’d love to chalk it up to the world-class performances I’ve been giving, day after day, almost without rest and yet always with perfect poise and all that, but I’m not that ego-blinded.