2. Reed

2

REED

“TIME BETWEEN” – THE BYRDS

A fter work, I head home to my apartment in Old Town. I change out of my suit and put the ring on top of my dresser, then grab my guitar and write out the rest of the song that sparked this morning. Once I’ve practiced playing it through a few times, I venture out into the living room where my roommate, Mason, is still working—or playing video games on his computer. I can never tell which.

He and I are friends from college, and he works from home full time, consulting for a big company.

“Ready to bounce?” I ask.

“Sure thing, rock-star boy,” Mason answers, shutting his laptop and getting up from his desk.

We’re going to an open-mic night together this evening.

We find where I last parked my car, and once we’re on the way, I throw the rough version of the song I recorded after work on the car stereo. “I think I’m gonna play this one tonight. I call it ‘Why So Serious?’”

Mason doesn’t frown, but he appears disinterested. After about thirty seconds, he says, “I’ve got a friend who’s a full-time musician. He comes on the boat with us up at Bobby’s lake house, with our high school friends. And he was always all, ‘Guys, listen to my single!’ So we made a rule: no playing your own songs.”

Mason turns off my song, connects his Spotify to the car stereo, and switches the music. “See? This is his song.”

I balk slightly at the irony that Mason just turned off my demo recording in favor of this other guy’s crappier song to prove a point about not playing crappy music, but I nod. “Ah, okay. Doesn’t sound too bad, honestly.”

“Yeah. That’s what professional production will do for you.”

I park on a side street, and we walk over to the bar hosting the open mic right across from Wrigley Field.

We get some beers and sit down, watching the other musicians for a while. Then it’s my turn.

In my view from the stage, the crowd is sparse—not that it matters to me, since I’m an amateur. I recognize a couple of the faces as regulars. Mostly, though, the people in the bar are just spacing out and eating or drinking, probably thinking about what they’re going to sing once they get their five minutes on stage tonight. But I still give it my all. I perform what I have so far of “Why so Serious?”

Why so serious?

You’re thinkin’ way too hard

No one cares that much about you

Or if Elon will make it to Mars

Take a load off, hold up your torch

And let yourself go

Red sundress sways on the back porch

She knows how to feel the flow

“Yeah, the song is okay,” Mason says when I sit back down. “You’re not really a performer, though. No offense. Not your strong suit.”

“None taken.” I try to feign a smile, pretend like the comment doesn’t affect me. But the truth is, it does. “It’s not like I’m a professional, though.”

“Right. You’re just messing around.”

“Yeah. It’s a hobby.”

“Anyway, let’s enjoy the night. By the way, didn’t mean to barge in on you in the bathroom earlier. I didn’t think you were home.”

I shrug. “No worries.”

“Man to man, you’ve got a fine dick. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Mason speaks loudly, and I can see the women one table over stealing glances at us.

He goes on. “I’ve got a great one, though. That’s for sure. Have you ever seen it? You should see it. I forget if you’ve seen it or not.”

“I haven’t. I’m really, really happy for you, though.”

Strange conversation, as always. That’s Mason for you. Generally I’m not the type of guy to have a dick-measuring contest. I’m more one to speak softly and carry a big you-know-what.

See? I can’t even say it. I’m a shy guy. Silly Catholic upbringing.

Mason is texting some girl. “Dude, these women are all such sluts. She wants to come over tonight.”

“How is that slutty? She likes you.”

“I barely know her.”

“Dude, these women want to marry you. You’re a six-foot-tall finance dude with a trust fund.”

“They prefer the big dick, but yeah, the trust fund is a nice touch.” He winks. “I always drop that one very slyly into the conversation so it’s not like I’m bragging about it.”

“You need to get a grip, bro.”

“What I need is to find a virgin.”

“Really? How many women have you slept with? Isn’t that a little hypocritical?”

He waves a hand in the air. “You know what they call a key that opens a lot of locks?”

“What?”

“A master key.”

“Okay…?”

“And do you know what they call a door that gets opened by a lot of keys?”

“Where are you going with this?”

“A shitty lock.”

“Okay, Jordan Halverson,” I retort. Halverson is a well known influencer who is known for his exaggerated takes that appeal to certain men.

“Bro, why are you hating? This is just the truth. Real men are like roosters. They’ve got a full henhouse. It’s human nature. I’m an alpha.”

I suppress an eye roll. “You’re so alpha, bro. I’m actually getting scared.”

“Just trying to make you understand why your point of view is wrong.”

“You’re telling me, if you meet the perfect woman—she’s a ten out of ten—if she’s slept with even one other person, she’s off the table for you? I call bullshit. That’s so shallow, and I can’t even begin to tell you how ridiculous that is.”

He shifts a little bit in his seat. “Fuck, I don’t know, man. Who knows.”

“You sure you’re just not missing your ex?”

“Bro. Bro. Low blow. Come on, now. Why you gotta bring her up? Plus, I’m over her.”

“You don’t think maybe you’re fucking all of these women trying to fill some hole that won’t be filled?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t hate the player, hate the game. That’s what I like to do. Like, the most fun era of dating is the first six weeks. I like to do that, enjoy the time with her, then let her go. It’s a catch-and-release system. Everything after six weeks is downhill.”

“Don’t you feel bad?”

“Why would I feel bad?”

“You’re deceiving these women into thinking they’ll get a relationship with you for sex. Sometimes you don’t even give ’em your real name. I’ve heard you do that. Doesn’t that feel gross?”

“I need to stay safe, man. Keep a low profile. Some of these women get insane once they realize how much money I come from.”

“Right.” I swig the rest of my beer. “Let’s go home. Gotta call Samantha.”

“Boyfriend duty,” he says.

We get up, and on the way out, he stops at the table of women who were eavesdropping on us.

“Oh hey, ladies. How are you all? I’m Kevin...”

Back in my room at our place in Old Town, I sit on my bed with my laptop and call Samantha on Zoom.

She answers with her brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She’s wearing her big glasses tonight.

“What’s up, babe? How was your day?” I ask.

“Great! I applied for some more jobs. I think that hedge fund wants to hire me.”

“In San Francisco?”

“Yeah.”

I swallow the ball of nerves that creeps up from my stomach. I took the job here on the premise of us both moving to a major city. We’d agreed on Chicago, mostly because our families both live in the Midwest—hers in Wisconsin and mine in the suburbs of Chicago. So the fact that she’s talking about a job that’s not here stresses me out.

But maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe it’ll be remote. I don’t want to jump to conclusions.

“That’s really cool,” I tell her. “That’s great.” I don’t want to get in the way of her life, in any case. We’ll work things out. I’m sure of it. “You’re amazing, and I know you’ll get a job exactly where you want.”

I am the ever-supportive boyfriend. She is a girl boss. Together, we’re a power couple, and I love that about us.

“Thanks.” She smiles, looks down a moment, and purses her lips together. Her brown eyes sparkle on the screen.

I’ve known I wanted to marry her since the first time I saw her in that rundown bar on Cherry Street in West Lafayette when we were both seniors, her at Purdue and myself at a smaller Indiana college.

My mind drifts as I watch her on the Zoom. I’m getting turned on, thinking of her and the things we’re going to do when she gets back.

“Babe,” I say, clearing my throat. “Want to do something fun?”

She rolls her eyes, half-playful, half serious. “Like…?”

“Like…take off your shirt for me.”

“You know I’m shy.”

“You weren’t shy that one night last month.”

“That was after wine night.” She laughs, averting her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Sam, I want to stay connected to you.”

She swallows. “I’m sorry. I’m just not in the mood tonight.”

“Gotcha, no worries.” I take a deep breath and let it go. “I’m sad you can’t make it here this weekend, though.”

I tried to convince her last time we talked, but she said she has too much on her plate.

She nods. “Me too. You and Charlie doing anything together when he comes back to town?”

Charlie Dunn is my good friend from high school. We were sprinters on the track team together, and then he went off to West Point. I barely saw him after that. But when he comes to town, he’s always got something up his sleeve.

“I think we’re just going for a run, maybe get a quick workout in,” I say. “Wendy is pregnant, so I’m sure we’ll be mostly taking it easy.”

“That’s so sweet. Well, tell them I say hi.”

“I will.”

There’s an awkward pause. Maybe it’s that she just did the digital equivalent of turning me down for sex. And mentioned the possibility of getting a job in San Francisco.

Thing is, we’ve got six years of relationship between us. But it’s more than that. It’s a best friendship, too. Lovers and best friends—that’s always what I’ve wanted in my partner. Corny, I know.

“Super excited to come see you in a couple of weeks,” I tell her.

She nods. “Seems like it’s been forever.”

Awkward pause number two for this phone call.

“Hey, can I play you a song I wrote today?”

“Sure.”

I play “Why So Serious?” for her. It’s about three minutes long now, and Sam smiles dimly while I play.

“Great,” she says when I’ve finished. “I think it’s good for you to have that outlet.”

“Yeah,” I respond, but find myself feeling sad. “ It’s good for you to have that outlet” isn’t exactly the same as, “ That song is amazing!”

Not that I need her to be my cheerleader. Besides, maybe the song just isn’t that good.

“All right, I have to go,” she announces after a moment. “Some friends are coming in from Europe, and I have to get the apartment cleaned up.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Some old classmates from Denmark who studied abroad here for a term. I have to run the Berkeley booth at this conference for international entrepreneurs.”

“Sounds so cool. Have a great night. Love you!”

“You too!” she says.

“Have a great night? Or love me too?” I joke.

“Silly goose. Both, obviously. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

I shut my laptop and look out my window at the brick wall next door. Something doesn’t feel right in my heart right now.

Am I imagining it?

No compliment on the song, and “you too” instead of “love you too.”

Is that something?

Or nothing?

I look over at the ring box, which is now on my dresser.

I’m imagining it. We just need some IRL human connection. I tend to be an overthinker.

I go out to the living room and find Mason sitting on the couch with the girl he was texting earlier, I assume. They’re watching the end of the Cubs game. I continue on to the kitchen.

“You left the butter out again,” Mason yells from the couch.

I look down at the butter as I undo the twisty tie to get a piece of bread. “You’re supposed to leave the butter out.”

“Not in this place. It’s dirty.”

“Butter is meant to be left out,” I tell him as I spread butter on a piece of bread. “You could leave it out for weeks, and it won’t go bad. When it’s cold, you can’t spread it on bread like I’m doing now.”

“It’s just gross. This isn’t a debate. It’s science. Do you believe in science?”

I suppress a sigh. Relationships are about compromise—friendships too.

After finishing my bread and butter—and putting the butter in the fridge—I decide to leave the two of them alone and not interrupt their date, even though it annoys me that Mason constantly occupies the living space with some new girl when we split rent fifty-fifty.

As I’m brushing my teeth a little while later, I notice something like it’s the first time I’m seeing it. There’s an oil painting of a blue horse hanging in our hall, opposite the bathroom. I’ve looked at the painting hundreds of times since Mason and I moved in together last November. But for some reason, it occurs to me now that the painting is way different than anything Mason likes. It’s not his vibe.

Mason is a Bud Light kind of guy—Rolling Rock on a fancy night. He likes to watch sports and gamble. He’s not an I-buy-indie-artwork-at-farmers-markets type. And this painting is so detailed. A blue horse grazes on green grass with a bright, brilliant lime green sun setting in a purple sky. There are mountains behind it.

I wonder where he got it. It’s one of those things you never think to ask.

Back in my room, I try to read the book I’ve been working on this week—Bruce Springstein’s autobiography—but I can’t concentrate. So I close it and try to fall asleep, but my mind is a swirl of stresses.

Samantha’s job, the ring I bought for her.

Mason’s dick, blue horses .

But Charlie Dunn’s getting in tomorrow. Thursday. He’s always a breath of fresh air.