I sketched Ming slinking across the stage and Johnny sassing the crowd. I drew Jane in his three-piece suit and another performer, a fire-eater from Coney Island, rolling a flaming baton over her skin. I sketched for hours, but I didn’t draw Meryton. Interior design was still too raw, but after months in creative limbo, it was invigorating to have an outlet again.

Now Andrea is buying the building. And renovating . . . A thrill dances up my spine at the prospect, more intense now that I’m in front of my work. Meryton has facilitated so much good in my life; the least I can do is contribute to this new chapter of its story.

With that appreciation, I sketch out my idea about the arc behind the stage. I lose track of the time, adding a rendering of the Twins on their silks. When I reach for my laptop, I cut myself off, knowing damn well I’m about to tumble down an internet rabbit hole of wallpaper searches.

I sag into the seat, surveying my work. It really is good. I really am good.

A heavy melancholy settles over me, bearing down with the familiar weight of regret and shame. But the late hour overtakes it. My aching eyelids demand to be relieved of the layers of shadow, liner, and residual eyelash glue, and I go to the bathroom to get ready for bed. By my return trudge to the bedroom, exhaustion has set in. Jammies are a bridge too far, and I collapse into bed after taking off my clothes, twining the cool sheets around my bare body. As I settle, blue and red lights flash around the edges of my blinds, and I grope for the sleep mask and earplugs on my nightstand.

One more time, the two words bounce in my brain: “thoroughly tolerable.”

“Hmph.” I situate my mask. I wedge in an earplug on one side, then the other, and tug the comforter up to my chin. “Tolerable my butt.”

CHAPTER

4

I’m drifting back to consciousness when a familiar jostling sets me rocking. I peel back the corner of my sleep mask and glare down at Jane, sprawled across the foot of the bed, wearing only his blue paisley pajama pants. He twinkles his fingers at me.

I sit up, mindful to keep the sheet high over my bare torso, then note the time on the clock: 10:17 a.m. Not too bad. I push the mask onto my forehead and pluck out my earplugs. “And when did you crawl in?”

“Around four.” He props himself up on an elbow, head in one hand as he traces the vine pattern on my duvet cover with the other.

“Really?” Four’s late for him. I reach to the nightstand and drop the earplugs into the jewelry tray, then arrange the comforter around my shoulders. “How’d the after-hours show go?”