I look at the cereal box and decide against it. I’m not going to be a on-the-phone-eater on top of feeling sorry for myself.
“But I didn’t ask for his help,” I insist.
“And likely you never would,” Tira fires right back. “And before you say it, I know you didn’t need his help, either. But what you have to bear in mind is that he wasn’t manipulating you with some kind of evil scheme. He was legitimately trying to do something nice for you, something that would be a benefit to a huge, important part of your life. And you completely overreacted.”
“It didn’t feel that way at the time,” I protest.
“Overreacting never does,” she replies. “You can chalk it up to being hurt or being mad, but it doesn’t change the fact that you flew off the handle, plain and simple.”
I think this over for a few moments. “So what do I do?”
“You’ve got to deal with this. Otherwise, you’re going to be a zombie at work and spend your off hours schlepping around your apartment in your bathrobe.”
I close and belt my bathrobe.
“So, how do I deal with it?” I want to know.
She sighs, the sigh of one who is communicating something childishly simple.
“Two words. Call. Him.”
I shake my head. “No, no, no…why can’t he be the one to call me? I’m the wronged party here.”
“And as long as you keep thinking of yourself that way, he’s not going to call you, either. He’ll assume, rightly, that you’re still pissed at him and that you won’t want to talk to him. I’m telling you, he’s waiting for you to break the radio silence here.”
“T., you don’t understand,” I say. “I can’t call him.”
“Why not?”
“I just…can’t.”
“Sound reasoning there. Look, we could just go round and round on this, or you could suck it up and call him. Text him. Leave him a voice mail. Something!”
“I’ll think about it,” I tell her and hang up.
I look around my apartment, which seems oddly gray and still. It’s hard to remember how much like a sunset it had looked, strewn about with sunflowers the way it had been weeks ago. Any feeling of warmth, that glowing quality, seems to have departed. Now all the colors are muted, and the air feels dusty.
I wash my face and put on clean clothes. I’m intending to take myself for a walk, although where to I have no idea, but as I’m tying my shoes, another wave of fatigue washes over me. Maybe I’ll see if I do, in fact, still have Hulu.
Stretched out on my couch, I look briefly at my phone.
I reach for the television remote instead.
I’m dreaming now.
I can tell because my eyes don’t feel puffy, my hair doesn’t feel greasy, and my stomach doesn’t hurt. I feel normal. No, better than normal. I feel great.
I’m back aboard the Wavebourne, coming up from below decks into the sunshine. Monroe is there, and he introduces me. Instead of laughing behind their hands, the assembled crowd breaks into applause.
There are cheers of “bravo!” and, bizarrely, “encore!” This standing ovation goes on and on.
I notice Jamie Wells standing in the crowd. Her body language declares that she is several shades less than thrilled. She claps along with the others, but jerkily and without enthusiasm. Her pretty face is knotted up into a disapproving scowl. That makes me feel all the better.
Monroe’s phone chirps, and he retrieves it from his inside coat pocket. After listening briefly, he holds it out to me.
“Call for you, Ms. White,” he beams.
I take the phone, but before I can look at the screen, someone else’s phone goes off, then another, then another. Soon, everyone’s phone is either ringing or vibrating. Their owners answer them, listen, and offer them to me. All of the calls are for me, and all of them are from the same person.
“Hello?” I say into Monroe’s phone.
“Hello,” Trent’s voice replies from the other end. “I had to call.”
“That’s good,” I say. “I’ve wanted to talk to you.”
“I’m glad. But wouldn’t you rather talk in person? I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
A wind has started blowing, and my hair, which is down, is tickling my cheeks.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Oh, around,” he says carelessly. “Around and about. Had some business to take care of, but that’s all done. Why don’t you come to me and we can talk?”
“But I don’t know where you are.”
“It’s all right,” he replies. “I’ll send my driver for you. She should be there any minute now.”
Then he’s gone, the connection broken. The wind is higher now, and a rhythmic thumping has begun and is growing in volume as well. A dark shape appears over the water, a helicopter, its rotors blurring the water beneath it like rippled glass.
The helicopter draws closer to the ship, and I can see it’s Tira in the cockpit, wearing a flight helmet and aviator sunglasses. She smiles and tips me a wave with her free hand. I wave back, realizing that my chef’s uniform has been replaced by a flowing, jade-colored dress that stirs wildly in the growing downdraft.
Turned now to the side, I can read stenciled across the flank of the helicopter the words “I Told You So.”
I laugh. It’s just the thing Tira would have on the side of her vehicle, at least in a dream.
The door is open, and I step effortlessly into the helicopter, joining Tira in the cockpit.
She picks up the microphone from the instrument panel and says into it, “We’re on our way.” She then looks at me and holds out the mike. “Say hello,” she prompts.
I take the microphone and press the talk button
