Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis — Read

When I arrived back home Jayne was in the middle of packing. The studio's Gulfstream would fly her out of Midland Airport tomorrow morning and land in Toronto sometime after ten. Marta reminded me of this while Jayne busied herself in the master bedroom, fitting clothes into various Tumi bags spread across the bed, checking each item off a list. She was saving everything she needed to say for Dr. Faheida's office. (Couples counseling always reminded me of what a terrible thing optimism was.) I took a shower and dressed and was so exhausted I doubted my ability to sit through a session-I shuddered at the energy it would take. Since these dreadful hours usually ended in tears on Jayne's part and a raging helplessness on mine, I steeled myself and didn't mention the phone call from Harrison Ford's office that I received in the parking lot in front of Aimee Light's studio, warning me that it would be in "everyone's best interests" (I noted the ominous new Hollywood-speak) if I could be there on Friday afternoon. In a zombie monotone I said I would call them back tomorrow to confirm while I stared through the windshield at the swaying pine trees looming up into the darkness above where I sat in the Porsche. Another failure on my part-though any excuse to get out of the house was now acceptable to me. Was, in fact, becoming a priority. While waiting downstairs I avoided the living room and my office and didn't glance at the house as Jayne and I walked to the Range Rover parked in the driveway because I didn't want to see how much more of its exterior had peeled off.

(But maybe it had stopped. Maybe it knew that I understood already what it wanted from me.)