Free The Sun in Your Eyes by Deborah Shapiro

already have to pee all the time. But I haven’t told Andy.”
    â€œI thought you were on the same page.”
    â€œWe are. In general. As far as pages go.”
    â€œAre you thinking you don’t—”
    â€œI don’t know why I haven’t told him. It’s like I’m scared it will make it real. Even though it already is real. But it’s not like I don’t want it to be real. I do.”
    A flicker, a darkening across Lee’s eyes, led me to think she was on the verge of telling me something before she switched modes.
    â€œYou’ve got that glow.”
    â€œYou can see it?”
    â€œYes, like a phosphorescence.”
    â€œLike I’m a glow stick.”
    â€œI’ve missed you, Viv.”
    â€œI’ve missed you, too.”
    T WO HOURS NORTH of the city, at the end of a wooded, secluded drive, lay Charlie Flintwick’s compound: two small, squat buildings, a sagging multicar garage, what looked like a camp cabin, and a dark brown A-frame house overlooking a pond. Bird trills and fallen brush underfoot were the only sounds as we walked from our parked car to the front porch, and then we heard faint strains of elevator jazz. A shriek, then another one, splashing, a dock creaking. Lee advanced around the corner of the house as if it didn’t matter if we found a party or a crime scene. But then she stopped and we hung back, watching.
    â€œFlintwick, you fat fuck, you’ve outdone yourself!” A guy in red swim shorts, lead-singer looks, shook a bag of kettle-cooked potato chips into a bowl.
    â€œIt’s just a grilled cheese, man. But, hey, I’ll take the hyperbole.” Fat fuck, I now saw, was a holdover from heftier times. Flintwick had the look of a picked-apart scarecrow. Lee had told me he maintained a blog about his recent gastric bypass surgery, with posts titled “Saggin’” and “New Pants.” But even in his shrunken state, his aura remained rotund and kingly. He could have been wearing an ermine-trimmed robe.
    â€œBut this cheese! Is it artisanal?”
    â€œYes. It was made by the artisans at a processing plant in Illinois.”
    â€œFucking delicious.” Without noticing us, he took his plate down a path to the Adirondack chairs by the water’s edge, occupied by a tattooed lot, two men and a woman, who all looked to be around his tender age.
    Flintwick then turned the music up via remote and stuck the corner of an unpackaged cheese slice on his tongue so the rest of it flapped against his chin. He proceeded to hoist it into his mouth while eyeing the group at the shore with contempt or lust or both. I read once that Flintwick wasn’t his given name. He had changed it from something chewier, of eastern European extraction. But Flintwick, with its Dickensian and pervy echo, did him justice.
    â€œWell, hello!” He turned. We advanced. “Miss Parrish, I presume. You’ve made it.”
    â€œI hope we’re not interrupting.”
    â€œPlease, I’ve been expecting you. This is just”—gesturing toward the whole scene—“this is business. They’re using the studio.”
    â€œWho are they?”
    â€œThe Episcopal School Experience. The Horse Fluffers. The Fuckwads. Something like that. I don’t know. I forget. Would you like something to eat? She’s fired up and ready to go.” Pointing to the charcoal grill, and then to me. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
    â€œThis is my dear friend Viv.” Dear friend —the affected, beau monde construction we reserved for Elena Sterling Rappoport, socialite-businesswoman-matriarch, on THATH. Flintwick responded with a compressed bob and weave of his large head, as if to say, So that’s how you want to play it? Well, okay, we can save the vulgarities till we know each other a little better.
    â€œWhy don’t we go inside to talk.” Flintwick grabbed a platter of