Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto Read Online Free PDF Page B

charge out of saying it back. “Yeah, a bitch.”
    I want to call my mother the rest of the way down the stairs and tell her what I saw at Applebee’s, but that would be the worst thing I could do. Everything would explode. Accusations would fly. They’d file for divorce. There’d be all sorts of legal battles—custody and all that. Hate, anger, fights, you name it. They’d argue over every last detail. My mom would probably get the house, and my father would have to move to some apartment with mismatched furniture and a refrigerator filled with frozen dinners and takeout containers.
    I can’t be the one to ruin everything. I have to figure it out.
    My father’s slippers make their way across the kitchen above me. The ice machine hums. Cubes drop into a glass.
    â€œDad’s coming up, too,” my mother says.
    â€œOkay.”
    I hear the cabinet door open as my father works at pouring himself a single-barrel bourbon. It’s his drink of choice. I tried a sip of that stuff once when my folks were out; it tastes like rocket fuel strained through dirty socks.
    â€œI love that you’re working on your podcasting,” my mother says. “Just don’t stay up too late. I don’t want you sleeping all day tomorrow.”
    â€œAll right.” I tighten the knob on the microphone stand again, but I can’t seem to get the mike to settle at the rightheight. It’s either too low or too high.
    â€œGet to bed soon,” my father calls down to me. “You need to be out first thing tomorrow. Job hunting.”
    â€œOkay!” It’s the first time I let any irritation slip into my voice. When I do get my next job, I’m going to buy an O N A IR sign from eBay that I can install on the basement door. Then I’ll buy a crate of lightbulbs and leave the thing glowing 24/7.
    I listen to my mother tread down the upstairs hallway. My father follows soon after.
    I boot up my PC and start doing sound checks for a while. I learned a lot of this stuff going to the studio with my mom. Before I was old enough to stay home on my own, my mother would bring me to work during tax season so that my dad could crunch numbers. I’d sit on one of the tall swivel chairs and look at all the lights, buttons, and sliders on the soundboard. Ken, the sound guy, taught me a lot.
    I’m still not used to hearing my own voice through the headphones—I doubt I ever will be—but this new microphone kicks ass. It makes my voice sound deeper, richer. I bump up the bass on the soundboard and exercise the baritone in my voice by reciting James Earl Jones lines:
    â€œJoin me, and we can rule the galaxy as father and son.”
    â€œSimba, you must take your place in the Circle of Life.”
    The whole father-son theme of Star Wars and The Lion King gets the veins in my neck pulsing, so I Google “James Earl Jones” and “famous lines” and find some that seemmore appropriate. I like the one from Coming to America :
    â€œSo you see, my son, there is a very fine line between love and nausea.”
    Love and nausea…I repeat the line a few times until I’m satisfied with my rendition and scribble the two words on my pad.
    My cell phone buzzes in my hand, and I jump. I glance at the clock: 12:34. Veronica says you’re supposed to touch something blue and make a wish when the numbers on the clock are in order like that, but with all the crap that’s happened these past few days, I have no idea what I’d wish for.
    I flip open my phone. Veronica’s number flashes across the screen.
    â€œHello?” I say.
    â€œHey.” Her voice sounds distant. “Look, I’ve been thinking about what happened the other day. God, I feel awful.”
    The idea that she might be calling to get back with me sparks in my mind, but I push that thought back down. No sense in letting my hopes get trampled again.
    â€œWhich part?” I