“Where is he?” I ask, pretending to just now notice his truck is gone. I noticed the instant I recognized Andrew was the one out here. I think I actually felt that Owen was gone.
“At work,” he says, shrugging and walking backward on his heels, moving to his house.
“I thought he got fired?” I’m suddenly a little suspicious.
“He did. Got a new job, though, at the strip mall. He takes out trash and power washes the sidewalks and crap,” he says.
“How’s…his eye?” I’m embarrassed to ask this, embarrassed because I know everything Andrew witnessed. And the fact that he has yet to bring any of my drama up means he truly is a good person.
“I didn’t get to see him. I’m sure he’s fine, though. O can take a punch, trust me,” he says with a chuckle, turning to face the steps to his house before pausing and looking at me over his shoulder. “Hey, don’t tell him I told you, okay? You know…that he likes you? He’ll beat my ass so fucking hard for that.”
Andrew laughs when he asks, but I don’t think he’s kidding either. I cross my heart and chuckle, as if this is all a joke anyhow. But there’s also that little part of me that is revving from the faster heartbeat in my chest—the part of me that likes that Owen listens for me. And that part of me wants to play the piano for the first time in days, with the hope that he’ll hear it.
It’s the first full day my mom’s been back at work since everything in our lives changed. I’ve been thinking, though, how my mom’s life changed months before mine. She’s been pretending to be fine for a while now, but I don’t know how she could have been. And as mad as I am at her for pretending, I keep forgiving her every time I feel the urge to be angry.
I have so many questions. I wonder if it all started on Gaby’s birthday at the start of summer, when she spent the weekend at our house. She’s always been close with my father—the two of them sharing a love of classical music that makes me roll my eyes. My father constantly compared me to her, wishing I had the same appreciation and respect for his work that she does. He loved her compositions—they were classical, not jazz. Or maybe they were just hers, and that’s why he loved them. I wonder if that’s how they connected? Was it those times my father helped her at the school, helped her with arrangements?
I wonder if all of those nights he was working late, and Gaby was spending late hours at Bryce, if they weren’t really together—somewhere else entirely. I’m pretty sure I know the answer to this one, but maybe, just maybe, every word from my best friend’s lips wasn’t a lie.
I wonder if he waited until she was eighteen. Not that it makes it any better, but…
I’ve been at the piano for an hour. I keep flexing my fingers, popping knuckles, and running the palms of my hands along the wood above the keys. I can’t seem to do much else. Every time I lower my hands to play, I hear my father’s voice, looming in my mind, telling me jazz is a waste of time, and that my showcase is garbage—won’t be good enough.
“You should probably lock this at night.” Owen’s voice startles me. I kick away from the piano, knocking over the bench beneath me as I struggle to get to my feet. My back is on the floor quickly, my feet kicking in my fight to stand again.
“Shit, you scared me!” My heart is thumping so loudly, I can hardly hear him talking as he closes my front door behind him and walks closer to me, a bag or something in his hand.
“Here,” he says, reaching for my hand, helping me to my feet. His grasp on my wrist is for a purpose, and he lets go quickly, but I still look at that spot he touched on my skin, rubbing my own hand around it, like I’m trying to recover from a burn.
Owen sets my bench upright again, then slides onto the end of the seat, looking over the keys, and the pages spread out on the ledger.
“I’m sorry, you…were practicing?” He’s starting to stand; I don’t want him to leave. I move closer to the piano, resting my hand along the top, trying to make him more comfortable—and maybe blocking his exit just a little.
“No…I mean, I was thinking about it, but…I’m just not feeling it,” I say, watching his finger trace the small layer of dust that’s formed along the top of the ledge where my music books sit. He stares at the line he’s drawn along the wood for a few seconds before breathing in deeply and pulling the small plastic bag to his lap.
“My mom’s out—at work. Andrew’s out, too. And I was going to make some grilled cheese for dinner, but then,” he says, pausing to pull out a brick of cheddar cheese from the grocery bag and setting it on the bench next to him, “I realized I don’t have any bread.”