Until Then Page 11

  Until then. She has no idea what I have in mind for her.

  The Fourth February

  I can only live wholly with you

  or not at all.

  ~Ludwig van Beethoven

  14.

  Summer

  7:57pm

  Life is full of surprises.

  I’ve had the best year of my life.

  Up until now.

  Being back here. In Austin. It hurts so much that I almost can’t breathe.

  I’m starting to forget what he looks like, how he smells, the sound of his laughter. The memories are becoming wisps. It tears my heart apart. I hate that it’s getting easier to forget him — his voice when he used to sing purposely out of tune, the goodnight hugs he gave when he thought I was already asleep, the way he smelled after he’s been for a long run. It’s the hardest part of living away in New York.

  I’m starting to feel more and more disconnected from my father, from my life here. Sometimes I feel like I’m just going through the motions when February comes around and I book my ticket to fly back. I thought that being back here in Austin would help me remember, but it doesn’t. It’s making it worse. Being in Austin visiting my father’s grave on the day he died is making it all so much worse. But I can’t bring myself to visit more often. It just hurts too damn much.

  Being here hurts.

  But I come here because it’s the right thing to do. Which is one of two reasons I’m here tonight, in the cemetery, walking to his grave.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say, sitting on the grass in front of his gravestone, my knees pulled into my chest. It’s dusty and lined with weeds, evident that it hasn’t had a visitor in quite some time. Which makes me feel horrible because it’s clear that I’m his only visitor, and I never come here.

  It also shatters the other reason I’m here tonight — to see Crew. He clearly hasn’t been here, and I don’t see him eavesdropping in the bushes. I got a few messages from him here and there during the last year, which made me ridiculously giddy to know that I was on his mind. But I had no time to really dig into a conversation while I was abroad, which was good because I had to stay focused and present where I was. As much as I thought about him, I had to remember what I was doing in Europe.

  But I won’t bother thinking about that right now. Right now, it’s me and my dad.

  “I know I’m early, Dad. It might be warm today here in Austin, but it’s snowing in New York. I had to catch an earlier flight to avoid being cancelled altogether. Something called a Nor’easter is coming. Apparently that means the city will get quickly buried in snow, and I probably won’t be able to get home in the morning.” Reaching around my spot, I clear out the weeds closest to me. “I’m sure Mom will be ok,” I say, trying to convince myself of that lame truth. She’s never ok.

  I’m counting the minutes like I’m counting the beats to the metronome. I’m trying to decide how long I have to be here to consider my obligation fulfilled. Because that’s why I am here — out of obligation. Like I owe it to him to keep these visits going. Because the truth is that I speak to my father every day. I don’t need to be here to talk to him.

  “I know you already know this, but I had the most incredible few months, Dad.” I almost don’t want to say the words out loud, making the chasm between my father and I grow wider. But I continue, hoping the opposite will happen. “Going on a tour with the band was nothing like I expected. I knew it would be exciting and fun and challenging, but I really didn’t know any of that until I did it. We went to some great cities, cities I’ve been to before with you and Mom while I was playing. But I saw them from a new vantage point. I wasn’t playing concert venues and opera houses. I was playing clubs and music halls. Places where your feet stick to the floor and the stage is tattered and worn down. And I got to walk around the cities, see the sites, and eat local food instead of being holed up in the venue practicing on the keys or doing press in the hotel. It was relaxing and exhilarating at the same time. I think that Mom enjoyed herself as well. The trip seemed to lift her spirits at times,” I say as I recall the time I saw my mother whistling to herself while arranging flowers in a vase. She never whistled before. I didn’t even know she knew how to whistle.

  Remembering what Crew said, I confess to my father. “I feel like I found myself out there, Dad. It was so surreal. There were so many people around, cheering for us, dancing with us, listening to us. That instant reaction, the rawness of the crowd, it was intoxicating. In the deep bass of the guitars, the heartbeat of the drum, the soul of the piano — I found my voice. I found my freedom. I played every show like it was my last show. It was so…liberating.”

  I remember all the moments my father had to coax me through my fear. Because I always had fear. Afraid to perform. Afraid to let my audience down. Afraid to be forgotten. It’s only scary until you do it, Summer, he used to say. “You were right, Dad. Things are only scary until you do them. Then you realize that there’s nothing on the other side of that fear. I was afraid to go with Lily and her band. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be any good with that type of music. That classical piano was all that I had in me. And it turned out to be one of the best experiences of my life so far. I felt the music in such a different way. I learned so much about myself on that trip.” I steel myself for my next confession.

  “I met someone, Dad,” I mutter out. “He’s supportive and funny and makes me feel like I am perfect how I am.” I shrug my shoulders, as if my father could possibly see me. “I’ve known him for years, but we’ve only been on, like, three dates.” I chuckle to myself. “You’d like him, Dad. He’s a good guy. I wish you could have met him.”

  I tell my father more about what what Mom has been doing since we got back, which is all the same stuff. She’s never really broken her routine, the dependent person that she is. She still lives in my shadow, never really venturing out on her own, which sometimes I love and hate. I wish she would have her own life, but then I know I’ll be resentful that my only living parent is slipping away. Her presence feels like the only moments I feel cared for. And even then, it feels forced. She cares for me because she has to, not because she feels born to be my mother.

  “I’m almost done with school. Lily invited me to be a permanent member of the band. She even wants me to sing with them.” I laugh, remembering that my father always encouraged me to sing but I felt too humiliated by my voice. It’s loud and commanding and aggressive, but it’s also feminine and fluttery when I want it to be. I always felt that if I wrote a song, there would be no lyrics because I’d never sing them. I’d never want anyone else to sing them either.

  “I don’t know, Dad. Maybe I’ll just move back to Austin.” My emotions are ganging up on me in my chest, stabbing me in my soul. “I miss you,” I sob. “I’m starting to forget you, Dad,” I say as I let the tears fall down my cheeks and land on my knees. “I know I need to do what’s right for me, but a big part of me wants to hold on to the way things were before.” I wipe my nose with my sleeve. “I know that’s not possible, but I wish it were.”

  I sit in silence with him for a few long moments, decoding every bird I see and every noise I hear as a sign from my father. Noticing that the tombstone is really dusty, I stand up and lean over it. Covering my hand with my sleeve, I brush off the top and down the sides. Then I walk around to the back.

  That’s when I see it.

  Not the dark blue car in the distance that just pulled down the road and into the visitor parking lot. But the driver.

  Crew.

  Crew is here. Probably to see his mother before he comes to me. It’s quite early, as we usually don’t meet until close to midnight, closer to when the accident actually happened. So I want to give him that time and space to be with his mom. But curiosity is killing me. For five years, he’s been a step ahead of me, arriving before me, and snapping my photo before I see him.

  My turn.

  I have an opportunity here. I want to know more about him, what he does before I se
e him in the dark, how he is with his mother. I feel like I’m always on the defensive; he knows so much about me, mainly because I let him. But I want to know more about him. I feel comfortable with him, at ease with myself. Which is one of the reasons I like him — because I don’t feel like I need to hide who I am. We’ve both lost a parent and had to fill a void. We’re both looking for connection. In the loss, we’ve found companionship, friendship, a special kind of appreciation. And I might love him for that.

  I widen my course of direction so that he doesn’t see me coming if he looked toward my father’s site. I want to observe Crew undetected. So I stand around the corner of the visitor center near the parking lot, out of his periphery.

  He sits in his car for quite some time — maybe an 10 extra minutes. I assume he’s tinkering with his camera or phone, but then I see him gather up his bag and open the door. First thing I notice is his hair cut. It’s a bit shorter, so the man-bun is gone. He looks more grown up and ultra adorable. He’s also on a call, as he paces back and forth talking into his ear buds. He seems tense and aggravated, throwing his arms up in frustration every few seconds and grabbing the back of his neck. I know he does that when he’s struggling with his thoughts, but I’ve never seen him do it out of anger. In fact, this is the most animated that I’ve seen him, aside from our “almost” moment on the piano. Which I have thought about all year.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about it, actually. It haunted me for months.

  When he finishes his call, he tugs out his earbuds and drops his head down, the defeat of the call pushing him down. I want to go to him, help him, rescue him from his stress, as he’s done for me. But he immediately gets another call, so I wait. I don’t want to eavesdrop on him because I hate that, but he starts pacing around the empty lot, coming closer toward where I am hiding. I can hear him, barely audible.

  “I don’t fucking know, Seb. I can’t deal with this right now.” He pauses to listen, and my feet won’t move to walk away out of earshot. Hypocrite.

  “It’s none of your fucking business,” he says gruffly. He exhales in frustration. “Yes…. No, not mom’s…. I told you, it’s none of your damn business! Now grow the fuck up and deal with her yourself.” He hangs up abruptly and lets out a uncharacteristic growl up to the sky, like he’s asking the gods to show him mercy.

  That’s weird. Like I have any clue what’s typical for him. Still. It’s a little weird.

  Within seconds, his phone rings again.

  “Christ,” I hear him grumble. “What,” he commands to the other poor soul on the phone suffering his wrath. “Stop talking…. I don’t give a shit who you fuck. But it won’t be me. That’s for damn sure…. If you want Seb, you can have him. I’m done with both of you. You two are fucking made for each other….” He hangs up abruptly.

  His words sting more than his anger. He’s had a girlfriend. Probably more than one. And I feel like a goddamn fool for not concluding that sooner. He’s a young, smart, kind, good-looking guy with an incredible skill and bursting with charisma. I’m such an idiot. Of course he’s been with other girls.

  The thought stabs me in the gut. I never expected him to have a girlfriend. The idea of it is nauseating. But it sounds like they just broke up.

  Another call. Jesus. What now?

  “Hey, Drew. What’s up, brother…. Fine, Bones, whatever the hell I’m supposed to call you…. Yeah, I’m here now…. No, she’s not here yet…. Yeah, I think I have to tell her, man…. I know. This is so fucked up.”

  What’s this?

  “Naw, man. She’s been away…. You don’t have to tell me that…. No fucking way. That bitch was screwing Sebby all along. That’s done.” He’s pacing closer now.

  “No, leave him alone, man. He’s got enough shit to deal with. Thanks anyway…. Yeah, I’ll let you know if I do it. Later.”

  Wow. His brother was screwing his girl. His friend wants to pound on his brother. And Crew protects him. Again. He’s a better person than me, that’s for damn sure.

  But this secret he’s keeping — it’s obviously for me…or about me. My curiosity just shot up one zillion percent.

  Crew starts walking through the cemetery, but he’s taking a roundabout way. Maybe he’s going to visit his mother; he told me on the day we met a few years ago that she was there. Then he saw me. I never actually looked her up.

  Of course I follow him, knowing full well that whatever’s eating him won’t come out on the trek around the cemetery. Still, I want to know more. I try my best to stay out of sight, following him through the trees. As much as I hate to admit it, I wonder what he says to his mother. It’s been 12 years since she’s passed. Does he still talk to her? What does he say? How does he cope? Does he still need to cope?

  He walks and walks, taking a photo here and there, but he never stops walking. I follow him for about 30 minutes as he passes all the tombstones and markers. Then I realize he’s making his way toward my father’s site. What about his mom?

  When he comes upon his tombstone, he pauses. He stares at the tombstone for several minutes, reverently placing his hand on the top. Closing his eyes, he looks as if he’s in prayer. What is he doing?

  Crew’s phone rings again, snapping him out of his trance.

  “What now?…. I don’t give a shit what you think. When will you fucking learn that?…. To tell you that this is the last time we will speak. You are nothing to me. We are done. Get that through your fucking skull.”

  I’ve never heard him speak so profanely before. It’s a little unnerving.

  As he mutters to himself, I hear him delete whoever just contacted him. While he’s fiddling on his phone, he says loudly, “I know you’re here, Summer. You don’t have to hide any longer. Please come out.”

  What the —?

  He looks straight toward thick brush I was lurking behind, and I concede. I stand up, awkwardly wave, and walk over to him. He’s raking me from head to toe, and I don’t know if he’s still angry or not. So I’m cautious.

  “How did you know?” I pluck up the nerve to ask.

  He gives me half a smile, but it’s not flirtatious. It’s like a predator smiling at his prey before it’s devoured. “Because you’ve cleaned the headstone, and the bushes is where I go before you’re ready to see me.”

  My mouth goes dry. “Are you ready to see me?”

  He pockets his phone and takes three steps to stop in front of me. With his exhale, he lets out the frustration of those phone calls. “Summer, I’m always ready to see you.” He drinks me in. “Being near you makes me feel like I can breathe.”

  The sound of those words steals my breath. They’re so sweet. But coming from someone so pent up, I’m not sure I can trust them.

  “How did you know when I was ready to see you? I wasn’t sure when to make myself known,” I confess.

  Crew’s guarded eyes squint fractionally before answering. “It was usually after midnight, when you were getting ready to leave. I’d sit and watch you for so long sometimes. You looked so sad. And I couldn’t stay away.” He grinds his teeth.

  But he’s stayed away all year.

  I look deep into his bright green eyes, trying to gauge his mood. He might have stalker-like tendencies, but I feel for him. His anguish is written on his face. His agony feels like my agony.

  “You seem upset. What’s wrong?” I ask.

  His eyes twinkle mischievously. “Depends on how long you were following me.”

  I swallow hard. “Since the parking lot,” I confess.

  He chuckles once. “I guess I’m upset about a few things then.” He hugs me for a few long moments, and I feel him relax against me. He’s warm and soft and smells intoxicating, filling my senses with everything I felt last year. When he pulls away, I feel a little bereft. “Have you finished talking with your Dad?” he asks.

  I nod, wondering what he has next.

  Crew smiles, takes my hand, and leads me away from my father’s grave.

  “Wait,” I say. I
walk back to the tombstone and give my signature send-off. My father knows how much I love and miss him. But I have to say it.

  “Thanks, Dad. I miss you every day. I’ll see you soon. Until then. I love you.” I kiss my fingers and press them to his marker.

  Crew smiles and leads me in the direction of his car.

  “Wait. Aren’t you going to go and see your mother?” I ask him, not willing to shortchange his visit for waffles. He’s seen me with my father a few times now. I don’t want to rob him of the chance to say his piece.

  He looks to the ground while we walk. “I’ve visited her recently. I don’t need to go today.”

  “Crew. It’s fine. I won’t intrude. I can wait.”

  He stops walking and turns to me, squeezing my upper arms gently and looking so deep into my eyes that I start to feel nervous.

  His shuddering breath sets off an alarm. “Summer, my mother isn’t buried here.”

  A cold chill erupts from inside me. “Wh— What?” I stammer. “You— you lied to me?”

  “No, Summer,” he squeezes my arms tighter. “I was misleading, but I never said she was buried here. That’s not the truth.”

  “What is the truth then, Crew?” I say harshly. It knocks me off my mental balance.

  Crew licks his lips, probably forming another lie. I’m too impatient.

  “Just say it,” I bite out.

  He takes a deep breath and hisses out his frustration, looking deep into my eyes with his green brilliant stare.

  “This is it, isn’t it?”

  His brows furrows in confusion.

  “You told someone on the phone that you had something to tell me. Is this it? About your mother?” I hold my breath, confused but needing to understand where his anger stems from.

  Grinding his jaw, he says, “You weren’t meant to hear that,” then he raises his eyebrow at me, as if to say, You were eavesdropping.

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but you walked right near where I was standing,” I shift uncomfortably under his unrelenting stare. “It was hard not to hear you,” I spit out.