Until Then Page 6

  “So,” Crew pauses with a deep inhale, “am I waste of your time, Summer?” he breathes out, rushing the words from his lips.

  Holy hell. I didn’t see that question coming. My mind goes blank trying to come up with an answer that doesn’t make me sound like a desperate moron who loves his company. How do I tell him? How do I tell him that I thought about him every day last year? That I couldn’t look at the New York City skyline without wondering how much more captivating it would look through his lens? That in the few hours I’ve known him, he’s awakened feelings in me that I thought were long dead, if they even lived at all? How do I tell him that when Goodwin kisses me, I can’t help but wonder if Crew’s kiss would mean more?

  How do I tell him all of that and still protect my heart?

  Carefully.

  Taking a deep breath, I soften my obvious surprise and confess. “No, Crew,” I say while unsuccessfully hiding my smile. “You are worth every second of my time.”

  Crew’s shy smile melts everything inside of me. I wish to God we didn’t live so far apart from one another.

  My words hang in the air between us. Looking into his bright green eyes, I’m lost in this moment. I can’t remember who I am or what I’m doing. Because all I know is that I’m exactly where I am supposed to be.

  Here.

  With Crew.

  “So,” Crew says, slicing the thick air between us like a knife, “why are you with him again?” He smirks, but behind that smirk is a call for the truth. It scares me…because I think Crew is starting to know me too well.

  But I want to play this honesty game and see what happens.

  “Because…he’s a distraction,” I say, my voice cracking.

  Crew doesn’t say anything, almost like he knew my answer before I said it. He doesn’t need to ask the question that I know is on his mind.

  “Playing classically has been my life’s work, literally. But lately —” I find it difficult to verbalize the words I want to say. I never thought I’d hear myself say them. “Lately I’ve been thinking of doing something…different. Something…not classical.”

  There. I said it. My dirty little secret. It’s out of my mouth and into the world. It lands on my ears like an anvil hitting the concrete.

  Loud.

  Forceful.

  Exact.

  Final.

  Funnily enough, the world is still spinning.

  Crew is quiet again, and he tilts his head to the side, giving way for me to continue. “Lily and some other friends formed a band outside of school. They play a lot of small clubs. They have a great set up. More of a pop/rock sound.” I get lost for a moment, smiling. “I remember the first time I heard them play. I was absorbed by the energy, the atmosphere of the club. The music was hypnotizing. The sounds were compelling. The audience was hungry for more.” I look up to Crew who’s smiling wide. “Right after that first show was over, I asked her how to get in. Something inside —” I say, touching my heart, “— told me that I needed to be part of it all.”

  I think back to the reception I got from my first show with the band when I stood in for the sick keyboardist. I felt…alive. Growing up playing all those concerts, doing interviews, studying with the world’s best instructors…it all felt very surreal. Like someone else was living my life for me. I was a shell of talent that absorbed like a sponge. And I delivered that talent with more flair and depth than other talent of the same circle. People of notable status appreciated it. My parents appreciated it. Even I appreciated it at times.

  “I remember every concert I’ve every played. The way the lights warmed me. The smell of the piano in the air. The smoothness of the bench. The hum of the notes on the floor under my feet.” I close my eyes to reconnect to it all. “It was wonderful. So very grown up,” I chuckle and open my eyes to see Crew smirk.

  “But once the concert was over, that was the end. I took my flowers and the program, said my ‘thank-yous’ to a few notable people, and I went home to my bedroom, sat down with my books, and got back to life as I knew it. My parents went to work planning the next show.” I shrug. “But at the first club show, the crowd showed their appreciation in other ways. They cheered. They danced. They sang with us. They lit up their phones and chanted for an encore. It was —” I smile at Crew, unable to contain my thrill. “— intoxicating. I need more.” My eyes start to well with my confession.

  Crew’s eyebrows shoot up at my description, making me question if I’ve said too much. I don’t feel at all mollified when he takes his sweet ass time saying anything at all. He just leans back, tilts his head to the side, and chews his damn banana waffles.

  For a long time.

  Chomp. Chomp.

  Since I have nothing else to say, I wait in silence agonizing over the most delicious banana waffles and syrup I’ve ever tasted. They’re so good, I want to lick the plate clean. They make this wretched confession feel a little less embarrassing.

  Before I grab the plate and consider throwing it across the diner to break the agony, I see Crew take a deep breath and wonder if he was actually breathing before.

  When the air couldn’t feel more still, when my erratic heartbeat couldn’t be louder, when every cell in my being screams for me to get up and walk out the door, Crew finally gives up his vow of silence.

  “Do you love him, Summer?”

  7.

  Crew

  1:07am

  She looks like I’ve just slapped her in the face with her own hand.

  Maybe Summer knows more about relationships than she’s letting on.

  “That’s none of your business, Crew,” she retorts coldly.

  “You brought it up first, Summer,” I fire back at her, one of the few times I’m quick to answer. But I won’t have her forgetting that she wanted to talk about this with me. “Just answer the question.”

  Her look of defiance could melt my face. It’s a bit scary, but I’ve lived through scary. Her feeble version won’t deter me. So she can sit and look adorably defiant all she wants.

  Summer taps her legs with her fingers, presumably playing the invisible keys on her legs again. I move only my eyes to her hands beneath the table, but she stops when she sees me take notice.

  “No, I don’t love him,” she softly confesses. I believe her. But I also believe that this Goodwin clown is introducing her to something beyond her scope. I don’t fucking like it. Summer needs guidance and protection. Not some dipshit saxophone player who’s only trying to get into her pants through her piano.

  “So what’s the problem then?”

  “What do you mean?” she replies.

  “Why don’t you just start playing clubs and enjoying yourself?”

  She chews the inside of her cheek for a moment. “Because I made a promise.”

  “Promising your dad that you’d forever be a classical piano player is an ignorant and naive promise to make. But considering that you probably made it when you were 12 years old, it would make sense.” Summer looks somewhat affronted by my comment, but I keep going to assuage that anger. “I’m guessing you made that promise to make him happy.” Her softening eyes confirm my suspicion. “Do you think your dad wanted you to be happy?”

  “Yes,” she answers firmly.

  “Then you should do what makes you happy. That’s the promise you should focus on fulfilling.”

  “This isn’t an ‘in the moment’ decision to make, Crew. This is a lifelong decision. It’s not like choosing your favorite syrup in the spur of the moment. It’s—”

  “These are the real moments, Summer. These are the ones that count, the ones that make you feel and yearn for the next moments, the ones that start defining who you are rather than who you’re expected to be.” I take a deep breath and compose myself before I scare her away. “You can choose to see the world in black and white. Or you can choose to see the gray. Either way, it’s all right there in front of you, waiting for you to focus on it, notice it, and embrace it.”

  Summer


  I wish Crew wasn’t talking about classical playing versus pop culture playing. I wish he wasn’t talking about photography. I wish he was talking about me. And him.

  Because he’s right. I’m overlooking the real moments, the moments of nobodies. I’m too busy trying to figure out where Summer Perry is supposed to be in 20 years when I’m forgetting how to be her right here, right now.

  Right now, I’m with him. The only person who makes me feel how I want to feel, not how I should feel.

  “My father always said that playing classical music made me a classical piano player, that there was history making in the notes, that I paid respect to the composers in playing them,” I say to him and watch him mull over my words.

  “I agree with all of that. But the question is — do you want to continue to be a classical piano player for the rest of your life?” he asks.

  “I don’t know how to be anything else,” I reply honestly, quietly, as I whisper my dark fear. I’m only a classical piano player. Nothing else.

  “That’s not what I asked,” he coaxes.

  I can’t say the words, so I just shake my head “no.” Then Crew nods his, not in understanding, but in relief. Like I’ve finally gotten the answer right.

  “I know you don’t. Because when you talk about playing classically, there’s a cloud over your head. When you talk about playing in the clubs, there’s a rainbow. It lights you up. It excites you. It’s like you’ve finally found your calling.”

  How the hell does he make things seem so simple?

  “Maybe you need to start writing your own history instead of recreating someone else’s.”

  Feeling the weight of this decision crushes my hope for a different future, an exciting future. But Crew is right. I need to make the choice for me now, not for the possibility later. “How do I do that?”

  He tilts his head in that adorable way, and his eyes light up with a glint of mischief. I think his next idea will be a joke, but he says, “You listen to your heart’s song.”

  Wow.

  “Summer, you’ve accomplished more in your 19 years than most people have in 90 years. You’re going to a school to learn how to ‘one day’ be a classical pianist when you’ve been playing concerts since you were 10. You’re better than everyone else there. You’ve surpassed all expectations of your talent. You know it. They know it. In fact, I’m not even really sure why you attend Julliard. You could retire right now and do whatever the hell you want for the rest of your life. Am I right?”

  Stunning me into silence, Crew nailed them — my insecurities. I nod to confirm his statement. “Yes, I could retire right now. But I never would.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have to play.”

  “Play where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “Why Julliard?”

  “Because I made a promise.”

  “To whom?”

  “My father. My parents.”

  Crew takes a deep breath, probably exasperated by my lack of understanding. “Why don’t you start making promises to yourself?”

  Jesus. How can someone who is only a couple of years older than me possibly be better at this “life” thing than I am? I mean, I’ve played Carnegie Hall and Boston Symphony Hall and Vienna Musikverein. I know how to play a 42 minute concerto from memory without skipping a single note. I’m supposed to be “worldly” and “cultured.” How can I be so incompetent when it comes to my own life?

  “How do you have things so figured out?” I ask Crew, rhetorically.

  “I don’t,” he replies, taking me by surprise.

  “Well, then you can fake it well,” I say, wondering if he’s lying. “You seem damn good at figuring out what’s wrong with me and how I can fix it.” An idea suddenly hits me. “So tell me something….” I smile at him, hoping he’ll be open to my suggestion. “Tell me something wrong in your life that needs fixing.”

  His eyes grow wide, and he lets out a chuckle, as if I’m asking a ridiculous question.

  I fear that I’ve intruded too deeply. I barely know him, and I clearly need to learn how to better handle life’s mysteries. “You’re right. That’s none of my business. It’s probably a moot question anyway.” I take a sip of water.

  Just then, Aunt Rosie comes back. “What else can I get for you kids? You want some more waffles, little bird?” she asks me, loudly. I have to remind myself that she’s pretty deaf. Crew looks at me an extra moment longer and then looks to Rosie. He signs something to her in sign language, but he doesn’t verbalize. Or even move his lips. She nods at him, clears our plates, winks at me, and moves back to the kitchen.

  “What was that?” I ask him.

  He smiles. It’s a magnificent smile, not because it’s wide and huge, but because he’s clearly keeping a secret. It makes me feel special in a way, like I’m significant enough to keep a secret from. “I asked her to clear our plates.”

  “Liar. What did you really say?” I like this game, knowing when Crew is up to something.

  He furrows his brows and chuckles again. “Why do you think I’m lying?”

  “Because you wouldn’t sign that. It’s not a secret, and you didn’t verbalize. So you said something to her that you didn’t want me to hear. What was it?” I ask, almost laughing.

  Crew nods while I speak, debating his replay. “You’re right. That was an obvious lie.” He huffs out a pent-up breath and smirks at me. “I told her who you were.” He tilts his head to the other side and looks at me with playful eyes. He’s utterly adorable.

  “Who am I?” I ask, lifting one shoulder up to my ear attempting to flirt. Maybe I’m a friend. Maybe I’m more than that. Maybe I’m one of many girls he takes to eat waffles. Maybe I’m a possibility. I don’t know. And I don’t care. All I care about is how good it feels to be here with him.

  His demeanor slowly shifts from playful to serious, and his deadpan look makes my blood run cold. His eyes find mine and hold me still. “The girl whose father was killed in that car crash three years ago.”

  Dead. Stop.

  Heart. Meet Ice.

  His words strangle me.

  “That…. Wow….” I can’t even finish my thoughts. My words choke on the bile rising up. I feel myself hardening. Chills run over my body. I take out my wallet, put cash down for the waffles, then get up, and walk to the door, all the while I’m calling a car. I’ve got to wait 3 minutes.

  To get me the fuck out of here.

  Away from him.

  “Summer, wait!” I hear Crew calling after I am halfway up the block. He must be insane if he thinks I’ll stop and wait for him to explain his way out of being an absolute bastard.

  I begin walking toward the direction of the rideshare car, hoping to get to it faster. But Crew catches up and jumps in front of me.

  I should’ve fucking run.

  “Please. That came out wrong. Let me explain,” he says, out of breath.

  His words stop me in my tracks, and I pin him to his spot with my cool gaze. Rather than chastise him for being a complete jerk, the words get jumbled together in my mouth and only come out as a loud huff. Then I stomp on past him.

  “My Aunt Rosie…she doesn’t know who you are. She doesn’t know that you’re a famous pianist. She doesn’t care because she can’t hear you.” His words come pouring out of his mouth. What a crappy apology. I wish I had a cork plug the size of his head. Or a piano. Either will do to make his words fucking stop.

  “Please stop!” he exclaims, but my feet continue on, ignoring his plea.

  He must get the picture because he stops in the sidewalk as I storm away, my arms wrapped around myself to keep from falling to icy pieces on the pavement.

  “I lied,” he calls after me.

  I don’t stop. I don’t care. I don’t want to hear his excuses for tricking me into liking him, tricking me on purpose. I feel like such an idiot. I need to get away from him.

  “I lied, Summer!” His voice is getting fainter, which is g
ood because I think I spot my car a little ways in front of me.

  I stop and signal and let it slow down and pull up to the curb. Gathering up my shattered pride and pieces of my frostbitten hopes, I step toward the car as it slides to a stop. Just as I open the door, Crew comes barreling over. “The thing you wanted me to tell you? The thing that was wrong in my life that could use fixing?” He caught my attention, and I stop to face him with one foot in the car. “It’s you, Summer.”

  Holding my gaze for the moment, Crew swallows hard. “Please, Summer. Don’t leave now. Let me explain. I can drive you to the airport. Just give me some time.”

  I can’t listen to him anymore. Giving him time to explain would magnify how foolish I am. Time is vicious.

  “Goodbye, Crew,” I say flatly and duck into the car. I can’t even look at him as I pull away.

  This. This feeling right now. This is the reason I don’t do relationships. They’re too much fucking work. In the end, I only end up shattered.

  Or wishing I was shattered.

  The February After

  It is only with the heart

  that one can see rightly;

  what is essential

  is invisible to the eye.

  ~Antoine de Saint-Exupery

  8.

  Summer

  Please let me explain.

  I’m so sorry.

  I don’t want to leave things this way.

  I know you’re reading these, Summer. Please talk to me. I’ll meet you anywhere.

  I don’t want to do this over messages. Please let me explain.

  I’ll be traveling for a while, but I’ll come to New York for you. Just say when.

  I’ll be in Austin in February. I hope to see you.