Until Then Page 8

  Jesus. I can’t imagine how difficult that must have been for him, being so young and trying to reach out to the only person he really needed only to feel like an intruder. “God that must have been so hard,” I mumble.

  “A couple of weeks before she died, my mother was stuck in her ‘flat’ phase, not knowing us or even caring about the things around her. We knew that the end was coming, and I sat by her hospital bed and held her hand, even though she had no clue who I was.” He drops his head between his shoulders, letting gravity take over for him. “I didn’t want the last thing I felt before she died to be resentment or anger, so I held her hand and poured as much love into her as I could.” He looks into my eyes, his green eyes vulnerable and sad. “Then, somehow after days of wavering between indifference and unconsciousness, she was lying in her bed, and she turned her head to me. She opened her eyes, squeezed my hand, and smiled, like she had always done before when I was suffering. It was a smile made for me, and I knew she was aware. I knew she recognized me.” He squeezes his eyes to keep the tears from falling. I’d give anything to hug him right now. “She saw me, and smiled at me. And it broke my fucking heart all over again.” His words stammer out, and he composes himself with a few breaths. “She died within the minute,” he chokes. “I was 10 years old.”

  He shoves a napkin into his eyes for a beat, and I want to design a way to sew his broken heart back together. Because his broken heart is making my heart break all over again. “Knowing that the end is coming, that it’s the last hug you’ll feel, the last time your heart can bleed, the last smile you’ll see — that might be when time actually stops…to prolong your agony.” He shakes his head slowly, like he’s remembering something painful he’s trying to will away. “Time isn’t precious. Time is fucking cruel.”

  I reach over and touch his hand, and I feel him still.

  “Please don’t, Summer.”

  “Don’t what, Crew?” I ask, softly.

  He leans forward and looks deep into my eyes through to my soul. “I’m not worth your pity.”

  “It’s not pity. It’s —”

  “Please. Don’t,” he says, with finality.

  I sit back and wonder what the hell just happened. I thought we just had a great moment, spilling our hearts to bleed all over this day.

  Then something occurs to me.

  “Crew,” I begin, “can I ask you something?”

  He chews on his lip for a moment. Always pausing. “Of course.”

  I need to ask this delicately. I don’t want him closing himself off just as he’s opening up. “What made you say the word ‘cancer’?”

  He squints his eyes. “What?” he asks.

  “When we first met, you told me that it took you years to say the word ‘cancer’ after your mother died. I think you said you were 17. Seven years is a long time. Why did you eventually say it? What happened?”

  Watching Crew shift in his seat stirs up my intrigue to an exponential degree. I asked him to stop being so weird, but right now he’s just being him. Just as I met him. Pausing and struggling with his words here in front of me.

  “You promised to stop being so weird,” I remind him.

  “Did I?” he asks, half smiling.

  “You actually did.” I smile back at him.

  His eyes look behind me, and I know that Aunt Rosie isn’t too far away. For one, I can smell her perfume. Plus, she stills whistles like she’s at a baseball game. He smiles at her, and I love how they have this personal bond. I’d also love to break the bond open and see what secrets come pouring out from them.

  Crew pulls out money and drops $10 on the table. I think he’s only had coffee. I admire how he takes care of Aunt Rosie. He leans forward and rests his folded arms on the table. “Summer, I’m trying hard to be more honest with you. And I really want to answer your question. But now is not the time. All I can say is that I experienced the lowest low in my life, and saying the word ‘cancer’ became necessary for me to get out of that state of mind. Can I leave it at that for now?”

  Damn. “Of course.” I smile, feeling shortchanged. “Thank you for trying to be more honest.”

  Crew’s smile twinkles in his eyes. “But you hate that answer, don’t you.”

  “Yes.” I laugh.

  “I thought you might. I promise to answer it one day, when the time calls for it. But right now, I have a surprise for you.”

  “A surprise? But I have a plane to catch —”

  “At 6am, right?”

  How does he —? “Right.”

  “Good. Then we have time. Come with me.”

  11.

  Crew

  I’m such a fucking jerk.

  As we walked out of the diner, I took Summer’s hand, an instinctive habit that I often do when walking with a girl that I’ve taken on a date, hoping it leads to sex. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with her — she’s fucking amazing — but I can’t right now. She’s Summer Perry. And this is not a date. It’s a morality check.

  But she didn’t pull her hand away.

  I treated her badly last year, and she ignored me all year. I took her hand, and she didn’t pull away.

  Enter Jerk.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, as I loosen my fingers.

  “No, don’t be,” she squeezes tighter, holding my grip. “I kind of like it.”

  Shit.

  “Well,” I need charm to win this, “if that’s all it takes to make you happy, then wait until you see the surprise.” I fake the smile, hoping she doesn’t run away again. If she still has a boyfriend, then the thoughts I have right now are definitely going to send me to hell.

  We walk in silence down the block to the light to cross the street. I can taste the tension in the air, the awkwardness of holding hands is screaming at us. She’s not my girlfriend. She’s barely my friend. For one day a year. I don’t plan to hook up with her. Holding hands promotes a secret promise, one that I won’t be able to keep. But it’s too late to do anything about it because we’re here.

  As we approach the building, Summer slows down and stops walking. “Crew,” she mutters. “I need to apologize.”

  What? “For what?” I ask her, completely confused.

  She shifts on her feet. “Last year, I acted —”

  “Summer, you don’t have to apologize.”

  Her face softens. “But I do.” She grabs my hands with both of hers now, squeezing gently and making my body fill with life. “I acted selfishly and immaturely. You’ve been nothing but incredible to me.” Her smile brightens her beautiful face. “I don’t know anyone else who would meet me here every year, no matter what, to —” A tear builds up in the corner of her eye, and I want to brush it with my fingertips, but her holding my hands creates a paralyzing rapture. “— To make me feel like a nobody. To make me feel normal and ordinary and…prosaic.” She laughs. And I die a little inside. “I didn’t do anything to earn your care or your respect, but I threw it away last year by ignoring every message you sent me when all I really wanted to do was talk to you in person.” She sniffles. Wow, she’s really talking. “For a while, I was angry with you. I thought you were trying to take advantage of me based on what you know about me, but then I realized that I was the one to blame.”

  No. “You didn’t —”

  “Please, Crew. I’m trying really hard to make sure that I don’t regret the little time we spend together. So please let me finish.” She inhales her bravery. “At some point, I put you in this role of being my savior,” she laughs, and, at the same time, crushes me a little. “All I really needed to do was take some responsibility, own up to my choices, and find some gratitude. I needed to learn how to be my own savior, and I wasn’t ready. But I think I am now.” Summer smiles. “So, I’m sorry for not hearing you out last year. And I’m sorry for ignoring you all year.” She squeezes my hand. “Thank you for coming to see me today.”

  Why do I get the feeling —?

  “It’s my pleasure,” is all that co
mes out.

  “I don’t know if I’ll be here next year,” she stammers each word.

  Each word she’s just said makes me stammer. “Why not?” I ask, scared that my instincts might be right.

  She takes a deep breath. “I’ve been invited to go away for a few months with the band to tour Europe. I’m thinking of going. And I don’t know when we’d be back.”

  Speechless.

  “I know. It’s a big deal,” she chuckles nervously.

  “What about school? What about your mother?” I ask, not daring to ask about the boyfriend.

  She exhales a shoulder-induced huff. “Well, I’d take a short sabbatical from school. I’ve already approached my advisor and the administration about it. My mother…well, my mother is doing better, but I invited her to come with me already. She said she might stay, though.”

  “But you haven’t worked it out with her yet?” I ask, feeling incredibly jealous and suddenly bereft that I might not see her next year.

  “Not yet. She’s a grown woman and she’s got plenty of money to support herself in the apartment. Unless we decide that she’ll come with me.”

  Summer looks incredibly excited, which makes me excited for her but overwhelmingly sad for me.

  “Looks like you already have it figured out.”

  She gives half a smile. “Not quite.”

  “Well, what’s stopping you?” I ask her. Please don’t say the boyfriend.

  Summer looks around the night air and squeezes my hand gently. Whether it was accidental or not, I don’t care. I like that she’s using me as a crutch. Then she shrugs.

  “What does your heart tell you to do?”

  Her eyes widen and she shakes her head “no” as if warding off a thought. “I don’t often hear my own heart. I usually hear my father’s voice, but I didn’t hear him answer me tonight.”

  “Well where do you hear your heart?”

  “On the piano,” she replies instantly.

  “Then I think you need to play your heart’s song.” She beams at the idea.

  “Come on, now. I’d better give you the surprise before you run off,” I fake another smile to cover my despairing thoughts.

  We walk up to the storefront, and I pull out the keys and open the door.

  “Wait, isn’t this —” she starts.

  “Yep. It’s your old piano school,” I reply.

  “How do you have keys?” she laughs. “Doesn’t Miss Leslie own this?”

  I outwardly laugh. “She did. About 10 years ago. My Aunt Rosie bought it when Leslie began teaching privately to incredibly talented and hardworking skillful piano students. Some of whom have never tried blueberry syrup. Can you believe that?” I smile, opening the door for her, hearing the bells chime inside.

  “Imagine that,” she says, strolling into the store smiling to herself.

  When I turn on a gentle side light, Summer sees that it’s now a store that sells instruments. I hear her gasp for breath at the sight of the grand pianos laid out before her in the center of the room.

  She’s speechless for a few moments. “I remember this place so well.” She takes a deep breath. “It even smells the same,” she turns to me and gives a warm smile.

  “I knew you’d remember,” I tell her. “Aunt Rosie bought this when Miss Leslie put it up for sale.” Summer gives me a look of confusion. Why would a deaf person want to own a music store? “Strange, I know. But she said that she wanted to experiment with ways to hear the instruments.”

  “Did she figure anything out?” she asks.

  “After many, many efforts, she did. She learned that if she tips the amps face down on the floor, she can feel the vibrations. If she drapes over the piano on her belly, she can feel the difference in the pitch of the keys.” I smile, remembering how Aunt Rosie had me banging on the keys making deep, discordant sounds so that she can experience the music.

  “Look.” I walk her to the window that shows the diner across the street. With a direct view of my favorite booth.

  Another gasp. “That’s Aunt Rosie’s diner,” she says, almost in disbelief. “And that’s your booth,” she touches the window with her delicate fingertips and brushes them down. “I could’ve seen you from here.”

  “I saw you,” I say softly to the side of her face.

  She turns to me quickly and smiles, her eyes brushing over my face. “Other side, Crew,” she laughs, reminding herself of the carving I wrote in the table.

  “Other side,” I say, lost in her eyes. Lost in the memories of her. Lost in how I longed to be in her life. “Every day at 3 o’clock, I would go after school to the diner with Aunt Rosie and have my waffles. I’d see this little strawberry blonde-haired girl with pigtails and curls bounce up to Miss Leslie’s piano school. I’d see you go in and then come back out, wondering if you were any good.” I chuckle. “Little did I know.” I shake my head, I knew nothing.

  “So you did know me?” she asks, smiling at being victorious in figuring me out.

  I nod and smile. “I’d tell my mother that I saw you, and she’d give me that smile that I’d grow to love. But then…you stopped going. I figured you gave it up. That is, until Aunt Rosie told me you were playing a concert. Then you played several more. And more after that. You were unstoppable.” I shrug my shoulders.

  Summer smiles. “When I was four, I insisted on longer lessons. My parents arranged for Miss Leslie to teach me at my home 6 days a week for two hours a day. I couldn’t get enough.”

  I know the feeling.

  I look to the floor to pick up my courage. Tell her, Crew. “I’m sorry about what happened last year, how I handled it. And for lying to you.” I look into her eyes, hoping to convey my sincerity. “Aunt Rosie knew who you were, she’s always known. She doesn’t know your music or your talent; I mean, how could she? She can’t hear you. She knows who you are, though. But for a long time, she only knew you as this girl who captured my attention daily. Then…when your dad had the accident, she asked if it was your dad. I told her the truth. And then I cried…for you.”

  Breathe, Crew. Taking her hand, I keep going, “I cried like a baby in her arms. Because I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. I know what it’s like to live in the emptiness and how easy it is to let the despair invade without mercy. I hated that for you. I hated all of it — how it will change you, how you will blame yourself, how the regret could consume you, how you’ll go through life wondering how things would be different ‘if only.’ I hated that this sweet, innocent, ridiculously talented, beautiful girl would now have to grow up without the person she loved most in this world.” I turn my face and exhale all my anguish. “I am so sorry, Summer. I hope you can forgive me.”

  The air between us crackles with tension. Will she forgive me?

  Before another thought forms, Summer’s fingers touch my chin and pull my face toward hers. Her touch is light and innocent yet commanding and direct, the touch of a pianist. She hesitates a moment, charging the air around us. Her eyes look down to my mouth then back up to me. Please don’t kiss me. She waivers, back and forth, trying to decide where to land. I watch her eyes dance up and down, weighing the consequences of her next action. Her breath holds with anticipation. My blood surges up my spine and fuels my anxiety. God, please don’t kiss me.

  If she kisses me, there’s no telling what I’ll do to make her want to stay.

  Summer cups my face in her hands. They feel cool and soft against my skin, but they heat me up to a slow burning desire. “There’s nothing to forgive, Crew.” She smiles softly, then she stands on her toes and brings her lips up to lightly kiss my forehead. Her warm lips linger on my skin. Her hair smells sweet like the beach and coconuts. Her fingers heat my body. She’s kissing me like my mother used to when I had inner turmoil.

  Well if I wasn’t in love with her before….

  When she pulls away, she slowly brushes her thumbs across my eyes and lands them at my temples, giving the spot that mirrors her scar a little flutter
rub. I keep my eyes closed, savoring the moment with her, knowing that it’s probably the only intimate one we’ll ever experience. That tiny gesture steals my breath away and pools my nerves deep into my stomach to a place where resistance goes to die.

  Opening my eyes, I say to her, “Thank you,” grateful that my integrity still has a mind of its own. Who knows what would’ve happened if I let anything else take control.

  Summer smiles, drops her hands, and rescues me from my warring emotions. “So, would you like to hear a song? Before I become a rock star?”

  “I’ve never heard you play…live, that is,” I reply and wink at her.

  “So you’ve heard me play otherwise?” she asks flirtatiously, bouncing over to one of the pianos.

  “Once or twice. There’s this thing called the internet where you can look stuff up. Amazing what you can find,” I reply playfully, following her as she walks toward the Bösendorfer piano.

  “You like this piano the best?” I ask, curious why she chose that one. It’s the most expensive piano in the gallery. It’s also the oldest one.

  “For this piece, I do. It’s has a richer bass and lighter treble than the Steinway or Fazioli. Both beautiful instruments, though.”

  “Well, then. I hope to get my money’s worth,” I laugh, as I put a dollar in a glass jar by the register.

  “Well, then. I hope you enjoy the concert,” she’s giddy, and absolutely radiant.

  I grab a chair from the wall and place it near the piano where I can see her fingers on the keys. As I sit down, she stands behind her bench and places one hand on the piano, then she takes a stately bow toward her audience — me — as I’m sure she’s done so many times before in front of thousands. Sitting down with perfect posture, she tests the pedals with her foot. She never looks to me, lost in her own bubble of music and interpretation. Brushing her fingers over the keys, she’s communicating with the piano, learning its intricacies, understanding it’s depth and tonality, feeling how she’ll make it sing her song. She’s becoming one with the instrument, an extension of her spirit.