“You don’t know?” I’d never considered that fact.
He shakes his head sharply. “I’ve searched, but there are no records. It’s like you just dropped off the face of the earth.”
“In a way, I did.” I look around to make sure nobody is listening. “I was executed not long after you were killed. A few months maybe, as close as I can figure.”
Drew’s eyes are angry as he brings his fist down hard onto the table. “Damn! That was not the agreement.” He starts to reach for my hand across the table, but pulls back quickly, remembering, his eyes searching mine for the truth. “You’ve got to believe me, I never would have gone if I’d thought for one minute that’s what would happen. I agreed to surrender only if they left you alone. Otherwise, I would have fought to the death to keep us together. The king . . . was smitten with you.” I smile as he slips into the more formal speech of our first lifetime together. “I guess I figured that his adoration would keep us both safe,” he continues.
I remember my thoughts as I sat in the Tower, waiting to meet my fate, hearing the workmen pound at the platform that was to host my death. “I think that’s what went wrong,” I say, knowing as the images form that I’m right. “All I remember is that the king propositioned me and I refused him. I think that’s what got me killed.”
Drew’s phone vibrates and I look to see it marking the end of one hour. I’m a little annoyed to discover that I’m disappointed. “We can stay,” I say without thinking, enjoying being able to talk about this freely, to maybe find some of the pieces that are missing from my memories.
“No. You said an hour, and it’s up.” He picks up the phone, his motions exaggerated as he puts it in his pocket and slips his arms into his jacket. Just as we start to get up, Drew puts both hands on the table, and I can see his arms trembling as he locks eyes with me, a sad smile behind them. “At least you remember that much. You refused the king, a gesture that cost you your life,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Because that’s how much you loved me.”
Thirteen
Focusing on not focusing on anything is harder than it sounds. I always play better when I don’t think about the notes or the music and just let instinct take over, but with all that’s been going on, clearing my mind isn’t easy. As the bow glides over the cello strings, I can tell that my fingers are getting stronger and finding the right places on the board more often. When I finish the piece, even I have to admit that it doesn’t totally suck. Not stage-worthy yet, but not completely awful either.
“That was nice,” Mom says, watching from the doorway. “Best I’ve heard you sound.”
Since your career ended, I finish for her in my head. “Thanks,” is all I say out loud.
She takes a few steps into my room. “Are you feeling better?”
“I guess,” I say cautiously. I haven’t talked to her about Griffon at all. There’s too much I’ll never be able to tell her. “Why?”
Mom walks over and sits on my bed, looking around the room like she’s never been in here before. “I have eyes. I know something happened between you and Griffon.”
I nod, afraid to say anything. Just thinking about Griffon is enough to make me start bawling like a baby.
“You know you can always come and talk to me about things like that. I’ve been around a while. I might even be able to help.”
“Thanks,” I whisper. “We broke up.” I blink back the tears that form just from saying those words.
Mom leans over and puts her arms around me. At first I pull back—Mom and I don’t hug that much anymore—but then I relax into her and feel more relieved than I have in days.
“Want to talk about it?” she asks.
“No,” I answer. “It’s over. I just have to move on.”
Mom pulls back and puts one hand on my cheek. “Oh sweetie, nothing is ever over.”
“You don’t know that.” I sniff and run the back of my hand over my eyes.
“Maybe I do,” she says, and this time I’m content to let her have the last word.
We sit quietly until Mom straightens and takes a deep breath. “Dad’s coming down for brunch. Are you about done practicing?”
“Dad’s coming here?” Despite the fact that he lives in the apartment above ours, he’s rarely shown up for a meal since the divorce.
Mom holds my gaze steady, like she’s daring me to say more. “Something wrong with that? He is your father.”
“Nope. Nothing wrong with that. Let me just put this away and I’ll be right in.”
I set the cello in its case, trying to ignore the heaviness that settles in my chest every time I touch it. I know it’s stupid, but I haven’t polished the wood in weeks, because I think that maybe some of the fingerprints on it might be Griffon’s. We’ve had no contact at all since the last time at his house, and I know I’m being ridiculous by trying to hold on to even dusty traces of him, but I can’t help it.
The table is set for three like it always used to be, but instead of Kat sitting across from me, Dad is shaking out his napkin. Kat hasn’t even been gone a week, but since that first outburst, Mom hasn’t said too much about it. My contact with Kat has been limited to four texts and two status updates, so I guess her fabulous new life in London is taking up a lot of her time. I always knew that she’d be moving out anyway at the beginning of the school year, but it’s still weird, like more than one person is missing from the house.
“Well, this is nice,” Dad says, breaking the silence.
Mom shoots him a glance. None of us are supposed to acknowledge that nice, normal family meals aren’t what we do every day. “It is. Can you pass the bacon, please?”
“Sure.” For a few excruciatingly long minutes the only sound in the room is the clinking of silverware on the plates.
“How’s it going at the studio?” Dad finally asks me.
“Fine.”
“Did I hear you practicing earlier?”
“The improvement is amazing,” Mom answers for me. “I’m not saying she should start booking recitals anytime soon, but we might want to look at getting back into the Conservatory before school starts.”
“I’m right here,” I say irritably. “And I’m nowhere near good enough to even think about the Conservatory at this point.”
“You’re wrong,” Mom says. “And you’re going to be a senior this year. We need to start making some decisions about Juilliard or continuing with the Conservatory program once you graduate.”
“I have been making some decisions,” I say, although that’s a complete lie. “I’ve been thinking about applying to Cal and maybe UC San Diego.” I’ve pulled those two schools completely out of thin air, but I get a feeling of satisfaction from just saying them out loud.
“To do what? Neither of those schools has a music program worthy of your talent.” Mom puts her fork down on her plate; the pretense of actually eating is over. “We’ve talked about Juilliard since you were a little—”
I cut her off before she can say any more. “Mom, face it—Juilliard is completely off the table, and so is the Conservatory. I was thinking I should look into something else. History maybe, or English lit.”
“Why? So you can waste your gift teaching?”
“Is that so bad? I teach music now. What’s the difference?”
Mom starts to speak again, but Dad puts his hand on her arm. To my total surprise, she shuts up. “What your mother is trying to say is that it isn’t time to give up yet. Applications are still six months away, and a lot can happen in that time.”
A knock at the door saves me from having to try to explain myself again. “I’ll get it,” I say, tossing my napkin on the table. Maybe I should bring Kat up in order to take the heat off me.
I’m totally unprepared to see Drew at the front door. “What are you doing here?” I quickly step out onto the porch and close the door behind me. I try hard not to notice that the vintage Doors shirt he’s wearing is just tight enough to show off the muscles in his chest.
“You didn’t give me your phone number last night,” he says. “So I had to come over and see you in person.”
“How did you know where I live?”
“I heard Kat tell Francesca once,” he says.
I should have known that no random fact would go unnoticed. Or be forgotten. I lean against the door frame. “I agreed to one dinner,” I remind him.
“And I appreciate that,” he says. “This is an invitation, not an order. There’s someone I want you to meet, but it’s going to take longer than an hour.”
“Who?”
“It’s a surprise.” The corners of his eyes crinkle up as he smiles.
I hesitate. An hour-long dinner is one thing, but this sounds suspiciously like a date.
Drew’s face turns serious, but his eyes focus on mine. “If you don’t want to see me again after this, then I’ll go. I’ll leave you alone. I promise. But you don’t want to miss this.”
I look at Drew and then down at the ground. I’ve spent so much time running away from him, but now I’m wondering why. What else do I have to lose? “Okay,” I finally agree. “When?”
“Friday. Eight o’clock.” He glances toward the window, and I know that Mom and Dad are watching. “Can I pick you up?”
“I’ll meet you.” By now, that kind of answer is almost a reflex.
“Cole, let me pick you up,” he says, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “I have a car, and it’s easier.” He hesitates, and I don’t fill the gap left by his silence. “The minute you want to come home, I’ll take you. I promise.”
“Friday. Eight o’clock,” I confirm and slip back through the door, my heart pounding for no good reason.
“Who was that?” Mom and Dad are standing by the door when I walk back in.
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