by Staci Hart
“I know what you mean,” she said gently. “I feel the same way about my family.”
“When did you start playing piano?” I asked, anxious to change the subject. I polished off my first dog and moved on to the second.
“When I was six. They said I was a natural, but I think they were just trying to fluff me up. More than anything, I just loved it. It was almost like another language, one made of feelings.” She chuckled to herself. “I know how stupid that sounds, but that’s how it feels. Oh!” she started, reaching into her bag. “That reminds me; I’ve got the drawing for my tattoo. My sister did it for me. Mama isn’t happy about me getting a tattoo, but she didn’t put up much of a fight, just made a fuss about me taking antibiotics.”
“Antibiotics?”
She sighed. “A heart thing. I’m more prone to infections. I have to take them before going to the dentist too. Ah! Here it is.”
When her hand reappeared, it was holding a thick sheet of watercolor paper. As she angled it toward me, I saw a drawing of a music staff, but rather than notes, the lines bounced in jagged spikes, like heartbeats on tempo.
“Do you like it?” she asked with uncertainty.
“I…I love it. Where are you going to put it?”
“I was thinking here.” She turned to display her back and reached over her shoulder to tap between her shoulder blades.
“It’s gonna be perfect,” I said a little too softly and took a bite to stop myself from saying more. It cleared a third of the dog.
When she turned again, the sunbursts in her green eyes flaring with joy. “Oh, good. I feel like such a poser. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“I think you’re doing great.”
She blushed. “Thanks.”
“So what’s next on the itinerary?” I asked, working on polishing off lunch.
“Let’s see.” Annie swapped the illustration for her schedule of the day. “We’re renting a bike, and you have been tasked with teaching me something I should have learned when I was six.”
I laughed around my last bite and dusted off my hands. “Yeah, how did that happen—or not happen?”
“I dunno. I think Mama was worried about my heart, and I have a suspicion she banned Daddy from teaching me.”
I frowned.
“If it makes you feel better, he didn’t teach my sisters either. Out of solidarity, I guess.”
“Are you sure it’s okay for your heart?” I asked for maybe the fifteenth time over the last few days.
“Yes, I’m sure. And I’m sure all the walking will be fine, as long as you don’t mind me needing to stop to rest.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You say that now,” she said lightly, “but let me know how you feel after we’ve hit every bench in Central Park.”
“Well, lucky for me, I’ve got great company. You scared? About the bike?”
“A little,” she admitted.
“The good news is, once you learn, you’re apparently set for life.”
And with a laugh, she stood, hands in her pockets and sun on her face, blonde hair caught in the wind and her cheeks alight with untarnished joy.
The moment made an impression on me that wasn’t likely to be forgotten.
We chatted as we walked down Fifth to the bike rental station and unlocked one of the blue bicycles. And a little while and one park bench later, we were walking through the park in search of a grassy stretch off the beaten path.
We found what we had been looking for—a space lined with trees, somewhat shielded from the rolling, open knoll by boulders jutting up out of the grass.
“This looks good,” I said, lowering the kickstand before taking off my backpack.
She pulled off her bag, looking nervously at the bike as she took a seat in the grass. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her cheeks and forehead, her face a little pale.
“You sure you’re okay?” I asked, eyeing her.
She smiled—her favorite way to answer. “It looks worse than it is. Promise.”
I frowned. “Really, maybe the bike is too much. Maybe we can do this after your surgery.”
“Greg, I’m fine. Come sit by me for a minute.”
I kept my arguments to myself and sat next to her.
“The cool air feels so nice,” she said, gathering up her hair and pulling it over one shoulder, exposing her neck.
“When they fix your heart, will you still feel like this?”
“No. I should be able to do anything physical I want within a few weeks of the surgery.”
My brows drew together. “Really? After open-heart surgery?”
“Really. It’s not like a heart transplant or anything. The hardest part of my recovery will be the incision and the fusing of my sternum back together.”
A shudder tickled its way down my spine at the thought of a bone saw opening her rib cage. “What all will they do to your heart?”
“Close the hole, repair my valve. I’ve had open-heart surgery before, but I was too little to remember anything about it. The scar is the only proof that it happened. Well, that and my mother’s stories. But this shouldn’t be too hard on the muscle itself, just some sutures when it’s all said and done. My body will work a lot more efficiently once the surgery is complete—like, immediately. I just have to get through the whole split-ribs thing,” she said with a little smirk. “All right, I feel better. Are you ready?”
She looked better. Her cheeks and lips were tinged with color, and the waxy quality her skin had taken on was gone.
“Ready when you are.”
We got to our feet, and I stepped to the bike to lower the seat. Once it was down, I waved her over.
“Come here and see if this works.”
She climbed on cautiously, her feet on the ground and her hands gripping the handlebars. The seat was probably too low, but I figured it’d be better for her center of gravity—plus she could stop herself easier if she tipped.
“Okay,” I started, one hand on the back seat and my other on the handlebar next to her hand, “I’m gonna hang on and hold you steady while you pedal.”
She shot me a worried glance. “And if I fall?”
“You get up and try again.”
She laughed, not looking convinced.
“Don’t worry; you’re not going to hurt yourself on the grass, but I’m not going to let you fall. I’ve got you, okay?”
With a deep breath, she nodded once. “Okay.”
“All right. Put your feet on the pedals.” My grip tightened when the balance was all on me. “Ready?”
“Ready,” she echoed with determination.
“Now, pedal.”
She did, moving us both forward, the bike only wobbling a little bit under her.
“Good, let’s go to that tree. Just keep it slow like this.”
Her tongue poked out of her lips, her hands white-knuckled on the handlebars until she got to the tree. And when she smiled, it was with more confidence.
“I did it!”
I laughed. “You did. Come on, let’s go back. Ready?”
She nodded, and we took off again. This time, she wobbled a little less, speeding up until I had to trot next to her to keep up.
When we stopped at our backpacks, she cheered. “Again!”
“All right,” I said on a chuckle. “I’m just gonna hang on to the back this time. And…go.”
I did just that, my hands on the back of the seat, the handlebars swerving a little but nothing she couldn’t correct. And then I let go.
She didn’t notice, wholly focused on staying upright, and I kept jogging, pulling up beside her. When she glanced over, I held my hands up in the air and wiggled my fingers.
Her face opened up with joy, and a whoop passed her lips—just before she swerved into me.
A string of expletives hissed out of me as I tried to grab her, but it was too late. She tumbled into me, bike and all, taking us down to the cold grass.
Annie was lying on top of me,
her hair tossed across her face. The ground was cold and damp under me, and the handlebar of the bike was jammed into my ribs, but I barely even noticed. Not with Annie sprawled out across my body, her green eyes sparkling and her laughter ringing in my ears.
My own laughter met hers like an old friend.
“Are you okay?” I asked, sweeping her hair out of her face to tuck it behind her ear.
She flushed but made no move to pull away from me. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”
“I’ll live.”
We watched each other for a moment through the rise and fall of my chest, the movement carrying her like a rocking ship. And then she giggled again, climbing off me before reaching for the bike.
It was then that I began to fully comprehend the depth of the trouble I’d found myself in.
A few more rounds had her riding on her own, and we practiced starting and stopping without falling. Within fifteen minutes, she’d graduated to the walkway where she could practice on a smooth surface. It wasn’t long before we were shooed off by a quartet of elderly men on their way to the Chess and Checkers House, judging by the cases they were carrying. They made sure to properly chastise us with wagging knobby fingers and low, overgrown eyebrows, unyielding, even when we explained our plight. So we hung our heads and tried not to smile at our shoes.
Before we checked the bike back in, Annie retrieved her instant camera from her backpack, kneeling next to the bike to snap a picture. I had her get on the bike, so I could take another. She kicked her legs out to the sides and opened her mouth in a blinding smile. And then we took a selfie. Well, I took it, since my arms were longer.
When it developed, I wished we’d taken two.
Back into the park we went with Annie’s itinerary in hand, and as we talked and laughed, I found myself lost in the wonder of her.
It wasn’t the statue of Alice in Wonderland that struck me; it was the smile on her face when she gazed on it, so completely in that moment that nothing seemed to exist before or after it. It wasn’t the Bethesda Fountain; it was the way she dipped her fingers in the cold water like it would anoint her. It wasn’t the beauty of the tiled terrace, shining like gold; it was the way she experienced it, eyes wide, lips parted, like she wanted to swallow the world.
I was right to be hesitant about spending the day with Annie. Before today, I could tell myself it was attraction, pheromones, science. I could tell myself she was too young, that we were too different. But the truth was that none of those things mattered. There were roots—I could feel them working their way through me. They weren’t superficial, spreading out under the surface; they were the kind of roots you could never excavate, the kind that became a part of all they touched in the most permanent way.
We walked toward the Mall, a wide lane lined with elm trees so old and tall, their branches touched far above the heads of people below in an arch like a gothic chapel. And I listened to her, watched her, unable to deny the allure of her lust for life, the optimism of her soul, the lightness of her heart, a heart that had been broken from the start.
I was high from the contact, hungry for the feeling, desperate for more.
As we approached the entrance of the grand walkway lined with those dignified trees, Annie gasped.
“Greg, there’s a piano.”
We stopped in front of the the Naumburg Bandshell, a beautiful stage under a high arch, the ceiling domed and stamped with recessed stone plates for acoustics. They held concerts there in the summer, and a public piano stood in front, painted in waving colors like a melting rainbow.
Play me, it encouraged from the panel above the keys.
And so, she took a seat and did just that.
It was a classical song I recognized, though I didn’t know the name. Her fingers brushed the keys with certainty, and a slow waltz that sounded both happy and sad. Her eyes were down, her head bowed, her body moving gently, as did her arms, as did her fingers. The movement of her body was in synchrony with the movement of the song, rising and falling, speeding and slowing, the notes echoing from the wooden chamber that held the strings and hammers.
Her fingers stilled when the song tapered off, disappearing like magic realized and gone too soon, and when she turned to me, when she met my eyes, hers were full of tears, of pain and joy and deliverance. And I knew with absolute certainty that I would never find another woman like her.
Not as long as I lived.
8
Alley-oop
Annie
The afternoon had slipped away before I even realized it; I’d been happily distracted by Greg and New York and the wonder of new experiences.
But sharing it with him was the best part of all.
It was late by the time we made it to the tattoo parlor, and when he opened the door and we stepped in, my eyes widened with excitement as I took it all in.
I’d heard about Tonic—the shop that was on the TV show of the same name—but nothing I’d seen did it justice. Stone Temple Pilots played on the overhead speakers in the open space, and a few people looked up from the Victorian-era furniture in the waiting room as I gawked.
Everything felt old and gothic with velvet and leather and swirling rococo details on all the furniture. Lining one wall were booths with antique desks and retro tattoo chairs, curio cabinets full of bottles, and paintings in elaborate gilded frames.
A girl with hair the color of purple cotton candy, pinned up in glory rolls, walked toward us smiling with cherry-red lips. Her high-waisted pants had sailor buttons in the front and straight legs, and her tight T-shirt that bore the phrase But Really was tucked into the slim waistband.
“Hey. Annie, right?” she said as she approached, her wedges drumming the hardwood floor.
My heart picking up in its uneven gait. “Yeah, hi.” I took her extended hand, struck by her gravity. She was confident and cool in a way I’d never come across in real life.
She jerked her chin at Greg in greeting. “Hey, Greg. How’s it hanging?”
“Can’t complain, Penny,” he said with a smile.
“Come on back.” She turned, and we followed. “Did you bring the drawing we talked about?”
“I did.” I dug around in my bag as we walked, handing it over once I sat in her chair.
She nodded with appreciation. “Man, I love this. Where do you want it?”
“I was thinking between my shoulder blades.”
Another nod as she looked from my shoulders to the paper and back again thoughtfully. “Yeah, that would be perfect. About four inches, like this.” She held up her hand, thumb and forefinger spread. “Let me get a transfer ready. Wanna take off your coat and sweater? Do you have a tank or anything underneath?”
“I do.”
“Perfect. Be right back.”
When she was out of earshot, I looked at Greg and squealed like a little girl. “I cannot believe you got me in here.”
He shrugged, but he was smiling that crooked smile of his. “Rose’s boyfriend works here, so it wasn’t all that hard.”
“Don’t be modest,” I teased, stripping off my jacket, which he hung on a hook on the wall.
I pulled off my favorite yellow sweater next, and when my head was clear of the neck, I found Greg’s eyes on me for just a moment before he looked away.
They weren’t eyes of a friend or a boss or a big brother or uncle; those eyes sent a spark of heat through my chest and cheeks and pinched the air from my lungs.
I wondered if he’d gotten a good look at my scar, and I had a rare moment of insecurity about it. Maybe it disgusted him, reminded him of how imperfect I was. Maybe he was just curious. Maybe he hadn’t seen it at all.
Penny walked over before I could consider the moment further.
“Got it,” she said as she held up the transfer, smiling. “Swing your legs around for me.”
I did as she’d asked, and she moved behind me.
“I brought two sizes.” She handed me a mirror, and I angled it to face the mirror behind her. �
�This one,” she held it up to my back, “and this one.” She swapped it with the other.
“The bigger one,” Greg said.
“I think so too,” Penny agreed. “What do you think, Annie?”
“I’m not sure. So…go big or go home.”
She laughed. “My kinda girl.”
We spent a little time getting the transfer where I wanted it before she directed me to lie down on my stomach.
Greg sat in the chair at my head, and my heart thumped and jittered with anticipation as Penny set up her tattoo gun.
He leaned forward, hanging his elbows on his thighs. “You okay?” he asked quietly.
I nodded and tried to smile.
“That was super convincing.”
I chuckled at that. “I can’t believe you had both your arms done. How long did that take?”
He inspected his forearms in thought. “I dunno. Probably a dozen sessions. And these aren’t all I have. There’s more on my back and chest.”
Penny chimed in, “I did the Ganesh on his back. So fucking cool.”
“I wanna see!” I lifted up onto my elbows.
He glanced around. “Right now?”
“Well, why not? I took my shirt off.”
A puff of a laugh left him, but he stood and turned, putting his back to me. And, in what almost seemed like slow motion, he reached back over his shoulders to grab a fistful of his shirt, pulling it over his head with a whispering of fabric.
On his wide, muscular back, the elephant god sat, drawn in black and white inside an ornate frame. The lotus flower under him curled out from his feet, and he looked out at us sagely, each of his four hands in motion, each with a different purpose. The piece looked immeasurably masculine, the lines strong and powerful, the details unreal. The shading was done in tiny dots; I could barely see them with the few feet that separated us. And the artwork was as impeccable and stunning as the ripples and curves of muscles underneath.
“Wow,” I breathed, only in part at the artwork. I had seen a grand total of zero backs that looked like that. “Why Ganesh?”