Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  He shakes his head. “Sixth floor, room 644 . . . Old ballplayer superstition—forty-four was my number.”

  “And the six?”

  His mouth gapes before he answers. “June sixth.”

  It’s my birth month and day.

  Of course, it’s also D day. Foreshadowing, I think.

  Holding on, Sam does the sensible thing and takes half a step back. “I’m sorry, Liv. I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

  “Because you realize it’s a residual reaction to not dying . . . Because a couple of drinks made us both nostalgic for the parts of us that were good?”

  He shakes his head. “Because I don’t want to cause bigger problems than I did all those years ago.”

  His son would be proud of his father’s improved high moral ground. “It might not take much to do that.” Hastily, I reach forward, hugging him and holding on. His grip is equally tight. In his ear I ask, “How long will you be in town?”

  “A while . . . At my meeting today I agreed to a tryout coaching position. See if the team’s a good fit, vice versa. Not sure how I’ll do with regular life. I never was much good at it.”

  And from the man himself, I am reminded of the reasons that I made the choices I did years ago. Choices that were starting to take on the feel of regret. “Well,” I say, opening the car door, “isn’t it incredible that you have a second chance to figure it all out?”

  I decide I’m not going to rehearsal this evening. I go home to the brownstone and draw all the shades, sitting in the living room until it’s dark. When my stomach grumbles, I think of food but only light a candle and check the time. It’s not nearly as late as I thought, just a lack of lunch and a fast-setting fall sun. I can’t get out of this day fast enough. I go to the wet bar where there are equal supplies of Macallan and Crown Royal. I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, which still smells of Sam, and reach for a neutral, already open bottle of merlot. I fill a stemless wineglass with zero deference to what society deems an appropriate amount. After emptying half the glass, good sense relaxes. I pick up my phone and dial. In an effort to avoid one problem, I grasp at its blood-related mate. Theo answers.

  “Liv . . . hey,” he says.

  He sounds sleepy. “I was just wondering if maybe we’re suffering from the same thing. You weren’t at school today, and I ended up staying home from rehearsal.” Compared to everything else, it’s the tiniest of white lies.

  A rumble of Theo laughter cuts into the line. Less the Southern drawl, the mirroring depth of his and Sam’s voice is uncanny. “Not unless you were suffering the aftermath of a binge weekend, thanks to a busted heart.” I am quiet and he is embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so . . . dramatic. Really. I’m fine. Braemore kids take a lot of attention and energy. I didn’t have it today—that’s all.”

  I should tell Theo how we functioned without him. Until Principal Giroux came in, acting as security guard, the room was chaos, even with a substitute music teacher. It’s the appropriate subject matter between friendly classroom acquaintances. “I’m sorry you’re having such a rough time, Theo.”

  “I called her.”

  “India?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “It was an accident, the call. Long story. Anyway . . . we talked for a few minutes. It was weird and comfortable all at once.”

  I swirl the wine and say absently, “I know what you mean.”

  “How so?”

  The swirling stops. “Uh, recently—someone from my past turned up. We had that sort of weird-comfortable conversation.”

  He laughs. “Not the guy you were madly in love with in college?”

  I nearly fall off the sofa, and the wineglass does hit the coffee table with a sloshing thud. “Your call with India. Tell me about it,” I say, deflecting facts.

  “Like I said, odd and comfortable. I don’t think she’d been sitting by the phone waiting for my call.” He is quiet for a moment. I let him think. “But she did . . . Hell, it was probably my imagination.”

  “What was your imagination, Theo?”

  “It was so tiny, but it was there. I’m sure of it. India made a comment about her needing space to get over us. Does that make sense, Liv? She broke up with me. What is there for her to get over?”

  Misinterpretation or a valid observation, I have no idea. But I find myself desperate to fan Theo’s spark of hope. “It does make sense. Maybe . . . maybe don’t give up completely on the two of you. Not yet.”

  “Why do you say it like that, like you’re rooting for us?”

  I take a deep breath and draw on what might be motherly wisdom. “If you give up too soon, you might miss the chance of a lifetime. If you’re too stubborn or rash, Theo, you could miss everything you were supposed to have.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Olivia

  On Wednesday, Braemore is closed, an educational day for teachers. This is good; it will put distance between Theo and me. I shouldn’t have called him. Nothing positive can come from furthering a relationship. But between the quiet of the brownstone and looming catastrophe, I’ve thought of nothing but Theo and Sam. It’s crazy. A couple of months ago, one was a tender memory I visited on a day of New Year’s Eve mourning—it seemed appropriate, allowable. The other was like a distant shadow—Sam, hovering in the yesteryear of my life.

  I called his hotel twice on Tuesday, but hung up both times. Afterward, I did the right thing and minded my business, even heading to symphony rehearsal early. As I took my place next to Mary Alice, who is perpetually early, she asked if I was feeling okay. I muttered, “Fine. I just, um . . . I had nowhere else to be.” Normally, my ass hits the chair with two minutes to tune.

  When Sasha calls and tries to back out of dinner, citing an overload of work, I don’t relent. I need to change the subjects in my head. I convince her to meet me at Neptune Oyster in the North End. After arriving, we find so much food and flavor that distraction seems possible. But after the oysters, which are succulent, breezy conversation stagnates. Avoiding what’s foremost on my mind leaves few talking points. I don’t mention Sam, his close call with death, or his more startling appearance in Boston. I don’t because Sasha and I are too close—one dubious confession will lead to another. I also don’t want to test the odds. Would Sasha believe my questionable behavior stopped with a heated parking garage kiss? I smile, unable to decide where she’d come down on that point, and order another martini.

  Sasha isn’t much help with alternative topics. She’s distracted and not her usual, on-point self. It’s a state of mind I use to regulate my own, and something I need desperately this evening. But since her late entrance, I sense that I’m the one holding it together. Sure-footed Sasha literally tripped as she approached the table and glanced sheepishly around the restaurant before sliding into the booth.

  With nowhere else to go, I bring up Theo. I keep it benign as in “the music teacher at the alternative high school.” Sasha fidgets and I push the topic, like a child trying to get her attention. How far can I go? She’s not listening, and I succumb to a pinch of Jeremy’s demanding behavior. She shows cursory interest in my add-on thoughts about Octavious and Antonio, the idea about asking Manuel if the symphony would provide a summer internship. Her haziness drifts to obtuse when I say, “Both students, they have so much promise . . . I wouldn’t mind teaching them myself.” It’s perfect fodder for a Sasha comeback.

  Her lackluster gaze bumps over mine. “What a great idea.”

  “In what universe?”

  She smiles vaguely. “Didn’t you say something about planets being part of the symphony’s upcoming pieces? Maybe that will work out.”

  For a winter-ash brunette, it’s the blondest moment I’ve ever heard from Sasha. Her tiny frame pops taller, and she keeps her hand tight to her side. I’m sure it’s gripped around her phone. “Trial starts tomorrow,” she says. “Huge case. Zowz and I are handling it.”

  “Oh, you and Zowz beyond your pr
o bono hours. How cozy.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing . . .” As the waitress delivers dinner, I glance around the otherwise sedate setting.

  “Opening statements,” she says, examining her meal. “It’s always comes down to the wire which one of us will do that. I, uh . . . I’m also hoping Zowz will track down some last-minute evidence. The whole thing, it’s got me on edge.”

  I can’t recall a time when the law or Nick Zowzer put Sasha on edge.

  She cuts into her steak. It’s what Sasha would order in a seafood restaurant and so rare it should have arrived on a leash. She’s also a food sniffer. At least her dining habits don’t appear ruffled, performing this ritual before tasting a fancy potato dish laden with a thousand-calorie-per-teaspoon sauce. Sasha has the metabolism of a gazelle. The lobster and sea greens salad is placed in front of me. She slices into her bleeding meat and says, “So what about this Theo? He broke up with his fiancée or something?”

  “Right . . . his fiancée.” I pick up my fork, amazed she’s retained this much. Since Sasha’s asked a direct question, I convey what I know about Theo’s love life. Her interest perks up a notch. As I talk, the soft crease in her brow deepens to a groove. Sasha’s stare drills into me as I wind down with Theo’s recent call to India. She’s abandoned her filet. I read Sasha’s body language like a mood ring. I’ve said too much. “Soo . . .” I go on in a drawn-out breath. “What’s new with Jeremy?”

  Sasha doesn’t reply, studying my poker face. I imagine it’s the look she gives when deciding if the witness is lying. She stands down and picks up her steak knife. “Not much . . . or I’m not sure. Jeremy’s been . . . distracted lately.”

  “And why is that?” I dab at my mouth with a napkin and down another Liv-like gulp of martini. “Writer’s block?”

  “Since you ask, more like relationship block.”

  I’m in luck. The conversation’s leapt from me to her. “Oh, sorry. I guess we haven’t talked in a while.” This is unlike us, for me not to be up to speed on Sasha’s love life. Sometimes I’m sure I know too much, like the fact that Jeremy enjoys kinky lingerie and that last Christmas Eve they had sex in my powder room. I clear my throat and the holiday memory. It’s not so much the sex, but sex with Sasha’s moody live-in boyfriend. Sex is something Sasha puts a lot of thought into. She once pulled me into Victoria’s Secret dressing room, anxious for an opinion about the lacy scabs of fabric covering her body. All I could think was, Seriously, this is the performance you put on in addition to room and board? Jesus, I’d never leave either . . . That and she must keep the woman who does her waxing on a retainer. I erase the visual and pay attention. “What’s going on with you and Jeremy?”

  Her slim shoulders shift, and her silky gray blouse opens wider in the front. Among her many talents, Sasha has the impeccable gift of fashion. It only heightens her bizarre willingness to dress like a hooker in the bedroom. It also makes me think of Jeremy’s staple wardrobe—threadbare Red Sox pajama pants and a rotation of eighties rock-band T-shirts. I rephrase my Jeremy question, attempting to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Didn’t you say a big publishing house was considering his new novel?”

  “They were. They did.” My head cocks and her penciled eyebrows arch. “They passed.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.”

  “But this time it’s not just the rejection—it’s the aftermath.” Her silverware clinks against the plate. “And it’s not getting any better.”

  “Has he stopped writing?”

  “He’s stopped bathing.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Not so much.”

  Unfortunately, this is almost too easy to envision.

  “We had an agreement. It wouldn’t have worked for everybody, but it worked for us. I was the breadwinner while Jeremy had all day to write. In turn, he did the domestic detail. I hate to sound like some 1950s, Ward Cleaver character, but I liked someone doing all that—cooking and cleaning, running errands. But it was more. I liked that Jeremy’s head is so filled with imagination while mine spills over with reality. And now . . .”

  “Now what?”

  She sighs. “With Jeremy’s latest setback, things have changed. I find myself avoiding him. I don’t feel the sympathy I should. I . . .” She looks harder at me. “To be honest, when I talk to him, I’m starting to sound like you and Rob.”

  “Ouch!” I say, scrambling for something positive to note about Jeremy Detweiler. Before I can, Sasha continues to spill.

  “It just hasn’t been good for a while now. Not good at all, you know what I mean?”

  I’m not sure if this is rhetorical, or if Sasha is looking for my take on rocky relationships. She clarifies by turning her troubles into a direct cross-examination. “I’ve just never been here before, Liv. Not like this.” She focuses harder on me. “I suspect it gets obvious when two people just aren’t suited for one another anymore, right? But it’s probably an over-time realization. It’s not one fight. Nothing makeup sex will fix.”

  Shower sex with Rob jumps to mind. While effective in the moment, sex will not cure what ails us. Of course, the sudden resurrection of Sam Nash won’t either. My attention shuffles back to Sasha, who seems to be looking directly into my head.

  “Is this how it goes when a relationship stops thriving and starts feeling like it’s dying on the vine?”

  “Are you asking me specifically?” I narrow my eyes.

  She forces a smile. “Sorry. I, um . . . No. I meant generally speaking. It wasn’t a dig at you and Rob. I wouldn’t do that . . . You know that, right?”

  I sigh and poke at my salad. Sarcasm is a welcome part of our friendship; direct stabs at open sores are not. That said, Sasha is struggling and I should be a better friend. I open my mouth in an effort to lend support. Then it clamps shut. I don’t know that encouraging her is the right thing. Perhaps her relationship with Jeremy has run its course. As much as I don’t like to see Sasha hurting, this may be something she’ll have to get through. Like I told Theo, her breakup may lead to someone better. I take the middle of the road. “You’re smarter than me at relationships, Sash. I’m sure you’ll work it out, make the right choice.”

  She draws her phone to table level and glances at it. “Don’t be so sure. I’m not beyond reproach. I’m as likely as the next person to make impulsive decisions when it comes to men.” I offer a weak smile and imagine how much better I could make Sasha feel by admitting to a cheap make-out session in a parking garage.

  I deviate. “So Theo, his mother is hosting a charity event on Friday at the Boston Public Library. I told you about it. I even managed to finagle a chamber ensemble to play pro bono for a couple of hours.”

  “Ah, see that. Your newfound benevolence is already expanding.”

  I make a face, but at least the remark is more on point. “The symphony only has a Saturday-night gig. I thought Rob and I would go. I’m curious to meet her . . . Claire. That’s Theo’s mother.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” My sea greens–crammed fork is midway to my mouth. I shove it in and chew.

  Bad decision. Allowing Sasha time to work the angles is never a good idea. It’s why no one will play board games with her.

  “What is it with this kid, Liv?” She’s annoyed—that I have not fought the Jeremy cause on her behalf; that I’ve taken my Theo talk one sentence too far. “I don’t get it.”

  I chew until my molars are chomping on nothing. “Get what?”

  “Since you started at Braemore, every time we’ve talked, Theo McAdams has been your sole focus. First it’s his classroom, his students . . . Then it’s his incredible musical talent, your almost hand-wringing question if he’s wasting his time as a music teacher when he should be pursuing a career more like yours. I swear when you said that you sounded like your father.”

  I dart back, dodging the comparison. “I did not either.”

  “The hell you didn’t. It was li
ke Asa Klein incarnate. And now you know the intimate details of what sounds like a rough breakup between Theo and this India.”

  “India, huh . . .” I bite down on my lip.

  “India Church, whose parents own Take Me to Church Catering.” Sasha has that gotcha tone, the witness she just tripped up on the stand. “Now you’re anxious to meet his mother. You’re way too interested, Liv. Fess up. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I insist. “I find Theo interesting—we’ve gotten friendly. Is that so difficult to understand?”

  “For you?” Sasha cheers her wineglass toward me. “Quite frankly, yes.”

  “I don’t think so. Musically, we have a lot in common—I can appreciate his talent. I’m sympathetic to Theo’s past, the way his father died. In the present, we hit it off. We get along.”

  Instead of her cabernet, Sasha takes a drink of water. It strikes me as a head-clearing action. Her gaze pans the white tablecloth and crumbs, a drop of red wine stain. Then she looks directly at me and hauls in a breath that consumes her tiny frame. “Tell me the truth, Liv. Is there something more going on between you and Theo?”

  “Something like what?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I don’t want to make accusations—but I know you. I also know . . . Without it sounding like a dig, I know things between you and Rob have been shaky since you came back from Italy last year.”

  “Not Italy, Sash. Just his first financial catastrophe—the one he didn’t feel the need to mention until it was almost too late.”

  She nods in a consolatory gesture. “And certainly things haven’t improved with this second monetary misstep.”

  “Not so much,” I say, feeling a sudden loss of appetite.

  “So I can see it. I can see how an attractive, vulnerable younger man, one who you clearly like—”