Before Goodbye

by Mimi Cross

I grab my sneakers, glancing up at Cate. “I played ice hockey for twelve years,” I tell her, slipping into my sneakers. I’m not sure why I share this bit of information.

  She has no idea, either. I can tell by her single raised eyebrow.

  “Too long,” I say, standing up.

  I look away from her and across the room, though I’m not looking at anything in particular. Or maybe I’m looking at everything—that’s suddenly what it feels like. Like I’m seeing everything for the first time. It’s a weird feeling. I try to shake it off.

  “You guys ready to go?” I ask.

  Kimmy yells, “Yes!” Then shouts for me to carry her stuff before she tears out of the room with Sam, racing down the long rubber-floored corridors toward the exit.

  I pick up Kimmy’s pink coat and the duffel embroidered with her name. The coat looks so small. I run my fingers over the stitching on the bag.

  When I look up, Cate is watching me, her expression curious. I can almost hear a question formulating in her mind.

  But she only says, “Thanks for asking Rod to apologize. But don’t next time, okay? Don’t go after him again. At least, not for me.”

  I don’t say anything, but I want to. Want to tell her, “I have to go after him. I have to make him pay. I’m just not sure yet how much.”

  I want to tell her other things as well. That something is shifting, inside of me. That everything is changing, although I’m not sure what “everything” is yet.

  More than anything, I want to tell her what happened in Canada.

  But there’s a tight feeling in my chest, because it’s like, behind every thing I want to tell her, there’s something else. So I don’t say a word.

  SUGAR

  CATE

  “The cookie dough that ate New York,” David says, checking out the large bowl of batter on the Bennets’ kitchen counter as he roughly towels his hair. He’s got another towel draped around his neck, and water drips down his arms. He’s obviously been in the pool.

  I was in earlier, with Kimmy, had been glad to go in, to wash the icy air of the armory from my skin and the image of Rod Whitaker, in his bulky black uniform, from my mind. I think David may feel the same way.

  He grins now. “Why are you making so many?”

  “Kimmy’s taking them to school. Plus—”

  “Plus I’ll eat at least a dozen.”

  “They’re nowhere near ready to eat.”

  We both stare down at the dough sitting in the mixing bowl on the counter.

  “I’ve heard you actually have to bake them before you can eat them.”

  I shoot him a withering look. “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”

  “Yes. At the table, with a plate of cookies.”

  “You’re funny. The dough has to sit for few more minutes—” I break off as he moves closer, peering pointedly into the bowl. I roll my eyes. “Fine. I suppose the batter’s ready enough.”

  David’s eyes skim over me. His lips part just a little, like he’s about to say something, but then he looks away. It’s weird, but that quick glance—even though I’ve changed back into my clothes—makes me feel like I’m still wearing my suit, which, this time, I’d remembered to bring.

  Feeling self-conscious, I push back a few damp strands of hair that have fallen around my face. I scoop a tablespoon of batter onto the baking sheet, then another. I’d had my hair trimmed recently and the front is just a little too short. It falls forward again. This time, when I shove back the stray strands, I inadvertently smear cookie dough across my cheek. Great.

  David laughs. I glare up at him, then feel my expression falter as he leans in, brings a gentle finger to my face, and wipes my cheek.

  Kimmy bounces into the kitchen just in time to see me with dough on my face.

  “Kimmy,” I warn.

  But she’s already swiped a finger full of batter. Flick. She whips it at David.

  It’s on.

  I grab the bowl, but David reaches round me. My stomach swoops. He doesn’t seem to notice we’ve momentarily collided, just grabs a gob of dough, catches Kimmy, and smudges it across her nose. Kimmy wiggles away, dips both index fingers into the mixture—

  “Pow, pow!” she shouts, launching dough at David and—I don’t know why I’m surprised—shoves some in my face.

  “Hey!” Whirling, I grab at the dough with both hands as David bumps me from behind, reaching for more ammunition. Kimmy’s shouting as I spin, fingers full, only to find myself pinned, squashed between the counter and David. I have no choice. In a preemptive strike, I reach up— and smear cookie dough across his face. His mouth opens in surprise, and I stick in a batter-covered finger. His lips close over it and we both go still, eyes riveted on each other.

  When he sucks, I feel the pull down below my naval. There’s nothing but him.

  It’s only a few seconds, but everything changes. Then someone turns the world back on.

  Giggling hysterically, Kimmy goes for the bowl. Springing into action, I shout and whirl, lifting it over my head. For a minute, David and I play a dangerous game of Keep Away.

  “This may not end well,” I say breathlessly, stretching on tiptoe to pass the ceramic mixing bowl once more over his leaping sister.

  “Then maybe it shouldn’t end.” He’s really got the most beautiful smile in the world, but his eyes are serious. My breath hitches— there’s not enough of it.

  “Every beginning has an ending,” I say.

  He scoffs. “Bad song lyrics. And who’s to say anything ends. Forever is now.”

  Kimmy jostles me, and I nearly drop the bowl. David’s words are jumping in my head like Kimmy hopping around the kitchen. Taking advantage of my momentary confusion, David snatches the bowl away from me. Once it’s in his hands, he spins it like a basketball—

  Kimmy and I shriek—

  But David does nothing more than deliver it to the kitchen table. Then he heads out of the room, saying, “Call me before they cool down, okay? I like the chips melty.”

  Melty. I sink into a chair, not sure what exactly I’m feeling, then startle as David pokes his head around the doorframe.

  “Oh, Kimmy,” he calls. “You’ve got batter on your face.”

  She lunges toward him and they race outside.

  A second later, Kimmy’s high-pitched squeals echo through the yard—

  Splash!

  UNDERTOW

  DAVID

  Scooping her up from the kitchen chair is so easy, I almost feel sorry. Her hair smells deliciously of cookies.

  “You’re soaking me! Stop! Let me at least change back into my suit!”

  But that would defeat the purpose and we both know it.

  There’s something about seeing Cate riled that’s so satisfying. Like I’m not the only one off my mark. I let my wet hair drip onto her face. She struggles to get away.

  Kimmy is still in the pool with all her clothes on. I toss Cate in, then jump after her.

  She flounders up out of the water and grabs my shoulders, as if she’s strong enough to push me down. I play along and let her sink me, pulling her under in the process. The water’s cold from last night’s rain.

  Our eyes are open. Cate’s are bright, nearly the same color as the turquoise walls of the pool. Her cheeks puff out, and my mouth opens in a laugh. Hers does too. The air bubbles rise together.

  Bending my knees, I pull her onto my watery lap. She doesn’t resist. Her back is against my chest. Her wet, jean-clad hips nestled against mine. Her neck is within kissing distance.

  Kimmy cannonballs in.

  Cate wriggles out of my arms.

  We meet on the surface, both of us breathless.

  GUITARS

  CATE

  Cal pulls up in a white Volvo and gets his guitar out of the backseat.

  “You made it,” I say, smiling.

  “I did.” He hands me a sheaf of sheet music and I shuffle through it. It’s all duets. A dozen pieces arranged for two guitars. Some of the pieces
are familiar, but some are not.

  That’s because they’re by Cal.

  “Wait, you composed these? When? When did you start writing?”

  He looks down in that way that he has. But then he looks back up and meets my gaze. His eyes go bright, and for the millionth time I wonder how such dark eyes can even be bright. It’s like he has a laugh trapped inside of him. Then he kisses me quickly on the lips.

  “Let’s go inside,” he says.

  My heart gives an extra thump as I lead him up to my room. Along the way I offer him coffee, tea, water. He just shakes his head, his dark hair swinging.

  I walk into my room in front of him, then turn back to see him standing just inside the doorway, looking around. In his jeans and white T-shirt he looks so . . . normal.

  But I know he’s not. He’s brilliant. By the looks of those pieces, maybe even a genius.

  He lays his guitar case down and, for a minute, we just look at each other. I swallow.

  “Let’s play,” he says, then crouches and unclasps the latches on his guitar case.

  My cheeks grow hot. Ducking out of the room, I grab another straight-backed chair from down the hall, thinking inexplicably of Chapel Hill Road, picturing how one side is fenced-in fields while the other is untouched tenebrous woods. I’m filled with a strange energy, like I’ve had too much coffee.

  But then we start playing, and any attraction, any sense of our new awkwardness, anything at all, and everything disappears.

  We skip lunch at Caffeine Scene. Skip the Dey Estate.

  “I’m resisting the urge to kneel at your feet,” I say after we play through the duets.

  Cal just looks down, possibly at his feet, and shakes his head. But then he looks at me, a slight scowl on his forehead, a small smile on his lips, as if he’s trying to figure something out.

  He says, “I can think of better places for you to be.”

  I don’t know what to say. So I run my set for him. He gives me some new ideas, and I run it again. This time he stops me when he has a suggestion to make.

  There are moments, as I try to articulate his ideas, when I feel nervous. Moments when I feel put out, by the way he tells me to finger something or use a different inversion of a chord I’m already comfortable with. Sometimes he plays a line or two, to show me what he means.

  Sometime around sunset, he tells me he’s starving. Reluctantly, I nod. I want to keep going, want to master the new, minute changes that are making all the difference. My ideas weren’t wrong, but his are better.

  He senses my frustration. “Sometimes you have to think outside the box, break a few rules.” He pulls me out of my chair. “That’s the only way to find your voice.”

  But until he says this, I hadn’t realized my voice was what I was looking for.

  STARS

  CATE

  “So where’d you get the new wheels?” I ask as we drive through the fading daylight to a seafood restaurant in the Highlands.

  “Why, you still need driving lessons?”

  “Well . . .”

  Cal laughs. “It’s fine with me, but you’ll have to ask my uncle, seeing as it’s his car.”

  “He’d probably be cool with it.”

  “He probably would be. The next time I’m home, we’ll give it a go.”

  We ride in silence for a few minutes, and I think about how Cal lives with his uncle but doesn’t, since he’s always away at school. Not for the first time, I wonder about his mother.

  But then Cal flicks on the radio, and we’re talking about music, and it’s all that matters.

  Out on the wooden deck of the restaurant, tables thump against each other as the wind rises. In the summer, tourists tie their boats up at the dock and sit outside, but off-season, it’s just locals in a half-filled dining room. The walls are hung with fishing nets, and the corner where we sit is strung with tiny white lights. The tablecloth is covered with paper. I ask for crayons.

  Cal’s eyes actually sparkle now, like some boy from a book. We try to outdraw each other, and as I color, I feel able to speak more freely than I usually do. I talk about my family.

  As he has before, Cal wonders how my parents can be so wildly successful yet so unhappy. I tell him I don’t know. But the way he’s phrased it tonight, wildly successful yet so unhappy, reminds me suddenly not of my parents, but of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet.

  I draw the row of oaks that runs along Chapel Hill Road, and Cal, who’s been talking excitedly about a Julian Bream recording, falls silent, frowning at the long line of trees.

  “It was an accident,” I confess into the quiet that has come between us for the first time since the car ride over. “Me, I mean. My parents never wanted kids. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “No. But they’re happy they had you, I bet. They must love you.”

  “Sure. My mom never says it, though. Which is fine. I don’t think it would mean much coming from her at this point. We hardly spend any time together—she doesn’t know me anymore. Maybe she never did. Besides, it doesn’t mean anything, to just say ‘I love you.’”

  Cal looks at me quizzically.

  “It’s what you do, right? And how can you do anything to show someone you love them if you haven’t taken the time to actually know them? I remember one Christmas she gave me a diary. I’d never expressed any interest in writing, so later I asked her why she’d given it to me.

  “She said, ‘You’re always so still, so contemplative.’ What she meant was, ‘You sit around doing a whole lot of nothing, Cate Reese.’” I laugh.

  “But she was right,” Cal says. “About the writing. She does know you. You’ve always carried a notebook around, ever since I can remember. You had one with you at the intensive, always. You have that whole shelf full of them in your room.”

  “But that’s the extent of my writing. Incomplete journal entries, band reviews for blogs I never submit. Bad poems. More and more often I’m jotting down music. A melodic line, a chord progression. I think it’s because, more and more often, I feel like words don’t work.”

  “That’s because you’re a musician. And unless you learn to read minds—”

  “Words are inadequate. They’re flat, you know? It’s not what someone says, it’s what’s behind what they say. Or in addition to what they say. Or, like I said before, what they do.”

  “I don’t know . . . I like words. I use them quite frequently.” Cal smiles, and I jump in.

  “See? That is what I’m talking about—a smile is the perfect example. A smile can mean—or imply—even more than a bunch of words, more than what someone is actually saying. Or a smile can mean something in addition to what someone says. Or it can mean the opposite.”

  “Your thing with words,” Cal’s saying now, “did you ever think that’s why you turned to music?”

  “Maybe. I just wish I could . . . master words. I want them to fit what I actually mean. Want everyone’s words to fit what they mean.”

  “Sounds like you’re talking about honesty, or the lack of it. Or authenticity. Maybe I’ll start writing stuff down, like you do. That pile of notebooks in your room—”

  “Will be great bonfire fuel someday.”

  “That’s not what I was going to say!” Cal laughingly objects. His hair swings forward as he leans toward me. He tucks it back behind his ears. “I was going to say, you probably have a million great song lyrics there.” He taps on the back of my right hand. I’m holding a red crayon.

  “Pff. I doubt that. But—” I look down at his hand next to mine and draw a heart. “You never know.”

  When we get in the car, Cal tells me he’s glad I like the duets so much and that he’s got the perfect gig for us. He pulls out his phone.

  “You’re just going to call? Don’t you have to send something? A press kit? CD?”

  “Not for this.” He looks down, and the smooth curtain of his hair slides forward, dark as the sky outside the car windows. Again, he hooks it back behind his ears. “Only because I’ve pla
yed Fusion before.”

  “I’ve never been there, where is it?”

  “Brooklyn,” he says, searching his contacts.

  “Isn’t it kind of late to call?”

  “Club owners, musicians, we’re all part of a strange breed. We never sleep, you must know that.” He taps the screen. “You’ll really like this place. It’s a music mash-up. Jazz, singer-songwriters, bands, classical players like us—everyone plays there.”

  He doesn’t put the call on speaker, instead he tips the phone toward me and I lean in. His head brushes mine, and we smile at each other as the woman on the other end of the line tells Cal she remembers him. She says sure, she has a slot for him and a friend, for us. She tells him he can have as many friends as he wants sit in, but more importantly, he needs to fill the room.

  Cal frowns when she says this, looks serious, which reminds me of how he looked the last time I saw him onstage. A little thrill goes through me as I picture the way he plays, with such control. Now I look at his hand holding the phone, his slender fingers. I imagine what they might feel like, touching me. I picture him touching my cheek, maybe, and looking at me the way he did when I was playing earlier. He speaks my language. Speaks it better than me.

  After setting a date and time, Cal hits “End,” and just like I’d imagined, he touches me.

  Well, my hair. He tucks a strand of it behind my ear, the same way he does with his own.

  Then he starts talking about music again.

  I’ve never known someone like Cal—someone like me—who spends hours a day practicing, someone who’s basically built a life around music. Sure, I’ve known Marion’s other students, and everyone likes music. Some people even love it, but that’s not the same.

  The image of David Bennet scrolling through his iPod pops into my head—but I dismiss it. Dismiss him. He could never get me the way Cal does. He’s not a musician.

  Cal smiles now and his eyes do that bright thing. “So we’re set,” he says.

  But I’m not really thinking we’re set for the gig. I’m thinking, we’re a set, like a pair. I’m thinking he’s perfect, and that we’re perfect together, and that the slow crawl of attraction is speeding up.