by Sarah Beard
A half-moon had risen over the wall, flooding the tree house with silvery light. He turned to look at me with a guilty expression that made my stomach drop. “I visited Amsterdam once, last summer.”
“What for?”
His eyes turned rueful, and he propped himself up on an elbow. “My favorite piano concerto was being performed at the Concertgebouw, so I took a trip to see it.”
It took me a few seconds to decipher his meaning. “You mean . . .” I sat up with mouth agape, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of me. “You saw me perform?”
He sat up. “I was at the train station with Stefan, about to board a train to Brussels, when I saw the poster. It was like fate sending a lightning bolt straight through my heart. I didn’t know if you’d be performing, but I took a chance and got on the train for Amsterdam anyway. I didn’t have any nice clothes, so I showed up at the Concertgebouw in shorts and a T-shirt.” He paused long enough for my heart to knock against my ribs at least a dozen times. Then he turned to me and said wistfully, “You were amazing.”
An unexpected surge of anger ripped through me. “Why didn’t you come talk to me?” I slugged him in the chest, and there was nothing playful or gentle about it. My fist ached from the blow, and my eyes burned with tears.
He caught my wrist before I could pull away, and he looked me straight in the eyes. “You were with Devin. I saw you in the crowd after—with him. And you looked happy. Happier than I’d ever seen you. Like you’d healed from every heartache and injustice you’d ever suffered. I just couldn’t bring myself to ruin it for you.”
Slowly, the anger drained from my body, and all that remained was an agonizing sorrow that left me speechless. Thomas let go of my wrist, and I swiped the tears from my cheeks. Feeling a little faint, I lay back down. I recalled the performance in Amsterdam, remembering it had been one of my best that summer. There had been something in the air that night—something aromatic and euphonic and electric. It had elevated me to the peak of musical passion. The thought of him being in the audience as I performed unaware made my heart ache with regret.
“I went back home,” he said sadly, “hoping I’d be able to let you go after seeing you so happy with someone else. But it had the opposite effect. My feelings for you only intensified. I couldn’t eat or sleep, and I would lie awake at night, searching for the right words to come and ask for your forgiveness.”
Thomas lay back down, folding his hands over his chest and gazing up at the moon. “Then one night, when the moon was shining through my bedroom window, something occurred to me.”
“What?”
He drew in a deep breath and exhaled, making a puff of vapor in the crisp winter night. “You ever notice how, even though the moon is sometimes hidden in shadow, it never turns its face from the earth?”
“Ah—an astronomy analogy, of course,” I teased in an unsteady voice. I looked up at the moon, at the crater that was a constant landmark on its surface. “I’ve never really thought about it, but yeah—you’re right.”
“Well, I guess I’m sort of like the moon. Only instead of being gravitationally drawn to the earth, I’m drawn to you. There will always be some unseen force that attracts me to you, something at the center of my soul that tugs and aches to be near you. And even in my darkest moments, when I’ve been lost in shadows, I’ve never turned away from you.”
Even if I had known what to say, the sudden lump in my throat would have prevented me from saying it. My vision turned cloudy again, and soon tears were trickling from the corners of my eyes into my ears. If Cupid’s arrow was a literal thing, this must be what it felt like to have my heart pierced by it. Painful and divine all at once.
He propped himself up on one elbow and gathered me into his arms, hovering over me so his face was just a couple inches from mine. His dark hair and the planes of his face glowed softly in the light of the moon.
“I love you, Aria,” he whispered. “I’ve loved you since that first morning I found you in this tree house. Please . . . tell me I’m not too late.” He brushed the back of his fingers over my cheek and lowered his head until his forehead touched mine. His lips lingered over mine, tempting me. “Please . . . just say the words.” Feeling his warm breath on my lips sent my pulse racing.
He stayed there, as though waiting for me to tilt my face and make our lips meet, making the choice mine. Every nerve in my body tingled with anticipation, and soon enough, I gave in. Sliding my hand to the nape of his neck, I tugged his head down a fraction of an inch, just enough that our lips met.
His kiss was warm and tender, his breath sweet in my mouth. But the effect it had on me was anything but tender. It was as though my heart had lain lifeless in my chest for the past two years, and kissing him sent a jolt straight to it, stunning it back to life. An electric current surged through the rest of my body, leaving a trail of sparks under my skin and fire on my lips.
In that moment, I was helpless to deny what I’d already known for the last two days. I still loved him. I loved him so much it terrified me.
I was on the edge of a precipice, higher than I’d ever felt in my nineteen years of life. But as I looked down, my stomach lurched at the realization of just how far I could fall. My mind rewound to my first year at Juilliard, and I felt a sharp jab of pain as I remembered how deep my wounds had been. I thought about Devin, how much he’d helped me and how patient he’d been with me. And now he was asleep at Dad’s house, completely unaware that in this moment, I betrayed him.
My desire for Thomas was overtaken by fear, and I gently pushed him away and sat up. “I can’t be with you,” I breathed.
He sat up and swept my hair behind my shoulder. “Why not?”
“Because of Devin. I can’t hurt him, not after everything he’s done for me.” I shook my head. “I shouldn’t have even come here tonight.”
“Is that the reason? Because if it is, then I’ll leave. Just tell me that you love him more than you love me, and I’ll go back to the house and pack my bags. I’ll be out of your life for good.”
I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t say the words.
“But I don’t think that’s the reason,” he said. “Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but . . .” He put a finger to my chin and turned my face toward him. “I think you love me.”
When I didn’t respond, he traced the ball of his thumb across my cheek. “I felt it in your kiss. I can see it in your eyes. I can hear it in your breath.”
I turned my face away and with futility tried to slow my breathing.
“You’re afraid,” he said, all too perceptively. “You’re afraid I’ll hurt you again.”
“Can you blame me?”
“No. But if fear is the only thing keeping us apart, we can overcome it.”
“It’s not that simple.” I gave a weary sigh. “I don’t want to be your anchor.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your mom was your anchor.” I turned to fully face him. “Everything you did was for her, and she kept you grounded. But when she died, you . . . you drifted away from the people who cared about you. I can’t be your anchor, Thomas. What about the next tragedy that comes along? Life is full of them. What if I die? Or what if we lose a child? Are you going to run away to punish yourself and your loved ones every time something bad happens?”
Frustration pinched his brow. “I’ve learned a hard lesson these last couple years. But it’s not one I’ll have to repeat. You’re not an anchor. You’re the girl I love and want to be with. It’s taken me time—too much time, I know—to learn how to overcome grief and self-hatred. And I didn’t do it for you, or for my mom, but for me. I wanted to be able to look in the mirror and not despise the person I saw. And I knew until I became that person, I didn’t deserve you.” He paused, then in a quiet voice said, “I found a new anchor—one that will never go away.”
He was talking about God. How could I argue with that?
He reached for my hand and pressed it to his heart. “I love y
ou, Aria. And I’ll never hurt you again. But whatever happens between us now, you have to know that I have my own anchor.” He said this with such earnest conviction, I knew he believed his own words. But I wasn’t sure.
“I forgive you, Thomas, for every pain you ever caused me. But I don’t trust you. Trust has to be earned.”
“Can I ask one favor? Will you just . . . just give me a chance to earn your trust?”
“It would take a lifetime.”
“That’s all I ask.”
I stared at him, wanting more than anything to say yes. But fear took over. Fear of hurting Devin, fear of getting hurt again, fear of making the wrong choice. And if Thomas ever hurt me again, I didn’t think I would survive. I looked into his moonlit eyes brimming with tears, and I couldn’t speak. I dropped my head and cried, slowly shaking my head. “I can’t,” I whispered. “I just want to feel safe.”
“And you feel safe with Devin.” It wasn’t a question.
I didn’t know how to respond. So I didn’t. I just sat there, paralyzed with uncertainty and fear.
After a long silence, he leaned toward me and, cradling my face in his hands, brushed a featherlight kiss on my forehead. He stood and offered me his hand. “Come on,” he said gently. “I’ll walk you back to the house.”
I didn’t take his hand. I couldn’t. How could I accept such a kindness when I’d just rejected him? I got up on my own and followed him back to the ground.
He walked a few steps ahead of me, but turned to glance at me every so often to make sure I was still behind him. Anxious with uncertainty, I almost called him back to tell him that I loved him, that I chose him. But, unable to overcome the hurdle of fear between us, all I could do was mouth his name with a soundless cry.
The distance between us grew as we got closer to the house, and the sound of snow crushing beneath his heavy step could have been the sound of my own heart breaking.
~
Something hard jabbed into my spine as I rolled over in bed the next morning. I sat up and rubbed my tear-swollen eyes, then looked blearily down at the offending object.
A shoe box–sized gift, wrapped in red paper and a silver bow, lay on my bed. I picked it up and examined it. There was no tag to indicate the giver, but I assumed whomever it was from intended for me to open it in private.
I slid my finger under a fold of paper and peeled it away. My heart skidded to a stop and I cupped my hand over my mouth when the contents were revealed. A card with my name, written in Thomas’s handwriting, and beneath the card, Mom’s porcelain music box.
I threw my blankets aside and went straight to Thomas’s room. His door was open, and his room was empty. His suitcase and shoes were gone, and his bedding lay in a heap on the floor. I remembered the card and rushed back to my room. I plucked the card from the bed and flipped it open.
If you ever need me, this is where I’ll be.
Below that was a phone number and address in Zierikzee, the Netherlands. I dropped to the edge of the bed and stared at the porcelain music box, and all the puzzle pieces fell neatly into place.
The project he’d been working on. Him hiking up the mountain in the snow. His fatigue. The muddy shoes. All the time he’d spent away from the house. His callused and bloody hands. My chest grew tight and my breaths staggered as I realized what this gift had cost him.
I opened the lid of the music box. It was silent, its gears stiff with corrosion, but as I pictured Thomas up on the mountain, picking away for hours at the frozen earth to find something that meant so much to me, my room was filled with music that seemed to burst forth from my soul.
An envelope with the words, Aria: 18th Birthday, lay in the box’s velvet-lined alcove. Mom’s letters, I thought as my pulse quickened.
I picked the envelope up, but it was light in my hands. Empty. I set it aside and glanced back at the alcove, instantly puzzled to see torn pieces of stationary. Beneath the torn stationary were more envelopes, all with my name and a birthday number. And below that, a ring, some pressed flowers, and other trinkets. I gathered the torn pieces of stationary and took them to my desk. At closer look, I saw they were covered in Mom’s handwriting.
I dug through a drawer until I found some tape, then began piecing the letter back together. Soon, phrases and sentences started to form.
twenty-four
It was with a certain expectation that I pieced Mom’s letter together—that whatever was written was of grave importance. A tense knot formed in my stomach as I wondered what it could be. What words were so important that instead of simply saying them before her death, she felt the need to write them down, to preserve and immortalize them? I thought about the other letters in the music box that hadn’t been torn up, and I briefly considered reading them first. But I quickly discarded the thought. This was the most important letter. This one contained a revelation so impactful it had provoked Dad to tear it up and bury it.
. . . that whether this knowledge brings you . . .
. . . loved him deeply, and . . .
The more fragments I pieced together, the more my hands began to shake. It was becoming more difficult to hold the pieces in my hands. So I kept them on the desk and pushed them around with my fingertips, trying to line up words torn in two. My pulse surged as each new phrase was revealed.
. . . but my divorce with . . .
And then I pieced together a phrase that made me feel like I’d been cut open and turned inside out. I felt the blood drain from my face and my hands went ice cold.
. . . pregnant with you, Nathaniel’s child . . .
I sat there in shock for a few seconds, then numbly went back to piecing the letter together, desperate to read all the words, to know the whole story. When I finished, I went and sat on the bed, where I held the patched letter in front of me and started at the beginning.
Dear Aria,
It is with great regret that I write this letter, because it means I won’t be here to give you this information myself, and because I know the topic will be painful for you. I’ve considered not telling you at all, but after months of wearisome deliberation, I’ve come to the conclusion that whether this knowledge brings you joy or suffering, it is your right to have.
Years ago when I was a student at Juilliard, I dated a musician named Nathaniel Borough. I loved him deeply, and after graduating, we were married. But from the very beginning, things were stormy. We had so many differences that we didn’t know how to reconcile. He wanted to travel the world to perform, and I wanted to settle down and teach so that we could have a family. Neither of us were willing to compromise, so after only a year of marriage, we separated.
I met Jed Kinsley a couple of years later, and I was attracted to the simple life he had to offer. He was kind and giving, and I grew to love him. He asked me to marry him, but my divorce with Nathaniel was not yet official, so I didn’t feel I could give him an answer. So I went to see Nathaniel in New York to discuss the finalization of our divorce and have him sign the necessary papers. However, upon seeing Nathaniel and spending hours talking with him, I realized how much I still loved him. He felt the same, and we decided to try to work things out. I stayed the week with him, but before the week was over, we got into a huge argument, rehashing every disagreement we’d ever had, and both of us remained as unyielding in our views as ever. It became clear that even though I loved Nathaniel, Jed was the only one offering the life I wanted.
The divorce was soon finalized, and I returned to Woodland Park and married Jed a few weeks later. Within days of the wedding, I found out I was pregnant with you, Nathaniel’s child.
I paused and stared at the words Nathaniel’s child. My lungs burned for want of air, but I couldn’t bring myself to draw breath. I recalled that night at the Italian restaurant, a six-month-late birthday candle burning in front of me and Nathaniel sick in the bathroom. He didn’t know. At least he hadn’t until that moment.
I unlocked my eyes from the phrase. There were more words on the page. Maybe
they would answer some of the questions that swept through me like a flame in a parched field of grass. I drew in a lungful of air and continued reading.
I wanted to tell Jed the truth, but I was so afraid of hurting him. And at the time, I truly believed he would be a better father to you than Nathaniel. The closer I got to my due date, the more difficult it became to tell him the truth. And when you were born, I watched Jed cradle you in his arms and smile at you like you were the greatest gift he’d ever received, and I couldn’t tell him. As you grew and I saw how much you loved him, I couldn’t separate the two of you. He always loved you as his own daughter, because he believed you were.
It was always my plan to tell Jed and Nathaniel the truth, but it never seemed like the right time. Or maybe I just wasn’t courageous enough to do what was right. I won’t try to justify my actions. I was wrong, and I regret my dishonesty. But as I write this, you are only eleven years old, and soon you will not have a mother. I feel it would be too hard on you to bring this to light at this time. Hence, the 18th birthday letter. If you have had a few years to grieve the loss of your mother, perhaps you will have the strength to bear this life-shattering revelation as well.
This horrible secret has been a source of great sorrow for me, but I have never regretted giving you life. My greatest joy and privilege has been watching you grow and seeing the gift of music bloom in your heart, even if my privilege was cut short.
If Nathaniel contacts you, it is because I have asked him to look out for you and to foster your musical gifts. It is up to you whether or not to share this information with him or Jed. But I fear they would both be devastated if they found out.
I can’t tell you how sorry I am to have to put all this on you, but I couldn’t go down to my grave without letting you know the truth. Forgive me for the pain I know this letter will bring. But it would be more unforgiveable for me to withhold the truth from you.
Wishing I was there to dry your tears,
Mom
I sat there squinting at the letter as if further examination would make the content easier to digest. I read it again, then again. But I still couldn’t accept it. It was like reading a fictional story, then having someone say, “By the way, that story is about you.” It wasn’t about me. It couldn’t be. And yet it was. It felt like every single page had been torn from the book of my life, and I was left to rewrite every memory with this new perspective. It was too overwhelming, too big a task to accomplish all at once.