by Hart, Staci
He was warm and sturdy in my arms, the comfort of him both surprising and befitting. It felt right—the comfortable ease of two people who were well suited.
In friendship. That’s all he wants—to be your friend.
My heart ached at the thought, and I closed my eyes, touching on every sense. The vibrating of my feet and legs from the wheels on the pavement. The chill on my cheeks like an icy kiss. The feel of Greg—his narrow torso in my arms, my cheek in the valley of his wide back. And I burned every sensation into my memory to keep.
Once he built up some speed and seemed sure of my balance and his, he took my hands out of his pockets and put them on his shoulders, shooting me a wink before he knelt down.
The wind hit me in a gust. We were on top of a hill and picking up speed, the dark park on either side of us, trees rolling by as the street under the wheels blurred past. And I held on to his shoulders, my lips parted and smiling and heart thumping hard enough to almost hurt. But it was the best kind of hurt.
I felt alive.
When I let out a whoop, Greg smiled up at me, his nose red and a happy laugh on his lips. The wind whipped my face and hair, numbing my knuckles, but I didn’t feel anything but joy.
Too soon, we slowed, and he had to stand again.
My hands were in his pockets the second they had the chance, and my smiling cheek pressed against his back once more. His own hands covered mine in the depth of his pocket, big and warm and strong and good. And for a long time we rode like that, time marked only by intervals of his foot against the pavement.
And then we were at my building, and the day really was over.
I stepped off his board, and he put his foot on the tail to tip it up and grab the nose. And we stood there in front of each other, both of us smiling, neither of us seeming to know how to say goodbye.
“So, what’d you think?” he finally asked.
A slow smile spread on my face. “It was the perfect way to end today. Thank you. For all of this, for everything.”
“You’re welcome, Annie.”
Another long moment stretched out before he finally looked away, dropping his board back to the ground. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And I grinned at him like a fool and said, “Goodnight.”
I didn’t go inside until he rode away.
When George saw me coming, he popped out to hold the door open. “Hello, Miss Annie. Have a good day?”
“The best, George,” I said with a giggle and kissed him on the cheek before heading inside.
A few minutes later, I was walking into the still apartment. The only light was over the oven in the kitchen. I could hear a television going from Susan and John’s side of the house, but the Daschle side was dark and quiet.
I walked past my room, depositing my coat and shoes and bag before hurrying to Elle’s room where I knocked softly on her door.
No response. Her light was off, too.
So, of course, I opened the door. “Elle,” I whispered. “Are you still awake?”
Silence.
I walked over to her bed, noting the slow rise and fall of her chest. “Elle,” I said only quietly. When she didn’t speak, I gave her a shake.
“Whahum?” she mumbled, dragging a breath through her nose.
“Oh, good, you’re up. Scoot over.”
She shifted to give me room, blinking at me before rubbing her eyes. “How was your day?”
“It was so good! I had hot dogs and rode a bike and got a tattoo and walked around Central Park and rode a skateboard!” I rattled off. “I had sushi too, but that was mostly just weird.”
She laughed sleepily. “I’m glad you had fun. You were with your friend…Greg, right?”
“Yeah, he’s so great. I mean, he taught me how to ride a bike, Elle. The man has the patience of a saint. And he told me stories while I was getting my tattoo, and I even got to see one of his, on his back. And let me tell you, he has got a nice back.”
One of her brows rose, and she rolled over to face me, smiling. “So, Greg is cute, huh?”
“Oh, man, so cute. His hair is this thick, gorgeous mess, and he’s got this jaw that’s covered in scruff, square without being Paleolithic. And—gah!—his smile is so pretty. And he’s got the best laugh. Seriously, his laugh could make me smile through the end of Old Yeller.”
“Does he like you, too?”
“What?” I said with flaming cheeks. “I don’t like him. Not like that.”
A little voice in my rib cage whispered, Liar.
Elle frowned. “Oh.”
“We’re just friends, you know?” My confidence wavered as I considered her question. “I mean, there were a couple of times he looked at me like…I don’t even know how to explain it. Like he wanted to ask me a question, but he never did. And he held my hands in his hoodie, but they were ice-cold. He was just warming them up. Right? Like, he wasn’t trying to hold my hand or something, was he?”
She looked skeptical. “He spent all day showing you around the city, sitting with you at a tattoo parlor, riding you home on his skateboard. If I had to guess, I’d figure he probably likes you. I mean, if he’s not gay. He’s not gay, is he?”
I laughed. “No, I definitely don’t think he’s gay. But wouldn’t I know if he didn’t just want to be friends? He’s never asked me out or anything. In fact, I had to beg him to take me around. There are a million reasons he wouldn’t want me—the topmost being that, when he was eighteen, I was eight. What would a grown-ass man want with someone like me? He needs a grown-ass woman, one with a real job and goals and relationship history and references.”
“Well, you definitely aren’t eight now, so I don’t really think your age difference matters.” She paused, assessing me. “You really don’t like him? Because it sounds like you like him.”
“Of course I like him.” A frown touched my lips as I really thought about it. “He’s funny and kind and smart. And he’s super hot, but…I don’t know. I had fun with him today, and I like being around him. I’d totally run around with him again without hesitation.”
“But?”
“But I guess I honestly don’t know if I like him or if I don’t, and I don’t know if he likes me. Which leaves me certain that I am not interested in him in the romantic way.” The statement was so decisive, I almost believed it myself.
A laugh shot out of Elle. “That is not the conclusion I would have come to.”
I propped myself up onto my elbow. “If I really liked him, I wouldn’t question it. There wouldn’t be any wondering. You know that old saying, If you have to ask yourself the question, the answer is probably no? Well, I shouldn’t wonder. I want to be with someone who I have to scream from the mountaintops that I need them.”
“And you think that should be totally clear after one date?”
“It wasn’t a date. And yes, it should. If two people are really vibing, isn’t it totally obvious? There’s no checking in with yourself to consider if you might have feelings for them. I’ve read about a trillion romance novels, and pretty much every one of them says so.”
“Since when should you use romance novels to replace life experiences?”
“Since it’s my only relationship experience at this point, and romance novels are gospel,” I said, impassioned. “They’re about overcoming, about learning what it means to love and to trust. They show us the very best we can expect from someone we love and sometimes the very worst. Every page, every word is powered entirely by love. How could I not have learned from them?”
“Well,” she said, ignoring my argument, “some people expect to get to know someone before deciding we love them.”
“Decide? There’s no deciding. Either you love someone or you don’t.”
She frowned. “Don’t you think people fall in love after a time? Surely you believe that not everyone falls in love at first sight, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. Like people like you, people who weigh things out and make pros and cons list
s and wait.”
“So, sensible people.”
“Yes, exactly.”
She made a noise that sounded like a laugh and a scoff at the same time.
“But I am ruled by sensibility, by feeling. I trust my instinct, and my instinct has no clear opinion on Greg. So that’s my answer.”
Elle watched me with a sadness in her eyes, but she smiled. “Well, I’m glad you had such a wonderful day. I can’t wait to hear more. Tomorrow.”
I kissed her forehead. “I love you. Go back to sleep.”
“Your wish is my command.”
Wishes And Dreams
Annie
I woke the next morning after sleeping like I was dead, feeling refreshed, if not a little foot-sore and jelly-legged. Everyone was awake when I exited my room, and I found Elle, who helped me wash my tattoo and rub on a little salve. But as I dressed and got ready for work, I found myself musing over the day before.
It really had contained its own magic, something simple and subtle, something I hadn’t even really noticed or acknowledged until it was almost over.
Greg was a good friend, the best kind of friend. The kind you could spend a whole day with and never lack for conversation. The kind you’d lose track of a whole stack of hours with.
I tried not to think about the notion that he liked me as more than a friend. I also tried not to consider that I might like him as more than a friend too.
Like I’d told my sister—when you know, you know. And I didn’t, which could only mean that it was all wrong for the romantic kind of relationship. On top of the fact that he had become my real and true friend, a friend I didn’t want to do without.
I could do without kissing Greg, I told myself, but I couldn’t do without his companionship.
A little voice in my head pointed out that I hadn’t ever kissed anyone, so of course I could keep doing without it.
True as that might be, I’d said my piece and counted to three. Which was to say that I’d decided, and once I decided something, I’d be hard pressed to change my mind. It was a stubborn streak that had run in my family for at least three generations.
I headed out of my room and into the kitchen that Sunday morning. The cook had set up a whole spread—eggs and bacon, pastries and oatmeal, breakfast potatoes and tortillas and salsa—and I loaded a plate as I greeted everyone.
They sat at the table, eating without any ceremony, so I took a seat and tucked in.
“I hope you had a nice time yesterday, Annie,” Susan started, smiling. “It was about time you saw the city for yourself.”
“Oh, it was great,” I said between bites. “Did y’all have a good day yesterday?”
“It was lovely, thank you. Oh!” she sang. “John. John!” She whacked his arm when he hadn’t looked up from his paper.
“Hmm?”
“Tell Annie about lunch yesterday,” she said with great intention.
He shook his paper out and folded it closed, a smile brightening his face. “Ah, lunch.” He set the folded paper on the table and sat back in his chair, a little askew as he crossed his legs. “An old friend of mine, Kurt Dobson, and I had lunch yesterday. He’s been the head of the board of trustees at Juilliard for…oh, what would you say, Susan? Ten years?”
“Twelve, I think.”
He nodded. “Anyway, Valentin Fabre gives money to a large number of causes, including substantial annual donations to Juilliard. And while we were eating, I mentioned you to Kurt.”
Numbness spread down my arms and across my palms, trickling down each finger. My fork hung suspended over my plate, loaded with a salsa-slathered bite of eggs.
“You did?” I breathed.
“I did. Your mother told me that by the time you graduated, you’d outgrown your piano teacher by a few years, that she was having a hard time finding music that challenged you, and it got me thinking. Kurt said the applications for next year were due December first, but he was interested in hearing what you could do and would make an exception, if you were interested.”
Thank God he kept talking because I couldn’t speak.
“He said for you to go to the website and take a look at the prescreening requirements. If you can get him everything he needs by Friday, he’ll consider you for auditions.”
“I…how…”
He waited for me to finish, but I couldn’t, my thoughts moving too fast for my mouth to catch one and speak it.
Mama looked just as stunned as I did.
But it was Elle who spoke. “Uncle John, that is an incredible opportunity. But…” She paused, her cheeks flushing, back straight. “We…we don’t really have the means to pay for Juilliard. Do they…do they offer scholarships?”
John chuckled at that. “If Annie is accepted, her tuition will be covered. Don’t worry.”
I dropped my fork and drew a startled breath.
Mama finally found her voice. “John, we can’t accept that—it’s too much. Too generous. You’ve already done so much for us.”
“Em, listen,” he said, his face soft but his voice was insistent. “The vast majority of my money is yours as much as it is mine. Please, let me help. I already donate to the school, why can’t I sponsor a scholarship? I can’t think of a more worthy cause.”
“I…I just don’t know,” Mama said.
Juilliard, my mind whispered. Could I even do it? Could I even make it past the first round of auditions? I thought the chances were beyond slim. I wasn’t that good.
Was I?
I had outgrown my tutor, and she had found difficulty to challenge me. I mean, there were things that were hard, believe me, but I mastered everything she threw at me, including Chopin’s Études, a few that I even memorized. We made a game of it; she would bring me a piece and give me a week to master it, and if I did, she’d drop a quarter into a jar she kept on her mantel. When I filled it up, we would go out to dinner together.
I’d never missed a single week, and I’d earned dozens of dinners.
The bigger truth was that this was an opportunity I wanted. It was everything I’d ever wanted but never thought I could have.
There was nothing to do other than look my uncle in the eye and say, “I want to try.”
He smiled broadly. “I thought you might—Emily, don’t look at me like that. I can give this to her. I can give her something that could change her life. Won’t you let me?”
After a long, tearful look, she conceded with a nod. “Of course I will,” she said softly. “Thank you, John.”
I pushed back from the table and stood, hurrying over to him to give him a hug swiftly enough to send a little oof out of him just ahead of a chuckle.
“Thank you isn’t enough,” I said quietly.
He patted my back. “Oh, it really is nothing. I only had lunch with a friend. The rest is up to you.”
I straightened up and smiled. “Then I’ll do my very best.”
“And I’m quite sure that will be more than enough.”
Everyone broke out in chatter, and Aunt Susan pulled up the prescreening requirements on her phone, reading them off with her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose. I’d have to submit a résumé and write an essay, submit my transcripts as well as academic referrals, and record a video of myself performing three pieces by memory, using a provided list as a guideline.
My confidence wavered when I heard that list.
The two sections of required selections were at the highest level—I didn’t know why I was surprised; it was Juilliard after all—chosen to show skill and speed, timing and movement, emotion and feeling. And the third was a piece of choice from a list of composers.
I mentally flipped through the pieces I already had in my toolbox; there wasn’t time to learn anything new, not at that skill level. And, preoccupied with the task, I waved goodbye to my family and headed downstairs.
Aunt Susan had called the driver, who was waiting for me at the curb, but I sent him on. Armed with several bottles of water, my notebook, an hour
to kill, and the good fortune of a beautiful day, I decided to walk, to think, to plan.
I set off up Fifth, turning into the park. I had plenty of time and decided to kill it by taking the long way around the top of the reservoir. Every ten minutes or so, I’d stop at a bench and open my notebook, my fingers tapping my leg as I thought through the pieces in my repertoire, my gaze roaming my surroundings and the chilly breeze cooling my skin, damp from exertion.
By the time I reached the reservoir, I’d chosen my first piece—Chopin’s Études Op. 20, No. 6—and my sonata—Haydn, Hob 23—and I was trying to decide on my third piece as I stood at the rail, looking over the length of the lake at Midtown, the buildings in miniature at that distance.
It started as a squeezing in my chest so complete that there was no point of origin. My breath slipped away, and I glanced down at my hands. My nail beds looked as if they’d been smudged with ink. And I couldn’t call out with empty lungs, couldn’t do anything but reach for the rail as darkness crept into my vision like tendrils of smoke.
My knees gave out, and I sank to the ground, blinking out of consciousness.
White Knight
Annie
His voice came from what seemed like a long way away. An immeasurable amount of time had passed under me like a river. A moan crept up my throat. My lashes fluttered. And I opened my eyes to find him.
His hair was as dark as midnight, eyes blue and crystalline, his nose elegant and lips wide, dark brows drawn together with concern. I rested easily in his lap, surrounded by him, more shocked at the sight and smell and sensation of him than that I’d fainted in the middle of the park.
“Oh, thank God you’re awake. Are you all right? We were about to call an ambulance.”
“No, no. I’m okay.” I would have sat up to prove it, but honestly, I didn’t want the moment to end.
His eyes searched my face, stopping on my lips. He brushed the swell of my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Your lips…”