Everything After(39)

“He was doing some sound engineering out in Hollywood and this guy he was working with died in the middle of scoring a small indie film—no joke, I think it was a heart attack or something—and he recommended me. So I wrote some music in a pinch, and it turned out I wasn’t bad at the whole movie scoring thing, so I stayed. I got nominated for an Oscar and three Emmys, but I haven’t won. Yet.”

Emily laughed. “Yet, huh,” she said. A piece of the guilt she’d been feeling for the past thirteen years dissipated. She hadn’t ruined his life by breaking up the band, by leaving him and their budding music career. “It sounds like you’ve been doing really well. I’m happy for you.”

Rob grinned. “Yeah, it’s been good.”

“I got married, too,” he added, as their food arrived. “Corinne, an actress who never quite acted in anything substantial. The more successful I got, the worse our marriage got. It ended up being real shit, but we don’t need to get into that now. She and I divorced last year—probably should’ve done it sooner. But we made two of the best kids on the planet. Samantha and Melanie. They’re eight and six. They sing together all the time, and they’re good, Queen, they’re really good. Sam just figured out harmony, and I’m telling you, these kids could book gigs, if I let them make a demo.”

Emily had wondered, back then, what Rob would be like as a father. And now she knew. He was just as over-the-top in love with his daughters as he was with music, as he had been with her. It seemed like no matter what he loved, he loved it hard.

Before Emily could respond, Rob had pulled up a video on his phone and passed it over to her. “Listen to them,” he said. “They’re going through an Aladdin phase.”

Emily hit play and two girls with matching aqua-colored eyes and polka-dot bathing suits sat on a lounge chair in front of a swimming pool, holding hands and singing “A Whole New World.” Their connection reminded Emily of her and Ari. And Rob was right, they really could sing. And the little one had his stage presence, her face as animated as the original cartoon.

“They’re great,” Emily said when the song finished, and she handed his phone back.

“My best creations,” he said.

Emily couldn’t help but think about what the baby they’d created would have been like. Was it a girl? Would she have been able to sing like that, too?

“How about you?” Rob asked.

Emily pushed down her thoughts. “I’m married, too. Ezra’s a doctor. No kids yet.” Her voice caught on the last sentence.

“Hey,” Rob said. “You okay?”

Emily wiped the corner of her eye. “I had a miscarriage earlier this week,” she said, surprised that she’d said it but then immediately not surprised. There was still such an easy intimacy between them. And they’d been through so much together.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Rob said. He walked over from his side of the table to envelop her in another hug, this one tighter than the last. Emily pulled strength from it. It felt so good to have a pair of arms around her.

“Thanks,” she said, her mouth next to his ear. She could feel his hair flutter against her cheek.

“I’m a therapist now,” she added, ending the hug, leaning back slightly. “I have a doctorate in psychology.”

“Dr. Queenie,” he said, with a smile. “I found a paper you wrote with some other people about—what was it? Social—”

“Social cognition in college students,” she supplied.

“Interesting focus.” He took a sip of coffee, looking at her over the rim of the mug.

She laughed. “I guess so.”

Emily cut her corn muffin in half and lightly buttered one side.

“Remember . . .” Rob said, and then let his voice trail off.

“Remember what?” Emily asked, picking up her corn muffin.

“Remember when we went to that clinic before . . .”

“Yeah,” Emily said. How could she forget?

Rob drank some of his juice while Emily realized how his brain had gone from her recent miscarriage to them, back in college, talking about pregnancy and babies. “There’s a clinic like that not far from where I live, and years ago I asked them to give me a call whenever protesters show up. If I’m around, I head over with my guitar and my amp and I play so damn loud that the women can’t hear what the protesters are saying. It doesn’t help the signs, but . . .” He shrugged.

In the shrug, in the story, Emily saw the man she loved thirteen years ago. And she realized that their shared experience affected him, too. Maybe not to the degree that it affected her, maybe not the same way, but it changed him, too. It changed how he thought. It changed how he acted.

“That’s the best story I’ve heard in a long time,” she told him.

They finished eating soon after that, and Emily took out her wallet.

“Please, let me,” he said, laying a twenty on the table. “You hardly ordered anything. Plus you inspired my hit single, so the least I can do is thank you with a corn muffin and a coffee.”

Emily was going to protest, but instead simply said, “Thank you.”

As the waiter came to pick up the cash, Rob said, “So can I invite you and your husband out tomorrow night? My guests? It’s a secret, but I’m going to show up at an open mic night at Tony’s bar in New Jersey.”