Player(87)

By the time I got home, I had inched a little bit closer to the idea. The brownstone was quiet and dark, all the lights out, except one.

The light over the island shone down like a spotlight, and in the center, exactly where I’d left it, was my birthday gift from Sam.

No one had touched it in five days. We’d moved around it, eaten around it, no one daring to shift it even a millimeter. It was a silent beacon, one I’d forget about completely until moments like this. And then I couldn’t think about anything else for a long while.

My eyes were on the box as I set down my bag and took off my coat, hanging it on the rack. I walked toward it like it had called to me, took a seat on the barstool where I’d sat when I placed it there. Picked up the box and turned it over in my hands.

I pulled the red ribbon.

The lid slid off in a whisper. Obscuring the contents was a note, written on thick, luxurious paper in a slanting, artful hand.

To the girl I gave my heart to.

Happy birthday, Val. I hope all your wishes come true, every one.

With shaking hands, I picked up the card, my eyes widening when I saw what lay inside.

Twin golden hair combs lay on a bed of black velvet, the heads adorned with gilded leaves and sprays of ruby petals. I picked one up. It looked very old, and as I tilted my hand to inspect it, the light caught the stones and filled them, making them twinkle and glow.

I closed my hand, closed my eyes.

This wasn’t a lie. The gift in my hand had nothing to do with a bet. It was his heart in my palm, as honest and real as mine that I’d placed in his.

And that knowledge warred with the truth of the bet itself, with the fact that it’d existed at all.

He was an honest liar.

And I loved him despite it all.

My tears fell silently, the sharp angles of the comb cutting into the soft curves of my palm. And I whispered another wish into the quiet, dark room.

“I wish he loved me, too.”





32





To Fall





Sam

One week. Seven days. A hundred and sixty-eight hours since I’d lost her.

My fingers moved across the ivory, the hammers striking the strings in the piano, the vibrations filling the room with the sound of my sadness.

There was nowhere to go. The club had become a place for her and me. The stage reminded me of her presence on it. The dance floor set my arms aching to hold her.

Work was impossible to consider. If her presence was felt at the club, the truth of seeing her would be too much to bear. I couldn’t consent to leaving her alone if given the opportunity to talk to her. So I’d eliminated that opportunity by removing myself from the equation.

It was the only thing I could do to serve her. The only apology she would accept.

My absence.

Did she miss me like I missed her? Did she hate me the way I hated myself?

Would I ever find out?

I picked up my pencil and wrote. The movement was slow and deep, the cadenza haunting. Orpheus begging Hades to return his love to him. Psyche waiting for her lover in the dark. Echo whispering only the words her beloved spoke, words unheard and lost.

It was the best I’d ever written.

Pages and pages I’d composed. I hadn’t eaten much, and I hadn’t slept at all. I’d played and written and considered my regrets.

And I thought of her.

I sighed, turning on the bench, stretching my stiff back and neck when I stood. A glance at the clock told me I had to leave soon. Too soon.

I made my way into the bathroom, barely glancing at my reflection. Hollow eyes, unkempt beard, hair thick and shining. Shirt off, in a pile on the floor. Pants joined them. The shower was hot, pinging my back, my shoulders, my face when I turned, eyes closed.

I resolved to acquaint myself with the bottle of scotch I’d been avoiding. As soon as I came home from my parents’ place, me and that bottle were going to get familiar. At least then maybe I could get some sleep. Sleep would help, just like the shower.

At least I don’t smell like a dumpster anymore, I thought as I dried myself, discarding the towel on the floor with my clothes. I stepped into jeans, pulled on a fresh shirt. Stuffed my feet into boots and shrugged on my jacket. Snagged my keys and trudged to the subway.

My mind was sludge, viscous and thick, my thoughts amalgamated into nothing in particular and everything at once. And like a passenger, I accompanied my body to the Upper East.

When my mom opened the door, her smile fell. I saw her mind take in the sight of me, which, by most people’s judgment, would have seemed fine. I stood straight, was clean and dressed, was there. I was there. I’d shown up even if I wasn’t present.

I tried to smile and failed.

“Qalbi, what has happened?”

“I don’t know if I want to talk about it, Mom.”

She nodded once and reached for me. “Well, we don’t have to talk. Come here.”

I’d never understand how someone so small could make me feel so safe. I bent to hug her. Her arms wound around my neck, her hands on my shoulders, and she held me like that until I pulled away.

It was as she always did. Never once had she broken a hug, as if they were always for me to drink from until I was full.

“Come,” she said gently, taking my hand. “There’s food.”

I followed her in, closing the door behind me. The house was quiet, lit by the slanting gray light of the overcast day. Dad was sitting on the couch with a medical journal in his hand, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. When he saw me enter, he assessed me over the top of his lenses.