Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(32)

I did just that, my hands on the back of the seat, the handlebars swerving a little but nothing she couldn’t correct. And then I let go.

She didn’t notice, wholly focused on staying upright, and I kept jogging, pulling up beside her. When she glanced over, I held my hands up in the air and wiggled my fingers.

Her face opened up with joy, and a whoop passed her lips—just before she swerved into me.

A string of expletives hissed out of me as I tried to grab her, but it was too late. She tumbled into me, bike and all, taking us down to the cold grass.

Annie was lying on top of me, her hair tossed across her face. The ground was cold and damp under me, and the handlebar of the bike was jammed into my ribs, but I barely even noticed. Not with Annie sprawled out across my body, her green eyes sparkling and her laughter ringing in my ears.

My own laughter met hers like an old friend.

“Are you okay?” I asked, sweeping her hair out of her face to tuck it behind her ear.

She flushed but made no move to pull away from me. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”

“I’ll live.”

We watched each other for a moment through the rise and fall of my chest, the movement carrying her like a rocking ship. And then she giggled again, climbing off me before reaching for the bike.

It was then that I began to fully comprehend the depth of the trouble I’d found myself in.

A few more rounds had her riding on her own, and we practiced starting and stopping without falling. Within fifteen minutes, she’d graduated to the walkway where she could practice on a smooth surface. It wasn’t long before we were shooed off by a quartet of elderly men on their way to the Chess and Checkers House, judging by the cases they were carrying. They made sure to properly chastise us with wagging knobby fingers and low, overgrown eyebrows, unyielding, even when we explained our plight. So we hung our heads and tried not to smile at our shoes.

Before we checked the bike back in, Annie retrieved her instant camera from her backpack, kneeling next to the bike to snap a picture. I had her get on the bike, so I could take another. She kicked her legs out to the sides and opened her mouth in a blinding smile. And then we took a selfie. Well, I took it, since my arms were longer.

When it developed, I wished we’d taken two.

Back into the park we went with Annie’s itinerary in hand, and as we talked and laughed, I found myself lost in the wonder of her.

It wasn’t the statue of Alice in Wonderland that struck me; it was the smile on her face when she gazed on it, so completely in that moment that nothing seemed to exist before or after it. It wasn’t the Bethesda Fountain; it was the way she dipped her fingers in the cold water like it would anoint her. It wasn’t the beauty of the tiled terrace, shining like gold; it was the way she experienced it, eyes wide, lips parted, like she wanted to swallow the world.

I was right to be hesitant about spending the day with Annie. Before today, I could tell myself it was attraction, pheromones, science. I could tell myself she was too young, that we were too different. But the truth was that none of those things mattered. There were roots—I could feel them working their way through me. They weren’t superficial, spreading out under the surface; they were the kind of roots you could never excavate, the kind that became a part of all they touched in the most permanent way.

We walked toward the Mall, a wide lane lined with elm trees so old and tall, their branches touched far above the heads of people below in an arch like a gothic chapel. And I listened to her, watched her, unable to deny the allure of her lust for life, the optimism of her soul, the lightness of her heart, a heart that had been broken from the start.

I was high from the contact, hungry for the feeling, desperate for more.

As we approached the entrance of the grand walkway lined with those dignified trees, Annie gasped.

“Greg, there’s a piano.”

We stopped in front of the the Naumburg Bandshell, a beautiful stage under a high arch, the ceiling domed and stamped with recessed stone plates for acoustics. They held concerts there in the summer, and a public piano stood in front, painted in waving colors like a melting rainbow.

Play me, it encouraged from the panel above the keys.

And so, she took a seat and did just that.

It was a classical song I recognized, though I didn’t know the name. Her fingers brushed the keys with certainty, and a slow waltz that sounded both happy and sad. Her eyes were down, her head bowed, her body moving gently, as did her arms, as did her fingers. The movement of her body was in synchrony with the movement of the song, rising and falling, speeding and slowing, the notes echoing from the wooden chamber that held the strings and hammers.

Her fingers stilled when the song tapered off, disappearing like magic realized and gone too soon, and when she turned to me, when she met my eyes, hers were full of tears, of pain and joy and deliverance. And I knew with absolute certainty that I would never find another woman like her.

Not as long as I lived.





8





Alley-oop





Annie

The afternoon had slipped away before I even realized it; I’d been happily distracted by Greg and New York and the wonder of new experiences.

But sharing it with him was the best part of all.

It was late by the time we made it to the tattoo parlor, and when he opened the door and we stepped in, my eyes widened with excitement as I took it all in.