Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(65)

“I’m fine. I’m better than fine,” I answered with thanks I couldn’t possibly verbalize.

My heart threatened to fight its way out of my chest, and I sat, partly to catch my breath. But once I was at those keys, I looked to Lily once more for permission, which she gave in the form of an encouraging nod.

And so, I played.

It was Mendelssohn, slow and haunting, crescendo and decrescendo, the sound floating up and into the space above me until each note disappeared, though my fingers kept going, kept making notes to fill the vast expanse of the room. And all of the feeling I had in me, every ounce of hope and love and joy and pain moving through me, through my hands, to the keys and hammers, to the strings and away.

When my fingers stilled, my cheeks wet with tears, I knew that there in that theater, on that bench, I had found the thing I wished for above all.

To play.

Lily swiped tears from her face and sighed, a deep and cleansing sound. “That was…God, Annie. That was lovely. Thank you.”

I shook my head, brushing my cheeks. “Oh, please don’t thank me. Not after the way you danced and not after arranging for me to play here. I should be thanking you.”

“Consider us even then,” she said ardently. “And I’d do anything for Greg’s girl.”

I froze. Greg was still as stone.

Lily kept talking. “When Greg told us he’d finally found someone, we all scrambled to help out. You know,” she said with a laugh, “we’d been trying to find him a worthy girlfriend for years, and it was just never a good match. But you two just look right together, does that make sense? I guess he just needed us to butt out once and for all.” She chuckled, sniffling, and ran her fingers under her eyes again. “God, I’m a mess. Between your playing and tonight’s suicide, I’m all tapped out.”

She laughed, and we mad a sad attempt to join her to as we followed her out of the pit, but the sound was tight and distracted. Both our minds whirred; I could feel his spinning just as well as I could feel my own.

My first thought was that it had to be a misunderstanding. She’d misconstrued what he’d said, jumped to conclusions, read into something that wasn’t there.

My second thought was that Greg had exaggerated the situation so he could secure the surprise for me.

But when I chanced a look at him, when I saw his face, unmasked and open and full of the truth of his heart, I knew.

All the times I’d denied it came tumbling through my mind. All the moments between us fell under a spotlight—my hands in his hoodie pocket, the look on his face when I’d played in the park, the pain behind his eyes when he’d told me he didn’t want me, not like that. I’d experienced them all completely in the dark.

I was stupid, a naive child who felt every bit my age.

Greg hadn’t said a word.

We said our thank-yous and goodbyes, and we walked out of the theater in silence as thick and heavy as midnight.

Greg didn’t hate Will just for his sister’s sake; he wanted me for his own.

He hadn’t tried to give me the tickets to the ballet just to be a friend; he had done it because he couldn’t stand to be with me if he couldn’t have me.

When I’d thought he wanted to kiss me under the egg tree, it hadn’t been my imagination.

But despite all that, he’d put his feelings aside, kept them secondary to what I wanted, what I felt, what I needed. He’d indulged every whim, every request, and not because of his regard for my friendship.

And I didn’t know where that left me.

After tonight, after the magic and easy joy that always sparked between us, I asked myself the question, Do I have feelings for him?

And I found the answer was a resounding yes.

But I had a boyfriend, a boyfriend whom I had feelings for, too.

My heart was split, the lines of friendship and love too blurred to define. The two men were complete opposites. Will was cavalier and forward with his feelings while Greg stepped back and kept his heart hidden from me. Where one was loud and obvious, the other was quiet and subtle. Where Will seemed to care for my feelings equally to his own, Greg put mine above his.

But Will was my boyfriend, and Greg was my friend. And I found myself feeling foolish and blind and without direction. Because the truth of the matter was that I’d wanted Greg to kiss me. I wanted Greg to want me. Because I wanted him.

But I wanted Will too, and I couldn’t comprehend how that was possible.

It wasn’t until the cab pulled away from the curb that I mustered the courage to speak, not knowing what I’d say. But I had to say something.

He stared out the window, the strong angles of his face casting shadows on the planes.

“Greg—”

“Does Will make you happy?” It was as if he’d been waiting for me to speak, the question on his lips waiting eagerly to escape. Maybe he had been waiting on me to garner courage of his own.

Either that or he didn’t want to hear what I’d been about to say.

“I…” I started, my composure teetering. I couldn’t finish because I didn’t know how to answer him honestly. Did he make me happy? Sometimes. Was I happy? No, in that moment, I wasn’t at all.

But what I did know was the answer I was supposed to give when someone asked me if my boyfriend made me happy. So, I defaulted.

“Yes, of course.”