If You Only Knew(116)

I’m happy, I realize.

It’s good that Owen and I broke up, because the truth is, I never fit in that life. I loved it—and I loved him—but I didn’t fit. It was a life meant for someone else—Ana-Sofia, I hope, because I truly do like her and don’t want Owen to end up one of those sad, lonely clichés of a man, with three ex-wives and children he never sees.

And while Leo and I didn’t work out...

I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I’m better off for loving him? So corny. So true.

Life is good, even without all the elements in place. I love my small family, my sister and nieces, my mom. Even Adam, because if Rachel loves him, I will, too. I love Andreas and my work. And soon, hopefully, I’ll be on the road to becoming a mother. A foster mom at first. After talking to the social worker the other day, I said I’d be open to an older kid. I have my first interview in two weeks, after my background check clears.

I get to Alice Tully Hall, that strange and wonderful building of sharp angles and light, and already my stomach is cramping. Evander is eleven. Eleven! How these kids endure the pressure, I have no idea.

I’m directed down a hallway. There’s Leo, wearing a dark brown suit and purple shirt and tie. The perfect curling hair. The mercurial face I love.

My heart, already rabbiting along in my chest, kicks into tachycardia. He jerks his chin at me, a sign that things aren’t going that well. Evander is sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest. “Hey,” I say. “Here’s our boy.”

“Nice to see you, Miss Jenny,” Leo says, but he’s cracking his knuckles and the lines around his mouth are tense.

“You ready for this, killer?” I ask Evander, who hasn’t looked up.

He doesn’t answer.

That doesn’t bode well.

“He’s a little nervous. As is everyone who tries out for this,” Leo says, trying to sound firm and reassuring. But I can sense the panic under his words.

“Sure. But you’ll ace this, honey.” Not that I know a damned thing.

A girl of about fourteen comes out of the door. Her face is red, and she’s crying. She doesn’t pause, just runs down the hall. Her mother follows, calling after her, “Sweetie, don’t be upset! You did your best. It’s okay!”

Shit. Are they eating children in there?

“Jenny, can I ask you a question? Evander, be right back.” Leo takes my hand and practically drags me down the hall a few paces. “He’s freaking out.”

“What can I do?” I whisper.

“I have no idea. And even if he gets in, I’m not sure his parents are going to let him do this. But right now, all I want for him is not to puke.” Then his eyes meet mine, and his expression gentles. “Hi.”

The simple word reverberates in my stomach. “Hi.”

“It was good of you to come.”

“Well. I love that kid.”

Leo smiles a little.

“So what exactly does he have to do?” I ask.

“He has to play three pieces, all of which he’s been working on for months. He’s got them down cold. But he’s saying he doesn’t think he can play piano at all today.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Jenny!”

Then the door opens. “Evander James?” A smiling young woman comes into the hall. “Are you ready?”

Evander doesn’t answer.

“This is us, buddy,” Leo says, going back and extending his hand.

Evander takes it wordlessly and stands up. We’re ushered into a dark room.

Holy crap. It’s the actual Alice Tully Hall. I remember, because I think I dozed off here on more than one occasion, when Owen dragged me to hear an orchestra from Slovakia or Transylvania or somewhere.

The stage is huge, furnished only with a gleaming black grand piano. Lights glare into our eyes. There are rows and rows and rows of seats.

Four people sit in the front. Three men: two clean-shaven with frizzy hair, one bald with a white beard; and one woman who looks like Diane Sawyer and is wearing a really nice red St. John suit. All the same, they all look as if they’re about to sentence us to death.

“Evander James?” asks a man with a white beard.

Evander nods, his eyes on the floor.

Some paper is shuffled. “Ready when you are,” the woman says.

Evander doesn’t move.

Oh, no.

“He’s a little nervous,” Leo says. He kneels down next to his student and whispers, “Listen, pal. You’re ready for this. You’re more than good enough.”

“I can’t,” Evander whispers back. I put my hand on his head.

“Why not?” Leo asks.

“Because.”

This is the kid who plays “only” five or six hours a day. Who said music was his best friend. Who touches the piano as if it’s a shy animal and he wants nothing more than to take it home.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” I ask, crouching down next to him.

His lip is trembling. “Because...because when I play, it’s to let the music out, because there’s music inside me and I have to let it out, and right now, there’s no music in me and all I can hear is...afraid.”

Tears spill out of his eyes, and he looks at Leo helplessly.