RUSH (City Lights, #3)(37)

“You said that you were done. But you’re not. It may feel like it, but it’s not true.”

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. Was she really saying this to me? After all my blundering, tactless arrogance, she was trying to make me feel better? The depth of her kindness and generosity astounded me, but she was wrong. I was done. I’d had the perfect life and it had been ripped away forever.

I retreated to the solitude of my room. I intended to go to bed, to dive into sleep, away from the memory of my own biting voice that had brutally yanked the buried pain out of Charlotte and dragged it into her light of day.

Instead, I found myself at the windows, my hand on the curtain cord. I pulled it, heard the grating sound as the heavy drapes opened, the leaned forward and felt for the catch on the window. It stuck from disuse, but I wrestled it open, and cool, spring air wafted into the stuffy bedroom.

I closed my eyes, letting the breeze whisper over me. I reached my hand out and found a shaft of warmth. The sunshine spilling in. With a heavy sigh, I sat in one of the chairs, and oriented myself so the sunlight fell across my face. Nothing. But I could feel sun’s orange and gold on my skin, and the blue of breeze. I could hear the yellow of passing taxis, the rusted brown of shouting voices, the green of rustling leaves in the trees that dotted this city street in my memory.

Maybe, Charlotte, I thought. Maybe.





Chapter Thirteen


Charlotte

The rest of the week droned on with Noah saying almost nothing to me. I got the feeling he was afraid of speaking to me like he had that morning over the spilled milk. I couldn’t say I was too disappointed. I could do without being sniped at, but he said he was sorry and I forgave him, because that’s just how I was raised. I tried to be cheerful, to show him I was over it, but he was like a block of ice. Un-meltable.

Everyday, at three o’clock I began my practice: the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto in E Minor. It was what I planned to use for the Philharmonic audition in a few weeks. I’d sent in my transcripts, audio demos, and my chosen selection, half-hoping I wouldn’t get a slot. But I had, and that should have filled me with pride. Instead, I practiced the Mendelssohn the way it was written the page and nothing more, still unable to find the passion in it. The joy.

Once, when I was done and returning my violin to its case, I heard the floorboards creak at the top of the stairs. I had forgotten to close my bedroom door, and the creak was loud, louder than the settling of an old house. Loud like a footstep.

I nearly dashed out to the foyer, but restrained myself. If that was Noah—and that was a pretty big if—I’d only embarrass us both by jumping out with a silly “gotcha!” It could be coincidence, but it occurred to me I frequently heard the stairs creak after I had finished my afternoon practice. I made a mental note to leave my bedroom door open from now on. Or better yet, play in the small living area on my floor as it was closest to the stairs and the sound would carry straight up to him. If he didn’t like it, he could tell me. If he were even listening at all.

My own Spidey sense told me he was.

*

A new Monday arrived. I made breakfast for myself, and Noah shocked me by appearing at the stairs. He made his way carefully to the chair, midway between stairs and kitchen.

“I was going to get your breakfast from Annabelle’s in about twenty minutes,” I said. “But I can go now, if you’re hungry.”

“Not in the mood for Annabelle’s. I was going to make a second attempt at cereal.”

“Cereal is so boring. I have oatmeal, fruit and toast. And there’s enough for two…if you’re interested.”

He shrugged, all casual-like. “If you have enough.”

“I do.”

“Yeah, okay.”

I turned away to hide my smile. Sometimes I felt like he could read silences, looks, gestures, without needing his eyes.

We ate breakfast together, saying no more than a handful of words, sitting side-by-side. I found it extremely distracting to be so close to him. I kept stealing glances, especially at his eyes.

Their color reminded me of those agates you can buy at some touristy, mountain places. My dad took Chris and I to one when we were kids. You buy a rounded hunk of ugly gray rock and they cut it open for you to reveal a nest of amethyst crystals or maybe white quartz inside. The rock I’d chosen concealed a gorgeous, smooth striation of greens and browns, smattered with gold. I had been shocked and so happy. It was hard to imagine that an ugly, rough hunk of rock could contain something so beautiful.

When he had finished, Noah slipped off the stool with a muttered thank you, and headed upstairs.

I froze on my way to the sink, two plates in hand. “Where are you going?”

“To read,” he said without stopping.

“Well, wait.” I dumped the plates in the basin and hurried to him. “I was thinking, maybe, you’d like to go for a walk?”

He stopped, and sighed, his shoulders slumped. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“I knew that if I ate here instead of upstairs you’d consider it some kind of breakthrough.”

“Isn’t it?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. “I mean, that’s twice in one week.”

“You offered oatmeal so I ate oatmeal. End of story.” He continued up the stairs.