RUSH (City Lights, #3)(39)

“The Park is in front of us?”

“Yes.”

“Describe it.”

“Describe…?”

“Charlotte, I’m f*cking drowning,” Noah breathed. “Tell me what you see.”

“Oh, right. There’s uh…a wall. A gray-ish wall, with greenery spilling over it. There’s a bench, just inside this wall a little ways in along a paved path; I can see it from here. That’s where we’re going.”

He nodded and took a deep inhale. “All right. Go.”

We waited to cross Columbus, a street that was crazy-busy with speeding cars and rumbling trucks that hissed and honked. Finally, the light changed with no sounds or bird tweets for the visually impaired like some crossings. I wondered how on earth a blind person would navigate without help and realized most blind people probably would have help. A dog, maybe. Or a cane that they actually used.

I led Noah to the bench just inside Central Park, and he sank into it, withdrawing his death grip on my arm. “Remind me again how this is supposed to be good for me?”

“You did great. You should be proud.”

“Proud of what? Walking outside for fifteen minutes without shitting myself?”

“When was the last time you were outdoors? Months ago, right?”

“At the rehab place upstate.” He snorted a laugh that almost concealed his sigh of relief that he was sitting. Almost. “They were constantly dragging me around, trying to get me to learn to be blind.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because, that means game over. I lose.”

I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He heaved a few more steadying breaths, and then jammed his hands in the pockets of his athletic pants. He slumped down, his long legs akimbo. If we were on the subway, he’d have taken up two seats. But for all his man-spreading bluster, I could see he was trying desperately to appear at ease when he obviously wasn’t.

“So, what’s your story?”

I blinked and couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re quite the conversationalist. You want to hear where I’m from and all that?”

He nodded. “All that.”

“Well, it’s not very interesting…”

“Don’t do minimize yourself. Everyone’s life is interesting in some way.”

“I guess. Not much has happened to me yet. Not compared to you and where you’ve been.”

I meant that as a compliment, not to open old wounds, but Noah flinched anyway.

“Where I’ve been? Do you mean the bottom of the Pacific? That was my latest and greatest excursion, but how about we don’t talk about that, eh?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Noah waved a hand. “You, not me. Where are you from? Originally?”

“Um, Bozeman, Montana. I moved here when I was eighteen.”

“Montana. Big sky country.”

“Have you been there?”

“No. I missed it.”

“Missed it?”

“The big sky. I missed my chance to see it and now it’s gone forever and…” He shook his head. “Forget it. You, not me.”

I crossed my arms and faced him. “You know, after our breakfast chat the other day, I don’t know that I’m in a big hurry to spill my guts to you.”

“I don’t blame you.” He turned his head in my direction. “I promise to behave myself. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my useless f*cking eyeballs. Oh pardon my language. My gosh-darned useless eyeballs.”

I shifted against the bench. “I’m not used to talking about myself.”

“Obviously.”

“Some would say that’s a positive character trait.”

“Others might say we’re going to grow old and die waiting for you to at least tell me the basics of your so-called-not-very-interesting life.”

“Okay, okay. Such a grouch.” I laughed. “Um, well, I came here for Juilliard…”

“No, no, wait. You didn’t magically poof into existence at Juilliard. Go back. How long have you played the violin?”

“Oh, uh, since I was a kid. Since almost before I can remember.”

“Why? Did your parents force you? Make you take lessons, hoping for a prodigy?”

“Just the opposite. I was desperate to play.”

Noah nodded, his hard-edged features softening, as if he liked that answer. “What sparked you?”

“I saw some concert on PBS. I must have been four years old. There was a woman, a soloist—I don’t know who—and I watched her, just…mesmerized.”

My thoughts turned back to that day, years ago. I could still see the old TV—not a flat screen, not yet—and our family room that was warm and brown, and smelled of maple wood and orange spice.

“It was like I was seeing a future version of myself,” I said to Noah. “I told my parents I wanted to play how she was playing. Standing up, while all the rest of the violinists were sitting down. I wanted that, not for the accolades. It wasn’t—and still isn’t—for that. Before I knew what a concerto was, or could name an opera, I knew that soloist was singing for the composer. Her music was the beating heart of the piece and I…I wanted to be that.” I shook my head at the memory, quelling the strange longing that welled in my heart. “Anyway, that’s how it started.”