A Thousand Perfect Notes(42)

A woman waltzes into the kitchen then, literally waltzes with an imaginary partner. The soft background music is Dvorak – Beck recognises it. Like August’s dad, her mother is older, with streaks of grey in honey hair, and she wears fisherman pants and a shirt that looks like it’s been woven from moss. When she catches sight of Beck, she pauses the waltz and blinks.

‘You look cold, darling,’ she says.

Beck has exactly nothing to say.

August says, ‘This is Beck and yes, he’s cold.’

‘I’m fine.’ Beck resists rubbing the goosebumps growing up his arms.

‘Shane, can’t we lend him a jacket?’

‘I shall get one directly.’ Shane sets down the knife and flips off his apron. He throws it at her. ‘Finish the salad, love?’

Her mother takes the apron disdainfully. ‘It suits you so much better.’

Shane looks unconcerned. ‘It’s a salad. What can go wrong? Oh, and we’ve been expressly forbidden to question August’s guest.’

‘Not a single question?’

‘None.’

‘Not even to see if he likes lasagne?’

Shane’s eyebrows ask the question – but to August, not Beck, like she’s a tunnel one must meet before getting to him.

August considers. Beck is so ashamed and the lump in his throat has bloomed into a small mountain. What kind of family is this?

‘I’ll reword,’ she decides. ‘No personal questions. You’re free to inquire about food. And also his favourite colour.’

‘Lasagne is great,’ Beck says, though he’s only ever tasted the packet version. ‘But – but I can’t stay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—’

August’s mother picks up the knife and shakes it at Beck. ‘We always make far too much lasagne, young man, so I’d be honoured if you’d stay and – oh, August, darling, what have you told him about me? He looks petrified.’

‘It’s probably the knife you’re waving at him,’ August says.

Surprised, her mother looks at it and sets it down. ‘Oh.’

Shane returns with a lined plaid shirt. He’s immensely tall, probably taller than the Maestro’s six feet, so Beck nearly disappears into the jacket. But it’s warm. It’s glorious to be warm. His tongue makes a mangle of the simple thank you, but all August’s dad says is, ‘Call me Shane, and this is Tammy.’

‘Careful around my mother,’ August whispers, ‘or she’ll kidnap you and adopt you.’

‘She does have those tendencies,’ Shane says. ‘Remember those feral kittens?’

‘Do I ever.’

Tammy finishes the salad by dumping in half a jar of olives. ‘You must stay, Beck. I insist.’

August pokes Beck’s arm and he follows her as she bounces back up the hall. ‘Call us,’ she says. ‘I’m introducing Beck to the house.’ She opens a door, also covered in photo frames, and walks in with her arms spread wide. ‘My humble abode.’ A cat skids between her ankles. ‘Careful. The dog bites.’

‘More dogs?’ Beck says weakly.

A Great Dane sprawls on a battered beanbag in the corner. It growls softly, but judging by the white scales on its eyes, it won’t be lunging for him. There’s a blue budgie chirping on its head but the Dane doesn’t seem to care.

‘I think you have more than nine dogs,’ Beck says.

‘Oh, I have nine dogs,’ August says. ‘My parents also have dogs. Then there’s the turtle and an aviary for the birds outside.’ She glances at the budgie. ‘Most of the birds,’ she amends. ‘There are a few cats and a goat, but we’re only babysitting the llama.’

‘Naturally.’

August flops on to her bed. It’s covered in handmade quilts and sketchbooks and Sharpies. There are atlas posters on the wall, and her bedside lamp is a repurposed globe. She’s not a neat freak, though. There are clothes on the floor and the bin overflows with scraps of half-finished doodles. And the Dane kind of takes up the rest of the space. For all the warmth and cluttered cosiness of the Frey household, it’s obvious they’re still not well off.

But compared to Beck’s sterile room, August’s is like a nest of dreams.

August hugs her knees. ‘I honestly thought I’d never get you to visit. I’m glad you did. Just so you know.’

She looks at him long and hard, so hard that Beck turns away and self-consciously touches his bruised cheek.

‘We could talk,’ August says.

He can’t. Please, don’t make him.

But how can he show up and act like a dejected punching bag and not explain?

‘It’s nothing serious,’ he says quietly.

Her eyes say she doesn’t believe him. ‘I could get ice?’

‘The wind kind of iced it on the run over.’

‘You ran? Whoa, I didn’t think those spindly legs moved that fast.’

He wants to smile, but his cheek hurts.

The joke slips from her voice. ‘Is it your mum? You could stay here tonight, if you wanted …’

‘She’s in the hospital.’

August’s ever-bouncing body freezes, and Beck realises how it sounds.