“Good.” I move it close to the computer.
“How can we communicate with her?” Willow asks. “I want to let her know that Balakrishna was here this morning.”
I frown. “There’s Instagram, but we’d have to be really careful. She won’t be able to sign in to her account, or they’ll be able to locate her. Let me think about it.”
The house phone rings. “Damn,” Willow says. “That’s probably Josiah. He took the day off to work with me on a piece I’m trying to get into a competition tomorrow. Maybe an hour or so?”
A new flare of annoyance runs over my nerves, and I have to fight it back down, fight against flinging out a comment about hooking up with a new guy.
From somewhere, maybe from the part of me that feels loved in this moment, I think, What if it were my work project that needed to be done by tomorrow? “Okay. I’ll go back to my room and work on the rest of this.”
“Thank you.”
In my room, I get dressed in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved sweater over a T-shirt. It’s cold in the apartment, something else I’d forgotten. High ceilings, all those windows, ancient insulation. What I don’t have is a pair of socks.
From down the hall, I hear voices, alight with happiness: a very deep voice, another man’s, and Willow’s laughter. She’s so easy with people, I think, digging through my bag. I wish I could be.
My phone flashes on the bed, and I grab it urgently. It’s a text from Tina. You haven’t checked in! Are you alive? Is everything okay?
I curl up on the chair by the window, looking out toward the street as I text back. FaceTime?
In the music room, they begin to tune their instruments. Someone playfully runs through a series of notes on the piano, and someone sings alone, not Willow, but a very rich voice. It’s beautiful.
My phone flashes with Tina’s face, and I answer. “Hey,” I say.
“Thank God! I’ve been worried that I hadn’t heard from you. How are you?” She frowns. “Where are you?”
“My mom’s apartment,” I say, “and I’m doing pretty well. I’m going to be fine.”
“Good. Jeez, Sam, your text scared me half to death. Meningitis?”
“I know. It was pretty bad. But thank God for Asher.”
“So you guys are talking again?”
I lift my shoulders, allowing a small smile. “Yeah. It’s crazy.”
“Silver linings, right?”
“Maybe.” I think of him falling apart—in his dignified way—in the kitchen last night. His tears against my neck, his hands on my waist. Our kiss today. “I hope so.”
“Wait.” She peers at my face. “Oh my God. Did you guys have a fight about being together, together? Is that what the fight was about?”
“I still don’t want to talk about that.” Down the hall, the music weaves together, spinning out something like a reel, but not exactly. I cock my head, listening. “It’s enough that maybe we can fix it now.”
“Thank goodness. You really look a lot better than the last time I saw you.”
“That was the night!”
In the background, a baby starts to wail. Tina looks over her shoulder. “Dang. I’ve got to get him, sweetheart. I’m so sorry! I’ll call you back in five minutes.”
“No, that’s okay. I’m going to go listen to my sister play. We can talk later.”
“Sure? I just have to get him on the boob.”
I grin. “I’m sure. I’ll text you later.”
“’Kay.” She blows kisses, and the screen goes dark. I look at it for a minute, then pull up Asher’s number. I listen to his voice say, “Hey, this is Asher. Leave a message.”
“Hey, Asher. Sam again. Just wondering when you’re coming back over. I’m feeling a thousand times better, so maybe we can get a lot done. Oh, and my sister is playing with that guy from the other night, and it’s crazy good. You should hear it.”
I hang up, trying not to think about him looking at the phone and my name and choosing to let it go to voice mail. Maybe he’s just in the middle of a meeting or something. Or writing code—
Anxiety rises in my torso, filling all the cavities. Something is wrong again.
I shove the knowledge away and rub my gut, aware of a knot living there. In my imagination, I see Eric putting the flowers in my arms and me bending down to smell them, automatically, not because of anything particularly compelling but because that’s what people do. I have no feelings for Eric whatsoever.
Stop.
I don’t have any socks, and Willow’s child-size socks will never fit, so I head down the hall to Gloria’s room. The door is closed, and I knock, but there’s no answer, so I poke my head in.
She’s clearly packed up everything. I step into the room. There’s nothing in the sock or underwear drawers, and the shoes are depleted. The emptiness hits me like a rock to the middle.
I frown and head back to the music room in my bare feet. The door is open, and a river of music pours out—violin and a piano and two voices braiding together in a way that makes my heart ache. I stand in the doorway, watching, a wild emotion rising in response to the music.
Because I’m analytical, I try to figure out why. It’s melancholy, but more than that, I can feel a story of something in it, something I should recognize . . .
At the piano is a long-limbed Black man in a toque, bending into the music, nodding. Willow leans close, fiddling mournfully. The music pauses, and their voices take up the melody, only the piano flowing beneath it. They lean into each other, and their voices lace together, rising on a column of light and sound.
The man is looking at Willow, whose eyes are closed as she sings, her violin in her hand, her bow in the other, and I feel the sexual tension in the room, like a first kiss, like hands on bodies, like all the longing in the world.
How does she do that? I watch and watch, and I just can’t see where it comes from. My mother did it, too, every time she was onstage. You just couldn’t help but look at her, at her hair and her mouth and her body. Willow wears a T-shirt and jeans, and she’s like a dancer in her movements, the sway of her head, the lift of her chin.
She opens her eyes, smiles at the man, and he smiles back slowly, full of heat.
I roll my eyes, irritated again, and this time, I let it rise. Here she is in her full stun mode, the manic pixie dream girl, representing all those dreams a man can’t reach without the help of his little magic girl.
Fuck that.
I whirl and head for the kitchen, my feet cold, which is also kind of her fault since she forgot to bring me socks. In the kitchen is the pie she made, but I can’t even imagine taking a bite. A thousand emotions are rocketing around inside me, and I can’t get a handle on any of them.
Why are you always so mean about her?
Why am I? Something shakes loose inside me, and I see myself standing in the doorway of the music room as my mother invites Willow to sit beside her on the bench of the piano, asking her to do something on the keys. I see the baby in a blanket, so tiny and wrinkled and not at all the full-grown sister I thought I was going to get.
I stare out the window, letting the feelings rise. So much jealousy! I felt lost and left out, and honestly, I was.
But it was never Willow’s fault.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Asher! I yank it out, and it is a message from him.
I’m sorry, Sam. I just don’t think I can forget all the things we said to each other. I have to have a life, and to get there, I can’t be around you.
Blinking, I read it over and over, my ears roaring.
Another text comes through. I’m sorry.
Every good emotion in me shatters. Of course. There was no way this stretch of peace was going to last.
It never does. No one ever stays. Not with me.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Willow
The jam session with Josiah is off the charts, and it takes my mind off Gloria and the impotence of not knowing what to do. We burn through a bunch of folk songs we both know,
just to warm up, and then some jazzy improv; then we get into the new song. I play it through, at least the main themes, and then we improvise, improve, deepen. I didn’t anticipate the voice part, but it’s as thrilling to sing as it is to play. “I’ll never be able to play and sing this,” I say, scribbling some notes on the composition, “but we can record in a couple of tracks or hire someone to come in and do other parts.”
“What if you take the piano and I take the violin?” Josiah says.
“We can try that, for sure.”
“Before we wrap it up, come sit down a minute,” he says and moves over on the piano bench. He pats the empty place, and suddenly all the things I’ve been tamping down swirl up, waking up the cells in my body.
“I might be a little sweaty from all this,” I say.
He makes a face. “I don’t care.” His hands are on the keys, and he starts to tickle them slightly. I slide in beside him. Our thighs touch, and I’m aware of the scent of his hair and the laundry soap he uses and, below all that, the alluring notes of skin and man.
He plays something I know, sweet and melancholy, a song I’ve heard a million times. My mother’s most famous song. He begins to sing words I’ve heard over and over and over until they practically have no meaning.
I stood in your shadow; you glowed so bright
I rode along; you were the captain of the flight
You were the sun and I was the moon
A tiny crescent that vanished at dawn
I was just a sliver of reflected light.
I never knew how big the world could be
So much bigger than my eyes could see
I was just there, baby
I was nowhere, baby
But now it’s mine, my sky, my reality
Look up, you’ll see me now
I ain’t following you no more
Look up, I’m gold and silver
Shining like a star
You can’t steal me from myself
You can’t put me on the shelf
Don’t ask why
Just write my name across the sky.
His deep baritone travels through my entire soul, touches places I didn’t remember existed, and I think of my mother, dreaming of such a big life.
“It’s a man’s world; it’s just the way things are.
“Stick with me,” you said, “I’ll take you far.”
But I went my own way, baby
I knew that someday, baby
I would spread my wings and I would soar
I’m way above the clouds, looking down
You’re just a tiny spot on the ground
I won’t ever, ever need you
If I squint I can barely see you
If you’re looking for me, well, honey, I’m long gone
Look up, you’ll see me now
I ain’t following you no more
Look up, I’m gold and silver
Shining like a star
You can’t steal me from myself
You can’t put me on the shelf
Don’t ask why
Just write my name across the sky.
Emotion clogs my throat, and I can’t speak.
He drops his hands to his lap. “I really like you, Willow.”
“Me too, Josiah. I mean, I’m so attracted to you. But—”
He inclines his head. “But?”
I let go of a sigh, and all the mean things Sam has said come tumbling back into my mind. “The music. It might mess up the music. And . . .” I take a breath. “I just don’t want to be that manic pixie dream girl anymore,” I say and look at my mother’s face on the wall. “Like Billie.”
He nods and picks up my hand, holds it between his own. “What I see is the queen of fairies, but you have to feel it yourself. Take your time.”
A light bursts within me, scattering through my body, lit by his comment and a vision of myself as a queen, powerful and whole. “I do sometimes feel quite royal,” I joke.
“Your majesty.” He chuckles and lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my palm. His mouth is as soft as I expected. He smells faintly of rain, and the air shimmers between us, full of promise. Potential. So many things.
From the doorway, Sam says, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
I surface so fast that it gives me a headache, holding on to Josiah’s hand for safety as I turn my head to look at her. It only takes a glance to see that she’s in a brittle mood. I don’t even know what I see, just that some part of me contracts. “What’s wrong?”
“Never takes long to find a new guy, does it.” She shakes her head, laughs with a mean bark. “Really, Willow, the queen of fairies? What a joke. You, in charge of anything?”
I wince, as physically taken aback as if she’s slapped me. For a moment, I can’t even think of a way to respond.
Josiah moves close, as if to defend me. His arm touches mine, and I’m grateful.
“What’s going on, Sam?” I ask.
“Oh my God. Isn’t it obvious?” She’s vibrating with tension but glares at Josiah.
I look at him. “I’m okay. You’d better go.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod.
“You know where to find me.” He touches my arm.
I cross my arms as he leaves. “What is wrong with you?”
“I’m sick of you always being the one who gets everything.”
“What are you even talking about?”
“Why do you always fuck every guy that comes through? Why do you have to do that?”
I blink. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m not doing this.” I shake my head and head out of the room, trying to get around her. “You’re not going to just attack me for no reason.”
“Don’t just walk out on me!”
I swing around, a flickering blue flame kindling in my fingertips. “What do you want, Sam? Just tell me. I’ve bent over backward trying to make you comfortable and happy while you’re sick, but it’s never enough. Nothing is ever enough for you.”
“Maybe if I ever had enough, it would be. Some of us don’t get everything we want with the snap of our fingers.”
“Oh, like me?” I shake my head. “Everything I own fits into an overnight bag. I arrived here with nothing.”
“Poor, poor Willow.” Her words are sharp and bitter. “What did you think would happen if you spent your life at Ren Faires instead of a job?”
“It was a job! I got paid and everything. Just because it’s not your idea of what work looks like doesn’t mean it isn’t actually work. My band was one of the most popular on the circuit, but did you even know that? Take any time to notice?”
“It was a Ren Faire band, Willow! That doesn’t mean anything in the real world.”
“Oh, because your world is so grounded in reality. You write video games. How is that real life?” I frown. “And by the way, I do know your company is in trouble, because unlike you, I do pay attention.”
“That’s none of your business! How dare you?”
“I just set up a Google Alert with your name and business.” I shake my head. The flames are licking up my arms, lapping the edges of my ears. “I wasn’t prying; I was trying to participate in your life!”
“Maybe I don’t want you in my life! You’re the reason my life got fucked up in the first place.”
“Oh. My. God! You’re not seriously using something that happened when I was a baby to justify the reasons your life sucks?” I step forward. “How about you’re an aloof weirdo who makes it impossible for anyone to get close to you!”
“At least I’m not a thirty-five-year-old teenager fucking everything that moves.”
“I’m not fucking anyone, for your information, but even if I was making myself a man sandwich with twenty guys, don’t you think slut shaming is a bit beneath you? Oh, wait.” I pause, exaggerating a thinking gesture. “There’s nothing beneath you, is there?”
“Back off!” she cries. Her chest is splotched with red. “You
don’t know anything. Everybody has loved you your whole life. ‘Willow’s so good at violin. Willow’s so pretty. Willow’s so nice. Willow, Willow, Willow!’”
“No chance anyone would ever call you nice, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah, well, maybe there’s a reason I’m mean. I had to develop a hide like an armadillo just to get by. You didn’t get left every time you turned around.”
“That’s true,” I say, very still. “And now you’re alone, just the way you like it. No one to complicate your perfect plan.”
“That’s not true!”
“Really? It was only an accident that Asher got your text. Your best friend moved to Atlanta, and the only people who came to see you at the hospital were Gloria and me. Your dad only came by because he wants the apartment.”
“At least I have a dad.”
“Oooh,” I say mockingly, “that hurts. I’d rather have no dad than have an asshole for one. He uses you, manipulates you.”
“Just like all your little boyfriends use you! Do you think that guy wants to make music with you, Willow? Did you learn anything from Mom’s life? He’ll just prop you up to be the figurehead and fuck you until he’s tired of it and then wander off to the next girl. Although I think you’re getting a bit long in the tooth for the ‘girl’ bit.”
For a moment, I stand blistered and on fire, my heart pounding so hard I can hardly hear anything but Sam’s evil words. I take another step forward. “First of all, it’s not sex you’re seeing between us; it’s music. Second, I’m not my mother, and it’s not the seventies.”
“Yeah, right. Music. That’s what it looked like, all right.”
“You have felt sorry for yourself your whole life. Poor Sam, too tall and all those allergies and, oh, don’t forget, too smart to deal with the real world, poor dear.”
“I didn’t choose any of that.”
“No, but you didn’t have to make it the center of everything either. You did have your dad. Who did I have? When you were with your dad, there was someone to feed you. Give you a bath. Talk to you.” I shake my head. “Why do you think I need a full pantry? Why do you think I learned to cook?”
She blanches, and I see the sword has sliced neatly through her argument. “You had Mom. And Gloria. And all those babysitters.”
Write My Name Across the Sky Page 29
