Player

by Staci Hart

  A sheet of tears blurred my hands. I set down the knife, rested my palms on the cold countertop. “But he lied. He lied, and I don’t know how to unthread what’s the truth.”

  “Sí. He lied. He hurt you. But I don’t think he meant to. Do you?”

  I shook my head, swiping at my cheeks. “I don’t. I’m just…I’m so humiliated. To know I was only a joke to him is just…I can’t…” I pressed a hand to my aching chest, but there was no relief. “And I don’t know how to trust him. He hurt me. He hurt me so bad.”

  She stepped into me, wrapped me in her arms, arms that had comforted me my whole life. Every skinned knee, every scrape, a few broken bones, and now, a broken heart.

  For a minute, I just cried. That was all. I cried on her thin shoulder as she swayed back and forth, whispering to me in Spanish that it would be all right, to let it out, to let it go. But there was no letting Sam go. I think we both knew it.

  When the tears ebbed and my breath steadied, I exhaled the last of it and stood. Her hands were still on my upper arms, her eyes dark and deep.

  “It hurts. But if you love him like I think you do, you have to find a way to listen. You have to give him a chance to earn his way back from his mistakes.”

  “What if he hurts me again?”

  “Then you know,” she said with a shrug, wise and dismissive. “But, if you don’t try, you will always wish you had.”

  Bawdy male laughter erupted from the table, nothing to do with us or me.

  Abuelita let me go with a squeeze and shuffled over to the stove, leaving me to my potatoes. Her words circled my thoughts.

  What I’d been so ardently avoiding was how badly I missed him. I’d asked him to leave me alone, and he had. He’d granted my wish, and I hated it. I needed it, but I hated it.

  And I still wasn’t past it. The shock. The pain. The betrayal and shame.

  I didn’t know how to get past it.

  Because his intentions didn’t change the truth of what he’d done or how that made me feel. Nothing could erase that. Nothing could undo it. And I didn’t know if there was a way to put it behind me.

  So I would choose myself over his intentions and hope that maybe, someday, I’d find a way to move on.

  Dinner was uneventful. The conversation covered everything from relatives in Madrid to Franco’s laundromat harem—there were apparently a dozen women frequenting his laundromat who were not only goddesses, by his description, but wanted to sleep with him. Several laundry sabotages had taken place, including a rogue red sock in a load of whites, a nefarious bleach spill, and a fair number of G-strings missing. I didn’t catch whether or not that was the girls’ infighting or Franco being a perv.

  I was left alone, left to breathe and listen and interject when I had something to say. By the time we cleaned up, I was exhausted. It was that soul-deep fatigue that camped out in your marrow and twined around every vein, the kind that no amount of sleep could relieve.

  I said my goodbyes, smiled and sank into one hug after another, each one containing a silent apology, an unvoiced wish, wordless understanding. When I reached the quiet hallway where my coat hung, I pulled it off the hook and shrugged into it, already dreading being alone again.

  At least when I was around people, I could pretend I was fine.

  “If you’re not okay, just say so. I’d be happy to break Haddad’s face again.”

  I tried to smile, turning to find Dante behind me. His expression was both sheepish and hard, hands in his pockets and a crooked smile on his face.

  “I don’t feel like I should reinforce your terrible behavior, but thanks. For sticking up for me, that is.”

  A shrug. “It’s no big deal. He’s not the first dumbfuck I’ve punched for hurting you, but I hope he’s the last.”

  “Why? Did you hurt your hand?”

  “Nah. I’m just sick and tired of guys thinking they can treat you like anything but the princesa Abuela says you are.”

  My mushed-up heart melted a little more. Pretty soon, it’d be leaking out of me. When tears pricked the corners of my eyes, I realized it already was.

  “Well, thanks, Dante. For everything.”

  “It’s nothing. I’m sorry for what he did. If he hadn’t left Jackson’s face covered in gore, I would have done it myself.”

  I picked up my bag, blinking back tears and sniffling against the itch in my nose. “Fuck that guy. Fuck him so hard.”

  Dante took a breath like he was about to speak but held it, watching me for a second. “For what it’s worth, Sam really does care about you. I know what he did was fucked up—trust me, I could have broken his fucking arm in four places without feeling guilty about it. But…” He sighed, dragging his hand through his dark hair.

  I folded my arms. “Are you…are you about to defend Sam? To your sister? Who he led on and had a fake relationship with because of a bet?”

  He sighed again, this time with his face quirked like he was having some battle inside the muscles of his face. “Maybe. I mean, I’m just saying, Val. He’s a total piece of shit, but maybe you should hear him out. You know? Because if you ever want to move on, whatever that means for you, you have to talk to him. Closure or some shit, right?”

  I laughed. “Oh my God, Dante. Have you been reading self-help books again?”

  “Listen, Rising Strong will change your life. Don’t judge me for trying to be a better me.”

  I held up my hands in surrender, giggling. “Fair enough.” But my smile fell as I spoke. “Dante, Sam was the one who moved us from friends to more. He was the one who asked me for that. I would have been okay. I could have moved on even though I’ve had a thing for him since the first time I laid eyes on him. I knew where the boundaries were, and I could have kept that last scraggly bit of the wall I’d built standing. But then he asked me for more, and it all came down. I lost myself, let myself fall. I knew I could get hurt, but this…this was so far beyond what I could have imagined.”

  “I know. But the guy I know wouldn’t have asked you to be his girlfriend if he wasn’t serious. He wouldn’t have come here to meet us—to try to win me over—because of a bet with Jackson. He came here because he wanted to and because it was important to you. I’m not saying you have to forgive him. I’m just saying you should listen to him. Let him say what he needs to say, throw himself at your feet and grovel. Just…hear him out.”

  I nodded. “I’ll think about it. Thank you, toro.”

  He smiled and reached for me, pulling me in for a crushing hug. “No prob, conejita. Te amo.”

  “Yo también.”

  With a final squeeze, he let me go.

  He watched me walk away and out into the cold autumn evening.

  I pulled my coat closed against the chill, buttoning it up as fast as I could before burying my hands in my pockets. But I could still feel the sting of cold.

  It was only in part because of the weather.

  I knew I’d have to talk to Sam eventually. Probably. I hadn’t expected him to disappear from work like he did, and I think part of me believed at some point, we would speak again. I’d imagined a hundred scenarios. I didn’t want to deal with any of them.

  But Dante wasn’t wrong. I’d have to talk to him if I wanted to move on.

  Could I forgive him? Would I? If he stood before me and begged me for forgiveness, could I say no?

  Should I?

  They weren’t questions I could answer. Fortunately, I hadn’t had to.

  I wondered again where he’d been, what he’d been doing. Why he’d been missing work. It couldn’t have been because of me. The image of him, unwashed and miserable, flashed through my mind, and I almost laughed at the absurdity. It had to be something else. His family maybe. A project. Something that had coincidentally aligned with our last argument and my request for solitude.

  Maybe I could call him. My stomach flipped, and I amended that to, Maybe I should text him.

  I didn’t feel ready. But I didn’t know if I’d ever fee
l ready.

  By the time I got home, I had inched a little bit closer to the idea. The brownstone was quiet and dark, all the lights out, except one.

  The light over the island shone down like a spotlight, and in the center, exactly where I’d left it, was my birthday gift from Sam.

  No one had touched it in five days. We’d moved around it, eaten around it, no one daring to shift it even a millimeter. It was a silent beacon, one I’d forget about completely until moments like this. And then I couldn’t think about anything else for a long while.

  My eyes were on the box as I set down my bag and took off my coat, hanging it on the rack. I walked toward it like it had called to me, took a seat on the barstool where I’d sat when I placed it there. Picked up the box and turned it over in my hands.

  I pulled the red ribbon.

  The lid slid off in a whisper. Obscuring the contents was a note, written on thick, luxurious paper in a slanting, artful hand.

  To the girl I gave my heart to.

  Happy birthday, Val. I hope all your wishes come true, every one.

  With shaking hands, I picked up the card, my eyes widening when I saw what lay inside.

  Twin golden hair combs lay on a bed of black velvet, the heads adorned with gilded leaves and sprays of ruby petals. I picked one up. It looked very old, and as I tilted my hand to inspect it, the light caught the stones and filled them, making them twinkle and glow.

  I closed my hand, closed my eyes.

  This wasn’t a lie. The gift in my hand had nothing to do with a bet. It was his heart in my palm, as honest and real as mine that I’d placed in his.

  And that knowledge warred with the truth of the bet itself, with the fact that it’d existed at all.

  He was an honest liar.

  And I loved him despite it all.

  My tears fell silently, the sharp angles of the comb cutting into the soft curves of my palm. And I whispered another wish into the quiet, dark room.

  “I wish he loved me, too.”

  32

  To Fall

  Sam

  One week. Seven days. A hundred and sixty-eight hours since I’d lost her.

  My fingers moved across the ivory, the hammers striking the strings in the piano, the vibrations filling the room with the sound of my sadness.

  There was nowhere to go. The club had become a place for her and me. The stage reminded me of her presence on it. The dance floor set my arms aching to hold her.

  Work was impossible to consider. If her presence was felt at the club, the truth of seeing her would be too much to bear. I couldn’t consent to leaving her alone if given the opportunity to talk to her. So I’d eliminated that opportunity by removing myself from the equation.

  It was the only thing I could do to serve her. The only apology she would accept.

  My absence.

  Did she miss me like I missed her? Did she hate me the way I hated myself?

  Would I ever find out?

  I picked up my pencil and wrote. The movement was slow and deep, the cadenza haunting. Orpheus begging Hades to return his love to him. Psyche waiting for her lover in the dark. Echo whispering only the words her beloved spoke, words unheard and lost.

  It was the best I’d ever written.

  Pages and pages I’d composed. I hadn’t eaten much, and I hadn’t slept at all. I’d played and written and considered my regrets.

  And I thought of her.

  I sighed, turning on the bench, stretching my stiff back and neck when I stood. A glance at the clock told me I had to leave soon. Too soon.

  I made my way into the bathroom, barely glancing at my reflection. Hollow eyes, unkempt beard, hair thick and shining. Shirt off, in a pile on the floor. Pants joined them. The shower was hot, pinging my back, my shoulders, my face when I turned, eyes closed.

  I resolved to acquaint myself with the bottle of scotch I’d been avoiding. As soon as I came home from my parents’ place, me and that bottle were going to get familiar. At least then maybe I could get some sleep. Sleep would help, just like the shower.

  At least I don’t smell like a dumpster anymore, I thought as I dried myself, discarding the towel on the floor with my clothes. I stepped into jeans, pulled on a fresh shirt. Stuffed my feet into boots and shrugged on my jacket. Snagged my keys and trudged to the subway.

  My mind was sludge, viscous and thick, my thoughts amalgamated into nothing in particular and everything at once. And like a passenger, I accompanied my body to the Upper East.

  When my mom opened the door, her smile fell. I saw her mind take in the sight of me, which, by most people’s judgment, would have seemed fine. I stood straight, was clean and dressed, was there. I was there. I’d shown up even if I wasn’t present.

  I tried to smile and failed.

  “Qalbi, what has happened?”

  “I don’t know if I want to talk about it, Mom.”

  She nodded once and reached for me. “Well, we don’t have to talk. Come here.”

  I’d never understand how someone so small could make me feel so safe. I bent to hug her. Her arms wound around my neck, her hands on my shoulders, and she held me like that until I pulled away.

  It was as she always did. Never once had she broken a hug, as if they were always for me to drink from until I was full.

  “Come,” she said gently, taking my hand. “There’s food.”

  I followed her in, closing the door behind me. The house was quiet, lit by the slanting gray light of the overcast day. Dad was sitting on the couch with a medical journal in his hand, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. When he saw me enter, he assessed me over the top of his lenses.

  “Are you all right, son?”

  “No, but I suppose I will be eventually.”

  It was then that I regretted coming. I was in no state to chitchat.

  “What are you reading?” I asked as I took a seat next to him.

  He flipped it over in his hand and glanced at the cover. “An article about vascular grafts.” He didn’t elaborate, which was both welcomed and regrettable. “Everything okay at work?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been there since last week.”

  They exchanged a look.

  “Did you quit?” he asked.

  “No. I have someone subbing for me. I just…I’ve had some thinking to do. I’ve been composing.”

  Mom brightened at that. “Are you happy with what you’ve written?”

  “It’s some of my best. The best.”

  “I didn’t know you were still composing,” Dad said. “Not since Juilliard. How much have you written?”

  “Scores,” I admitted. “I write every day.”

  Confusion flitted across his brow. “Really? What have you done with it? Have you had anything picked up?”

  “No one’s heard any of it.”

  “Well, why ever not?” he asked a little shortly. “If it’s good, why not do something with it?”

  “Because it’s mine.”

  He didn’t seem to understand.

  I assessed him for a beat. “Have you ever had something you loved so much, you couldn’t bear for anyone to see it? Because if they did, it wouldn’t be yours anymore. Then it would be theirs. That piece of you, that part of your heart.”

  “Yes, I have,” he said simply. “You.”

  Everything in me stilled.

  He went on, “I knew when you were very small that you would be great. It wasn’t just a father’s musings, dreams to aggrandize you as an extension of me. I knew by power of assessment. When you were three, you could pick out a tune on a piano. When you were six, you could tell me the key of a song on the radio. Your mother fed your heart and your mind, but I was afraid. What if you failed? What if you loved a thing that would never love you back? That would never provide for you? What if…what if you were hurt, damaged by the passion in your heart?”

  Mom took my hand.

  Dad shook his head and pulled off his glasses as if to see me better. “Samhi
r, I have been hard on you. I know this—your mother loves to remind me. But it is because of my own fear that I wish for more for you. It is my desire to see you succeed, to embrace what you love so it can embrace you back. But when your child loves a thing that leads them down a path of hardship, a path that so few find financial success in, it is difficult to accept without worry. So, I worry. And that worry, that fear, brings me to pushing you without need. It’s never been easy for me to let go of that piece of my heart that I gave to create you.”

  I didn’t know what to say, and he seemed to understand.

  “I know you, son. I know that you are afraid, too. You’re afraid to fail, afraid to fall. But what you’ve never understood is that without failure, there can be no success. It’s all right to fall, Samhir. It’s not all right to stay down. But I do not think this is about your work, is it?”

  “No,” I said, a single, thick syllable on my tongue. “It…it’s Val.”

  “The girl you gave the comb? Your friend you called about last week?” Mom asked, searching my face.

  I nodded. “I hurt her, pressed the deepest bruise she has. And I think…I think I’ve lost her.”

  “What did she say when you tried to talk to her?” Her eyes were dark, her voice soft and soothing.

  “She was too upset to talk, to hear me.”

  “When was that?”

  She was analyzing me, I knew. I didn’t care.

  “Last week.”

  “And you’ve avoided work—where she is.”

  I shook my head. “She asked me to leave her alone, and this is the only way I can guarantee that I will.”

  “We all need time when we’ve been wounded. No one heals, and no one can forgive without time,” she said, reaching for my hand. “What would you say to her?”

  “That I’m sorry. That I meant everything, every word. That I would never lie to her and that…that I love her.”