He chuckled and pulled me close. “You cling onto things very tightly. I think sex helps you let go, a little bit.” He considered. “Not that I’m any better.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who needs help to relax.” I sat down and picked up my cello.
He shook his head. “Not relaxing, but…I get frustrated. Do you have any idea how often we have to read stuff? I don’t mean books. I mean blogs and TV news tickers and directions and….” He sighed, as if he was getting annoyed just thinking about it. “And every time that happens, and my brain turns it all into a jumble, I get angry.”
“So how do you deal with that?” I asked.
“You’ve already seen. At the gym.”
I thought back to him pounding the bag, the muscles in his back hard as oak, shining with sweat as he drove his fist into the canvas again and again, driven by the essay he hadn’t been able to write. I remembered how angry I’d been at him that day, when I thought the problem was laziness, and winced. “Sorry,” I said instinctively.
“You didn’t know. And I’m glad you kept on at me, and worked it out. Knowing what the problem is makes it a fuck of a lot easier. Still makes me mad, though.”
I thought of the bag swaying and creaking on its chain. It had seemed so pointless, when I’d watched him—however much he hit it, it would never break. Now I saw it in a new way—it wasn’t about trying to destroy something, I realized, it was about releasing something toxic from him. The bag was just there to soak up his anger—the fact it couldn’t be destroyed was the whole point.
And that gave me an idea.
“Your gym….” I said slowly. “Can anyone join?”
***
“I feel like they’re all looking at me,” said Natasha out of the corner of her mouth. “Are they?”
I checked behind her. Yes, a fair few of the guys were gazing at us—her, more than me—and I could see their eyes run down the length of her long, dancer’s legs. It really wasn’t that surprising—there probably hadn’t been a woman in the gym since the last time I was there, and now there were two at once.
“Not at all,” I lied. I watched as Connor spoke quietly to Darrell, showing him how to throw a jab. Darrell looked even worse than when I’d seen him in Flicker, strung out and shaky as a drug addict denied his fix. Which wasn’t so far from the truth, in a way. “He hasn’t worked, still?” I asked.
Natasha shook her head. “The workshop’s still covered in dustsheets.”
I nodded. Connor looked at home here, in his raggedy clothes; Darrell looked distinctly out of place. He had just as much muscle as the other guys here, his arms powerful from heaving chunks of metal around in the workshop. But unlike the others, he didn’t want to be here. His idea of working out was hammering something into shape, not uselessly hitting a bag, and I suspected Natasha had had to drag him to meet us.
“Snap back,” Connor told Darrell, his Irish accent a soft growl, “And keep your guard up.”
Darrell nodded, looking unconvinced, and tapped his gloves together a few times. Then he hit the bag half-heartedly.
“I don’t know,” whispered Natasha. “I can see what you were trying to do, and—seriously—thanks. But I don’t think he can just let it out like Connor can. I mean, I don’t know Connor, but what Darrell’s dealing with is this deep-rooted thing he can’t get away from….”
I nodded absently as I watched. My own fists were bunching, I wanted it to work so much. Connor’s problems were pretty deep-rooted too….
“Go from the hip,” Connor told Darrell, demonstrating a hook. “Try to land it in the kidneys.”
Darrell thumped the bag, but he kept glancing around as if embarrassed. He was doing it, but he wasn’t into it. Duty, not rage, was driving him.
I sighed and shrugged. “Sorry,” I said to Natasha. “I thought—”
“Now paint a face on the fucker,” Connor said.
I saw Darrell blink.
“Make it into a him. Or a them,” Connor told him.
Darrell blinked another couple of times and then nodded. And his eyes narrowed.
He punched, hitting the bag dead center, and then just stopped dead, his hand still pressed hard against the bag. I could see the surprise on his face—for the first time, it had been satisfying.
He drew his fist back and hit it again. And again. And then did a hook, burying his fist into a tender kidney. His next punch was high, and it wasn’t a bag he was hitting anymore—it was a face.
Natasha took a half step forward, amazed. Something was happening, right in front of us. The monster that Darrell had chained up in his head, the one that had driven him to create weapon after weapon, that kept him awake every night, was finally being released. Not into another gleaming instrument of death, but as raw energy, power that made the bag creak and swing on its chain. His punches grew harder and harder and he moved instinctively to hit the bag on all sides, to destroy it.
Sweat soaked his vest, his shoulders gleaming with it. There was a light in his eyes that I hadn’t seen in months and even though I knew it must be scary for Natasha to see him like this—just like it had been for me, with Connor, I knew she needed to see it. This was a part of him, and always would be. His lips were drawn back over his teeth, his fists hammering at the bag with a force that must have been painful. Around us, men turned to look and then nodded with understanding.
Watching it come out of him was unsettling—it was almost as if he’d been possessed by a spirit, since he quit his job. The anger had been consuming him, and now that it was leaving him I could see the Darrell we all knew emerge from underneath. The bag swung and creaked on its chain, absorbing his rage, for a long time.
When Darrell finally dropped his hands and staggered against the bag, barely able to lift his arms, he was soaked with sweat…and he was him again.
“Are you okay?” Natasha asked, running over and putting her arms around him.
He was panting, barely able to speak. “I…want…to…come back tomorrow,” he said at last. He looked at Connor and gave him a nod of thanks. And then he gave me one, too.
Natasha hugged him close and I could see her eyes were wet with tears. Thank you, she mouthed over his back. I caught Connor’s eye, and he held out a hand and pulled me up against him, beaming at the other couple. He barely knew Darrell, but he was glad to have helped him—would train with him every day, if that’s what he needed, just because it was the right thing to do.
And that’s when I finally stopped torturing myself and accepted it. I’d known it all along, I think, from the moment my father had made his offer—I just hadn’t faced up to it. I pulled Connor into a kiss and let the heat of his body soak into me, giving me the strength I needed to tell myself the truth.
I couldn’t screw Connor over. No way.
And that meant I had to confront my father.
Chapter 25
I had to wear a dress to meet him. I’d been to the hotel plenty of times before and I knew from painful experience how out of place I’d feel standing in the bar in jeans—and I needed all the confidence I could muster. But it had to be the right dress, because he’d complain if the hem was too short. Or the neckline too low. Or the fabric too gauzy.
This was why I’d spent most of the years since my mother left in jeans and a sweatshirt.
The bar was a mix of upmarket business types and old money. Everything was made of chrome or dark wood or marble—in fact, it looked a lot like my father’s apartment, back in Boston. Probably why he liked it so much.
My father had a thing for punctuality but was traditional enough that he—as the man—would always be there first. Except this time my nerves made me get there stupidly early and I had to stand at the bar, sipping a mineral water and shredding a napkin while I waited. I considered getting a glass of wine to steady my nerves but I knew he’d smell the alcohol on me.
Next to me, a blonde in a tight blue dress listened with wide eyes to the stories a gray-haired man in a suit wa
s telling her about life in the shipping business. I couldn’t help but listen, because the way they interacted wasn’t like anything I’d heard before. She didn’t seem to know enough about him to be his wife, or daughter. Yet they couldn’t be on a date, surely, because he had twenty years on her. She was far too flirty to be a secretary or colleague, so…?
And then I got it. And watched in the mirror as he ran a hand up her thigh, finished his drink and led her to the elevators. God, was that what Jasmine had to look forward to? Pretending to be awed by some forty year-old’s stories, laughing at his jokes before going upstairs with him and—
And what? My mind whirled. Letting him take her, writhing under him in mock passion? Getting down on her knees and sucking him? What would he demand she let him do to her, to secure a bigger tip?
I closed my eyes. What worried me most was that, based on what I’d just seen, Jasmine was right—she’d be good at it. She’d be able to use all her acting talent to flirt and giggle and make the men feel like gods, and then….
I opened my eyes and saw my father standing there. “You’re early,” he told me, as if that was an unthinkable crime.
I wanted to go up to his room, where if I lost it we’d at least have some privacy. But he insisted on talking it out right there in the bar, in antique leather armchairs the color of dried blood.
I knitted my hands together on my lap and tried to keep my voice steady. “I’ve decided. I don’t want you to talk to Professor Harman,” I told him.
He gave a long sigh of frustration, one I knew very well. It wasn’t the sound of acceptance; it was him indicating that he was speaking to an idiot, one who he’d have to spend many hours correcting. “Karen—”
“No.” I said it so firmly and sharply that his eyes actually flicked up to my face in puzzlement, like an owl that’s just heard a mouse answer it back. “No. I’ve decided. I don’t want to perform solo,”—I let it hang in the air between us, giving him time to stew in it before offering him my deal—“unless you strike the same deal for Connor. He has to be allowed to play solo, too.”
Once I realized I wasn’t going to take my father’s offer, it hadn’t taken me long to come up with my ultimatum. It was simple and practical and ultimately fair, and it gave us both a much better chance of acing the recital than if we performed together. Even with just three weeks to go, we could still do it—I could pull out a cello piece I was familiar with and play that solo, Connor could play something he knew well for electric guitar and instead of fighting against our habits, we could embrace them, doing what we were really good at. We could both graduate, I could impress the New York Phil scout and everything would be great.
If my father accepted.
I knew he had the power to make it happen. He’d been confident that he could convince Harman to make an exception to the rules for me, so I was sure he could do the same for Connor—after all, it was only fair. It wasn’t could he; it was would he?
My father looked me in the eye, long and hard. “He’s changed you.”
I managed—just—to look steadily back at him. “Maybe he has.”
There was a long pause. Then my father said, “Okay. I’ll do it.”
My heart leaped. Everything was going to be okay!
“If you agree to stop seeing him,” my father said.
And my whole world crumbled to dust. My careful plan had been swung around and turned against me. “W—What?”
“I’ll do the deal with Harman, for both of you. But you give me your word you won’t see Connor again.”
My plan had hung on the notion of sacrifice. I knew my father hated Connor, but I’d also been sure that he’d rather see Connor succeed than both of us fail. Somehow, he’d twisted that around so that I was the one forced to choose: between our futures and our relationship.
The third option—to agree, and then go against him and see Connor anyway—wasn’t an option at all. I knew what my father meant when he asked for my word. I’d never broken my word to him, nor him to me and I knew that if I did I’d be ending things between us…permanently. I tried briefly to imagine a world without him in it, and I couldn’t.
I could save both our futures, or I could be with Connor. Not both.
***
At home, I ran a very deep, very hot bath. One of the advantages of being short is that you can really stretch out in the tub. I lay there submerged, my face forming a low island, my hair wafting lazily like seaweed.
I’d switched off my phone while I’d been at the hotel with my father, not wanting the sniping and arguing that a call from Connor would have triggered. A good thing, too, because the call log showed Connor had called me while I’d been there. I didn’t return it. I couldn’t, until I made my decision.
It should have been easy—I loved him, so I should say the hell with graduating and think about us, right? Except…if you really loved someone, weren’t you supposed to do what was right for them, even if it meant losing them? If Connor performed by himself, he could graduate. If he graduated, he had a future, maybe here in New York, instead of a dead-end job back in Belfast. If I really cared about him, shouldn’t I take the deal and sacrifice the relationship, for both our sakes? That would be the grown-up thing to do.
Or was I just kidding myself, justifying a deal that would also give me my dream back? Was I being selfish, wanting my future back? Or selfish wanting to hang on to Connor?
I closed my eyes and sighed. When I finally climbed out of the bath, I was no nearer making a decision…and Connor had called again. My thumb hovered over the icon that would call him back, wanting to hear his voice…but I couldn’t. If I spoke to him, he’d know something was wrong and he’d coax it out of me. And then he’d demand that I take the deal, maybe even breaking up with me to force the issue. I couldn’t let him do that. It was my father holding this over our heads, and it had to be my decision, for better or worse.
I pulled on panties and an old t-shirt and then sat on my bed, staring at my phone’s screen. I knew I needed to call my father…I just didn’t know what I was going to tell him.
I tapped on my father’s name and held my breath while the phone rang. Don’t answer, I prayed. Then I can put this off until morning.
“So?” No pleasantries; just business. The way it always was.
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out.
“Karen?”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
“Well?” he said.
“I don’t want the deal,” I told him. “I’ll play the duet with Connor.”
There was a long silence.
“Your funeral,” he said at last. “When he breaks up with you and you realize you’ve thrown away your future, you know where to find me.”
The line went dead. I fell back on the bed, hot tears spilling down my cheeks to soak into my hair. Had I just done the right thing…or just ruined everything?
***
A half hour later, my phone rang. Connor. I took a few deep breaths and answered. He never has to know. “Hello?”
“Hi! I’ve been trying to reach you.” He sounded worried, and a cold, oily dread started to rise in my belly.
“What’s up?”
I heard him run a hand through his hair, and I could hear the forced nonchalance in his voice. “Probably nothing. Don’t panic. But they sprang an essay on us today.”
“What?! When does it have to be in?”
“Tomorrow. I had to go ahead and write it, ‘cos I couldn’t get hold of you.”
I wanted to say “By yourself?!” but that would have sounded bad. “Did it…go okay?” I asked instead.
“Ruth helped me,” he said, and I could hear the doubt in his voice.
I started to say something and immediately bit it back. I had to tread very carefully…Ruth was still his friend, and I couldn’t flat-out question her ability…or her motives. “Okay. Well, that was good of her.” I tried to sound relaxed and smiley, but I was terrified. Ruth didn’t ha
ve the knowledge I had…and would she have worked as hard as I would have done, to get the essay just right? From the sound of it, they’d already finished it—if it had been me helping him, we would have been up until the early hours…. And exactly how close were they getting? I could hear her moving around his apartment in the background, humming to herself. Had she sat next to him as I had, their arms brushing as they worked?
Or was I just being a bitchy girlfriend, distrustful of his ex? Ruth had been nothing but friendly towards me, and when I’d been out of contact she’d stepped in to help. I was being suspicious when I should have been grateful.
“Say something,” Connor said nervously.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said, trying to get a smile into my voice. It sounded good—I almost managed to convince myself.
Almost.
Chapter 26
The next day, I sat shivering on a windswept path. A particularly cold gust of wind lashed my hands and I had to flex my fingers on the bow to try to keep some feeling in them, without messing up Bach’s Cello Suite in D Minor.
It was still too cold to play in Central Park—not that it was too cold for us, because when you’re busking you expect to suffer, but it was too cold for there to be many passers-by. We’d only realized that after we arrived, though, and no one wanted to hump their instruments all the way home again, so we huddled under trees that dripped freezing water down our necks, put out the collection hat and played. We’d agreed we’d stop when we hit fifty bucks, or when our fingers were too numb to play—whichever came first.
Playing for charity in Central Park was a Fenbrook tradition I’d started back in freshman year—at the time people thought I was some sort of golden-hearted do-gooder, but the truth is I was just looking for a way to meet people. It’s how I met Dan, who usually played violin with us. I’d managed to get Paul, a junior, to fill in and he was doing his best despite barely knowing the music. Erika (Russian and intimidatingly gorgeous) and Greg (Scottish and intimidatingly bearded) rounded out our group on viola and second violin. Dan had come along for moral support, still sporting his cast.
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