Let It Snow

by Paul Hina

movies he had seen while in Boston and told her she should watch but didn't have the time to watch before. And there were late night summer walks, contemplating the future, wondering what shape her life would take on.

  It was easily as miserable as that last summer at home, but it felt worse somehow. During that first summer without Max, the future—going away to school—was still some secure thing she could latch onto. There was at least an illusion of hope and promise in front of her. Not so now. She had no idea what the future would hold, and the uncertainty was anything but exciting. For many people Annie's age, it was the uncertainty of the future that drove them, pushed them toward their goals. But, for Annie, it was scary as hell, and she wished she had Max to help talk her through this tumultuous time. He was, after all, not just her lover, but her best friend.

  Annie's parents kept encouraging her to get out of the house and do something, softly pushing her to make her next life decisions. It was clear to them that she had reached a point of aimlessness. But she didn't feel like she knew anyone in town anymore. Most of her old friends from high school had moved, or, even if some of them had remained, she wasn't prepared to expend her energy on some awkward reunion.

  So, she started spending a lot of time at the university's music library. She went mostly to get her parents off her back, but it was nice to be out in the world again, if only to feel as if she were doing something, though she was doing mostly the same stuff at the library that she had been doing at home. She would sit in the listening area of the library and play old records. With the headphones on, she could still wallow in self-pity, but she could do it in a completely new environment. She spent a lot of time listening to Glenn Gould's interpretations of Bach's Goldberg Variations. And, eventually, she found that, for the first time since her spring recital, she really wanted to play the piano again.

  Her mother had been pushing her to play more at home, encouraging her to not get out of practice. And she did play from time to time from her old songbooks. But nothing in those books was particularly challenging to her anymore, and she found that her playing was more automatic than it had been in a long time. At first, she blamed her robotic playing on the music. Then she blamed it on the piano. But she knew the problem was her own. Her playing had become more technical than emotional. She wasn't playing with any feeling, simply playing what was in front of her like someone had flipped a switch in her brain. She just couldn't ignite any of that old passion. She felt genuinely uninspired, and her playing felt tired and lifeless. She was frightened that she was becoming bored with playing. Scared because she felt that music was all she had left—the one thread that held the rest of her life together. It had been all that still made sense of life. Without it, she would be an empty vessel, unmoving.

  But hearing Gould, hearing the energy and the effortlessness of some of his later recordings in particular, she could hear the delicate ease of his phrasings, and the delight he clearly found in the music. Hearing him hum over the tracks made her remember how much joy one could find in playing the piano well.

  And, so, one afternoon, she got up from the record player, set the headphones down by the player, left the library, and started searching the rest of the music building for a piano.

  She found a room near the library with an old, ragged upright piano sitting in the back of the room. The door to the room was open, and though the lights were off, she didn't hesitate to go inside and sit at the piano. She stared at the keyboard for a long time. She lightly touched the keys, stroked them without pressing them toward music. She played a few scales to get a feel for the piano, learn its character, its sound. And then she played—just played. She didn't look at any music. There was no music to see. She didn't play anything from memory because none of the old music felt real to her anymore. She needed a different sound, something new to dance on. So, she just let her fingers skip across the keys, let out all her frustrations, her sadness, her fears, her desire. She felt, for the first time, that she was speaking the words she had been unable to articulate the past few months. For the first time since the last time she saw Max, she felt like she was finally getting all that hurt and anger off her chest, and it was rolling off her with such little effort that she even caught herself humming over the song.

  After several minutes, she stopped, took a breath.

  "What was that?" a voice asked from behind her.

  Annie jumped. She hadn't known anyone was there.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I was just walking by and heard someone playing, and I had to stop. It was amazing—whatever it was."

  She turned to get a closer look at him. "Eric?"

  "Annie? I had no idea."

  She got up from the piano and moved toward him. "How are you? It's been… Well, it's been a long time."

  "It has. What? Five or six years probably," he said. "What are you doing back in town?"

  And they proceeded to talk for a bit in that dark, empty music room. They talked about Annie's playing. They talked about the jazz records Eric had tucked under his arm. And they spoke about what they'd both been doing since they last saw each other. They stood in that room and talked for a long time, neither one of them wanting the conversation to end. So, he asked if she had time to get a cup of coffee. And it was so nice for her to have someone, other than her parents, to talk to again, and it was so good to feel like someone wanted to listen to her, that there was someone she genuinely wanted to listen to, that she said yes. She did have the time. She had nothing but time.

  They were engaged three months later. Married seven months after that. And she never, ever told him about Max and their spring in Boston. As far as Eric knew, Max and Annie had a long high school relationship and nothing more.

  For her, it was a secret worth keeping. It would only hurt Eric to know the truth. It would only damage their relationship, cause uncomfortable questions to arise, unfortunate answers to unfurl. And she would like to say that it didn't matter what happened in the past, that it had no effect on their relationship, but she couldn't say that. It wasn't true.

  For Eric, though, her secret would be tantamount to lying. She knew that now. And maybe he was right.

  There are things that go unspoken out of simple harmlessness. These are things that you never tell people, not because they would be harmful, but because they're not particularly interesting or relevant. But, there are other things, secret things, that you intentionally keep quiet. Maybe Eric's right that these are lies by omission.

  "Anyone ready for dessert?" Eric asks.

  Annie looks at him, then she looks around the table at everyone. They're all looking at her, waiting for her.

  "Right. Dessert," she says.

  Annie rises from the table, starts to move toward the kitchen, stops, turns around. "I have pumpkin and apple pie. What would everyone like?" She asks looking toward Max first.

  "I'll have apple," he says.

  "A la mode?"

  "No, the pie is fine."

  She goes around the rest of the table with everyone telling her what they want, and then disappears into the kitchen.

  Eric stands up. "Well, I guess I'll clear these dishes," he says, grabbing his plate and Annie's.

  "No, let me," Holly says, standing and moving toward Eric to grab the plates from him.

  "I'll help you," Michael says, standing with his and Amy's plate.

  Holly stops and glares at him for a moment. He can feel her glaring, but he ignores her.

  Holly moves toward the kitchen with the plates, Michael follows closely behind after grabbing Max's plate.

  Annie is standing in the kitchen, leaning on the counter of the kitchen island, staring into the two pies planted in front of her.

  Holly moves to the sink, places the plates in the sink. She turns, and takes the other plates from Michael, who's suddenly standing behind her.

  "Thank you," she says.

  "Who is he?" Michael asks.

  "Who?" Holly asks moving away from him and grabbing
a knife from a drawer. She hands the knife to Annie. "Don't you thing you should start cutting those pies?"

  "Right," Annie says.

  "Who is he—this Tim guy?"

  "He's a friend."

  "Only a friend?" Michael asks.

  "I don't see how that's any of your business."

  "I disagree. We both know—"

  "Michael, sorry. Could you get the ice cream and whipped cream for me?" Annie asks.

  "Sure," he says. "We both know you were supposed to come here to meet with me tonight. We were supposed to be here together."

  "Were we?"

  "You know what I mean."

  "No, enlighten me."

  "This was supposed to be a date."

  "I don't remember being asked on a date, and I don't remember agreeing to a date."

  "Annie, tell her."

  "I don't want any part of this conversation right now," Annie says.

  "But you…" Michael says, almost pleading for someone to be on his side.

  "Michael, I don't owe you—"

  "Do you have any feelings for him, this guy—this Tim?"

  "Don't be daft. What kind of question is that?"

  "Michael, could you put a scoop of ice cream on all the apple pie plates except one. And, Holly, could you put whipped cream on all the pumpkin pie plates, except for one. And that one pumpkin pie without whipped cream needs a scoop of ice cream."

  "Ice cream on pumpkin pie?" Michael asks.

  "I'm not asking you to eat it."

  Michael starts scooping the ice cream onto the plates, reaching