Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  Then Rob does something wildly spontaneous. He picks me up, like we’re starring in some cheesy date night movie. “What are you doing?”

  “Liv, I’m a few questionable things, but I’m not completely unchivalrous. I can carry you a block.”

  “And after that?” I ask as we move along, arms wrapped around his neck like this is status quo for us.

  “After that . . . Maybe I’ll head to the basement, skip the rowing machine, and polish my armor. Or maybe I’ll get lucky.”

  “You might,” I say, kicking my bare feet through the breeze.

  Rob looks where he’s going. I am afforded the benefit of admiring him. I see past coifed hair and skin that’s benefited from alpha beta peels, beyond his surface. I see what matters—Rob, focused on us, thoughtful, and, yes, even chivalrous. It’s not something you’d find on his résumé, but they’re some of the more complex parts of Rob I fell in love with. I’d nearly forgotten how appealing those traits could be.

  He enhances the softer mood with just the right note of humor. “But if you think I’m carrying you up the brownstone steps, you’re crazy.” Then he pauses. “Although if you want me to carry you to the bedroom . . .”

  I turn my head toward the brownstone, just to see how far off we are. The streetlamp right outside is like a spotlight. Romance pauses. Sitting on the steps is a man. The homeless rarely venture to this part of town. His knees are bent and his head is cast downward. In his frozen pose, there’s something familiar. We slow to a stop. The man looks up. Rob’s heroic gesture was a smooth swoop and scoop. But this is more of an electric cattle prod moment as I lurch from his cradling hold. The man glances between Rob and me. He stands. Despite a beard and twenty-six years, he’s exactly as I remember him.

  “Livy.”

  My bare feet shuffle backward and onto Rob’s shoes.

  “Sam?” I cup a hand to my mouth. He comes down the steps, meeting us on the sidewalk. In the back of my mind, I’ve always known he and Rob are precisely the same height—wildly different men. “Oh my God. How . . . What are you doing here?”

  He takes a deep breath, and the brown of Theo’s eyes meets mine. “I came to apologize.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Theo

  Theo doesn’t drink. Not like this. But that is what he’s been doing since stopping at the liquor store and arriving home from coffee with Olivia Klein. On the table in front of him is a flask-size bottle of Jack Daniel’s. The tea-colored liquid vanishes with each sip, revealing more and more of the unsettled thoughts in Theo’s head. He hasn’t spoken aloud about India in forever—a subject that, on its own, can get him drunk. Adding to his mood was Olivia’s story about her brush with an unwanted child. It gnaws at him still.

  He leans harder into the sofa, where he’s confronted by talk from a long-ago family get-together—his Uncle Kevin, cousins, other relatives sitting around a dining room table. It was the two-year anniversary of his father’s death—or the anniversary of his birthday. However they needed to look at it. His father’s favorite, a slice of plain cheesecake, sat in front of Theo, the other pieces slathered in gooey strawberry sauce. Everyone knew strawberries gave Theo a horrible rash. His younger cousin, Kyle, was perched in Uncle Kevin’s lap, mashing the red goop into the cheesecake with a spoon.

  Their grandmother leaned in, first trying to get Kyle to take a bite. He refused the way four-year-olds do. “So amazing,” she said, looking wistfully at Kyle. “He barely resembles you.”

  “Or me,” said Aunt Celia, Kyle’s mother, who looks every bit her Italian heritage.

  “I think it’s the nose.” This observation came from Aunt Julie, his father’s sister.

  “Yes. Definitely the nose,” Theo’s grandmother agreed. She cupped Kyle’s chin. “And the eyes. Those are David’s blue eyes.” His grandmother’s teary gaze stared into Uncle Kevin’s—whose eyes were decidedly not blue.

  “It’s a gift, Mom—Kyle’s the spitting image of David.” Uncle Kevin kissed the head of his squirming son.

  Theo recalls an awkward silence and Claire glaring across the table like radioactive beams might shoot from her eyes. Even so, if it weren’t for Claire’s prolonged reaction, Theo might have easily overlooked the exchange. But the entire way home she vehemently reminded and reassured Theo that he was David McAdams’s son; that no look-alike cousin could come close.

  It was an isolated incident. Honestly, Theo has never felt anything but wanted. It’s only on days like that, and this one now, that he ponders things like whose nose he has. Theo knows very little about his background, aside from his New Year’s Eve birthday and that he was born in New Zealand. He’s read about New Zealand. It’s a highly mixed populace, meaning his ancestors could be Dutch or cannibals. Theo quit Googling New Zealand years ago.

  On occasion, he’s wanted to know more, curious if his biological parents were good people or had prison records. Did he come from lowlife trash or accomplished, well-educated types? He has gently asked his mother, who cited a deplorable lack of information. The only memento Theo has is a tiny black-and-gold blanket. It looks homemade, a shield-like emblem on one side. Claire doesn’t even know the first names of his birth parents. That was part of the private adoption agreement. The arrangement worked for his parents, who desperately wanted a child. It worked for whoever gave him away. But Theo’s not sure anyone thought how it might work for him years later.

  Still, the memory has only surfaced because of Olivia’s story, her first husband and the child he would have aborted. Theo is hyper-focusing because alcohol accesses parts of his brain that, otherwise, do not get out of control. When he and India were together, he was particularly disinterested in his past. It didn’t matter. Everything was in front of him. But after sharing his sad tale about India, Theo’s not sure Olivia’s story had the intended effect. She was not terribly convincing in her message—that after tragedy a greater love is sure to come along. He thinks Olivia Klein is not a happy person, perhaps mixed up in her own past, though he suspects she was only trying to help.

  Theo sighs and swallows down the kind of gulp that goes with unhappiness. He wonders if Olivia Klein drinks. Theo shakes off the thought and digs his cell phone out of his pocket. He glances at text messages between himself and Zach Lawlor. Zach was going to be Theo’s best man; they have been friends since high school. But Theo has passed on Zach’s current invite to court-side seats at the Celtics game. It’s a sporting event that used to pique Theo’s interest and provide the “wicked good time” Zach’s message suggests. But his decision to decline isn’t about tonight’s game. It’s about the games he passed on last season. In those instances, Theo preferred to be with India.

  On a Friday night they might have gone to a small downtown pub and split a pizza, walked hand in hand back to the apartment, and made love until the exhaustion of the week and sex wore them out. At some point, Theo would have mentioned the spare Celtics ticket and Zach’s invitation. India would have chided him for spending the evening with her instead of going out with his friends. Then she would have laughed, kissing Theo, and telling him how much she loved him for choosing her instead.

  With a shaky hand, Theo reaches for the bottle. He still cannot grasp how quickly things changed between himself and India. Until his conversation with Olivia, Theo thought he was making progress with his life. In fact, before stopping at the liquor store, he called Olivia and invited her to his mother’s charity event. Inviting her was impulsive, but expanding his circle of friends and encouraging forward motion, it’s the goal nowadays. When Olivia sounded so befuddled, it occurred to Theo that he’s trying too hard, hurling himself in too many directions.

  Feeling awkward about his invitation and even more displaced, Theo continued to walk the streets of Boston, which he sometimes does when in deep thought. Eventually, his sober mood delivered him to Pop & Cork Liquors. But after walking a few blocks with the small bottle, it was Theo’s mother that caused him to hurry home. He was taught better than t
hat, wandering aimlessly, his booze and sullen thoughts hidden by a brown paper bag.

  Staring at his phone, Theo considers calling his mother. She would insist he come home for the night, to the suburban Boston house he grew up in. Once there, his mother would listen thoughtfully, curled up on the sofa as he rehashed India’s unceremonious dumping of their future. She would be sympathetic. Claire would make hot chocolate and suggest several good books that Theo hasn’t read. They might look at family photos and indulge in memories of David McAdams, reminisce about the hopes he had for his son. Hopes Theo has lived up to, aside from this drunken stupor. If he sought out his mother tonight, Theo would end up sleeping in his boyhood bed and waking up to the delicious smells of pumpkin pancakes with powdered sugar and a side of made-from-scratch apple compote. His mother is an excellent cook. But because Theo also likes to think of himself as a grown man, he does not call Claire.

  He rests his neck into the curve of the sofa cushion and closes his eyes. Being a man means self-assurance. Despite the bump of a flask of Jack Daniel’s, he’s doing fine—without his father, without India. Theo sighs hard. The declaration is total bullshit. He’s not doing fine at all. Theo jerks forward on the sofa, eyes wide open. Since India left, Theo has been doing anything to keep himself from thinking about her. Braemore is helpful, but hearing Olivia’s disturbing story of lost love and seeing a text message about having a “wicked good time”—an ability Theo does not currently possess—has ripped open a tender wound.

  He stares at the bottle. Theo knows his limit with liquor. And while puking all night would give him something to do, the overall idea is unappealing. He picks up his cell. He only means to scroll through some pictures. They are photos his mother suggested he delete, or at least move to a file on his computer. She’s probably right. His mother is right about most things. Almost all the photos include India, her fiery hair and smiling eyes. When India smiles her whole mood is evident. Not that India is flawless. She has irritating habits, like leaving old razors in the shower and ATM receipts all over her car. She’s a vegetarian, and Theo loves a good steak. He sips the liquor again. Most stunning, India can read him like no other human being, though Theo knows this is not a flaw but the thing he misses most. Together, Theo could drown in his music while India steered and supplied the outside air to their life. But perhaps this is part of why India left. In retrospect, it’s wildly selfish behavior.

  The photos on his phone flick by like scattered pieces of Theo’s heart. There are hundreds of pictures of India: at parties and other people’s weddings, Red Sox games and big holidays. There is a favorite photo of a lazy Saturday morning, the memorable shot doused in pancake batter. India did not wish to have her photo taken quite so early, and the image was captured through batter flicked in Theo’s direction. Finally, he gets to the photo of the day they got engaged. He has to scroll back quite a ways.

  Under the pretense of leaf watching, Theo and India went to a rustic Maine inn. Theo didn’t give a damn about turning leaves and pumpkins, but he did make some accidental romantic remark about how India’s red hair fit so beautifully into the fireball of a waning fall sun. She smiled wider than usual. India said that in elementary school she was often teased about her red hair. Theo felt a pulse of rage, wanting to seek out every kid who was mean to her and pummel them, or at least tell them off. But Theo’s outrageous thoughts subsided as India told him that she often wished for blond or brown hair—something ordinary. And Theo knew there wouldn’t be a more perfect moment. “You can’t help it, India. Everything about you is extraordinary. Take me on—spend the rest of your life showing a simple music teacher how you do that.”

  Theo had carried the ring around in his pocket all weekend, terrified he might lose it. Normally, India would keep track of things like this. He thought a romantic dinner that evening might be the right spot. But standing in a sun-streaked field of orange and red and amazement, Theo knew this was the place.

  On the screen of his phone, Theo runs his finger over India’s face. Her name is tagged, which reroutes Theo to his contacts. And not just contacts but FaceTime. It connects. Theo holds his breath. He would hold on to his heart, but it’s in too many pieces. And just like that, they are staring at one another.

  “Theo . . .”

  He says her name, but it is followed by silence because drunken fate has placed this call.

  “Are you all right?” she asks. “You . . . you, um, don’t look so good.”

  Theo attempts to sober his expression, at least close his slacking jaw. He doesn’t recognize India’s location, though it’s a restaurant—tables behind her, a hum of patron noise. Perhaps she’s working an event for Take Me to Church Catering. But maybe she’s on a date. Humiliation bears down on Theo, imagining a strange man seated across from her. He’ll wait, patient and curious as India stumbles through a conversation with her intoxicated ex-fiancé. After this poor showing, the man will think his odds of taking India home and to bed have improved significantly. Theo reverts to ideas about puking all night.

  “Theo?” she says, her head tipping at his. If India is with someone she does not say so.

  “I, uh . . .” Theo is a terrible liar. He doesn’t even try. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to call. I was looking at my phone . . . well, pictures of you . . . of us, on my phone. You know how stuff like that is, so sensitive. I touched your face, and the next thing I knew . . .”

  “It’s okay,” India says. “I can see how that could happen.”

  Her tone is forgiving. Bits of Theo’s broken heart scramble toward one another. “Sorry. Like I said . . .” Theo stands, abruptly grasping at dialogue. “How was the wedding?”

  “The wedding?”

  “Your cousin’s wedding.”

  It has been more nearly a month since the wedding, since Theo ran into India on Newbury Street. Even longer since she kissed an old boyfriend and returned to her life on Long Island.

  “Oh. Right. It was nice. My Uncle Roger got drunker than usual.” Theo wonders if the bride’s father was as drunk as he is right now. His head is spinning and he presses fingers to his temple in a vain attempt to stop it. “He fell into a fountain at the reception,” she offers. “It wouldn’t have been such a big deal, but he was dancing with the bride at the time. A total catastrophe if she’d fallen in with him.”

  “But I bet you all laughed.”

  “We did.” Despite Helen’s issues, India and her family have a good sense of humor. He admired this about them. When Theo’s father was alive, the McAdamses laughed like that. It was never the same after he died. His mother’s humor is more refined, less belly laugh.

  “How . . . how are you?” Theo is now pacing the small apartment. There’s silence on the other end of the line.

  “I’m good,” she finally says. “Theo—” He waits. He hears a glimmer of hope in her voice. He believes he can see it in her face. “I, um . . . I heard about your new job. Ashley and Mike mentioned it,” she says, referencing mutual friends. “How’s it going? Do you like it?”

  It’s not the emotion-filled statement Theo wants, but at least she hasn’t disconnected the call. If India is with someone else, she is being incredibly rude, which is completely unlike her. Theo decides she’s alone.

  “It’s good . . . interesting. The students are interesting,” he says, separating drunken babble from rational conversation. He can do this. Years ago, he came in from his senior prom drunk as a sailor on leave and carried on a ten-minute conversation with his mother. She never suspected.

  “I’m sure it’s different from Weston schools.”

  “Just a little—though rich kids can be trouble too. You remember. The money and endless understanding. Sometimes it makes things worse.” Theo thinks of the parade of public and private psychologists accessible to Weston students, the way he complained to India about the pitfalls of entitlement. Maybe he complained too much. Theo sticks to Braemore. “Kids at Braemore, some have worse issues than others, but none
are trouble free.” Theo holds the phone away, providing India with a view of an area rug that needs vacuuming. He digs his fingers into his skull. Duh . . . why else would they be at Braemore . . . ? India is saying his name. He looks into the phone again, into India’s eyes. They are so beautiful. Get a grip, you idiot . . .

  “It’s complicated,” Theo says. But his remark is met with silence because it’s complicated sounds more like their Facebook status, if they were still Facebook friends. Braemore and its populace are too big of a topic for this delicate discussion. Theo scrambles for something smaller but relevant. “I have some help in the classroom—Olivia Klein. She’s a violinist with the New England Symphony.”

  “Oh?” India says. There is an uptick to her tone. “A violinist? The two of you must have a lot in common.”

  Theo nearly panics. “No—well, yes. Musically. Nothing else. She’s married . . . older. We’re friendly. She’s quirky interesting. She ended up in my classroom because she’s doing community service hours.”

  “Really? What did she do, steal a Stradivarius?” India laughs.

  He hasn’t heard India laugh in ages, and at the moment, Theo is so very grateful for the simple existence of quirky Olivia Klein. “You know, I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll ask her and her husband when I see them at—” Theo thinks and breathes for a second. “I invited them to my mother’s charity event . . . It’s soon.”

  “Yes. It is,” she says, and the gears of small talk slow. “You’re not worried about the fundraiser, are you, Theo? Believe me, your mother would never settle for anything less than perfect.”

  He hears tension in India’s tone. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. She mentioned the woman they hired to replace—” Theo does not finish the thought. It will only lead to the reasons India no longer lives in Boston. He tries a different approach. “They’ve kept the theme you came up with—the Edwardian era.”