by Sarah Beard
Nathaniel convinced me to quit my job at Pikes, reasoning that I needed as much practice time as I could get if I was going to get into Juilliard. It was a change I gladly welcomed.
After an intense week going through a stack of sheet music that was almost taller than me, Nathaniel and I finally selected six pieces to perform at my Juilliard audition. Then the real work began. My music came with me wherever I went. On the stage during lunch hour, in Thomas’s basement, in Nathaniel’s living room, I practiced the pieces again and again. Days were filled with music, a string of notes tied together in one monumental loop. The notes became a part of me. My fingers moved in my sleep and trilled on my desk at school, and the melodies hummed in my soul. I dreamed of Bach’s The Well-Tempered Clavier, sweet and flowing like a lullaby. I saw Beethoven’s Appassionata as I scribbled out math equations, and I heard Schubert’s 4 Impromptus whenever Thomas laced his fingers through mine.
Nathaniel taught me how to add layers of nuance and to use my own intuition to phrase and shape the music. He drilled me on articulation, pace, and rhythm. He taught me how to move my hands effortlessly across the keys, regardless of tempo. “Your arms should be a pendulum,” he said, demonstrating with his hands. “Swing fast, swing slow, but swing.”
But it was time that swung like a pendulum, rhythmically, effortlessly, swinging from morning to night and back again. Constant movement, never time to stop and look at the calendar.
With fingers crossed, we sent my prescreening video to Juilliard. And when we celebrated my audition invitation with a piano-shaped cake, I realized my life had become something new. There were moments when I felt like a different person, like I was living someone else’s life. But each morning, the mirror testified that I was the one with a safe home, a musical mentor, and a stunningly handsome boy by my side.
There were moments of great fear and anxiety as well. Whenever I exited the school, my eyes scanned the parking lot for Dad’s truck. I sunk low into my seat every time we passed Dad’s house to go to Thomas’s. And with each knock at Thomas’s or Nathaniel’s door, my heart thudded with dread, wondering if it was Dad at the door. But as the weeks passed without any sign of him, the tension in my nerves eased, and I accepted that maybe I was finally free of him.
~
On Christmas Eve, Nathaniel was out of town visiting his parents. He’d offered to take me with him, but I stayed behind to spend Christmas with Thomas. Around six o’clock, Thomas showed up at my door, his cheeks adorably flushed from the cold. “My heater’s on strike,” he said with his hands balled in the pockets of his peacoat. My pulse stuttered as I took in the sight of him, and I wondered if I’d ever get used to the effect he had on me.
After bundling up, I climbed into his Bronco and we got on the road. The skies were clear, and snow-covered pines sparkled under the moon as we drove from Colorado Springs to Woodland Park.
“Sorry I was late picking you up,” he said. “I’ve been working on your present.”
I smiled, wondering what it could be, and looked down at the wrapped gift in my own hands. I’d bought him an encaustics stylus with twelve different tips for making different textures. I was sure he’d love it. I’d also knitted him a herringbone scarf, dark gray with blue specks to match his eyes. I still needed to bind and weave in the ends, so I’d left it in my room, intending to finish it later that night.
When we arrived at his house, we got out of the Bronco to see Vivian stepping off the front porch. She waved excitedly and rushed over to greet us. “Aria!” She threw her arms around me. “Where have you been, darlin’?”
“I moved in with a friend,” I explained, pulling back.
“Why?” She grabbed my arm. “What’s going on?”
I gave a little shrug. “I’m just happier this way.”
“Why, sweetheart? Your daddy not treatin’ you nice?”
“Let’s just say we’re better off without each other.”
She shook her head. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say somethin’? You know you’re welcome at my place anytime.”
“I know, Vivian. Thanks.”
“You know, I brought some cherry mash bars over to your daddy last week, and he didn’t say anything about it. I asked where you were, and he just said that you’d been real busy.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to know. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure he’s glad I’m gone.”
“I don’t know about that, honey. He seems real down. I always see him moping around the yard and sitting on the front porch staring at nothin’. Maybe he misses you.”
“I doubt it,” I muttered.
“Well, maybe you should wish him a merry Christmas all the same.”
“Vivian,” Thomas said, “would you like to have dinner at our house tonight?”
She waved a hand, brushing away his suggestion like it was a pesky fly. “Your mom already asked me, but I’ll be fine on my own. I’m so full of cookie dough right now, I probably couldn’t fit dinner in me anyway. Besides, I still have a dozen plates of treats to deliver.” She wished us merry Christmas and walked away humming.
The familiar scent of pine greeted us as we stepped into Thomas’s house. In his newly renovated living room, glittering wreaths and garlands adorned the walls and fireplace. Gold ribbons, beads, and twinkling lights trimmed the tree, which sat cozily in a nest of wrapped gifts. There were poinsettias and snow globes and all the warm glitz of Christmas.
As we sat around the dinner table spread with an abundance of food, my thoughts turned to Dad. I watched the loving way Hal talked to Thomas and felt a sense of loss as I recalled what a good father Dad had been before Mom died. I tried to imagine what he was doing tonight. Maybe he was at a bar, drowning his miserable holiday in brandy. Maybe he was gutting a reindeer in the barn. Or maybe he was sitting alone on the couch, staring at the wall where we used to put the Christmas tree, wishing he still had a family.
After dinner, we gathered around the crackling fireplace and I did my best to participate in their conversation about the possible effects of antimatter in black holes. Although I felt immensely happy spending Christmas Eve with Thomas’s family, a sad feeling kept poking at me. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t ignore the empty place inside me where my own family had once resided.
I reflected on what Christmas was like in my younger years, when Dad twirled me in front of the Christmas tree and Mom filled the house with sparkling lights, beautiful music, and ribboned boxes under the tree. Those gifts meant nothing to me now. I would give them up in a heartbeat if I could exchange them for my family—the way it was before Mom died.
I glanced at Thomas, the lines of his face glowing in the light of the fire, the curve of his lashes creating soft shadows in his blue eyes. I focused on the sensation caused by his thumb stroking the top of my hand. Soothing, reassuring. This Christmas, he was my gift.
A knock at the door pulled me from my meditation, and as Elsie rose to answer it, I wondered if Vivian had changed her mind about spending Christmas Eve alone. But when the door swung open and Elsie released an uncharacteristic squeal of excitement, I knew it had to be someone else.
Into the living room stepped a young man, pulling a suitcase in one hand and catching his mother’s embrace with the other. “Richard!” she said with laughter in her voice. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”
We all rose from the sofa to greet Thomas’s older brother. He was shorter than Thomas, but his bright eyes and chiseled facial features affirmed they were brothers. He looked to be in his early twenties, and his jet-black hair was messily spiked all over his head. A small silver ring pierced his eyebrow, and the head of a snake tattoo slithered from the shadow of his coat collar.
Thomas’s hand grasped mine, and I glanced up at him, just now noticing how tense he appeared. His hand was stiff, and as he locked eyes with Richard, his stance straightened defensively as though bracing for a fight.
With her arm still around Richard’s waist, Elsi
e looked lovingly into his face and murmured, “It’s so good to have you home.” She turned and introduced me, and Richard nodded a greeting but didn’t smile. His expression was menacing as he gave me the once-over. I felt self-conscious under his gaze, and I turned into Thomas, who put his arm around me protectively.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Elsie said, “because we have plenty of leftovers.” She left the living room to go heat up a plate for Richard, and Hal went upstairs to prepare a bed for him. For a long moment after their parents had left the room, Thomas and Richard locked eyes as though some unseen challenge were occurring between them.
“So,” Richard finally said, eyeing me again, “this must be the consolation prize.”
The words surprised me, and not knowing how to take them, I looked up at Thomas for an explanation. But he didn’t explain. And the tense look on his face told me that Richard’s words weren’t meant as lighthearted banter.
“Shut up, Richard,” Thomas growled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Actually, I do.” He winked at me.
“You must be home because your sentence was up,” Thomas said. “Because they never would have let you out of the slammer for good behavior.”
Richard smiled. “You never were very good at comebacks.”
Hal came down the stairs and went to Richard’s side, patting him on the back. “Hey, Rich, I’ve got a bed made up for you upstairs. Why don’t we take your suitcase up there?”
Richard tore his eyes away from Thomas and followed his dad upstairs, dragging his suitcase behind him. Thomas looked after Richard with an indignant expression I hadn’t seen since the night Dad had hurt me. After a long moment, his shoulders lowered and his expression relaxed. He turned to me. “Sorry,” he said. “Richard and I don’t exactly get along.”
I was still stinging from Richard’s “consolation prize” comment. “Why not?” I asked, hoping his answer would explain Richard’s words.
He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it, as though something he saw in my face made him change his mind. “Just one too many rifts.”
“Rifts about what?”
He sighed hard and pushed a hand through his hair, then tilted his head toward the sofa. “Let’s sit down.” We sat, my mouth turning dry from the fear of what he might tell me.
“Aria . . . I . . .” His eyes were pained, almost terrified, and he leaned in and rested his forehead against my temple. I could feel his warm breaths on my cheek, their shallowness betraying his anxiety.
“You can trust me, you know?” I whispered, echoing the words he’d once said to me.
He leaned back and smiled at me, but his expression was still wary. “I know.” He took my hand in his and rubbed his thumb over my knuckle. “We were in a car accident a couple years ago, and even though he was driving, he blames me.”
I reached out and touched the scar above his brow. “Is that how you got this?”
He nodded.
“What other rifts?” I asked, looking specifically for an explanation for Richard’s comment. But when Thomas remained silent, I asked a more pointed question. “What did he mean when he said I was your consolation prize?”
“You’re not a consolation prize for anything. Richard just likes to stir things up.”
“But he was referring to something.”
“It’s nothing—it doesn’t matter.”
“If it doesn’t matter, then you can tell me.”
Thomas gazed at the Christmas tree, the sparkling lights reflecting in his troubled eyes. “He was referring to Sasha.”
I felt a pang in my heart at the sound of another girl’s name on his lips. She must have been the girl in the painting on his wall. I wanted to ask him who she was, but couldn’t bring myself to say her name. So I waited, hoping he would explain.
“She was my friend,” he continued. “We grew up across the street from each other. And when I was fifteen, my feelings for her started to change into more than friendship. And that’s when Richard swooped in and swept her off her feet.”
“Did he know you had . . . feelings for her?”
“Yeah, but he insisted it wasn’t about competition. He told me he’d had feelings for her since junior high.” He shrugged. “Maybe he did, but he never showed it before then.”
“And then he got her pregnant?”
He nodded. “He treated her like a burden after that. She used to call me up and cry about it. I tried to get her to break up with him, but I think she really loved him.”
He stroked the top of my hand while I sat there, suddenly feeling terrified. What if he had loved Sasha more than he admitted? What if he still loved her? Her painting was still on his wall. Was he still grieving over losing her to his brother? I felt my own breaths quicken, and I tried to subdue the emotion rising in my throat. He must have noticed because he pulled back and looked into my face.
“Aria,” he said gently, lifting my chin so that I would meet his gaze, “you have nothing to worry about.”
I must not have looked convinced, because he tucked a piece of hair behind my ear and said, “You have to understand, when she started dating him, I backpedaled and left my feelings at friendship.” He gathered me in his arms and fastened his gaze on me. “So what he said has absolutely no merit. You’re not a consolation prize. You’re . . .” His face was close to mine, his voice soft. “You’re a rare treasure, that I was lucky enough to find.” He placed a gentle kiss on my forehead, then looked at me again. “Do you believe me?”
I shrugged. “I guess so.”
He smiled sadly, then stood and reached for my hand. “Come downstairs with me. I need to show you something.” We went downstairs to his room, where he turned on the light and led me to his desk. A painting lay on his desk, and I gasped when I saw the subject.
It was my house, how it looked in the spring before Mom died. White jasmine grew up the side of the porch, peace roses hugged the railing, and fuchsia blossoms bloomed from peach trees in the side yard. In the window of the parlor, a dark-haired girl sat playing at the piano. A boy with dark hair sat on the porch swing outside.
He sat on the stool and took my hand. “I’ve been working on it for weeks,” he said quietly. “I hope you like it.”
“Who’s that?” I whispered, pointing to the boy.
He didn’t answer, but from the way he was looking at me, I knew that the boy in the painting was him.
“I know I can’t replace what you’ve lost,” he said, “but maybe someday I can give you something similar.”
Or better, I thought.
“Did I get it right?” he asked. “I mean, how it used to be?”
I swiped at a runaway tear and scanned the painting, amazed at how much he’d gotten right. But there was one thing missing. I pointed to the windows. “There were window boxes with orange marigolds.” I couldn’t seem to speak louder than a whisper.
He reached down to plug in his heat tools. He melted some brown and orange wax on his iron and stamped the edge of my painting just below the windows. Then he went back with a stylus and added more lines and texture. “Is that better?”
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t figure out how I’d gotten so lucky to have Thomas. He knew my heart, my soul, what I needed to hear and see to feel healed, whole, at home. I nodded and gazed into his eyes. He put down his stylus and wrapped his arms around my waist, resting his head against mine.
“I’ve been thinking,” he murmured. “There’s a good astronomy program at Columbia University.”
“But I thought you wanted to study art in Paris.”
“Paris is more than three thousand miles away from Juilliard. And Columbia is only three.”
I pulled back and stared at him, my pulse racing with the realization of what he was saying. He was making long-term plans. With me.
“I want to be where you are, Aria.” He pulled me into his lap and brushed my hair over my shoulder. “I already sent in my application, and my m
om is calling one of her colleagues there next week to try to pull some strings.”
“But what if you decide you want to do art instead?”
“There are a lot of art schools in New York.”
“What if I don’t make it into Juilliard?”
“You will.”
“What if—”
“ ‘What if’ doesn’t matter,” he said, cutting me off with his finger over my lips. “Let’s replace ‘what if’ with ‘even if.’ ”
“Even if?”
“We will be together, even if I don’t get into Columbia. Even if I scrap my astronomy plans. Even if you don’t get into Juilliard—which you will. Even if anything. I would follow you around the world if I had to.” Then leaning his forehead against mine, he whispered, “Because I love you.”
The words washed through me, cleansing any remaining fear or doubt. I pulled away and looked into his blue eyes. Just like the first time I gazed into them, they were full of untold stories. Only this time, I could easily read them. They were stories of us together, in the future. Bent over our newborn baby, stealing hushed smiles at each other. Watching our children open presents on Christmas morning. Sitting together in a sunny room, me at the piano, him in front of an easel, his hands wrinkled and discolored with age. All the while, his painting hanging above our fireplace mantel. Story after story, going on forever. It no longer mattered what I’d lost. In Thomas, I could have all I’d lost and more.
“Now do you believe me?” he asked.
I opened his hand and placed a kiss in the center of his palm, then whispered, “I love you too.”
He closed his eyes as though taking a moment to absorb my words, then gently curled his hand around the nape of my neck. He leaned down and brushed his lips over mine, a soft and unhurried kiss I wished could last forever. When he pulled away, I wrapped my arms around his neck and drew him nearer, wanting to linger in the exquisite sensation his touch produced. He didn’t object.
