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“Let me message Ms. St. Clairmont first,” he replies.
I exhale harshly but nod for him to go ahead, but I also text her:
Brahms: It’s past eight, can I have access to the downstairs area now?
Sephie: Sure, I just can’t be there to unlock it, so you’ll have to wait.
I have to resist hurling my phone across the room. All day she’s ignored me, avoided me, treated me like a damn prisoner. And now I’m supposed to just peacefully accept more delays?
Brahms: This is fucking absurd. I shouldn’t need permission to move around MY OWN HOUSE.
Sephie: Keep your shouty caps to yourself. Also, this is my house. You’re sorta renting the upstairs area.
Brahms: With how much I’m paying, I think the entire state of Connecticut is mine.
Sephie: When did you become such an arrogant ass?
I scoff in disbelief. I’m the arrogant one? That’s rich, coming from her.
Brahms: When you decided to imprison me on the third floor. I should press charges.
Sephie: Umm . . . exactly what will you be charging me for? Keeping you from restricted areas? Good luck winning that case.
Restricted areas? The agreement was to stay in the house—the entire house. She’s kept me confined up here like a prisoner for hours. How dare she treat me this way, dismiss my outrage as if I’m being petty or irrational.
My hands shake with anger and frustration as I respond.
Brahms: False imprisonment, emotional distress . . . my lawyers will have a field day with this.
Sephie: (:eye roll: emoji) You’re behaving like an entitled toddler. Get over yourself.
Get over myself? The absolute nerve of this woman. She’s pushed me to the brink today with her dismissiveness and disregard. I’m half ready to smash everything within reach, but the last time I did that it didn’t go well. It might’ve been when I visited jail in Barcelona—or was it Cairo?
Either way, I can’t afford to do anything stupid. Taking a few ragged breaths, I try to calm down before this escalates further. But this conversation is far from over. She owes me answers, owes me respect. And I intend to get them, one way or another.
* * *
My leg bounces restlessly as I wait on the balcony for Sephie to join me. It’s after ten p.m. already. I’m half expecting a lame excuse text from her, promising she’ll be available some other week or year.
Everything within me aches tonight, the withdrawals are as raw as that first week. My whole body craves relief, but I’m trying to hold off. I tell myself I can withstand this, can handle it. I close my eyes, attempting the meditation exercises Sephie showed me. But honestly, all I need is her. Her presence always soothes me in a way nothing else can.
What if this is just a waste of time, though? Maybe I should call Ellington and tell him I’m done trying. Just wait for . . . what exactly? Nothing lies ahead if I surrender. I stare down at my immobilized hand—two more weeks until they take another round of X-rays and see if it’s healed properly. If not, they’ll run tests and see if there’s nerve damage or . . . even if all the bones are set as they’re supposed to be, there’s no guarantee it’ll be like before.
“Time will tell,” said the fucking doctor. I don’t need him to read me the fortune from a cookie, though. If my hand doesn’t work, what’s going to happen to my music?
Hopefully, I didn’t fuck it so bad that I won’t be able to play again . . . A panicked void opens up inside me, threatening to swallow me whole. I feel the walls closing in, breaths coming too fast. Sweat beads my upper lip. I’m hyperventilating at the possibility of losing part of myself.
Think rationally, I think to myself, while trying to slow my racing heart. Nothing is decided yet. But my mind spirals through worst-case scenarios, all of them taking me to a somehow empty, meaningless future without melodies to sustain me.
Can I really endure this agonizing uncertainty? What if recovery isn’t possible? The questions loop endlessly as I stare down at my fingers.
By the time I hear the elevator chime, I’m drowning in anxiety. Breathe, I order myself. Calm the fuck down. She doesn’t need to see you losing your shit, asshole.
Sephie steps out to the balcony, bundled in a thick down coat. Her shoulders are slumped with fatigue, and dark circles stand out under her eyes. She gives me a wan smile as she sits down beside me, wincing slightly.
“Long day?” I ask, noticing how cautiously she moves like her whole body is sore.
“You have no idea,” she says with a sigh, rubbing the back of her neck. She rotates her wrist slowly, stretching out the joint. “It’s been nonstop since I woke up. But I’m here now.”
