“What are you talking about?” A sharp voice cuts me off, and my spine goes rigid.
Aunt Andrea doesn’t usually call. Texts? Sometimes, sure, if I’m folding shirts incorrectly. Or, once in a while, there’s a rare attempt to mediate things between Jenna and me, but a phone call?
“Hey,” I say sheepishly, as if she can sense from my voice that I’m states away. “Is there an emergency?”
“You tell me.” Her words are clipped and as dry as ever. “I hear that you told Jenna you suddenly can’t take her shifts for the rest of this weekend. To my understanding, she asked you a week ago, did she not? Honestly, to throw a fit like this because I won’t let you freeload anymore? Don’t eventhinkif you get settled anywhere else you can take her piano.”
Our piano.
“She can keep it.”
“That was never in question,” Aunt Andrea huffs. “It was a gift fromherfather, after all.”
To both of us.
But correcting her won’t change anything.
The day Uncle Orson rolled the giant thing in through the double doors will live in my memory forever. We were both about four years old, not even tall enough to reach all the keys. For the rest of the night, the two of us sat on the bench together and banged on the keys, singing and making up songs. But beyond that day, Jenna was always more interested in the dress up box, dolls, and games I would have loved to join her in but was never welcomed.
So, while she played in her room, I played the piano. I’ve never had formal lessons, but Uncle Orson taught me the basics when he was home from touring. Over the years, Grams has teased that the grand piano is the only reason I put up with living at Aunt Andrea’s house for so long.
She’s not entirely wrong.
“I’m calling to make sure we won’t have any more drama next week, will we? I would hate to fire a family member.” Aunt Andrea’s voice is low. I can vividly picture the way she looks, her lips tight and eyes narrowed.
No, but she’d kick one out of her house.
“I’m not trying to cause any drama,” I say, wondering if it’s even worth defending myself. “Really, I’m not. See you on Tuesday.”
“On time—please,” she adds, and it’s the “please” that makes my stomach drop. “It’s really the least you could do for us, don’t you think?”
The question hangs in the air, and I can’t bear to answer. Without her, I wouldn’t have had a home all these years.
I swallow.
“Bye, Aunt Andrea,” I say, my voice coated in guilt. What would she say if she knew I was standing in the very place she banned me from returning to?
The call ends before I can find out.
I reach for a spare notebook from my suitcase and set up my keyboard before I begin to write. I start out by journaling the way I would have as a kid: no judgment, no complexity, justfeelinguntil the page is filled. Soon, it’s covered with doodles and notes about Gil, drenching my new crush in old nostalgia.
“Something in the water shines like a burst of sunlight. So for now, on the shore, just sway and hold me tight,” I sing, hitting the notes, unsure of where half of the words tumble from or if they’re any good. Still, I’d rather be writing and rusty than have an empty page, so I keep going, writing and singing until the sun has dipped below the trees, and the sound of rain mixes with each key I stroke.
“Eyes low in the water, it’s all in my head, and every time we kiss, I wake up in my bed. Oh, it was just some dreaming; oh, something strange and new, wrapped up in a blanket and wishing it was you.”
“Encore!” a voice calls.
All at once I leap from the couch, heat rising to my cheeks. Gil leans on the window frame from outside, completely unfazed by the heavy sheets of rain bouncing off him.
I rush to the door, thinking he’ll be eager to get inside where it’s dry, but he takes his time, placing a plastic bag on the counter.
I recognize the logo from one of the shops off the boardwalk. “Managed to keep the food dry,” he says in lieu of a more formal greeting. It feels like the way you’d say hello to someone you live with after a long day of work—not a second date with someone you barely know.
Gil steps into the living room, dipping his tall frame to avoid knocking into the drying notebook pages. Dim light shines through the pages, casting an off-white glow like Christmas lights around the small space. “I love what you’ve done with the place.”
“You mean your cabin wasn’t covered in old diary entries?” I gasp, holding my hand to my heart. “I thought it was a common feature.”
“I’ll have to write to management,” he says, squinting his wide-set eyes at the pages. No, no, he cannot read these!
