Epilogue
Mikey
Falling Softly
Glen Hansard, Marketa Irglova
Snow falls softerin the city than it does in the suburbs. Out here, it drifts between buildings and settles along ledges, catching in streetlights and turning everything a little cinematic.
I tug at the collar of my suit jacket for the hundredth time as we step out of the car. I don’t do suits. I wear jeans and T-shirts and Vans. That’s my natural habitat. This get-up; a tailored black wool suit, a crisp white shirt, make me feel like an imposter. The jacket fits too well. The tie is too precise.
I look like someone’s responsible older brother instead of the drummer who once set a cymbal on fire during a sound check. Quinn smooths invisible lint from my lapel and steps back to admire her work. “You clean up nice, Michael.”
“You say that like it’s a compliment.” I have to keep myself from growling.
“It is.” She shakes her head as she beams her thousand-watt smile in my direction. I look at her and forget whatever sarcastic comment I had ready.
Her dress is ivory. It’s got some kind of fitted bodice, with a flowing skirt that moves like it’s part of her instead of something she’s wearing. Her hair falls in soft waves over one shoulder, catching the glow of the streetlight. She looks like an angel. Like she wandered down here and decided to stay.
“You didn’t tell me you were going to look like this.”
“Like what?” Her brow furrows.
“Like I’m going to have to fight off half of Chicago.”
She laughs, warm and easy, slipping her hand into mine as we make our way toward the entrance of the Lyric Opera House.
Inside, everything is velvet and crystal and hushed conversation. The orchestra warms up below us, strings rising and falling like breath. I secured seats close enough to see every detail without advertising how we got them.
She leans toward me as the lights dim. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“Yeah, I did.” I pull her hand into mine and lace our fingers together.
The first notes ofThe Nutcrackerfill the space. I pretend not to care. I fail. She’s glowing beside me. Every time the music swells, her fingers tighten slightly in mine. I watch her more than the stage. By intermission, I’m invested. Don’t tell anyone.
The marble lobby hums with champagne glasses and low conversation. Quinn is mid-explanation about choreography when my attention shifts to across the room. It’s Hayden. Looking like perfection in a charcoal suit. He’s impeccable, as always. Posture straight. Expression unreadable.
And beside him; red hair that is a copper so deep it’s almost molten under the chandeliers. Sleek emerald dress. Clean lines. No sparkle. No fuss.
She isn’t clinging to him. She’s standing beside him like she chose that position. His hand rests at the small of her back. Not gripping. Not guiding. But it’s possessive.
Quinn follows my gaze. “Is that Hayden?”
“Yep.”
“Who’s that with him? I’ve never seen her at the studio.” She pauses, then continues. “But then I guess I’ve never seen Hayden with a girl.”
“I don’t know.” I speak lower so only she can hear. “This is the Hayden I told you about, the one that dragged me to that club.”
She studies them for a moment. “That’s not a club vibe.”
No. It’s not. Hayden notices us. His eyes flick over, controlled as ever. He gives me a small nod, but doesn’t move in our direction. The redhead’s gaze shifts next. She looks at Quinn. Then at me. Not curious. Not impressed. Assessing. Like she’s taking notes.
And for the smallest fraction of a second I swear something shifts in Hayden’s expression. Not cracked. Not softened. Just aware. Then it’s gone. He leans toward her slightly and says something only she can hear. And then they disappear back into the crowd. No introduction. No explanation. Just absence.
“That’s interesting,” Quinn observes out loud.
“Yep.” We don’t talk about it again, instead making our way back to our seats as the bell for the end of intermission sounds. But I don’t forget it either. When the final curtain falls and applause thunders through the theater, she’s flushed and radiant and completely in her element.
