“Sure,” I said noncommittally. “What’s the song?”
“‘The Book of Love.’ The Gavin James version. Do you know it?”
That was a gut punch. “Yes, I know it. I haven’t heard that one in a long time.”
“But you like it?”
“I used to, yes.”
“Used to?” Annie asked.
I sighed, wondering how much to say. The last thing I wanted was to bring down her ebullient energy by talking about sad things. “I found after your dad died that there were some songs too painful to listen to. So I don’t.”
“Is that why you don’t play music anymore?” Annie asked. “You used to always have music on.”
“I did?” I played dumb. I knew darn well she was right. Music had been something Jon and I shared. When he died, I’d found it impossible to listen to any of our old favorites. They say scents bring back strong memories. Music did too. Memories I’d rather not have.
“I miss having music on while we’re cooking or whatever,” Annie said. “We should get one of those portable speakers and connect it to our phones.”
“If you’d like that, sure.”
She went back to her chopping. “I get it, though. Why the song would be too hard to listen to.”
I didn’t want to talk any further about the song or the man who had played it for her. I suspected if I did, I might never stop. “I’m going to change clothes.”
“Okay, I’ll put the rice on,” Annie said.
I thanked her and then fled upstairs, afraid I was going to cry. Apparently, I was a crier now.
Upstairs,I sat on the edge of my bed, holding my phone in both hands. This house should have been full of music. I pulled up the music app and searched for “The Book of Love.” The Gavin James’s version came up, along with about ten other covers of it. My finger hesitated over the play button. Could I bear to listen to it again?
I pushed play. The opening notes sent a shiver down my spine. Then, the first line played, poignant and beautiful, sung in Gavin James’ voice he must have borrowed from a heavenly angel. No. I couldn’t do it. Not yet. I hit pause and tossed my phone into the middle of the bed.
I changed into jeans and a T-shirt, washed my face at the bathroom sink, telling myself I was fine. When my face was scrubbed, I took a good look at myself in the mirror.Who are you anymore?A woman who lived in a silent house because she was too afraid to feel things? Or someone brave and resourceful, ready to live in a place that could hold both sorrow and joy at the same time?
Could I turn on the music again?
Not today.
But maybe tomorrow.
With that in mind, I ventured downstairs toward the smell of ginger and garlic wafting from the kitchen and planted a smile on my face. Just like I’d done for years now. For Annie, I’d always told myself, I had to be strong and stoic, never letting her see how broken I truly was. Because she needed me. I didn’t havethe luxury of falling apart, not when I was the only parent she had left.
She looked up when I came into the kitchen, smiling. “Good timing. Food’s ready.”
And so I set the table and poured glasses of water while Annie dished up generous portions for both of us. This was enough, I told myself. Dinner on a summer night with my favorite person, even if the music was muted.
That night,I had a strange dream. In it, I woke to the sound of “The Book of Love” playing in my garden. I got out of bed and padded across the room, opening the French doors that led out to the garden. It was a full moon, lighting my stone pathway. When I reached the peonies, a man was standing there, holding gardening shears. A half-dozen blooms lay at his feet. At first I didn’t see who he was, other than a man in my garden cutting my precious peonies. But as he leaned over the bush to cut another flower, he turned to look at me.
Dorian.
The music swelled.
“I don’t have music here. Not anymore,” I said.
“But you will again. If you just let go.”
“Let go of what?”
