Page 48 of Playing By Ear

“You know.”

Was this that aphasia thing Jamie had heard about? He called up one of the tips he’d seen in a speech therapy video the day before. “If I’ve got someone I…” He trailed off, hoping the prompt would help his dad finish the sentence.

Martin made a shooing motion. “I’m not searching for the word, ya numpty. I’m trying not to offend.”

“Just say it.”

“If you’ve got yourself a fancy man, I’d like to meet him.”

Thank God Jamie’s mouth was empty, or he would’ve choked. “No, I’ve not got a boyfriend.” Martin had him monitored, but only intermittently, so his link to Perry likely wouldn’t be known yet.

“But if there was someone,” Martin said, “you could bring him to Easter dinner.”

“What makes you think I’m coming for Easter?”

“Everyone’ll be there.”

That was exactly the problem. Easter was the holiday among the MacKrays. Showing up would mean Jamie wasn’t here out of filial obligation or as a favor to Belinda. It would mean he was part of the family again.

“You’ll not need me, what with all the others there,” he told his father. “Besides, Easter’s one of my most lucrative days busking. People are extra generous on holidays.”

Martin nodded. “You gotta earn a living. I respect that.” He sat back in his seat and picked up his coffee mug, as though he was letting the matter lie.

But there was no way he’d give up that easily. He’d blether about how everyone missed Jamie, how the uncles were dying to hear about the Warriors, how the aunties would weep with joy to hug him again.

“It’s just that it’ll be my last Easter,” Martin said. “According to the doctors.”

The raspberry jam turned bitter on Jamie’s tongue. Of all the manipulations he’d expected from his father, this simple nod to death’s finality was a total blindside.

He closed his eyes. He didn’t have to say yes. He didn’t have to become one of them again.

Jamie downed the rest of his tepid espresso in one gulp. Anything but outright refusal felt like a defeat. And yet…

“I’ll think about it.”

Chapter 9

Late Thursday afternoon, Perry sat in his office watching extended highlights from Ipswich Town vs. Hull City. He kept his tablet close enough to his face to see it clearly but far enough to take in the whole screen.

The match’s lone goal was his focus. In a breathtaking counterattack, fullback Andrew Robertson took a long throw from his goalkeeper, sprinted down the touchline, then cut inside to lose his defender. His precise through-ball darted into the box for midfielder Mohamed Diamé, who chipped it over the Ipswich goalkeeper’s head into the net.

“Wow,” Perry whispered. This was a perfect case study for his feature on the rise of Scottish fullbacks, one of the few bright spots in the national scene. The story idea had been percolating for months, but after meeting Jamie, an offensive fullback himself, Perry had finally pitched it to one of his editors.

He ran the play again, memorizing every moment. Then he turned to his computer and began typing in 48-point text. The words poured out as his fingers used lifelong muscle memory—along with the keyboard’s temperature gradient, which he’d never noticed as a sighted person—to form his thoughts into a story that would enthrall and inform. He still had this, and always would.

Perry was so focused, he didn’t notice the headache until it was a fully formed mask squeezing every contour of his face. He stopped and took off his glasses. As he massaged his brows and the bridge of his nose, he wondered whether life would be easier with no meaningful sight at all. No more squinting to bring fuzzy blobs into relief, no more twisting his neck to bring those blobs into his visual field. Would that not be a sort of freedom?

Pish. He shoved his glasses back on. He would stay grateful for everything he could see, no matter how blurry.

His phone dinged. “New text message from Jamie,” said Siri’s robotic female voice. “‘It’s been a day. Shall I pop by after training sesh tonight?’ Reply to message?”

Perry sighed and sat back in his chair. He would’ve loved nothing better, but there was his cam session at eleven. “Yes,” he instructed his phone, and when it dinged, he said, “Sorry, working late tonight. On a deadline,” he hurried to add. “See you Sunday night when I’m home from Easter holiday, question mark?”

Jamie’s text came back promptly, and Perry’s phone read it aloud: “Brilliant see you then.” It then voiced a string of numbers followed by “dot jpg.” Jamie had sent a photo.

Perry brought the phone close to his face. He zoomed in to see Jamie’s wide blue eyes and charm-the-pants-off smile. Zooming out revealed him sitting on a bus wearing a black athletic shirt under a half-zipped blue Lycra jacket.

He sent back a heart-eyes emoji, then stared at the photo again.