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Nora had brought three bottles of champagne, one for each of us. We popped them, swigged, and got set up.
“Should we begin?” Nora said. “Or did you two need a moment?”
I looked at Toby, who rolled his eyes, testing his bass drum louder than necessary. “We’ll probably need a few moments at some point,” I said. “But not now.”
Nora raised her eyebrows, not able to hide her pleasure.
“We’ll be fine,” Toby called over his beats. “Come on, let’s just play.”
I lit a joint and let it hang from my mouth while I played, Marlon Brando style. I started to forage for the notes that said Yes, we’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. Of course, I couldn’t find them. There was another, stronger feeling that was taking priority. The Loyal would be fine, but would I? Would Luke?
Toby banged out a couple of triplets to move it along. Nora plunked a minor string to act as the spine. Without words to carry us over the brink into our new lives, the sorrow of what was behind us and the joy of what lay ahead, we played together instead.
