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“Oh. Right. Yes,” I said. I wasn’t hungry suddenly, and when the toaster oven dinged, my stomach lurched.
“Don’t sound so upset,” Raymond chastised like he was talking to twelve-year-old me. “I’m not going to let you go homeless. We’ll work it out, but I figured a heads-up would be nice.”
“Thank you,” I said. I glanced at the stove and wondered how long we’d been talking. “I, um…I should go. I have a lot to prepare.”
“Of course. And listen, if you want me to get you a car out to your sister’s, I can do that too. We can call it a Christmas gift. Take care, Julius.”
The line went dead, and I continued to stare at the little numbers on the clock.
“How fucking generous.”
The words tumbled out on the edge of a laugh, which turned almost hysterical, and it took me a moment to calm down. I finally grabbed my little dish and set it on a plate, then walked it back to my bed, where I curled up against the wall and imagined I was eating a quiet, easy dinner with the one person in my life who was willing to not just believe in me but to also give me the space to figure out who the hell I was now.
* * *
I wokeearly to the sounds of Forrest’s gentle snoring, and I crept out of bed, closing the door behind me in the vague hope that my routine wouldn’t wake him. He was up when I finally drifted off, and I knew with his schedule, he had likely stayed up for hours after I drifted off to sleep.
He’d talked me through more of my anxiety, and at one point, he just sat with me while I worked on the very last adjustments to my piece. I still hadn’t played it for him. I waited until he left on his daily errands to go through it, and I still hadn’t found the courage to ask him to listen.
And he hadn’t asked me to play it for him again.
I didn’t know if I was happy with it. I was afraid to find out, but I had to trust in myself. It was time.
Heading into the kitchen, I boiled water for coffee, then sat at the table for one more mental readthrough. I could hear the piece in my head, but would I be as confident when everyone else heard it?
Playing with the symphony wouldn’t change my life dramatically as it was. I would still need my teaching job, and I would still need cheaper rent, and I was still a pariah in certain social circles, but it would prove I was capable of separating myself from the person I had been, and I needed that more than I was willing to say aloud.
Squaring my shoulders and trying to roll out some of the tension, I poured cream and sugar into my coffee, then picked up the mug and walked to the door. I wanted to see outside and assess the weather so I could figure out how early I’d need to leave for the audition the next morning. The last thing I would allow myself to be was late.
Not with this much riding on it.
I pulled the door open and stepped out, and my foot immediately collided with a small paper bag similar to the ones Raymond had left the food in. With a frown, I snatched it up and walked back inside, forgetting my trip to the street.
I dropped the bag on the table and reached inside. Wrapped in delicate tissue paper was a small box. Something told me this was not from my uncle. For all that he seemed apologetic that he couldn’t be more to us while we were growing up, he would never be a sentimental man.
And this was wrapped with care.
I pulled at the sides, tearing the bits of tape that held it together, and found a small wooden box sitting in my palm that looked hand carved. It spanned almost halfway up my fingers with a tiny latch, and I lifted it up, my heart pounding in my chest.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’tthink.
Inside, nestled in soft, bright pink fabric, was a miniature wooden cello. There were nicks and grooves in it that told me the person had created this with manual tools. It had never been touched by a machine. I lifted it from its little nest and turned it over to see that it was a rosin holder—a dark amber, shining block wedged inside.
I knew who this was from. There was only one person who would have done it. If it had been my sister, she would have wanted me to open it in front of her. My reaction would have been more important than the gift itself.
But Forrest…
He would have given me the gift just for me. Not to take credit or to make a scene.
Something in me snapped. I dropped the box on the table and ran—feet still just in socks, no coat, no sweater, no scarf. The wind bit at me with sharp fangs and my feet immediately froze in the slush, but I didn’t care. I tore between the space that separated our buildings, and as though the universe was finally taking pity on me, someone was coming through the door.
They didn’t seem to notice or care about my state. They just held the door open, and I stepped into the lobby, holding my middle and trying to stave off the shivers as I desperately searched for the door that led down.
There was one, just like my building, only it was warm and well lit, and there was carpet on the stairs. Instead of the thick smell of old bricks and mold, there was a distinct scent of varnish and wood shavings.
Is that what he smelled like? Forrest?
I doubted myself suddenly, but there was nothing I could do besides walk down those stairs. I was halfway to the ground when the only door in that hallway opened suddenly, and a very tall, dark-haired man walked out. He only noticed me after the door shut with a click, and our eyes met.
