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Short and to the point. Okay, fair enough. “I plan to keep looking, but for now, it’ll set me up with a few contacts here, and I’m hoping to get out of your hair by spring.”
He looked doubtful, but I appreciated that he didn’t say it aloud. Before either of us could speak again, there was a loud thud against the wall that sounded like it was coming from the bedroom, then the sound of a deep, rumbling voice. From the kitchen, I couldn’t make out the words, but I could tell the person was cursing by his tone.
Raymond sighed and shook his head. “Is there anything else you need?”
“No, I—” I stopped abruptly when my gaze caught on the radiator. “Actually, the heating?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “I forgot about it. I’ll make a note to send someone over when I can.”
That wasn’t exactly promising, but I had thick socks and a lot of sweaters. Of course, it wasn’t even Christmas yet, so there was every chance I’d freeze to death during the first real cold wave, but if my check was big enough, I could probably grab an electric blanket and make do.
Again, no right to complain about free housing.
“Your sister is glad to have you home,” Raymond said, then turned and headed for the door. “I hope you plan to stay this time.”
The chastisement hit like salt in a wound, and I said nothing as he closed the door behind him like an answer from me wasn’t worth hearing. Of course, this was the man who’d skipped all our childhood accomplishments, including performances and graduation, so it was nothing in the grand scheme of our relationship.
All in all, the meeting could have gone worse.
I quickly started putting my purchases away, stopping when I realized my uncle had left me food. He’d stocked the cupboard with nonperishables, the freezer with meats, and the fridge with what little fresh produce was around this late in the season. There was butter, more milk, and a small pot of jam, which seemed oddly personal for a man like him.
The vodka was also missing, so it was either his, or he was trying to prevent me hitting rock bottom by consuming whatever was in that bottle, but that was fine by me. I’d never been much of a drinker, and it seemed like a terrible idea to start now.
My bodega food looked sad next to what he’d provided, and I was torn between resentment that he knew how badly I needed the help and the slow burn of resignation because there was nothing I could do except take his charity.
I dragged my cello to the middle of the room, taking one of the kitchen chairs with me, and slowly unzipped the case. It was heavy across my lap as I brushed the cloth over the bridge, swiping some of the rosin dust left behind from my quick performance, then I dropped the stopper on the ground and slid the endpin against it until I felt it catch.
The weight was familiar and glorious. It was a small piece of home.
The bow was perfectly balanced, and I realized the instrument was the only thing left in my life that was unchanging and perfect. The strings bit into the pads of my fingers, the pain I’d long since stopped feeling now present.
I pressed down harder, then took a breath before bringing the bow to the strings.
A single note reverberated and then another. My fingers found the combination to unlock the myriad emotions I was feeling, and I let my body move and sway with the raging sounds that filled the room. I lost myself.
I floated out on a sea of nothing but sound and feeling and pressure.
And it was everything I needed…
“SHUT THE FUCK UP! I’M TRYING TO SLEEP.”
The cello never did quite make the dying cat sound the way a violin did, but it was still unpleasant when I dragged the bow hair the wrong way. I winced and froze, then realized the neighbor was screaming through the wall.
I glanced at the clock, then frowned. It was two in the afternoon. I had no problem with trying to be quiet in the morning hours, but there was no way I was letting some asshole get in the way of this. Not now.
Not after everything.
I took a breath and kept going, the notes rising, pushing harder as the pounding continued until I could drown it out.
And then came the screaming of electric guitars so loud, there was nothing I could do to stop it. It clashed viciously and violently with the music I was making, just chaotic noise.
My fingers spasmed on the strings, then stopped, but the music kept going and kept going until I finally gave up, put my cello back in the case, then stormed out into the street for a little bit of peace.
Chapter4
With morning came two things: an email letting me know that I had my first students coming by that afternoon, at four and five fifteen, and a pounding headache from the stress of the night before. When I’d finally returned to my apartment, the music was still playing but at a level I could only hear if I sat very close to the shared wall in the bedroom.
It was all well and good as I fixed myself some dinner and attempted to work on a couple of my compositions at the table, but when I was settling in for bed, something else began. A loud, obnoxious sound like a table saw. I had no idea what to make of it, but no amount of yelling and pounding on the wall made it stop.
