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Right now, I’d do anything to help Sage overcome or at least lessen the stress of her concerns. I want nothing more than to help her feel safe.
The doorknob turns and she pushes the door open, just a tiny bit. Her fingers reach out. “I need you to hold my hand,” she says.
My worry rushes out of me with a sigh.
This I can do.
I thread my fingers through hers, feeling her knuckles slide into place as if our hands were made to go together. I trace her wrist bones with my thumb. I feel her soft skin, her strong fingers. I hold on. If you think it’s awkward for Sage and me to hold hands with a door between us, you’re absolutely right. If you think I’m letting go first, you should think again.
If I have to stay here all night, I will. I’ll hold her hand as long as she wants me to.
We don’t speak. I don’t ask her to tell me why she was crying. I don’t even bring up the violin music I heard her playing. I just sit outside in the cold October air, holding her hand and thinking that I could live this way. Preferably on the same side of the door, but I’ll take what I can get.
After a long time, I feel Sage tug my hand toward the door. She doesn’t open it further, but she pulls my hand inside and presses a kiss to my palm. Now my hand is between both of hers, and she says, “Thank you, Grayson. Good night.”
Then she lets me go and closes the door.
I stand there for a few minutes, wondering how I can feel so good, so glad, so delighted by the nothing that just happened.
It was nothing, but in another way, it was everything. She needed me and I was here for her. We sat together, in a way, until she was okay. Nothing came between us but the door, and while yeah, that’s weird, it was probably for the best. If we’d been on a couch, there’s no possible way we would have just sat in silent stillness. And that’s what she wanted. And as strange as it feels, what she wants is what I want. Sitting here quietly together doesn’t change that I want more than this. But it makes themorefeel closer. It makes us feel closer.
21
SAGE
Isleep for hours and hours, and when I wake, my brain is calm. Full, but calm. I think of Grayson, so generous and gentle. Did I really make him sit outside and hold my hand for more than an hour? Yeah. I did that. And he stayed.
I think of my violin, of playing last night. Of how perfect it felt to grasp the bow and draw it over the strings. How my body found the sway that used to be as natural as breathing.
I think of Tessie, and her accusations, fueled by poison gas. How she stole my keys and incriminated me in a really stupid prank. Instead of feeling my skin prickle with dread, I realize that there’s not much I can do about what happened. I choose not to worry about it. But I’m going to go into the library early and confess what happened to Desi.
I remember all the cruel things Tessie said, and the words are clear in my mind—but the hurt is dulled and dimming. Who knows? She may have meant every word, but she didn’t mean it to hurt me or to ruin the love and friendship between us. We can work it out. I’m an adult, and I know how to forgive. I also know better than to share my keys ever again.
I go to the kitchen and dump a bunch of fresh and frozen fruit into the blender. Then I add a big scoop of ice cream, because I want it, and sometimes I get what I want. After dessert for breakfast and a long shower, I sit down to my computer and check my email.
Last night, after I came home, I pulled out the card Wanda gave me and sent a message to Theodore B. Halverson’s assistant. I told him I understood he was trying to get in touch with me. And I invited him to tell me what he wanted.
I know it was reaction to what Tessie said. I was trying to prove she was wrong about me. And I promised Wanda I’d reach out.
But I definitely didn’t expect him to respond right away. On a Sunday night.
But he did.
I look at the email message again.
“Ted remembers your meeting fondly. And he was very impressed with your “Smoky Mountain Lullaby” composition, the one your professor sent. He’d love for you to play your accompaniment when he performs “Fire at Night” at his concert at Chamberlain Academy next week.”
Ted. Theodore B. Halverson’s assistant calls him Ted. Does that mean I can call him Ted? But really? Who cares? I’m invited to accompany him as he sings one of the best songs anyone has ever written.
I didn’t have to think about it too long. I responded as soon as I’d processed. I said yes. I said thank you. I said I’d see him on Thursday.
I’m doing it.
And I feel so glad.
I’m not nervous, because I spent an hour last night going over the tune, hearing the notes and feeling the rhythm. It is a good descant. I did a good job. It sounds beautiful, and it will only be better when I play with him.
I didn’t suddenly transform into a person who must be on stage. I didn’t rediscover my love for playing. I simply took an offered opportunity, and it feels good.
