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He heaved a few more steadying breaths and then jammed his hands in the pockets of his athletic pants. He slumped down, his long legs akimbo. If we were on the subway, he’d have taken up two seats. But for all his man-spreading bluster, I could see he was trying desperately to appear at ease when he obviously wasn’t.
“So, what’s your story?”
I blinked and couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re quite the conversationalist. You want to hear where I’m from and all that?”
He nodded. “All that.”
“Well, it’s not very interesting…”
“Don’t minimize yourself. Everyone’s life is interesting in some way.”
“I guess. Not much has happened to me yet. Not compared to you and where you’ve been.”
I meant that as a compliment, not to open old wounds, but Noah flinched anyway.
“Where I’ve been? Do you mean the bottom of the Pacific? That was my latest and greatest excursion, but how about we don’t talk about that, eh?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Noah waved a hand. “You, not me. Where are you from? Originally?”
“Um, Bozeman, Montana. I moved here when I was eighteen.”
“Montana. Big sky country.”
“Have you been there?”
“No. I missed it.”
“Missed it?”
“The big sky. I missed my chance to see it and now it’s gone forever and…” He shook his head. “Forget it. You, not me.”
I crossed my arms and faced him. “You know, after our breakfast chat the other day, I don’t know that I’m in a big hurry to spill my guts to you.”
“I don’t blame you.” He turned his head in my direction. “I promise to behave myself. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my useless fucking eyeballs. Oh, pardon my language. My gosh-darned useless eyeballs.”
I shifted against the bench. “I’m not used to talking about myself.”
“Obviously.”
“Some would say that’s a positive character trait.”
“Others might say we’re going to grow old and die waiting for you to at least tell me the basics of your so-called-not-very-interesting life.”
“Okay, okay. Such a grouch.” I laughed. “Um, well, I came here for Juilliard…”
“No, no, wait. You didn’t magically poof into existence at Juilliard. Go back. How long have you played the violin?”
“Oh, uh, since I was a kid. Since almost before I can remember.”
“Why? Did your parents force you? Make you take lessons, hoping for a prodigy?”
“Just the opposite. I was desperate to play.”
Noah nodded, his hard-edged features softening, as if he liked that answer. “What sparked you?”
“I saw some concert on PBS. I must have been four years old. There was a woman, a soloist—I don’t know who—and I watched her, just…mesmerized.”
