10. Chapter Ten
Chapter ten
Inés
Ihaven't touched my violin in years. It's been sitting in its case, tucked away under the bed like a forgotten relic of another life.
But today, as I sit here with my laptop and half-written manuscript, I feel the urge to open that case again. To see if the music still lives inside me.
So I pull it out, setting it on the desk next to my computer. The case is worn and dusty, but when I lift the lid, there it is: the instrument I loved so dearly before Harrison came into my life.
I pick it up carefully, feeling its familiar weight in my hands. The wood is smooth under my fingertips as I run them along the neck. It's been so long since I've held it like this. Too long since I let myself get lost in the strings and the bow.
A pang of sadness hits me then; for all the times I gave up playing for Harrison's sake, because he never understood how much it meant to me. Because it was always easier to put aside my own dreams in favor of his.
I don't think it's his fault, really. I just let him shape my world too much. I let him become my whole world, forgetting about all the other parts of me that needed space to grow and thrive.
Well, not anymore.
I head out to a shop on Atlantic Avenue where I scheduled a rehairing of the bow. I want to feel the strings beneath my fingers again, the way they vibrate with each note. I want to remember what it feels like to create something beautiful and entirely mine.
When I get back home, I settle on Ruth-Ann's couch with the violin in hand, ready to play. But then my phone buzzes on the table beside me.
I glance at the screen and see Harrison's name flashing across it.
I sigh heavily, considering letting it go to voicemail. But something in me, a flicker of curiosity, maybe even hope, makes me pick up.
"Hello?"
"Inés!" His voice sounds relieved, like he's been worried sick about me. Maybe he has. "Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for days. Are...you okay?"
I lean back against the couch cushions, staring up at the ceiling. "I'm fine," I say quietly. "Just needed some time away."
"Where are you? Teddy told me you left with him, but he didn't know where you were staying."
"I'm at a friend's," I answer vaguely, not wanting to bring Ruth into this. Not yet, anyway. "I just needed space to think about...things."
There's a pause on his end before he speaks again, softer this time. "Things? You mean...us?"
I close my eyes for a moment. "Yes Harrison; us."
"Look, Inés, I know things have been difficult lately," he says, his voice earnest now.
"And maybe I haven't been...present enough.
I've been so wrapped up in work and the company, and I'm sorry if that's made you feel neglected or unimportant.
Because you're not. You mean the world to me, I think I just...
got lost in all the other stuff going on. "
It's a good speech. One I might have fallen for before, when I was willing to believe everything he said without question.
But now...now it feels hollow, like he's just saying what he thinks will fix things.
I don't respond immediately, letting his words hang in the air between us.
"Are you still there?" he asks, concern creeping into his tone again.
"Yeah," I say finally. "Yes. Just thinking."
He exhales audibly. "Please come home, Inés," he pleads softly. "I miss you so much. I want to talk about this properly and make it right between us again. Don't just...leave me hanging like this."
I look at the violin beside me on the couch, the bow still unstrung, waiting to be used. Waiting for me to remember who I am without him.
"I don't know if I'm ready yet," I whisper honestly. "I need more time."
Harrison is quiet for a moment before he sighs. "Okay...but promise me you'll call me soon? Or at least text? Let me know you're alright?"
I bite my lip, torn between wanting to reassure him and not wanting to give him false hope. In the end, I say, "I will."
"Okay." A pause. "When you're ready, I want you to bring up every single one of your concerns. I'll be ready to listen this time."
I nod, even though he can't see me. "Alright." Before he can say goodbye, an idea flashes across my mind, one I haven't considered yet. "Harrison...when's the next board meeting? The one with all the investors?"
He hesitates, surprised by my sudden question. "Uh...it's next Tuesday. Why?"
I sit up straighter on the couch, my grip tightening around the phone. "Because I want to be there," I say firmly. "If we're going to talk about fixing things...then we need to fix everything. Including my role at L of course I want you there." There's a note of pride in his voice. "You deserve that seat at the table as much as anyone else."
My chest tightens with emotion. He sounds sincere; maybe he means it this time.
"Thank you," I whisper. And then I hang up before either of us can say more.
I imagine him saying 'I love you,' as I set the phone down and stare at the violin again. I can't bring myself to play it yet, but the fact that I'm considering it again...that's a start.
My time at Ruth-Ann's has given me time not only to think about my marriage and what I want, but also how to get it.
I only have a few days and the weekend to get things in line before the board meeting.
There are a few pieces in play already: that photo I took of the original program that erased me from it, Callum and Greta's support, Ruth and her network.
The fact that I have the trademark registration is something to have in the back pocket, but probably not as relevant now.
And now, Harrison has promised me a seat at that meeting; a promise I intend to hold him to.
I approach Ruth for a favor only her network can grant. Diane's insights as a historian might be very...valuable. So Ruth calls Diane for me and arranges a meeting the next day at her home.
The next morning, after talking to Ruth and a colleague or two over the phone, I prepare to meet with Diane again.
My plan is shaping up nicely. It feels good to have one for once.
I just hope Harrison is ready for what's coming. I suspect things are about to change around here, whether he likes it or not.
***
Diane Aoki lives in a narrow brownstone on a quiet street in Fort Greene, the kind of place where the front steps are swept and the brass knocker gleams even on a gray morning. She opens the door before I can knock, as if she's been watching for me through the curtain.
"Right on time," she says, ushering me inside without ceremony. "Ruth told me you'd be coming. Coffee's on."
Her home smells of old books, just like Ruth-Ann's.
The walls are lined with shelves, but unlike Ruth-Ann's orderly stacks, these are crammed with publishing memorabilia: framed galley proofs, conference badges going back decades, a black-and-white photo of a young Diane shaking hands with someone whose face I almost recognize.
She catches me looking at it. "That was Haydn Salter," she says, pouring coffee with the practiced ease of someone who has hosted a thousand quiet conversations.
"Founded Salter it's the one who makes herself comfortable. "
I take the mug she offers, wrapping my fingers around its warmth. "That sounds like someone I know."
Diane sits across from me at her small kitchen table, her expression shifting from welcoming to serious. She folds her hands, and I notice the ink stains on her right thumb, a detail that makes me unreasonably fond of her.
"When Ruth told me what was happening at Locke they're observations. What you do with them is up to you."
I spend the rest of the morning reading through everything Diane has compiled, making notes, organizing the materials into a folder.
The scope of what Ruth-Ann's network has assembled is staggering, not just gossip or sympathy, but documented patterns, timestamped evidence, and firsthand accounts from women who lived through the same thing I'm living through now.
By the time I leave Diane's brownstone, the afternoon light is slanting through the trees and I'm carrying a folder that feels heavier than its pages.
Not because of the weight of the paper, but because of the weight of what it represents: proof that I'm not crazy.
That what's happening to me has happened before, and that there are people who've been watching, waiting for someone to say it out loud.
I call Ruth on the walk back to the shop. "It's done," I say. "I have everything I need."
"Good girlie," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "Now go win your meeting."