Chapter 7 An Unlikely Truce #2
Catherine's fingers stilled on the bottle. "No." She said. "Last year, I made some decisions about my career that she didn't agree with, and we haven't spoken since."
It wasn't entirely true, and Catherine knew it. The honest answer was longer and less presentable, the kind that didn't survive contact with someone new.
Theodora nodded, not pushing. "I used to have a tradition too,” she said, moving on without making a thing of it.
"My grandma used to take me for pancakes after my soccer games.
Win or lose, it didn't matter. Every Sunday, same booth, same server, same order.
" She smiled. "God, I haven't had diner pancakes in like fifteen years. "
"Why not?"
"She passed a few years back." Theodora smiled, the kind that sat somewhere between fond and sad. "It just wouldn't be the same without her there. She never let me forget the time I scored in my own team's goal and lost us the game. Not once, not ever."
Catherine was about to say she probably would have teased Theodora too, right alongside her grandmother, when her attention drifted instead to the bodega’s entrance, tracking a pair of headlights as they slid past the window and vanished down the street.
"You keep looking at the door," Theodora said.
Catherine's gaze snapped back to her. "Do I?"
"Every car that goes by." Theodora's tone was light, but her eyes were sharp. "Has it got something to do with why you’re here at two in the morning?"
Catherine set her bottle down with a light clink against the counter. "It’s…there’s a man. Simon," she said, the name lingering between them.
"An ex?"
"No, not exactly," Catherine said, her mouth tightening at the corners.
Theodora lifted an eyebrow. “Meaning...”
"He represents me. Professionally." Catherine's gaze drifted toward the window again. "Though there was a brief...a few brief indiscretions. Years ago."
Theodora studied her face. "And now?"
"Now he's just my agent. Nothing more."
"Then why do you keep watching the door like you're expecting trouble? Do I need to be worried?”
“About him?” Catherine’s mouth twitched. “No. Unless you’re planning on confronting him on my behalf.”
“Absolutely not.” Theodora shook her head.
“That’s how it starts. I say one thing, he says something smug, and suddenly it’s a crime scene, and my threatening sticky-note collection is entered into evidence.
” She laughed, softening it. “I can see the headline now: ‘Exhausted Resident Snaps Over Late-Night Chopin.’ My parents would never forgive me for derailing my career over something as frivolous as murder.”
"The Chopin was Nocturne in C-sharp minor. And it’s worth killing over, I'd argue."
Theodora’s smile faded. Her hand moved across the counter, her pinkie brushing against Catherine’s in a brief tap. “We’ll agree to disagree on that one. But what I meant was, do I need to be worried about you?”
Catherine met her eyes, finding concern there without pity. "No, I'm fine. Really."
"Good." Theodora nodded once, decisive. "But if that changes—"
"You'll be the first to know."
Theodora held her gaze for a moment longer, and Catherine could see her deciding to believe it, which was its own kind of kindness. Then she leaned back against the counter, took a long sip of Sunkist, and set it down with a small click.
"So," she said. "I'm almost done with the third DVD."
“Already?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m a fast learner when properly motivated.”
“And what’s motivating you?” Catherine asked. “The desire to critique me more effectively?”
"Obviously." Theodora's lips curved. "But also, I don't know. It's actually interesting. The way everything connects, how the theory translates to what I hear when you play." She hesitated, then added, "There's this one piece I like that keeps showing up in examples. Clair de Lune."
"Ah, a Debussy fan."
“Yeah,” Theodora said after a moment. “Of all the pieces I’ve heard, it’s my favorite.”
Theodora's eyes were fixed on her own hands, fingers tracing the edge of the sandwich wrapper.
When she glanced up and caught Catherine watching, she gave a small shrug, as if to say, It's just a piece of music, not a big deal.
But something in the careful way she held herself told Catherine otherwise.
"What did you like about it?" Catherine asked.
“You're going to laugh.”
“Unlikely since you rarely say anything funny. But go on, you may surprise me.”
Theodora laughed softly, then took a breath.
“It took me back to summer vacations at my gran’s.
We’d watch old black-and-white romances on her VHS player.
You know, like Casablanca and Roman Holiday.
Clair de Lune felt like those final scenes before the credits roll, where everything pauses just long enough for you to believe it might actually turn out all right. ”
Something shifted in Catherine’s chest, small but unmistakable. Most people heard Debussy and thought of water or moonlight. Theodora had gone somewhere else entirely.
“I think that’s lovely,” Catherine said.
Theodora blinked, surprise flickering across her tired face. “That’s it? No correction?”
“No correction.” Catherine considered her for a moment. “Those films work because they’re built that way. The ending feels effortless, but it’s earned. Every scene knows where it’s going.”
She glanced down at Theodora’s hands, then back up. “Debussy does the same thing. He wanted it to sound spontaneous, almost accidental, but the structure is very precise. The part you’re calling whimsical is doing exactly what it’s meant to do.”
Theodora leaned back, absorbing that. “Huh…The DVD definitely didn’t mention that.”
"The DVD covered basics. You found the architecture on your own."
Something moved between them, quiet and electric, and neither of them looked away.
Well, until Theodora's jaw stretched open in a sudden yawn that she tried to smother with her palm before turning away.
"God, sorry, that's not—I swear it's not you," she said, blinking rapidly.
Catherine shook her head. "It’s okay, it's late. You should get some rest."
"Probably,” Theodora said. "But then I'd have to walk home and brush my teeth and change clothes. All of which sounds exhausting."
"The dental hygiene alone," Catherine said. "Hardly worth it."
Theodora laughed, short and genuine, and made no move to stand.
They sat there a moment longer. Then Theodora let out a quiet sigh, her shoulders dropping, and pushed back from the counter. She stood, crumpling wrappers, gathering bottles.
“I should probably get going. Another five minutes and Yorkie will be charging you rent for watching me drool on his counter." She paused. "You heading back too?"
Catherine nodded, and they drifted toward the exit, falling into step without looking at each other.
The cold caught her off guard when they stepped outside, the temperature several degrees lower than when she'd come in.
Theodora hunched her shoulders and moved a little closer, her breath fogging the air between them.
They lingered on the sidewalk without quite deciding to, feet shuffling against the concrete, neither of them turning toward The Lenox.
After a moment, Theodora tilted her head in the direction of home, the question clear in it, and Catherine answered with a small nod.
The elevator hummed as they rode up to their floor. Catherine leaned against the wall, her shoulders dropping an inch. For the first time in weeks, her thoughts weren't racing ahead of her, tangling into knots she couldn't undo.
"I'll be there again tomorrow," she said, after a moment. "Around the same time. If you're free."
Theodora glanced over and gave Catherine a brief smirk. "Only if you let me pay for the sandwiches and Sunkist this time."
"Fine. Deal."
The doors opened, and they stepped out together, footsteps going quiet on the hallway carpet.
Catherine paused at her door. "Goodnight, Theodora," she said, just above a whisper.
"Night, Catherine."
Just that. No joke, no barb, and yet Catherine felt her cheeks warm. She nodded and turned toward 14D, listening to Theodora's door open and close behind her.
Later, Catherine lay in bed staring at the ceiling. She kept hearing Theodora's voice describing Clair de Lune—"like those final scenes before the credits roll."
Tomorrow they'd be back at Yorkie's. More sandwiches. More Sunkist. More conversation that shouldn't feel this easy.
She should be wary. She should be calculating exit strategies.
Instead, she found herself calculating how many hours remained until tomorrow.