Chapter Twenty-seven #2
I take my place beside the piano. As Mr. Barron plays the introduction, I silently lay out my heart before a God who knows what it’s like to grieve a loss, to weep. I don’t know if I can do this, God. I’m not ready to say goodbye.
And then it’s time to sing.
Even though it hurts, I let the lyrics rip me open. I sing as if every word of this song is a statement of devotion, aimed at Noah’s heart.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I inject that truth—our truth—into the melody, carving the fullness of my heart into every note, the desperation of my hope into each verse.
Skills I’ve gained through years of training allow me to measure and support each breath through my tears.
Raw emotion pours over words and melody, but it’s not dreams of the someday-stage of Broadway that sustains these notes, this control.
It’s a deep knowledge of what the stage of this moment represents: my last chance to sing to Noah.
It could be years before I have this opportunity again.
As I sing, a still, small voice whispers in my ear. It’s a familiar refrain, unattached to this song.
Hold on.
I will. I pledge with my eyes, my heart, and through the unsung undertones of this song. I will hold on.
My assurance is reflected in Noah’s eyes, connecting my heart to his, his to mine, by a thin—so thin—but golden thread of hope.
Too soon, the song is over.
Mr. Barron finishes the last bit of the accompaniment and sits silently staring at the piano keys.
Finally, he lifts his head, pulling a hand across his face. “Faith, that was . . . exquisite. If you sing it like that on Saturday, there won’t be a dry eye in the place. Clearly, my work here is done. In fact, I’m gonna need a sec.” He spins around on the piano bench until he’s facing the wall.
My cheeks are streaked with tears, as are Noah’s, but neither of us makes a move to cover the evidence of our emotion . . . until the door of the choir room opens, admitting a gangly seventh grade boy whose feet are much too big for his shoulders.
Wiping his eyes, Mr. Barron spins back around. “Alex. Come on in. We’re just finishing up.” He waves the boy forward and then steps around the piano. He offers Noah his hand. “Mr. Spencer, it’s been an honor.”
Noah stands. Their handshake turns into a hug.
Mr. Barron pats Noah’s back and steps away, sniffing. “Knock ’em dead over there, kid.”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. B.”
“I know you will.” He glances at me, eyebrows raised. “See you next week then, Faith? Same time, new music?”
I nod. My throat is too tight to let a word escape. I’m on the ragged edge of an utter meltdown, and seeing how close Mr. Barron is to losing it again doesn’t help.
Noah’s eyes are on me. “I’ll walk you out.”
Words tumble over one another in my mind, but none come until we reach the exit doors.
“Noah.” His name is a whisper. It’s all I can manage.
“Madeleine Faith.” His smile is both strangely full and utterly broken. “Everything you sang? I heard it. And I sang it right back to you, in here.” He taps his chest and then cups my cheek.
I close my eyes. Stay, I want to beg him, but I don’t. I can’t. I won’t be the thing that keeps him from his dreams.
“Faith, I . . .” His hand slips from my face. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay.”
He sticks his hands in the pockets of his jeans and rocks back on his heels. “I guess you’ll be expected home soon.”
“Yeah.”
He looks up at the ceiling tiles of the entryway. “I don’t know if I’ll get another chance to tell you good—”
“No.” I put my hand on his lips, and then drop it. “Don’t say it.”
His Adam’s apple moves up and down. “Okay.” His smile is shaky. “In my head, I’m hugging you. Just F.Y.I.”
“Thanks.” I let the tiniest smile through, but it’s weak and only serves to bring more tears to my eyes. “In my head, I’m hugging you back.”
Our eyes lock, and I fight the urge to throw myself into his arms. When the temptation becomes too much to bear, I turn and flee. Pushing the door open, I exit the school on a blind and stumbling run.
Noah doesn’t follow.
I don’t expect him to.
By the time I reach my car, sobs shake my body so fiercely that I can barely open the door. I sit in my car while Noah fires up old Eliza. I close my eyes as she makes her crass departure, escorting Noah away from Kanton High. Away from me.
Panic strikes. Stealing my air. Curling forward, I hug my arms around myself, arms that ache with the need to hold on to Noah almost as much as my heart aches to realize just how long it could be before I see him again.
I should have wished him well. I should have said goodbye.
This is it. This is really . . . it.
Tonight, my family will head to Des Moines for Ryan’s wedding. We won’t get back until Sunday night. Monday will be spent moving Gretchen back into her sorority house. Mom has already given me a Cinderella-worthy list of post-wedding chores for Tuesday.
And Wednesday?
On Wednesday, Noah Spencer will board a plane bound for London.
Time has run out.
And I didn’t let him say goodbye.
I didn’t say goodbye.