5. Garrett
5
Garrett
I glare at the traitorous box on Alina’s mahogany coffee table. I know for a fact there wasn’t a mix up between 2107 and 2108 Austen Dr. because I brought this exact box with the dented corner inside yesterday.
It’s not like I should be surprised Alina is scheming again. I could live without it, though.
“Can I help you?” I ask as I direct my attention to where Evelyn is staring at me with those damn sage green eyes of hers. Evelyn is the type of person who takes up space. It’s not just her body but also her voice and this presence that all but forces you to look at her. Of course, there’s the fact that I do like looking at her… Who wouldn’t?
She’s all soft features and long, tan legs. Green eyes that shine so bright it’s impossible to look away. Dark waves that beg you to run your fingers through them. It doesn’t matter if she’s my old bandmate’s little sister, it’s not like I’ll do anything about this damn persistent attraction I have for her. I only see her three or four times a year for a handful of minutes each, so why shouldn't I drink her in when I have a chance?
“Did you know that you have an evil twin with the same name as you who lives in the city? The resemblance is eerie,” Evelyn says as she tilts her head to inspect me, causing her mess of hair to drape to one side.
We’re sitting on opposite sides of Alina’s cluttered coffee table. Alina herself is humming in the kitchen preparing tea. It’s a trap to get Evelyn and I alone in the same way her leaving a box on the doorstep of the rental to get Evelyn to come over was. If that woman didn’t practically raise me, I’d leave.
“Be serious,” I say.
“I am. I’m warning you that you might have a doppelganger out there. That could be terrible luck.” She maintains her wide-eyed expression of awe as she continues. “If anything, I’m saving you from someone who says they’ll help you move and then not follow through.”
“I helped,” I remind her.
“You hired movers.”
“I thought we got this out of our systems two weeks ago.” I grit my teeth, guilt surging in my gut.
“I didn’t want to assume you remembered everything—hospital trip and all,” she says. “If you want a recap, I got you coffee and you hired movers. But I assume you’re okay, given your current circumstances.”
I didn’t know that. Shit. But the small detail of coffee shouldn’t change anything. The fact she did that catches me off guard. I rarely expect much from people, so when they do show up for me, I don’t know how to react to it. I was an ass at the hospital, but I shouldn’t have been.
With her here now, I’m feeling the same way as when I bolted at the thought of being alone with her during her move. She’s not strictly off limits. But there’s a reason I’m known for only being good for a handful of nights before moving on to someone new. If I want to keep Evelyn in my life, then nothing can come from what I feel for her.
“I’m sorry, all right? Something came up with work,” I say. “Can we move on from it?”
“Only if you tell me how you convinced this nice woman to call you her grandson. If this is a hostage situation, I will call the police.” She pauses for a moment, brows creasing as she attempts to piece things together. “Wait. Is she your grandma?”
If anyone’s a hostage here, it’s me.
“Not technically.” Though, if I remind Alina, all I’ll get is a lecture about gratitude.
“Then what are you doing here?” she asks as she settles back against the couch.
“I’m from here.”
“Prove it."
“Like most of the general population, I don’t carry my birth certificate with me so you’ll just have to take my word for it.”
“Well, according to Teen Vogue , and pretty much any other media outlet, you’re from Nashville,” she says disbelievingly.
It’s a false assumption I’ve fed into over the years. The stories always talked about how Fool’s Gambit started in Nashville when we were in high school, which is true. I left Hartsfall when I was fourteen after I passed St. George’s entrance exam, packed my bags, and stepped toward the future. It’s not like there’s much for me here, besides sour memories. The version of me I built in Nashville is the person I used to wish I was before I grew up and realized how diluted that fantasy was.
“I bet I know why you’re here,” I say. She’s the exact type of person who would come to Hartsfall, like all the other optimists who don’t take a moment to see through the alluring veneer.
“Vacation.” She points an accusatory finger at my face. “And don’t you dare give me one of those judgmental ass looks. Avery has already given me an entire lecture about my choice of location. I don’t need shit from you too.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
“Your eyebrows do this thing that makes it look like your face is telling me I’m stupid.” She waves at my face.
I try to correct whatever offensive expression I’m wearing. And maybe I am judging her, but only in the way that I judge all the other tourists. They come here with impossibly high expectations and this idea that the town will be a way of ignoring things that are irrevocably broken. If your relationship is doomed, a weekend here won’t fix a damn thing.
“That’s not my intention,” I say. Being here brings out a version of me that I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with her seeing.
“Well, you should reign in your eyebrows then. Or maybe try shaving them off,” she says, as if offering to be the one wielding the razor.
“ Cosmopolitan put out an article a few years ago of celebrities without eyebrows, so I already know that’s a bad idea.”
“Oh yeah. You did look terrible in that.” Her lips quirk into a smile then she sits upright and points again. “See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. It’s like the entire top half of your face is shaming me for consuming popular media.”
“Can we move past your impressive niche knowledge of my micro expressions? I’m not judging you. It’s that the article came out six years ago, so don’t blame me for wondering why you recalled it so easily.” Seems like she reads plenty of articles about me. But it’s not like she’s doing it on purpose, if I’m mentioned, her brother often is too. It's better if it’s nothing.
“Maybe I like looking at ugly pictures of you to make me feel better,” she says.
“How exactly would that make you feel better?”
“I don’t know, I’m bullshitting here. As if I spend my free time compiling photos of you in a folder on my phone.” She shrugs, and for some reason the reality of her joke disappoints me.
“Oddly specific for something you’re vehemently denying.”
A light clinking of porcelain comes from the kitchen and I take it as my cue to escape and help Alina. In the kitchen, she’s arranged a set of blue country rose teacups with gold inlays on saucers along with a matching tea pot on a polished silver tray.
“You’ll only need two. I’m heading out,” I tell her.
“You have nowhere to be but here. We have a guest. She’s agreed to play and why would you miss out on that as a fellow musician?” She adds a little jar of sugar cubes to the tray. “You could join in.”
I hesitate as a stone weighs down my stomach because the truth is, I miss playing music with people, being a part of something larger than myself. I miss it enough that it’s a bad idea to do it again. There was a reunion for the band in January that only reminded me how good we were, despite our squabbling. I spent weeks after throwing myself even harder into work filling the hole in my chest, reminding myself of the life I have right now. The one I always planned on having where I didn’t have to rely on anyone but myself. I promised a few years with the band to Wesley and that’s what I gave him.
“Fine,” I say, knowing because it’s Alina that this isn’t a fight I can win. “One song.”
I gingerly grab the tray, making sure to not take out my frustrations on the China that’s older than I am, and follow her out into the living room. Alina said she got the set from some prince or a Hollywood actor she had a tryst with back in the day. That’s who she claims most of her prized possessions have come from. I’ve lost count of her affairs. It might be better to keep track of the celebrities and public figures she wasn’t involved with.
Her home has always reminded me of a museum. Everything is from a time when things were built to last. Her walls are covered in old framed photographs. Some are of her from past performances. Others are from each of her three weddings. Scattered throughout are a few of her children and grandchildren who rarely visit. She’s never cared for them because she thinks they’re greedy and boring, and there’s nothing worse to Alina than being boring.
One of the first things I realized coming here as a kid was any question about these pictures would be answered with a story. Once I learned that, I used it to my advantage to prolong my visits. The alternative was going home, seeing if my mom came back when night inevitably came. Thinking about those times is bittersweet, back then I thought of her as my mom and not Lana. Alina’s has never been my home, but it’s never felt empty, not even when I’m the only one here. It’s too stuffed with old memories to let that happen.
That time talking about Alina’s weddings, after telling every detail down to the flowers in each bouquet she’d simply said, “I loved them all. That’s why.” Some part of me believed if that were true, maybe she had enough love to spare for me. I’m grateful it turned out to be true.
The sound of the piano pulls me back to the moment, followed by Alina’s voice. “Accompany her, dear boy?” she calls from where she’s getting Evelyn settled at her parlor grand piano, which is roughly a foot larger than a baby grand and has a fuller, richer sound.
It’s the first instrument I ever learned to play. I make sure to keep it tuned so I can accompany her during my visits, since Alina hasn’t been able to play it since her arthritis has made it impossible, but she still loves to sing. My old cello rests on a stand beside it, one that was suited for me when I was fourteen and about five inches shorter.
“Give me a minute to tune.” I move from the coffee table to retrieve my cello.
Evelyn nods in acknowledgement, already immersed in flipping through the age-yellowed sheet music of a German aria.
I rosin my bow, falling into muscle memory of the act. Everything is in good condition. I’ve played a few times since I arrived two weeks ago. Once ready, I pull out a stool and position the cello between my knees and bend my body to adjust to the size. Starting with the C and working my way through, adjusting the tension in the strings accordingly. In the background, Evelyn’s fingers skim along the keys, stopping and reviewing any areas of the song giving her trouble in a flurry of sound.
Ready, I look toward Evelyn and her eyes lock with mine. Holding. We’ve heard each other play before, so many times over the years that the moments blended together. But never like this.
“Alina, we’re ready for you,” I say, breaking the spell.
Alina’s teacup clinks as she places it on its saucer. She adjusts her silky shawl over her shoulders then takes her usual place in the hollow curve of the piano. A breath and a roll of her shoulders then Evelyn and I start, perfectly in sync.
We play three and a half measures before Alina’s velvety voice fills the room. I’ve heard this song a thousand times and can play it from memory without a second thought, but with Evelyn at the piano it sounds startlingly new.
She has a musicality that animates the song, she breathes through the rests, giving life to the respite between notes. It’s been years since I’ve heard her, but even back then she was talented. You couldn’t walk into a room and not stop to listen.
I used to go get water from the kitchen during band practice and she’d be at the piano in the living room. I’d watch, but she never noticed. She never looked up when she was playing, the instrument capturing her full attention. I thought it was a shame she didn’t turn it into more than a hobby. She’s better than her brother ever was.
Playing together now has a natural give and take as we support Alina’s voice. It’s imperfect in parts. Evelyn plays a wrong note then I come in a beat too early. We've never played together. But when we weave together just right, it’s like we’re being carried together on the stream of sound.
The need to stay and the instinct to get up and leave crush against each other like I’m caught in a fault line. When I was in Fool’s Gambit, I lived for this moment when everyone on stage or in rehearsal fit together. I belonged in those moments with those people. It was undeniable. For the same reason I turned down Wesley’s invitation to go to LA, this moment with Evelyn makes me want to run.
I stay.
It’s one song, even if it’s sweet poison.
Evelyn catches me looking when I didn’t even realize that I was and something foreign pinches in my stomach. Her lips have parted and her face is flushed. Our eyes remain locked for another heartbeat before she breaks away.
Alina draws out the visit another hour after we finish the song. She brings out an old photo album, poring over old costumes and cast pictures. Evelyn drinks up the experience, indulging Alina to talk about her favorite times in Vienna and Milan.
It’s been an effort to urge them toward the door. I know if Evelyn stays any longer, Alina will invite her for dinner. We’re nearly done with the night, I just need to get Evelyn the rest of the way off the porch and headed home.
“This was the perfect welcome to town,” Evelyn says. “Thank you.”
“You haven’t seen the town. You’ve just been in this house humoring me. I stole your first night. Let me make it up to you,” Alina insists. There’s a dangerous glimmer in her eye that makes me certain generosity isn’t on her mind. “Garrett, take her into town tomorrow.”
“I can’t—” I start.
“You can. You have no plans. You’ve spent the last two weeks fixing the house. There’s no more to fix. If you wanted a new project, then I’d have to break something.” She wields each sentiment like a blade slashing through any hope of escape.
I’ve spent the last two weeks working to that end. I couldn’t stay still and have filled my hours with every project I could find. It’s part of the reason I came here instead of a regular vacation spot. I knew I could be practical and effective with my time. Still, I spent three days that first week in a dark room fighting migraines that hit me full force the moment I remembered the cases I was falling behind on. But because of my work on the house, I’m fresh out of reasons to say no to Alina’s proposal.
“Hasn’t stopped you before,” I mutter under my breath. There have been times in the past when I’ve let a month or two go by without visiting and a text will come through with a picture of a porch step that needs to be replaced or a gutter that’s been torn from the siding. Every time there are signs of suspicious methods. There are only so many times the siding can come loose from the house before it stops being a coincidence.
“There’s no better way to get to know a place than spending time with a local .” Evelyn's voice is sweet but there’s something akin to Alina’s upturned scheming expression on her face.
“Ten a.m. I’ll meet you by the gazebo,” I say.