7. Evelyn
7
Evelyn
“ I f you didn’t want me to play certain songs then you shouldn’t have let me connect to the Bluetooth,” I call over the wind and music as I slip my phone between my thighs, securely where Garrett would never dare reach.
I’ve queued up enough music to last another hour. When we started the scenic drive thirty-something minutes ago, I eased in with one Fool’s Gambit song mixed in with other pop hits then I sprinkled in another, then another. With each I’ve increased frequency to the point that now it’s all Fool’s Gambit and nothing else.
“You have a gift,” he deadpans just loud enough that I can hear him.
Trees tower over us on either side, forming corridor walls leading up to the crystal clear sky. Most are green, but some have given way to the gold and reds of fall. The hues blur together as we rush by, wind causing loose strands of my hair to dance around my face. This is the type of place that sweeps you away, the memory imprinted in the back of your mind long after you leave so you crave it whenever you consider escaping real life.
“I have many to keep track of, which one are you concerned with at the moment?” Amusement threatens to curl my lips, and I have to actively contain a smile.
“The one where you crawl under my skin like a parasite and make my nightmares a reality.”
“Too easy. You need more creative nightmares.”
“I’ll work on that.” His eyes remain locked on the road in front of us but there’s something in the way that his jaw works that suggests an undertone of humor. “But it can't be too easy since you’re the only one who manages to do it so efficiently.”
“Oh.” Him acknowledging the tidal push and pull we’ve had throughout the years immediately makes it feel less like a game. For the first time, he’s made me speechless.
A few moments later, he pulls into a overlook that butts up against the rolling waters of the Hudson. We exit the car and head toward the sturdy wooden railing, the thick rungs weatherworn. The view goes straight across the water to even more trees as far as the eye can see. Buildings dot the land, and it’s tempting to shout and see if anyone could hear.
“It’s quite the view,” I say.
“Yeah. I used to come here when I needed space to think,” he explains. “Made me feel less trapped.”
I consider asking what he was breaking free from, but that feels like it would do a disservice to what he’s already shared. If he wanted to tell me, he would.
Water laps against the cliff. Birds twitter and chirp overhead. Wind whispers through the trees.
The moment reminds me of a song, “4’33”” composed by John Cage that can be played on any instrument and by any number of instruments. The piece is made up of four minutes and thirty-three seconds without a single note being played. It pushes the boundaries of what is considered music. The song is different every time because it’s comprised of what happens during that time. In a theater, that may be the rustle of programs and clothes or a latent whisper. Here, the sounds of nature give their texture and raw musicality. To me, the piece isn’t about the silence, it’s about listening.
On the drive back, my phone automatically connects to the sound system and I change the playlist to something that’s not designed with his torment in mind. When “Dream a Little Dream of Me” sung by Doris Day comes on, he bobs his head along.
“You like this one,” I note and instantly regret it when he stops.
“I know it really well. It’s one of the first songs I got good at playing on the cello. Pretty much everything I learned to play was from a list of songs Alina liked to sing,” he says.
“You said she wasn’t your grandmother the other day,” I say, inviting an explanation.
“She was my neighbor.”
“And you learned music from her?”
“Only the piano. The mayor's wife used to play cello professionally and taught music at the elementary school until she retired. Nothing formal. I just practiced a lot.” As he explains his knuckles tighten then loosen again on the leather of the slim steering wheel.
“And how’d you pick up the bass?”
“Wes needed someone to play bass. I figured that out,” he explains as if it’s that simple to be proficient in three instruments, playing one professionally.
“That’s all,” I say. “Wow. I mean…it’s impressive.”
I can play the guitar and I have the finger calluses to prove it, but it's nothing noteworthy. The only reason I’m as proficient as I am at piano is that I’ve been learning since I was five. Sure, I have a natural skill when it comes to writing and feeling the music, but that’s different. I can’t imagine picking up an instrument and just figuring it out, not in the way he’s implying.
He shrugs. “If you say so.”
“You’re bad at taking compliments.” I shake my head, causing more of my hair to break free and catch in the wind.
“If you say so.” This time he gives me a hint of a smirk.
When we pull onto Austen Dr., something in me mourns the end of our day. It’s not dark out yet, but it will be soon. The moment I get inside I’ll be alone in the house with the reality that even if I used to know what I was doing, I don’t anymore. I wish there was some way to stretch today just a little further. One more hour or maybe two. Not that I want to spend time with him, but it’s better than my other options.
The convertible pulls to a stop next to my SUV at the end of the driveway and he lazily props his elbow on the door as he turns to me. “We’re not done, by the way.”
“Is that so?” My hollow longing for company shrinks.
“I have one last stop planned, but it’s best if we wait a few hours and we both need to eat.”
“How considerate. Will I need to bring anything special? Perhaps a shovel. I’m not sure what’s in the shed out back, but I can check,” I offer.
“You should change.” He gives me a once over, employing one of those looks of his that pierces right through me and causes my stomach to swirl. “I’m taking you to a local’s spot so it’s best to put in an effort to not look like a tourist. And you’re not allergic to cats, right?”
“Noted,” I say, “And no, not allergic but thoroughly intrigued.”
“Seems like that doesn’t take much.”
“Hey.” With this, I reach over to give a playful shove. His bicep is firm under my touch. Damn.
“I never said that was a bad thing.” His gaze intensifies, harnessing the fiery essence of the late afternoon light.
There’s a truth that I will never admit because it’s rarely ever relevant. There have been a handful of times that Garrett has made my stomach flutter. The instances are so infrequent that I can convince myself they’re just the product of his conventionally attractive features or those small flashes of emotion that I draw out of him. But it’s never been either of those things. It’s those eyes of his, rough cut amber that punctures straight through me, seeing things I’m terrified of anyone knowing about me. He makes my walls turn to glass and I want to tell him to look away, but that in itself would be admitting too much. That I know he’s looking.
There was one night in particular that comes back to me in fragments. A rooftop. My dress soaked in champagne. The knowledge that if I ran to him, I wouldn’t have to put on a brave face. A suit jacket I’ve kept ever since.
“See you soon, I guess.” The words scratch against my throat as I fumble for the handle to leave.
There’s an art to nervously pacing. My tiny apartment in Chelsea is very bad for pacing because what ends up happening is I start walking in circles. If I forget to turn the other direction, my head starts to spin and I get hit with a wave of nausea that tangles with, and then amplifies, my nerves.
The rental, with its expansive living room that stretches into a dining area and floral upholstered breakfast nook, is great for pacing. I can take long unobstructed strides as I peel off pieces of pepperoni from my frozen pizza. I should start getting ready, but I haven’t decided on what qualifies as proper attire for the evening. Eventually, I give up and text Garrett.
Evelyn
What should I wear?
Garrett
Whatever
Evelyn
Floor length gown it is
Text dots dance at the bottom of the screen then disappear again. A full minute later a text finally comes through.
Garrett
Don’t.
He makes it too easy, and I do have one. I tend to over pack based on a list of what ifs that will never happen. I abandon my pizza and wash my hands before heading upstairs.
The black silk dress makes me feel sophisticated in a way that I rarely do. My T-shirts tell everyone what to expect, loud and maybe a little too much. They’re my own personal warning labels. Still, it would be nice for someone to see me as someone soft and elegant.
I lift my phone and angle the camera to get the entire dress in frame then send off the picture.
Evelyn
Too late. Unless you have other suggestions.
Garrett
This
He’s sent a screenshot from my Instagram. I only have a moment to appreciate the fact that he’s taken my words so literally, before I look at the picture that has my stomach tying in knots.
My face is stretched into a rowdy cheer as I hoist a pint glass over my head next to Quinn, who’s far more nonchalant with her arm draped around my shoulder. Oliver, whose pint I stole to pose with, took the picture four times because the first time someone else walked between us and the camera, the second and third times the pictures were just bad.
I love Avery and how much closer we’ve gotten living in the same city, but I miss Quinn and Oliver. I miss going out and talking about work where Peter in design needed to stop trying to find “creative” ways to make Comic Sans a trend or how Kirsten was definitely taking extra product samples from the little bins that we get from brands. Oliver would cheer on the repetitive cycle of petty drama, since he mostly worked virtually and also likes everyone he’s ever met. There’s a part of me that wishes I could press a rewind button and never sign my record deal. But I made a choice, and now I’m living with it.
My screen goes dark. I tap it once so I can examine the outfit, trying to brush off the aftershock of memory. The jeans are some of my favorites, light wash denim with red stars where pockets should be. I don’t have the exact black top because I accidentally snagged and tore it on a fence a while back, but I have plenty like it.
As I’m doing the little jumps that are required to get into the skin tight jeans, my phone flashes with a call. I answer without looking because I assume it’s Garrett calling to let me know he’s on his way.
“How’s Love Land?” Vincent asks and my stomach plummets. This is what I get for not calling him yesterday like I promised.
I put the phone on speaker and place it on the nightstand as I continue dressing.
“It’s great. There’s this amazing energy here. I wish I could bottle the air,” I say as I start to shove my feet into black combat boots.
“So, the writing’s going well?” It’s the question I didn’t want him to ask, but a significant portion of his job is making sure I do my job.
“It’s great!” I chirp, hating the sharpness of my voice. “I could give a dumpster fire a run for its money.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah. But I’m close.” Maybe if I repeat it enough I’ll actually get a few steps closer through some sort of willpower fueled manifestation. I don’t mention the small issue of my piano needing to be tuned as that doesn’t exactly convey that I have everything under control.
Vincent was supportive of this trip because I was excited about something for the first time in a while. I’m not sure how far that support will stretch if I don’t show proof of progress soon.
“Just like you were close when you sent me that one insurance company jingle and swore it would make a great hook?” he asks.
Not my greatest moment. To my credit, I've been watching a lot of TV, and those commercials are catchy. I sent him a voice memo with my “amazing idea” only to wake up to his text asking me if I was serious.
“Like one percent closer, maybe two.” My attention flicks to the window as a pair of headlights blaze light down Alina’s driveway. “Is there something you need to talk about? If not, I should get going.”
“Yes. Reverb sent back the changes for your contract renewal,” he says with a serious edge that puts me on high alert. “You might want to sit down for this.”
We’ve been expecting them to present a preliminary contract to start negotiations, I’ve not known what to expect from it. I guess Vincent has the answers.
I claim a spot at the foot of the bed. “Okay. I’m sitting.”
“They want you to go public as Lyla as part of the new contract. They think that you’re losing public interest and they have the numbers on their side,” he explains.
“That’s against everything we’ve been working for,” I say, my voice going thin.
I get it. I do. They see all the money they could be getting out of not only my future record but my past ones as well. This was always a possibility, but I thought I was going to have this album as one last chance to prove I don’t need to go public. What I’ve built isn’t perfect, but it keeps everything in the balance.
Growing up seeing Avery and Drew in the spotlight I was apprehensive of people, sure. But I made it my mission to make people like me for me, or at least remember me as more than the sibling of someone who they put posters up of in their room. I want to have a genuine connection with the people in my life. People knowing who I am the moment I walk into a room? I don’t think I can do it. Even without people knowing my identity, I’ve struggled so much with reviews and commentaries. If they know who I am, they’ll have even more they could tear into. There’s no way that some people won’t be disappointed. I bet they’re expecting someone…more.
“I know, but—” Vincent’s voice cuts short, and I look down at the phone thinking the call got cut short.
No. The call is still going.
Just not through my speaker.