Chapter Twenty-Nine
WINTER ARRIVES IN Maine. On our last full day, I wake up to a view of snow-laced treetops.
It’s the beautiful kind, too—fat, puffy flakes that cover the boughs in a sparkling blanket despite the sun hiding behind the clouds.
It’d be idyllic if it weren’t for the lump of dread in the pit of my stomach.
For all the complaining I did when I sat on the stoop of my family’s home nearly three months ago, I’m not ready to leave.
I feel like I have one foot here, in Boothbay Harbor, and one foot in the life I left behind.
I miss my family, my creature comforts of my own space, yes—but this quiet world I’ve inhabited with Oliver has grown on me so much that I don’t want to let it go.
Just us, I think as I burrow under the covers. He’s still fast asleep next to me, one heavy leg slung over my own. I nestle into his chest. Breathe him in. Let that clean smell of his soap and the remnants of his cologne fill my lungs.
For a while, I hover in that space between—awake and asleep, here and New York, the present and the future. Day by day, we’ve said before. If this is our last one in Maine, then we’ll make it a good one.
Sleep is so precious for him that I don’t want to wake him.
I slip out of bed without incident and silently shut the bathroom door to tend to my morning routine.
Once I make it to the kitchen, I can see that we got at least three inches of snow.
It’s still beautiful and untouched; the perks of a house so remote that you cannot see your neighbors.
While the coffee brews, I check my phone.
There are a few automatic-bill-pay emails waiting for me—a reminder that the unfun parts of my life in New York are waiting for me—along with a bunch of unread messages in the family group chat.
Everyone is so excited I’m coming home. I wish I shared the same enthusiasm.
I tap into Amanda’s contact card. If there’s one person I can talk to about my complicated feelings, it’s her—the middle sister who is not only an early riser, but also the most reasonable and levelheaded of the three of us.
My ears strain as I listen for any signs of movement upstairs, but I’m met with silence.
I fix myself a cup of coffee and hit the call button.
Amanda picks up on the second ring. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I whisper through a smile. “Just wanted to say hi.”
“Okay, well, hola,” she replies. “I don’t think you’ve ever called me at seven a.m.—no, wait, six forty-five.”
“Well, I’m up now and wanted to talk to my sister. Is there something wrong with that?”
“No, but why are you so quiet?” she asks.
“Oh my god, you and Rosa,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “She asked me the same thing when we talked.”
“My loud-ass sister calls me first thing in the morning whispering like she’s being held hostage and you expect me not to ask questions?
” There’s a bunch of noise on her end of the line, like dishes clattering in a sink, and I can picture her standing in the small kitchen of the apartment she shares with her roommate. “Be for real, Celia. What’s up?”
I take a sip of my coffee. “I’m just trying to be nice. He’s still asleep.”
“But what’s the real reason you called? I’m gonna see you in, like, thirty hours.”
I take a deep breath and remind myself why I called this sister out of all people—she sees right through my bullshit. This is what I wanted when I picked up the phone.
“I guess I’m just feeling, like, weird about it all,” I say, hyperaware of the fact that I have to be careful here; no one knows what’s happened between Oliver and me.
“When I first took this job and came up here, all I wanted to do was crush it so I could go back home. But now we’re leaving tomorrow and I feel like…
I don’t know. Like I’ve changed or something. ”
“We’re leaving,” Amanda repeats.
I blink, confused at the direction she’s taking. “Yeah, he’s going back to the city, too.”
“This weird feeling—it couldn’t be because there’s something going on between you and him, right?”
I almost drop my coffee. “What?” I ask, but when the question leaves my lips, I know that it won’t fool her. Not for one second.
“Listen, hermana, I’m not trying to pry.
If you don’t want to tell me the details, that’s fine, but you can’t call me for advice or whatever and lie to me.
I saw the way you two looked at each other when you FaceTimed me for my birthday.
You’re quiet in the group chats, too. I know you’re a workhorse and this was a big job, but you’re holding all of us at arm’s length for a reason. ”
My heart is racing and it has nothing to do with the caffeine. I lean against the counter and bite my lip. Amanda is content to let the silence stretch out between us.
“Okay, so, what if that was true?” I finally ask. “Hypothetically speaking—what if there was something going on between Oliver and me?”
“Then I’d laugh and say congrats,” she replies. “He’s hot now.”
“Yeah, I’m aware,” I mumble. “But what if… what if there are feelings involved?”
It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud in any capacity.
I still don’t know what those feelings are, exactly, but I know they’re there.
All the memories of him from college, the reality of who he is now, the work we’re doing, the uncertainty of my future, of our future—it’s all tangled up in a hot mess inside me.
“What kind of feelings?” she asks.
“Amanda,” I huff. “I don’t know. That’s why I called you.”
“I think you do know.” Her response is quick, her tone soft. “And that’s why you called me instead of Rosa.”
Because our baby sister would squeal and start planning our wedding. She’d demand every detail. She wouldn’t care that Oliver and I are colleagues. It wouldn’t even cross her mind that this could be an issue for me professionally.
I’m about to ask what I should do when I hear the water turn on upstairs. He’s up and moving around. Panic ensues.
“Shit, I have to go,” I whisper frantically. “Don’t say anything, okay? Promise?”
Amanda scoffs. “Have I said anything to anyone yet? I got you.”
“Love you. See you soon.”
“Love you t—”
I end the call, set my phone on the counter, and breathe. It’s totally normal for me to call my sister; there’s no real reason for me to hide that from him. What I don’t want him to know is why I called her.
When he appears in the kitchen, still in his flannel pajama bottoms and T-shirt, all that nervous energy coursing through me zeroes in on my chest. My heart feels like it’s going to explode when I look at him. I feel hot all over, and not in a bad way.
“Good morning,” he says with a lazy smile, clearly oblivious to the riot happening inside me. “You been up long?”
“No, haven’t even finished my first cup.” I raise my mug before pouring one for him. “Sleep well?”
“Like a baby,” he replies, his arms winding around me until I’m tucked against him. “You?”
I press my cheek to his chest, relishing the way we fit together, the easy way our bodies mold for each other. “Yeah, good.”
“Can’t believe it snowed this much,” he says. “I swear, I blinked and the seasons changed.”
I swallow hard. “I know.”
He pulls back and surveys me. His arms stay looped around me in a loose semicircle as we look at each other.
I take in the depth of his green eyes behind his glasses, the fullness of his lips, the faint pillow line still etched across his left cheek.
Not for the first time, I wonder if this is how he looks when he wakes up in New York.
If it’ll feel this way there. If I’ll even get to see it.
“Our last day in Boothbay Harbor,” he says softly. “Anything in particular you want to do?”
“I still need to figure out how to close my suitcase and double check I got everything out of my old rooms. We have some stuff to finish up in the studio but… I don’t care what else we do, as long as I spend it with you.”
When he kisses me, I taste him—the minty toothpaste, but also that essence that is undeniably Oliver.
That spark low in my belly ignites, singeing away the ball of dread I woke up with.
Here, in his arms, it’s easy to forget everything waiting for us, everything riding on me showing up to that dinner.
So I do—I forget all that, and let it be just us.
BOSTON SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA
301 Massachusetts Avenue
Boston, MA 02115
Dear Ms. García:
Thank you for your interest in working with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. We regret to inform you that your application for the Conducting Internship was not selected for the forthcoming year.
Each year, we receive thousands of applications for a very limited number of spots.
Our committee is tasked with making these difficult decisions, made even more challenging by the caliber of talent from musicians such as yourself.
We are honored that you considered the Boston Symphony Orchestra as the next step in your career.
Please do not contact the administration or staff regarding feedback on your application. Our committee is unable to discuss materials once a decision has been made.
We wish you all the best in your future endeavors.
Sincerely,
The Boston Symphony
Orchestra