Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Flynn
Callie is on the covered balcony instead of in her room. She peeks open one eye when I set her tea on the table between the two loungers.
“It’s going to rain,” I say. “Not a great morning to watch the sunrise. Are we going to Pilates?”
“Yes. After you tell me about the orchestra. How did June look in her dress?”
I stretch out my legs, grateful we’re going to Pilates instead of practicing three hours of silence. “She looked nice. Thank you for doing that for her. For us.”
“Nice? Not beautiful? Elegant? Stunning?”
“Yes, all of those.”
“Did you like the orchestra?”
“It was fine.”
“Flynn, give me three better words than fine.”
“I didn’t graduate from high school.”
“Three other words for fine,” she repeats.
I sigh. “Good. Okay. And, uh … entertaining.”
“Where were your seats?”
“In the front row.”
She lifts her head. “Wonderful. I’m so glad you had good seats for your first time. The orchestra is such an emotional experience.”
“Mr. Rawlings said you thought June looked familiar.”
“How did this conversation come up?”
“Who does she remind you of?”
Callie sips her tea. “Why do you ask?”
“If you’re asking me why I’m asking you, then you probably know. Did she tell you?”
I ready myself to snap at her if she tries to say, “Tell me what?” But she doesn’t say that.
“There’s an edge to your tone, Flynn.”
“Probably because I’m feeling a little edgy this morning.”
Callie turns, letting her socked feet touch the ground. She bows her head, mug cupped in her hands. “People who don’t care, don’t get edgy. They don’t get angry. They don’t fight.”
“I never said I don’t care.”
“What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?” She looks up at me.
“You don’t want to know.”
“If I didn’t want to know, then I would not have asked.”
I focus on the gray sky, stained with hints of purple and blue, rejecting the sun’s attempt to break through.
“We all have stories, Flynn. Some people are an open book, others are a diary with a lock and key. Relationships take time and work. Years of patience. Love is an invitation into someone’s heart.
But you have to think of it like someone inviting you into their home for the first time.
You wouldn’t charge past them to explore every room and rummage through every drawer.
Maybe the first time you visit, they don’t invite you past the foyer.
Perhaps you get invited into the kitchen for tea, but you pass a room along the way with a closed door.
And you’re curious what’s behind the door, but you don’t kick it down, and you don’t get angry with them for not giving you access to everything all at once. ”
“When did you know?”
She frowns. “I suspected when we met. But I knew the day she tuned my cello. She hasn’t put out new music or toured in years. Art is passion in form. If she’s stopped following her passion, I have to believe she has a few closed doors.”
When lightning flashes in the sky, she turns to watch it. “I know I have doors that I’ve closed, locked, and thrown away the key.”
“I think Mr. Rawlings thinks I can unlock them.”
She smiles. “I’m sure he does.”
“I’ll change for Pilates,” I say while standing.
“Did you let her go?”
“If I say yes, are you going to lecture me?”
She shakes her head.
I walk toward the door. “Why?” I ask.
“Because it’s not my job to open your doors.”
After Pilates, Callie has me take her to the Minneapolis Institute of Art, but I suspect the trip is more for me than her. She chooses certain sculptures and paintings to stand in front of for a long time—fifteen to twenty minutes—before moving to the next piece.
“Nope,” she says each time I attempt to reach for my phone.
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked for a decrease in pay. This is torture.
The next day, it’s not raining, so we spend the afternoon at the Walker Art Center. I’ve been through the Sculpture Garden next to it, but I’ve never seen the inside of the building.
That night, Rupert steps into the garage as I sit in his Chevelle, watching YouTube videos.
“I’ll rent you a room for three hundred a month, but you have to clean it and the bathroom you choose to use.”
“The car is fine.” I shrug.
“I don’t want you drooling on my leather seats or jerking off to porn.” He nods to my phone.
“Either your cameras suck or you need glasses.” I hold up my phone for him to see the screen. “They’re videos of rebuilding engines.”
“Well, either way, you don’t need to sleep in my car. It’s worth more than the bed I’m offering you. But if you want to keep sleeping in it, I’m going to charge you a grand a month.”
I wrinkle my nose. “That’s stupid.”
He turns, heading back into the house. “Life is stupid. Get used to it.”
I choose the cheaper option.
My days are spent as Minneapolis’s premier muse, exploring every museum and performing tasks like reorganizing Callie’s albums. I’m pretty sure she just wants me to see her collection of June’s music.
At night, I sleep in a king bed and stare at naked angels on the ceiling.
On the weekends, I take a side gig delivering food.
It’s been three weeks since I last saw June, and I fucking miss her.
Instead of calling or texting, I drive past her apartment building a dozen times a day.
I happen to catch a few glimpses of her roommate coming and going, but never June.
The MINI Cooper is parked in a reserved lot on the north side of a building, but it’s always there and in the same spot.
Why doesn’t she get her license? Oh, that’s right. Rich people don’t need to drive. Yeah, I’m still pissed.
On a hot Saturday morning in late July, I get the nerve to buzz her apartment.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Ally. It’s Flynn.”
She doesn’t reply.
“Hello?” I say.
“June isn’t here.”
“Oh, okay. Is she working?”
“She went home last week for a family emergency.”
“Oh, is everything alright?”
“I’m not comfortable discussing this with you. Sorry.”
“That’s … fine. Thanks anyway.” I deflate, walking back to my car.