Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Flynn
I don’t want Zoya Malone’s life, but I can’t stop stalking her online.
Her band has played in stadiums around the world, even at the Roman Colosseum with some dude named Andrea Bocelli …
and Buckingham Palace! The cello-playing girl I watch in videos doesn’t feel like the tour guide I met in the gallery.
June blushed and flirted. She was vulnerable and seemingly relatable. Zoya is a larger-than-life force.
Like her band’s name, Zoya feels a world away to me.
She’s polished and elegant, playing classical music one minute, but in the next video, she’s playing Metallica and AC/DC songs … on a fucking cello. It’s mesmerizing as hell.
I can still feel her touch and hear her whisper I love you.
It’s not real. The woman on stage, with tears in her eyes every time a sold-out venue gives her a standing ovation, doesn’t feel like the woman I love.
And she’s not.
“What are you watching?” Callie asks, setting another box on her desk.
I lay my phone face down. “Nothing.”
“Looked like June,” she says, opening the box.
I pull out another stack of photos to scan. Callie has so many printed photos that belonged not only to her and Rupert, but to her parents and grandparents. Some are black and white photos from the early 1900s.
“Have you talked with her?” Callie asks.
“She’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“She went back to California for a family emergency.”
“Oh no. Did she call you?”
“I found out from her roommate.” I scan another photo as Callie sorts them according to the people or groups of people in them.
“So you haven’t talked to her?”
“I texted her, but she didn’t say what the emergency was, and I didn’t ask.”
“That’s good. Respecting her space and privacy for now is smart.”
“I don’t think she’s coming back, so there’s plenty of space between us.”
“Well, Rupert told me you don’t want to live in her world anyway.” Callie holds certain photos longer than others. And some, like the one in her hands of her grandson, she holds the longest. Tears fill her eyes, then she quickly blinks them away and smiles at me before moving to the next photo.
“Sometimes I watch YouTube videos of her performing. It’s a good reminder that we have nothing in common,” I say.
“I look at pictures of my son and his family. They’re good reminders that I will feel emotionally gutted for the rest of my life.” She shrugs while sorting the photos. “Reminders are good, huh?”
I know she’s trying to make a point. But I don’t need it.
“This one is ripped,” I say, ignoring her comment.
“Oh, I think there’s some clear tape in the bottom drawer on the left.”
To get to the tape, I lift two framed certificates out of the way. One has her name under Minnesota Board of Medical Practice. The other is from the American Board of Emergency Medicine.
“What are these?” I ask, holding them up.
She gives them a quick glance. “Oh,” she murmurs returning her focus to the piles of photos. “You can put those in the trash.”
“MD? Are you a doctor?”
“I was.”
“Are you joking? You called your degrees ‘unimportant.’”
“When you’re not using a degree, it is unimportant.”
“You retired?”
“Sort of.”
“And why did you marry Mr. Rawlings?”
She glances up at me and chuckles. “Don’t let him fool you. He has many talents.”
“Well, I know he’s good at stacking cookies in that glass jar.”
“Like laying bricks,” she says.
“Huh?”
“Rupert was a master brick mason for twenty-five years after being trained as a carpentry and masonry specialist in the Army.”
“That’s …”
“Surprising? Because he lives in a big house and drives fancy cars?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Surprising because he wears a suit every day and sits in his office on a computer.”
“Mmm … well, that’s his hobby.”
“Weird hobby.” I scan another picture and move it to the folder with photos of her parents.
She stands, pulls a book from her shelf, and hands it to me.
“I’m dyslexic. And I hate reading,” I say.
“You don’t have to read anything beyond the cover.”
I take the book. There’s an outline of a man running toward a lake in the rain. “Beyond the Lake,” I read the title. The author is R. Rawlings. “Rupert Rawlings?” I ask.
“Yes.” She takes the book from me and returns it to the shelf. “Rupert has been writing thriller novels for over ten years. He hasn’t made any bestseller lists, but he loves it. And he loves me, so he wears suits because I think he looks handsome in them.”
I slowly shake my head.
“Money doesn’t change everyone,” Callie says.
“It hasn't changed him. He could have taken a job with my family’s foundation. He could have been a day trader with money he didn’t make.
But he chose to lay bricks while I went to medical school and practiced medicine.
And he spent a lot of hours alone with our son because my job was demanding.
So one day, he read a thriller novel, and another, and another.
Then he opened a Word document on his computer and started writing.
I knew nothing about it until it was done.
” She smiles, sifting through the photos. “He was so proud. So was I.”
The photo I scan is of her grandson.
“When is the last time you talked to your son?”
Her joyous expression fades. “Seven years ago.” She slides the stacks of photos toward the edge of the desk. “Let’s call it a day.”
“I’ll tell you what’s behind my door, if you tell me what’s behind yours,” I say.
Callie tilts her head to the side and gives me a sad smile. “That’s kind … and brave of you.” She steps behind me and wraps her arms around my neck. She smells like flowers, but different ones than June.
I close my eyes and wonder if her son misses his mom. I never really knew mine, but I think I’ve missed her every day since she left me, despite hating her for doing it. It’s an indescribable loneliness, a lack of belonging.
“If she’s still alive,” Callie whispers, “I promise she’s missing you.”
She.
Is “she” my mom? If so, Callie is reading my mind.
Friday night, I deliver food for two hours and grab a pizza on my way back to the Rawlings’.
Nobody’s in the kitchen, so I sit at the island and eat my pizza with my phone propped up against a glass of water.
There’s a new video of June that pops up in my feed.
It’s from last night. It’s been two weeks since we messaged.
She didn’t mention performing, but if this new video of her with the LA Philharmonic is old, then someone just decided to upload it, or it’s happened recently.
The title of the video is “Zoya Malone—flawless as ever!” The description says she was a special guest, and the song title is “Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major.” Her hair is down in long waves, like it was in the photo at the Minnesota Orchestra Hall.
High black heels, sexy and elegant. And she’s wearing a strapless red dress with a wide skirt, probably to accommodate the cello between her legs.
After the performance, she receives a standing ovation and takes a slow bow.
The footage isn’t up close, so I can’t see her expression, but after the video ends, I watch it again … and again.
When I can’t sleep, because every note of the song plays on repeat in my head, I roll over and grab my phone.
Flynn: Found out today that Mr. R writes novels. Should I revisit the kazoo as a hobby?
I don’t know if it’s a two- or three-hour time difference, but maybe she’s already asleep. Or maybe she’s in some other part of the world, playing her cello. Is the family emergency over?
My screen illuminates with a reply. It’s just three blushing emojis with the hand over the mouth.
June: Immediately searching up Rupert Rawlings on
Flynn: He goes by R. Rawlings. Thrillers
June: How many? Have u read any of them yet?
Flynn: I’m dyslexic
June: Audiobook
I roll my eyes and reply with the eye-roll emoji.
June: Omg! He’s written 8 books. I’m starting one tonight
Flynn: lmk what u think
June: We could buddy read/listen and discuss every few chapters
Flynn: Or u could give me a summary and I can act like I read it
She doesn’t reply. No little dots or anything.
Flynn: were u sleeping?
Nothing.
Flynn: Cool. Good chat
Still nothing, not even to my sarcastic reply.
I set my phone aside and wait for her to reply or sleep to take me.
The next morning, I see a missed text, but she sent it at 4:00 a.m. my time.
June: Sorry. I had to get back to practicing
I type a reply: Nbd. What are you practicing for?
But I erase it before sending it.
Then I type: I saw a YouTube video of u
But I erase that too.
I throw off the sheets and leave my phone on the bed.
Within minutes, I’m out the door, jogging across the street to the path around the lake.
Zoya playing Bach’s prelude with its haunting notes spurs me to run faster and faster, like I’m chasing something.
Then I see her above me, our bodies tangled in the bedsheets.
Her hair tickles my face as she grins before we kiss.
Fingernails digging into my back. Tiny moans vibrating between us.
My whole life flashes before me. The abandonment. The abuse. The tiny breaths of reprieve, filled with laughter and glimmers of hope. The crack of a judge’s gavel after sentencing me to time in prison.
The first day of freedom after my last day served.
The first touch of a woman’s hands on my body.
Freedom and no clue what to do with it.
My lungs burn, but I continue to pump my arms, passing people with reckless abandon. I just want to silence the voice in my head reminding me of all the things I’ve never been or will ever be.
I veer to the side and onto the grass, collapsing onto my knees, then rolling onto my back.
Breathless.
Angry.
Lost.
And then … the music stops.
The voices quiet.
It’s me and my heart beating.
Clouds swirling.
Birds soaring.
I’m no more alive than dead.