Chapter 8
Elise
After rehearsal, Tessa insists on lunch at a deli where the tables are too close together and nobody cares who Bennett Hale is.
I appreciate anonymity more than I expected.
She unwraps her sandwich.
"So."
"No."
"I haven't said anything."
"You have a face."
"I always have a face."
"Today it's judgmental."
"Today it's expensive. New moisturizer."
I smile despite myself.
Tessa waits until I take two bites before she speaks again.
"How long has it been?"
"Since what?"
"Since you played with people who could fire you."
I laugh.
"Two years."
"That long?"
"I teach."
"You know that's not what I asked."
I look down at my soup.
Teaching became the answer to every question about music because teaching is honorable and local and predictable.
No one can accuse you of giving something up if what you kept still matters.
"I like teaching."
"I know."
"Don't do Bennett's thing."
"What thing?"
"Make one true statement cancel another."
Tessa leans back.
"Fine. You love teaching. You also looked happier in that rehearsal than I've seen you in a year."
The words sting because they are generous.
I tear bread into smaller pieces.
"I don't know if I can do this seriously again."
"Why?"
"I'm rusty."
"You were careful for twenty minutes. Then you got mad."
"Very technical assessment."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
She watches me.
"What else?"
I hate best friends.
They do not let you hide behind the first acceptable answer.
"I built my life around being available."
"For Bennett."
"For us."
"Same thing?"
The question is quiet.
I stare through the window.
A bus hisses at the curb.
"No."
Admitting it feels disloyal.
That is another habit I have to examine.
Marriage turned Bennett's constraints into our constraints. His travel became our scheduling problem. His crises became our cancelled dinner. His anxiety became my reason to say no to opportunities before they became conversations.
The decisions were mine.
The pattern was ours.
But the cost landed mostly in one life.
Tessa reaches across and steals one of my fries.
"Come back Saturday."
"I said I would."
"No. Come back like you mean it."
"What does that mean?"
"Stop playing like someone is going to call you selfish for taking up sonic space."
I laugh.
Then stop.
Because the line is too close.
At home that evening, I open the old storage cabinet in the music room.
Scores spill sideways when I pull the door.
I find programs from Salzburg.
Vienna.
A summer festival in Aspen.
My name printed without Hale.
Elise Rowan.
I sit on the floor.
The woman in those programs was not more real than I am now.
But she was louder about wanting things.
I miss her.
Not enough to erase my marriage.
Enough to wonder what happens if I stop erasing myself.
Her mouth lifts.
"Good answer."