10. Garrett
10
Garrett
A lina’s doing a terrible job of pretending not to eavesdrop through the kitchen window to where I'm standing on her back deck. I never get any privacy in this town. It doesn’t matter where I go, my conversation with Holt will be broadcasted through a group chat in a matter of minutes.
“You said two weeks,” I remind.
“I said after two weeks we’ll reevaluate the situation and if you meet expectations and are ready to get back to work, then you can come back to the office.” Holt’s voice is measured and unyielding. As much as I want to complain, without her go ahead I won’t be able to get past security. Hell, without her I can’t even access my email.
“And what expectations did I fail to meet? I went on vacation. I’m ready to come back.” I can’t afford more time off. It’s not that I don’t trust the other partners and associates to have helped my clients, but if I take care of something I know exactly how it’s done.
“Tell me, what have you done so far on your vacation?” Her words are accompanied by a light, even tapping. I easily picture her walking across the cool marble of her office to the wall of windows overlooking the Financial District the way I’ve witnessed countless times.
“I’ve been spending time with my old neighbor. I went home.” My jaw clenches with the effort to contain my frustration.
“Do you have any pictures? Did you go out and get some fresh air? I’ve heard there are some breathtaking views there.” Her words are laced with feline satisfaction. She knows me, and even if she didn’t, she’s a fucking human lie detector. During litigation that’s invaluable, but under my current circumstances I’m not the biggest fan. “Tell me, what was your favorite part? Don’t spare a single detail.”
The deck railing creaks as I lean back against it and heave a sigh. “Pictures weren’t part of our deal. But I’m fine. I’m ready to come back.”
“There was no deal . It’s my call and I say no,” she says. “I'm not letting you come back if you’re just going to push yourself to the brink again. It’s a waste of my resources to have you half-assing your work because you’re running on empty instead of utilizing the damn PTO you’ve accrued.”
“But—”
“No,” she snaps. “Two more weeks. I want to see you use that Instagram of yours with millions of followers and post something. I want to see a picture of you drinking something fruity with an umbrella wearing something that looks close to a smile.”
“No drinks here come with umbrellas,” I say as if that matters, as if she cares.
“Then I want proof that you’re putting your full effort into this. Remember, I know what that looks like.” A slyness coats her voice.
She wouldn’t act like this with anyone else. But no one else passed out at their desk only to be found by security. Hell, no one else made a quick trip to the ER. If it got out, no one would have their old career become the reason the firm got bad publicity. My grip tightens on the phone, the edges digging into my palm.
“I’m not posting anything that will give away my location,” I say. My relationship with Hartsfall has always been complicated. It does fine on its own. Maybe if it needed my influence to boost tourism, I’d use it. But I don’t want to disrupt what’s here even if I think it’s a pretty lie.
“Post or don’t. Send me proof that you’re taking steps to relax.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do here?” I demand, without really expecting an answer. I’ve already exhausted all of my options because of the two-week timeline I had anticipated. I can’t be stuck here any longer. I just fucking can’t. It’s not like I can join the tourists in their carefree jaunts down Main Street, though that appears to be exactly what Holt is asking for.
“You’re the one who chose the location. Figure it out,” she says. “I have a meeting. I expect the pictures in my inbox starting tomorrow, or two weeks will quickly become four.”
Holt hangs up without another word. Alina gives me a few minutes before the French doors to the back deck fling open letting out the crooning of Nat King Cole. Her shuffling steps scrape against the deck as she walks up behind me.
“I have something to keep you occupied,” she says.
After my second round of knocking, Evelyn appears in the doorway wrapped in a thick blanket and wearing mirrored sunglasses. I try to look her in the eye and I’m faced with my own reflection, a reminder that I’m not where I want to be. Instead of a suit, I’m in a navy T-shirt and jeans.
“You look like hell,” I say.
“Thank you, it's very in right now. I bet we’ll be seeing plenty of it when Paris Fashion Week comes around in a few weeks,” she says, not missing a beat.
Even haggard by a hangover, she’s acting like last night isn’t fazing her. I can throw anything at her and humor will bounce right back.
“Have you eaten?” I ask.
“Why? Are you desperate to take care of me? Have a thing for damsels?” she asks, her lips curling with a self-indulgent smirk.
“No, just wanting to make sure you won’t complain about it while I’m here.” And yes, maybe I’m worried. She went through it last night—why shouldn’t I be concerned?
There’s a rustle under her blanket-cloak and a box of cereal pokes out. That’s that I guess.
“I thought you were headed back to Manhattan,” she says.
“There’s been a slight change of plans.”
“Oh, care to explain?”
“No,” I say and peer around her. “I’d rather tune your piano.”
She shrugs, seemingly satisfied with my response then lets me in. I trail behind her to the familiar living room with its thick, plush carpet and walls cluttered with all the pictures she doesn’t have space for in her own home. It manages to feel lived in, even with its constantly rotating occupants.
“You never sent the NDA,” I remind her since she might have forgotten, given her current state.
“I was never planning on sending you one.”
I stop in my tracks. She has to be joking?
“You should.”
“Planning on selling the story?”
“No.”
“That’s what I thought,” she says. “You might barely put up with me, but I trust you.”
Her eyes catch mine as I hold her words for a moment, trying to force them into making sense. Days ago she was going on about the move, and now, she trusts me? I don’t get her, but I guess I rarely do.
I need to push past the weight of what she’s said, so I cock my head toward her piano. “This is Meg, then?”
The living room furniture has been pushed into a new formation to accommodate the baby grand. Instead of appearing cramped, the living room feels more finished, as if the space has been waiting for the piano to complete it. Waiting for her.
“The one and only.” There’s an anxious energy to her voice. Her body shifts like she’s rocking back and forth on her heels, though I can’t see through the fabric pooling around her feet.
“Great. I’ll let you know when I’m done.” I set the black cloth case holding my tools on a side table then position myself at the piano.
Instead of retreating to a bedroom or some dark corner to let me work in peace, Evelyn opts to curl up onto a couch and watch. Her body is swallowed by the blankets, making her look somewhat like a floating head.
My jaw ticks as I force my attention back to the piano. I find the lip of the keyboard cover and I slip it back. Starting at the far left, I play chromatic chords up the piano to check for any problem areas. It’s not terrible. Someone without a good ear could play it as is without being bothered.
Should be simple enough, though it’s still tedious. There are two hundred and thirty strings in a piano and each one has to be checked. It’s the type of work I love—the type you can’t rush. I slip my long length of red felt between the first and third strings of the treble and mid sections to allow me to tune the middle strings first. All the while, I feel a prickle of awareness at the back of my neck.
“Do you have to be in here?” I ask without turning to look.
“No. But I want to be. I’m just actively reconfiguring what a piano tuner looks like in my head.” I know her eyes are on me, I always do.
“And what is that exactly?”
“A cute old man who tells me so much about his three grandchildren going to liberal arts colleges in the Pacific Northwest that by the time he leaves I’d feel like they were in the room with us," she explains. "But at least you've got the cute little glasses. That part is spot on."
“Sorry to be a statistical outlier.”
“Oh, come on. You love being the exception,” she says.
The thing is, I do. Less because of some sense of superiority. But if you are the exception, if you put in the damn work, no one can deny that you belong somewhere. No one can take that from you.
I never did figure out what it was that Lana needed that I could provide, besides money. Growing up there were small things, listening to her stories about her last-minute weekend trips to Boston after not seeing her for three days. Then when I was in middle school there were the shifts she started skipping. I’d go in for her at the pub cleaning tables or spend afternoons watching the register at Love is Brewing. It wasn’t legal, but anyone who hired her in town did it out of kindness to support a single mother. And I usually got a free meal out of it. They took a chance on her and she always blew it. Sometimes I think that in trying to be essential to her, I made myself easier to leave. I gave her a safety net I wove out of guilt so she never had to be fully accountable. I grew up so she never had to.
I’m half certain the reason I joined Fool’s Gambit was because of how adamant Wes was that I had to be the bassist. It didn’t matter that I’d have to learn the instrument, he was insistent. I would try and brush him off with excuses about studying, but that never deterred him. He showed up to my spot in the library every day. When I relocated, he followed. At fourteen, it was the first time I felt like anyone fought to have me in their life. Wes has his faults, but he gave me that. He let me be young alongside him.
He let me be fourteen.
But things have changed. The longer I’m in Hartsfall, the more likely the spot I’ve carved for myself in the city will become someone else's. The thought sends a wave of tension through my shoulders.
“What if I do?” I ask.
“I do appreciate your help,” she says. “I was worried that I’d have to call someone in from the city and who knows how long that would have taken.”
“So your album, you think this is the best place to write it?” I continue to work the soft felt between the strings.
“I’ve been struggling with it. Inspiration. Theme. Everything. My last album was a mess,” she says, her voice growing heavy. “I thought coming somewhere so dedicated to romance and love would help. Like, if I couldn’t draw from my own experiences I could observe other people’s.”
A spark of an idea starts to flicker in my mind. I might not be able to see Hartsfall the way tourists do, but maybe I don’t have to. “So, you’re what? Going to all the spots and taking notes? Stalking people?”
“I’m pretty sure a friendly conversation or two will help more than stalking. I’ll do all the touristy things for the next few weeks then lock myself away to write with a diet of instant ramen and desperation.”
“Don’t forget the cereal,” I say.
“An essential food group,” she agrees. “And because you seem allergic to the idea of those places, even though you’ll be here longer you won’t be seeing much of me."
“What if I wanted to join you?” I ask.
Despite growing up in a tourist destination, I’ve never been good at vacations. The empty swaths of time overwhelm me. I need to be moving toward something not sitting in place. The allowances I make to come up here on weekends serve a greater purpose than enjoying the sights. I need to get this vacation right this time around so I can get back to my caseload. If that means asking Evelyn to let me join in on her itinerary, so be it.
“Then I’d assume you’d been swapped with your good twin,” she says, then pauses to consider. “Why would you subject yourself to that? You said it yourself yesterday that it’s not your thing.”
“I’m supposed to be here on vacation. Apparently, I’m failing on that front. So I might need your help.”
“Seriously?” The word is accompanied by a chime of laughter.
I finish with the felt then turn. I can’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but her mouth is turned up in amusement.
“I don’t expect you to do it for free.”
“Seeing you trying to look like you’re enjoying it would be payment enough.”
“I’ll help you with your album if you help me.” I think it’s a fair offer, but as the idea enters my mind, I realize I’m anxious for her to agree. If I can do that I won’t be wasting my time on the tourist traps and endless miles of hikes. There’s a chance I’ll be able to experience that same alchemy that washed over us when we played together two days ago.
“You’ll what?” Shock has frozen her face in pinched confusion
“I’ll help you write,” I say. “I wrote half the songs for Fool’s Gambit.”
It’s not something I ever expected to do again. But I used to love it. There was something freeing about creating something, then months later seeing people react to it live, causing a thrum in my pulse that I’ve never been able to replicate. I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. This isn’t my album. I won’t be performing it, but that doesn’t prevent the ache from building in my chest.
“If I agree to this, promise to keep your pessimistic storm cloud in check. If you’re coming with me I want you to at least make an honest effort,” she asserts.
“That’s reasonable,” I say. “If possible, I want to know in advance when you want to do things. I might be on vacation, but I like to know my schedule in advance. Also, I need you to take pictures of me.”
“Need me to send an invitation with an RSVP every time?” she asks.
“That would be nice.”
“I was joking.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You rarely ever are,” she says and shakes her head in mock disappointment. “And what exactly are you expecting? I love a good letter, but that feels a bit excessive.”
“Send me a Google Calendar invite with the details and I’ll show up,” I offer.
Her head tilts to either side as she mulls it over. I half expect her to go back and insist on letters just to make things difficult.
“I can manage that,” she finally agrees. “So for the next two weeks, you tag along on what I already had planned and then you help me write?”
“Yes. If you’re satisfied with that arrangement, can I tune your piano in peace?”