20. Evelyn
20
Evelyn
E and G’s Musical Adventure: The Sequel: Friday, 4 p.m. - 8 p.m. @ My Place
“ I will. If I ever go out somewhere like that alone I will text you with all the details,” I say. My phone is balanced precariously between my ear and shoulder as I open the door for Garrett. “Mom, I promise. I’m fine.”
I didn’t notice the missed calls from her. She must have tried to call yesterday when we were driving through a dead zone. Like with Avery, it’s not my place to say that Garrett is here, so I told her I went to see the leaves on my own. If the last hour I’ve spent on the phone is any indication, this has turned out to be a mistake.
“There were people in New Hampshire who had to be rescued from that last week. I looked it up. They all got stuck in this bottleneck,” she says, and I don’t have to check to know that she’s already sent me the article she read it in.
“I’m not in New Hampshire,” I remind her. “I was in an open area.”
“But you went alone.”
Garrett looks at me quizzically, and I shake my head as he moves past me. I need to wrap this call up. I was hoping to have something to show to him. I’d been sitting with my notebook with a few ideas I was excited to flesh out when the call came an hour ago. I’m thankful I picked up because, combined with the calls yesterday, if I didn’t she would have put in a missing person’s report, or something.
“Yes, I went alone. I’m on vacation alone. I’m going to do things alone.”
“That’s dangerous,” she says.
“Mom. I promise. I’ll be better about updating you, but I need to go. I'm about to order coffee,” I lie and hope she doesn’t notice the distinct lack of commotion in the background. “Ti voglio bene. Ciao.” 1
I wait in the entryway for a long moment to collect myself before joining Garrett in the living room. Talking to Mom always puts me in a defensive headspace. While I try my best to tell her what she needs to hear, I’m suppressing the parts of me that are desperate to be heard and understood. I wish I could trust that she would understand me, but I can’t.
With a deep breath, I plaster on a smile and do my best to move forward. I need to make the most out of my time with Garrett to jumpstart the album. I can’t let Mom get in my head.
“Everything okay?” he asks, and I wish he didn’t.
“Give or take. It was just my mom,” I say, doing my best to seem unaffected.
“How is she?”
“Still upset that I moved to New York,” I say. She’s been more tense since I moved farther from home. I think since that’s the first thing Drew did after the band broke up it’s put her on high alert, like it’s the first sign of me shutting them out.
“They do know you’re twenty-nine, right?”
“I can’t be too sure about that.” I let out a sigh as I slump onto the couch.
“Do they know how you feel about that?” he presses.
“It’s complicated,” I explain and try to put it into words. “I think it makes them feel better. Like if they can still take care of me that they’re able to fix things? They came to the US when they were a bit younger than I am now and they had to do so much for themselves to make it work, not just the paperwork, but adjusting to the culture and making new friends in an unfamiliar place. I’m pretty sure they think they failed my brother, even though what happened to him has nothing to do with them. So, if I can give them peace from letting them into my life this way, I will.”
It’s not convenient, but I don’t want to make them think they’ve failed when they’ve given us so much.
“And that’s why you haven’t told them about Lyla?” he asks.
“I mean, of course, that’s part of it, but can we not get into it right now? I just want to start writing since you didn’t let me last week,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. Desperate to escape from the feeling that no matter how hard I try I can’t be exactly who my family needs me to be because of everything I’m hiding. God. This would be so much easier if I didn’t need music like I need air. But I do, and right now I need Garrett to help me learn how to breathe again.
“Only if you figured out what I asked you to.”
“Yes,” I say, relieved to move on. “I also will need to know if you hate it because I’m reaching the point where I cannot fully trust myself to form ideas.”
“Great. So if you start describing a Gregorian chant I should stop you.” He doesn’t miss a beat.
“I think if I do that, it is more likely that I have been possessed because I do not know any Latin,” I joke.
“Good to know,” he says.
“I’m going to admit that you were right, but please don’t get smug because that will ruin this entire thing,” I start. “But you’re right, I was forcing the entire concept. I was wanting something nebulous and that wasn’t getting me anywhere.”
“And?” Garrett presses.
For the last week I’ve spent plenty of hours staring at the piano or my notebook, willing anything to come out. This led to me being frustrated at how much I was forcing it all to try and fill this gaping pit of want in my chest. No matter what I’ve thrown into that pit for the last few months it never seems to shrink. So, instead of trying to change it, I’m trying to accept it.
“The albums I loved writing were about things I was experiencing and I’ve lost touch of that. I came here and acted like I could pluck up someone else’s love story and it would all work out, even if I didn’t put any of the work in myself.”
“I need to make sure you’re not suggesting that you actually fall in love with someone in town. Because that feels a bit unethical due to the fact that the tourists, present company excluded, are likely all in relationships.”
“No. Oh my gosh. No. Who would do that?”
“You’d be surprised,” he says.
“The theme for the album will be wanting. That’s why people are here, according to you. They’re chasing a feeling. And honestly, it’s the only emotion I can connect to right now so it will at least be authentic.”
It’s not that I was expecting the heavens to open or for Garrett to jump up and cheer, but I’m met with silence.
“So…” I prod. “If you’re going to tell me it’s terrible, could you do it now and put me out of my misery?”
“No. I like it. There’s a lot of potential.” He pauses for a moment, lost in thought, then says, “Do you have paper?”
“Yeah.” I move to the piano bench and snatch my notebook and pen.
“I think you have two options for the structure of the album,” he explains as he takes the pen and paper then starts to draw. “You’ll build the point where the songs sound like someone is about to get everything they want. That feeling of watching two people neck and neck for an entire race and you’re not sure who’s going to win.” He scribbles one last thing and then turns the notebook toward me. There are two hill-shaped lines, like I used to see in my high school English classes to diagram the flow of a story. One of the drawings curve up at the end while the other goes down.
“What’s the difference?”
“Then you have to decide the ending. Are you going to let them get what they want or are you going to take it away when their hope is highest, when they can see it right there in front of them?”
“Like right now?”
“No. I don’t think we should decide until the end. The difference between a convincing romance and a tragedy is the end. We have to believe that this album is about getting what we want, then I think the audience will too.”
“You really are good at this,” I say.
“Will you ever not be surprised by that?”
“Think of it more as basking in awe of your genius.”
“How long do you need to bask before we get started?”
“Basking over. I’ll be right back,” I say as I get up to leave the room.
I go to get a second notebook and pen so we can continue brainstorming concepts. My goal for the night is to send something to Vincent that shows I am worth keeping around.
Garrett and I start volleying ideas back and forth, each of us taking moments to stop and write down lines and ideas that could be built into verses. We’re still going when the sun fully sets and we don’t stop even as I get up to turn on the lights.
“I think we should start,” I say. I have three full pages of notes and a buzz humming through me with the need to create. “From the beginning. I think we need to make this in order, let it all build so it doesn’t become disjointed.”
“That checks out.”
There’s a hesitancy that lingers in the air. I know he’s listened to my songs. He’s told me that outright, but this is vulnerable. There’s nothing written. I could sit down and fumble around on the notes and then look up to find Garrett’s face screwed up in disappointment.
I just went on about the theme of this album, but taking this next step? It sends me right to the cliff's edge where I find myself over and over again.
“There’s room at the bench for two,” I say.
“If you’re sure.”
I move first because if I don’t I know I’ll stay cemented into place for the rest of the night. I claim the right side of the bench and after a moment he rises from the couch and joins me. I peel my eyes from his form and busy myself with setting my own notebook on the music stand as I feel his body consume the space next to me. His arm grazes against the loose fabric of my hoodie as he places his notebook next to mine. When I look to see what he’s written, I release a surprised laugh.
“I think I know where to start,” I say as I point to a line on his that matches one on mine. The only difference is that his version is neat and crisp while mine is in a hurried looping scrawl.
End in the beginning
“Fate,” he deadpans.
I nod. “Or the universal human experience.”
“Or doing lines of coke in the bathroom.”
“I’m such a good teacher,” I say. “I’m thinking of starting with something like this.” I start arpeggiating the chords in A major key with the intent to modulate into chilling minor.
“What about E major instead, it’s always given me that action movie feeling.”
“The point right after the climax where everything unexpectedly works out,” I add.
“But for this song—”
“Things fall apart.”
Then there’s this moment. No words pass, just his blazing lamplit eyes leaping to mine and then holding there. It’s like hearing a story from my childhood that I’ve been certain that no one else has ever heard, yet here he is knowing something about me that transcends a single detail.
That’s where it starts and then the words start blooming like perennials drinking up melted snow to reemerge after winter. It’s something dormant in both of us finally bursting to life.
Eventually, our sentences all fragment. I play the chord progression for the bridge and he says, “Yes, but what if…” and suggests a diminished chord instead of a minor. He’ll scribble down a line then sing it and I’ll scratch out a word and replace it.
“Then the guitar could go fuzzy like…”
“What if…”
“…And the drums would…”
“Not quite.”
“But…”
We don’t need fully fleshed out thoughts. Like so many of our other moments, picking up where the other left off was always supposed to build to this. Like we’ve always been meant to do this.
His hands and mine brush against each other as we take turns at the keys until the snippets of sound overlap. The song is a patchwork of moments that slowly takes form. It’s like how all the little squares of a quilt stitch together to become something warm and full of love. This isn’t what it was like writing my other albums.
This is better. More than just reclaiming my voice.
I’ve never had something like this before while writing because I didn’t allow it. I’ve always held on to being alone in my music, but maybe that was the wrong way about it.
“That’s it,” I whisper, keeping my voice low as if not to break the spell we’ve cast.
“It is,” he says.
Our notebooks are a mess of scribbled notes and crossed out lyrics. We’ve changed the key three times since we started, but we’ve decided on sticking with E. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to snap the thread of inspiration tangled around us by calling it a night. Garrett’s thigh presses casually against mine on the piano bench, and I don’t want to let go of that either.
He’s here. I’m not alone.
“We should play through it?” I ask, still feeling a bit winded.
“Just to make sure,” he says. There’s a hunger in his eyes, something wild like he’s chasing down the song.
I swallow hard and stand to let him accompany me on the piano. From the first note a shiver runs down my spine.
In some alternate timeline there’s another version of this with me in a shimmering dress, draping myself across the body of the piano. He’d wear a suit with coattails trailing behind him. But I don’t want that version, because the one I have here with us surrounded by discarded paper is all this needs to be.
I embrace the feeling. The song is an incantation, pressing pause on everything else. Every worry, every problem that I had before the first note ceases to exist. I’m not alone in this impossible space, and I’m glad I let him in.
With the last chord still quivering in the air, I rush to Garrett. My arms latch around his neck and my knees slide across the surface of the bench to meet the side of his right thigh. We did it. I missed this and he managed to help me find it again.
“Eve,” he breathes in that way of his that makes my name sound like a prayer. The sound of it evaporates the heady feeling clouding my thoughts.
I jerk back to sit on my heels, letting go of him as I do. “Sorry. Sorry. I just got so excited.”
I don’t want to back up and apologize, not really. I want to fall into this feeling. But I need to remember that it will pass. This hum of connection that makes me want to have his fingers reenact what they just did on the piano on my body, it will pass. It will pass and we’ll still be friends living in the same city once my time here is over because that’s what we are now.
Friends. At least I hope we are.
He’s what I need, and I can’t ask for more because I’ve already been given more of him than I ever dreamed of.
“It’s okay.” He pulls his hands from the keys to his lap. His eyes map my features, parallel canyons carved between his brows.
“What’s with that face?”
“You’re smiling.”
“As I tend to do,” I say, then nudge my knee into his thigh. He reaches out his hand landing on my folded leg.
“No.” He gives the slightest shake of his head. “This one’s different.”
“Oh.” My heart claws for purchase at the implication.
I take in his face, how he’s looking at me but it feels like he’s looking into me. Everything in me wants to reach out again, to touch him with intention. We created this song together and it’s built some tentative bridge that I want to run across. I want him to let me in more than ever, but not out of pure curiosity anymore. I want to know him. A small voice of wisdom reminds me that I’m probably just associating this rush of feeling from the song with him.
His eyes catch mine, pools of amber that threaten to drown me. Neither of us look away. The moment we do this spell will break. I lean in, so does he, I don’t know who does first.
It’s late. We’re tired. It’s a bad idea.
His forefinger starts to make small circles on my knee. I don’t look down out of fear that if I do, he’ll remember his hand is there and stop.
He’s here. I feel more like myself than I have in ages. I’d be stupid to ignore that he’s made me feel this way.
“Eve,” he says on a breath, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to get my attention or if it slipped out by accident. The tip of his nose grazes my cheek. It’s infinitesimal but sets off a chain reaction of fireworks bursting from the point of contact.
“Yes?” I ask anyway, hoping that I might be the answer.
If I just tilt my head up my lips will brush against the corner of his mouth. That’s all it will take. He breathes and the puff of air tickles my cheek. One small movement to change the course of everything.
I could just lift my face then—
A phone alarm goes off, and I jerk away so quickly that I nearly topple off the side of the stool. Garrett fumbles for his pocket and presses the stop button. When he looks back his eyes flash with panic. The damage is done. Whatever almost happened, that bridge isn’t safe to cross anymore.
“It’s eight,” he says.
“That desperate to get away from me?” I ask but my voice comes out shakier than I would like. “You could stay.”
“I think we’ve hit a perfect stopping point.” Still, he doesn’t move.
“Sure.” My tongue darts out to wet my lips and his eyes track the movement. “I think I need a drink. You know, to celebrate.” Among other reasons.
“A drink. I could go for a drink.” He nods and now it’s my turn to stare as I watch the bob of his Adam’s apple. “I’ll drive?”
“I think I’m going to walk. It’s nice out.” And I don’t need to be stuck in a car with him right now.
“I’ll see you there,” he says as he collects his belongings.
The tapping of his parting footsteps syncopates with the anxious rhythm of my thundering heart.
Before I forget, I get the demo recording ready to send off to Vincent. It’s a relief to have it done, but I’m having a bit of trouble getting excited about the small victory when every atom in my body is vibrating with need. The ghost of our almost kiss sinks its claws into the back of my mind as I listen back to cut the recording at the appropriate spot.
“Eve?” My name sounds more like a plea than it did before.
Then my breathy, “Yes.”
1. I love you. Bye.