8. Duncan
8
DUNCAN
Stowe, Vermont
The six hour drive to Vermont is long and quiet. Snow begins to fall as I get closer, soft flakes drifting lazily down from the sky, covering the roads in a thin blanket of white. It’s beautiful, peaceful even, but I barely notice. My mind is still reeling from the eye-opening conversation I had with Alex earlier today.
He’s in Paris with his girlfriend. They’ve been together, on and off, for years. It’s been long enough that he’s thinking marriage. The topic of kids isn’t off the table either.
How did I not know this about my best friend and business partner?
Like me, he’s a workaholic. Our combined work ethics and career paths align, it’s why we get along so well. It’s how we became friends in the first place. Our firm, Cornerstone Financial Group, is worth billions. It took us years of grueling work, navigating markets, studying trends, and making the kinds of bold decisions that turned our firm into a powerhouse. Yet somehow he managed to keep a whole relationship from me.
When we first met in college, he talked about wanting a family. More accurately, he wanted to find his soulmate and eventually settle down. But then, it didn’t happen as the years went by. The older we got older, the harder he threw himself into work, so I assumed he had given up on that dream.
“I didn’t intentionally keep her from you,” he’d assured me.
I believe him, although it makes me wonder if my stance on kids is what drove him to keep it to himself. Not that I blame him. For years, I didn’t think about family because I didn’t want one. I made peace with that a long time ago. The brokenness and instability I came from taught me enough to know that I didn’t want to be responsible for someone else. The twins were a surprise, and part of me always thought I was doing them a favor by providing what I could financially, but maybe I was just trying to keep everything on my terms. It’s probably why things never worked with them. I rarely go to them. Instead, I’ve been focused on trying to fit them into my life rather than finding meaningful ways of stepping into theirs. Granted, they did ask me to stay out of their lives and I took that literally. Alex once tried to tell me that family doesn’t work that way, but I didn’t listen to him. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.
The road winds ahead of me, dark and empty except for the beam of my headlights cutting through the snow. The Vermont house is about twenty minutes away now, but it feels like a lifetime. My hands grip the steering wheel tighter as I think back to what Alex said yesterday morning.
It’s time you start living for yourself.
Humans aren’t meant to be solitary creatures.
For me, it’s never been that simple, and he knows that better than anyone. Just as he knows that the Vermont house is more than just a house. He knows about my other life — my music, that is — that I don’t talk about with the people in my life. Music had been an unexpected constant in my turbulent childhood, one I never expected to make a living out of. I took it back up in adulthood as a hobby, a way to unwind and release the constant stress that came with managing millions and billions of other people’s money. But what began as a hobby turned into something more. A few pieces sold to the right people, royalties from soundtracks, and suddenly I had another stream of income that surprised even me.
It’s ironic, really. Some of my most lucrative deals have come from writing music in the middle of the night. Dave knows that side of me too well. After all, he was the one who pushed me to take it more seriously. My first royalty check bought the Vermont house. I’ve had others since, houses I had no qualms parting ways with once they built up enough equity for me to cash out, but I held onto the Vermont house the longest. It symbolizes the childhood I wish I had. It’s been my go-to place when I wished to tap into my creative side. And it’s always been easier to retreat into my music. It doesn’t disappoint, doesn’t leave you hanging like people do. But no matter how successful music has been for me, it has always been another form of self-isolation, just not in the physical sense. It was another way to keep the world at arm’s length, both about my childhood and my hobby. It’s why I go to great lengths to keep that side of myself hidden from most of the people in my life. Despite how lucrative it’s been, I still view it as a hobby and that feels insulting to those who don’t.
The wipers swish steadily across the windshield as the snow thickens, turning the road into a blur of white. I slow down, squinting through the falling flakes. Vermont always looks like a postcard at this time of year — pristine, like the snow only exists to decorate the landscape. It’s what drew me to this house decades ago, back when I thought the world was mine for the taking. Now, it feels like I’m driving toward yet another empty space, another reminder of what I don’t have.
When I finally pull into the driveway, there’s a lone car parked in front of the garage, dusted with a thin layer of snow. A rental, from the looks of it. Chloe’s friend — Odette — must’ve decided after all. It’s a big house, and I figured if anyone did show up, we’d have enough space to stay out of each other’s way. The garage door hums open, and as I ease my car into the spacious two-car garage I make a mental note to get the keys from her and move her rental into the garage. Less snow to shovel later. No sense in letting it pile up with snow when there’s plenty of room inside.
I grab my bag from the trunk and head inside through the interior garage door, warmth enveloping me as the door clicks shut behind me.
I drop my bag by the door, and let out a long breath, shoulders dropping slightly.
That’s when I hear it: the faint sound of piano playing. At first, I think it’s just my imagination, but the more I listen, the familiar haunting notes of “Ma Mère l'Oye” floats through the air, each note laced with a quiet intensity that tugs at something deep inside me.
I haven’t heard that piece in years .
It’s one of Maurice Ravel’s notable works, a classic piece that’s elegant in its simplicity, yet mournful in its beauty. Originally written as a piano duet, this piece draws on fairytales and is quite difficult for even one person to properly execute, much less two. Yet there’s something about this rendition — an edge, a rawness, a kind of personal anguish — that makes it feel alive. The notes don’t just float through the air; they seem to strike deep, each one stirring something dormant inside me — a sadness that resonates with every note.
My feet move of their own accord, drawn toward the music like a moth to a flame. Memories surface as the music grows louder: the ache of a lonely childhood, the bitter taste of neglect, the long climb to build a life worth living. The way I swore I’d never have kids because I couldn’t risk repeating my parents’ mistakes. And how, despite my determination, I ended up with children anyway. Or something like it.
The music crescendos, each note laced with such emotion it makes my chest tighten. Whoever’s playing isn’t just skilled — they’re baring their soul. It’s rare, that kind of talent. Authentic. Raw.
I have to see who it is.
I reach the living room, pausing just inside the doorway as my gaze lands on her. Odette — I assume — is seated at the grand piano with her back is partially turned to me, her profile illuminated by the soft glow of the overhead lights. Auburn curls cascade over her shoulders in loose waves, catching the faint golden hue of the room. She’s lost in the music, yet her fingers glide over the keys with effortless precision, her body swaying slightly with the rhythm. Her shoulders tremble as the piece builds to its final, aching notes.
And then I see it: tears.
They slip down her cheeks unchecked, catching the glow of the lamp as they fall. She doesn’t wipe them away, and I cannot look away. She’s got that effortless kind of beauty that makes heads turn and pulses race. Something stirs in my chest, a sense of recognition that I can’t quite place.
I stay rooted to the spot, unable to tear my eyes away as she plays. Her fingers eventually slow down as the music winds to its conclusion, the final notes lingering in the air before fading into silence. Her hands hover over the keys for a beat, trembling slightly before falling into her lap. For a moment, she stays like that, her head bowed, as though she’s utterly spent.
I can’t move. Can’t speak. My pulse quickens.
No wonder it felt familiar.
She is familiar.
And after all this time, after all the what-ifs and regrets, she’s right here.
In my house. Playing my piano.
I don’t need to see her face to know I’m staring at the one person who has eluded me for a decade. My heart races as my mind struggles to catch up with the reality of what’s right in front of me.
Then, as if sensing she’s no longer alone, she slowly lifts her head and wipes at her cheeks. Her tear-filled eyes blink open and find me across the room.
The world shifts as recognition flashes in those vivid green eyes of hers, same ones that have haunted me for years. The past and present collide in a way I never saw coming. Except this time, I can see the raw emotion — the tears, the shock, the confusion — cycling through her countenance in real time. Her lips part slightly, but no sound escapes. I try it too and open my mouth, but no words come out.
So neither of us speaks.
What is there to say?