Chapter Eighteen
ELEVEN YEARS AGO
THE WORLD OUTSIDE my dorm window is white. Pure white. Snow is falling so fast and thick that it’s basically all I can see. There’s no view of Lincoln Center today. Only the blizzard swirling about.
With a sigh, I zip up my suitcase and drag it out the door and down the hall.
Now that it’s my sophomore year, I’ve gotten better about traveling light, even if I only have to take a subway to get home.
At the end of my freshman year, I had no choice but to toss a bunch of my crap or give it away, because there was no way in hell I was taking three big bags on the C train.
For the winter break, I can at least leave some of my stuff for next year behind, even if they won’t let anyone stay here over the holidays.
The cleaning staff have already started working on my floor by the time I make it to the elevator, suitcase in tow.
I cringe at the wet boot prints I left behind when I came this way earlier, then cringe again when I think about having to walk back through the snow to Columbus Circle.
At least I don’t have to fly to get home.
I’m sure all planes are grounded in this weather and the airport must be pure chaos right before Christmas.
I zip up my coat and fix the beanie on my head while the elevator descends. I emerge into the lobby, where not even the security guard, Bernie, sits behind the desk. It’s completely empty. I can even hear the big clock ticking on the wall.
Just as I start to zigzag my way through the chairs and small sofas scattered around, I notice him.
Sitting in front of the big window by himself is Oliver Barlowe.
A black suitcase is next to him. He doesn’t look my way even though my own suitcases’ wheels are squeaking, loudly pronouncing my presence.
I hesitate a few feet from the door. Ever since our cursed matrix assignment, Oliver and I have struck a sort of silent, tentative truce.
I still haven’t forgiven him for being such a jerk to my family, but I am grateful for his help in our Twentieth-Century Composition class.
We don’t talk to each other, but we don’t avoid each other, either.
I catch him looking at me in class frequently, always with that same cold, unreadable expression.
Sometimes I smile back at him as a thank-you for saving my ass with those sudoku puzzles. Once in a while, he’ll smile in return.
What is he still doing here? I know he had his piano practicum early in the week because I saw him in the practice rooms every single night leading up to it, staying way later than anyone else.
When he finished his exams, he never reappeared.
There was always someone else in the room he liked best with the full concert grand Steinway.
Over lunch earlier in the week, Anthony told me that he’d heard Oliver played Beethoven’s Sonata No.
29 for his final. One of the most notoriously difficult pieces to play.
Curiosity gets the better of me, so I roll my suitcase over to where he’s sitting. He’s fully zipped up in a big black jacket with a fur-trimmed hood. His light-brown hair is, as always, a mess.
“Hey,” I say, but he doesn’t look over. “What’s up?”
His whole body heaves as he sighs. “Not my plane out of here, that’s for sure.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “Your flight was canceled?”
He nods but says nothing else.
“Where are you going?” I ask, because I don’t have a clue as to where he would be headed for the holidays.
“Florida.”
I have no idea what I was expecting him to say, but it certainly wasn’t that. I pull my beanie off my head and blink in surprise. “Really? What’s in Florida?”
“A cruise that leaves in the morning,” he says quietly. “Airlines can’t get me out until tomorrow night.”
I observe as he watches the snow pelt the window from what seems like every direction.
My stomach twists with something like pity, or maybe it’s just empathy.
I know that feeling of crushing disappointment where everything is out of your hands, but you still can’t help but feel so bummed about it.
Whatever Oliver’s holiday plans were, they’re going to sail off without him tomorrow.
“Shit. I’m really sorry.”
He must hear the sincerity in my voice, because he turns to look at me finally, and it almost takes my breath away.
Now that I’ve known him for over a year, I’ve seen Oliver in a number of scenarios: concentrating while performing or practicing, frustrated at himself or others for not getting something fast enough.
But more often than not, he’s stony faced and borderline rude.
Today, though, he looks devastated. The sadness is mostly in his eyes. Like he’s trying not to cry.
“Do you have somewhere to go? Somewhere to hang out for a night or two while the storm blows over?”
I know that I’m asking him this because the honesty in his expression is hitting me right in my big dumb heart.
My dad always tells me that my sensitive, caring nature makes me a better musician because I feel so much that I can channel it into my playing.
I never believed him before. But now, I’m looking at the guy who showed up to that social mixer and stole everyone’s thunder, then didn’t deign to speak to me or anyone else for basically the entire first year, but I can’t bring myself to feel anything but tenderness for him.
His holiday plans just slipped right through his fingers and now he’s stuck in New York. Possibly alone.
“It’s fine,” he replies finally.
My brows pinch together. “Do you mean you have somewhere to stay? Because I’m pretty sure they’re trying to tell us to leave.”
Somewhere down the hall, a vacuum kicks on.
“I have somewhere to go, yes.”
“Okay, well, good.” A little wave of relief washes over me, because while I can feel for Oliver’s sudden change of plans, I’m not yet at the point where I’m willing to invite him to spend Christmas with my family.
If this had been Rebecca, or even Blake or Anthony or Chloe, I would have made the suggestion without hesitation. But Oliver? No, we’re not there yet.
“We could go get coffee or something to kill some time,” I offer instead. “Until you can go… wherever it is that you’re going.”
For several long, weird seconds, Oliver and I stare at each other. I could not tell you what he’s thinking, not for a million dollars. Eventually he glances at the snow, then back at me. He shakes his head.
“Celia, I’m okay,” he says with a smile so forced anyone could see right through it. “I promise.”
I choose to not think about the little sting of rejection that hits me right in the heart.
It doesn’t matter because I don’t really want to spend an hour or two trying to make conversation with the guy who, until minutes ago, had not spoken to me about anything not directly related to our coursework in eighteen months.
My own family is waiting for me uptown, with the big Christmas tree in the bay window, decked out in lights and ornaments, radiator heat on full blast because my mom still refuses to be cold in her own home even after all these years.
“Okay then. Happy holidays, Oliver. See you next year.”
“Happy holidays.”
I jam my hat back on my head and turn to wheel my suitcase around. Before I know what’s happening, Oliver is in front of me, stepping up to the door. Holding it open for me.
This time, when he smiles, it looks a lot more genuine.
It even reaches his eyes, which still look a little sad as I pass by him, mumbling a surprised thank you.
After I drag my suitcase down the ramp, I turn to look back, but I can’t see him.
The whole building is swallowed by the snow, and Oliver is still inside it, in the heart of the storm.
VOICEMAIL TRANSCRIPTION—MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 6:12 PM
Padre: “Hi hija, it’s your dad. Just calling to see how you’re doing.
Haven’t talked to you in a while and, you know, we think about you all the time, your mother and I.
You know Michael, from down the block, the one with the little girl, Elisa?
She must be about seven years old now. Well, he asked me if she could do drum lessons at the club in the afternoons because she wants to learn to play.
Of course I said yes. She reminds me so much of you up there when you were small.
I told them all about your job and you should have seen the look on her face.
It was like Elisa didn’t even know a girl could do all that.
So I’m just real proud of you, hija. You work so hard and got yourself so far, but you never forgot where you came from.
So just give me a call me when you can. Love you. Bye.”