What He Doesn't Know(6)

Music used to save me, but it had died along with my family three years ago.

A mass shooting. A man who might as well have shot me dead, too, for how he stole every bit of joy in my life.

I closed my eyes, trying to feel the song I'd been working on for my  family, trying to capture what they meant to me in the chords I played,  trying to portray the pain and loss I felt now that they were gone. I  frowned, reaching for the right sound, one that seemed so out of my  grasp.

The more I tried, the more frustrated I became, because no matter what  my relationship with music was, it couldn't bring my family back - and  it couldn't fill the hole they left behind.

My phone lit up on the kitchen counter just feet away from me, the loud  vibration of it jarring me from the song. I tried to push past it, but  the moment was gone, the notes I'd been chasing vanishing like smoke as I  ran my hands through my hair.

I didn't have to look to know it was my former roommate, Blake, who was  responsible for the interruption. No doubt the text would be asking if  I'd managed to unpack anything yet.

But I didn't move to answer it, nor did I unpack a single box that  night. I just made my way back to the sliding glass door, lighting  another cigarette and drinking the rest of my six-pack until it was time  to go to bed. I sat wondering how the hell I'd been hired to teach at  one of the top prep schools in the nation, how the hell I'd ended up  back in the town I never thought I'd step foot in again.

And how I'd managed to run back into Charlie Reid after so many years.





That Friday, I stayed after the last bell had rung for my first tutoring session at Westchester.

"Good. Now, when you're practicing scales, I want you to take your time.  Focus on your hand position instead of just slogging through. It may  seem like it's not a big deal, as long as you're practicing them, but  right now is the time to build good habits," I told Matthew, watching as  his face twisted in concentration.

He was my first victim at Westchester, my first one-on-one experience  with a child and not a college student. I didn't have it in me to tell  him I was just as nervous as he was. When I helped out at Juilliard, it  was always with already-skilled musicians who were struggling more with  growing pains than actual music-related issues. It'd been more of a  therapy job, which was also a joke, since I didn't have a single thing  figured out myself.

"Trust me, I wish I'd have put more time and effort into this kind of  stuff when I was your age," I told Matthew. "Would have saved me a lot  of headaches retraining at Juilliard."

He nodded, his fingers finding the keys again as he played through the  same set we'd just finished. I watched him move, his hands a little more  arched this time, his fingers skating with more ease over the keys. He  still needed a lot of practice before he could move on to the more  advanced pieces some of his peers were playing, but he had potential.  And he listened. That's all I needed to be able to work with him.

When he finished, I sat down at the piano next to him, gesturing for him  to watch me play the same sheet of music. It was an easy piece, an old  nursery rhyme set in E major. I played it easily, forcing myself to go  slow so I could talk Matthew through some of the points I'd been making  with him that afternoon. He nodded along, taking notes in a small  notepad, and when I finished, he smiled toothily at me.

"You make it look easy."

I chuckled. "You'll do the same one day. Go ahead, run through it one more time."

As he played the first few notes, I noticed Charlie leaning against the  door frame just behind us. I squeezed Matthew's shoulder to let him know  I was still listening before strolling up to her, returning her soft  smile.

"It's nice to see you playing again," she said first, careful not to  talk too loudly over Matthew's practicing. "I always loved to watch you  play. Or rather, to hear you."

"Different tunes back then," I pointed out.

The corner of her mouth twitched at a grin, though it didn't fully  expand. "Yes. Much more angsty and sad, but you were a tortured soul  back then."

"Still am," I teased.

"I'll warn Mr. Henderson to keep the teenagers away from you, then."

Charlie's hair was up in a bun again, wrapped tight and sitting high on  her head. Her long, slender neck was exposed in the dainty light-yellow  blouse she wore, and even though it was casual Friday, she still wore a  navy skirt similar to the one I'd seen her wear the first day. She'd  been in a skirt or dress every day that week, and though I'd only seen  her briefly at lunch each day, we were beginning to fall back into our  old steps.                       
       
           


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At least, as much as we could.

She still hadn't opened up to me, hadn't laughed, hadn't told me much  about what she'd been up to over the past fourteen years. But she sat  with me each day at lunch, and she was finally starting to do some of  the talking instead of leaving it all to me.

I'd take what I could get.

It was strange, how she brought out the young adult in me. Charlie  brought me back to simpler times, just by existing. She reminded me of  freedom and Pall Mall cigarettes, of dusty old books and stolen scotch.  Hearing her talk about how she used to watch me play reminded me of  those nights, of her carefully closing the lid on our piano so she could  sit on top of it while I played. It always morphed the notes, but I  never minded - it was never about the music when she was sitting there  with me.

I never knew which nights I'd come home and find her there in my old  kitchen, one foot tucked under where she sat on the same bar stool  reading late into the night. At first, it seemed like just a  coincidence. She couldn't sleep well at our house when she stayed the  night with Mallory, and I always came home late, so we'd spend those  early morning hours together at the piano.

But after a while, I began to wonder if she waited up for me on purpose, if she hoped for me to stumble in and play for her.

"Are you busy this evening?" she asked after a moment, standing up from where she'd been leaning against the frame.

"Unpacking," I said, but quickly followed it with the truth. "Well, attempting to, at least."

"Why am I not surprised to hear you're not unpacked yet."

"Hey," I defended. "This week has been busy. I'm a teacher now, you know."

"You're also lazy."

"That, too."

I willed her to smile, but she only glanced at Matthew playing over my shoulder before her eyes found mine again.

"My parents asked me to invite you over to dinner. They heard you were  back in town. But I can tell them you've got other plans if you don't  want to come. I know how overbearing they can be sometimes."

I searched her expression, wondering if she wanted me to come to dinner,  or if she was only asking out of obligation to her parents. I couldn't  decipher, and either way, I loved Max and Gloria Reid. I'd grown up with  them as a second set of parents, and I wondered if seeing them might  bring back that bit of home I longed for.

"Are you kidding? Your parents are the best. I'd love to come."

"Really?"

I scoffed. "Charlie, who in the history of ever in Mount Lebanon has turned down your mother's cooking?"

At that, her eyebrows raised in agreement. "Fair point. Well, dinner is at six tonight. I hope that's not too early?"

"Six is perfect."

She swallowed, watching me for a moment before she lifted one small hand in an awkward wave.

"Okay, then. See you at six. I assume you don't need the address?"

"I think I got it."

Charlie turned, and I told myself not to ask, but the question was already halfway out.

"Will I get to meet Mr. Pierce tonight?"

She stiffened, her hand catching on the frame as she quarter-turned, not  facing me all the way, just casting a glance over her shoulder.

"He's a Penguins' season ticket holder, so he'll be heading into the  city tonight. But he's dropping me off. I'm sure he'll come in and say  hello."

I shouldn't have assumed anything. I didn't know a single fucking thing  about her husband - his name, what he looked like, if he made her happy.  Still, the way her eyebrows pinched together, the sad turn of the song  in her voice, it clued me in to the fact that I didn't need to know much  to know something was off.

Was he the reason she didn't smile anymore?

"Great. Can't wait to meet the lucky guy."

Charlie flushed, almost imperceptibly, just the faintest tinge of pink shading her cheeks. "See you later, Reese."

I watched her walk away until Matthew played the last note.





Charlie



I stared at Cameron's right hand on the drive over to Mom and Dad's.

It was resting on the gear shift in his Audi, which was silly, because  it was an automatic car and he didn't need to shift. His left hand was  on top of the steering wheel, keeping the car steady on the road,  turning us easily whenever needed. That hand, his left one, was doing  all the work, like it had ever since I first met Cameron at Garrick  University - because his right hand belonged to me.