“I know you haven’t had it easy because of me. I don’t know how to say so many things I need to.”
She looks to my hand and reaches over to swipe her fingers over the back of mine. It feels therapeutic, being able to speak to her like this. As Mum said: the bad can always be superseded, and it gives me hope for my nightmares and fears. And for my mistakes.
“When I’ve tried quitting in the past, it was always for someone else. My dad saying I’ll end up like my mother. To impress Chester. Somehow it’s taken me two decades of my habit to find out nothing will work when it comes to being serious cleaning up unless I do it for me.”
“Aren’t you morbid?” I mimic. “You’re no fun at all.”
My tone is playful, and even after all this we both throw our heads back and chortle, like these sounds come from fat old women with hairy moles on their faces. We couldn’t care less.
“But you always go on about ‘fun’ and such,” I say. Suddenly my approach has turned defensive without my knowledge of wanting to sound that way. Why am I doing this? We’re finally getting somewhere.
“Part of having fun is letting go, you know. Forcing fun only gives you so much satisfaction, like getting drunk to smother whatever you need to. Part of enjoyment is trust. Trust that you can open yourself up to someone and that person will take care of your mind and heart. Betsy isn’t the smartest or the wisest, as I’m not, but none of my old friends or family accept and understand me as she does.”
Mum taps my hand with hers and gazes deep into my eyes. “I know you’re a private person but you can’t be truly happy until you allow someone to know who you are, deep inside. You don’t need to share everything, but they do need to know what makes you who you are, even if it’s downright ugly. Otherwise, you shut off parts of you until you only have the tip of the iceberg to show off, and that’s like a sign asking people to keep you this way, lonely and isolated.
“And,” she says, her tone changing to something I can’t place, but my heart knows and beats faster at it, “Scout and Nate are the type of friends I’d have loved to have had years ago.”
It takes forever to shake myself back here. “Um, wow? You sound so prophetic. How did you come up with a speech like that?”
“I didn’t. Nicole tried telling me this and I’ve spent years figuring it out for myself.”
17
Nate’s back tomorrow; tonight, Friday, still seems impossibly far.
I’ve been slightly distracted, thankfully. There’s an annual violin concert coming up. It’s a great showcase event where students in grade four and above can compete, and the night ranges from new violinists and pianists to experienced ones and a select few national “celebrities” in the violin and piano world.
I round up some of my favourite pieces over the years. I have a soft spot for Arioso by Bach, but I played that last year when a couple of my students were selected. I pull out my written piece. It’s still nameless, so I start penning possible names. The first ones are cliché, including words such as “survive” and “love”, so I keep writing and scrunching, aiming for the can until I have a decent list.
Scrolling down, I choose, “I Will”.
It fits perfectly with the musical story, from the staccato to the longer notes where I accentuate my vibrato.
I text Scout to tell her the good news about finally finding a name for my piece, and letting her know this year’s concert details. Naturally, we end up at one of the university cafés, give our stiff texting fingers a break and hang out properly.
Walking in I notice the corner couches are free and force my excitement down so I don’t run and do a bomb onto them. The leather is the softest, and once I lounge back, I’m overcome with want to close my eyes and stay, let my back tension ease away.
“Yo.”
Scout bumps my leg, and I lift it up to let her through.
“So,” she starts.
That so puts her on the spot as much of me.
Have you told your family the truth about you, and Steph?
What’s going on with you and Nate?
She sets the mood when her answer is a waggling tongue poking out. Fine. I lift my legs and place them over her thighs. She death stares me, so I settle my legs into a comfortable crossed over position and lean my back on the couch arm.
“Hey.” I hold my hands up helplessly. “That’s what besties are for.”
“Has Nate spoken to you?” Scout tips her head at me, grinning. “That’s what besties are for.”
“Uhh …” I look down at my top, shaping it over my leggings, trying to figure out the best answer until I feel the shadow of someone looming behind me.