While You're Away (10 page)

I tossed the ball in the air and swung. Bat connected with ball, the bright, rich sound of wood against leather echoing between me and Will. Leaning over, I reached into the bucket for another ball. “I know you haven’t.”

“I don’t want to ruin her graduation,” he continued.

How thoughtful of him, I thought somewhat bitterly. But what about me?

With a lazy swing, I tossed another ball in the air and fired it at the end of the lane. “That’s fine.”

My quiet must have unnerved him. He slipped closer to me, his hands straying into the space between us. Like he yearned to touch me, but didn’t dare. Shoulders angled, he watched as I knocked another ball into the distance. “I want to be with you, Sarah. You know that.”

Tossing the ball into the air, I watched it arc and fall. The red stitching had long since faded. Its casing, once white, was gray. And it still felt good to knock it right down the cage. My shoulders didn’t burn, and I wasn’t out of breath. Inside, I was dying, but I refused to let it show.

“Prove it,” I said.

With that, I sent a line drive into the dirt, dropped the bat, and walked away.

I
n our time apart, Dave had revamped the garage studio. His workbench remained, but it was newly organized. A pegboard held all his tools. The long rows of nearly refurbished guitars had disappeared.

The space was just as sharp as Dave was, in his new, clinging jeans and shirts cut to follow his broad shoulders and narrow waist. A line from an old Hole song flitted through my head: he’d made himself over. Suddenly, he was Hollywood hot, super comfortable in his celebrity skin.

Trying to take it all in, I said, “You’ve been busy.”

Dave pushed a hand into his hair. It sprung between his fingers, streaks of summer gold. “I’ve had a little free time to play with.”

Turning slowly, I tried to absorb everything that was new. He’d pushed the couch against the far wall. The long counter in the back of the garage was clear. Now it held music stands and pencil cups. Alligator clips clung to the top of a corkboard. The song lists we usually put together on scraps of paper were all neatly pinned.

“It looks nice,” I said.

As if confessing, Dave exhaled heavily. “I e-mailed the studio; they have time on their calendar next week if we want to finally record a demo.”

Tension I didn’t realize I had drained from me. Looking at the garage again, it came into perfect focus. This wasn’t just some cleaning up and rearranging. He’d taken a long, hard look at what had gone wrong. And he’d done everything he could to fix it. To move
forward.

“I locked in the rate,” he added when I was quiet too long. Edging toward me, he slipped into orbit around me. It was like he wanted to reach out, but didn’t dare. “So if next week is too soon, we can do it whenever.”

“Thank you,” I said. I meant it with a depth that just a couple of words couldn’t convey. It came from the marrow of my bones and from the deepest part of my heart, from the same place songs were born, an unnamable place that still—I had to admit—belonged to Dave.

Nodding, Dave moved closer still. “I’ve been thinking about the harmonies for ‘Scrambled Eggs.’ Trying to work them out. I don’t have the music, though.”

Finding a smile, I caught his hand. Turning it in mine, I smoothed it between my palms. So familiar. The scars and the calluses, the worn crease of each finger. His hands were so beautiful. Will was the one who’d left things hanging, so I didn’t try to deny what lingered. With Dave, I felt a sense of peace. Of rightness.

“It’s called ‘Everything’ now.”

“I like it,” he murmured.

Quiet, I tried to see the future again. I tried to catch just a glimpse, see where this was all going. Who was future Sarah? Who was she with? What was it like? But I still couldn’t see the answers. Now more than ever, I realized that imagining a future with someone meant nothing. I could make up fantasies all day long. What mattered most were actions.

Dave tugged me closer, wrapping his arms around me. “I can chill after our gigs, too. I didn’t know it bothered you that much.”

Though Dave’s arms were safe and familiar, I missed the spark I felt when I was close to Will. Things were still unsettled. Though I wasn’t quite ready to sever the connection I felt to Will, I was starting to consider it. Muffled against Dave’s chest, I asked quietly, “Can we sit and play some songs?”

“Absolutely.” Dave brushed a rough kiss against my hair and let go. Trailing toward the couch, he picked up his guitar and waited for me to follow.

When I settled, he still stood. Plucking a few notes, and tuning one of the strings, he smiled down at me. It was an anxious smile, laced with shyness and hope. Coaxing a beautiful flourish from his guitar, he asked, “Know any Iron and Wine?”

Just like that, it was like we were all the way back to the beginning. Warmth filled me, spilling over inside me and painting an unstoppable smile on my lips. Fingers danced across guitar strings, drawing honeyed notes to swirl around us. Seeing his face again, remembering his face again . . . it felt good. We moved together, our lips parting, harmony lacing together effortlessly.

The song ended too soon. When the last notes trailed away, I didn’t want the spell to end. Neither did Dave. Was it possible that the connection we had when we played together could translate in other ways? He moved closer, our weight distressing the old couch and tipping us toward each other. With a quick, downcast look, Dave clutched his guitar.

Then, he said, “We should concentrate on the music right now. Get ourselves sorted out.”

At first, the suggestion shocked me. But I appreciated that he was willing to be careful with me. With us.

Nodding, I said, “Okay.”

When he looked up, he seemed transformed. I remembered the round-faced boy I met on the first day of high school. But he wasn’t there anymore. Dave had grown up since then.

“All right,” he said, readying his fingers on the freeboard. “What key is ‘Everything’ in?”

I told him. His voice slid into my song.

This time, I didn’t have to jump. Together, we fell.

It was a long, wonderful way down.

~

When I finally left Dave’s garage, a pleasant tension played on my skin. It bothered me all the way home, and all the way through my last bit of homework before the school year officially ended.

Slumped at the kitchen island, I kept humming, ignoring downward-sloping aggregate demand curves in favor of brand-new music with Dave.

The landline ringing shattered the relative quiet. Exactly two people called the house line regularly. The first was Mimi Sally in Tucson. The second was Grace, away at college. Plucking a quarter off the counter, I flipped it as I answered. Heads said it was a Grandma call. Caller ID said it was my sister. I chose to believe caller ID.

“Hey, Gracie,” I said smoothly. “Did you sense I was being attacked by a graph?”

“Is Mom there?” Grace asked. She sounded weird.

Immediately, I was on edge. I could tell something was wrong. She skipped the ritual teasing, which was never a good sign. A worse sign was her asking for Mom. While they got along fine, Grace was more of a Daddy’s girl. The only time she wanted to talk to Mom first was when something needed fixing.

Pacing down the hall, I said, “I don’t know if she is or not. I’m looking. Is everything okay?”

“I just need to talk to Mom,” Grace said, more firmly.

If she’d sounded a little more like herself, I would have given her hell for biting my head off. Or pointed out the million reasons why she should talk to me first. One, I was an excellent listener. Two, I was an impartial judge. Three, I was her baby sister, and it had been a long time since we’d caught up, and I was worried about her. But it just didn’t feel right today.

I was weirdly relieved when I found Mom in her office. She was pretending to work, but when I came around her desk, I caught her watering digital zucchini on Facebook.

“Found her,” I told Grace, then handed the phone to Mom with a shake of my head.
That’s right, I caught you
, my feigned disapproval said. Then, quietly so Grace wouldn’t hear, I told Mom, “She sounds upset.”

Taking the phone, Mom patted me on the back to shoo me away. “Thanks, Noodle.”

My voice still low, I jerked a thumb toward the door, the universal symbol for
I’m heading out
.

Now that I’d freed myself, it was easy to ignore the rest of my homework. It’s not like it wouldn’t still be there when I got back. My brain needed a rest and some caffeine.

Slipping behind the wheel of my car, I rolled all the windows down and turned the radio all the way up. I never listened to my own music when I drove. Instead, I liked to pump pure, frothy pop through the speakers.

Before I realized where I was going, I had already turned down the right combination of streets. From my house to Will’s, without a single thought. It wasn’t hard.

Our neighborhoods were separated by a woody park, and money. My house was nice enough, but as I wended my way toward Will’s, the porches grew columns and the walks sprouted brick and landscaping.

Will’s house loomed in the distance. Weathered red brick and ivy, it stretched out beneath tall trees, presiding over a velvety lawn. It had sections, angular and visible. As if it wanted very much to have an east and west wing, and might someday if it would only wish on the right star.

I’d absolutely meant it when I told Will that it was up to him now. I wouldn’t be knocking on his door or calling to beg for his attention. But my subconscious hadn’t gotten the memo. How else had I ended up cruising past his house, misery slowly flooding my skin?

Slowing, I glided past his house. I couldn’t look away. It was like he was a flame, and I was a stupid, stupid moth. Suddenly, though, my heart leapt. Tricia’s car was in the driveway.

Touching my Bluetooth, I told it to call Will.

“Hey, Sarah. What’s up?”

Carefully neutral, I said, “Not much. What’s up with you?”

“Hanging with Tricia.” He sounded matter-of-fact. “Are you busy later?”

Over and over in my head, I told myself I had no right to be jealous. I made my choice, he’d made his. My heart refused to listen. Each beat turned my blood to acid. As I inched past his house, I stared at it, hard. Like somehow I could see them from the outside. As if I’d really want to.

Forcing myself to hold on to that neutrality in my voice, I said, “I’m not sure. I might have plans.”

“You might?”

“Yes,” I said. Then weakness bled through, and I added, “But you can call and find out for sure later.”

“Great,” he replied. “Will do.” Then the line went dead.

I was stupid. So stupid.

Grinding both hands on the wheel, I stomped on the gas. The acid spread to my stomach. A bitter taste rose in my throat, and I swallowed against it.

The phone rang.

It was Dave. Of course it was, with his uncanny ability to sense when I was stressed or sad. Nothing could be easy or clean or simple. The constant push and pull couldn’t ever let up. I considered letting it go to voicemail. On the third ring, I answered—guilty.

“Where are you right now?” Dave asked.

“Just driving around. What’s up?”

“The studio called. They had a cancellation and can get us in for an hour or two this afternoon to lay down our vocals.”

“Perfect,” I exclaimed.

Sounding a little surprised, Dave said, “It’s not too soon?”

“Absolutely not. Let me swing by home to grab some stuff, and I can meet you at the studio?”

Excitement bubbled up inside of me and pushed my bitterness over Will aside. Three years of hard work had finally paid off. Dave and I were finally going to record in a proper studio. This was a real beginning. The first step to a future where music was a profession and a calling.

And Dave, the heart of the band, the guy who had been there since the beginning, would be there at my side.

A
fter our recording session, I turned down Dave’s invitation to go celebrate. I didn’t know how to explain to him that I wasn’t in a celebrating mood. I should have been. And deep in all the complicated mess that was my heart, I was proud that we’d finally cut a real demo.

Even though my musical chemistry with Dave was as strong as ever, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about Will. But it felt like a birthday with one balloon and no cake. Somehow incomplete; somehow very, very lonely.

Surprise interrupted the introspection, because when I got home, there were two unexpected cars in the driveway. I went to the front door, and it swung open. My stark best friend shot me a knowing smile.

“So who’s a hot-ass rock star?” she asked.

I laughed and slumped against her. “How did you know?”

A voice rang out from the kitchen. “Mom has a big mouth and so do I.”

I tripped, nearly taking Jane down with me. “Gracie?”

My eldest sister stepped into the hallway, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in each hand. Shaking them, she raised her brows expectantly. “Is this happening or not?”

It had been months since I’d seen Grace. She’d been away at Loyola the entire year. It was too far away for her to come home for most breaks. The last time we’d seen her was Christmas, when she’d flown in with her boyfriend, Luke, on Christmas Eve. But by Boxing Day, she was gone. It sort of left us feeling like it hadn’t happened at all.

In spite of her sick obsession with higher mathematical functions, Grace was the magic in the holidays around our house. She was the one who loved trimming the tree. She was the one who insisted we still needed stockings—Mom, Dad, and the stray neighborhood cat included.

Throwing my arms around her, I hugged Grace. She still smelled like lavender. Her hair was silky as ever. I hadn’t realized just how much I’d missed her until that very moment. When I finally let her go, I pulled back to get a better look at her.

She wore clothes I’d never seen before. And there was a new shape to her face. She was still Grace, for sure. But she looked neater. More refined. It took me a minute to realize that she looked a lot like Mom.

“What are you doing here?” I asked her, handily stealing the pint of Chocolate Therapy in her left hand. Tossing it to Jane, I dived for the silverware drawer. Teaspoons weren’t going to cut it. I hauled out the big tablespoons, one for each of us. “Not that I’m not glad you’re here—I am!”

“I can’t move into my graduate housing until the end of summer,” she explained. “My landlord wanted me to pay three hundred dollars more a month for a short-term lease.”

Jane made a disgusted sound. “There has to be a law against that.”

Always fair, Grace shrugged. “Maybe there is. It wasn’t worth it to me to fight it. I missed this place. And the monkeys in it.”

With a wink, she nudged me, then peeled the lid off her Cherry Garcia. Unlike her savage little sister, she delicately spooned her ice cream into a porcelain bowl.

“What about Luke?” I asked, wondering about her very efficient long-distance boyfriend. He was studying biological oceanography at MIT–Woods Hole.

Waving her spoon dismissively, Grace said, “Home is closer than Loyola
or
Cal-Berkeley. We’re going to meet up at the end of July for our anniversary.”

“Four years,” I told Jane.

“Impressive.”

“But really dull, comparatively.” Grace went from casual to cutthroat, skipping all the gentle, prodding questions. We were sisters. She didn’t have to be polite or delicate with me. “Because I heard somebody’s already living the rock-star life.”

“It’s just a demo,” I demurred.

Crinkling her nose, Grace said, “I’m talking about someone’s two boyfriends.”

For that, I shot a look at Jane. She was an absolute lunatic, acting like I had been holding court and enjoying a harem full of boy toys. Dipping my spoon into Grace’s ice cream, I settled into one of the island stools.

“Uh, no. I acted like total trash and kissed another guy while I was still dating Dave. Then I broke up with Dave and found out the other guy didn’t actually love . . . I mean, like me.”

It was funny the way Grace got defensive of me when I was the one bashing myself. Very sternly, she abandoned her dessert to lecture me. “Is he stupid?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Does it matter?”

Grace’s defensiveness changed targets. “He’s obviously stupid if he doesn’t think you’re great. But you know what? Stop being hard on yourself.”

“Don’t you think I should be?”

“No,” Grace said firmly. “There’s nothing wrong with reevaluating a relationship. You started dating Dave when you were fourteen. You grew up. You’re a completely different person now.”

“No kidding,” Jane said.

Never one for banter, Grace started tidying up after herself. Her ice cream wasn’t even half-finished. Moving comfortably through our kitchen, Grace wiped and tossed and rinsed like she’d never been gone.

That was one thing Ellie and I both missed about our sister. Her borderline kitchen OCD was our gain. We never had to do dishes when Grace was home.

“Anyway,” I said, because it was nice to have somebody objective in the mix for once, “I think the friends thing is going to work with Dave. I mean, witness: demo reel ice cream.”

Tossing a sponge in the sink, Grace turned to lean back against the counter. “So why don’t you sound like you’re happy?”

Leave it to Grace and her analytical mind to call bullshit. Including catching her little sisters in the midst of semi-delusional lies. The ache started in my chest again, and I put my spoon down. “It wasn’t what I expected.”

“How so?”

It took me a minute to explain the boring, technical details of recording. How each person recorded separately in their own booth, then each instrument separately. To Grace’s credit, she looked riveted. And when I finally finished up the explanation, she was completely ready for me to explain what was actually wrong.

“The thing about Dasa is, you know, I’m at my best when I perform
with
Dave—”

“Bullshit,” Jane coughed into her hand.

With a prim look, Grace silenced her. “Enough.” Then she turned back to me. “Go on.”

“Well, recording isn’t
with
. You have to record separately, right? And he wanted us to record a song I wrote. Which was weird, because I wrote it when we broke up. And sort of wrote it about the other guy. Besides all that, it’s
my
song. He’s been making fun of it since I started it, and I didn’t want to share.”

Sympathetic, Grace curled her arms on the island. “You outgrew him as a boyfriend. Is it possible you outgrew him as a musician, too?”

That question surprised me. It struck hard, and left me feeling weak. Was that possible? Still reeling, I said, “I don’t . . . I don’t know.”

“I do,” Jane said, still plowing through her carton.

Then it hit me. Will had known, too. He’d told me so, his back to my back, beneath the wavering light from the pool. If that was his whole purpose, to push me on—to push me up—maybe I could stop feeling bad about the parts of him that I hadn’t gotten. Just as I thought it, my phone bleated.

Another shock consumed me. It was Will, which was surprising enough. But the text itself left me breathless.

want to run away together?