No musician is as good as he is.
It’s well past midnight. The customers are gone, Mary and the others have left, and the place is empty—except for Vincent and me. We stand at opposite ends of the restaurant, silent. He wipes tables with a rag while I sweep the floor.
When Mary told him he’d be cleaning with me, he just nodded. No complaint, no annoyed look. If I didn’t know him as well as I do, I would’ve believed he didn’t care.
But I know that mask. He always wears it when he’s uncomfortable: a blank expression that hides everything.
Truth is, he’s more nervous than I am. I can see it in his stiff shoulders, in the way he’s been scrubbing the same spot on the counter for ten minutes.
“Don’t you think we should talk about it?” It’s the first thing he’s said to me all night.
“Now we have to clean,” I reply flatly, dumping the dustpan into the bin.
“Nova, I just want to talk.”
There’s frustration in his voice, and I feel his stare burning into my back. I find the courage to turn and face him. He’s only a few steps away. I can’t even meet his eyes. He’s clutching a rag in one hand, a spray bottle in the other.
“Couldn’t we talk another time? This isn’t the place. We have nothing to discuss. Everything’s fine, right? Welcome back to San Francisco, Vincent Cooper.”
“Why aren’t you angry?” he asks, setting the rag and bottle on the counter.
When I finally meet his eyes, my cheeks burn and my heart races again. Why can’t he let me breathe for even a second? I hug myself—not to protect my self from him, but from my own memories.
“What do you mean by that? You know I hate cryptic questions. I can never answer them.”
Vincent runs a hand through his dark hair and steps closer. His hazel eyes lock on mine, determined. “I’m just asking why you’re not mad at me.”
I look away and keep sweeping, but I hear him.
“I’m not five, Cooper. We’re adults.”
“Right, we’re adults. So answer me.”
I don’t know how much time passes, but by the time I answer, the floor is clean and I’m putting chairs back down.
I shrug. “I’m not angry because I don’t have a reason to be. Did you do something I should be angry about?”
“If you cared, you’d be angry. You should be yelling at me. Throwing chairs.”
I roll my eyes and step closer. Vincent leans back against a table, sitting so his face is level with mine.
“We haven’t seen each other in years, and the first thing you ask is why I’m not angry? Wow. And I’m the one who supposedly doesn’t care?”
“Marshall...” he whispers, inches away. “You know I care.”
“Are you sure?” I want to ask why he left me if he cared so much. The question claws at my throat. “What do you want from me?” I snap.
“I just want y—why aren’t you angry?”
“What should I be mad at you for?”
He shrugs. “Because it would mean you still care.”
My heart cracks again. Affection isn’t measured in anger. He knows that. Why can’t he understand?
I start pacing, my words tumbling out. “Of course I care! Do you think I wouldn’t have cheered for you tonight if I didn’t? Cooper, I have every reason to hate you, to erase from my mind the day I met you. But that doesn’t mean I’d ever deny that you’re the greast musician I’ve ever known. Do you think I’m that selfish?”
He rises, closing the gap between us. “Marshall, I—”
