The house is quiet when I get home, and empty. I drop my bag by the door and wander into the den and, without thinking much about it, settle down at the piano. There was a time when I used to come here every day after school. When my parents would bring me home and I would race inside, plunk myself down, and play. It was like taking a shower. My muscles would relax and my head would clear and the day would wash away.
I choose a piece from memory. It’s something by Tchaikovsky that I’ve always really liked. A love theme. I’m rusty and I start slow, but my fingers remember the way better than I do, and soon I’m flying, gliding over the keys. The thing I always loved about playing was that there was no room for anything else. From the moment my hands touch the keys, it’s just me and the piano. We’re the only thing that exists in the entire universe.
In fact, it’s almost six by the time I tear myself away, which means I’ve spent almost two hours here. When I sit back, I half expect Len to be seated next to me, smiling encouragingly. And then I leap up, because Len is going to be here any minute and I still have to get ready.
The thing about growing up in Southern California is that you kind of wear the same thing all year round. Aside from the possible addition of a cardigan or wrap in the winter, wardrobe is pretty standard.
When I get up to my room, I open my closet. It smells like lavender because of these tiny bags of potpourri my mom keeps in my sock and T-shirt drawers, and I breathe deeply, enjoying the momentary lull. After a moment I feel calmer and I consider the possible wardrobe options for this date.
I pull out a few items and look at my choices. There is the dress I bought and wore for Rob’s mom’s fortieth birthday, the one I took with us to seePhantom of the Operain New York. There is a summer dress that I wore when we rode bikes together last year, and one that still has an ice cream stain from when he dropped his chocolate cone on me two summers ago. Every dress in here seems to tell some sort of story about Rob.
I look again, determined to do better. There’s a blue dress hidden in the back that my mom and I bought last spring. It’s blue cotton and kind of flowy with little cap sleeves and a hem that hits just above the knee. I’ve never worn it before, and I slip it on. It’s comfortable, and I think it makes me look older somehow. I choose a pair of teardrop earrings Charlie gave me for my sixteenth birthday and put on some blush and mascara. It’s not as amazing as the silver dress I wore to Fall Back, but I think this one makes me look like me.
The doorbell rings exactly at six. I didn’t expect him to be the kind of guy who shows up on the dot, but Len keeps on surprising me. I throw some cash that’s on my dresser into my bag andtake one last look in the mirror. I’m excited. Something about knowing that Len is downstairs feels right. Not like a dream, but better. Real.
I can’t wait to hold his hand tonight and to maybe even have him kiss me. I can’t wait to find out what his favorite color is and what he meant about Juilliard, about not being done here. I want to know more about his sister and whether he’s close with his dad. I want to know how he feels about Thai food versus Japanese and what his favorite movie is. The future seems better than the past, bigger and more alive, and as I run down the stairs, the only thing I can think is,I’m excited for what’s to come.
I open the door a tiny bit breathless, but it’s not Len standing on the other side. It’s someone in jeans and a familiar green T-shirt. It’s Rob. His face is red and he’s panting, like he’s been running. His breath comes in short, hollow bursts, and he’s doubled over, his hands on his knees. And he reeks.
“What are you doing?” I blurt out. I keep the door closed just a little, my hand still on the knob.
“Can I come in?” He frowns and glances behind me. “Just for a minute.”
“No. My parents are home,” I lie. “What’s going on?”
He shakes his head. “I had to see you,” he slurs.
“Are you drunk?”
“A little.”
“You’re a mess,” I say.
“My life is a mess.”
He looks at me and his eyes are red, cracked. He’s been crying.
“My mom lied, Juliet lied, my friends are all liars. You’re the only one who ever—” He looks at his feet. “You were the only one who ever made any sense.”
“Rob—”
“I miss you.”
It’s all I’ve wanted to hear. For months I just wanted him to show back up on my doorstep and say it was all a mistake, that I was the one he really wanted. But now, looking at him, drunk and in shambles, I don’t want to fall into his arms. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
He blinks and looks at me. “I—I dunno,” he stutters. “I think I made a mistake.” He runs a hand through his hair.
“Look, Rob,” I say, “I don’t really know what you want from me.”
“I want you,” he says softly. “I want you back. Imissyou. Can’t you see that?”
He’s looking at me with those brown hot chocolate eyes. The eyes that have watched me sleep and seen my piano recitals and that looked on, steadfast, when I first learned how to ride a bike.
“What about Juliet?”
That vein in his neck twitches. “I don’t know. I can’t even trust her.”
What I say next surprises both of us. “It wasn’t her fault, you know. You shouldn’t hold her responsible.”
