When they’re finally gone, I look around for something to do. My gaze falls on my phone. Cece. I pick it up, but she hasn’t called or texted. I chew my lip, then ring her. It goes straight to voicemail, and my stomach twists. Another voicemail. Still, I need to get this out.
“I’m sorry, Cee,” I whisper. “About Tristan and keeping that from you and the bar and everything else. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and you deserve…”
My voice chokes on the word I want to use. ‘Grace.’
I swallow. “You deserve understanding more than anyone else I know. You’re beautiful, Cee, inside and out. And I love you. I’ve been holding you to this impossible standard, acting like I was the only one who ever got hurt in high school. But I wasn’t. You tried your best, and you were just trying to make it through the mess like I was.”
My voice wobbles, but I keep going. “We were all twats back then. And yeah, there’s a scale, and Thrasher and Jenny can get fucked forever, but you and Jake didn’t do anything I can’t understand. And I was a dick too. I know I was. I pushed people away and blamed you for it. Stuff that wasn’t yours to control.”
I close my eyes, willing myself to keep going. To fight through the delusional protective parts, howling that I’m still the only wronged party. I won’t let them win. I won’t become my mother.
“I don’t want to be right more than I want to be your best friend,” I whisper. “I don’t want to be a sanctimonious asshole. I want to be better, and I’m sorry. I think I already said that, but I really am.”
I drag in a deep breath, aware of the looming time limit. “Also, unrelated but important, you can’t marry Will. He’s going to jail. Besides, you love Davis. You don’t want to see it because you’rescared, just like I am, but if I have to date an All Black, you have to have a boy-toy husband who worships you. Sorry. I love you. Call me back.”
I hang up and slump down onto the couch. I’m glad I reached out, but I’m at a complete loss for what to do next. I get to my feet, half-thinking I should shower again, but my feet don’t take me to the shower. They walk me right to my lavender suitcase. I kneel and fling it open, tossing aside clothes and shoes until I find it: The black flute case I brought to Pukekohe for no reason whatsoever.
It’s as pristine as it was when I left London, the clasps sealed for almost a year. I stare at the case, and it seems to stare back, but not in judgment.
Hey, Ada, I imagine it saying.I’ve missed you.
“Hi,” I whisper. “Sorry.”
No need to be sorry.
Tears prickle in my eyes. I swipe them away. “Don’t you hate me?”
Never. Would you like to make music, Ada?
The clasps click open, the sound as familiar as my own breathing. The metal warms beneath my fingers. Spring sunshine melting the last of a long winter’s snow. I slide the three pieces together, the parts locking in perfect union until it’s whole, silver and sturdy. My hands go over and under, grasping my flute in a way that will always feel more natural than holding anyone’s hand. I raise it to my lips and blow. Feel that sweet, clean feeling that comes out so much better than I’ve ever understood. Making me more than the sum of my parts.
I’ve missed you, too, I think, and the internal music swells, reminding me we were never really apart. We couldn’t be. We’re one and the same.
I don’t know how long I play for, lost in the sensations I’ve avoided for so long. I play until my chest hurts. Until there’s a knock on the door. Jake.I run to the hotel entrance, still holding my flute and feeling bright and fresh and utterly restored. I fling open the door to find Jake Graves-Holland crying, tears running down histanned, slightly stubbled cheeks.
“Ada…”
I stare, dumbstruck, at how beautiful he is. “Hi.”
“I love you,” he says. “You played me home.”
Home, I think as he kisses me on the mouth, opening me like a secret.Yes. This is home. And I love him, too. I can’t say it now. Everything’s a mess, and so am I. But I do. And I will tell him. And as Jake carries me to my bedroom, kissing me the whole way, I let myself think it over and over.
I love him. Ilovehim.
He must have been successful. He wouldn’t be kissing me if he wasn’t. And there’s so much to talk about, but as Jake gently places my flute on the bedside table and returns his mouth to mine, I can’t bring myself to say anything. I just let him lie me on the bed and climb on top of me, his body perfectly heavy on mine.
I’ve never had a home before, and a home seems a very important place to have. But it’s not this hotel or this town. It’s this person. This man, who saved me and loves the way I play the flute. A home that talks and walks and loves me.
A room of one’s own.
25
Ada
It’s one in the morning, and we’re still kissing, still touching like we can’t get enough. But other matters are pressing in on me, matters Jake doesn’t seem all too keen to take seriously.
“Can you tell me what happened on the farm now?” I beg for the umpteenth time. “Without you going down on me?”
