He shrugs. For the first time since Fraser died, there’s a flicker of amusement. But it doesn’t last.
‘Audrey, you’ll regret selling it.’
Here we go.
‘Then don’t buy it.’
‘Consider it long-term rent.’
‘And then you’ll hand it back when I come to my senses, right? Josh, I don’t need you to rescue the piano.’Or me.
He looks at me. Bores into me, really. Hitches this idea to what little hope I have left that I will ever return to music and pulls on it until the tension snaps. ‘I’m not being entirely selfless,’ he says. ‘You composed Fraser’s funeral piece on that instrument. It could be worth a fortune one day.’
And that’s it. One tiny breadcrumb of praise and years fall away. The professional part of me flashes back, craving his feedback, basking in the glow of having impressed someone with his indisputable talent.
‘I don’t need your money,’ I say, swatting those feelings aside, even though I do desperately need the money. ‘But I might need somewhere to store it.’
He reaches for the railing and pulls himself to his feet, then offers his hand to haul me up. I find myself a step above him, eye to eye, as he says, ‘Respectfully, my brother left you without his affairs in order, and you look—’ His eyes roam over my permanently wrecked, hungover appearance. ‘I suspect you do need the money.’
Thisburns. Not just the part about my floundering financially or looking the way I do, but the insinuation that Fraser didn’t think to look after me. ‘It’s been a long time since you treated me respectfully,’ I say—an accusation it’s impossible to refute.
He passes me my shopping bag, frowning at the sound of bottles clinking, and I fumble for my keys. ‘Thanks for your concern about the piano—’
He grabs my arm and speaks in a low voice. ‘I said I was sorry, Sully—’
I spin to face him, shaking him off. ‘You said you were sorry for my loss.’
That’s what he meant that night.Wasn’t it?I’d been far too plastered to read between any lines.
For a few seconds, we lock eyes and I’m twenty-two again, swept into his orbit.
No. Notintothe orbit. Just near it, like those asteroids they report in the news that have near misses with Earth but ultimately fly past with no risk of human extinction.
I fear I am already addicted to something that’s very bad for me and am fully capable of spiralling without this man’s expert assistance. His praise fulfils a need in me, but I am not so desperate for self-annihilation that I can’t step back from this particular ledge now, before I lose my grip.
‘Please just forget it, Joshua. And forget me.’ He falls back a step. ‘I can’t look at you without thinking of Fraser, and to be honest, it’s completely unbearable. Just go and dominate New York like you know you want to.’
30
FRASER
There is a frightening crossroads, a few months in, where I realise Parker is the only thing keeping me alive.
I don’t know how safety is measured. How close to the edge I need to be standing, technically, before the risk is sufficiently elevated for everyone to panic. Isn’t it normal, when the love of your life leaves, to imagine being dead, too? Who wouldn’t want an easy end to this?
Parker, though, stops me. She doesn’t know the responsibility she’s carrying. The way my mind is using her, forcing an imaginary version of her to collapse in despair and struggle to exist without me. Convincing me to stay, because she needs me.How could I even think of doing this?It’s that thought that drags me back, every time.
There’s a knock at my office door, and when I look up, I’m surprised to see Maggie, who hasn’t visited my workplace in years. Even when we were married, we rarely encroached on each other’s professional turf. So of course, I immediately panic that something has happened to our daughter.
‘It’s you I’m worried about,’ she explains, glancing fruitlessly for somewhere to sit down.
The room is bursting with books and journals and piles of essays and manuscripts. I’ve got lists of things I haven’t done.Lecture notes I need to file. Book chapters I need to write. Conference papers to edit. Reference reports for former students’ jobs or current students’ scholarship applications. Reports for the university administration. Two years’ worth of taxes …
Something about Maggie standing here in the eye of the physical manifestation of my inner turmoil—her perfect hair and makeup, her pressed suit, her patent leather heels, and the shocked expression on her face—makes it clear how far I’ve slipped. No longer able to hide that sinking grief has met rising depression and I’m barely clinging on.
‘I’m a bit behind,’ I admit.On everything.
She balances her Oroton bag on a pile of books I keep meaning to donate and steps over sixty essays I’ve printed, despite the significant guilt I felt for wasting paper. I can’t seem to focus while reading on a screen the way my Gen Z colleagues do. Then, in the midst of this mess, she walks up to me with no ceremony whatsoever and puts her arms around me.
