While You Were Gone: A Thought I Knew You Novella (8 page)

Standing in my living room, he looks around as if he’s never been here before. I kiss him again, and this time, there’s no hesitation. No
wait, I should tell you
—just a hungry want. His hands find my waist, slide down my hips, and my sling hangs between us, cumbersome and awkward.

He laughs softly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I tug him back to me, my good arm wrapped around his neck. “Shut up.” I kiss his face, his neck, the soft fold behind his ear. I feel his breath against my cheek, quick and light, and he pushes me back against the door.

“To the bedroom?” I whisper against his neck.
Please say yes.

He hesitates, and for a moment I’m sure he’s going to say no. He goes that still. His hands pause, his mouth unmoving next to my cheek. I slide out from between him and the metal door and guide his hand behind me. I lead him to the bedroom, and he follows.

I kneel on the bed, cradling his chin in my hands. “Okay?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he kisses me, crushing me against him, a hungry growl against my mouth. When he eases me back against the bed, I forget that he hesitated. I forget that he was unsure because he now seems nothing
but
sure. I forget about anything else in my life: Paula, Amy, the TSO, my injuries. The only thing that exists is Greg, his hands on my body, his mouth on mine, and the way he makes me feel as though I’m the most important person in his life. I could get used to this.

In the morning, he’s wrapped around me, coiled in the quilt, pillows tossed haphazardly around the room.

I sit up. “What happened here?” I laugh.

He looks around and pulls me back down to the bed, into the cocoon of blankets. “Who cares?” he mumbles against my bare shoulder.

I turn on my side, and he lies behind me, his mouth hot against my spine. His breathing levels as if he’s fallen back to sleep. I have nowhere to go. It’s seven a.m., and I hunker down, burrowing myself against the wall of his chest. “Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask quietly, and I feel his breath against the skin of my back.

“No.” He kisses my neck. “Why did you ask?”

“I don’t know. You seem unsure about this, that’s all. It’s a little weird. Most guys are thrilled to get in bed with a girl. I had to drag you here.”

He lightly nudges my back with his elbow and laughs. “Oh, that’s a bit dramatic. You did not. I was pretty willing.”

“Eventually…”

He sighs. “Well, I’m traveling for work. I didn’t want a one-night stand. Plus, it’s been a long time since I’ve done… this.”

I laugh and kiss his hand. “Well, you were pretty good at it.”

He pulls me against him but says nothing. We lie there, breathing together for a few minutes. Finally, he says, “If I had to go away on business, would you be able to come? Would you want to come?”

“Yes! Seriously? I’d love to. I’m so bored.” I stare straight ahead, holding my breath, and trace his hands with my nails. “Where?”

“California.”

“I’ve never been.” Sun, sand, palm trees. “Careful now. I could fall in love with you.” I whisper this part. He’s quiet for so long I wonder if he even heard me.

He kisses the back of my head. “I know,” he whispers back.

Chapter 7

W
hen I was fourteen, Paula took me to Fairmont Le Chateau Frontenac in Quebec. I’d stared at those steep peaks and that sparkling green roof and knew I’d never stay anywhere nicer than that. I’d run my feet between the two-thousand-thread-count sheets and the heavy brocade blankets and stared out at the St. Lawrence River from our window table from Champlain. I picked at my
foie gras.
I listened to Paula ramble on about rehearsal schedules and audition times. The heavy reality, known even then, was that my life had already peaked. I didn’t realize what the next few years would bring, that my father would leave one night so early in the morning the trains weren’t even running yet, or that Paula would not just slip into her brandy like most middle-aged unemployable housewives but that she’d fall headfirst into it, dragging Pete and me with her. But I already sensed that somehow, I’d look back on that moment from some distant future with remorse that I hadn’t fully appreciated it.

With Paula, my memory of our trip is one of isolation. She networked with other stage parents, and we attended black-tie parties meant more for the adults than the students. I remember boredom. I remember trying futilely to connect with other students and feeling excluded, not so much that I’d been turned away or rebuffed but isolated in that I seemed to be the only teenager there interested in connection in the first place. Their waxy, placid faces expressionless as they perched on the velvet chairs. Their thin, polite smiles and watchful eyes. The understanding that this mattered less to me than perhaps anyone in the room. By virtue of that alone, I was cast out.

The Grand Del Mar resembles the Chateau Frontenac in level of luxury only. The Spanish-style stucco and red clay roof are a stark contrast to the Renaissance style of the Frontenac, but the interior is just as decadent with its sweeping staircases and dark, marble-inlaid flooring. With its wide, expansive lobby and its leafy palm plants and Greg, warmth tingles from my toes to the top of my head.

“Greg,” I hiss as a concierge takes our bags. “This is crazy. Can you afford this?”

“It’s on the company.” He quickly pockets his credit card and picks lint off his sleeve. “Just relax. Enjoy it.”

He shifts on his feet, ill at ease and looking around. Maybe he’s wondering what he’s gotten himself into. A luxury hotel. A somewhat mobile invalid. He wanders away from me to the far end of the lobby and gazes out at the rolling hills of a pristine golf course. I absently pick up a pamphlet and thumb through it.

“You know,” I say thoughtfully, coming up behind him. “This hotel is famous for its golf course. Do you?”

“Do I golf?” He laughs, but it’s strangled and a tiny bit hollow. He turns to me. “No. I have
but not in years, and I wasn’t any good.” I may be imagining a wistful edge. “And then I sort of ran out of time.”

“Isn’t that a pre-req for a corporate man? Must use appropriate buzzwords like
synergistic
and
mindshare
, must own”—I tilt my head and eye him head to toe with a sideways smile. I take the cotton collar of his shirt between my fingertips—“polo shirts in all colors, including pink, for trendiness, must own at least three hundred and seventy-two pairs of khaki pants, and must golf.”

“This is my list of qualifications?” He puts his hands on his hips, but his eyes are laughing. Finally.

“Well, not really. You fail at golf.” I step into his space, our faces inches apart. “So really, you’re hardly qualified at all.” I whisper the end, and his hand reaches out, grazes my waist.

“If you’re ready, you can follow me.” An efficient hostess interrupts, her voice high and official. She click-clacks away. Greg shrugs and motions for me to follow. He doesn’t take my hand, and I curse her intrusion.

I double-step to keep up with them in my walking cast. She leads us up to a room and swings open the door. A king-sized bed dominates the room, but the details are intricate: an inset ceiling with detailed crown molding, thick pile carpeting and mahogany furniture, a balcony that overlooks the glittering blue pool, lined with lush palms and hibiscus.

“It’s paradise,” I breathe, and Greg turns to me appreciatively.

The hostess turns to leave, and I hold up an index finger to Greg. I hobble after her in the hall, shutting the door behind me but throwing the slide lock so it can’t latch.

“What if I wanted to pay for golf lessons? Do you do that here?” I whisper to her.

“Yes—” She eyes my arm and leg casts and falters.

“It’s not for me. It’s for… my boyfriend.” I test out the word, here in the privacy of this hallway where the words are mine alone. My cheeks and neck grow hot, and I fight back a smile.

“Then yes. A half-day instruction and fitting is four hundred and fifty dollars, but that includes that day’s green fees if you choose to leave the rehearsal areas and pursue the course. Shall I schedule you?”

“Yes.” I close my eyes and take a breath. Four hundred and fifty dollars is extravagant. Ridiculous even. My rarely used credit card practically vibrates from inside my purse. I extract it and hand it to her. “But charge it here. It’s a gift.”

She nods once. “That’s fine. Thank you. I’ll return your card momentarily.” She clacks down the hall, and I slip back into the room. Greg is standing on the balcony, a soft breeze rippling his shirt, his hands gripping the railing. The air smells like water and salt, despite the ocean being miles away, and yet the air is dry. To the right of the glimmering pool, I see the nearly four hundred acres of green.

Quietly, I join him on the balcony, and he turns to me and gives me a half smile.

“Glad you came?” he asks absently.

“Mostly.” I’m being honest, and his eyebrows arch up.

“Well, for nearly five hundred a night, I was hoping for more than a mostly.” He’s joking. I know this, but it gives me a quick fire.

“It could be thousands a night,” I shoot back. “But something is up with
you
.” I wonder then if I even know him well enough to make that assumption. Maybe he’s the quiet type. Maybe travel makes him nervous. “I’m sorry,” I amend quickly. “Does traveling stress you?”

His hand covers mine on the railing. “I travel one hundred and fifty days a year. I wouldn’t have been in this job for ten years if it did.”

“Because you seem….” I search for the right words and fail, so I let the ending hang there, unfinished.

“I’m fine.” He pulls me sideways between him and the railing and kisses me hard on the mouth. His hands run up and down my sides, and my uneasiness slides away, forgotten. He smells warm and sunny. I run my hand through his close-shorn hair, tracing the bones of his jaw with my fingertip. I wrap my air-casted leg around his calf and pull him against me until we’re both breathing heavily, and he pulls away, resting his forehead against mine so that our breath mingles. “Except you are going to make it very hard for me to actually go to work.”

“Ah, well, that was my hope.” I giggle and lean into him. He makes a noise and tucks my hair behind my ear. I nudge him back, just a little, and point toward the green in our peripheral. “Just don’t work too hard. You have a golf lesson to take.” I study his face. At first his brows knit together in confusion, but then he breaks into a big grin.

“You bought me a golf lesson?” His eyebrows arch, and he leans back, studying me, puzzled.

“I did. Just now, in the hallway with Ms. Clickity Shoes. So make sure to fit it in between all your other activities.” I jut my chin in the direction of the bed and twist my mouth.

He laughs. “You’re … I can’t believe you’d do that.”

“It didn’t seem like you were going to. And I thought, God, how can you come here and not at least try it?” I shake my head. “It seemed like something you wanted to do but wouldn’t have taken upon yourself.”

“You’re right. I did want to do it. I
do.
And no, I wouldn’t have thought to actually do it.” He leans out over the railing and studies the landscape. “It’s been a long time since I thought about what I want
to do. I feel like I spend my whole life thinking about what I have
to do. Does that make sense?”

I think of Amy and Lesley. Paula draped over Tig’s bar. Pete throwing money on the table because he had to go. Scott and his endless jazz conversations. “More than you could possibly know.” I think about the violin and the symphony, which seems a million miles away, almost as if I was a different person.

“Do you have a passion?” I ask suddenly, remembering how I used to spout this, back in high school when well-meaning but obtrusive teachers would cluck at my single focus, my lack of desire for school work or math. They’d talk to Paula in hushed voices as though I couldn’t hear them, about devoting more time to my studies—until Paula pulled me out of school altogether and hired a tutor. But I had
passion,
something I was convinced all those gray-pallored, silver-haired schoolmarms wouldn’t have known if it tapped them on the shoulder. I was attached to the idea of being a passionate
person—until, of course, Nikolai told me I wasn’t.

“Passion?” Greg repeats as though he’s never heard the word. “Actually, no. Not for anything.” He shakes his head, almost dazed. “Is that the saddest thing you’ve ever heard?”

“No. You’re not a hundred, for God’s sake. If you want to find a passion, find something. Maybe it’s golf?” I cock my head to the side.

“Maybe. You never know unless you try?” He laughs. “What about you? What will you do while I’m gone?” His face nuzzles against my neck.

I tilt my head toward the water below. “See that? I might not be able to swim in it, but it will sure be nice to lie next to it.” I wink and slide out from between the railing and him and, taking his fingertips in my own, lead him to the beckoning white bed.

“You are amazing,” he whispers. When he lays me back against the luxury bedding, the blankets nearly swallow us whole, and the breeze dances over my bare skin, raising goose bumps. The sheers lift and fall in the summery air, and Greg leaves a trail of kisses from my neck to my knees. I think about how I was wrong. My life didn’t peak at fourteen in the dark and shadowy corners of the Chateau Frontenac.

Despite what I’ve said to the hostess, I don’t know if Greg is my boyfriend. The San Diego trip seemed to be a turning point, one that felt like a definitive line in the sand. Before, we were casually dating, maybe even just exploring. After, he is all I think about, our texting amped up to hourly, phone calls several times a day and lasting late into the night, almost until dawn.

I pressure him to move to Canada. “What do you have keeping you in New Jersey?” I whine, only half joking. I ask a variation of this question regularly.
What do you do there? Why do you live there? Who are your friends?
With variations on the same answers.
My life is so boring
—
you wouldn’t believe.

I should have been frustrated. I should have been angry. My arm was healing, but slowly. I sit in Nikolai’s office, where he strokes the corners of his moustache with thick, patient fingers.

“I think the best course of action is to sit out the remainder of the season.” He nods his head as though I’ve agreed with him. I feel nothing.

“I need money,” I blurt and realize only after I say it that it’s true. “I’m better now. I’m in physical therapy. I can at least come for rehearsals.”

“You can collect disability.” He fumbles through some papers on his desk, moves the one-tusked elephant that I swear he put there just for this visit. He’s so goddamn pretentious. He pushes the stack of paperwork, curled at the edges and smelling like pipe smoke, across the desk at me with a wide, flat palm.

I tug on a corner, and he doesn’t let up. “You don’t seem ready to come back.” His mouth bows down in a little frown. He’s right, maybe. Hard to tell.

I pick at that blasé feeling. Weeks ago, I would have been chomping at the bit to get back. If I’d broken my arm a year ago, I would have been rehearsing the second my arm could withstand the movement, with or without the bow. I would have watched old videos, listened to old recordings of myself. I would have been obsessive about deterioration, loss of dexterity.

I’ve done none of these things. Instead, I’ve gone on dates, chatted on the phone, giggled, had sex, played footsies under a restaurant table, texted. I wasn’t replacing my lifelong passion with a man. That was a cliché. But I couldn’t deny that I now chased Greg with the same fervor I’d used to pursue music. What was the point? It’s a lot of work to be given the same feedback over and over.

In the meantime, my ankle brace came off, and every other week, I happily drove the three hours south to Rochester to spend the week with Greg in his company suite. I’d read, watch TV, amble around the box of a hotel room, wait for him to get home. We’d go to dinner, local pubs or dive bars, where we’d spend hours laughing and talking, the hours flying by until the staff would start turning the chairs upside down on the tables.

Thinking about Amy cuts a painful slice beneath my breastbone. I haven’t called her, and I hold on to the justification that she hasn’t called me
.
But it isn’t holding water anymore.

When I first joined the TSO, Amy was already there. She was loud and bubbly and friends with everyone around her, flirting with the bassoons and pushing her glossy hair off the back of her neck with a long, elegant hand. The conductor at the time was a broad young man named Simon Blunt, graying at the temples but with watchful eyes and a playful streak. Amy teased him mercilessly.

She flung her smile around at everyone but me. When I spoke, she’d narrow her eyes and stare over my shoulder before turning away to talk to someone else. It baffled me, this cold, bizarre shunning. Most of the time, competition in an orchestra hummed underneath but never became outright and nasty. I hadn’t known what to make of it. Later, I figured it out. She was the youngest, an enthusiastic darling with a shine. Then I came along, even younger—blonder, a bit ethereal, but with some bite. Intriguing. Politics are everywhere. I endured weeks of this.

My first breakthrough with Amy came at the deli down the street from the orchestra hall. She stood at the register, a sandwich and coffee arranged on a tray in front of her as she scrambled in her purse, panic in her eyes and a blush in her cheeks. I stepped forward and handed the cashier a ten-dollar bill. When she whipped around and saw that it was me, she cocked her head coyly. She muttered thanks and hurried off, snagging a corner table, a two-top with only one chair. I paid for my lunch and followed her.