Look at You

Chapter 56

56

When Callie asks me what I want to do that night (talk? video games? Thai food? New Girl?) all I can think about is the piano. Coincidentally, my mom calls a second later asking if I want to come by for dinner. Maybe she's still worried about me, or maybe she's sick of battling Elizabeth's backhanded insults, but either way, I agree and force (a very willing Alice-deprived) Callie along for the ride.

Turns out, it was a bit of both. Mom and Elizabeth don't seem to be on the best of terms, and both of them—in their very separate ways—express concern over my behavior about the breakup.

"You look grossly pale," is Elizabeth's version. "Eat a peach."

"My baby," a stroke of my cheek. "Have you showered today?" is my mother's.

I manage to steal a moment to myself while Callie, Elizabeth, and my parents are pouring rosé and eating the olive tapenade I hate. I find my way into the living room and run my fingers across the piano keys.

Most of my invisible traits are my father's. Math, piano, coding, hand-eye coordination. The visible ones belong to Alice. My skin, my brown eyes, my hair the color of the night sky. My dimples, my laugh lines, my freckles. My fingers find a tune, then a song. Then my emotions work through my wrists and pour out from my fingertips and land on the keys. Most of my invisible traits are my father's, but this is Alice. Creative breakthrough, she calls it. Her only real, true, clear thoughts arrive when she's doing something creative. For Alice, it's knitting. For me, it's this.

I hum through a few lines of the song I've decided to play. I think of my first unofficial date with Cam. The country concert. How could I not love him after he taught me how to two-step in the middle of county road 6?

Jay finds the other end of the piano a few moments later. We play, four hands interwound, like we would when I was little.

__

I'm standing at the giant bay window in my apartment, shoes on, backpack snug against my shoulder blades. The loft is full of hazy white light, and it has been since 7 this morning. It's getting later into Spring; I see it in the 6:30 sunrise wakeups and the cashmere sweaters finding homes further back in my closet.

My feet are tapping against the floor's wood veneer and my mind does washing machine spin cycles trying to figure out what I'll do if he doesn't come.

And then his truck shows up. It peels off the main road and seamlessly annexes the open stretch of the street just adjacent to Buzz. I make sure he's getting out of the car—he's back to wearing that Sox hat—before I bolt for the door.

I take the steps as fast as my high tops will take me. I don't bother locking either door, because it's just a minute past eight and I can go back—I will go back home because there's no way I'm showing up to work this early. I'm only even out of bed this early for him.

He's out of my sight when I hit the sidewalk, so he must be inside. I do my best attempt at an inconspicuously fast walk to Buzz and pull the front door open, hoping I'll reach him before he gets to the register. The 16-step plan I spent all night project managing hinges on it.

I want to get down on my knees and kiss this hallowed ground because when the door chimes announcing my arrival, he turns around to see who has just walked in. This removes step 4 of my plan entirely—and to top it off, he's still a few patrons away from ordering.

If he can see that I'm winded, he says nothing. He gives me what I think is a toothless smile, but I can't tell. He faces forward too quickly for me to register anything other than the way his jeans are fitting around his hips because god damn.