Chapter Thirteen
Jonathan
“Are you okay?”
Gabby nods, her eyes lowered so she’s looking at me on her screen instead of at the camera, only adding to her overall look of sadness. Despite her nod, it’s clear she’s unhappy. Her face is propped on her hand, one corner of her mouth distorted from the pull on her cheek, but the other corner has a distinct downturn. That’s unusual for Gabby. Even when she sighs wistfully and tells me how much she misses me, she doesn’t frown.
At times like this, my inability to be with her in person grates even more than normal. The light in her room isn’t great, so I couldn’t see into her eyes very well even if she were looking directly into the camera. But if I were there, I’d be able to see what she’s feeling. Sad, angry, frustrated? Some combination of two or three? And I could hold her. Pull her into my arms, lay us back on her bed, and let her spill out whatever’s bothering her.
Instead, we’re stuck with this facsimile of being together. Talking. Seeing each other. But as pixels and waves transmitted via the internet. Not real life.
God, I hate this.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
She shifts, letting her hand drop to her desk and sitting back in her chair. Her eyes flick to the camera, then back to the screen, and she lets out a deep sigh. “Lauren’s mad at me.”
My eyebrows lift. “Again?”
She shakes her head. “No. Still. It’s getting old.”
I watch her scrub her hands over her face. She looks exhausted. And sad. “I’m sorry. Have you tried talking to her about whatever’s going on?” I know they’ve been at odds for the last week or so, but Gabby hasn’t told me why, exactly. She just said they had a disagreement about something in orchestra. “Why is she so mad at you anyway? You never did say.”
She presses her lips together and tilts her head back. The way she’s acting makes me think she’s on the verge of crying. When she sniffs and rubs at her nose, that thought is confirmed.
Softening my voice, I push again. “Come on, Gabby. It’s obviously bothering you. Maybe you’ll feel better if you tell me, and we can come up with a way for you to fix whatever’s gone wrong between you.”
With a doubtful look, she takes a deep breath. “Um, well, rehearsal started tonight for the pit orchestra for the homecoming musical.”
“Okaaay.” I stretch out the word, trying to figure out what about that would cause Lauren to be mad at Gabby.
Ducking her head, she rubs at her face again. “Um, well, Dr. Isaacson asked Lauren and I both to be in the pit. But I declined.”
“Why?” The question comes out louder than I intended, sounding angry, and Gabby flinches. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. I’m just surprised. Why would you say no?”
She stares at the desk in front of her for a moment, her arms wrapped around herself. Then she takes two deep breaths. “The show is the same weekend that you’re in Seattle. I didn’t want to cancel on you.”
“Oh, Gabby.” I don’t know how to feel about this. Part of me is thrilled that she put me—us—first. But she’s so despondent about it. Is she more bummed about Lauren being mad at her? Or missing the show?
She plows on as though I hadn’t spoken, her gaze still fixed on some spot in front of her. “We had a fight about it when I told her I couldn’t do it. She wanted me to pick the show over you.” Her face is pained when she raises her eyes to the screen and then looks directly into the camera. “But how could I do that? It’s been just over a week since the last time I saw you and that already feels way too long. How am I supposed to skip our weekend in Seattle and not see you until Thanksgiving? Or Christmas? I can’t do that. Even if it means giving up playing for a show.”
“Oh, Gabby,” I say again. We could’ve figured something out, I want to say. But I bite back the words. She’s already made the decision. If I say that now, it’ll just make her feel worse. “I hate being apart for so long, too,” I say instead.
She nods, brushing at her face with her hands before wrapping her arms around herself and staring at her desk again. Her voice sounds hoarse when she speaks again. “Anyway, Lauren told Clara, and Clara gave me a big lecture today about my priorities. I just sat there and took it, because I didn’t really have anything to say that she wanted to hear.” She shakes her head. “This is just so much harder than I expected,” she whispers.
A fist squeezes around my heart at her words. “I’m so sorry, Gabby.” I want to hold her, wipe her tears away, tell her everything will be all right. I want to fly there tonight. But I can’t do that. I’m getting on a tour bus tomorrow to officially start my North American tour. We’re heading north, doing a series of shows in San Francisco and Sacramento. My album drops on Friday. If I tried to go anywhere now, the label would skin me alive and my manager would cut my balls off.
The irony of the fact that I’m choosing my career over Gabby right now when she’s in pain for doing the opposite isn’t lost on me.
We sit in silence while seconds turn to minutes, me staring at her on my screen while she stares at her desk.
I say the only thing I can think of to try to make her feel better. “I started working on a new song. Do you want to hear it?”
She stirs, sitting up a little straighter. “Yeah. Sure. I’d love to.” Her voice is soft and lacking her usual enthusiasm, but she doesn’t sound like she’s about to burst into tears, so I’ll take it.
“Hang on.” I flip open my guitar case and pull out my Taylor, the instrument I still use for writing even though I have fancier, some would say better, ones at my disposal now. But this is the one that I used to write my album. The one I’ve played all my songs for Gabby on. And it makes me feel more connected to her to play it.
I settle back in front of my laptop, checking the tuning of the guitar before strumming the opening chords. “It’s still pretty rough. And I haven’t gotten all the lyrics nailed down. But I think it has promise.”
With a small smile, Gabby nods for me to continue. As I sing and play and mess up and fiddle around, we fall back into something resembling our normal. She gives me suggestions. We both laugh when I try a new chord combination and it sounds awful. And when I run out of lyrics and start making up something silly on the spot.
After a half hour or so, she gives me a regretful smile. “Um, I should go. I have homework. And I need to practice.”
“Okay.” I keep my voice soft, wanting to protest. Wanting to continue this, even though I don’t have anything else new to play. I’d play through my entire concert, though, if it’d make her feel better. Bring a smile to her face. But I know she has things to do. “I love you.”
She gives me a wan smile. “I love you too. I’ll text you tonight before I go to bed.”
“Sounds good.”
She kisses her fingers and presses them to the camera, her usual method of signing off a video call with me. Then the video chat window goes dark. She’s gone.