Chapter Thirty-Three
Gabby
“Gabby, have you seen this?”
I move around behind Lauren’s desk to look over her shoulder. “I don’t know. What is it?”
Looking back at me, Lauren bites her lips, her eyes troubled. “Um. It’s Jonathan. He put out another YouTube video.”
“No. I haven’t. I’m good, thanks.” I step away from her desk and go back to unpacking my suitcase, putting my clothes back in my closet and dresser. Classes start tomorrow for the spring semester, and I’m determined to focus on me—on the violin, music theory, whatever other random classes I have to take, and having fun with my friends. That’s it. Maybe I’ll even take Dr. Lolo’s advice and not let myself have any free time. Just spend all my time in the practice room perfecting my skills.
I can feel Lauren’s eyes on my back. “Um, I really think you need to watch this one.”
Shaking my head, I don’t even look at her. “Nope. I’m done, remember? Not going there again. You supported my decision last semester. Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”
A glance in her direction shows her chewing on her lower lip some more, her eyes on the computer screen where Jonathan’s face is frozen in the YouTube window.
“Seriously, Lauren. Please close that.” I swallow hard. “I’m just starting to feel normal again. I don’t need the reminders of what can’t be.”
“But …”
“No.”
I hear a few clicks, and when I look at her again, the screen is back to her desktop background. But Lauren is sitting with her arms crossed.
“This is the second one he’s put out since Christmas.”
Nodding, I put away my last few things, but once my suitcase is stashed under my bed again, I don’t have anything else to do. I cross my arms over my chest and look at Lauren again. “Yeah. I’ve seen them on Facebook and stuff. And kept right on scrolling.”
She sighs. “Fine. But you need to watch this one. Both of them, really. But especially this one.”
I grunt in response, not wanting to argue about this, searching the room for something to do. Talking about Jonathan is making me antsy and restless, and I want to get out of here. Go do something. And I’m not in the mood to be around anyone, least of all someone trying to convince me to listen to Jonathan’s latest song on YouTube. Is she trying to reduce me to a sobbing heap of depressed girl? Did she not get enough of that at the end of last semester?
Or maybe she’s forgotten the piles of used tissues all over my half of the room, my lack of desire to get out of bed if I didn’t have to, or just generally being terrible company.
Rubbing my hands on my jeans, my gaze lands on my violin case tucked in the corner. Perfect. Time to get started on spending all my free time in the practice room.
I pick it up and sling it over my shoulder by the strap. “Hey, I’m gonna go practice for a bit. I’ll catch you later, okay?”
“Hang on.” She stands up and grabs her violin too. “I’ll come with you. I haven’t played much over the break, and I want to remember what it feels like before rehearsal this week. Or my lesson.”
Part of me wants to leave without her, but I don’t. Because she’s my friend, and that would be rude. Thankfully she doesn’t say anything else as we make the chilly walk across campus to the music building.
Unlike Lauren, I’ve been practicing a lot over the break. It was the best distraction. Mostly. Sometimes when I’d play my Mozart concerto, I’d remember Jonathan watching me practice, a private smile on his lips. And how he’d tell me that watching me play was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. How he’d make love to me after, holding my hands in his. Both of us with calluses on our fingertips, the physical proof of our dedication to music.
So I stopped playing through that concerto. I spent lots of time working through the unaccompanied Bach Sonatas and Partitas. The G minor Sonata and the D minor Partita are my favorites, but I messed around with movements from a few of the others too. The Allemanda from the D minor Partita is starting to sound really good, so that’s what I decide to work on tonight after the obligatory scales and intonation and bowing exercises.
I’ve grown to appreciate the ritual of it. Pulling out my violin, tightening my bow, swiping on some rosin, and then setting the instrument on my shoulder and slowly drawing out the first notes of a D minor scale. I play the melodic minor slowly up and down three octaves, one note per bow. Then again, slurring two notes together. And so on, adding a note to the slur each time I start over until I’m playing all twenty-four notes going up on the down bow and all twenty-four back down on the up bow.
The slow, careful notes progress faster and faster, my bow strokes staying even throughout, only my fingers speeding up as they dance over the strings. It’s a bridge that takes me from me out in the world to me with the violin. Me with the music. It centers me and grounds me and makes me exist only as a conduit for the notes to flow through.
I stop for a sip from the water bottle I always have with me when I practice and notice several texts popping up on my phone. Two are from Abby. One is from Lance. That’s strange. I usually hear from my brother, since we’re closer than Abby and I are, but sometimes she texts me. But I don’t think they’ve both texted me in the same night before.
Curious, I pick up my phone. The most recent text from Lance is just a link to a YouTube video. I click on it without thinking.
When Jonathan’s face appears on my screen, I try to turn it off. But with my hands full of violin, bow, and phone, I fumble at the button and drop my phone on the floor. “Dammit!”
Thankfully, the phone case keeps the screen from shattering. I drop my phone a lot, so a good case is mandatory for me. Otherwise I’d be needing a new phone all the time.
Trying to ignore what hearing Jonathan’s voice is doing to me, I lay my bow on the ledge of the music stand and set my violin down in my open case before bending to pick up the phone. And by then, he’s started playing. I haven’t heard this song before, and the melody draws me in. Even though I meant to turn it off, not listen to it, ignore it like I’ve ignored his videos so far. And had every intention of continuing to ignore them.
But I can’t. Even with my finger hovering over the screen to stop it, close it, make it go away and pretend I’ve never seen it, I can’t bring myself to do that when he starts to sing.
He’s turned our story into a song. Two people whose love of music brings them together and then tears them apart.
Crumpling to the floor, I can’t hold back the tears that flow, but I try not to sniff too much, because I don’t want to miss a second of this. It’s beautiful. It’s heartbreaking. It’s everything.
When he gets to the last verse, the verse where he sings to me that I’m everything he’s ever wanted—music and beauty and life embodied in one person—I start to sob. Big, ugly, and loud. This song is wrecking me. And I can’t take it.
The door bursts open, and Lauren stands there surveying me crumpled on the floor in front of the piano, my phone in hand, the last of Jonathan’s song playing on the tinny speakers. She steps in and closes the door behind her, sinking down next to me and wrapping her arms around me.
I sob onto her shoulder, and she lets me. Not saying anything, not trying to shush me, just letting me get it out.
Until he speaks. Then she says, “Shh, Gabby. I know. But you need to hear this part.”
She grabs my phone from where I’ve dropped it on the floor again and rewinds it to where he speaks.
He clears his throat and says, “Gabby, this was for you. I hope you hear this. And …” He trails off, then clears his throat again. “And you know how to find me.” And the video ends.
I sit in stunned silence for a minute, the tears still running down my cheeks, dropping onto the sleeve of Lauren’s sweater where her arm is still around me. Pulling away from her, I pull the sleeves of my T-shirt over my hands and wipe my face. At least I don’t have mascara on today. I haven’t been wearing it much lately. Since I cry pretty much every day, I either need to invest in waterproof mascara, or give up wearing it until I can keep it together more of the time.
“What are you going to do?”
I look up at Lauren and open my mouth. “I don’t know.”