Page 8 of A Boy Called Lovesong

He was still here.

He hadn’t left me.

He hadn’t stepped out onto the street when he shouldn’t have, and the whole thing was a big silly mistake, and he was still alive.

Every time I heard the phone ring, I thought it was him, calling to tell me everything was a big mistake.

It was him ringing to tell me everything was okay, he was just running a little late…

Ringing to ask for his favorite creamy mushroom pasta for dinner, with extra parmesan…

Ringing to check on Chet and make sure he wasn’t missing Daddy too much.

Who knew the head could be such a fucking prankster?

Who knew the heart was stupid enough to fall for it every time?

I juggled the phone out of my pocket, my hands trembling so much I almost dropped it. When I managed to bring the screen into view, my head gave a sly little laugh—haha—and my heart sank at the sight of Margot’s name, not Joel’s.

I let the call go to voicemail.

I pretty much stopped checking most of my calls after the message from the manager of our favorite restaurant, Balthazar:

“Good afternoon, Mr. Van Owen. This is a courtesy call to ask if you had plans for Christmas this year. According to our system, your partner Joel is quite partial to the chocolate souffle. I can happily arrange that for your table in lieu of our traditional festive selection, if you like. May I take the liberty of making a reservation for the two of you?”

And the message from Agnes, the woman who owned the flower shop around the corner:

“Oh Noah, I’m so sorry to hear about Joel. I realize you’ve asked people to donate to a charity of their choice instead of filling up your house with flowers… and don’t get me wrong, I think that’s so admirable of you… but do you think you might reconsider that request? Joel knew so many people in the performance industry that… gosh, how do I put this… his contacts would be wonderful for business. Oh, by the way, should I put the account in your name now instead of Joel’s? Let me know, dear. And my sincerest condolences.”

And then there was the message from Robert:

“Heeeeeey, Noah. Howareyou? Are you okay? I… I meanwe… Andrew and me… we hope you’re getting over things. We’re worried about you, honey, and quite frankly we’re very conscious of you going down any dark, nasty tunnel of despair because God knows you deserve better. On that note, Andrew’s cousin is still in town. FYI, he’s single and handsome and did I mention he’s a firefighter? Just sayin’. Maybe we could bring him along to the wake and you two could—”

Needless to say, I deleted that last message before Robert had even finished talking.

Of course, I didn’t let every call go to message bank. There were exceptions.

I’d taken the calls from the police.

I’d taken the calls from the mortician.

I had a vague recollection of walking into the morgue to identify the body.

The mortician began with condolences, then talked about formalities, then mentioned something about me needing to talk to Joel’s doctor, and all I did was nod without taking any of it in.

I signed forms.

I stood beside a body beneath the sheet, telling myself it wasn’t Joel under there.

How could it be?

I couldn’t feel him in the room like I always did. Whether it was at a busy concert hall or a cozy jazz bar or an intimate restaurant, I could always sense the moment he walked in the door before turning to see him there, smiling in my direction.

No, surely that wasn’t him under the sheet.

I couldn’t hear him breathing, not even that barely audible whistling sound his nose made that used to drive me insane at a Chopin recital.

I couldn’t even smell him, that scent that was so uniquely him. It was the smell of a glass of cognac on a rainy Sunday afternoon. The scent of a fresh bouquet of gardenias in his favorite vase by the window, the one he bought on our first trip to Vienna together. The aroma of pumpkin soup in winter and peach-flavored iced tea in summer. The smell of Chet who cuddled in close to his master when Joel was sick in bed with a cold. The smell of burnt toast when he was late for work in the morning. The smell of the Steinway. For some reason it reminded me of a cabin in the woods with an open fireplace.

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