Page 75 of Over the Edge

“Of course I did. I had it and God, did I make sure everyone knew it,” she says, adding a subtle shimmy to her shoulders. “Our boy, oh, he seems like a show off, but he’s just that good. He might not be mine by blood, but I was always worried he’d pick up my bad habits. I was selfish when I taught him.”

“It doesn’t sound like you were.” From everything I’ve gathered, Alina’s home has always been a haven for him.

Alina tuts. “Good things can come from misguided intentions. You see, my children, they're dull and greedy. I wrote them out of my will, but they don’t know that so they’re waiting around for me to die so they can inherit it all,” she says then presses a finger to her lips and winks. “I wasn’t a good mother. I traveled and I hired nannies to do all the work I didn’t want to do. When I saw that boy continue to go home to an empty house when his own mother was off to who knows where, I took it as a second chance.”

“You found someone who loves music the same way you do,” I say. “That’s special what you gave him.”

“Yes, but he got it in his head that he needed to do more. We wanted to give him more, this town. He stopped the music and went to law school,” she tells me, as I recall the version of the story Garrett’s told me. “I think that’s when it started. He looks terrible when he comes back. That’s why I make sure he does. That job of his is no good. He doesn’t need it no matter what he thinks it proves to us. He hates it but he’ll never leave.”

Even when he told me about this from his perspective of duty and a need for a stable career it sounded clinical. After Friday night, it’s hard to imagine him choosing a life like this over one he obviously loved.

I feel like a hypocrite at the thought. Even if I struggle to picture it, right now I’m caught in that exact web. But I liked my job in PR; what he’s doing, it sounds miserable. And for what? Guilt? Obligation?

“That’s a shame,” I say, even though it hardly encompasses the reality of it.

“It is.”

27

Garrett

Ilisten to Alina play as I tip back into consciousness. The pulsing pain that was thrumming through the right side of my head before I turned off the lights has dissipated. My eyes adjust slowly to the dark room. Light filters in through the crack in the curtains, reminding me it’s still daytime. I might still be able to meet up with Evelyn and the others at the tail end of their hike. I still feel like shit for canceling. The whole point of this was for me to help her.

Holt had called asking for help with a client I’ve been working with since I started at the firm—a paranoid New York Times Best Selling thriller author. Their ability to see conspiracy theories in everything likely has helped them creatively, but it also means they’re consistently in need of swift attention. Usually, we work directly with their agent, but there was a mix up and the author wouldn’t have the video meeting without me.

Getting back online meant that I got access to my email. I shouldn’t have looked. I did anyway. Each of the thousands of unread messages hit like a brick crumbling from the ceiling andright onto my shoulders. That’s when the migraine aura started to form in my vision. Little blurs dotted the world, and I knew I had to stop and go to my stash of pain medication.

I usually can manage the stress that leads to the tension building to this point by staying on top of things. But the reality of being away from the office for nearly four weeks came down all at once.

The song stops downstairs then another one starts. But it’s not one that Alina would know because it’s one I helped write on Friday. This thought reminds me of what I should already know, but my mind is still a bit foggy. Alina hasn’t played for at least four years. She’s not the one playing. But as I listen, the smooth articulation of a legato stringing the notes together tells me exactly who is at the piano. The way she plays is like a fingerprint with how distinct it is to me.

I grab my glasses from where they’re resting on the nightstand and head to the stairs. I’m careful to skip the creaky step halfway down. Alina and Eve are both so caught in the song that neither looks in my direction when I tread into the room and lean against the wall.

She’s hypnotic. Every inch of her body is dedicated in worship to the act of bringing out the potential of the piano and the song,our song. It’s a pocket universe where sound breathes through her. I know how it feels. God. I know how good it feels.

The room seems to vibrate even when she stops. Her fingers hover over the keys for a moment before they land in her lap. She’s dressed for the hike. Athletic shorts and a tight fitting long sleeve shirt.

Alina claps, breaking the silence. I join in and both of them turn in my direction.

“I don’t remember you buying tickets to this show,” Evelyn says, her eyes scanning over me, assessing.

“I thought you were heading to the falls or I would have made sure to stop at will call,” I say.

“Something more important brought me back,” she says. Her words hit me full force. People leaving? I'm numb to that. But her coming here? She makes it so hard not to want her.

“I didn’t know that living room concerts were a high priority for you,” I quip.

“There’s nothing more intimate than live music in your own home,” Alina says, adding to the flow of conversation. “But I have to cut this short.” Alina rises to her feet slowly then brushes her hands down the skirt of her kaftan.

I raise a brow. “Where are you going?” As far as I know she didn’t have anything planned for the afternoon.

“Out,” she puts simply as she comes closer to where I’m standing to get to the door. She pauses as she reaches me then lowers her voice. “Anywhere else.”

“Subtle,” I mutter.

“I don’t need to be. I’m too old to waste time being clever.”

“News to me.”

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