Page 98 of All Twerk, No Play

Bury the hatchet, he said as if Spencer were a petty workplace grievance.

"Funny," I said, "He got my house, yet I’m the one who has to get over it."

"I still have to work with him,” Dad sighed, and the excuse hit like a slap. Even now, after everything, Spencer’s feelings mattered more than mine.

Eric’s hand settled at the small of my back—an anchor in the storm. Dad’s gaze fixated on that simple point of contact.

"Party starts in half an hour,” Dad said, checking his Rolex. “We’ll finish this conversation tonight, Victoria. Just us." His emphasis on the last two words made my stomach clench.

Every muscle in my body tensed with the need to scream, wanting to shatter every heirloom in this library … but knowing how Dad reacted to my emotions, I kept my face smooth. There was only one place in this house where I could safely come undone.

“We’ll be right out,” I lied, my voice steadier than my hands. “I need to freshen up.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. For a heartbeat, I thought he’d drag me out by my elbow like I was sixteen again, expected to play the role of the perfect daughter.

He turned, leaving us in the sudden silence. So many years of practiced composure, and he’d reduced me to a seething teenager in minutes.

"Well," Eric muttered, "that could’ve gone worse."

"No. It really couldn’t have,” I said, reaching for his hand—a conscious choice, not reflex. “Come on, there’s somewhere I want to show you.”

"Silent All These Years," Tori Amos

Victoria

Weenterthemusicconservatory, breathing in the aged sheet music and polished wood. Afternoon sunlight filtered through velvet curtains, casting a warm glow on the object of my affection: a grand piano.

Eric slid into a wingback chair and templed his fingertips against his top lip, uncharacteristically quiet. Could he tell how sacred this room felt to me? Was music such an essential piece of him that he found peace here too?

I found a familiar anthology and placed it lovingly on the stand. When my fingers touched down, muscle memory kicked in with scale crossovers and chord arpeggios. I worked through the familiar compositions: Beethoven, Clementi, Mozart, Chopin. I was queuing up Mendelssohn when Eric’s weight creaked on the piano bench.

“You said you used to be incredible at piano,” he said, “but you still are.”

“I used to perform in competitions and recitals …” I flubbed a chord and dropped my hands in my lap, inspecting my fingers.

“And I get why you stopped,” he said gently. “But it couldn’t have been all classical. You never rebelled? Played Billy Joel or Elton John? Man, you’d kick ass at ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.’”

As he sang about not being planted in a penthouse, I searched the bookshelf of sheet music, digging deep within a baroque anthology. My heart skipped a beat when I found the songbook I’d hidden decades ago. “You’re probably too young for this.”

“Tori Amos, Little Earthquakes,” he read. “Don’t recognize it, but it’s a hot redhead named Tori, so you know my type.” I cracked open the sheet music and played the delicate accompaniment for ‘Silent All These Years.’

Without realizing I’d opened my mouth, I heard my voice politely asking to become somebody else. The chilling lyrics pressed old bruises: failing to hold my parents’ attention, failing to meet Richard’s rigorous expectations, failing to reach Beverly’s beauty standards, failing to make and keep friends.

I tried to reinvent myself in college, only to disappear into Spencer’s shadow. I’d ached to lead Sinclair Larsson, only for Richard to chain my aspirations to a miserable marriage I still hadn’t fully escaped. I’d expected to prove myself in San Francisco, only to be passed over for a promotion I’d earned. Instead of demanding what I’d earned, fighting for what I deserved—

I’d run.

Eric flipped the page, his respectful attention bolstering my courage even when my fingers stumbled. No judgment, just listening. Accepting.

I’ll listen all night, if you need it, he’d told me last night.But I can’t take your silence.

I sang Tori’s lyrics asking if she would always be waiting for somebody to understand, a question I felt down to my bone marrow.

Would I stay like my father, unable to move on after heartbreak?

Would my 80th birthday be like Richard’s, a celebration of a life I didn’t remember living?

Maybe docile Vickie Sinclair would have accepted that fate. But I wasn’t her anymore.

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