Page 65 of Crescendo

“Oh, you’re—you’re actually upset. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it would be—”

“I’ve got to go,” I said, my throat tight, not wanting Natália to hear me get choked up thinking about Ella. Melinda could hear me cry. Hell, I think just about anyone could hear me cry. I wasn’t precious. But Natália—she looked up to me. I wasn’t going to have this moment in front of her.

“Lydia—”

“Sorry, it’s just—I’m going to miss my train if I don’t rush,” I blurted, the first lie to mind. “Love you, you’re the best, I’m still trying to see if I can figure out anything about that piece! Talk later, beijinhos,” I said, my words running out all into each other, and I hung up, setting the phone down hard on the table.

God, that poor woman. It didn’t take a genius to put together the way she blamed herself for it. And some asshole went and dragged her out to deal with it when she knew her limits and tried to stay clear of them.

She must have felt so alone dealing with this. I felt disgusting having pulled this up from her past without having earned it. She’d be pissed off when she found out, and rightfully so. Was it better to let her know now that Natália had told me, or was it better to pretend I didn’t know and still let her tell me in her own time—or never, and I’d pretend I never knew anything about it?

Maybe the important thing wasn’t me knowing, but about whether it came up in conversation. The least I could do was try to understand better how to support her through what must have been an overwhelming time. Distantly, I couldn’t help but think this wasn’t the kind of thing you did with a casual relationship, but I really didn’t care.

I picked my phone back up, and I ate absently with one hand while I typed into the search barbest books to understand someone with trauma.

It was a good half a book later, between the corner at the chippy and a bench in the park, that I finally headed back to the apartment, carrying a heavy feeling in my chest and a bottle of scotch that was on a fantastic price for the quality I knew the label meant but more practically I knew might just help me make it through a conversation with Ella having to be normal and pretend I wasn’t thinking about her grief and her dead brother that she didn’t want me to know about but I did. I trudged down the streets, my head down, moving quickly, keeping up with the flow of native Londoners walking like their lives depended on it, and as always happened when I wasn’t in the mood for bullshit, I found some: Eliza leaning against the railing at my apartment entrance, pretending to be occupied with something on her phone. Conveniently, she was done with it the second I got close.

“Well, if it isn’t the living legend,” she said, a satisfied smile on her lips.

“Where’s your accomplice?”

“Hannah’s in the music room, working on her composition assignment. It’s going rather splendidly, as a matter of fact. I assume yours is going well, too, of course.”

I was so good at letting her comments roll off me most of the time. I don’t know why they stuck when I was in a mood like this. “Going great, thanks for asking,” I said, my voice tart enough it was obvious I was lying. “I’m going inside. Tell Hannah I said hi, and that I’m looking forward to hearing her composition.”

I pushed past her, unlocking the front door, but Eliza kept talking. “I should thank you,” she said. “It’s because of your generous introductions I’ve been talking to your friend Adam.”

I paused with the door half open, looking back at her despite myself, something prickling under my skin that I couldn’t help. “Talking to him, huh? You should probably know he’s married.”

“Not likethat.I’m actually focused on music. He rather enjoys what I’ve had to show him.”

I took a long breath, turning back to the foyer. Guess everyone was getting where they needed to. Everyone except me and the poor girl I was dragging down to my level. Really—as if I needed more excuses to wallow in self-pity tonight? “Congratulations,” I said lightly. “I can’t wait to hear your music in all the big theaters. Not least of all the Royal Albert Hall.”

“Thank you, darling,” she laughed, thatdarlingthe most patronizing word I think I’d heard in my life. “I’ll dedicate it to you, too, of course. Getting to compete with someone at such a high level brings out the best in me.”

I said what I should have kept my mouth shut about. “Didn’t like drumming in Liverpool much?”

She was quiet for a long time before she said, her voice low, “Sometimes a person needs a change.”

I shot her a pointed look, my chest tight, and I held her gaze for a long time before I said, “Too true. Have a good night, Eliza.”

I stepped inside, and I stopped before I could go to wallow in my thoughts and feelings, before I could even moodily shut the door in Eliza’s face—stopped there in the foyer hearing piano music from the music room, faint and muffled through the soundproofing, but like nothing I’d ever heard before.

I lingered with my hand on the door handle, touching lightly, staring wide-eyed at the door to the music room, and I’d forgotten Eliza was there until I heard her say behind me, her voice almost reverent, “Is that—is that Ella?”

“Have a good night,” I said, jerking back to reality, and I shut the door, throwing the lock. My pulse raced as I crept towards the door of the music room, hands quivering, as I listened to the music rolling from inside.

Rollingwasn’t the right word.Rollingwas the water on a gentle beach lapping over the sands. This was a fierce storm thrashing waves against the cliffs,crashing, raging, exploding.Music burst forth from the room like it had nowhere else to go and couldn’t stay in that room one instant longer, and I frankly didn’t believe it was Ella Hendrickson.

This was a different woman altogether. She made pretty music before—she picked up the chords quickly, understood how to structure something beautiful on top. It was all very classic, very sweet, delicate and lovely, like a little porcelain teacup with intricate painted designs on it.

This was a sledgehammer crushing that teacup to pieces. She played without structure, without technique, structured chords thrown to the wind, pounding on the keys and ripping out a song in E Minor that felt like having my chest torn open. Did she even know it was E Minor? Or was it just her heart playingin the key of music?

Maybe she’d been onto something with that. Oh, Jesus. Ella wasn’t somebody learning to make music. Ella was somebody who had music coursing in her blood, primal and raw, carved into her bones, and she was in this program to let that caged animal out of her body.

I’d almost convinced myself itwassomebody else until she started another song, and she started to sing. And by god, she started to sing. It was no better than the piano—cracked and dirty and raw, no technique, no grace, and fucking beautiful. I couldn’t make out through the door what the words were, but even without it—hearing the raw pain in her vocals—I felt like itwas a language only she and I spoke, and I was suddenly glad I’d bought the scotch.

Jesus Christ. Olivia had been right that I needed to be ugly. If I could be as ugly as Ella’s playing was, I would be beautiful. How was this woman, who came from nowhere and had never had a single lesson in theory, ten times the musician I was?

---