Page 91 of Caught in a Storm
Her face loses its expression briefly, and then her eyes begin to well with tears. “But I like it here,” she says. “I like you.”
It should be such a fantastic thing to hear, but for Billy it’s heartbreaking, because he knows that she’s only known him for a month. He hasn’t had time to disappoint her yet. She hasn’t had time to figure out that he’ll do nothing but hold her back, the way Robyn figured it out when she walked out of La Scala and wisely chose a path that didn’t include him.
“You won’t be happy unless you’re playing,” he says. “Go online. Look at yourself at the Horse and tell me I’m wrong. Shit, not even the Horse. Go watch the video of you playing with Daquan.”
“But what if I like you more than I like playing?”
“Then you’re lying to yourself.” He says this too sharply, and Margot recoils. He’s surprised that she’s even protesting. By this point in the conversation, Billy imaged her grabbing her bag, switching out her pajamas for jeans, and taking off in her boots, because it’s so obvious that she doesn’t belong here with him.
“If I’d met you under different circumstances,” he says, “it might’ve been different. Maybe we could’ve looked at all this and thought it was enough. But that’s not what happened. When I found you, the rest of the world did, too. And I can’t compete with that.”
The sound of baseball on the TV recedes into nothing; the birds, too, along with the gentle hum of suburban Baltimore.
“What if you come, too?” she says. “Back to New York.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“My life is here. I can’t just up and go.”
“Your life? The one above your ex-girlfriend’s garage?”
The tears are gathering still, but her voice is all sharp edges now. “My students, Margot,” he says. “My son.”
“Your students can find a new teacher. There are other piano teachers. And I know you love Caleb, but he’s an adult.”
“That’s not tr—” He stops himself, because, of course, it is true, but it’s somehow wrong at the same time. “My students do need me. Some of them have been with me for years. And if I leave Caleb, I’m leaving my family. Don’t you understand that?”
Her eyes finally spill over. He reaches for her, but she pulls away. “That’s bullshit. Who’s hiding now?”
“Hiding?” he says. “I’m not hiding. This is my home. And I’m…I’m happy.”
Margot stands. The tears are gone because she’s wiped them away. Now she just looks mad. “Well, good for you,” she says. “I guess you don’t need me, then.”
Part 4
Lessons in Art and Manhood
Chapter 50
Beth tells everyone at the Horse to shut their mouths. “Seriously, people, come on! Jesus! Quiet!” With a remote that’s held together by duct tape, she turns the volume up on the main TV above the bar. On the screen, about a dozen attractive young people of various ethnicities freeze on a crowded city street. They all have pink phones aimed at themselves, as if about to take selfies. It’s unclear where they are, exactly, but that’s probably the point, because Google sells things to people everywhere. “Power Pink” starts—the iconic drum intro—and everyone begins dancing in unison.
Nikki Kixx’s voice fades in over the action, close to the mic, like a stage whisper.
Drum fills, backed by bass—four big, perfect thuds, like heartbeats—and the dancing intensifies. An electric guitar: one long chord, stretched. Words in white type appear.
Introducing Google Hype
The first phone built exclusively for creators
When the chorus drops, the people on the screen go wild, and there’s a flashing montage of sleek product shots, pink earbuds, and beautiful bodies flung into the air. Even on mediocre speakers mounted in the ceiling, the song sounds fantastic. Beth bobs her head behind the bar and shimmies. Gustavo plays air bass. The video cuts to white and Nikki’s voice fades out, but Margot’s drums play on over more words.
It’s pink
It’s loud
And it gives you the power
