Page 106 of Score
Not even an hour ago, I was reassuring my aunts of the same thing. Asking them to trust that I know my limits and can take care of myself. That’s all Tessa’s asking for.
So I need to give it to her.
Me:Okay. Well I’m always just one SOS away. You know that, right?
Tessa:I know, gem. Love you.
Me:Love you, too, gem.
I set the phone on the coffee table and lie down on the couch to nurse my turkey baby. An hour later, my feet are back in their rightful place, Aunt Grace’s lap, when my phone rings on the coffee table. If I can see Monk’s name on the screen from here, surely they can.
“Is that…” Aunt Grace tilts her head for a better view of my phone. “Monk Bellamy?”
“I need to grab this.” I leap off the couch and scoop up my phone.
“Tell Wright we said hello,” Aunt Roz calls.
Ignoring the decibels of curiosity in her voice, I dash to the back of our small house and don’t answer the call until I’m safely behind the closed door of my bedroom.
“Hey,” I say breathlessly. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Monk says, his voice raspy and shiver-inducing. “Got your text. Thought I’d just call.”
“Very elder millennial of you,” I tease.
“Maybe I’m a boomer at heart.” The deep rumble of his chuckle makes my belly flip. “Sometimes I think I should have lived in Dessi’s timeline. Better music.”
“Can you imagine meeting them? Dessi and Cal? Billie and Bessie? Zora and Baldwin?” I stretch out on my bed. “I wonder if they knew they were shaping not just a generation, but the world? With their music and their stories and their art.”
“You can never really appreciate how consequential something is when you’re in the middle of it.”
“Aren’t you philosophical tonight? Deep discussions over the dinner table?”
“Half my family is musicians and singers,” he says wryly. “So there was more singing than deep discussions. We wore that piano out.”
“You sang?” I ask, a wistful note in my voice. “It’s been so long since I heard you sing. I mean, of course I’ve heard you on TV or other stuff, but I mean… in person.”
“If you fly back to LA early,” he says, his tone roughening with gravel and smoke, “I’ll sing for you.”
My poor hummingbird heart may not survive this conversation.
I bite my lip, but there’s no holding back this goofy grin I’m so glad he can’t see. “And where would you sing for me?”
“I have a piano at my place. A few actually.” He pauses and I have no idea what to do with that empty space throbbing on the phone between us. “I’m flying to LA tomorrow. When do you get back?”
“Um, I was planning on Sunday, but the aunties are working my reserve nerve.”
“Fly back early. Come see my piano.”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?”
His laugh is dark and rich, fine as Turkish coffee. “No pressure. There’s plenty of time for you to see it.”
I want to do more than see it. I want to taste it and feel it and choke on it.
Not the piano…
“Have you thought about what we discussed?” he asks.
