I looked over my shoulder to find Georgia, but she was nowhere to be seen. Surely she’d seen me by now. I wanted to ask her about playing and not submit myself to this guy’s decision making.
“I brought my violin...” I started, but he stopped me.
“Oh, you’re Georgia’s friend, right?”
The word tasted like burnt coffee. Friend.
“I am.”
“She said you’d be in and you could set up whenever.”
“Oh,” I hesitated, looking around once more for her, “did she go home, or something?”
He shook his head. “Nah, she’s just in and out all night. Some family stuff to take care of.”
CJ said nah all the time, but when this guy said it I wanted to grab him by the collar and scream, Please just take the time to form the word! I would have pressed him for more information, but I actually thought he would give me what he knew, and if there was anything for me to know, I’d want to hear it from Georgia.
I was a little concerned, given she dropped out of our text conversation without a goodbye. She hadn’t told me about anything in particular going on with her mother, but there was no one in here I could ask about that, given I was under the impression no one else knew. Or, at least, knew as much as I did.
Just as I was spinning in a junior high blender of self pity, swirling with the word friend and my apparent insecurity, a hand landed in the middle of my back.
“Did Devin tell you it was okay if you played tonight?”
She smelled like almonds tonight.
I turned with a smile, which vanished as I studied her eyes. She’d been crying.
“What happened?” I ducked my head and whispered into her ear.
She shook her head. “Nothing, why?”
“You look like you’ve been crying.”
Her eyes flicked to the guy behind the bar, then to the floor, before back to me. It was fast, designed to escape my notice, I’m sure.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” I reached my hand out to touch her arm, but she took a step back.
“Can you play that song you were practicing the other night?” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, seeming to steel herself from whatever was happening in her eyes.
I shrugged. “Which one?”
“I obviously don’t know the name but it sounded like ... like birds weeping on a branch over a funeral service.”
I brought my hand to my mouth and close my eyes for a split second. The collision of her description of the song—which was so spot on I almost stopped breathing—and her specific request that I play it was overwhelming. It was the Chopin Nocturne that I’d played the day I brought CJ to Blue Seed Studios.
“Why? Why that song? It’s so...”
“Guttural.” Her voice was as flat as her eyes had gone.
I nodded. “Guttural.”
She shrugged. “I think sometimes the people in here need to hear what their problems sound like coming from your violin.”
We were clearly not talking about anyone else in the room, but I nodded, knowing her emotional limits. And mine.
“I’ll play it ... if you’ll tell me why that guy said you’re going to be in and out all night for family stuff. What’s going on?”
Georgia glared at the empty space behind my shoulder. “I’ll tell you if you leave it alone for now and wait till the bar closes.”
My nostrils flared as I took a frustrated breath. She didn’t give anything away easily. “I’ll leave it alone for now if you let me come bake with you when we’re both done here.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Just play it, okay?”
“Any other requests?” I slid away from the bar, violin case in hand.
She bit her lip and looked down for a moment. “Just one,” she said as she looked up, fresh pink in her cheeks.
“Shoot.”
“Play for as long as you can. Don’t stop.”
I frowned slightly. “Why?”
She let out a sad chuckle. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”
I actually did recognize that quote from Alice in Wonderland. But, why? “What?”
She put her hand on my forearm and looked at my mouth. Her eyebrow arched as if it were trying to pull her gaze toward mine, but failed. “Sometimes the question is as complicated as the answer.”
I settled myself on stage and looked into the moderately inhabited bar. The pit I had in my stomach had nothing on the look on her face as my bow and strings embraced, and wept as if separated by the war of emotions. The stubborn part of me wanted to stop playing right then and rush over to her and find out why she wiped under her eyes every few measures. Why she smiled through those tears. Moreover, why she requested the song in the first place.
The musician in me, though, ordered me to keep playing. To let her feel what she needed to feel. In time with the music. In the confines of the score. I couldn’t move my eyes from her. Not during that song, or the rest of the songs I played over the course of the night.