“Wow,” he says, looking slightly taken aback. “I always assumed you wanted to do something with music.”
“Why?”
He looks at me like I’m dense.
“I promise,” I tell him, “I’m not a musician.”
“Well, a novelist is amazing all the same. And an MFA. That’s really impressive, Holland.”
I rarely admit this ambition anymore because it seems to always garner this exact reaction: an odd combination of surprised and impressed. And I can’t tell whether people respond this way because they like the idea that I want to do something difficult and creative, or because nobody looks at me and immediately thinks She’s got stories buried inside her.
When I graduated, I had dreams of writing something fun, commercial, entertaining. Now I’m a twenty-five-year-old glorified concession worker who hasn’t finished a short story or poem or, hell, a sentence in months. If I had a quarter for each time someone told me The only way to write the novel is to just sit down and do it, I’d be able to afford a penthouse overlooking Central Park. Sometimes well-intended advice is so supremely unhelpful.
“It’s only impressive if you do something with it,” I say.
“So do something.”
“Easier said than done.” I let out a little growl. “I want to write, but it’s like my brain is empty when I try to think of a story. Lately I feel like I’m not qualified to do anything, not like you, or Robert.”
Instead of responding to the unmasked vulnerability here, he—thankfully—laughs. “Don’t ask me to write an essay, or solve any maths. I’d embarrass you.” He sobers. “We’re all good at different things, mo stóirín. I think you undervalue your own gifts.” He looks back down at the case but reaches across the glass, twisting his pinkie with mine. “You’re doing all this stuff for me, and Robert—not for yourself. There’s enormous generosity in that. And it seems to me that you know music better than a lot of people around here”—he tilts his head back, indicating the theater—“so obviously your brain is creatively driven. Trust your muse.”
He’s just poked at the tender spot in my emotions.
“But what if I don’t have one? There’s a part of me that worries I don’t love to write enough to do it all day, my entire life.” I’ve never said those words to anyone, and the clawing honesty of them leaves me feeling untethered and bare. “I think part of what’s keeping me from starting is the fear that I won’t actually love it, and then I’ll be left with a degree I won’t use, and no other prospects.”
The problem is I know he can’t relate to this. He picked up a guitar when he was four, and has played out of sheer love for it ever since. I love to read, but whenever I pick up a novel that blows me away, I think, There’s no way I have something like that inside me. Is Jeff right? Am I unable to create anything because I see myself in a supporting role? Doomed to always be the friend, the daughter, the linchpin in everyone else’s story?
As if he realizes he can’t say anything to this, Calvin points to a glossy collector’s-edition program that shows Luis and Seth standing onstage, grinning at each other after the performance that earned them their first, thunderous round of applause.
“Did you take this photo?”
I did, actually, but I’m surprised this is his question. It’s like it hasn’t occurred to him yet that he’s going to be the new sweetheart of Broadway. That there’s going to be a photo of him and Ramón jubilantly grinning at each other on these commemorative programs, selling for twenty-five dollars a pop.
“Yeah, I did.”
He smiles down at me, proud. “It’s a great shot. You’ve got all these gifts you don’t even realize.”
Rehearsal done, and with the crowd thickening outside, Calvin holds open the door, and we take a right down Forty-Seventh. Robert is handing the reins over to the assistant musical director tonight because he’s been working ridiculous hours getting Calvin and Ramón ready for their start while still running every performance.
I suspect Jeff jumped in and put his foot down, insisting his husband take the next few nights off to breathe.
It’s freezing out. I wrap my scarf a little tighter around my neck, pushing my hands into a pair of gloves. Calvin—who seems to still be running on adrenaline from rehearsal—doesn’t seem to notice the chill at all.
“How was the rest of your afternoon?” he asks, glancing over at me as we wait to cross the street.
A puff of condensation escapes with my laugh. “I plotted Brian’s murder—”
“An excellent idea for a book,” he cuts in.
“Unpacked some merchandise—”
“And may I say the display looks exquisite.”
I watch him out of the corner of my eye. “You’re being awfully complimentary.”
His gloved hand comes up to his chest. “I’m simply impressed with how much you do around the theater, that’s all. It’s like you’re born to be here.”
I tuck my arm through his, huddling against the wind. “One of Robert’s favorite stories to tell is about the day I was born.” I glance up at him and see how riveted his attention is on my face even as we walk. “According to Robert, and Jeff, and Mom, and anyone else who was there that day, Dad brought my five siblings into the room to meet me, and it was like a pile of puppies all over Mom, who looked so exhausted she could barely speak. Robert took me from her arms and told her she could rest. Apparently he said, ‘How about you let me take care of this one?’ ”
Calvin laughs.
I grin up at him. “I’m being serious.”
“I’m laughing because I can absolutely believe this.”
“Whenever I wanted to do anything big,” I say, “like summer camp, volleyball, a weekend trip with a friend and her family—I’d ask my parents, but they’d usually tell me to check with my uncles, too. I spent every day after school at their house in Des Moines. I was there most weekends. I went to work with Robert at night, and did my homework in my favorite seat—row H, seat twenty-three—while he conducted the symphony rehearsal.”
“Did it bother your parents?” he asks. “Mam was so protective; I think this would have killed her.”
He’s not the first person to ask me that. My entire life, friends wondered whether there was some rift between me and my parents, and there never was. I just gravitated to my uncles, and they were family, so it never bothered my mom. “When I came around, Mom had so much less time to baby me. Thomas was thirteen when I was born. By the time I was only three, Dad was coaching Thomas in varsity football and they went to state, so that became the biggest part of our family life. Thomas got a full scholarship to the University of Iowa and Dad was there all the time. Olivia was seven years older, and always a handful for Mom. Davis was Mom’s little cuddler and—”
“You got lost in the shuffle?”
I shake my head. “Maybe a little. I don’t know. I guess it’s easier to see it as an arrangement that worked out for everyone. Mom seemed happy to see me thriving with them.”
“It must have been amazing, growing up in the symphony hall.”
I nod. “I could probably name any classical piece within a few opening notes, but I wonder sometimes if it’s devastating to Robert that I’m not more musical.”
“That is musical, Holland.”
“No, I meant talented.”
I can feel him looking at me a bit longer before tucking my arm more tightly in his.
A car horn wails as it passes, and we move with the crowd like a school of fish down the sidewalk and to the restaurant where we’re meeting Robert, Jeff, and Lulu. I’m mildly anxious to be together with my uncles and Calvin in the same place, only because the four of us haven’t all been together since we dropped the news of our nuptials. I also hope Lulu has worked through whatever’s been bothering her. I love Lulu, but I’m not sure how much more of her drama I can take.
Calvin motions for me to lead the way and we descend the small set of stairs that lead to Sushi of Gari. Restaurants in New York come in every imaginable size, molded to fit the space available. Here, the hum of voices is a monotonous buzz as we’re led through a Tetris game of tables and past a narrow sushi bar to a booth of sorts where Lulu, Robert, and Jeff wait, sipping their sake.
Robert and Jeff both stand, each pressing a kiss to my cheek before we slip into the empty bench waiting for us.
“Sorry we’re late,” I say.
Robert waves us off. “We just got here.”
Lulu raises her sake cup. “I didn’t. I’ve been here for twenty minutes.”
Answering my mental question, Jeff adds, “Lulu has been entertaining us,” and gives me a little wink.
“You don’t say.” I slip out of my coat and toss a warning glance to her across the table.
She grins smugly back at me and holds out her phone. “Behold, I am technology.”
Warily, I take it from her. “Oh my God.” I stare down at the screen. It’s a photograph of a couple on the beach, their toes in the sand and a fire crackling behind them. But it’s no ordinary couple. It’s us, Calvin and me.
Lulu smacks a hand on the table. “I knew that Photoshop class would be useful for more than just digitally enlarging my boobs.”
In my peripheral vision, I see Robert and Jeff exchange a look. At best, they tolerate Lulu. But I’m actually relieved she’s here; she’s providing some social buffer from the elephant in the room—Me, Calvin, the Uncles: all of us here together as family.
“Christ,” Calvin says, looking over my shoulder. His cheek is nearly pressed to mine and I can still feel the chill of the air outside on his skin. “This is pretty good.”
“Your honeymoon,” Lulu says. “To Florida, obviously, since you can’t fly out of the country without getting busted.”