Page 107 of Between Now and Forever

Her expression clears and she smiles coyly.

“Speakingof girls.”

“No.”I say quickly and she smacks me.

“Find out what happened. I know she hurt—”

“She didn’t hurt me.” I lie and clench my fists. Not in anger, but to stop myself from rubbing away the phantom pain that blooms dead center in my chest when I think about her.

“Oh, Carter…” Her eyes soften, and she reaches up to brush a lock of hair off my forehead.

“I’m fine, Mom. Really.”

She nods, her closed mouth a tender smile.

I hate the pity in her eyes and I turn away from it and busy myself with the pile of dishes in my sink that I’ve neglected all week.

“Nadia told me you’re renting to Dave while you’re gone,” she says from behind me.

I shake my head in disgust. Fucking Nadia and her huge mouth.

“He doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s here. Especially not his parents.” I give her a meaningful glare.

She puts her hands up as if in self-defense. “Well, I won’t say anything. I have enough on my own plate. Haifa Hallaby’s dramatics are the very last thing I need in my life right now.”

I laugh at that. My childhood friend, Dave Hallaby is a violinist. Widely considered the greatest talent of our time.

I pick up a glass that’s lined with something dark and crusted over. I grimace, not sure what was in it. I decide it’s not worth salvaging. I drop it in the trash. My mother sighs the way she used to when we’d track mud through the house or when our dog pissed on her rugs.

“Carter, that’s not disposable. Oh! Dear Lord, never mind.” She grimaces and drops it back in the trash. She bumps me aside with her hip and washes her hands.

“This mess…it’s so unlike you. Your friend is going to need a hazmat suit.”

I laugh, but it’s hollow. I’m not sure what’s unlike me anymore. I feel unanchored from myself. The last few months have felt like an out of body experience.

“I’m having the place cleaned after I leave,” I tell her and then scoop up an entire pile of plates and throw them into the trash.

She doesn’t try to salvage them this time. She starts walking around the tiny circumference of my studio apartment. The rustle of papers draws my eyes to her. She’s stacking a pile of documents I’ve been poring over.

I tense, but just watch out of the corner of my eye.

Those are the documents from the PI I hired. If I react, or try to pull them away, her curiosity will be piqued.

No secret can withstand the scrutiny of Penn Bosh’s curiosity.

She doesn’t even glance at them. She just straightens and stacks them before she moves on to the piles of sheet music on the floor.

Hmm. That’s not like her. But I’m not going to question that random bit of good luck. Not when it’s in such short supply lately.

“Won’t you miss her?”

She’s stroking a hand along the gleaming black curved body of my piano.

Looking at it hurts. I miss her already. I haven’t played anything since that disastrous night at the show house.

The chaos that has taken over my apartment reflects the state of my soul. And it’s starting to feel normal. All of that is due to no longer having my piano as my outlet.

“What does your therapist say?” She picks up a dishcloth and starts drying the small stack of things that didn’t warrant throwing away.

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