Page 2 of Speechless

“You know like every hotel in LA is dog friendly, right? You’ll be fine! You said you wanted to try something new. You’ll love LA.”

I can’t believe she’s doing this to me. Or maybe I can, but it hurts the same either way.

“Sar, you’re really telling me that you’re not going to see me at all when I’m moving to LA foryou?”

“Just not yet, okay? I’m sure Emmett will forget all about it eventually and then we can hang all the time! Oh, Luce, I gotta run. We’re driving down to the beach to go watch the sunset together. Isn’t that romantic?! Love you!”

I hear the click when she hangs up and I feel absolutely dumbstruck. “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!?”

No, no, no, no, no.

I said that out loud. Everyone is looking at me.

Fuck.

How could she do this? I’m moving to LA becausesheasked me to.

Well, among other reasons. Okay, onebigreason.

But now I’ll be all alone. I have no home, no friends, no family,no onethere. I guess I don’t have much left here in Boston either.

Is it possible to die of loneliness?

I close my eyes, search for my mantra, the one I’ve been repeating for months now:Control the controllable. Look on the bright side. Find the silver lining.

Six months of therapy taught me not to dwell on all the things I can’t fix, no matter how upsetting they are. There are some things that we’re just completely powerless to change. And I guess my list of things I can’t control just got longer. I can now addlodgingto it.

I smile apologetically at no one in particular and put my massive noise-canceling headphones back on. I may look like an air traffic controller but at least the music will calm me down. I hear the piano first, and then the strings, and my heart starts to pound a little less. I’ve been listening to Henry Turner for years, but after the last surgery, the divorce, when I started feeling like I was having panic attacks every day, his scores became a lifeline for me.

Most people prefer what you see in movies, but the music is what I’ve always enjoyed the most. The music makes the film; it’s what decides how the scene makes youfeel. It can create tension or fear, can make a romantic moment magical, can transport you to a completely different time or place.

Well, to me at least.

Jack and our friends always thought I was looney talking about this stuff. At least I don’t have to worry about that anymore.

So now my Spotify is full of all the scores by Henry Turner, and no one can judge me. I don’t know why his music is so special to me; he must be some musical prodigy that’s been playing piano for sixty years or something. I always imagine him looking like Beethoven: wild hair, angry eyes, heavily punctuating every note with force, but I love him deeply. His music cures my anxiety, and it always helps to ease my pain when my meds aren’t enough. Henry Turner scores are like my own personal wonder drug. So I close my eyes and let the music do its magic.

2

Henry

Thisiswhy I fly private. I’ll never stop feeling like an arse, but airport delays due to no viable flight crew do not happen when I call the pilot myself to book the trip. Unfortunately, twenty-four hours' notice wasn’t enough this time. The meeting in Boston was a very unexpected surprise and though my flight home is turning into a train wreck, I can’t wait to start writing for this new project.

I pop another Xanax and hope no one needs me for the next twenty minutes. Once it kicks in, I’ll be marginally better at handling conversations, or at least hand gestures. I hate how much of this crap I’ve needed today, but I just have to remind myself that as soon as I’m back in LA I can get back to work, drug-free, and enjoy my Malibu bubble.

I notice the woman sitting across from me again. She’s been humming softly, and I could swear I recognize the melody. She looks a bit sad but also, hopeful maybe? She keeps talking to her dog which I can’t help but find endearing. I realize I’m staring when she looks at me and I quickly divert my eyes.

Why do I have to be so bloody awkward?

I can’t help but turn back for another peek and our eyes meet once more before she picks up her phone. She seems distracted now, so I use the opportunity to take her in.

She’s quite lovely. Beautiful, really. But not like the women I usually meet. There’s a sweetness emanating from her, like I can actually sense her compassion. She’s dressed casually in black leggings and trainers, though they are bedazzled in glittery stars. Her lilac jumper is a few sizes too big—she’s currently tucking her knees into it. My gaze travels to her face and I see eyes that are big and round and a deep shade of emerald green. Her golden hair is long and glossy, it looks so soft I want to reach out and run my fingers through it.

Songs have been written about much less. Suddenly she is a song, something in E with lots of trills. Maybe I’d call it Esme. I hear it so clearly, a melody heavy with melancholy but ending with a high note, maybe a—

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!?”

I snap out of my musical fog and see her breathing hard, face turning beet red, looking around the gate, wide-eyed and on the verge of tears. What happened on that phone call? I have a strange urge to go help her, comfort her in some way, but quickly think better of myself. It’s hard to pull my gaze but I can't keep staring at her, so I drag my eyes to her dog instead.

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