Page 42 of Speechless

“I just do. I’ve never felt like this before. Everything in my life is better with her in it. She makes me feel like I’m not—like I’m not broken. Can’t you see how different things are when I’m around her? I actually enjoy doing things. I enjoy . . . life.”

“Henry, that’s great for you. I’m happy you feel so comfortable with her, truly. I love seeing you going out to dinner; hell, I love seeing you talk to someone other than me! But have you thought about her? Sheisnormal. If you’re actually thinking about a relationship with her, she needs to know what that entails. Because it’s not going to be normal for her.”

I think back to the night at Nobu; damn was I foolish for taking her out. I knew my track record at restaurants was dismal, but she gave me this sense of confidence. And even when it did go to shit, she was never fazed. That night was incredible. I actually had fun with her, out in public, where there were strangers all around me. I started singing at the table for God’s sake.

Graham passes me a towel now that my fourth set is finished. He adds another seventy pounds on the bar and leers at me before he gets started.

“Maybe she doesn’t have to give anything up for me. Maybe I can be normal, if I’m with her. We spend time together every day, and when she’s with me it just feels . . . right. Easy. Like I never have to think about what I'm supposed to do or say. She understands me.”

It’s true. I rarely stumble over my words with her anymore. And I swear sometimes it feels like there’s this otherworldly connection between us. Almost daily, she brings her laptop down to the studio to work with me; she says my music inspires her. Even when I'm just tinkering or trying to find the right key, she always knows what’s going on in my head, can easily describe the scene, the feeling I’m working to capture.

No one has ever understood me like that before.

“And we even went to Fish Grill the other day—it was packed. You know how much I avoid those places. But she wanted to go and . . .” And I cared more about making her happy than worrying about my own issues.

Graham grunts loudly before setting the bar down. “I’m impressed Henry, really. You’ve gone out to restaurants more in the last month than in the whole time I’ve known you. And I’m glad she makes you feel so at ease. But you’ve got to know there’s more to dating than going out to eat. What if she wants you to meet her friends? To go . . . golfing?”

“Golfing? Does Lucy play golf?”

“I don’t fucking know, Henry. But what if she wants to? What if she wants to do something that involves anyone but you two? You know how much you love surfing? Paddle Boarding? You love them because you can be alone. Other people actually enjoy group activities.”

“So you believe Lucy wants to go play golf . . . in a group?”

“She might. Maybe not today, but yeah, she might. Have you considered just talking to her about . . . you know?”

I feel like I’m being crushed by a stack of weights. I was so excited to have this conversation with Graham. I know how much he loves Lucy—they’re practically inseparable. For some reason, I thought he’d be happy for me, for us.

I told Lucy about my past, obviously not about my childhood, but I told her about Graham, about how I used him and the rest of HAAAM for selfish reasons, to further my career. And she didn’t care. She told me it didn’t matter. Maybe she won’t care about any of it. She might not know my entire history, and I hope I never have to tell her, but she understandsme.

She understands my music, the very essence of who I am. She said it helped her through a tough time. I wonder if she realizes what it’s done for my own tough times. I can’t even comprehend what my life would look like if I hadn’t discovered the piano.

I think it was C.S. Lewis who said “ink is the great cure for all human ills.” Storytelling and writing songs aren’t so different, just like Lucy and me.

I’m sick of being Hermit Henry, of watching my housemates have lives outside of our work, lives that I lust after. I’ve spent all my lifeknowingI’d never be normal: friends, love, family; none of it was possible for me. But what if that’s not the whole truth?

Being with Lucy has changed everything for me. Maybe I just wasn’t motivated before, but now—now I know what it’s like, to fall for someone, to want her around all the time in lieu of my solitude, to constantly think about how to make her smile.

I’m in it now; I can’t just go back.

18

Lucy

I’min love with Malibu.

The guys have been warning me about June gloom, that summer in California isn’t like the East Coast. But I’m addicted. I love waking up to swirls of fog hugging the coastline, walking Rowan in the misty mornings that are cool enough to wear a sweatshirt. I love watching the fog burn off in the afternoon, suddenly broken up by the bright summer sun shining through. The evenings are sublime. Every night I go outside to the pool and watch the sky change from cerulean to violet and rosy pink, all streaked with flame from the setting sun.

The last few weeks have been . . . incredible.

Most mornings after breakfast I go to the beach with Graham. He refused to give up on his “shark biscuit” and I have to admit that I’m glad he didn’t. Henry was right though, Graham’s a horrible teacher. Luckily Henry has joined us enough times that he’s been able to get me standing. Apparently, practicing on the beach is incredibly helpful before you try it in the water. Henry is the opposite of Graham when it comes to teaching styles. He’s so patient with me, so encouraging no matter how many times I fall. And he never yells weird Australian obscenities that I can barely comprehend.

Nights are the most unpredictable for me. Sometimes we have big family dinners when Adamma’s over. Sometimes they all go out and I have the house to myself (with Henry working of course) to write or get lost in a book. Sometimes I find Henry and Rowan cuddling on the rug next to the piano and my heart feels like it might burst out of my chest; and maybe I stay out of sight and just watch them for a while, listening to Henry sing softly to him, adding Rowan’s name into every song.

And sometimes I spend hours in the studio listening to Henry on the piano. I’ve actually been getting a lot of writing done down there; it’s the perfect creative atmosphere. One day last week we spent so long working together in the studio—by the time we came upstairs the entire house was asleep.

“Wouldyou mind playing something in C minor? I’m working on a scene that needs to be really suspenseful but I’m not getting there. I could use some of that magical Henry Turner inspo right now.”

The music stopped and Henry turned around to look at me lying on the futon. “Did I hear that correctly? Did you actually just mention akey? You think your scene calls forC minor, eh?”

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