Page 43 of Speechless

“I honestly have no idea. I was hoping if I sounded confident enough you’d be overcome with pride at how much I’ve learned.” I batted my eyelashes a little. “Is that a relatively suspenseful key to play in? Please say yes. I’d be so impressed with myself!”

He smirked at me but didn't respond. Then he turned back to the piano and started playing something . . .verysuspenseful. It was perfect. My fingers started flying over the keyboard.

We both worked silently—save for the music—for several hours. I wrote five full chapters and honestly loved them. And then I wondered if Henry was actually working at all. I can never tell if it’s work, tinkering, as he likes to say, or something else entirely. I’ve spent so much time down here I wish I could tell the difference by now. But no matter what he’s playing, his focus is unwavering. I create worlds through my writing and Henry does the same through sound.

I heard the notes change suddenly. It was beautiful. It sounded like shimmering starlight and midnight kisses. Like a ballerina floating through the air waiting to be effortlessly caught by strong hands.

“What is that? It’s so pretty.” Pretty? That word seemed so trivial compared to what I was listening to. It sounded like love.

He stopped playing, more abruptly than usual, but he didn't turn around. “Eh, nothing really, just fooling around.”

I still can’t getthat melody out of my head.

For years I’ve listened to his scores while I work, but nothing really compares to the live experience. He told me once that music saved his life. I felt like I wasn’t supposed to ask for details so I didn’t, yet I can see it when he plays. Everything about him softens—all the hard edges, the taut muscles—it’s kind of mesmerizing.

But the best part of being in Malibu? The pain.

It’s gone.

Besides the minor flare-up my first week here, my endometriosis has been basically silent. I can’t remember a time when I’ve gone this long without needing my pain medicine or my Warmies time with Rowan. I can’t remember a time when I went more than one week.

I haven’t told anyone here details about my chronic illness, partly because I love that they don’t know that side of me, and partly because I haven’thadto. So I just talk to Row.

I tell him all my wild theories. Like how the healing properties of the Pacific Ocean have somehow cured me, how being around Henry is like a more potent injection of his music (this is my current frontrunner), or how Row is officially a magic dog that takes my pain away before it reaches my brain receptors (I think he likes this one best).

I’m not sure if it’s the surfing, or Henry’s music, or my health, or this weird little family I’ve acquired, but I love the way Ifeelhere. Like anything could happen, like doors are opening instead of closing on me, like my life isn’t over.

Like the ending to my story is still waiting on the edits.

3rd movement

Give every day the chance to become the

most beautiful of your life.

-Mark Twain

19

Lucy

Adamma has been askingme for a while to go shopping together. Honestly, I’m a little embarrassed to go, considering how stylish she is. I’m, well, not. There are certain colors I like to wear and I usually go for dresses, but only because I find them comfortable. Chic is not a word that’s ever been used to describe me. But today, I’ve finally agreed. I’m feeling really good. I’ve been making a ton of progress on my book and I’m in the best shape of my life thanks to all the attempted surfing. Plus, I’m living rent-free and have basically zero expenses. I deserve to go blow some cash.

Adamma picks me up in her red Audi convertible and the few nerves I had about shopping officially dissipate. Especially when she tells me we’re starting the day with boba tea from Urth, my newest obsession.

“Okay, don’t freak out but I have a surprise for you. Before we shop we’re getting our makeup done, professionally.”

Well, Iwasenjoying my delicious, blended Earl Grey with boba but now the tapioca pearls feel heavy in my mouth. I almost never wear makeup. The worst fight Sarah and I ever had was about my refusal to put on false eyelashes for my wedding. I wonder what she’s doing now, when I’ll see her again.

“Luce, don’t look so scared. It’ll be fun! I know you’ve been hesitant to go shopping and honestly, it’s a million times better when you look your best. You’ll appreciate it, I swear.”

A beautiful man named Stefan paints my face while I stare at his lashes that are equal parts feathers and glitter. We make a lot of small talk, because apparently it takes over an hour to do makeup—I don’t think I’ve ever spent more than ten minutes on myself—and when I tell him about the books I’ve written he squeals with glee. Stefan is a big fan of all things fairy tales and I promise to name a character after him in my next book. I leave out the fact that so far, all the characters are villains.

He spins my chair and I’m finally able to see my reflection in the mirror.

“Whoa.” I look . . . well, I don’t look like me anymore, that’s for sure. My normally bright pink lips are nude and glossy, and my eyes are smoked out with different shades of chocolate and plum. I rarely wear more than mascara on them since they’re already quite pronounced. I look like an alien, maybe a sexy alien, but this whole face looks foreign to me.

Something hits me, a small flood of memories with Sarah. She was my fashion guru, hair and makeup artist, style coach, you name it. No matter how hard she worked on me, I could never achieve the effortless beauty she possessed, but just remembering all the times she forced eyeliner on me has me feeling the loss of her deeply. I can’t believe I still haven’t heard from her since I got to LA. She knew I lost all my Boston friends when Jack and I split up. I never thought she’d truly abandon me like this.

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