“What’dIdo? Why are you assuming it’s my fault?”
“Because you’ve got that tone in your voice that says you pushed something too far just like I said you would and you regret it and you’re kicking yourself for it.”
I was deafeningly, damningly quiet for a few seconds before I said, “I went with her to the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra with those best seats in the house I told you about.”
“Okay, I’m not gonna lie, that doesn’t sound like the world’s biggest fuckup.”
“Apparently whatever happened to her has… some kind of connection to the orchestra.” I described the situation in sweeping strokes—kicking myself for having seen how reluctant Ella was about going and still pressuring her into it, and how she shut down at the event and didn’t accept any of my invitations to leave. How she’d been avoiding me ever since, taking advantage of all my attempts to give her space.
When I finally finished rambling, Melinda sighed. “That sucks, dude. I’m sorry your date crashed and burned so hard. I can imagine it feels like total shit.”
“It’s not even supposed to,” I sighed, a sharp note like being—irritated. With my feelings, I suppose. I guess I was. “It’s casual.”
“It’s not your fault, though.”
I scowled at the phone. “You’re the one who was telling me to lay off and not try to fix her problems, give her space.”
“You gave her plenty of chances to exit, left every other recourse for her. At some point you just have to accept that sometimes the ones we care about will hurt themselves, and all we can do is stand close by and let them know we’re here once they’re ready for it.”
I sank back into the seat, deflating slowly—as much as I didn’t want to acknowledge it, there was something dissolving in my chest hearing that, something that looked a lot like guilt being alleviated, as soon as I heard the slightest confirmation. “Ugh,” was what I finally said.
“Totally cool if you want to give her space, but make sure you’re not making it look like you’re abandoning her, you know? You’ve gotta at least make it clear you’re there for her if she wants it. Otherwise, girl’s gonna get all up in her head likeoh shit I’m annoying and everyone hates me.Oh—what are you doing?”
I looked down at the plate. “Eating a lifetime’s worth of carbs—”
But it turned out she wasn’t talking to me—I heard some movement and a scuffle down the line, and then it was Natália’s voice that took over on the phone. “Lydiaaaa,” she sang, stretching out my name and talking with her mouth full. “Did you have a fight with your girlfriend? It sounds like Meli’s giving you relationship advice.”
“How are you calling herMeliright in front of her and not getting punched?”
“Psh. Who would punch me? I’m so lovable. Answer the question, stupid.”
I sighed. “Not really a fight. More… I made a bad decision and now we’ve been on cooler terms.”
“You just need to heat things up then! Show up in your sexy underwear.”
“She’s dealing with the fallout of some kind of trauma. She doesn’t need me sashaying into the room toCareless Whisper.”
“Did you traumatize her?”
“Only as much as I do everyone around me. Whatever this thing around the orchestra is that she’s dealing with, with music, the clarinet…”
She put something else in her mouth, eating sounds coming down the line. From the sounds in the background, it was Melinda’s food that she hadn’t offered to share. She spoke with her mouth full, dropping casually, “Is it about her brother?”
Something nervous fluttered in my stomach. “Her brother? She has a brother?”
“Well, not anymore. He died four years ago.”
Oh, god. That was how long Ella had said it had been since she’d done anything musical. I felt suddenly so distant, watching a recording of myself instead of living it. “Natália, I think—I think you’re telling me something Ella should be the one to tell me about—”
“It’s fine,” she said, casual as anything. “It’s all over her socials and stuff if you look back far enough. Callum Hendrickson. He was a musician. Died in a motorbike accident.”
“Natália, please stop telling me this,” I said, a tight feeling in my throat. The whole thing all lined up too neatly, too… right. Her fear coming back to music, how she was doing it to prove something but she kept locking up. They must have been in the woodwinds together in school. The way she locked up looking at the woodwinds section at the Philharmonic—
She’d been trying so hard to tell me, I could see it in her eyes, in the frustration she had all over her when she locked up trying to talk about herself. I couldn’t picture the amount of effort she was putting into trying to open that box for my sake, unsealing all of those locked-up thoughts and feelings, and—it felt like cheating, somehow, like a terrible violation of her privacy, to learn about it from stalking her old social media profiles, even indirectly.
Natália huffed at me. “It’s not going to hurt to know what she’s dealing with! It’ll help you support her! Just go in and tell heroh, I know about your brother, it’s really sad, I’m here for you though,and—”
“I’m not doing that,” I said, my voice coming out shakily. Natália paused.