I clear my throat to let them know I’m standing here, but they don’t bother looking embarrassed. Paige flashes me a grin and pulls Brandon onto the elevator. The doors aren’t even closed before they’re kissing again.
Seeing the two of them should make me hopeful. But selfishly, their happiness only depresses me more. Why can’t I be like Paige? Why can’t I seem to move on?
I enter Jacob’s apartment quietly in case he went to bed already. Though he doesn’t talk to me about his work, I’ve figured out his routine. When he has a big project on deadline, he might be up until all hours of the night, but once it’s over, he’ll crash early. I never quite know which one to expect, and either way, he’s usually in his room with the door closed, so it never really makes much of a difference to me.
Although he and my brother were inseparable throughout my childhood, Jacob and I were never friends. He and Owen were the smart kids. The talented kids. The ones who took honors classes and competed for valedictorian and landed scholarships to Ivy League universities. While the only class I excelled in was home economics. By junior year, I’d grown so tired of my parents comparing me to my perfect brother that I quit trying to do well in school and started trying to have fun instead.
Jacob not only got straight As but was also some kind of musical prodigy, and he always looked down on me for being the Molly Ringwald to his Anthony Michael Hall. When I’d try to make conversation, Jacob would stare at me like I was the rat in biology lab: a radically different species, beneath him on the food chain, and with no future ahead of me. I can talk to pretty much anyone, but Jacob’s quiet contempt would leave me babbling incoherently to fill the awkward silence.
To be honest, not much has changed. When I started crashing at Jacob’s place a couple of months ago, I thought maybe we’d hang out. He’s my brother’s best friend, and Owen and I are super close now. But the first time I invited Jacob to watch a movie, he flinched like it would physically pain him to spend two hours on the couch with me, so I gave up.
Now, we’ve settled into a mostly comfortable routine where Jacob stays in his room, or strolls by with his headphones on, and I stare into my pint of ice cream and pretend I don’t notice. So, when I arrive home from my New Year’s disaster and tiptoe into the apartment, I’m surprised to hear music floating down the hall from the living room. Maybe Jacob is still awake, and he’s put a record on the turntable. But when I stop in the doorway, I realize the music is coming from the piano.
Jacob sits on the bench with his back to me, a single lamp in the corner casting shadows over the lacquered surface as his hands move gracefully across the keys. The song that drifts out is slow, and melancholy, and reminds me of snow falling in the woods or the empty city streets on my early-morning walk to work. I lean against the doorframe as the melody envelops me, and when the last note rings out, I swallow hard to quell the unexpected emotion burning in the back of my throat.
Jacob turns, and his face registers surprise. “Sadie,” he says quietly, scrubbing a hand across his forehead as if he’s trying to orient himself back into the present moment. Dazed, I kind of know how he feels.
“I didn’t know you play the piano,” I say, stepping into the room.
His lips quirk into a half smile. “Did you think the giant instrument in my living room was for holding potted plants?”
I shake my head ruefully. “I mean, I guess I’m aware that you can play. I’ve heard your electronic music, and I know you use keyboards and stuff. But I didn’t know you played music like that.” I wave my hand at the piano. “Did you write that song?”
His eye twitches, almost like he’s surprised by the question, and inexplicably, a little hurt. Finally, he nods.
“It’s beautiful.”
Jacob looks down at his hands before meeting my eyes. “Thanks.”
It dawns on me I’ve never really said anything nice about his music before. It’s been in the background for my entire life, drifting up from the basement of my childhood or piped in as the soundtrack to whatever video game or other computer-y thing Owen was inventing when we were kids. I know Jacob’s made a living doing this, but I guess he was always sort of background music in my life, too.
“You’re home early,” he says, reminding me that he wanted peace and quiet, and my presence brings him a considerable lack of both. He was probably looking forward to an evening alone. Except for work and an occasional lunch with Owen or Kasumi, I’ve basically been moping on his couch for the past few months. I’ll bet he hears The Golden Girls soundtrack in his dreams. No wonder he never comes out here to play the piano.
My cheeks heat with shame. “I’m sorry to bother you.” I take a step backward, but my heel catches on the throw rug, and I stumble.
Jacob stands and takes a few steps toward me, but I manage to grab the wall before I land on my ass like a creepy clown and humiliate myself further. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I mumble in embarrassment. Jacob watches me, probably to make sure I’m stable—literally and figuratively—and when I’m back on both feet, he moves to the couch. “You’re not bothering me,” he says, folding his long limbs into the cushion at one end. “How was the party?”
Just like everything else about this strange night, the question surprises me. Our interactions mostly consist of six-word conversations about who’s buying milk. We don’t talk like this. But maybe it’s because it’s the end of the old year and the start of a new one. Or maybe it’s the late hour and the stillness of the room that masks the usual awkwardness between us. But something about the way he leaves space at the other end of the couch feels like it might be an invitation to sit down.
The last thing I want to do is slink to my bedroom and wallow in the mortification of my night. So, I slip out of my shoes and make my way over. “Kasumi was right. The party was epic.”
“Yeah?” he prompts.
I hesitate. Does Jacob really want to hear about my night? He seems genuinely interested. Could he be feeling as lonely as I am?
I tell him about the sword-swallower and the popcorn martini, and by the time I get to the part where the clown cornered me, my night seems less dire and genuinely funny. Jacob throws his head back against the couch with laughter, and I clutch my stomach against the uncontrollable giggles. As our mirth slowly dies down, he lifts his head to look at me at the same time I shift my body in his direction. Our eyes meet, and my breath catches. He holds my gaze, and just like earlier in the day, an awareness stretches between us like taffy. My heart raps painfully against my sternum, and that same emotion he evoked when playing the piano washes over me. Some sort of longing I don’t know what to do with, so I look away.
Jacob clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “So, if the party was epic, why were you home at eleven thirty?”
I grab a throw pillow and clutch it to my chest. “I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t in much of a party mood.”
He rests a hand on the back of the couch, and my eyes are drawn to the muscles flexing in his forearm. It must be all that piano playing. “It’s been a hard year for you,” he says. “Maybe you didn’t feel like you had much to celebrate.”