Alexa or Pandora or whoever started playing music, and Emily pulled out the three dresses in her closet that were appropriate for tonight’s event. One she remembered wearing last year, so she put it back. That left a strapless black sheath dress that she’d worn to the wedding of one of Ezra’s fancy doctor friends a few months before, and a royal blue chiffon gown that Ari had given her because she couldn’t wear it with a bra. The back was cut too low; Ari had worn it once and felt uncomfortable in it all night.
Emily didn’t mind going braless for a night, and decided to wear the blue. Then it would feel a little like Ari was with her at the gala.
* * *
—
She left the music on while she showered, even though she could barely hear it over the rushing water. She looked down at her body. In the last few weeks—the last months really, ever since they’d started trying—she’d imagined the day she would look down and wouldn’t be able to see her feet. She’d imagined rubbing cocoa butter into the skin on her stomach and feeling a baby kick back at her. She’d imagined this so frequently that it seemed like it would be a reality, and now . . . it was gone.
Emily let her tears mingle with the spray from the shower head, rinsing soap from her face as she wept. How could Ezra go back to work? How could he be okay? How could he make her go to this stupid fund-raiser tonight and pretend that nothing was wrong?
* * *
—
When she got out of the shower, Alexa was playing the Kiss song “I Was Made for Lovin’ You” and Emily felt like she was transported back to the stage at Webster Hall, when she and Rob were riding the music, before she got pregnant the first time, before she fell, and before everything after.
“Alexa,” she said, as she toweled off her hair. “Please play ‘Crystal Castle’ by Austin Roberts.”
This time, instead of his music bringing her to tears, it stopped them. It reminded her that she was strong, that she had survived so much, and that she could do it again.
She asked Alexa to play the song on repeat.
xviii
We had a gig planned for a month after my cast came off. It was a huge one. One I’m still not sure how your dad made happen. We were playing the Bitter End—one of your dad’s goals before graduation, and one of our favorite places to hang out even when we weren’t playing. It was epic. And I really wanted to be in perfect shape for the show.
But in the week leading up to the gig, I was worried. When I played too long, my hand hurt. It throbbed like nothing I’d ever experienced before. And my fingers didn’t move as quickly as I wanted them to, didn’t press down as hard on the keys.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whispered one night, in the dark, while I was icing my hand in bed.
“Of course you can,” your dad told me. “You’ve put in the time, you’ve let yourself heal. You’re ready for your comeback.”
I laughed, but I knew that my hand didn’t know I was ready for my comeback. My hand could only do what it could do.
* * *
—
The night of the show, I dressed in what had become my usual performance attire—black pleather pants, a tight black tank top, and heels. Your dad gave me a good-luck necklace to wear, with a four-leaf clover charm on it that fell right between my breasts. I braided my hair into its half crown, the rest of it long and wavy.
“You ready?” he said.
“So ready,” I told him. I flexed my fingers. They ached. But it would be okay. I kept telling myself that it would be okay. I popped two extra-strength Tylenol before I left the room.
* * *
—
The guys and I all downed a good-luck shot before the show, and then we started playing. For the first forty-five minutes, everything was great. Then my hand started to throb. By an hour and ten minutes in, I couldn’t stand the pain anymore and started playing one-handed. Your dad noticed the difference in the music and looked over at me, raising an eyebrow as he kept singing. I lifted my hand and shook my head. Sympathy radiated from him to me, but we both knew we had to keep going. The set went on for another twenty minutes, and we’d make it to the end.
When that song finished, your dad looked at all of us and nodded twice. That meant he was adding something to the set list.
“I’ve got a new song I want to try out for you all tonight,” he said into the mic. “My band doesn’t even know it yet, so I’ll give them a short break.”
He looked at me and winked.
I love you, I mouthed back.
Your dad was always working on something new, and this song was fun, with a great upbeat rhythm and an earworm-y melody. The lyrics needed some work, but he had the audience dancing and clapping along by the second verse.