“Twenty,” Emily said. She turned to the piano player and said, “Thank you. I needed that.”
“Truly my pleasure,” he told her. “I hope you take it up again.”
Ezra put his hand on the small of Emily’s back and steered her into the corner of the room near the bar.
“You were twenty when you fell out of a tree house? I always thought you were, like, ten.”
“I wasn’t,” Emily said, realizing that Ezra seemed upset. “I guess you didn’t ask how old I was before tonight, and I never mentioned it. Is that what’s upsetting you?”
“No, that’s not what’s upsetting me,” Ezra said, his voice soft but steely. “What’s upsetting me is that my wife is some kind of piano virtuoso and I had no idea. We’ve been together for more than four years. How didn’t I ever know that? Do you know how . . . stupid I felt just now, with my colleagues asking me questions about you? And my dad? I didn’t know any of the answers.”
“I’m not a piano virtuoso,” Emily said, trying to calm him down. “Seriously. I took lessons when I was a kid, I was pretty good, I was in a band for a while in college, that’s all. I’m sorry you felt embarrassed back there, but it’s really not a big deal.”
“Wait,” Ezra said, looking up from his drink. “You were in a band? In college? Why didn’t I know that, either?”
Emily looked around. They hadn’t attracted any attention yet, but she was worried that they would. “Why don’t we go up to our room to talk about this,” she said. She didn’t want them to be the postparty hospital gossip. Besides, their bags were already upstairs, and she wouldn’t mind getting out of her heels. Getting out of this whole party that she hadn’t wanted to attend to begin with. To their left, Ezra’s parents were chatting with the head of cardiology and her wife. Emily wondered if it was about her piano playing or about something else entirely. She caught her mother-in-law’s eye and pointed toward the door. Dr. Gold nodded.
“Fine,” Ezra said, putting his hand on Emily’s back to steer her out of the ballroom, Emily grabbing a handful of her dress so she wouldn’t trip.
When they got into the empty elevator, he started up the conversation again. “You were in a band?”
Emily nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I was in a band for a few months. I played piano and sang. Then I fell out of a tree house, broke my hand, and eventually stopped doing both.”
The elevator opened onto their floor. They were silent again, walking down the hallway, until Ezra opened their hotel room door. Neither one of them noticed the elegant decor or the chocolate truffles left next to each side of the bed.
“What were you doing in a tree house when you were twenty?”
Emily closed her eyes. She’d never told anyone this story after she told it to Dr. West thirteen years ago. It was still painful. All of it. She did her best to work through it, get past it, and then lock it away. She knew it was part of what made her the person she was, but it felt private—and, if she was honest with herself, she still felt ashamed of how she’d acted then. She blamed herself for so much.
“What were you doing in that tree house?” Ezra asked, sitting down on the side of the bed.
“What happened at work today?” Emily asked him, stalling—and also wondering if dealing with that first might defuse whatever was going on with him now. “Hala mentioned something . . . and it actually made me feel pretty bad not to know what she was talking about. I had to pretend.”
Ezra took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Then he put them back on and said, “You first.”
Emily sat down across from him on a little settee covered in plush velvet. The idea of telling him this story, of sharing it, made her panic. He was such a good person, so straight-edged. He never drank before he turned twenty-one, never smoked or took any medication that didn’t come with a prescription. She hated how this story made her look. It didn’t feel like her anymore. It felt like a story she’d read about a person she’d once known. And there was no rule that said married couples had to share everything. There were stories in her past that Ezra didn’t know—and stories in his past she was sure she didn’t know. His first kiss, for example; she had no idea who it was with. Or why he chose to do his residency in California, so far away from his parents. He got to keep those stories; she got to keep hers. “My story is my story, Ezra. It’s mine to share when I want.”