Cross The Line

CHAPTER FOUR

Incar-Nate.

Dial him up — quite brave, though the safe separation of a phone line — and unleash all the sassy, intelligent retorts I thought of only after the door closed behind him, when they were of no use to me. Tell him he has no business butting into my life. That I don't care how sexy he is, or that he makes me feel more alive than anyone on earth has ever managed to, or that just his presence in my space is nearly enough to make me combust.

(Okay, not that last part.)

It doesn't matter — I couldn't call him, even if I wanted to. I don't have his number anymore.

Lila convinced me to delete it last spring, asserting it wasn't remotely healthy to stare at someone's name in your contact list, willing the phone to ring for years on end. She was probably right.

I climb the stairs, Boo at my heels, seeking the solace of my bed.

I don't find it.

Instead, I toss and turn for hours, thinking about him. About hate. About lust. About love.

God, the love I have — had! — for that man.

For years it burnt me up, broke me down. Images flash through my mind — I try to block them out, but the memories are too strong.

Nate, passing me a toothbrush after Parker put food coloring in my cereal and turned my teeth bright green.

Nate, knocking the schoolyard bully into the dirt after he called me a nasty name in second grade.

Nate, teaching me to ride a bike in our long, curving driveway, his arms strong and steady as he ran at my side.

Nate, patching my scraped palms and bleeding knees when I toppled onto asphalt.

Nate, making me burned mac 'n' cheese on the stove when Parker was at soccer practice and Dad was busy working.

Nate, hugging me close after he found me sobbing on the back lawn by the maple tree, a dead bird in my hands.

Nate, holding my hand so tight I thought my fingers would break as we watched my mother's casket lowered into the earth.

Goddammit! Now I'm crying like a loser at two in the morning, with only Boo to witness my humiliation.

I know there's about a snowball's chance in hell that I'm going to fall asleep at this point, so I climb out of bed and pad down the hall to the guest room. When I reach the closet I grab the case, flick open the clasps, and a second later, feel the utter relief of smooth wood beneath my hands.

My violin.

I don't care that it's late or that I'll be tired in the morning. I position it just so beneath my chin, rotating my shoulder until I've found the playing posture I've been perfecting since I was five years old and my mother placed a string instrument in my tiny hands. The bow is light as air between my fingers as I lift it to slide across the strings. The mournful wail, melancholy and ethereal, vibrates through me from the tips of my fingers to the soles of my feet.

A mindless sense of peace settles over me as I find my rhythm, plucking out notes like my life depends on it.

I don't use music. I've played this piece by heart for years.

Lux Aeterna.

Not a classic. By no means Mozart or Beethoven.

But I'm not playing for crowds or accolades. I'm playing for myself.