Sway

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

“Ava!” Mari burst into one of Kellynch’s many living rooms and flung her arms around my neck. “I finally get my big sis back.”

“Who am I, the maid?” Beth snapped. Mari ignored her.

I pulled myself from her embrace and looked her over. “You look good, Mar.” She’d cut her hair since the last time I saw her. Short waves reached her chin, blonde highlights helped hide the mousy brown color. “Where are Charlie and the boys?”

She grabbed my hand and led me into the dining room. “Charlie had to go into the office. The one night we’re having a family dinner! Convenient, right?”

“If he’s skipping out on seeing me, he’s going to be in serious trouble.” Mari’s husband, Charlie, and I had been best friends in high school. Mari didn’t know him then, she was a couple of years younger than we were and had been sent to boarding school besides. They didn’t get together until after I left for New York. I didn’t even believe they were together until I got the wedding invitation in the mail.

Mari rolled her eyes. “The boys stayed home with the nanny. You know how they drive Dad crazy.”

Mari and Charlie’s sons were only a year apart. Dad always said they had the devil in their eyes, and acted more like a hostage around them than a grandfather. I was there for both births, but I hadn’t seen them since the youngest, Landon, was born.

Aunt Rose marched into the dining room carrying a plate of chicken. “Ava, Mari, bring in the rest of the food, will you?”

Eight years and Elliot family dinners hadn’t changed much. Dad still enthused about the anti-aging benefits of garlic, Beth ignored everyone in the room except Dad and her smartphone, Mari alternated between shoveling food into her mouth and gabbing about nothing and Aunt Rose presided over the whole thing as if it were her house, her family. The only thing out of place was Shelby Clay.

I passed my aunt the Tuscan salad Beth had made. Or rather, poured the lettuce from the bag and then left me to finish. Without a cook around, what had I expected, really?

“Thank you, Ava.” Aunt Rose sat primly at the long dining table, her cream blouse a stain magnet for the cranberry juice she was sipping. Not that she would ever spill a drop. Aunt Rose never made mistakes, unless you counted her ex-husband, which she didn’t. “It’s all in the past,” was all she would ever say about her short-lived marriage. She never had kids, and I’d never even met the guy. She had adopted us as her family and never bothered with one of her own. I’d always wondered why, but never had the guts to ask.

“So, I’ve got huge news which I’ve been dying to share,” Mari said, bouncing in her seat.

“You’re pregnant,” Beth said.

“You’re getting a divorce,” Aunt Rose said.

“You finally lost those last few pounds of baby weight,” Dad said.

Mari scowled at him. “Noooo.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Charlie found someone to rent Kellynch.”

Dad’s fork clattered onto his plate. His mouth opened but no words came out.

“Who is it?” Aunt Rose asked.

“It better not be some twenty-year-old bum who plays video games all day,” Dad said, “like that husband of yours.”

“Dad,” I warned.

“You know what? Never mind. Find someone yourself.” Mari pushed away from the table. “Some fifty-year-old bum who slathers lotion on himself all day.”

“Mari!” I barked. Wow, things really hadn’t changed at all.

“Sit down, Mari,” Aunt Rose said, “and apologize to your father.”

For a moment, Mari just glared at Aunt Rose. I thought she would storm off, but instead she gave my dad a slow but graceful, “I’m sorry,” and returned to her seat.

I blinked. Maybe some things were different after all. “Now, tell us about this renter,” Aunt Rose said.

Mari glanced at me. “It’s a couple in their forties. Married, no kids.”

Mari’s insult hadn’t fazed Dad at all. He seemed more shaken up about the possible renter. “Who are these people? What do they do for a living?”

Mari swallowed even though she had no food in her mouth. Her eyes darted to me again. “He’s a music producer. She’s a nurse.”

Something tickled at the back of my mind.

“Music producer? No. Absolutely not.” Dad jabbed his finger on the table with each word. “I’m not having some strung out hippie with long hair and tattered jeans living in my house. And a nurse?” He shuddered.

“Dad,” I objected. “You have no idea what he looks like.” Dad was the exact opposite of a hippie. Tall, handsome, dark brown hair lacking a single gray, few wrinkles, and always decked out in immaculate designer clothing. Never a thing out of place, like George Clooney.

Dad ignored me. “He probably chain smokes. Our handmade furniture, the curtains I bought in Greece, everything will reek of cigarettes.”

“Some music producers dress really nice and drive expensive cars and stuff,” Beth said. “I’ve seen it on reality TV.”

“Like that guy from that show,” Shelby said. Dad’s expression brightened.

“He’s definitely handsome,” Mari said. Dad gave a harrumph.

“From what Charlie says, he’s semi-retired now. They’re very well-off. They seem eager to settle in this neighborhood.”

“Well, who wouldn’t?” Dad sliced his chicken a little too vigorously. “And Kellynch is the best house in the Hills.” His frown lessened. “What’s his name? Maybe I’ve heard of him.”

Mari hesitated, she glanced at me yet again. “Croft. Richard and Sophia Croft.” Chicken caught in my throat. I coughed. I gagged. Tears sprang from my eyes. “Someone hit her on the back,” Beth said with a sigh.

“Croft?” Aunt Rose repeated, trying to place the name.

Still coughing, I held up my hand to tell them I was fine. Not that anyone was rushing to my aid.

“Why does that name sound familiar?” Dad asked, tapping his fork against his lips. I downed half a glass of water and gasped.

“Because Sophia Croft is the sister of…” Mari stopped and looked at me, as if waiting for my permission to say his name.

“Eric Wentworth,” I choked out. “Sophia Croft is Eric’s older sister.” Every eye in the room zeroed in on me.

I fled the table.

Tears stung at the corners of my eyes but I told myself not to cry as I flopped onto my bed, face-first.

Rolling over, I stared at the ceiling. It had been a long time since I’d cried over Eric Wentworth. It was second nature to squash all memories of him the moment they appeared. Like curtains covering an ugly view, I would use an imaginary hand to push the memory out of sight and back into the recesses of my mind.

Not this time. My heart pounded a painful beat. I couldn’t get him out of my head. The last time I saw him, the last look he gave me, still tortured my soul. Unable to stop it, I stretched my mind back further, to our beginning, rather than our end.

* * * * *

Eric had walked into second period music class that day wearing department store jeans, scuffed Converse sneakers and a dark grey fedora. His t-shirt had said, “I’m with stupid,” with an arrow pointing up.

From the back corner of the classroom, I gave the new boy a once-over. Then another one.

“Bet he plays the sax,” Charlie said, his voice low.

I leaned forward on the piano bench. “He looks more like a drummer.” I eyed the bass drum Charlie was leaning against. “Maybe you’ll get demoted to cymbals.”

He hugged the bass drum like a teddy bear. “No way, this baby is mine.”

I laughed.

“I heard his parents died in a car accident,” Charlie whispered.

“That’s so sad.” I’d lost one parent, I couldn’t imagine losing both. Although with Dad never around it almost felt like I had.

Rumors flew about Eric—his Dad had overdosed on drugs, his mom had committed suicide, his parents were too poor to afford their kids, the usual stuff. Charlie and I became friends with Eric, and eventually we learned the truth.

Eric and his older brother, Evan Wentworth, were Somerset High’s newest Charity Cases. Their parents had died in a car accident (Charlie had been right about that), leaving the two boys and their sister, Sophia, with no other family. Their mother was an alumnus at the school so as some kind of outreach program, the school board gave Eric and Evan scholarships to finish out high school.

I didn’t know that on his first day though. All I saw was a very cute new boy who was staring at me. I realized I’d been grinning at his t-shirt and quickly looked away. Maybe he thought I was laughing at him. After a few seconds, I risked another glance. His eyes were still on me.

“Ah, Mr. Wentworth.” Our music teacher, Mr. Sachs, called everyone miss or mister. He probably thought we’d behave better. “What instrument do you play?”

“Piano,” Eric replied.

“Ha!” Charlie whisper-shouted.

I squirmed on the piano bench. That’s why he’d looked at me—he wanted my instrument.

“I see.” Mr. Sachs’ eyes moved to me. “I’m afraid, Miss Elliot, the piano will no longer be yours alone.”

I hung my head, hiding my disappointment.

“I expect you to work together,” Mr. Sachs said, “to come up with a plan on how best to split your time at the keys.”

Eric sidled up beside me on the bench. My eyes narrowed. Cute new boy had just become my competition and I wasn’t pleased.

“Now, let’s play.” Mr. Sachs flourished his arms as if we were the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra rather than a bunch of high school kids.

I played through Bach’s “Air on the G String,” a song that made every kid in class giggle when Mr. Sachs said the title aloud. I knew the piece by heart. The only time I made a mistake was when I glanced at Eric and noticed him staring at my hands.

Our teacher began to nit-pick at different students, leaving the rest of us to practice on our own.

“Do you want to take a turn?” I figured I might as well be nice.

Eric nodded. I slid over but didn’t leave the bench. This was still my spot. He moved to the middle, his thigh pressed into mine. He didn’t seem to notice. I inhaled his clean, dryer-sheet scent.

Eric focused on the sheets of music; his fingers hovered over the keys. He began to play an air-version of the song, his fingers never touching the piano. I knew right then he wouldn’t need my help. The song was slow but his hands moved with practiced ease. When he played with the class, his fingers on the keys, all pride I’d felt at my own almost-perfect performance died a painful death. Eric Wentworth was at least my equal at the piano, if not better. Either that, or else he knew that particular song really, really well.

I looked back at Charlie and he raised his eyebrows at me.

Through the rest of class, we took turns at the keys, neither of us leaving the bench. It was actually easy, unspoken. Just a nod and we’d switch places. I found I didn’t mind sharing the piano with Eric Wentworth after all.

When class ended, Eric didn’t get up from the bench. He continued to pour out a melody, his head tilted to one side.

“You’re really good.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

His fingers jumped from the keys to his lap. He turned his head to look at me. We were so close on the piano bench that I could see myself in his deep blue eyes.

“Ava’s worried you’re gonna upstage her,” Charlie said.

Eric slid from the bench. “Nah.” He slung his backpack over one shoulder and flashed me a smile. “We can both have our moments to shine.”

He already outshone me, but I didn’t mind.

“I’m just sorry you have to share,” he said to me.

I shrugged. “No big deal.”

“She wouldn’t be saying that if you sucked,” Charlie said.

“I’m Ava.” I shouldered my backpack. “This is Charlie.”

“Eric.”

“Cool shirt, dude,” Charlie said as the three of us headed out of the classroom.

“This?” He plucked the t-shirt with his fingers. “They made a mistake when I went to get it screened. It’s supposed to be pointing down.”

“Really?” I asked.

“No.” His blue eyes twinkled.

“I gotta head to gym,” Charlie said. Still facing us, he backed down the hall. “Lunch later.”

I waved to Charlie and then turned to Eric. “What’s your next class?” My fingers fiddled with the smiley-face keychain hanging from my backpack.

“Um…” He pulled a sheet of paper from inside his bag. “Algebra.”

“Mine too. Do you want me to show you where it is?”

His wry smirk had then turned into a full-fledged smile. “Sure. Thanks.”

* * * * *

With eyes closed, I could see us whispering together during that first algebra class as if it was yesterday. I could still feel the heat on my cheeks when I invited him to lunch with Charlie and me. Tingles whispered over my skin when I remembered how nervous and excited I’d been that entire lunch hour.

Eric and I, we shared a bond, right from the start. First, it had been over the piano, and then as we came to know each other better, over our shared loss. Charlie was always there, part of our group, but never all there. Part of the same orchestra, but playing different pieces. Like me, Eric kept his sadness wrapped tight around himself, but I could see it. I remember wanting to fix it, to help him. But despite the grief he carried with him every day, he had a confidence that I could never find in myself.

Later, much later, I realized that instead of fixing him, he was the one to fix me.