So, here I am, stuck between betraying my friend and breaking my heart with no clairvoyants available to tell me my fate and no time machines to press rewind if I mess it all up.
I need my broken piece. I need William here. He could always untie the tangle of my thoughts and point me in the correct direction.
But maybe that’s being too generous. If he had lived, would he have still cared about me? More so than the fake friends and the fake girlfriend and the all too real temptations? I hope so, but the truth is, I don’t really know.
We have a tendency to overlook the sins of the dead—it’s only polite, after all—and I am just as guilty as anyone else of ignoring the not-so-nice traits of my twin. When we were kids, William and I were inseparable, but with every year, that bond stretched a little thinner. I was pulled in one direction, and he in the other, and like a rubber band, maybe that bond would have eventually snapped.
The thought of William brings along tears that fall silently down my cheeks. Nearly six months later, it still feels like I’m waiting for him to walk through the front door, drop his book bag lazily in the entrance hallway, and scour the fridge for a snack. When does a person stop being real and become a memory?
As I lay there, I swallow away the knot lodged at the back of my throat. No one will tell me the right choice to make or help me decide what to do. It is my burden to bear and mine alone.
I make myself get up. I shower, and as I towel-dry my hair, I am torn between what I need to do—work on a mountain of Adaptive English homework—and what I want to do—literally (almost) anything but homework. As I shrug on an oversized, knit sweater and a pair of black leggings, I make up my mind. Time to work on my string skillz—complete with the prominent z—as William used to say.
I will never be a famous violinist, but I like to play. It’s cathartic, a release to wash away the darkness like flecks of dirt down the shower drain.
I grab my violin out of my closet, shrug on my coat, and head out the door to the Music Hall. The Academy offers lockers to students, but I keep my violin in my dorm. I can’t leave it out, exposed, where Aurora or anyone else could find it.
My violin is one of my most prized possessions, gifted to me on my and William’s sixteenth birthday at a party held in the backyard of my grandparents’ New Hampshire estate. Grandma unveiled a baby grand piano for William and an Aubert Lutherie violin for me. Every time I pick it up, I am transported back to that evening,
— Harlow, 8 Months Prior —
William and I were undeserving. We were out-of-practice. Dust had settled between our fingertips and around our knuckles. We hadn’t played together in nearly a year, but when Grandma called for a performance, we took our positions on stage and it was perfect.
Beneath the weeping willows and strings of lantern lights, William and I played, and it wasn’t a classical melody or a famous duet. No, at William’s insistence, we butchered our way through Enter Sandman by Metallica.
Mom clutched her heart and swooned onto the chaise like she was an overwrought lady of the nineteenth century. Grandma startled so violently, her wine leaped out of her glass and fell in a sudden downpour onto Granddad. Dad choked on his champagne as he sputtered through his laughter.
William, though, was downright giddy, grinning like a maniac as he banged the keys like he could summon a rock god through his fingertips. A minute in and sweat dampened his blonde curls, his suit jacket lost somewhere (more likely never worn), and he smiled at me like he would never regret this prank.
Two minutes, and we both played through our laughter as Blaze Lahey and his cohorts belted out the lyrics from beside the enormous birthday cake. Three minutes, and we were both guffawing so hard we cried, and I had to close my eyes to attempt the guitar riff, which ended to cheers from the aforementioned cohorts. Four minutes, and William belted into the crowd along with Blaze. Five minutes, and both of us sweaty and with ruddy cheeks, bowed to a cheering crowd shouting for an encore.
That was the first time in a long time I thought we still might have a chance, that we still might be best friends.
I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since.
23
Ian
It took everything I had to not go to her dorm room last night and spill my guts, tell her about the net she somehow tangled herself in and all the ugly, dour things she is not allowed to know. But I pushed her far enough yesterday, and I’m in this for the long haul, not some hookup.
That is, if I can manage to not fuck it all up.
Admittedly, the odds are against me, but I have never been much of a betting man. I’m wading through unfamiliar, choppy waters here, but I intend on staying afloat.
A string of late-night hookups? Sure, adjudge me guilty. A few booze-fueled hit-it and quit-its? Okay, add a few charges to my indictment. An evolving rotation of fuck-buddies? Fine, how many charges am I collecting here?
But never long-term. Nothing serious.
I wouldn’t even count the…the ordeal with Aurora as anything. A nightmare I wish I could forget? A summer I barely remember between the blackouts? A rare lapse in judgment? No, that’s not quite right. A fucking epic mistake of Ragnarok-level proportions? Yeah, that would be it.
Although I may not know much about serious relationships, I am pretty sure booty-call behavior is strictly prohibited. That means no showing up at midnight and asking if I
