Chapter 13
Did Things Change?
Elise
Nolan and I slept for twenty minutes before his alarm went off. He turned it off, rolled toward me, and pulled me close as if the morning had not arrived. I laughed into his shoulder.
“We have a flight,” I reminded him.
“The flight can wait.”
“It cannot.”
He kissed my forehead and finally got out of bed. While he packed, I watched him move around the room with the easy confidence that had first made me nervous. Two weeks earlier, he had been a stranger in the next room. Now his toothbrush stood beside mine.
At the airport, he bought us Bloody Marys and insisted they counted as breakfast. I took one sip and discovered that I liked the spicy tomato juice more than the alcohol.
“You look tired,” I said.
“You kept me awake.”
“I was reading.”
“You were playing cello.”
“Quietly.”
“Your cello has a very loud opinion.”
He grinned, and the dark circles beneath his eyes made him look younger rather than older. I wanted to touch his face but settled for stealing a piece of celery from his glass.
His mother met us at LAX in a maroon minivan. Marian hugged Nolan first, then me, and announced that she had been waiting years to meet the girl who had made her son write terrible poetry.
“I never wrote terrible poetry,” Nolan said.
“You wrote six pages about her eyes.”
“That was photography criticism.”
Marian turned to me. “He’s been impossible since he was born. You’ll get used to him.”
The house was old, comfortable, and full of evidence that Nolan had once been a child with muddy shoes and unfinished projects. Marian showed me the guest room, then opened the window as if fresh air could settle my nerves.
“You two can sleep here,” she said.
I stared at her.
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Elise.”
Nolan groaned from the doorway. “Mom.”
“What? I’m happy.”
At dinner, his father Charles asked about my music. His stepmother Regina asked about my family. The questions were polite, but each one made me feel as if I were taking an exam for a position I had not applied for.
Marian rescued me by telling a story about Nolan attempting to photograph a raccoon and falling into a pond.
“I was nine,” he protested.
“You were twelve.”
Everyone laughed, including me. The room became less intimidating.
After dinner, Nolan offered to help clean up. I followed him to the kitchen, where he stood behind me with his hands on my waist.
“Did things change?” I asked.
“Since when?”
“Since I met your family. You’ve been quiet.”
He turned me around. “I’m worried you’ll decide they’re too much.”
“They are too much.”
He winced.
“But they love you,” I continued. “That makes them easier to understand.”
His expression softened. He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek and kissed me slowly. For a moment, the dishes, the house, and the people upstairs disappeared.
Then Marian called for us to bring out dessert.
Nolan rested his forehead against mine. “We should go.”
“We should.”
Neither of us moved.
Later, Marian led me to the garage, which she had turned into an art studio. Pottery, paintings, and leather tools filled every shelf. In the center stood a new potter’s wheel.
“Nolan needs a belt,” she said. “He’s wearing two shoelaces tied together.”
She gave me a strip of wet leather and showed me how to press a design into it. I chose two circular tools and made a pair of eyes, then repeated the pattern along the length of the belt.
“My Eyes on Nolan,” Marian declared.
“That sounds possessive.”
“Good. He needs to be kept humble.”
I worked until my fingers ached. The design was uneven, but each mistake made it look more personal. Marian told stories while I worked: how Nolan had hidden photographs under his bed, how he had once wanted to be a filmmaker, how he had always treated his camera like a second set of eyes.
“He notices everything,” she said.
“Sometimes too much.”
“That is because he is afraid of missing something important.”
The words stayed with me.
When I finished, Marian helped me choose a simple buckle. I hid the belt in a cabinet and tried to wash the dark leather stain from my hands.
The garage door opened. Nolan stood there, hair windblown, carrying a paper bag.
“What are you two plotting?”
“Nothing,” I said too quickly.
He smiled. “That was convincing.”
Marian disappeared into the house, leaving us alone. Nolan crossed the room and kissed me with the urgency he had been hiding all day. I wrapped my arms around him, then pulled back when I remembered where we were.
“Your mother knows we’re here.”
“She also knows I’m twenty.”
“She has a tiny amount of respect for us.”
“That’s why she gave us the garage.”
We laughed until the nervousness broke. He touched my cheek.
“You’re staying?” he asked.
“For the holidays.”
“I meant with me.”
I understood then that he was not asking for a promise about the rest of our lives. He was asking whether I would let the next day happen.
“Yes,” I said. “For now.”
“For now is my favorite answer.”
The next morning, I gave him the belt. He turned it over in his hands and stared at the eyes.
“These are yours,” he said.
“They’re not very even.”
“Neither are mine.”
He put it on immediately. Marian clapped, Charles laughed, and Regina declared that it was the first fashionable thing Nolan had owned since high school.
When we returned to New York in January, we fell into a routine of classes, rehearsals, photographs, and stolen hours together. Nolan worked at the PhotoHut while I practiced with Maya. We tried to study in the dorms and usually failed.
A month later, he led me to Arlene’s Grocery for the second part of my Christmas present. He would not let me read the signs. When we reached the stage, Jeff Buckley was tuning his guitar.
I grabbed Nolan’s arm. “You did not.”
“I did.”
We watched the entire set from the front. He did not play “Hallelujah,” but I did not care. I had Nolan beside me, my cello waiting at home, and a belt around his waist covered with my eyes.
Walking back to the dorm, he swung our hands between us.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
“I’m trying to remember all of it.”
“You don’t have to remember everything.”
I looked at him. “I’m afraid things change.”
“They do.”
“That wasn’t reassuring.”
“Things can change and still be good.”
I leaned against his shoulder. The city lights moved across his face like passing photographs.
For the first time, change did not feel like a door closing. It felt like the world making room.
Back at the dorm, Nolan stopped outside my room. The hallway smelled of old carpet and someone’s burnt toast. He held my hand as if he were reluctant to let the evening end.
“You have rehearsal early,” he said.
“You have work.”
“We’re both very responsible.”
“It’s exhausting.”
He smiled, but the smile faded when he looked at me. “Are you happy?”
The question was simple enough to make me afraid of it.
“Yes,” I said. “Are you?”
“I am when I’m with you.”
“That sounds like a dangerous answer.”
“Then I’ll improve it. I’m happy when I’m with you, and I’m going to learn how to be happy when you’re busy, too.”
I touched the belt at his waist. “My eyes are crooked.”
“They’re watching me.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You’ve said that.”
He kissed me once, softly, and stepped back before either of us could turn a good night into another sleepless one.
Inside my room, I placed my cello on its stand and opened the music for the audition. The notes looked less threatening than they had that morning. I could still be afraid. I could still work.
And when I finished, I heard Nolan moving next door. The sound reassured me more than any promise could have.