Chapter 6
I Needed to Know You
Nolan
Later that week, I developed the photographs from our afternoon in the park. In one frame, Elise was not looking at the camera. She was looking down at me, her expression soft and unguarded.
I printed it and wrote “BFFs” along the bottom in grease pencil. Then I waited for her on the steps outside Senior House.
When she arrived with her cello, she noticed the photograph immediately.
“Our first picture?”
“Our first official picture.”
“Best friends forever? Already?”
“I’m optimistic.”
She tucked it carefully into her notebook. “I’ll keep it.”
We shared a cigarette while the late afternoon cooled around us. Elise looked exhausted after rehearsal, so I offered her the last of the food in my room. She rejected the fish sticks Sophie had left in the communal kitchen and accepted a bowl of cereal instead.
“You need to eat more than that,” I said.
“You need to stop pretending you’re my father.”
“I’m not old enough.”
“You act old enough.”
I wanted to tell her that I noticed every detail about her: the way she tucked her hair behind one ear when she was nervous, the way her fingers continued to move after rehearsal, and the way she looked at me before remembering to be careful.
Instead, I asked about her music.
“The audition is in January,” she said. “If I don’t make it, I may lose my scholarship.”
“You’ll make it.”
“You keep saying that like confidence is contagious.”
“It is.”
She smiled, but the smile did not last. “I can’t afford to lose focus.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can wait.”
She looked at me. “Wait for what?”
“For you to decide what you want.”
The air between us changed. We had been calling ourselves friends because the word was safe. It was also becoming less accurate every day.
Elise stood and carried her bowl to the sink. I followed but kept a respectful distance.
“Don’t pressure me,” she said.
“I haven’t.”
“I know. That’s why I like you.”
She turned toward me. “My mother had me when she was eighteen. Sometimes I felt like I ruined her life. She never said it directly, but I could feel it. My father resented her, and she resented the choices she had made. I decided early that I would build a life no one could blame on anyone else.”
“That’s a lot for one person to carry.”
“Music gives me a way to carry it.”
“Then I won’t ask you to put it down.”
Her eyes softened. “You make that sound easy.”
“It isn’t. I want you.”
She took a careful breath.
“I want you, too,” she said. “But wanting isn’t the same as being ready.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’m trying to.”
She reached for the doorknob, then turned back. “You’re not like the people I usually date.”
“You don’t date.”
“Exactly.”
“What kind of people would you date if you did?”
“Quiet, complicated, probably unavailable.”
“I can be complicated.”
“You’re not unavailable.”
“I could pretend.”
She laughed and pushed my shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
“You like me.”
“I do.”
The admission was small, but it traveled through me like heat.
I stepped closer. “Can I kiss you?”
She looked toward the hallway. “No.”
I stopped.
“Not because I don’t want to,” she added. “Because if we start, I don’t know whether I’ll stop. And I have rehearsal at seven.”
“That is the most convincing reason anyone has ever given me.”
“Good.”
I kissed her cheek instead. Her shoulders relaxed, though a shiver moved through her.
“Good night, Ellie.”
“Good night, Nolan.”
She walked away, then lifted two fingers in a peace sign without looking back.
I returned to my room and studied the photograph of her eyes. I had taken hundreds of photographs in my life, but this one felt different. It was not only a record of what I saw. It was evidence that Elise had looked at me when she thought I was not watching.
The next morning, I left a note beneath her door: “You will make the audition. Eat breakfast.”
An hour later, a note appeared beneath mine: “You are not my father. But thank you.”
I kept that note, too.
Over the next week, we built a language out of small things. She left coffee outside my door before rehearsal. I developed photographs for her music portfolio. We walked to class together when our schedules allowed, and we stopped pretending that every silence needed to be filled.
Sometimes she would look at me and then look away. Sometimes I did the same. The restraint was not easy, but it gave our friendship a shape strong enough to hold the desire underneath it.
One evening, she played through a difficult passage in the room next door. The notes faltered twice before settling into a clear, aching melody.
When she finished, I knocked.
“What?” she called.
“You were good.”
“I was almost good.”
“You were good enough to make me forget I was waiting.”
There was a pause. Then the door opened.
“I needed to know you would still be here,” she said.
“I am.”
She nodded, satisfied. “Good. Come in.”
I followed her inside and sat on the floor while she tuned the cello. The room smelled of rosin and coffee. She handed me a page of music.
“This is the piece I’m using for the audition.”
“I don’t understand the notes.”
“You don’t need to understand them. Tell me what you feel.”
She played the opening phrase. It was low and uncertain, then rose into something brighter. I listened for the shape of it instead of trying to name it.
“It sounds like someone standing outside a door,” I said.
“And then?”
“Deciding whether to knock.”
She lowered her bow. “That’s what I think, too.”
“You’re going to knock.”
“You’re very confident.”
“I’m confident in you.”
She smiled and played the passage again. This time, she did not hesitate at the difficult measure.
When she finished, she leaned the cello against the wall and sat beside me. Our shoulders touched.
“I’m still not ready for a relationship,” she said.
“I know.”
“But I don’t want to lose this.”
“You won’t.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No. But I can keep showing up.”
She rested her head against my shoulder. We stayed that way until the hallway lights clicked off for the night.
Before I left, she took the photograph from her notebook and placed it on her desk. “I want to see it when I practice.”
“Why?”
“Because you look happy in it.”
I looked at the image again. She was right. I did look happy. I had not realized how much I needed to know that.
She closed the notebook and looked up at me. “You can go now.”
“That sounds like a dismissal.”
“It is.”
“Will I see you tomorrow?”
“You’ll hear me practicing.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“It’s a start.”
I left her with the door open between our rooms. The distance was only a few feet, but it felt like a promise we were both learning how to keep.