A sudden knock at the door makes me jump and my fingers shake on the cold piano keys. I pull my hand to my chest, blinking back into reality.42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡal3qZW9AaH
I am no longer bathed in the sunlight of that distant summer afternoon, reveling in the glorious glow that filtered through the window.
It's dusk now. The sky outside a dim velvet purple, the clouds thick and dark, blocking out the moon and the stars, in this beautiful and melancholic October evening. It smells like wet grass and cold air; like wooden furniture, dusty books, and well-worn scores.
"Becks?" I hear my name again, and I turn towards the door.
It's not that I need to see who is calling me. I know by heart how my name rolls off Eleanor's lips: that low, husky tone and those round, posh vowels arranged like notes on a musical staff.
"Els..." I whisper back, relief washing over me the moment I see my old friend, standing tall against the door-frame of the old studio.
"I knew you were here," she says, moving a step inside the room.
She's dressed casually. Just a pair of blue jeans and a cream sweater that contrasts well with the rich color of her chestnut hair, the curls hanging loose around her shoulders, longer than I remember. Her eyes are clearly tired, filled with a mixture of tenderness and sadness that wasn't there the last time I saw her. And no, I wouldn't miss that even if I were blind.
Yet she looks as beautiful as ever. Perhaps even more than she was months ago, all dressed up and elegant, as she stood by Righley and her father, on the night of my Oscar win.
When our eyes lock, something melts in my heart and I cross the space between us without even knowing what I'm doing. Eleanor opens her arms the moment I'm within her reach and pulls me against her with such strength that my own bones protest.
But I don't care. I sink into her embrace, relishing the feel of her long fingers on my neck as she holds me tighter. My own fingers curl into her sweater, unable to let go, and I breathe in her scent.
If I had a minute to process this moment, I would wonder how I lived so long without her presence. Months and months without her steady comfort, grounding me to the Earth.
But I don't have that minute, nor a single second to waste. I revel in this so-much-needed hug, letting myself exhale for the first time in days. Maybe since the evening she called back home to tell me and Tyler about her father's will.
"You okay?" She asks, perhaps sensing my turmoil. She moves her hand down my back to stroke it, and I nod, fighting back tears.
God, I was so afraid that things between us wouldn't be the same anymore. I can't believe that we are here, right now, in each other's arms.
Eleanor presses a kiss onto my right temple and I inhale sharply, taking in the familiar scents of coffee, ink and cinnamon that are so unmistakably hers.
"Damn, I missed you," I mumble against her sweater.
When she laughs, the rumble in her chest makes me giggle in return, and it's like the world makes sense again.
Eleanor takes a step back, her fingers now on my shoulders, to give me a proper look. Her usual teasing smile plays on her lips as she tilts her head to the side, amusement sparkling in her deep green eyes, but not enough to erase the shadow behind them.
"I missed you too, you adorable creature," she answers back, and I take my time to study her face, from her eyebrows to her eyes, down to the tip of her nose, and finally to her lips. I take in every detail as if I feared I'd never see her again, lingering over every shadow, every line that shouldn't be there, and every wrinkle around her eyes when she holds my gaze.
"Jesus, Els, you look..."
"Exhausted? Miserable? On the verge of an existential crisis?"
"I was going to say beautiful, but if you prefer one of the previous, sure, go ahead!"
"Yeah, right! And here I thought Tyler was the charmer!" She teases me back, searching my hands with hers, and interlacing our fingers together. "I can't believe you made it! The both of you! It means so much to me."
I shrug and squeeze back, ready to tell her it was nothing, when I feel it. The sharp edge of something against my fingers. I look down, and here it is, her mother's ring. Exactly as I remember it from our childhood.
Realization hits me hard, and a mixture of joy and fear - and something else I can't really put my finger on - runs wild down my spine.
"Oh my God, Eleanor! Is this what I think it is?"
"Yeah, well..." Eleanor tries to contain her laughter as my voice rises by at least three octaves. "I wanted to tell you, but..."
"Oh please shut up!" I cut her off and lift her hand to properly study the ring. The emerald catches the light from the nearby lamp and sparkles, as I trace the white gold band with reverence. "You two really did it!"
My friend shrugs, then nods, then her face turns redder by the second, and my heart swells with joy.
"I can't believe Tyler caught me on the phone in less than a minute the other day. She really has a sixth sense about these things, hasn't she?" She giggles, before turning serious again. "I was a split second away from confessing everything, but it didn't feel right to share the news like that. Plus, both Righley and I wanted to tell you in person."
"Don't say another word! I would have missed this smile of yours over the phone," I reply and hug her again, tighter than ever, because she deserves all the happiness in this world and just by seeing her like this, it's more than enough.
"When did it happen? How? I need all the details, I'm warning you! Don't you dare spare any!"
"I proposed the very first Saturday after having my father's wedding band resized. I had it all planned out, you know? Dinner at that little restaurant Righley loves so much, then a walk by the Tame. I was so nervous I could barely eat." Eleanor's eyes light up as she recalls the memory. "When I finally got down on one knee, pulled out the ring and asked Righley if she wanted to marry me… well, she stared back at me for the longest time…"
"Oh God…"
"Yeah, oh God. I feared she was going to say no. That she wasn't ready, or something. And then, she tilted her head with that mischievous smile of hers and said, 'Eleanor Cavendish, you're not seriously planning to separate your parents' rings and bring their ghostly wrath down upon us, are you?' And I swear, only Righley could make me laugh during my own proposal! But then I pulled out this," she gestures to her mother's ring, "and told her: 'I knew you were going to come out with one of your quirky remarks. So, here's my mother's ring. Would you like, by any chance, to put it on my finger?'"
I grin at the story, because I can picture them so easily in my mind. "I guess it went well, didn't it?"
"I guess it did. And you should have seen Righley's face. She went from teasing to completely speechless. Then she nodded, said 'yes', and we both exchanged my parents' rings as our engagement ones. And now you know the whole story."
"That's just…"
"Wonderful," I should say. But the words stick in my throat and I don't even know why. Eleanor is getting married! I knew it would happen, I hoped it would happen with Righley.
And yet...
Perhaps mistaking my turmoil for emotion, Eleanor comes to my rescue. "What do you think?" She asks, "My parents' rings together again. Too cliché? Too old-fashioned? Too..."
"Don't even start! You are old-fashioned," I fight back tears and mock her with the most genuine tone I can conjure up. "And it's perfect. God, I was so worried about you and Righley, and here you are, engaged! Tyler will torment me for the next ten years."
"Worried? About us? Why on Earth?"
I shrug, not knowing what to say. It's not like I've been the perfect friend over the last three years, after all. We have certainly kept in touch regularly, through messages, video calls, and whatnot. But our friendship hasn't been the same since I married Tyler, and I don't know where it stands now.
"You would have started complaining that I sounded like Tyler: overprotective. That's it. And by the way, congrats! When is the big day?"
"We don't have a date yet. You know how it works: so many things to prepare, people to call, venues to book, and then the maids of honor..." she trails off, her smirk getting bigger and more frightening by the second. "They still have no idea. So..."
So…
I tilt my head. "Are you possibly asking me what I really think you are, Lady Eleanor Cavendish?"
Her smile doesn't falter, not even a single inch. If possible, it becomes more radiant. She lowers her eyes, almost coyly, before looking up again with those piercing green eyes, as she stands in front of me in all of her glory.
And be damned if I know what to say.
"Well, I had a whole speech prepared to ask you properly," she tells me, completely unaware of what I'm feeling right now. "Maybe after dinner in front of a nice glass of wine, or during breakfast tomorrow morning. But here we are, I guess?"
"Here we are..."
"And…?"
"And I'm not going to give you an answer like this, you English moron," I bite back, trying to sound offended and failing miserably. "Ask me properly. At dinner. As you planned."
She rolls her eyes. Yet, I see she's trying not to laugh.
"You're still a brat, you know that, yes?"
"Yeah, well, speaking of brats, where's the incredible woman you are going to marry?"
"Downstairs with Tyler? In full nerd mode? I left them in the middle of a conversation about quantum theory and the latest Boston Celtics trade rumors. For a moment, I feared they wanted to draw me into it..."
"This is bad…"
"Exactly!" She grins again. "You know Righley won't wait for dinner, right?"
"She'll let it slip in the middle of a conversation about multiverses and the Big Bang Theory," I reply, and Eleanor's eyes search mine with a mixture of amusement and pure joy.
"What?"
"Have I already told you how much I've missed you?"
I laugh, and then I blush, and then I shake my head… and Jesus! I'm acting like a teenager all over again!
I'm almost thirty-four now. It must be against all laws of nature to feel this way. Like there's electricity crackling under my skin whenever our gazes meet.
"Come here! Let me have a proper look at you," she murmurs softly. "Tyler keeps saying you're both fine, but I want to hear it from your lips. Is everything okay? Are you taking care of yourself?"
I don't know what she sees in me, but my façade cracks under the intensity of her stare. She reads me like I'm an open book, and I mentally curse myself.
"Stop it, Els. I'm fine. Just worn out from work, jet-lagged, and overwhelmed by my best friends' engagement news," I say, hoping to sound convincing. "But I'm okay."
"Are you sure?"
"I promise."
"Then why do you look thinner? Are you eating properly?"
"Eleanor, please! You sound exactly like Angela and I don't need a second mother-in-law! Besides, do you really think Tyler would let me survive just on caffeine and energy drinks?"
"A-ha," she points her finger at me, accusingly, "and thank God she doesn't! You would die with your head on the keyboard if it wasn't for Tyler and her mother," she says and I smile, because, indeed, Eleanor is right.
During my most consuming creative phases, I've forgotten to eat for days, emerging from my studio disoriented and hollow. Tyler has pulled me from that brink countless times, coaxing me with homemade meals or even just takeout, refusing to leave my side until I've eaten properly.
Things are a little different now. But explaining them with words is not exactly easy, and I'm not sure I really want to delve into that subject.
"I'm just a little worried about work. Nothing serious, really."
"Are you up to something new?"
"Definitely not," I sigh. "After 'Echoes', everything seems plain and boring. Does it make sense? I want to work on something meaningful. Something that matters, that speaks to people."
"But?"
"But movie productions only want to make money and I can't work like this. I'm stuck. That's the truth..."
What I don't tell her is how terrified I am that 'Echoes in the Ash' might be my magnum opus, something I'll never be able to match again, a moment of agonizing brilliance that has slipped away. Maybe Echoes was just that, the sum of everything I had in me, and that died in the most beautiful way the moment I... let it go.
My agent's voice keeps echoing in my head whenever I try to accept that terrible truth. 'You need to get over your writer's block, Becks, before it swallows you whole,' and maybe Ginger is right. But how do you explain such a feeling?
How do you describe the overwhelming sense of loss and failure that consumes me every time I attempt to create something worthwhile, only to end up with something terrible?
"Echoes touched people's lives, Becks. It's one of the most beautiful melodies the world has ever heard. And you wrote it. You did it," Eleanor tells me, breaking the spell. "What you did was amazing. Incredible. Give yourself a break, there's nothing to be ashamed of. The inspiration will strike again, when the time is right."
"What if it doesn't happen anymore?" I ask her, voicing aloud my deepest fear for the very first time.
"Then, we'll find a way to live with it."
We.
The pronoun sinks slowly into my soul and I try to focus on that word, on the importance it bears, rather than on Eleanor's worried expression.
"Ginger will kill me, if we," I stop on the word, "adapt to my sudden mediocrity."
"First, you are not mediocre. And second, I'll kill your agent if she doesn't stop pressuring you. You're not a singer, you're a composer! Did I really need to have a talk with her?"
"Please, don't!" I grimace at the thought of my music agent back home, with her perpetual Starbucks cup and her New York minute pace, treating every silence as a failure rather than a necessary pause between movements. "She would present her resignation right away, and then I would have to beg her to come back. Again. The last thing I really need right now is a passive-aggressive Ginger Ross chasing me around."
"As you wish. But keep in mind that you always have a place in here, if your muse decides to go on holiday without telling you. And I mean, both you and Tyler."
She is mocking me, in that typical Eleanor-Cavendish-way-of-doing-it, but I know her well enough to realize she's not entirely joking.
"Anyway, if you want my two cents, no one is going to forget Echoes in the Ash anytime soon," she adds. "Not now, not tomorrow, not in a million years. It was powerful, mesmerizing, captivating. And you are very talented, Avery. Keep composing, keep writing music, and you will get there once again in no time. And if you don't feel like that right no, well, just know that you are entitled to rest. And trust me, this has nothing to do with the fact that Echoes made you win an Oscar. I'd rather have none of it, than watching you being crushed under its weight."42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMJYMgRVfF0
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again, stunned by her words.
As stubborn as I am, I rarely listen to anyone else's advice, especially when it concerns my creativity. Yet, somehow, the sincerity in her gaze strikes a chord deep within me.42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZWJ44BLRQ7
It's not like winning the Oscar changed me. Or who I was. It's the world around me that has changed, expecting me to live up to higher standards, to create something incredible every time I sit down at the piano.
That night, that single night, changed everything. If I think about it now, it's like waking up from a dream, dazed and disoriented.
Even at the moment, it felt unreal.
Standing on the stage, the golden statue in my hands, as I thanked the audience amidst a whirlwind of emotions. Returning to my seat beside Tyler, kissing her as tears of joy streamed down our faces. Feeling Eleanor and Righley's bone-crushing hugs as they wrapped their arms around us both, conveying more than words ever could.
It felt so perfect.
And after that, they left to go back to London, and I felt lost. That's it. That's the hideous truth that lurks in the shadows of my success: I missed my friends. Badly. Desperately. And I don't know how to voice it, even now, in front of Eleanor, without sounding...
Broken.42Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLew2YKOZvi
and then Add to home screen.