The waitress asks if I’d like a refill, but I think I’ve had enough coffee for one day. If my foot drums against the floor any harder, the owners of Capitol Café might try to tack on building damages to my bill. I don’t normally consume caffeine (Dr. Sherman told me to avoid it), but it was either a coffee beverage or complimentary water, and Zoe said it would be better for her if I spent money while I’m here. I can’t afford dinner, so, yeah, pass the cream and sugar.
She’s currently onstage, tuning her guitar. It’s not technically a stage. It’s just a section in the back with a microphone and two speakers.
I’m more nervous than Zoe and she’s the one about to perform. I just want tonight to go well for her. The place is pretty empty. There’s an old couple eating dinner, another performer waiting in the wings, and a few people with laptops occupying stools. But it’s still early.
Her voice booms, “Hello,” and everyone looks up. She pulls back from the mic. “Yikes, sorry.”
Someone kills the soft music that’s playing in the background. The stage, or whatever it is, is all Zoe’s. She strikes a single chord, testing out the sound. I hold my knee still, concerned that my pounding will interfere with her set. Zoe takes a deep breath, shuts her eyes, and begins.
It’s a different style than I’m used to from her. Normally her guitar accompanies dozens of other instruments to form a lush sound. Here, it’s thin and bare. Just a soft and modest jangle.
And then she opens her mouth and my apprehension gives way to awe. She’s not slick or even graceful. She’s almost having a conversation with us, more than singing notes. It’s rough and vulnerable and genuine. It’s everything she is, but less guarded.
As I loosen in my chair, so does Zoe onstage. The timidity I sensed in her at the start retreats. Her voice becomes more musical, slipping into a higher, silkier tone on the bridge and going full out for the final chorus. I think it’s a cover, what she’s playing. I’ve heard the song before, but not like this. She’s made it her own.
When she finishes, I slap my hands together. She peeks up, and now that she’s stopped playing, she’s shy again. I don’t care that I’m the only one clapping. The old couple smiles, showing their appreciation. The rest of the room is oblivious. Zoe doesn’t seem to notice or care. She’s doing her thing up there. This is even better than seeing her perform in jazz band. Way better.
The next song is also a cover. My pocket vibrates. In between songs, I check to see who texted me. It’s Alana, but I don’t have time to read her message. Zoe is introducing another song.
“This next one I wrote,” she announces. “It’s brand-new and I’m probably going to screw it up, but whatever. It’s called ‘Only Us.’”
Again, I’m tense. It’s like watching her dangle from some great height without a harness or safety net below. I remember the way I felt walking onto that stage to make my speech in front of the whole school. The memory speeds up my heart. I try to bat away the negative feelings. There’s no intimidating crowd here. Zoe has this under control.
She begins with delicate strumming. The pattern she’s building feels familiar but also new. It sounds hopeful, her song. I like it already. I like it even more when I hear the lyrics. By the time she reaches the last refrain, I almost know the words by heart.
What if it’s us?
What if it’s us and only us?
And what came before won’t count anymore, or matter
Can we try that?
What if it’s you?
And what if it’s me?
And what if that’s all that we need it to be?
And the rest of the world falls away
What do you say?
My ears are untrained, but I detect nothing unsound or unwanted. She’s flawless.
• • •
“So when does your mom get off work?” Zoe says as we’re walking up my driveway.
The last time Zoe was standing on my doorstep I was trying to get her to leave before my mother could spot her. Tonight, thankfully, I don’t have to worry about that. “She has class Sunday nights,” I say. “She won’t be home for another few hours.”
“So we have the whole house to ourselves?”
It’s not fair that Zoe can just say things like that and send me into momentary paralysis. I didn’t think I could be more entranced by her, and then I heard her sing. “For the next three hours,” I confirm, inserting the key into the door.
“We should throw a kegger.”
I laugh. “We should definitely throw a kegger. For sure.”
“Until your mom comes home.”
“In three hours.” It’s possible I’ve forgotten how to use words. “Thank you, for, you know, coming over.”
“I’ve been asking to come to your house for weeks, and every time you’ve immediately said no.”
“I know.” I wanted to say no this time, too, but I can’t keep her away forever. “Which is why I appreciate that you’re here now.”
We step inside and a downpour of shame befalls me. I tried to tidy up as much as I could, but there was only so much I could do. I can’t run out and get a new couch that doesn’t have faded fabric. I can’t paint over the water spots in the ceiling or rub out stains in the carpet. And there isn’t enough space in our closets to hide away all the clutter. I didn’t even notice half of what was wrong with my house until I started spending so much time at Zoe’s.
“Welcome,” I say, trying to rush her upstairs to my room. Not in a pervy way. I would just feel more comfortable in my room.
Too late. She lingers in the hallway, pondering a photograph. “Is this you as a baby?”
“That fat guy there? Yeah. That’s me.”
“Don’t say that. You’re adorable.”
Well, fine, if she’s going to compliment me, I guess we can linger downstairs for a few seconds longer. The photograph she’s currently admiring was taken in our old house. I don’t remember much about it, except what I’ve seen in photo albums.
“Is this your dad holding you?” Zoe asks.
“No. My uncle Ben.” Photographs of Mark are never to be displayed in the Heidi Hansen household. They belong in boxes and albums only.
I remember that the backyard of the old house connected to the woods, sort of like Zoe’s house. I have a memory of my dad shooting arrows into a tree, but I’m not sure whether that really happened or I made it up.
I start climbing the stairs, giving Zoe no choice but to follow. My phone vibrates again, reminding me that I still haven’t checked Alana’s message from before. Upstairs, I see a note from my mom stuck to my door. I try to take it down covertly, but Zoe catches it.
“My mom and I do a lot of message writing,” I explain.
“Pen and paper,” Zoe says. “Old-school.”
“Oh, no, we do texts and emails, too. Pretty much anything but talking face-to-face.”
“Face-to-face?” Zoe says. “Who would ever want to do that?”
“Not me. Not your face.”
“And I appreciate that,” she says, earning a smile from me and reminding me why I love—I mean, excessively like her.
“Are you ready to see the place where absolutely no magic happens?” I say.
“I cannot wait.”
I open yet another door for her. The image she is now seeing of my bedroom is fake news. My bed is made. My closet and dresser drawers are closed. My desk is organized. My pill bottles are tucked away in a sock. The manufactured aroma of air freshener permeates.
But not everything is perfect. I didn’t want her to think I was a maniac, so after cleaning diligently, I arranged a few things out of place. I hung a shirt over my chair, piled some papers on my dresser, and left my most cerebral book out on the night table.
While Zoe is surveying my room, I read my mom’s note. Eat please, it says. It’s rather curt for her. I guess she’s still mad about the other night. Honestly, I don’t feel great about it, either.
“I can totally see why no magic happens here,” Zoe says, sitting down on my bed.
“Seriously?”
“No.” She slides over and touches the bed. “But how do you sleep with this lump in your mattress?”
I knew I forgot something. I ask her to hop off the bed so I can reach under the mattress. I pull out the plastic bag with the shaving cream–slathered baseball glove inside.
“You’re actually listening to my dad?” Zoe says. “Do you even like baseball?”
Every answer is precarious. “No, not really.”
I figured I’d break in the glove just in case. Maybe the Connor Project will organize a charity baseball game someday. I’m also doing it so I can tell Mr. Murphy that I did it. I like him, and I want to give him something I think will make him happy.
Zoe scans the pile of papers on my dresser. “What are all these?”
“Oh. Those are just… my mom is obsessed with these college scholarship essay contests she found online. She keeps printing out more of them.”
She lifts the pile off the dresser. “There are so many.”
I didn’t pay close enough attention to which papers I left out on my dresser. “I know. I mean, I’d have to win probably a hundred of them to actually pay for college. When you add it all up. Tuition, housing, books.”
I still haven’t gotten around to starting those essays. I know my mom is trying to help us both, but college is tomorrow’s problem and it’s tough enough trying to solve today’s. And it’s not like I’d win any of these anyway.
“So your parents, they can’t…?” She doesn’t have to finish her sentence.
“Not really.”
“I’m sorry.”
And now I’m the sorry one, because she looks sad. I don’t want to make her sad.
“Oh! I meant to tell you earlier. We had a Connor Project meeting a few days ago, and Alana came up with a really great strategy for raising more money for the orchard. Alana is truly destined to run a company or, like, the world someday.” What I’m saying isn’t working. I’ve somehow made Zoe’s sad face sadder. “For now I guess we’ll just start with the orchard.”
She sighs and looks to the floor. “Can we talk?”
“Oh shit.” I finally did it. I blew the only good thing in my pitiful life.
“What?” she asks, suddenly alarmed.
“No. Just. You’re breaking up with me, right? That’s why you came over today.”
“Breaking up with you?”
“Not that we’re dating. I wasn’t trying to be presumptuous. I don’t know what this is, if we’re dating, officially, or if it’s more like… never mind. Why am I even still talking right now? It’s fine. Don’t worry, you can tell me. I’m not going to cry or start breaking things.…”
She stares at me, and I feel my hands start doing their thing. I preemptively wipe them. A useless tactic. I’m great at those.
“I’m not breaking up with you,” she says.
I pause, making sure I heard her correctly. “Really? Okay. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” She laughs.
Wait. Does that mean that Zoe and I are dating? Because, you know, I sort of felt like we were, but I wasn’t sure she felt the same way. When do people discuss that sort of thing? Or does it go unspoken until you both just know? Also, how do you know that you both just know?
“It’s just, the Connor Project,” Zoe says. “I mean, it’s great. What you’ve accomplished is just beyond. Seriously.”
There’s a but coming.
“But, maybe we don’t have to talk about my brother all the time. Maybe we can talk about… other things.”
“Oh. Yeah. Of course. I just thought maybe you’d want to know what’s going on with everything.”
“No, I know you did, and I really do appreciate what you’re doing.” She sits down on the now lump-free bed. “But my whole life, everything has always been about Connor. And right now, I just need something for me. If this is going to be a…”
She pauses and I nearly fall over into the space of it.
“Relationship,” she finally says, “I don’t want it to be about my brother. Or the orchard. Or the emails.”
I’ve stopped breathing. Breathe, Evan, breathe.
“I just want… you,” she says.
“Really?”
She sighs, frustrated with me. “Did you hear the new song I sang tonight?”
“Of course,” I say. “It was amazing.”
“Did you hear the lyrics? ‘You and me. That’s all that we need it to be.’”
“Were you—was that about—”
She shrugs. “Who else?”
“Oh.”
I wish I’d recorded her set so I could replay the song over and over. For now my memory has to fill in the space. A certain line comes to mind: “What came before won’t count anymore, or matter. Can we try that?”
Yes, I answer inside. Yes, a hundred thousand times.