Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [14]
There’s some old lawn furniture scattered around. I sit on a rusty chair and pull the guitar strap over my head. I’m not worthy of this, not by a long shot, but that kind of thinking only stops the best of us, not the worst. So I play. I play “Angie” and “Wild Horses” and “Waiting on a Friend.”
I play until my fingers are blue and stiff from the cold, and then I keep on playing. Until I’m lost in the music. Until I am the music—the notes and chords, the melody and harmony. It hurts, but it’s okay because when I’m the music, I’m not me. Not sad. Not afraid. Not desperate. Not guilty.
I play for an hour or so, then jam my hands into my pockets and walk around, looking up at the night sky. I can’t see any stars. I almost never can in Brooklyn. They fade away in the sodium glare. But I can see the Templeton, dark and ugly. The windows of its shiny new apartments are all lit up. Here and there, a Christmas tree twinkles.
It was almost Christmas then, too. The day Truman died. It was cold and there were lights in the shop windows. A guy was on the corner, selling trees. Christmas carols were playing. Max was standing on the sidewalk, shouting.
I don’t remember Christmas Day that year. I remember taking the tree down, though. In April. It had turned brown and dropped its needles. There were still presents under it. No one wanted to open them so Dad put them in garbage bags and took them to Goodwill.
I start walking. It’s nine steps from where I’m standing to the edge of the roof. I count them as I go. Then one step up to the cornice. And then I’m looking at the street below. It would be so easy. One more step and it would be over. One small step, and no more pain, no more anger, no more anything.
A voice behind me says: “Please don’t. Really. Please.”
I turn around. “Why not?”
Nick says, “Because I’d miss you. We’d all miss you.”
I laugh out loud.
“All right, then, I’d miss that guitar. I really would. So put it down before you jump, okay?”
I realize I’ve still got Keith Richards’s guitar strapped around me. I would have taken it with me and smashed it to pieces. I’m horrified. I take a step toward him, down off the cornice. “I’m sorry. God, I’m really sorry, Nick—”
And then my foot lands on a patch of ice and I lose my balance and I’m twisting and screaming and Nick grabs my arm and it feels like we’re both going over, but then he jerks me toward him and I stumble back onto the roof.
He lets go of me and lets loose on me. He’s yelling. Loudly. His voice is raspy and ragged. I don’t know what he’s saying because my heart is pounding in my ears. I don’t know what to do so I put the guitar down and try to leave because I think that’s what he wants, but no.
“Pick it up!” he shouts. “Pick it up and play something. It’s the least you can do. You nearly killed us both.”
So I do. Crappily. Because my hands are shaking. I start with “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” which seems fitting in the circumstances. Then “Far Away Eyes.” And “Fool to Cry.” And then I stop to warm my hands.
Nick doesn’t say anything. He’s totally quiet and I’m guessing he’s still really mad, or thinking that I suck, but then he says, “That was amazing. Play something else.”
“I can’t. My fingers are frozen.”
He comes close, takes my hands in his, and blows on them. His breath is wine-sweet and warm. He smells good. And he looks good. And when he takes my face in his hands and kisses me, he feels good, too.
The guitar’s still around me. I slip it off and put it down. I want to feel him. To feel his breath on my neck. The warmth of his skin. To feel something other than sadness.
Hold me, I tell him silently. Hold me here. To this place. This life. Make me want you. Want this. Want something. Please.
And suddenly I hear, “Oh. My. God.”
It’s Arden. She’s here. On the roof.
“You’re such a