ran his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes against the memory. Portia had once again inched closer to him and stood still as a statue, not knowing where to go with this information.
“It was so sunny in London for weeks after her disappearance. I thought for sure the sunshine would bring her back. But it didn’t. After a while I just wanted it to rain again, for things to go back to normal. But there was no more normal. We stayed in London for a few more years. My dad flew back and forth constantly to check in on the investigation. Thank God for nannies, you know? Eventually he just moved us to New York. I think he thought that he’d be able to do what the police couldn’t. You know, it’s hard when there’s no body to bury. Lack of closure and all that…”
“So you think she…died?” Portia wrote out. Her shaky scrawl on the whiteboard spoke of her hesitancy to ask the question.
“That’s what the police think. Do you know how many people just disappear every year? People think that life is really like Law & Order or CSI . But it’s not. Her case is still open, but I think she’s pretty much presumed to be dead.” He shook his head from side to side, a feeble attempt at blurring the thought.
“Anyway, one day I came home and my dad was asleep on the couch. I couldn’t wake him up, and then I saw an empty bottle of Xanax on the floor. I called 911, and somehow they got to us in time. A few days later, we checked him into Havenhurst and voilà! Here I am.” He attempted another weak smile.
Portia sat down next to him. There were no right words to offer him after hearing his story and, for once, she didn’t feel so self-conscious about her lack of voice. She looked up into his face and took Max’s dimpled cheeks into her hands. He closed his eyes and she gently brushed her thumbs over his cheeks, trailing the angles of his jawline. She could feel the tension ease from his body at her touch. He placed his hands over hers, lowering his face further into the comfort of her grip.
As her emotions were fueled by the feel of his warm skin in her hands, she felt the tickle in her throat come back and tried desperately to hold back her cough for fear of interrupting the moment. But when she began to feel the constriction of her windpipe come back, she broke the pose, hoping to calm herself down and ward off another coughing fit.
What the hell is my problem? It’s like I’m incapable of having an emotion without bringing on whooping cough…
As the symptoms relented, she decided to try to lighten things up a bit by diverting the topic.
“So are you exclusively a strummer?” she wrote on the whiteboard.
Max looked over at her. “No, not exclusively,” he said while sounding off a chord or two. “I enjoy tickling the ivories as well as exercising my vocals.” He offered a dramatic flourish with his hand and a mock post-performance bow. She could tell that he was trying to deflect attention from his mention of his voice.
It was too late, though. She was dying to hear him sing. In fact, since yesterday she had wanted nothing more than to hear him sing the song he had written for her.
“So how ’bout charming a voiceless girl with some crooning?” she wrote.
“Another time, maybe.”
Accustomed to people feeling uncomfortable around her about vocal matters, Portia understood his hesitation.
“Come on,” she wrote. “I wanna know what Performing Arts is missing out on.”
Max assessed her sincerity, and she flashed him her most eager face.
“Well, I don’t know what kind of music you’re into. I mean, besides Derek Delacroix. And I haven’t yet fully worked out the music to what I wrote for you yesterday…”
He started strumming the guitar, his reference to yesterday’s romantic gesture floating around them.
“Surprise me,” Portia challenged. She added a smiley face at the end of the words to try to keep the mood light.
He smiled back. “Well, I’ve actually been
“It was so sunny in London for weeks after her disappearance. I thought for sure the sunshine would bring her back. But it didn’t. After a while I just wanted it to rain again, for things to go back to normal. But there was no more normal. We stayed in London for a few more years. My dad flew back and forth constantly to check in on the investigation. Thank God for nannies, you know? Eventually he just moved us to New York. I think he thought that he’d be able to do what the police couldn’t. You know, it’s hard when there’s no body to bury. Lack of closure and all that…”
“So you think she…died?” Portia wrote out. Her shaky scrawl on the whiteboard spoke of her hesitancy to ask the question.
“That’s what the police think. Do you know how many people just disappear every year? People think that life is really like Law & Order or CSI . But it’s not. Her case is still open, but I think she’s pretty much presumed to be dead.” He shook his head from side to side, a feeble attempt at blurring the thought.
“Anyway, one day I came home and my dad was asleep on the couch. I couldn’t wake him up, and then I saw an empty bottle of Xanax on the floor. I called 911, and somehow they got to us in time. A few days later, we checked him into Havenhurst and voilà! Here I am.” He attempted another weak smile.
Portia sat down next to him. There were no right words to offer him after hearing his story and, for once, she didn’t feel so self-conscious about her lack of voice. She looked up into his face and took Max’s dimpled cheeks into her hands. He closed his eyes and she gently brushed her thumbs over his cheeks, trailing the angles of his jawline. She could feel the tension ease from his body at her touch. He placed his hands over hers, lowering his face further into the comfort of her grip.
As her emotions were fueled by the feel of his warm skin in her hands, she felt the tickle in her throat come back and tried desperately to hold back her cough for fear of interrupting the moment. But when she began to feel the constriction of her windpipe come back, she broke the pose, hoping to calm herself down and ward off another coughing fit.
What the hell is my problem? It’s like I’m incapable of having an emotion without bringing on whooping cough…
As the symptoms relented, she decided to try to lighten things up a bit by diverting the topic.
“So are you exclusively a strummer?” she wrote on the whiteboard.
Max looked over at her. “No, not exclusively,” he said while sounding off a chord or two. “I enjoy tickling the ivories as well as exercising my vocals.” He offered a dramatic flourish with his hand and a mock post-performance bow. She could tell that he was trying to deflect attention from his mention of his voice.
It was too late, though. She was dying to hear him sing. In fact, since yesterday she had wanted nothing more than to hear him sing the song he had written for her.
“So how ’bout charming a voiceless girl with some crooning?” she wrote.
“Another time, maybe.”
Accustomed to people feeling uncomfortable around her about vocal matters, Portia understood his hesitation.
“Come on,” she wrote. “I wanna know what Performing Arts is missing out on.”
Max assessed her sincerity, and she flashed him her most eager face.
“Well, I don’t know what kind of music you’re into. I mean, besides Derek Delacroix. And I haven’t yet fully worked out the music to what I wrote for you yesterday…”
He started strumming the guitar, his reference to yesterday’s romantic gesture floating around them.
“Surprise me,” Portia challenged. She added a smiley face at the end of the words to try to keep the mood light.
He smiled back. “Well, I’ve actually been
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