I frowned, dropping my eyes to the piano, the last words she’d spoken echoing within my mind, sounding lonely and untrue. A memory—the memory of Mona pretending to be Lisa I contemplated most frequently—materialized. It was the moment after she’d apologized for Lisa’s behavior, standing on the second-floor landing outside Lisa’s room, how horrified she’d been, shocked, remorseful.
I replayed it often, the way she’d sucked in a startled breath, the anguish—for me—plain on her features. Everything else, I questioned. Every other interaction, I’d easily convinced myself was false, a charade, part of her act.
But that moment—
Kaitlyn poked my shoulder, drawing my gaze back to hers which was now squinted, her lips a stern line.
“Is this about that woman?”
I stiffened, turning my face and glaring at her from the side. “What?”
“You know. That woman.” She gave me a look like, you know what I’m talking about. “The one you’ve been trying to get over since forever?”
I tried to shush her.
She kept talking, “The one you wrote all those songs—awesome songs BTW—about? The someone worth hurting for? The woman—”
“God, shut up.” I covered her mouth with my hand, glancing around, because her voice wasn’t quiet. I swear, sometimes she was like an irritating little sister.
Arching her eyebrows, she waited, blinking slowly.
Dropping my voice to a whisper, I lowered my hand. “Don’t . . . don’t bring that up.”
She shook her head at me, her mouth a flat line, and then turned her attention back to the piano, playing the theme to the movie Love Story. “Oh, the angst! THE DRAMA!”
“Shut up,” I said, glaring at her, trying not to laugh.
“Come on, Abram. Cheer up.” Kaitlyn nudged my elbow, switching to ‘The Entertainer.’ “Turn that frown upside down. Don’t make me say something nice about you, you know I hate it,” she teased.
I gave in to a small laugh, shaking my head. “Fine. I’m happy. This is me happy. I have everything I’ve ever wanted.” Sarcasm wasn’t technically a lie.
A genuine frown invaded her usually sunny expression while she inspected me. “Yes. You do. Maybe take a moment to recognize how far you’ve come. No more fistfights, no more arrests. No more gig weddings and corporate parties. Now you’re six months without even a cigarette. And! No more playing Def Leppard covers.”
“Those were dark days,” I agreed with mock solemnity. “Except for the Def Leppard.”
She ignored me, but she did crack a small smile. “You have it all. So maybe, possibly, perchance just . . . enjoy it?”
I nodded thoughtfully. My friend was right. I had everything I wanted.