Two weeks since I made the decision to leave Theo behind.
My semester at Juilliard doesn’t start for another three weeks, at the beginning of September, but I’ve enrolled in a prep class to get myself up to speed. I’ve taken very few voice lessons in my life, so I figured having a couple of weeks of formal training before the official start of the semester would calm my nerves. My teacher is a stern, black-haired woman in her fifties. She has a sharp nose and thin lips, and always makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong.
By the end of my first week, I’m dreading my lessons and wondering if this is what I really want. There’s no joy in singing here. No soul. It’s cold and technical, without the love and warmth that I expect from music.
After a grueling hour with Miss Dorothea, I trudge through the busy streets and make my way back to the apartment that my father arranged for me.
It’s small. When I look out the window, all I see is another brick facade.
I miss the ocean. It’s pathetic how homesick I feel. Slumping down on my sofa, I lean back and wonder for the millionth time if this was all a mistake.
Then my phone dings, and I see an unfamiliar number on the screen.
Unknown number: Hi Cara, it’s Jordan. We met at Miss Dorothea’s studio. I was wondering if you were free tonight? My friend’s band is playing at a bar and I’ve got no one to go with.
I stare at the message, reading it and re-reading it. Is that…a date? I remember Jordan. We met on my first day and I’ve seen him a couple of times since. He’s got long, dark hair that falls to his shoulders. Most days, he wears it in a low bun. He’s handsome, in an artsy sort of way. Like a tortured singer who loves nothing more than to make you melt with his voice.
He wants to go out with me?
It feels wrong. I don’t want to go out with Jordan, no matter how angelic his voice is.
But as I listen to the honking cars outside and inhale another lungful of stale air, I know I need to get out. The only way I’ll survive in this city is if I make friends and shake off this homesickness.
I type out a quick answer and then jump in the shower to get ready. My stomach twists into knots, and my thoughts fly to Theo.
I don’t want to go out with another man, but I do want to get out of this tiny shoebox apartment. Maybe I can just be clear with Jordan that I only want to be friends. I can go out, listen to music, and forget about the oppressive sadness that clings to my every pore.
A couple of hours later, I walk into a busy, dimly-lit bar. The band is already playing, and I spot Jordan sitting at a worn, wooden table. His eyes meet mine, and he raises a hand. A brilliant smile flashes across his face.
He really is very good looking, objectively speaking. Not in the makes-my-body-burn kind of way, but I can appreciate his particular brand of attractiveness.
When he wraps an arm around me and kisses my cheek, a flush creeps up my neck.
“Drink?” Jordan asks.
Instinctively, I put a hand to my stomach. I shake my head. “Just a seltzer water.”
We sit at the bar and listen to the music. Jordan tells me about growing up in New York City with two musicians as parents. He tells me about a show of his coming up and asks me to come along. He tells me a million things, but doesn’t ask me anything about myself.
By the end of the evening, I’m drained.
And still homesick.
When I get home, I kick off my shoes and slump down onto my creaky old sofa. I lay back on the scratchy pillows and stare at a jagged crack in the wall, sighing.
Is this homesickness? Or is it my brain and my heart trying to tell me that I made a mistake?
Singing used to bring me joy. It used to invigorate me.
Now, I mostly just feel tired.
And sad.
And nauseous but still somehow hungry—but I think that has more to do with the baby growing inside me than the fact that I’m away from home.
I wonder if my letter made it to Theo. I wonder if he read it and decided not to answer. Maybe the fact that I left was enough