Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
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"You've got to snap out of it." Angie turns on the shower and pulls the t-shirt off me. "Do I need to undress you or are you able to do it yourself?"
I grunt, sit down on the edge of the bathtub, and pull off my socks.
"Doing it yourself then, good."
The moisture under my eyes is not from the shower. I'm crying. Again.
"Am." Angie kneels in front of me and takes my face into her hands. "You're gonna pull through. I promise." She wipes the tears away. "We are going to have a good day today, despite everything."
I nod, but because I don't have the energy to argue with her, not because I agree.
The shower does help. I can concentrate a little easier and when I leave the bathroom wrapped in a towel, Angie's nowhere to be found. I get dressed in a pair of jeans, instead of the sweats I've been steeping in for over a week. I pull my dripping tangle of waves into a ponytail and stare at two almost identical back t-shirts, trying to decide which one to wear, when I hear the front door slam.
"Are you out of the shower?" Angie shouts down the hallway. "I have a present for you." She finds me in my room and lifts a plastic bag from the supermarket down the street. "Ta-da."
"What is it, pray tell." My mood might be better after the shower, but it's far from a good one.
"Salmon and coffee. You know what that means."
"That you've lost your mind?"
"Ha-ha, funny. I see your sense of humor hasn't drowned in your tears."
I snicker.
"It's therapy time. By which I mean it's cooking time for you. I've only signed up for cheerleading duties."
The recipe Ben gave me is on the fridge and, reluctant but a little less dead inside, I start preparing the dish again. Angie makes a show of picking up the takeout containers and empty pizza boxes from the living room floor. She hums a melody I haven't heard before.
"A new song?"
"It's been rattling in my head for a week now; I can't seem to come up with the right chorus."
"Sing it for me. See if it helps."
Angie's luxurious soprano weaves the notes into an upbeat melody. Her accompaniment is her nails tapping on the glass coffee-table. The last two fingers of her left hand are crooked, the only visible reminder of the accident that ruined her budding career as a concert pianist. At eighteen, three months into her new college life, she had to give up her spot at Juilliard and transfer to UChicago. Her fingers did heal, but the crushed bones and nerves made it impossible for her to get back the level of dexterity to make it in the competitive world of classical piano.
When she took Dad's Introduction to Composition course, it had been a year since she had played the piano. People opened up to Dad; they just did. There was something about him that made you want to share your troubles, and Angie too fell under his spell. It was Dad who pushed her to focus on playing well enough to compose, channeling her unruly emotions into songwriting.
