They know.
It was always going to be this song, always.
I pull my bow.
The first note screeches, protesting. Months of rust clinging to movements.
I ignore it.
I play another note.
The bow moves more smoothly, my elbow bearing the brunt of these first few movements, my wrist still wary, stiff. The tuning is off, but I don’t care.
I’m playing.
I’m playing the cello.
My fingers press down on the strings, the pads causing a deliriously satisfying deep tremor in the sound. The vibrato echoing my jagged breath. I pull the bow faster, my wrist pushing through the pain, to flex and bend. Taking point, dictating the sound.
The song takes form.
Johnny Cash’s arrangement of Nine Inch Nail’s Hurt. My anthem of hope, of recovery, of reclaiming of self.
I just play. Ignoring the hesitant notes, the accidental screeches, the fumbled melody.
I just play. And the gaps in the perfection fill up with the broken pieces of my soul.
And I just play. Play until the tears from my face drip unashamedly onto the wood of the instrument.
Until my fingers feel raw and torn.
Until the pain in my wrists is from fatigue not injury.
Until every lyric I sing along in my brain becomes the reality.
Until hurt is just a word.
I drop the bow when I’m done and it clatters onto the marble floor, the hairs pulled loose in the chaos, tousled, used.
The cello slips down my body gently on its end piece to lay on the ground, spent.
And I stand, towering over it, master once more.
I can play.
I walk over to the bedroom door and press down on the handle gently pulling it toward my body and peering into the dark room, expecting to see a moonlit silhouette asleep on the bed.
But she’s awake.
Sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, her knees bent to her chest, her head tilted, staring out the window, the lights dancing in the white of her eyes.
She doesn’t move as I approach her. Not even the rise of a breath.
I reach out and touch her cheek. It glistens. I lift it to my mouth, and taste it.
Saltwater.
She turns and stares up at me.
“Beautiful. It was beautiful,” her lip quivers and another full tear falls down her cheek. And I fall to my knees in front of her, taking her hands in mine.
“I owe you my life. Be with me for the rest of it.”
My breath stills in my lungs until she answers.
“Yes.”
***
She’s wearing white. The very first white dress we saw in the very first store we came across.
She pointed at it in the window, and I couldn’t do a thing but nod. Yes. Wear that.
I’m dressed in whatever the hell I was wearing when I dragged her from the hotel room.
And now we’re here, standing outside this chapel, like we’re drunken strangers on a dare.
Except, we’re not. We’re just in love.
“So, on a level of one to ten, ten being chased with a butterfly net by men in white coats, how crazy are we being right now?” She asks me, as we wait for them to ring up our chapel costs. Elvis is very present, and I’m trying not to wonder if they charged us extra for an officiant in costume.
“Well, from now on ten will be, ‘as crazy as Jez and Noemie were in Vegas,'” I answer and she laughs. “”Are we really doing this?”
“Do you not want to?” she turns to me. “Say it, and we’re out of here.”
“No. I want to,” I lean over and kiss her. My soon-to-be wife.
“Not more than me.” She smiles. “But… okay, let’s be serious. Aren’t there things we need to know about each other?”
“Like what?” I shrug.
“I don’t know! Kids! Money! How you eat your hot dogs!” she asks, pulling things out of the air.
“Well, 1) sure, someday; 2) I have lots; and 3) mustard and onion with coke from a glass bottle.”
She pokes her tongue out at me, “I said be serious!”
“I’m not kidding! Don’t even think about putting ketchup on my hot dog!”
“Jez!”
I pull her to the empty seats in the waiting area. “Okay, what do you want to know that you don’t already?”
“I don’t know…” Her eyes are erratic, trying to think.
“Exactly,” I lean over and kiss her. “Wait… how do YOU eat your hot dogs?”
“Ketchup all the way, baby.”
“I have made a grave mistake.” I hang my head.
“Seriously though… Jez. I don’t have money. Like I so much don’t have it, it’s not even funny.” She looks serious, so I want to reassure her.
“Noemie? When I met you, you had worked a sixteen-hour shift scooping beans. I didn’t think you were doing that for fun.”
“Don’t you want a… what are those things called…?”
“A pre-nup?”
“Yeah.”
“No.” I frown.
“But…”
“Shhh. You can have it all. All my money. I’m serious. Or we can give it all away and live in a shack in Barbados and eat with our hands and swim naked in the surf for the rest of our lives. It’s just money. Anything else?” I brush the hair from her face, and she smiles, a little more relaxed. I’m glad, I don’t want this to be something she regrets. Ever.
The chapel door opens. “It’s time for you guys.”
“Now or never, Emmie,” I stand, holding out my hand to her.
She grins and jumps up from her seat, “Now!” She runs to the chapel door, turning around and shouting at me, “Hurry up, man. You’re going to make me late for my own wedding.”
I grin and chase after her down the aisle, coming to a skidding stop when we reach the end.
The officiant lifts his book and I reach for her hand. We’re in this together.
Out of nowhere, there’s a loud slamming of a door, and the sound of voices yelling, “STOP!” The three of us turn back. But I don’t need to. I would know those voices anywhere.
The question is, what are they doing here?
“What the fuck?” I shout, as I see my bandmates, Dennis, and Anca come running into the chapel and up the aisle.
“Stop, you can’t do this.” Sebastian pants, out of breath and comes up to stand in front of me. “You can’t marry her, Jez.”
“Who are…?” she turns to me, her eyes filled with as much confusion as I feel.
“They’re… my friends, Noemie, although what they’re doing here, I don’t know. How did you even know I was here?”
“Jez, come on.” He rolls his eyes.
Because Dennis knows everything.
“This is none of your business.” I reach for Noemie’s hand again, turning back to the officiant.