Finally, Ezra said: “Steinway?”

That was too much for Frankie, returning to the scene of their heartbreak. Even with a foggy head and a clearer heart, she couldn’t bear that. But she had made a promise to Ezra, and this time, she was going to honor it. So she sighed and leaned into him again and said simply, “Yes.”

FORTY-TWO

Ezra

Middleton was beautiful at night, Ezra thought. It was close to midnight now, and students, those who had stayed behind for the holiday, were emerging from their rooms, from their parties, from Lemonhead or wherever they had found to stay warm, to toast to the millennium.

A pack of five girls pushed past him, then a couple who were in the throes of making out and walking at the same time. Behind him, someone tooted a noisemaker, and someone else cheered, and for some reason, Ezra thought of his mother. It hit him occasionally that she wouldn’t be here for the milestones: welcoming a new century, walking him down the aisle, meeting her first grandchild. He knew she wouldn’t want him to live a life shadowed by her memory, and most of the time, Ezra didn’t. But every once in a while, it felt safe, it felt good to sink into his grief, because only when he emerged from it did he feel a little more healed.

He was headed back to Steinway now, to the cacophony and merriment of the wedding. He didn’t have anywhere else to go, and besides, he owed Gregory an apology. He shook his head and nearly laughed: earrings at Neiman’s. He never would have thought that would have been the cause of his reckoning.

Someone was running up the path toward him. Her elbows were askew, and her stride was terrible, but then Frankie had never been an athlete. It took him a long beat to figure out that she was calling his name, that she was coming for him. He slowed and then stopped. He’d wait for her here. Now it was her turn.

FORTY-THREE

Frankie

A few minutes before the turn of the century, Frankie saw Ezra in the shadowed lamplight on Middie Walk, and her heart nearly stopped. She knew what she had to do, and yet, old habits were so deeply ingrained that she had to forcibly not turn around and flee. But Gregory had been right: Ezra was always the one chasing her; Frankie was always the one retreating.

So she pushed herself forward. She owed him that. And she owed him the truth.

Steinway had been locked last night. But the light was on behind the door to the auditorium, and Ezra was determined. He pounded on the front door—something new, Frankie took note of, as the old Ezra would have just let it be—until finally, a custodian unlatched the bolt and said, “Yeah?”

Ezra said: “It’s urgent. We have an emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?” The custodian looked more annoyed than alarmed.

“A ten-year-old grudge emergency?” Ezra tried, looking serious. He was drunk. Anything could have seemed serious to him.