April & Oliver by Tess Callahan

happened.”
    “Are you giving him an excuse?”
    “No, but if I hadn’t been doing something wrong—”
    “You don’t deserve this.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I know.”
    “Believe me, Oliver. There are things about me you wouldn’t want to know.”
    “What things?”
    “Why don’t
you
make some mistakes once in a while so I don’t have to?”
    “I make mistakes.”
    “Name one.”
    “You’re trying to change the subject. You should see a doctor.”
    “You don’t always have to be good, you know. You’re allowed to screw up.”
    “I do, all the time.”
    “Have you ever smoked a cigarette? Did you ever get drunk?”
    “I’ve had a beer or two. Why should I get drunk if I don’t want to?”
    “Okay, you name it, then. What’s something you secretly want to do, but know you shouldn’t?”
    He blushed, averting his eyes. She saw his gaze fall to her bulky, high-heeled shoes, too heavy for her feet. Even she could
     see that now. How stupid, her clothes! Her skirt had inched up, revealing the place where her stocking ended, the suggestion
     of a garter, and a narrow swatch of exposed skin shockingly white against the dark nylon. Oliver got up abruptly and went
     to the piano, running his finger clamorously up the scale. “I want to be a musician,” he said.
    She leaned forward in her seat, pulling down her skirt. “And that’s bad?”
    “It’s impractical.”
    “What if Mozart thought that way?”
    “I’m not Mozart. Besides, it’s a different world now.”
    “Yo-Yo Ma? Midori?”
    “I don’t need to be famous. I just want to play.”
    “So?”
    “You don’t understand. You’re a girl. Guys are supposed to make a living.”
    “Is that what your father says?”
    “You’re only asking that because you know the answer.”
    “He loved books, so he became a professor. Maybe his parents thought
that
was impractical.”
    “It’s a hell of a lot safer than trying to make it in music.”
    “Safe?” She went over and stood near him at the piano. “Look, if your
dad
wants you to be happy, why don’t you?”
    “I do. I am. I will be.”
    She sat on the bench, looking up at him. “What if your mother weren’t sick?”
    He turned sharply and stared down at her. “What does that have to do with anything?”
    “Oliver,” she said gently. “Just because she’s dying doesn’t mean you have to follow her advice.”
    “No one says she’s dying,” he said harshly. “Would you stop it? I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
    She took his elbow and pulled him down beside her on the bench. She slid her arm around his waist and leaned her head on his
     shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said.
    He leaned his head on hers. She felt his breath through her hair. Told herself to keep breathing. “April,” he whispered. “I
     want to go away somewhere. Far away. With you.”
    As soon as the words were out, he stood nervously. He went over and inspected a cello that had hung in the same spot for years.
     She took her cue and stood to leave, pretending not to have heard.
    Someone touches her arm. She flinches, opening her eyes. Oliver slides down beside her. It takes her a moment to place herself
     back in Hal’s living room. The fire crackles; Oliver must have added another log.
    “Just get here?” he asks, though it must be obvious she was dozing. His voice sounds deliberately casual. His hair has grown
     a bit since the funeral, and he is unshaven. Her fingers and toes tingle, adjusting to the warmth of the fire. She glances
     behind her at the window. The shade is not drawn, but the room is dark enough that she decides not to worry. She takes the
     tie from the armrest and coils it around her hands like a strangle cord, which she drapes across the back of her neck, chin
     resting on her fists. She stares at the fire, listening to the sizzle and snap.
    “Well, hello, Oliver,” he says to himself. “Nice to see you, too.”
    She smiles at him despite herself.
    He leans over