Page 115 of These Secret Years

Sullivan is oversharing with D between puffed breaths about some piece he’s supposed to be working on for his advanced composition class. They had choices, apparently, and he chose a string quartet, as opposed to a woodwind piece or a small symphony, which seems smart as I’m getting the impression he hasn’t been putting his composing skills to much use lately. Why? I haven’t figured that out, and it’s not something D would know to ask him.

My roommate appears to have a real affection for Sullivan. I don’t know if it’s because of the two semesters they spent living in the dorm together, or if there’s something he sees in Sullivan that he feels pulled toward in the same way I do. Like the guy is in a hole, and we’ve got the rope that can pull him out, but he keeps missing it in the dark.

Every day we show up at the gym when Sullivan is supposed to meet us, there’s a moment I hold my breath waiting for him to arrive. Wondering if the hole finally buried him, or he’s decided not to try and get out. And every time he appears, it’s like thank God. He’s still looking for the rope.

What I haven’t gotten a chance to do yet is talk with him privately. As much as I want that opportunity, it seems smarter not to seek it out. I need to move on with my life and let him move on with his. Our first game of the season is Saturday, and I’m already in full-on game mode. I need to focus on my team like my life depends on it, because it more or less does. There won’t be time for a pointless crush, and there’ll be less time to worry about whether Sullivan really is okay or not.

“How do you come up with the music?” D asks.

“Like what I want it to sound like?”

“Yeah. Do you just mess around on the violin for a while until you stumble on something that sounds like a good intro or chorus or whatever and go from there or⁠—”

“No. It just sounds like—the way it sounds if that makes sense.”

“No,” Deandre and I say at the same time.

“Well—it’s a string quartet. I just picture four people playing the instruments somewhere—like in this case I’m picturing a wedding reception on a beach, and it sounds how that’s supposed to sound.”

I laugh. Sullivan gives me a crooked grin that just about kills me. “What?” he laughs. “It does. Just because your tiny brain can’t see it doesn’t mean⁠—”

“Excuse me, can I ask you something about quadratic equations while we’re here?”

Sullivan’s already huge eyes get as big as planets. He slows his treadmill to a walk, shaking his head, unwilling to acknowledge what I said.

“See it or hear it?” Deandre asks.

Sullivan turns back to him. “Huh?”

“You said see it. Do you hear the music or see the music.”

“I guess it’s like—both. Do you not see music? Like when you hear it I mean.”

“Man, no. I don’t see music.”

“Well, your loss.”

“You mean you see the notes on a page?” I ask.

“Sometimes. But it’s more like—I don’t know. Like I see the shapes it makes.”

Astonished, I shake my head. “Okay, yeah. I’m gonna go ahead and say you lost me there.”

D says, “It makes shapes?”

“I guess not. Maybe I’m just nuts.”

“Or you’re a genius.”

“For all the good that does,” he deadpans.

I don’t want him going off on that train of thought, so I slow down my own treadmill and say, “Let’s hit the weights.”

“Right,” Sullivan says. “Upper body day. Can’t wait.”

When we get to the bench press, and I start to walk behind it, Sullivan stops me. “Let D spot me. You go work on your own chest. You have a game this weekend.”

I give him a harmless glare. “So does he.”