“You play violin, right?” I say, shifting the box forward. She glances at the music books and smiles. “I’m surprised you have to ask. I practiced at your house almost as much as mine.” A memory pops into my head of Evie playing the same simple song over and over again while I was home on break from college, trying to watch a movie with friends. She must have been in middle school at the time and had seemed upset when she crossed through the living room to Megan’s room, instrument case in hand. She’d sounded terrible—cracked and squeaky—nowhere near like actual music. But I’d refused to ask her
...more
This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
