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Chapter Text

The maroon armchair Lucy curled her feet onto was situated between an old mahogany nightstand with a floral lamp from 1970-something and a bookshelf that was bare except for the forgotten plastic water bottles and red solo cups. Her finger delicately rimmed the bottle in her hand. Normally, she was the life of the party (hell–she was the party because nothing would be planned without her). Still, tonight she was feeling painfully nostalgic about a certain blonde boy who was brooding in a corner opposite her. The longer she stared holes into the side of his oblivious face, the more and more irritated she became with her childhood infatuation.

It was hard to believe they were no longer elementary schoolers going over to each other’s houses every day. Long gone were the days of baseball and figure skating. Lucy had stopped loitering at Schroeder’s house during her sophomore year of high school. She didn’t go cold turkey; it was gradual. On one random day in a brisk October, she had confidently decided that Schroeder would realize her value and beg her to come back if she one day disappeared. To some extent, it worked originally. He had approached her after English class.

“You didn’t stop by yesterday.”

It was said as a matter of fact. He always spoke in such a manner.

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” she punched out. He shifted his feet.

“Will you be by today?”

“I don’t know. I’m busy with clubs.”

He didn’t dignify her response with much besides a sigh. It was a sigh she recognized from when he was working on a section of a piece that was particularly difficult.

It didn’t matter what she did after that. If she showed or didn’t, there was no rise. By that December, she had finally given up on her juvenile crush… mostly. There was still some part of her that thought he would wake up and realize magically that she was his one true love. Now, sitting at a basement house party celebrating their high school graduation, Lucy felt bitter. Though she tried to think she was better off without having ever gotten to experience Schroeder as more than a friend, she felt like a fox in an Aesop fable.

“Sour grapes,” she murmured aloud, feeling a tart taste on her tongue as her eyes refused to stray from the blonde boy. No, he’d grown into a man; a tall, slender, piano-playing-stupid-musician man. She’d imagined those delicate fingers of his intertwining with hers as they walked through a park on a brisk summer morning. She’d imagined those tender hands would cradle her head as she sobbed about getting waitlisted from Brown. She had decided those daydreams were stupid. Regardless of whatever adolescent love Lucy would always and forever hold for Schroeder Schwartz and his dainty musician digits, she decided in that moment, on that very armchair, that she would put herself first.

Lucy stood up, smoothing over her cerulean mini dress. She made quick work of scanning the room and finding her target: Charlie Brown. He was dangerously close to the man she’d been avoiding, but an Irish goodbye at a graduation party was a worse offense than death to her. She sidled her way through now-former classmates until she reached her best friend. As Lucy walked up behind Charlie and reached for his arm, her eyes betrayed her and allowed a glimpse at Schroeder. To her surprise, brief eye contact was made before she turned fully to her oldest friend. Lucy had to put her mouth almost to Charlie Brown’s ear for him to hear.

“I’m going to head out, Charlie.”

“What?” He shook his head confused, “You never leave a party early!”

“I’m not doing anything except killing the mood.”

Accepting her poor excuse, he pulled her in for a hug. The black haired girl gave a sad smile and squeezed the boy’s arms to assure him she was okay. 

“I’ll see you around this summer?” She asked.

“Don’t worry, you won’t get rid of me until August,” he grinned back at her. Suddenly, a hand came over Charlie Brown’s shoulder. Lucy met the one set of blue eyes she hadn’t wanted to talk to that night. Much to her dismay, Schroeder was just as much Charlie’s best friend as she was.

“Lucy is leaving,” Charlie spoke, breaking the tension that she hadn’t realized had set in.

“So soon?” Scroeder asked. She only nodded in response. The boys made brief eye contact. Heavy breath hung between the trio.

“I’m tired,” she explained, pulling her lips into a tight line. Lucy barely noticed Charlie Brown sneaking away. This was the opposite of what she wanted to do tonight. She refused to give the irrisputibly irksome musician another thought in her mind…once she was done thinking about how little space in her mind he deserved. How could he stand there and look so handsome? The way the low tungsten light illuminated his jaw, his eyes, his godforsaken hands–Jesus, she needed psychiatric help.

“I felt like we didn’t talk much.”

Lucy couldn’t help but let out a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah? Well, you were holed up in the corner like a hermit all night.”

“You were, too.”

“I told you I’m tired.”

It wasn’t a lie. Lucy was tired of a lot of things: high-rise skinny jeans, the political state of her country, men who played the piano.

“We haven’t talked in a while.”

Fed up, Lucy crossed her arms.

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours.” He answered so quickly that it caught her off guard.

“Why would it be my fault?” she spat out, her eyebrows scrunching together.

“You don’t come over anymore.”

Oh! Oh. What an idiot! She had stopped coming over to his house nearly two and a half years ago. Why did he think now was a good time to bring it up? Good grief, he could be so stupid! Schroeder stood there, face unbothered by his accusation. Feet swaying to and fro, he rubbed the ring finger of his left hand with the thumb and index of the right. Suddenly, Lucy had a terrible, horrible thought. Before she had time to debate the idea, she heard her voice.

“Are you busy now?”

Stepping into the Schwartz family home at 12:13 in the morning was understandably not how Lucy thought she would spend the first day of her summer vacation before college. The cherry red carpet and salmon wallpaper of the music room transported the girl right back to being 6 and watching Schroeder ruin his posture with his toy piano. Taking in the old familiar smell of wood and laquer, a wave of comforting nostalgia washed over the Van-Pelt girl. Instead of exchanging words, the two took their once usual places: the bench and a stool installed when the piano had become too grand to lean upon. With careful eyes, Lucy watched as Schroeder flipped through a piano book. The pages were curling in on the corners, brown and crusted. She also observed the numerous graphite stains from where he’d smeared his own notes over years of playing his favorite composer. As the melody began being meticulously guided through the air like a mother cares for her child, Lucy felt her chest swell. Watching how Schroeder’s attentive fingers played every note on beat, the girl knew she could never not love him.

“Teach me something?” she dared to ask. 

“What?”

She cautiously but confidently approached the bench.

“Well, we haven’t done much talking like you wanted.” She sucked in a breath and sat next to the boy, gently forcing them arm to arm, thigh to thigh, pinky to pinky. “Just teach me a scale or something. Maybe I can put ‘basic piano skills’ on my resume.”

The joke alleviated the tension in her bench partner’s shoulders. While he had much improved his posture from when he was a kid, he still had the slightest hunch when he sat at a piano bench. Surely, Juliard would find some way to absolve that. As she moved to place her hands on the keys, Lucy could feel Schroeder’s soft breath across her fingers.

“This is middle C.” His voice steady. He tentatively moved her right thumb to an ivory key in the center. Gently, he urged the rest of her fingers onto the respective keys, thumbing her wrist into an arch. She started on the keys, but he corrected her form. And again. And again.

“I’m not as coordinated as you.” She sighed.

“I’ve been playing a long time.”

He was looking at her. Like, really , looking at her. He would break her heart for a lifetime, and she would let him. He was her catalyst.

“Play one of your own pieces!” she beamed, to save her still-beating heart. “Please?”

He sighed, and the breath lowered his shoulders. He retrieved a folder, pages of music barely fitting. Turning to face her so she couldn’t see inside, he began rifling through the pages. As she attempted to peek, he quickly pulled the green folder to his chest. Lucy placed her hands in surrender and muttered a faint apology. Trusting her patience, he once again started to pick a piece. The boy suddenly stopped flipping, clearly landing on one that caught his attention. His delicate hands picked it out of its place and set it on the piano.

“It’s untitled,” Lucy observed. Schroeder only hummed in agreement. With a deep inhale, the boy began to play. A bittersweet melody danced through the air. The girl closed her eyes and took in the enchanting song until it ended abruptly. She felt jolted.

“It’s unfinished?” Lucy asked, eyeing the sheet music that was as bare as the air in that moment. Receiving no real answer, she turned her head to her bench partner. His eyes were ready to meet hers. A deer caught in headlights- yes, that’s what she felt like. From something so alluring and dangerous, she couldn’t possibly look away. Her body refused to move while her mind yelled. The pianist's hands, oh yes, his amiable hands, carefully cupped her cheeks. Heart racing and palms sweaty, Lucy fluttered her eyes closed. Their lips touched for a brief, warm, beautiful minute. In an instant, Schroeder put his soft hands on her shoulders and guided her away.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

The only audible sound was their breath mixing in between them and the faint air conditioner that hummed as the boy fixed his gaze to the piano bench waiting for a response. Shock. Undoubtably, Lucy Van-Pelt was in shock. Why wouldn’t she be in shock? The boy she’d been infatuated with since she was 5 had just kissed her and then pushed her away.

“What the hell?” 

“It was a mistake.”

“I’ll tell you what was a mistake! Thinking we could ever happen. Ugh, God! How could I be so stupid?

“No!” He tried. “I-it’s just bad timing.”

“Bad timing?”

“I just don’t think it’s our time.”

“I think,” Lucy punctuated, “I’m going to go home, and you’re not going to contact me. Not tonight, not tomorrow, and not for the rest of the summer. Goodbye, Schroeder.”

“Lucy, just wait-”

She didn’t dignify the conversation by turning to face him.

“Maybe try again when it’s ‘our time.’”

Lucy, makeup washed off and pajamas on, laid staring at her childhood bedroom ceiling. Unfortunately for her, visions of a certain pianist danced around as if they were sugar plum fairies–scratch that, night demons. She wanted to scream and thrash around, tear apart her bedsheets like a wild animal. Regardless, she was flat on her back, tears pooling by her temples, wetting her black hair. As the night crawled, all the poor girl noticed was how cold her lips felt.

Chapter Text

“Thanks for meeting me for coffee, Lucy.”

Schroeder Schwartz, in his senior year at Juliard, had been in Providence, Rhode Island, for a showcase of some sort. “Akin to Beethoven himself” she had heard a review about his composition. If one wanted to know about Schroeder Schwartz’s ability to tickle the ivories, they truly should look no further than Lucy Van Pelt. Although it had been almost four years since she had last seen the delicate brute and heard his enchanting melodies, Lucy could, with utmost sincerity, tell anyone that Schroeder was a once-in-a-generation talent. She might have hated his guts (and also loved his guts), but there was no conceivable way to deny his talent. So, when she’d received a text from a number she wished she’d forgotten she’d had about a reunion of sorts, Lucy’s week and feeble constitution gave in. Now she was sat across from the acclaimed composer at a local coffee shop. The black metal chair was sure to stick to the skin of her thighs that escaped from her denim skirt as the spring sun welded them together. Okay, so maybe she had done her hair and put a little mascara on. Perhaps it was possible she spent over an hour throwing clothes around her apartment to find something suitable, but this did not mean that Lucy was in any way still harboring feelings for any sort of musician. Was it a crime to want to look nice?

“How did your performance go?”

If she were a younger version of herself, Lucy might’ve thought this was a rather romantic day for coffee with her former infatuation. This younger Lucy might have pointed out the soft sunlight from a perfectly clouded sky or the soothing Atlantic breeze that tickled her neck and played with the ends of her jet-black bob. Finally, this little-er Lucy would likely point out how idealistic Schroeder looked in a loosened white button-up with the sleeves rolled, exposing his pale forearms. But luckily, for this current and very mature Lucy with her legs crossed, she observed none of these silly details with such imagery.

“You weren’t there?” A small frown turned Schroeder's blonde eyebrows towards each other.

“You’re a hot commodity. I’m afraid tickets were sold out before I knew you were playing.”

“I could’ve gotten you tickets.”

“I didn’t want to trouble you, and besides, not everyone gets to get coffee with the star of the show.” 

“I wish you would’ve troubled me.”

Well, shit. The beautiful, terrible boy who was sat across from her looked like a kicked puppy. 

“Anyways,” he cleared his throat, “I should be asking how you’re doing. How’s Brown?”

“I’m ready to be done,” she sighed, picking up her ceramic coffee cup, “It’ll be nice to have a slightly warmer climate in D.C.”

“D.C.?”

“I’m going to Georgetown for my master's degree. Besides, the internship opportunities for diplomacy are greater there.”

“You always were so smart.”

There was a glint of admiration in his eyes. She had to shut it down.

“I think I should go,” the girl sighed.

“What?” He asked confused, “Lucy, I’ve been wanting to see you!”

“No, you don’t get to be like that.”

“Be like what?”

“Like you like me! How is it fair, Schroeder?” Lucy huffed out.

“How is what fair?”

“You were the love of my life. You were the one!” she wailed, “Well, at least in my mind.” Her throat was getting tight, but she wouldn’t cry. He sat still, his stupidly-annoying-stupid face unreadable.

“I am someone you will never have to even get over and…you,” she prodded at his chest with an angry manicured nail, “You, are everything I never got to have.”

Years. Actual years were wasted on the idea of Schroeder Schwartz noticing her. 

“It’s pathetic. I feel like an extra in my own life. All I am to you is some girl you went to high school with, a roadblock to some opulent reality. We share a best friend, Schroeder. I spent years at your house listening to you play sonatas and concertos. Do you know how many times I’ve heard ‘Für Elise ’? Well? Do you? When I hear the ‘do-do-do-do-do-do-do,’” Lucy’s hands mimed playing the keys, “my body has a physical reaction. It’s Pavlovian. I jump at the sound of Beethoven.”

Lucy took a deep breath. She was sure to have frown lines from this one conversation. If this is what being with Schroeder would give her, then good riddance. All men can offer are wrinkles and stretch marks.

“That night meant everything to me and…” A sad sort of pensive look took over the girl’s face as her eyes fluttered downward to the coffee she was sipping. “Schroeder, you cast me aside like I was nothing. I felt like I was basically nothing to you, a blip in your grand life.”

Lucy’s acrylics drummed against the ceramic coffee cup where a latte that once held a beautiful floral pattern now looked as sad as she felt. Great. Even the Coffee was going to patronize her.

A small but deep and rich voice dared her to raise her gaze. 

“You flinch when you hear Beethoven?”

“That’s what you got out of that? Seriously?” Lucy stood, and the metal feet of her chair ungracefully screeched against the concrete.

“Lucy, wait!”

No, she’d been stupid as a teen, and she was stupid now. 

“Lucy–please! Listen to me!” He pleaded.

Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. She needed psychiatric help, a therapist, a shrink, or literally anything else. How could she give away years of her life to such an idiotic man? Heaving breaths were the only grounding point keeping her from completely breaking down and looking like a lunatic on the sidewalk. She hadn’t made it more than halfway down the block before she felt a strong musician's hand grab her own.

“I wished you had come to the concert because…,” he started. She dared to turn and face him and met his pained eyes. “Because, Lucy, I played the song I wrote for you.”

He pulled out a set of sheet music from his brown leather bag and held it out to her.

“That night meant everything to me, too.”

She warily took the graphite-stained papers. At the top of the sheet were two words in quotations: For Lucy. Her hands were shaking. Rage? Anxiety? Probably both. 

“Not very original with titles, are you, Beethoven?” She couldn’t stop her sarcasm if she chained it to the bottom of the ocean.

“My creative talents start and finish with music I’m afraid.” The girl snorted at the statement while continuing to read the bars of music. She didn’t know what the notes meant. She couldn’t even pretend to guess what the melody was. Frustrated, confused, and emotional, Lucy stared up at the nervous pianist. 

“Play it for me.”

When Lucy Van-Pelt demanded something, people tended to listen. Maybe it was part of her oldest-daughter complex, practically having to keep her two younger brothers out of trouble her whole life, but there wasn’t exactly a time when the girl remembered having to take no for an answer. She always seemed to have at least 5 good reasons for just about everything she wanted to do. Of course, this came with complaints, Lucy had been told she was “too bossy” and needed to learn to “let others have the chance to be in charge,” but it wasn’t her fault that she was more efficient than the rest of the blockheads. Schroeder was never threatened by her sense of responsibility, in fact, he welcomed it. He had always accepted her whether it was as a baseball manager, student body president, or demanding he find a piano as fast as possible to play her the song he composed. It could’ve been seen as a sweet trade, she listened to him play and he listened to her talk. Now Schroeder was sitting at a piano in a Brown University practice room which the girl in the denim had personally never stepped foot in because Lucy said so. They didn’t really talk about the adventure to find a piano, which Lucy was grateful for, but there was an uncomfortable silence as Lucy stood in the chair-less room. This piano was upright so even if the thought crossed her mind to lay across the top like she used to as a kid, she couldn’t. Instead, she opted for leaning her right side against the top, still being able to peer down at Schroeder like she once did. As she opened her mouth to make a witty comment about how she didn’t have all day, he began to play the song. 

If she gasped, he didn’t hear it. A bittersweet melody danced around, flushing her cheeks and filling her heart. The unfinished, untitled song from that night, yes indeed, it must’ve meant everything to him too. Under a spell, Lucy closed her eyes and envisioned the song telling the tale of the pair. She couldn’t quite describe it, of course, she didn’t know how, but the notes fought each other in a beautiful way. They seemed to agree at different times and then would turn sour and berate each other. Schroeder was so undeniably skilled and she could not deny the sacredness with which he played the keys. His grace and precision conveyed an overwhelming 

“It’s unfinished and you still played it for a crowd?”

“It’s not unfinished, it ends with an unresolved chord. It invokes a sense of unease in the audience.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s how I feel.”

“You feel uneasy?”

He sighed. Really, she knew what he meant. He meant that he felt unresolved about their relationship. She did too, but she needed him to say it. 

“Lucy,” he took both of her hands in his. Five-year-old Lucy was clawing at the bars of the cage she was holding inside the adult Lucy’s heart. She ached to acknowledge how romantic it all was. “I have never been good at expressing my feelings and I will probably continue to not be good at that. I was an idiot in high school and I have continued to be an idiot for not doing this sooner.”

He stared at his shoes but thumbed her fingers as he took a breath between thoughts,  his beautiful-terrible-delicate-magical musician hands holding her attention… and of course her hands. Lucille Van-Pelt was rarely rendered speechless, but there was a reason such a smart girl was forever enamored by the toe-headed pianist. He was just, well, great. With a second breath, Schroeder dared her brown eyes to meet his blues. 

“If you’ll let me, I’d like to love you.”

“Damn it, Schroeder.” 

She grabbed his stupid pale and naive face and placed her lips on his. A warmth spread across her face that she once longed for. Tentatively, the boy intertwined his fingers in the ends of her jet-black bob and pulled her down to sit sideways on his lap. The two were slow, careful not to upset the other. The girl played with his golden curls and slowly pulled away, leaning her forehead on his. Hot breath mixed between the pair. How far was it to New York City from Providence by car? She would drive whatever if he would continue to compose music in her name.

“So, are you going to push me away?” She smirked.

“No, it’s definitely our time.”