The Law of Loving Others Read Free Page B

music lessons from her, but it seemed so logical at the time. And as I fumbled over scales, my fingers tripping over the strings, my mother had said she’d had enough.
You’re never going to be good if you fake your way through practicing, Emma. You have to practice.
    Jesus, Mom, will you stop being such a bitch?
And as soon as I’d said it, I’d felt my face flush, the shame seeping into my cheeks. I’d avoided any eye contact with her, hurried into my bedroom, and slammed the door behind me. I’d sat down on my lavender carpeted floor, pressed my back against the door, and started to cry.

    I took my father’s car over to Annie’s that night. It was an old Volvo, with a navy cloth interior, and the smell of coffee was thick in the stale air. The car was cluttered with papers everywhere, a stack of photocopies in a couple of piles on the passenger seat. I turned the CD player on and something folky floated through the speakers. I didn’t know who it was; it sounded a little like the Grateful Dead. When I was a kid, my father would give me a quarter if I could correctly identify the music playing in the car. Once, when I was eleven, he gave me five dollars because I knew it was Fleetwood Mac before Stevie Nicks joined the band.
    I’d never felt so accomplished.
    On my way over to Annie’s, I felt slightly calmed by the drive—by the smooth, even pavement, the empty roads, the Christmas lights looped around people’s trees. I’d always loved driving through these neighborhoods that time of year, past the colorful lit-up homes, the ones whose roofs were lined with mazes of red and green lights. I got to Annie’s just a few minutes later; her house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, with a wide sloping lawn that was covered with that kind of hardened snow that crackled beneath my feet.
    Annie threw her arms around me at the door. She was wearing plaid pajama pants and a Columbia sweatshirt; her hair, long and wavy, was swept up into a bun.
    â€œI’m so happy you’re home!” she said.
    â€œMe too, me too.”
    â€œHenry’s just in my room. Can we go hang out there for a little? Is there anything you wanted to do tonight?”
    â€œNo, this is perfect,” I told her. “I’m tired, had a long day, long drive.”
    â€œOh right, obviously.”
    Henry was lying on Annie’s bed with a TV remote in his hand, scrolling through the channels. He had shaggy brown hair and his face was unexpectedly scruffy.
    â€œHey, Emma. Welcome home.”
    â€œHenry!” I leaned over onto the bed to give him a hug and playfully rubbed his hair, which had grown so long since the last time I’d seen him. Henry and Annie had begun dating right after I’d left for Oak Hill. Annie liked to joke that this was precisely why they’d gotten together, but I knew it wasn’t really true. We had all been friends since middle school and I think he had been vaguely in love with her the entire time. He was quiet and thoughtful, had an understated sort of humor. In the ninth grade yearbook, he was voted “Talks Least, Says Most,” which was precisely the sort of person he was.
    In a way, Annie and I had always monopolized each other, fulfilled every role and function in each other’s lives, and so it was only fitting that it would take me leaving to allow room for somebody else. By October of that year, she and Henry had fallen into a sweet and comfortable romance.
    â€œWhat have you guys been watching?” I asked.
    â€œNothing,” Annie said. “We’ve just been staring at it and waiting for something good to come on. We were watching
Breaking Bad
before but it was getting too violent for me.”
    â€œI love that show but sometimes I just can’t stomach it,” I said.
    Henry was rolling a joint on top of one of Annie’s old yearbooks. I watched as he ground the weed between his fingernails and