A few weeks later, the cast comes off my arm. The breaks in my forearm and wrist had been clean, and the bones knit well, but it would still take me some time to regain full strength and flexibility.

I wasn't worried though. If I had little else, I had time.

Too much, it seems.

My dad notices the fact that, when I'm not teaching, composing, or practicing music, I don't do much else.

Even he's been living life more than I have.

He and Mr. Aikawa—George, as he insists I call him—have reformed their little band, though now they play more Israel Kamakawiwoʻole and Jason Mraz than ACDC and the Stones. My dad can't sing anymore, so they roped in a third old friend—a dude with the distressing habit of wearing socks with sandals—to cover the vocals. They don't sound bad, and they have a lot of fun—something my dad notices I don't seem to remember how to do.

"Why don't you try one of those dating app things?" he asks one evening over a simple dinner of grilled chicken and summer vegetables. "You won't find someone if you don't look."

I set down my fork with a sigh. Despite the many times I've explained it, he still doesn't quite get me. He supports me one-hundred percent, but he doesn't fully understand.

"I doubt that would work for me, Dad. The context of a date already assumes that I want certain things. Having to explain again and again, not knowing how the other person will take it...I'd rather not."

"Well then join a goddamn club or something and make some goddamn friends!" he exclaims, and then immediately winces with apology as he's forced to take a moment to catch his breath.

"Dad..." 

He shakes his head, asking me to wait. "Felix, I just want to see you smile again," he says when he can. "I got a few good years left in me, I think, but I don't want to leave you before I know you'll be okay. Maybe it's selfish of me, but I just want to see you happy."

There's a tightness in my chest and an ache in my throat, and I can't do more than nod.

He sighs. "I'm sorry, Felix. I'm sorry he let you go. But it's time you stop looking back and start looking forward to something new."

I can't argue, but the thing is, I didn't look for Isaac. He just showed up in my life and demanded my attention. Circumstances threw us together, and circumstances tore us apart; but in the space between, he'd seen something he liked in me, made me feel things I'd never felt before, and had the tenacity to draw me out of my shell even when I was clamped shut tighter than a clam at low tide.

There was barely anything between us, really—a few weeks of acquaintance, a few days alone—but for me, I have a feeling that what we had was a once-in-a-lifetime sort of thing, and I'm not quite over losing it just yet.

#

Another month goes by.

One day, as I'm finishing up my last lesson of the day in Mr. Aikawa's shop, he comes over and taps me on the shoulder.

"Felix, you got a visitor," he says, pointing towards the front of the store.

I turn and see Isabelle Mason waving at me from near the electric guitars.  I don't remember what else I said to my student after that—probably, "that's great, now go home and practice it," which is what I usually say—and I finish the lesson a little early.

With my student gone, Isabelle joins me at the baby grand, sitting beside me on the bench.

"Hey, Felix" she says, offering me an uncertain smile. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," I answer, returning her smile too quickly. "More importantly, how are you?"

She looks a little different from the last time I saw her. Her hair is cut short and she wears a baggy t-shirt over torn jeans in a sort of grunge-esque style.

"I'm great," she says, smiling. "Really. What happened was really painful, but it also forced me to figure out who I am and what I want. And it turns out that it's not to get married to a guy like Dylan—and I mean the guy I thought he was."

Her smile turns sad, and I can't help the apology that escapes me, even though I know my guilt is misplaced.

"I'm sorry," I say, and I am.

Sorry I didn't speak up sooner, anyway.

"No, don't be." She touches my arm, and I feel the warmth of her fingers through the sleeve of my shirt. "You saved my life, in more ways than you know. Actually, I'm the one who's sorry."

"Why?" I ask, touching my fingers to the keys to form a chord without pressing down.

She hesitates, and I look over to see her anxiously chewing her bottom lip. "I was angry," she says. "The first few weeks after everything fell through, I was so mad, and some of that anger got directed at you."

I feel my expression start to close off in a self-protective mask, but she hurries on.

"No—I know I was wrong, and I feel awful for blaming you. You were a victim, and you got hurt trying to do the right thing. But I was hurt too, though in a different way. I thought Dylan loved me, and it turns out everything I knew about him was a lie—the last six months of my life were a lie. I felt like it was your fault—like if you'd come forward sooner, none of it would have happened the way it did."

She stops for a moment, and when she goes on, I hear the struggle and the tears in her voice. 

"I was in pain," she says, "and I did something bad. I told Isaac that if he ever spoke to you again, he'd be dead to me. I said awful things, and I made him choose. Felix," she reaches for me again, tightening her grip on my arm just a little, "I am so sorry."

For a moment, I'm not sure what I feel. Not anger, or resentment. Just a kind of quiet sadness that someone as sweet as Belle had been hurt enough to do something like that.

"And now?" I ask.

"He's not talking to me," she laughs. "At the moment he's in Hawaii at some surfing competition, but when he gets back, I'm going to apologize to him, too, and I'm going to tell him to call you. Is that okay?"

I think for a moment and then I nod. "Yes. I'd like that," I say. "I...I've really missed him," I add, and hear the traces of pain slipping through the cracks in my voice.

Belle hears it, too, and her face crumples as she loses the fight against her tears.

This time, I reach for her, and we hold each other and cry a bit, there on the piano bench in Mr. Aikawa's music store, until we both feel better.

When we break apart, I can tell that something has healed—or started to—just a little.

She sniffs and wipes away her tears, smearing black eyeliner across her cheeks, and then she reaches over and wipes away mine.

"We're gonna be friends, Felix. From now on. Okay?" she says.

I smile—for real, for the first time in weeks. "Yeah," I agree, "we are."

#

Isabelle told me that Isaac isn't scheduled to return from Hawaii for another two weeks, so I'm not holding my breath for the phone to ring.

Instead, I'm busy putting the finishing touches on the score for the documentary film. Three months isn't a lot of time to compose an hour's worth of music, but I've been doing little else, and somehow the notes came easy. All I had to do was write them down. Plus, some segments of the film are silent, or only talking, so really it's less than it seems.

When I show Greg—the would-be filmmaker and Dylan's ex-friend—the final product, he's gratifyingly thrilled, and he has an interesting idea.

He wants me to play the score live at the film's debut. He and the other filmmakers have rented out a tiny artsy theater for one night, and the attendees will be friends and family, and a few other special guests.

The idea is both exciting and terrifying. It's my own music, so technically I can't really mess it up; on the other hand, it'll be that much worse if I do.

In the end, I agree.

The night of the debut, I dress in a black rented tuxedo, and my dad proudly pulls out his old suit and finds that, overall, it still fits pretty well—a bit tight, but he's in no danger of busting a seam. I help him dress, and then the two of us drive the few blocks to the little brick-walled theater that some historical group or other has managed to save and restore over the years.

It's a stuffy little place, not great acoustics, and it seats less than three hundred people. I get dad settled in his seat and then go backstage.

It's a low-key affair, overall. There's not even a real piano—just an electric keyboard—but that's okay. It's not as pretty as the real thing, but it sounds fine. We ran through the last rehearsal that morning, and, honestly, I'm looking forward to this.

As I take my place at the bench, the lights dim, and the curtain covering the screen begins to rise. I look out into the audience to wave at my dad, but as my eyes glide over the small crowd, they catch a sight that makes my heart leap against my ribs.

A familiar face, and a pair of bright, sea-gray eyes.

I blink, but I can't find him again, and then the lights are shining on me, and I can't see past the glare.

He can't really be here. Today is the last day of the tournament—I checked—and he's still in Hawaii. Just my nerves making me see things, I think.

Still, a lot of what I wrote came out of my feelings for him, and a lot of my newfound confidence came out of the way he'd reacted to seeing me play. I'm still under no illusions—I know my limitations and the range of my skill—but he'd made me believe that whatever I have is something beautiful. Something I can be proud to share.

This is for you, Isaac, I think to myself, as I straighten my back and set my fingers to the keys. Wherever you are.

The performance goes well. I'm in the moment, feeling the rise and fall of the music, the way I've tried to connect the feel of it to what's happening on screen. It's over before I know it. The lights come up, the short credits roll, the end.

The little crowd is emotional and enthused. A lot of them are older and, like Greg's grandparents, either experienced or knew those who experienced the injustice of Japanese American Incarceration during WWII. Many are on their feet, giving the film—and by extension, me—a standing ovation. I see tears and smiles, and I'm proud to stand where I do.

I sweep the crowd again, looking for my dad, but I don't see him. Finally I find his row and seat, but it's empty.

Excusing myself from the rounds of congratulations being passed around on stage, I hop down to the floor and head for the lobby.

As soon as I open the doors, I realize something is wrong.

Red and blue lights are flashing outside—an ambulance, just arrived—and a small crowd is gathered around something on the ground.

A bad feeling grips me like ice-cold hands around my heart, and I push through the outer doors and rush forward. A pair of familiar, freshly polished dress shoes are just visible sticking out at the edge of the crowd.

"Dad!?"

I push past the onlookers and fall at his side.

"Dad!"

He's conscious, at least, but his face is gray and lined with pain.

"Dad, what happened? What's wrong?"

"Felix..." he smiles, and his hand tightens on mine. "...love..."

"What?" I can barely hear him, and I can't make out what he said.

Before he can say more, or try to, the paramedics arrive and move me aside, fitting an oxygen mask over his face. I tell them what I can, and then they load my dad into the ambulance, help me aboard, and take us away.