In Harmony (Fenbrook Academy #2)(10)
Author: Helena Newbury

You idiot, I told myself angrily. I took the bottle without thinking, and sat there shredding the label.

“So,” he said, opening his beer. “Here you are in my dressing room.” Again, that Irish lilt making everything sound innocent, yet filthy.

There was no delaying it any longer. I took a deep breath. “The recital…you haven’t chosen your piece yet.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t seem much point.”

“I need you to do it. With me.”

He paused, genuinely thrown by that. “Like a duet?”

“Yes. A duet.”

“You know I play guitar? Electric guitar. Not violin or piano or…you know. Anything that goes with a cello.”

I was surprised, for a second, that he even knew what instrument I played. Weirdly, a part of me felt flattered. Then I realized that a cello was pretty hard to miss, and I’d been carrying it on my back my whole time at Fenbrook. Of course he’d know that.

“It’s sort of an emergency,” I said. And I told him about Dan.

When I’d finished, he got up. “But why not just skip it? You’re Miss Uber-Geek—no offence. You can’t need the grades.” And then he peeled off the vest he’d been wearing.

His narrow waist flowed up into a powerful back layered with muscle and broad shoulders that reminded me of an athlete—maybe a boxer. He didn’t look like the pretty-boy male model types Jasmine posted on her Facebook page. He looked somehow raw and real, his muscles for use, not show. He was lean rather than huge, everything tight and defined, his stomach hard with muscle.

“It is my dressing room,” he told me.

I realized my mouth was open. Had I gasped? I had a nasty feeling I had. I tried to focus. “I had some issues with my presentations,” I told him. “I need a good recital, or I won’t graduate.” I stared at his arms. There was another tattoo above the Ruth one, a tangled clump of barbed wire, and I wondered what it meant.

He looked around for something. Hopefully a t-shirt. I was trying to keep my eyes off his upper half, but that left me starting at his crotch. “But the recital’s not for months,” he said as he searched. “And I’d have to be here to do it….”

He finally found his t-shirt and lifted it, though he didn’t put it on. He was waiting for my answer.

I nodded slowly. “You’d have to stay in Fenbrook. And graduate.”

He laughed out loud. Not a cruel laugh. A laugh of disbelief. He pulled on the t-shirt—a band name I didn’t recognize stretched across the broad curve of his pecs.

“I could help you,” I said desperately. “I could help you get your grades up.”

“What makes you think I want to stay?”

I just looked at him dumbly. My whole life had been so focused on doing well that the idea of just casually allowing yourself to fail seemed…insane.

“You’ve been here over three years,” I said. “Surely you don’t want to waste it?”

He shrugged. “I’ve had three years living in New York, with enough money to pay my rent and put food in my mouth. I play my guitar and that makes me a little more. That wasn’t a waste. Now, working my arse off until I graduate, only to fail anyway—that would be a waste.”

I nodded slowly. Suddenly, all his partying made sense. I’d seen it as him throwing his degree away, but it wasn’t that at all. He’d never had any intention of graduating. His time here was the prize, and he’d made the most of it.

I could feel the panic start to knot and twist my insides. He was my only chance!

“If you don’t do this,” I said in a small voice, “I won’t graduate.”

Now he’d say “Yes.” I was sure of it. However many hearts he’d broken, however many classes he’d missed, he was still human. He wouldn’t just let me fall.

But he sighed and looked away. When he looked back at me, I could see real pain in his eyes, as if he wanted the answer to be different. “I’m sorry,” he said at last.

I couldn’t breathe. This was the one thing I’d never imagined. I’d thought that he might laugh. I’d even considered that he might want money. But never that he might just flat-out refuse. “There must be something I can say,” I told him, hearing the panic rising in my voice. “There has to be something I can say that’ll—You have to!”

He closed his eyes for a second, as if considering.

And then he pulled the door open.

When I got up off the stool, my legs felt like they weren’t strong enough to take me. I walked slowly to the door and, just as I left, put the beer he’d given me down on the table.

“You can keep the beer,” he said, sadness in his voice.

“I don’t want your stupid beer!” I said viciously, tears filling my eyes. And then I was blundering down the corridor, feeling the wetness rolling down my cheeks.

***

I found a door that led out to the street and pushed through it. Natasha and the others were still back in the bar, but I could always call them. I needed to be alone.

Outside, the clouds had finally decided to give up their snow and thick white flakes were blanketing everything. Snow can make anything look beautiful, even an alley filled with overflowing dumpsters.

That was the moment, I thought. That was the moment my entire life to date ended, and some new one began. One spent in Boston. One without music.

Professor Harman had been right—it had been a stupid plan all along. All I’d done was prolong the inevitable for a few hours. I wasn’t even angry with Connor, really; I was angry with myself, for believing in miracles.

I stumbled on, the snow crunching underfoot. I was only wearing the little strappy top and jeans and I knew, in an abstract way, that it was bitterly cold, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. There was a burning pain inside that pushed the cold back, leaking out through my tears to scald my face. The life I’d wasted, ever since I was a kid. All the things I’d given up to practice, practice, practice. All for nothing.

I came to a set of iron railings, and realized I was looking out over water. The bar backed almost onto the river, with just the alley separating them, and the water shone like black glass, reflecting the colored lights of the bars and stores. Further out, away from the glare, it was just a black, gaping maw.

I leaned against the railings and cried, hot wracking sobs that left me breathless. Cried until there were no tears left, but I didn’t feel better. I felt like I’d been broken open, my stupidity exposed for everyone to see, and I had no idea what to do next.

“Alright.” It came from right beside me and when I jerked around, I saw Connor was standing next to me at the railing.

Numb shock. The tiniest sliver of hope, but I couldn’t allow myself to even acknowledge it without being sure. My voice was little more than a croak. “What?”

“Alright.” And this time I knew he was serious. I could hear in his voice how deep he’d had to dig, how he was going against every instinct he had.

I wiped my hand across my eyes. I didn’t want him to see me crying, even though I knew it was too late. “Why?” I asked.

He gave me a look that made me catch my breath. He looked like he was screaming inside, as if he wanted to do something, but had to hold back.

“It’s the right thing to do,” he said at last. It didn’t feel like the truth, but then why was he doing it?

Maybe he felt sorry for me.

Chapter 5

8.45am.

I was standing outside Professor Harman’s office. I’d nearly stopped at Starbucks for coffee, but I’d worried that it might remind him of me knocking the last ones over his carpet. Also, the last thing I needed was more coffee.

I was wired. After I’d said goodbye to Connor, I’d rushed back into the bar and found the others. They were all delighted for me, if a little cautious about the idea of us working together.

“Just remember he’s not a musician,” Jasmine had said.

“Of course he’s a musician! He takes most of the same classes I do!” I’d told her.

“Yeah, he’s a musician, but he’s not a Musician with a capital ‘M’. Musicians are sort of….”

“Sort of like you,” Natasha said helpfully.

“And he’s not,” said Jasmine. “He’s more like—”

“A dancer?!” I asked, incredulously.

“No, not a dancer. Or an actor. A civilian. A normal person. Just…bear that in mind.”

I hadn’t understood, at the time. Now, I was beginning to.

I’d said that we should meet there at 8.45 to be sure of being there at 9:00. And if you agree to meet someone at 8.45, you get there at 8.30, right? Just to be sure.

I’d been there since 8.20. My watch ticked over to 8.46. Where was he?!

That morning, I’d printed out a calendar that covered the ten weeks until the recital. I’d blocked out my classes in pink, and the ones we had together in purple. His classes would be blue, as soon as he gave me his timetable. Then we could start blocking out rehearsal time in green.

8.47!

Maybe he was waiting in the wrong place? I should have got his cell phone number. But by the time I’d said goodbye I’d been emotionally exhausted, barely capable of thought.

8.48. I started to pace. What if he’d been in an accident? He could be hurt. Dying. And it would be my fault for getting him here hours before he’d normally waltz in. I couldn’t stop, officer. I guess the poor schmuck just wasn’t used to the intersection being so busy.

At 8.55, I ran to the stairwell to see if he was climbing up. Nothing.

Where are you, Connor?

8.59. What if he’d forgotten?!

9.00. What if he’s changed his mind?!

Footsteps, and I offered up a prayer to whoever would listen to please, please make them be Connor’s battered black boots.

The feet rounded the corner, and they were brown loafers. I looked up.

“Karen,” Professor Harman said, slightly wearily. “I see you, but not Mr. Locke. Can I take it you were unsuccessful?”

“No! He’s going to do it! It’s all agreed, he’s just—He’s running late! Just give him a few more minutes.”

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “If this is indicative of how you two will work together, I really think it shows that this isn’t a good idea.”

“Professor Harman, please!”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Karen. I gave you a simple deadline and your partner has shown he’s incapable of meeting even that. I was wrong to even entertain the idea.”

God, no! Not like this! Not just for the sake of a few minutes! “Professor!”

He opened the door to his office. “Sorry, Karen.”

We both stopped.

Connor, his feet up on Professor Harman’s desk, woke up and yawned. He checked his watch.

“You’re late,” he told us.

***

Luckily, Professor Harman was too shocked to erupt into full anger and, once Connor had been turfed out of his chair, he settled for irritation. He took out a fountain pen and wrote our names in a book (that’s the music department for you—in another twenty years, they’ll move to typewriters) and that was it. We were scheduled for the recital.