In Harmony (Fenbrook Academy #2)(28)
Author: Helena Newbury

“Like you mean it.”

“Bugger!” It actually felt pretty good.

“Now let’s progress to a F’ckin’ ‘ell.”

I took a deep breath. “Fucking hell.”

“No, more Irish. There’s no ‘u’ or ‘g’ or ‘h’. And make it more mournful, like you’re a kid who’s lost his pocket money and can’t buy any chips.”

“F’ckin’ ‘ell!” I said, louder than I meant to.

The door opened and Professor Harman put his head through the gap. “Everything okay in here?” he asked, in a tone that implied it certainly wasn’t. I went white.

“Just…getting into the spirit,” Connor told him.

Harman gave him a long look and then closed the door, and we both burst out laughing.

***

When Connor got his essay back, a little over a week later, he bounded up to me to show me the red-circled B.

“That’s great—” I started to say, but his hands were already closing around my waist. He lifted me into the air, spinning me around and around as the other students moved back out of the way. When he set me down, both of us were high on the moment, panting, our faces inches apart. We stared at each other and—

He moved back. “Thanks,” he said. “For helping me.”

I’d been a fraction of a second away from closing my eyes and puckering up, and my face flushed red at the thought of how close I’d come to making a complete fool of myself. “No problem.”

We turned and walked away.

Chapter 18

It was four weeks until the recital. Connor had handed in another essay and managed another B. Four of the six sections of our piece were finished, and we were both working away composing the final two. We figured we’d earned a break, so we all went to Flicker.

The snow had melted and the sun was doing its best to warm the frigid air, but it was cool enough that everyone was still in coats when we arrived. Connor, of course, was in his trademark leather jacket. Jasmine had grown attached to the fur monstrosity I’d found for her—she’d named it “Abe” for “Abominable Snowman”—while Clarissa was in an almost floor-length leather coat that probably cost a month’s rent. Natasha was sporting some high-tech jacket Darrell had bought her—his looked like it matched—and Neil, of course, looked like Neil, in jeans and a biker jacket.

And me? I was in the same sensible winter coat I’d worn since it first got cold. Some things don’t change.

Some do, though. I was going to tell Connor how I felt.

I’d thought about nothing else all week. I wanted to be on familiar ground and I didn’t want to be alone when I did it. If it went wrong, I wanted the girls to be on standby with hugs and alcohol. They’d been briefed, of course.

I wanted to make an impact, so when I peeled off my winter coat it revealed a scoop-neck black sweater that—with a lot of help from a push-up bra—managed to give the illusion of curves. I’d spent about an hour on my hair, too, using tongs to coax most of the frizz out of it. It didn’t equal Natasha’s soft, lustrous locks, but it was a start.

We all sat down and I knew as soon as I looked at Darrell that something was horribly wrong. His skin was almost gray, and his hair didn’t look sexily messy—it looked greasy and unkempt. Heavy bags had formed under his eyes, and when he sat down it was with a sad sigh of relief, as if even the walk from the cab had been an effort. That was something else I’d noticed—he’d brought Natasha in a cab, not on his bike.

I tried to catch Natasha’s eye, but she was quizzing Connor on which bars he played in.

“So! How are things?” I asked Darrell brightly.

He smiled at me, and underneath the mask of tiredness I could see the old him peeking through. “Okay.”

And that was it—just one word. Back when he and Natasha were first together, he’d talked non-stop about bikes and riding and how Natasha inspired him. He’d been hungry for new experiences, full of life. Now, he seemed like a different person.

“What are you working on?” As soon as I said it, I wished I could take it back. I watched Darrell collapse in on himself, his body hunching over the table, his gaze locked on his glass.

“I’m…between things, right now.” And he glanced up at me, eyes almost pleading with me not to ask anything more.

A deep unease started to shift and churn inside me. This was Darrell, sexy, confident, multi-millionaire Darrell. Natasha had spoken of nightmares, and he certainly looked like he wasn’t sleeping…but what had changed, that they were now reducing him to this?

I understood how losing your job could make someone depressed, but hadn’t Darrell essentially worked for himself? Couldn’t he just design, or build stuff, or whatever it was he did in that massive workshop? When I was there for the party, it had all been covered in sheets, but that had been weeks ago. Had he not worked since? Had he not worked since he quit his job? A man who had been insanely driven, even obsessive, about his work seemed to have stopped dead, and in my mind that pointed to something being deeply wrong.

When I looked over at Natasha, she was staring back at me, her teeth worrying at her lip. She gave me a slow nod, the internationally recognized women’s symbol for we’ll talk later.

I looked across at Clarissa. She was sitting on Neil’s knee, and he was nuzzling her neck. She was smiling, and if it hadn’t been for our conversation in the restaurant I would have thought they were happy. Looking closer, though, I could see the worry in her eyes.

“I’ll get some more drinks,” said Connor, standing up. This was it, the perfect time to get him alone and—

I couldn’t do it. I looked desperately at the girls and nodded towards the restroom. “I’m going to—you know,” I said as I stood.

“Good idea,” said Jasmine, jumping up.

“Me too,” said Clarissa, sliding off Neil’s lap.

“Yep,” said Natasha.

We left Darrell and Neil sitting there in shock, suddenly alone at the table.

In the restroom, Jasmine pinned me to the wall with a pointed finger. “Don’t even think about backing out.”

Natasha beamed. “I’ve been talking to him. He’s nice. Nicer than when we first met him, less….”

“Arrogant,” said Clarissa. “And still edible. Seriously. With a spoon.”

I looked at myself in the mirror. “But…I have no clue if he feels the same way.”

“You’ve been working together for months,” said Natasha. “You must have some idea.”

I thought about all the times it felt like we’d nearly kissed. The feel of him against me, the heavy silences. “I don’t know! There are moments, but they don’t add up to anything solid.”

“Circumstantial evidence,” said Jasmine wisely. She was still dreaming of a part in a police drama. “But if you wait to find a warm gun you’ll miss your chance. You gotta go with your hunch. What does your gut tell you?”

My stomach was swirling and fluttering with nerves. “I think…I think…yes.”

“Then go for it,” said Clarissa.

“But if he does like me, why hasn’t he done something? He’s had enough chances!”

Natasha shrugged. “You won’t know that until you ask. So get out there!”

“But what if he changes his mind about the recital, or”—I realized I hadn’t told them about his dyslexia, and didn’t feel I should—“or…or doesn’t work as hard and doesn’t graduate? If he flunks, I flunk!”

“He’s your friend, whatever else he is or isn’t. Do you really think he’d do that to you?” said Jasmine.

I considered that, then opened my mouth again.

“If the next word out of your mouth is ‘But’,” said Clarissa, “I will physically hurt you. Go!”

I took a deep breath and nodded. Then marched through to the bar.

Connor was leaning forward over the bar, grinning, and I instinctively smiled myself, even though he wasn’t looking at me. I felt my confidence grow. This was the right thing to do.

I walked around the bar towards Connor, and that’s when I saw her. She was sitting at the bar right next to him, but she’d been hidden from my view behind a pillar. He had his arm around her waist, and as I watched she leaned in close and whispered something in his ear, and he laughed and pulled her closer.

She had honey-blonde hair and a silver, low-cut top. She had jeans that looked like they were sprayed onto her toned, perfect ass. She’d been with him no more than five minutes, but she was already touching him like I never had, patting him on the back and then letting her hand idly stroke the muscles there. Flirting with him exactly as any woman would, if they weren’t an over-analyzing, flat-chested geek.

I changed course and swung around to the far end of the bar, where the girls were waiting for me with open mouths.

“I know her,” said Jasmine sadly. “She’s in some of my acting classes—her name’s Taylor. She’s actually a sweet girl.” She glanced at me. “I mean, I still want to kill her. Obviously.” She looked at Connor and Taylor. “Bitch.”

I wasn’t angry with Connor. For a man known for his endless stream of girlfriends, it was amazing he’d stayed single this long—he must have finally bounced back from whatever Ruth had done to him. Or, worse, maybe he’d been ready weeks or months ago, and he had been interested in me, but I’d delayed so long that he thought nothing would ever happen. It was all my fault. If I could just rewind time and not go to the restroom….

My heart was breaking. I’d never understood that expression, never felt anything even remotely like the pain brought on by seeing the two of them laughing and smiling together. Everything good we’d had together was being ripped asunder inside me, never to be made whole again. I didn’t want to cry. I just didn’t want to feel that way anymore.

The barman came over to me. “What’ll it be?”

I looked him straight in the eye. “I’ll have The Godfather.”

There was a little intake of breath from behind me. “No one has The Godfather!” said Jasmine.

The barman and I stared at each other. I nodded firmly.

He reached right down to the bottom shelf, rooted around at the very back and pulled out several large bottles with dusty tops. With a pallbearer’s face he poured exact measures of them into a steel bowl, as if a cocktail shaker would be inappropriate. He mixed. He sprinkled in a mystery powder. He mixed again. And then he brought over three glasses, setting them all before me.

The first one was a standard shot glass. “The Godfather,” he said, pouring a shot of what looked like black oil into it.

The second was a heavy-bottomed whiskey tumbler. “The Godfather Part II,” he intoned reverently, filling it to the brim with the same black ooze.

The third was a standard tall glass. He poured in the dregs and then added soda water to dilute it. The drink was a muddy brown. “The Godfather Part III,” he said sadly. And then he stepped back, as if from a firework.