Bittersweet Symphony (The Damaged Souls series Book 2) (6 page)

Chapter Six

Caylee

“Dream of me.”

“Always.”

I’d said it as a joke the previous night—a kind of flirt before Cooper hung up from our inevitable phone call. It was inevitable because, despite agreeing to skip our daily ritual of telling each other good night, it happened anyway.

Bless that man’s heart. He’d tried, a valiant effort by his account, to give me the space he thought I needed. Truth be told, he didn’t even have to be in the near vicinity and he made it difficult to concentrate.

Luckily, my assignment was still completed, and while it had taken me to the last possible second to get it printed out, my thoughts kept wandering off in the direction of Cooper—curious to know if he was thinking of me, too.

Sure enough, with my own phone in my hand, thumb hovering over the next digit in his number, my heart began racing when his name flashed across the screen.

Synchronicity. That beautiful moment when you get a peek of the bigger picture and realize you’re in tune with another person . . . a very important person.

It was these incidences that added another drop of fuel to my hope. Dating Cooper wasn’t the easiest thing I’d ever done, but the rewards made it worth it.

Rewards. The word caused a shiver of anticipation to pulse through my body, even after the hours that had past since we’d last spoken. Before hanging up, Cooper had informed me he was currently creating a rather extensive list of things he’d like to show me . . . do to me.

It seemed distance did in fact make the heart grow fonder—just six hours after our last kiss and Cooper had called. Granted I’d been in the process of doing the exact same thing, but he didn’t need to know that.

I thought it was adorable.

He thought it was cheesy.

Then he whispered one of the items on his
worship Caylee
list (his words, not mine) and it offered that missing
oomph
I needed to get my homework done, because come tomorrow, I was adamant nothing would keep us apart.

Now it was tomorrow. I had a reward to collect.

Another shiver washed over me—like a gentle taste of what lay in store. Cooper’s face flashed in my mind and I impatiently tapped my pen against the wooden desk I was sitting at.

Damn.

The middle of class was
not
the time to get lost in sexy daydreams—no matter how tempting the object of my fascination was. School was business, demanding absolute focus. My student loans would require cash payment. As much as I was falling in love with Cooper, his kisses wouldn’t pay my bills.

I groaned, a little too loud for my fellow classmates, a few turning around to see what was happening.

There was nothing wrong . . . if you didn’t count a lovesick fool who’d forgotten how to
adult
something to worry about. At this rate, I’d be stuck in this class for the rest of my life—unable to pass.

“And that’s it for today, everyone. Next class we’ll talk some more about
Maslow’s hierarchy of human needs
.” The clap of Mr. Chisholm’s hands startled me. He was dismissing us. The hour-long class was over. “Oh, and don’t forget to leave your assignments before you go as well.”

I was gathering my notebook and shoving it into my messenger bag when I heard my name being called out over the chatter and movement.

“And, Caylee Sawyer, come see me before you leave.”

“Oh oh . . . someone’s in trouble.”

A nervous giggle escaped me as I nodded at the pretty brunette in front of me. “Maybe he noticed my blank stare toward the end there,” I confessed.

“Late night?” she asked, hugging her textbooks to her chest.

I waved my assignment. “Yeah, I had a hot date with this bad boy.”

“I’m Stephanie, by the way. I think we’re also in the same Biology lab together.” Now that she mentioned it, Stephanie was definitely familiar. I remembered looking at her the other week and thinking I wanted a peek at her closet—her clothing totally cute and my style. With her chocolate brown hair pulled to the side in a braid, Stephanie’s welcoming personality whispered she was friend potential. Maybe we could even team up and study together.

She fluttered her own stapled papers. “I’d like to say I made this essay my bitch, but unfortunately, it totally kicked my ass.” Stephanie winced. “Pity I couldn’t count all the words and paragraphs I deleted. This thing would be a novel!”

“My gosh, yes!” I exclaimed. “And texts! I’m sure if I ever stopped, my service provider would send out a search party to find out if my thumbs were broken.”

My admission earned me a laugh from Stephanie. “Texting junkie, huh?”

“Guilty,” I answered, raising my hand and ducking my head slightly. “While I’m not as addicted as my roommate, I’m surprised I haven’t worn a hole in my screen from overuse.”

“Well, if it helps, you’re in good company. I’d die without my phone. It’s a constant attachment.” Sure enough, out came her
Smartphone
.

“We must be kindred spirits then.” Taking a deep breath, I ventured on. “Which I guess is some sign from the universe that we should become study buddies or something. Seeing we’re in the same classes,” I added.

“Absolutely. I could always use a little help, especially with bio lab. I was hoping to find a study group to join but this is much better.” I must’ve given her a confused look, because Stephanie blushed. “I’m not really a large group person. I was hoping coming to college would help cure me of my shyness, but yeah . . . you don’t need to know this about me.” Her self-deprecating chuckle revealed her vulnerability. I understood that.

“Then it’s a done deal!” Sticking my hand out, she quickly shook, letting out a sigh of relief. “Us introverts need to stick together, right?

“Exactly.” Stephanie cast a backward glance toward Mr. Chisholm. “Better not keep the professor waiting.”

As she turned to walk down the carpeted stairs—the media room set up in leveled tiers of desks and chairs—she paused mid-step. “It would probably help if we exchanged numbers.”

Giving her my digits, she keyed them in and a second later my own phone vibrated in my pocket. “That’s me. Let me know when you’d like to meet up . . . maybe before our upcoming test next Friday.”

I checked to see my new message. Stephanie Cleary. “Sounds like a plan.” Returning her farewell wave, I continued down to the front of the class, stopping long enough to let the student talking with Mr. Chisholm finish.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” I asked, smiling. My stomach did a dip like the sensation when a rollercoaster drops right before hurtling you into a terrifying twist. I couldn’t think of any reason why he’d singled me out, other than he was the department chair for the scholarship I’d applied for.

I wasn’t expecting an answer yet, telling myself that these decisions took time and consideration. The department secretary didn’t tell me exactly how many people submitted for it, but the idea of getting enough money to cover tuition and book costs was a heady incentive.

Inwardly crossing my fingers, I watched as Mr. Chisholm’s grin broke across his face. A rough guess would put him in his sixties—his hair peppered with silver. One of the first things I noticed when he’d introduced himself was his eyes. Up close now, my impression was the same—he looked like he’d lived his life fully—glimpses of stories peeking out from behind his kind gaze.

I liked him, a lot. The experiences he shared brought each lesson to life, vivid examples to whatever the current discussion was about.

“Ms. Sawyer, yes. Thanks for waiting.” Gesturing for my assignment, he placed it in the pile he was gathering. “I won’t take too much of your time but I thought you might like to know . . . while it won’t be official until you get the formal letter, but the social studies department would like to extend to you the scholarship. Your essay was very impressive and moving.”

A lump formed in my throat at the mere mention of the thoughts and feelings I’d included in my paper. At first, my intention had been to skim lightly over my losing Owen and the devastation it left in its wake. I’d felt it was a very thin line between being genuinely honest and using that dark time to pluck at the committee’s sympathies.

In the end I simply had to trust my motivation—that I didn’t do it to claim some unfair advantage . . . the
poor-Caylee-lost-her-soldier-husband
card. People resonated with those they deemed heroes and the reality that the war made me a widow amplified that sentiment.

But I couldn’t worry about that anymore. I’d written from my soul and that was all that mattered. Judging from the compassion shining in Mr. Chisholm’s eyes, it had also left an impact on him.

“I just tried to answer the question as truthfully as I could. It kind of wrote itself, actually. Once I started, the words poured out.” My voice caught as I remembered the tears I’d shed.

“Well, congratulations. I can’t think of anyone more deserving than you. I know you’ll make good use of the funds.” His lips parted again, ever-so-slightly, the inhalation of breath signaling something else was on his mind, but he wasn’t sure whether to speak it.

Owen. While it wasn’t the time and place for such an emotional conversation, there were other insights I could offer.

“I want to help others like me . . . those who’ve suffered a great loss and don’t know how to bounce back from it,” I added, the beginning of a sincere smile forming. “And veterans. While Owen was killed, I know there are countless others who return home feeling lost, unsure whether they can fit back into the world they left. War changes our military—exposes them to things that forever alter them. Some are able to integrate into society again, others struggle being regular citizens.” It was Cooper that I thought of as I shared my passion with my professor—the way I still caught a glimmer of something . . . old in Cooper’s gaze. Like serving had aged him considerably.

“Post traumatic stress disorder,” he murmured, nodding his head in agreement. “It was something I saw a lot of in my practice. I must say it’s commendable, Caylee.”

His response made me snort. “I actually think it’s a little selfish, if you ask me.” When his brows furrowed, I smiled. “Part of me thinks that by helping others, it actually helps me. Getting over Owen’s death has been one of the hardest and most painful things I’ve ever faced. I don’t think I’ll ever be
okay
with it, but as each day passes, it gets easier to breathe.”

Man, I was a regular chatty Cathy. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d shared so much with a stranger, other than the essay. That wasn’t as difficult, though. Typing had always been easier than speaking those feelings out loud.

“And you don’t think that’s noble? To find meaning in your own suffering by helping others process theirs?” My answer had obviously surprised him.

Shrugging, I fiddled with my messenger bag strap currently slung over my right shoulder. “I guess, but I don’t see it that way. I simply want to help.”

Mr. Chisholm’s features brightened, pride twinkling in his gray eyes. “Then the scholarship is being awarded to the right person. You’re a remarkable young woman, Ms. Sawyer. Your late husband would be extremely proud of you.”

“I’m just being me,” I answered, trying not to burst into flames from all the compliments. My face felt like it was a thousand shades of embarrassed.

“Well, keep doing that. I have a feeling you’re going to make a wonderful difference in the world with a heart like that.”

“As long as it earns me an A in this class, I’ll be happy.” The moment I said it, I wanted to retrieve it. When he tipped his head back and burst into a hearty laugh, I relaxed. The professor had taken the comment the way I’d meant it—as a joke and not some way to wheedle myself into a grade I hadn’t earned yet.

“We’ll see,” he countered, scooping up the assignment papers. “But first I should grade these. I hope you enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Caylee.”

Mr. Chisholm was dismissing me.

Offering my own goodbye and appreciation for the good news, I practically skipped from the room, bursting out from the large student building into the beautiful blue-skied day.

Today couldn’t get any better if it tried!

When my phone buzzed, alerting me to a new text message, I knew I’d spoken too soon.

Please tell me you’re coming to rehearsal tonight. I miss you.

Cooper.

I stood corrected—the day could definitely get better and with a soft grin, I typed back.

I’ll be there. I miss you too.

With a few extra emojis, I hit send, a new spring in my step as I headed toward the library. I still had a few hours of study before it was time to drive over to Cooper’s parents place. It was tempting to call him immediately and tell him my exciting news, but instead I chose to wait.

I wanted to share it with him in person. Rebecca would also want to organize something, maybe a party as a way to celebrate, and I was perfectly fine with that plan.

I was walking on air, everything working out in my favor.

Life was good.

Finally.

Gratefully.