Find Me in the Dark (3 page)

“It’s nothing,” I tell her.

She isn’t really listening. “Shit. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say.

She cocks her head to the side. “Aren’t you going to be late?” she points out. “Generally you’re out of here before I am.”

Damn! How did she know my schedule so well? Wait, of course she knows my schedule. We’ve been living together for almost three years. “Just got a late start,” I mumble.

“You don’t even have your cello case with you.” She frowns as she grips the doorknob. “What are you doing hanging out by the front door? Are you expecting something?”

I freeze. “No. I just thought it might be fun to go to class with you.”

Her eyes narrow. “But our schools aren’t even in the same direction.”

Shit.

Worst. Lie. Ever.

But can she really blame me for thinking up such a lame explanation this early in the morning? Wait, it isn’t like I can tell her that’s what why I said such a ridiculous thing, even though it’s obvious I’m hiding something, and…

“I mean, not walk to class with you,” I babble. “I just wanted to say good morning to you before you left.”

She steps forward, dark eyes softening with concern. “Are you feeling okay Laura?”

I sigh again and slump against the wall. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

Cassie rubs my shoulder. “You’ve been working so hard lately. It’s alright to take a break once in a while.”

“Yeah, I’m just…” I have no idea what I am. “Yeah,” I finish lamely.

“Yeah,” she repeats, emanating concern.

“Well, I have to get going.” I
need
to get away from that damn empty mailbox and Cassie. I hate lying to my friends so much, but they wouldn’t understand this. Hell, even I don’t understand this. It’s creepy and all kinds of fucked up, and I need it like I need air.

She glances at her bag. “We could skip class. Go get coffee.”

“Thanks,” I smile. “But it would be bad if I missed this class, and you can’t bail on your thesis appointment with Professor McMillan.”

She bites her lip. “Laura…”

“I’m fine, really. We should both just go.”

“You can tell me if anything’s wrong,” she says. “I mean, I wish you would tell me.”

My eyes feel dry. Guilt swarms in my chest. “I’m okay, just tired,” I say with such certainty that even I almost believe it.

I try to make as little noise as possible as I sneak into my advanced Music Theory class. Unfortunately, luck is not with me. As if it wasn’t bad enough that the door is in the front of the room, it closes with a bang. Then, the my chair wails against the linoleum as I pull it out to sit.

A few of my friends in the class give me pitying glances. Professor Cade turns to me with a grin. “Good to see you, Laura.”

“Yeah.” I shrink in my seat as he continues as if I hadn’t just rudely interrupted his lecture.

Professor Cade is half-Moroccan, half-Irish, and (according to every single girl in the music department) 100% hottie. As if his deep chocolate eyes and muscular, mocha skin wasn’t enough to make us swoon, he was also a genius. His major interests are Celtic music, jazz, and African tribal music. Today’s class is on Sub-Saharan cross-rhythms.

He plays. After a few minutes, my nerves begin to soften as I dissolve into the complex beats. I sometimes feel insignificant when I compare the music I make on my cello to things like this. There’s something beautiful about that primal energy that no amount of artifice can ever compete with. The pure, unrefined sound of the drum makes the music seem simpler than it really is.

The rest of class goes by quickly. Professor Cade’s classes always do. It’s impossible to not be drawn in by his passion.

By the end of class, I’ve almost forgotten my inelegant entrance. However, my nerves come back with a vengeance when he turns to me after class. “Laura, do you mind staying a few minutes?”

Worry knots in my stomach. Just barely, I nod. My friend Stacy grins as she gets up from her seat. “Lucky,” she whispers with a wink.

I roll my eyes as I grab my bag and head to the front of the room. Professor Cade is sitting on his desk. “So, how was your summer?”

“Pretty good,” I answer honestly. I didn’t do much, mostly practiced and hung out with my friends, but I did spend a few weeks with my foster mother. I’d gotten really lucky after my mother died. I could have ended up anywhere, facing everything alone, but instead was taken in by a woman who had given me the space and support I needed. The worst thing about living in New York was that I didn’t get to see her often. Still, she understood. This was where my friends were. Where I’d decided to start my new life. And
he
—whoever he was—was here.

Alright, maybe she didn’t know about that last part.

“Good,” Professor Cade says slowly.

I don’t like the sudden shift of tone in his voice.

“Have you thought more about performing with
Bruigh na Boinne
?”

My stomach drops. Of course this is what he’d ask about. Why did I expect anything different? “I really don’t know if it’s my thing…”

“I know you don’t have an interest in singing professionally, but I think that’s why you’re perfect for the group.”

I raise an eyebrow.

He laughs. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like you’d be up there alone.”

“I’m not worried about that.”

He tilts his head, expression concerned. “What are you worried about, then?”

“It just doesn’t seem right for me.”

“It’s perfect for you,” he reassures. I raise my eyebrows. “Alright, maybe not perfect,” he amends, “but you’ll do a great job.”

“Just because I’m the only person who can sing in our folk music class who isn’t otherwise engaged?”

“Look, it’s true I was hoping we could use Krista, but you will also do an excellent job.”

I sigh. Krista is ridiculously talented. After interning in an opera house chorus last winter, she’d headlined their young artist’s summer opera. The director putting on the Winter performance of
La Bohème
had seen her performance offered her role of Musetta. Needless to say, she’d accepted.

“Krista sings, like, two octaves higher than I do,” I remind him. I don’t tell him he’d be better off offering the part to our resident tenor, Phillip.

“That doesn’t matter. This is folk music.” Professor Cade studies me. “The ensemble might even work better with a more soulful, unique voice.”

Well, that was a nice way of saying I was untrained. “I regret getting drunk with all of you during finals and singing karaoke.”

“Hey, you rocked Toni Braxton. I think you’re the only other girl on the planet who can give such a convincing performance of
He Wasn’t Man Enough
.”

I glare at him.

He laughs. “Look, just think about it. And while you’re thinking about it, remember that those who participate in the group do not have to take a final. Also remember that some of the performances are paid gigs.”

I chew on my lip. Not taking a final is always good, and so is money.
Wait a second, am I really letting him push me into this?
“You’re going to tell me to keep thinking about this until I say yes, aren’t you?”

He grins. “Does that mean you’ll think about it?”

Ugh! Damn his dimples! He totally knows what those do to girls. “Okay,” I say, resigned.

His eyes light up. “Okay you’ll do it?”

“No! That’s an ‘okay, I’ll think about it.’”

“Don’t think too hard!” He yells as I turn around and pick up my bag. “And one more thing,” he adds, getting up and rushing to the door to open it for me. “Are you feeling alright?”

I frown. The question throws me off guard.

“You looked upset during class.”

Instinctively, I grab the strap of my bag. It’s stupid because it’s a nervous tick and it looks like one, so he’ll know something’s up. “I’m alright,” I say, hoping he’ll buy it.

I’m not about to tell him about the nightmares. I’ve only told my foster mother, Dolly, Cassie, and Anna about my past, and that was mostly because it’s hard to hide something like that when you wake up screaming in the middle of the night. And I don’t tell anyone about the letters.

His chocolate eyes look at my hand and narrow with concern. “Alright. If there’s anything you want to talk about, just know I’m always here.”

“Thanks,” I say, throat tight. I want to tell him more, but his concern makes things worse. It makes me remember all the things I’m trying so hard to forget.

He pats my shoulder. “Okay. I won’t push anymore, but promise me you’ll think about
Bruigh na Boinne
.”

I smile. “Hey, I already did.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” His grin looks as tight and forced as mine.

I have an hour until I’m due to meet the girls for lunch, so I head back to our dorm.

My breath comes out in great, white puffs as I do my best to pump my arms. It’s hard to book it with a cello. I know he said he was
always
watching, but I really hope he isn’t watching now.

It doesn’t look like anyone else is home, thank God. The mailbox creaks as I open it and reach inside.

My hand slips over smooth artisan paper.

He didn’t leave
. How relieved I am frightens me. I snatch the letter and duck past the trellis, into the small sanctuary we call the courtyard even though it’s not much of a courtyard—just a bench about three feet away from the wall that separates our place from the street.

Usually I wait to open his letters until I know for certain that I’m alone, but my heart is beating too fast. I sit with my back to the trellis. Everyone’s busy with classes. I know that. And yet, I’m afraid someone will see me here, reading this thing. My hands shake so much I have to try twice to open the letter.

I read quickly, skipping over lines and then rereading them.

I thought of you all last night. The memory of you was so real that I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t do anything, almost, I couldn’t even write of it until this morning. You smell like apples and juniper. Do you know that? So sweet and earthy. I felt as if I could sink into you.

I push my knees together. The stone bench is cold and unforgiving, but I barely notice.

I thought that if I saw you, it would satiate some of this longing. I think that was just an excuse. It hurts to stay away from you. I don’t think I can anymore.

I stop. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? I scan to the end, feverishly.

You sometimes practice in the auditorium. There’s no one there tonight. Would you be willing to reserve it for midnight? I want to talk to you
.

I feel lightheaded. My breath is white as the mist around me. I read his last lines again and again. I fold the letter and repeat it in my memory.
Midnight. Tonight. He wants to talk. He feels as if he could sink into me
.

I stuff the letter in my purse, head out to the street, and whip out my phone. Of course I can reserve the auditorium for tonight. The only problem is that it’s girl night.

Well, it wasn’t like we hadn’t started girl night without someone before. Dolly sometimes doesn’t come home until 1 or 2am. Cassie has gone on dates a few times and gushed about it after. It made girl night more fun when we all were looking forward to hearing how someone’s date went, and…

And I realize I probably won’t be able to tell them anything about who I’m out with.

I stop walking. It almost feels like winter, it’s so cold and somber. It looks like I should be in London. Mist is everywhere, curling around the ivy and the thick brick walls that can’t quite quiet the sounds of people and cars on the street.

Reluctantly I text Anna, telling her I won’t be able to make it to lunch. I don’t want to have to answer questions about what I’ll be doing later. My fingers feel clammy as I tell her I’ll be late tonight, too. I blame it on practice and hope she believes it.

I know I’m being crazy. If you go out with someone you don’t know, you tell your friends and give them all his contact info—
and
make sure he knows you’ve done that. You don’t lie. You don’t keep things from them. And you don’t rush out there without even knowing his name or what he looks like.

I know these things, and yet I start walking in the opposite direction of the café my friends and I are supposed to meet at.