In Harmony (29 page)

I’d been so focused on just graduating that I’d deliberately put all thoughts of the New York Phil out of my mind. But as I basked in the sunlight, I dared to hope. I had no idea how the scout would react to a duet as weird as ours, but if we aced it there was always a chance. Maybe, just maybe, I could get my dream back.

My phone rang and I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

Syrupy-sweet words given a kick by the heavy Irish accent. “
Karen!
I’m not interrupting your practice, am I? Connor told me how hard you two are working.”

Ruth?!

“No, it’s…fine.” I could feel my toes curling in response to the woman.

“When can you meet for coffee? I want us to be friends.”

My brain shorted out. She wanted us to be friends?! “Er…great. Noon?”

“Perfect.” She almost purred as she said it. “Let’s do Harper’s. Okay?” She made it sound like she was in a hurry, so I couldn’t think about it for long.

“Sure,” I said, and she hung up.

I had to run through the conversation in my head a few times before I realized that she hadn’t given me any choices at all, apart from choosing the time. But hey, this was a good thing, right? I’d assumed exes were always evil and to be avoided, but Connor considered her a friend and his friends should be my friends. Maybe that’s just how it worked—everyone was just mature and sensible and friendly about exes. It wasn’t like I had much experience to go on.

I had to scramble to get ready because I needed to go shopping before I met Ruth. She’d managed to throw out my entire day, turning what should have been a fun trip into a mad dash.

When I hit the stores, I spent most of the time searching for the perfect dress. I eventually found something I thought would work—a black jersey number that came down to just above my knees and had a neckline that was just the right side of my comfort zone. I grabbed some hold ups and a bra and panties set, bought some new makeup and then found a drugstore.

I stood at the condom display comparing different sizes, thicknesses, textures and colors for so long that someone actually came over and asked if I needed help—at which point I grabbed four different boxes, paid and ran.

***

When I got to Harper’s, Ruth had already made herself at home. She was sitting there sipping a black coffee and browsing through a Fenbrook newsletter. For some reason, it made me angry; I didn’t want her in Harper’s, or around Fenbrook, or anywhere near Connor and me. It felt like she was going to pollute our beautiful, clean future with his past.

I took a deep breath and told myself not to be childish.

As I approached, Ruth stood up and pulled me into a hug and cheek kiss, as if I was an old friend she hadn’t seen in months. She was taller than me, and seemed to be made entirely of bone and muscle, intimidatingly stylish in a white blouse and black leather jeans. She looked—my stomach flipped over—she looked like the sort of girlfriend Connor should have.

“I’m so glad we can be friends,” Ruth told me, as if we already were. “Tell me all about Connor and you.”

It was like being quizzed by an evil stepmother. She was the same age as me, from what I could tell, and yet somehow managed to make me feel like a child. I told her about the recital, and Dan, and how Connor had helped me. I told her about working together, and how we’d fallen in love.

When I’d finished, she nodded. “I understand, luv. When you’re working together all hours, it’s easy to start having feelings for each other.”

That threw me. She made it sound like it had happened by accident, like it was all a mistake, and it wasn’t. Was it?

Ruth leaned in as if about to share a secret and I leaned in, too. “I was a bit surprised, to tell you the truth,” she said. “You don’t
seem
like his type.”

“What’s his type?” I asked quickly, before I could stop myself.

She blinked at me. “Less…studious. More…worldly.”

More
you,
I thought viciously.

Ruth tilted her head to one side. “Oh, luv. I haven’t upset you, have I?” She stood up to leave, and then leaned down again and kissed the top of my head in a way that made me squirm. As she turned to go, the point of her shoe knocked over my bags. Lacy lingerie and four boxes of condoms spilled out across the floor.

“Oh,” she said as I scrambled to pick everything up. “Tonight’s the night, is it?”

I went beetroot red, unable to speak. I was just about to grab the padded, push-up bra I’d bought when her toe pinned it to the floor. “Wise move,” she said, as if offering friendly advice. “Try not to worry about it though, luv. Some blokes go for small ones.”

There was some tittering from the tables around us. I kept my eyes firmly on the floor.

“This has been fun,” said Ruth. “Facebook me.” And she was gone.

Chapter 22

I should have been in the practice room, waiting for Connor and warming up with something easy, but instead I was standing outside and staring at the wall.

I’d chosen a poster to stare at, just so that I didn’t look weird, but I wasn’t even aware of what it said. My mind was back in Harper’s, going over and over what Ruth had said. There had to be some truth in it. He
was
used to more experienced women—had to be, given that pretty much anyone qualified as
more experienced
next to me. What if I was lousy in bed? What if I made a total fool of myself?

Warm lips kissed me just behind my ear and I leaped a clear foot into the air. I landed and found Connor standing behind me, grinning. I punched him on the shoulder.

Part of me was nervous—aside from the things Ruth had said, it was the first time I’d seen him since he’d said he loved me. I had some crazy, instinctive worry that maybe it had all been a dream, or a horrible mistake.

But he took my hand and drew me in close, and then he was leaning down to kiss me, warm and slow, my lips flowering open under his as his hands slid through my hair. For a second, I was worried that someone would see us kissing…then I switched to hoping they would.
Screw Ruth,
I decided.

Connor turned me back around to face the wall, grabbing me around the waist and nuzzling my neck.

“What are we reading?” he asked, looking at the poster over my shoulder.

For the first time, I focused on it. Most of the posters around Fenbrook were lurid colors, to try to catch your attention. This one was white, the sign of officialdom. I read it and sighed. “
The Fenbrook Improvisation Challenge. A Timed Composition for Extra Credit.
Even
I’m
not hardcore enough to enter that.”

“Hardcore?”
he asked.

“Shut up. You know what I mean. You have to be
seriously
good.”

“What’s so hard about improvising? I can improvise.”

I craned over my shoulder and looked pityingly at him. “No, you
fail to write stuff down
and have to wing it from memory. That’s just sloppy—”

“It’s rock n’ roll, is what it is.”

“Which reminds me, you need to write down all of your sections
properly. Neatly.
Not on the back of a pizza box.”

“Yes ma’am.” And it sounded so good, with his accent, that I would have forgiven him anything.

“Anyway,” I told him, “the improv challenge is horrible. They play you a melody and then you have to compose around it, and then perform it. Live on stage, in front of everyone, and you only get one shot.”

“How many days do you get to compose?”

“You get thirty minutes.”

He went quiet. “Okay, that
is
pretty hardcore.”

I turned to face him. “Surely you remember all this? They do it every year, just after the recitals.”

He thought about it. “I missed last year’s. Hangover.”

“What about the year before?”

“Also hungover.”

“Connor, have you ever actually been to a recital, your entire time at Fenbrook?”

“Yes!” Then he looked down at his feet. “No.”

I just stared at him.

“It didn’t seem very important, alright? I was never going to do my final recital—I always thought I’d flunk out long before this. And I didn’t see any point in going along the first three years, just to watch that year’s seniors do theirs.”

It suddenly made sense. The insecurity he’d opened up to me about in his apartment—what could be scarier than hearing student after student perform, if you doubted your own ability?

“Come on,” I told him. “Let’s rehearse.”

But as soon as we were inside with the door closed, it was difficult not to think that
we’re alone together.
We caught each other staring: me at his arms as he took his jacket off, him at my bare stomach as I shrugged off my cello case and my sweatshirt rose.

“We have to work,” I said seriously.

He just looked at me with those big, blue-gray eyes and I nearly threw myself into his arms right then.

“
Don’t,”
I said, half warning and half joking.

He stared for a second longer and then relented. “We’re going out tonight though, yeah?”

I nodded “Oh yes.”
Tonight’s the night,
I heard Jasmine say, and a little thrill went through me. Then I heard Ruth saying the same words and winced, annoyed at having it tarnished.

Our recital piece was made up of six sections—three composed by him, three by me—and so far we’d written four of them. With just over a month to go, we still each had one section left to write. I’d started to try to mix the sounds of my cello and his electric guitar together, but I couldn’t get it to mesh. It felt like the sections were tracking our relationship: the first pair had been very different, very
us,
before we knew each other; for the second pair he’d written my personality into the music and I’d written his; somehow, I knew the third pair would be us coming together.

Since the first rehearsal, the tiny practice room had been thick with tension, both when I thought I hated him but wanted him, and when I knew I loved him but didn’t know how he felt. Now, though…now it was different again. Before, I’d gazed at his arms and imagined them wrapped around me, or seen the way his jeans pulled tight around his thighs and dreamed of running my hand over the warm fabric. Now, I sat there
knowing
that, that night, we’d be together. We’d…fuck.

I thought back to my dream of him, of me as innocent virgin, corsets and heaving bosoms and pleas for gentleness as he ravished me. I thought of Jasmine and riding him cowgirl and hula-hooping. Was that any more realistic than my fantasy? Could I really pull off
seductress?

“You okay?” asked Connor.

“Fine. Why?”

“You haven’t played a note in about five minutes.” He was grinning, as if he somehow knew exactly what was going through my mind.

I flushed and stared at my music, trying to get the thought of him fucking me out of my head. At that exact second, my phone rang. The screen burned accusingly with my father’s name.

“Do you need to get that?” asked Connor.

I thought about how I’d have to lie to him, telling him how everything was going just fine with Connor, “the violinist.” The irony was that it
was
going well. The piece was really coming together. If only my father would trust me….

“No,” I told Connor. “I’ll call them back.” I turned my phone off. I’d call him back the next day and apologize, but I wasn’t letting anything—not even my father—spoil our first day together.

***

I’d been so focused on what was going to happen after the date that I hadn’t thought about where Connor was going to take me. When he announced dinner and a movie, I got this big, silly grin on my face. It was about the most traditional, couple-y thing we could have done, and it felt perfect.

We had dinner in a French place tucked away in a backstreet, where the tables were so small we could talk in whispers without even leaning into each other. We spent at least half the meal eating one-handed because we were holding hands across the table, and when the waitress said how cute we were it didn’t feel cheesy or silly at all. It felt fantastic.

“After we graduate—” he began.

I gave a little intake of breath.

“Oh come on—you think I’m going to jinx it?”

“Yes,” I said seriously.

“Okay…
if
we graduate…the New York Phil, huh?”

It felt like there was just enough of a chance that I could dare to talk about it. I let the glow of excitement build inside me. “Yes. Playing concerts, touring the world….” I grinned. “They play in Europe. I’ve always wanted to see Europe.”