In Harmony (9 page)

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.

There was only one problem.

“What are you going to play?” Harman asked.

I’d been giving this some thought. There was absolutely nothing written for cello and electric guitar—I’d looked—so it would have to be….

“Original composition,” I told him.

I could feel Connor’s eyes on me. I hadn’t shared that little gem with him.

“So, in addition to all the rehearsals, you’re going to compose the music as well?” Harman asked.

“Correct,” I told him, with no idea how we were going to do it.

He sighed, but wrote it in the book. I could feel the tension in my stomach unwind a single notch. We were in.

Now all we had to do was pull it off.

***

Later that morning, we had our first rehearsal. I knew that, since we hadn’t even started composing yet, we couldn’t really
rehearse.
I just figured we should get together and play, and exchange ideas. Mostly, I just wanted to get a feel for what it was going to be like to work together.

He let me go into the practice room first, which was surprisingly polite and gentlemanly of him. But it meant that when he squeezed in, I didn’t have anywhere to go. And then, when he had to come even further into the room so he could get the door closed behind him, he was pushed right up against me, just like when he’d caught me on the steps what seemed like weeks ago.

We stared at each other, my head level with his chest, my face upturned to him. I was close enough to feel his body heat, and it seemed to radiate from him like a furnace. “Sorry,” I said, even though it wasn’t my fault.

He closed the door and finally stepped back. Then I had to get my cello out of its case. Backing up with it in my arms, I felt my ass brush against his groin, my hair stroke his stubbled chin. “Sorry,” I said again.

And then the strangest sensation, like my hair had lifted just fractionally, and then fallen again. Like something had sucked a few strands of it upwards.
Did he just smell my hair?

No, don’t be stupid. Or if he did, he meant it as a joke. He’s playing with you. Just ignore it.
I turned and promptly tripped over the cable he’d stretched across the room to power his amp. I caught myself, but his hands were already on my waist, so big they felt like they could almost encircle it.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, and I said it so quickly it sounded like I was snapping at him. “I mean: thank you. Sorry.” I was blushing and trembling like an idiot. What was wrong with me?
I’m just nervous.

We finally sat down, no more than three feet separating us. He cranked his amp down to almost its lowest setting, so as not to drown me out.

“So,” he asked. “How are we going to do this?”

I took a deep breath. “We’ll divide the recital into five sections—two minutes per section, so ten minutes total. For each section, one of us will do the melody, the other will do the harmony. I’ll lead three, you lead two.”

He was grinning. “How about
I
lead
three and
you
lead two
?
”

We’d have to compose the parts we led and then give them to the other person so that they could learn the harmonies. The more I let him lead, the more he had to compose and the more reliant I was on him. “Just trying to save you work,” I told him. “I hate to remind you, but we have to get your grades up, too. Let me take more of the composition.”

His smile tightened. “I want to do more of the composition.”

Because you think you’re better?
He really was arrogant…but I couldn’t afford to make him angry. “You know what? How about we just make it six sections. Three each. How’s that?”
Does that satisfy your ego?