Counterpoint and Harmony Page 4

  I wish I would’ve taken control of my life like this years ago. But for now, I’m happy.

  The first night with Lauren and Gabby is basically the perfect slumber party scene from the movies—pizza, ice cream, our favorite movies, and talking and laughing till two in the morning.

  Gabby and I manage to sneak into the music building for Lauren’s rehearsal, where Clara, the violin professor, greeted Gabby with a hug and genuine pleasure. I could tell Gabby was nervous because she wouldn’t stop babbling about seeing Clara again on the way over.

  Since the recital hall is only booked for ninety minutes for the rehearsal, we settle down quickly and Gabby and I get aisle seats about halfway back. Clara sits closer to the front so she can talk to Lauren or Cheryl, the accompanist, if she needs to. The house lights stay on, so it doesn’t feel the same as a real recital. But that detail is easily ignored once Lauren starts playing.

  She’s amazing.

  She starts with a concerto by Sibelius, and it’s beautiful. I’m mesmerized by her performance, the way she seems to embody the music, moving with it, not in a contrived, showy way, but like she’s part of the flow.

  Clara has her run through everything like she’s giving a performance. Gabby and I clap enthusiastically between each piece, and I give a piercing whistle after her impressive performance of unaccompanied Bach—Gabby told me it’s the E major sonata. My whistle draws a censorious look from Lauren’s accompanist, who’s just stood to climb back on stage for the last piece.

  When they’ve finished, Clara makes a few comments and has Lauren play through a couple of spots again. It’s fascinating watching them talk through their music in shorthand, a completely different language to the uninitiated. But at the same time, it’s so similar to my own experience of rehearsals. Everyone knows the abbreviated names for the songs and the shorthand for the dance sections, so you only have to say, “Let’s run ‘Kisses’ again,” and they set the stage for “Kisses in the Night,” one of my singles from my last album.

  Gabby and I sneak back out through the greenroom door. Lauren acts as our lookout, making sure no one’s just standing around watching when we quickly head for the door outside. Fortunately, the greenroom door is right next to the exit. At this time on a Friday, no one’s really around. The cold temperatures of February help us even more, making it normal for us to be wearing hats and hooded jackets and keeping our head down against the wind blowing today. Plus, it’s late enough that the sun is almost down.

  At Lauren’s, we hang out for about an hour, until her parents arrive. Gabby and I have a hotel for tonight, despite Lauren’s protests that we could all stay in the house.

  Lauren gestures at her parents after giving them both big hugs. “These are my parents, Renee and Cliff. Mom and Dad, this is Charlie. And you remember Gabby.”

  Their faces light up as Gabby steps forward, and they both give her a hug. “So good to see you!” Renee exclaims before releasing her. When Gabby steps back, Renee holds out her hand to me. “And Charlie. We’ve heard so much about you.” She’s staring at me intently, like she recognizes me but can’t figure out why.

  “It’s so nice to meet you both.” I accept her handshake and then Cliff’s. “Gabby and I are going to get out of your hair for tonight, though. Let us know if we can help at all tomorrow. We’ll be in the greenroom for support.”

  Confusion flickers on Renee’s face.

  “Nonsense,” says Cliff. “You should both join us for dinner tonight, at least.”

  Gabby, Lauren, and I exchange a glance. We all know that would be a disaster. Lauren swoops in. “I think Charlie and Gabby are pretty tired from flying in yesterday. Jet lag and all that. Maybe next time.”

  “For sure,” chimes in Gabby. I just smile, because there’s not likely to be a next time. On the off chance there is, though, or they try to invite me somewhere before the end of this weekend, I don’t want to agree to something in advance that I know I won’t be able to follow through on. Gabby could probably go with them somewhere. Even tonight. She might get recognized, but her celebrity status isn’t like mine. The chances of her getting mobbed at dinner and starting a paparazzi frenzy are pretty low.

  I don’t want to alert the media that I’m here. Especially not when I’m here for a friend. The whole point of sneaking in and out of the rehearsal today was to avoid distracting from Lauren’s big weekend.

  We manage to leave soon after and head for our hotel downtown where Gabby and I are sharing a suite.

  “Man, it’ll be weird being at the Davenport with you,” Gabby says as she drives there.

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

  She giggles. “That’s where Jonathan and I always stayed when he was in town. I’ve only ever stayed there with him.”

  “Ah. Well, don’t go getting any ideas. We have separate bedrooms.”

  Gabby laughs at that. “Don’t worry. I think I can manage to control myself.”

  Chapter Nine

  Pizzicato: pinched, plucked; in music for bowed strings, plucked with the fingers as opposed to played with the bow

  Damian

  I jog to the main entrance of the music building, glancing at the time on my phone. One minute to spare. People should be mostly inside the recital hall, and I can sneak in at the back and avoid questions and looks.

  While everyone’s curiosity has died down over the last month and a half, it’s become a habit to avoid conversation with anyone other than my roommates and friends. My roommates gave me shit for the first few weeks, mostly for holding out on them and still keeping them in the dark about everything, but between all of us getting our junior recitals ready and school in general, the appeal quickly waned.

  The underclassmen don’t have the same set of distractions, apparently. Charlie’s former classmates are the worst, constantly asking me about her. Which makes it impossible for me to put her out of my mind and move on. And God knows I’ve been trying.

  Lauren’s finally given up on talking to me about her, at least.

  A familiar sounding giggle drifts out of the greenroom, catching my attention as I hurry past. I stop, and the answering laugh sounds even more familiar. My gut clenches. Charlie? Here?

  “You coming in?” One of the sophomores who’s working for the music department this semester as a recital usher has put up the doorstop and is holding the door, waiting for me to respond. When I don’t say anything, he lifts his brows. “The recital’s about to start. That’s why you’re here, right?”

  I lick my dry lips. “Yeah,” I croak out. The laugh hasn’t sounded again. Maybe I was imagining it.

  Forcing my legs to move, I step forward, taking a program from the sophomore and stepping through the door so he can close it behind me. I turn right and head up the steps in the back, scanning for an aisle seat. There’s one on the next to last row. Not the best seat, but it’s a small enough hall and the acoustics are fantastic. The recital will sound good anywhere.

  Lauren’s repertoire is almost as familiar to me as my own. She’s in the practice rooms as much as I am, so I hear her playing daily. It’s a pleasure to hear her like this, though, dressed in a shimmery green and gold gown, looking like a goddess descended to gift us with beautiful music.

  She nails the Sibelius, playing perfectly with the piano. When I see the student on the other side of the accompanist lean forward to turn a page, my gut clenches again. After hearing the laughter that sounded like Charlie, I wonder if that’s her. She has short dark hair, too, like Charlie. And for a second, I think maybe it is. Maybe the last couple of months were all a bad dream, and it’s still last semester. She’s a normal student, doing normal piano major things like turning pages for the accompanist during recitals. Sitting next to me. Coming home with me after.

  But Charlie’s hair isn’t brown anymore. The pictures I saw of her at the Grammy’s showed her with blond hair. A little longer than I’m used to. And no glasses.

  No, that’s another student. Another piano major
.

  I shake off the nostalgia and twist of pain, refocusing on Lauren as she starts her Bach sonata.

  After it’s all over, I wait till after we’ve clapped her off the stage once and she’s come back out for another bow and to accept a bouquet of flowers from her parents. As everyone claps again, I slip out of my row, crouching down next to the professor in the aisle seat on the row in front of mine and offering him a pen and my program to sign so I get credit for being here.

  He raises his eyebrows at me in question as he takes the pen. “I have to be somewhere,” I whisper, just loud enough for him to hear me. It’s a lie, but he accepts it without question, nodding and scribbling his signature across the front of my program before handing it back to me.

  The clapping continues as Lauren leaves the stage again, tapering off as I slip out the door to the lobby, the sophomore from earlier catching it before it closes and propping it open.

  The violin professor’s voice follows me out, announcing the reception in the lobby. The tables were already set up when I got here, covered in white plastic tablecloths, green plates and napkins set up next to the cake in its box, dishes of candies and nuts flanking it. A punch bowl is on the other table, and Glenda, the woman who actually runs the music department, is already there dumping raspberry sherbet and 7-Up into a large plastic punch bowl. The standard post-recital reception punch.

  I’m tempted to stay, even though I already told that professor I couldn’t. Recital cake and punch is always good. But I need to practice. And I don’t want to end up either trapped in conversation with a freshman lusting after details about Charlotte James or forced to be rude by just leaving. Better to duck out early. I’ll congratulate Lauren when I see her in class on Monday.

  But before I can turn and head for the instrument storage room to grab my cello and head upstairs, the door to the greenroom opens. I hear whispering, and that laugh again that sounded just like Charlie’s. Two figures emerge dressed in heavy coats with the hoods up. As the second lets the door go, the first turns and locks eyes with me, her pink lips open in a gasp.

  “Charlie?”

  “Damian.” My name on her lips is the best and worst sound in the world. A knife in the gut and a balm to the agony that’s dogged my steps since she left. Since I pushed her away.

  I take a step toward her, unable to stop myself. I’m peripherally aware that Glenda has stopped mixing the punch to stare at us.

  “Damian?” That’s Gabby’s voice, and my eyes flicker to where she stands next to Charlie. Gabby looks at Charlie, who’s still staring at me, frozen.

  People are coming out of the recital hall, and Gabby tugs on Charlie’s arm. “We have to go.”

  “Wait.” I take another step as they move toward the door, like I’m being pulled by some kind of force that connects me to Charlie.

  Charlie casts a glance at me over her shoulder, her mouth moving, but no sound coming out.

  With an exasperated sigh, Gabby gives Charlie’s arm another tug. “Come on.” Then she looks at me. “You too, Damian. Now.”

  I follow after them without thinking, not even sure where they’re going or what they’re doing. I just know that if I don’t, I won’t get to talk to Charlie. Knowing she’s here, this close, and not talking to her is impossible.

  I pushed her away before, refusing to return her calls or make contact before she left town. Now she’s here, in front of me, everything about her calling to me again. I know it’s a bad idea. I know I’ll get burned. But like a moth once more, I hurl myself through the darkness, aiming for her light.

  Chapter Ten

  Interval: the distance between two notes

  Charlie

  Damian’s here. Following us.

  The sight of him in the lobby—at once so familiar and so foreign—shocked me, and I haven’t recovered. The same hair, same glasses, same gorgeous mouth and trim frame. But the look on his face was like he’d seen a ghost. Or a celebrity. He used to always look at me with tender affection. Love. Now I’m just a weird stranger, a curiosity, like I am to everyone else.

  Gabby drags me to our rental car, never releasing her hold on my arm. Like she knows that if she quits forcing me to move, I’ll freeze again and just stare at Damian.

  Whose footsteps I hear catching up to us in the dark.

  Gabby takes the keys from my hand and unlocks the car. “I’ll drive, you talk to him,” she mutters low enough so only I can hear her. “Get in the back seat and scoot over.”

  I do as she says, leaving the door open for Damian. He hesitates in the open doorway, and I think he might not climb in.

  But then he does. The door closes behind him with a sense of finality. We’re alone.

  Only for a second, though, because Gabby climbs in the front seat and starts the car.

  Silence stretches between us as Gabby navigates out of the parking lot. I don’t know where to look. I keep glancing at Damian, then out the window, then at Gabby. She’s looking out the windshield, paying attention to where she’s going, but I catch her giving us concerned glances in the rearview mirror.

  After a moment, she clears her throat. “So, Damian. How’ve you been? How’s your semester going? You have a recital this semester too, right? And I think Lauren told me you finaled in that competition. Which one was it? The Gem State Concerto Competition, right?”

  “Yeah.” Damian’s voice is croaky and hoarse, but he clears his throat and says it again. “Yeah. I did. So did Lauren.”

  “Yeah, she told me,” Gabby says.

  I finally turn and actually look at Damian. “Wow. Congratulations,” I say quietly. “I hadn’t heard. You must be excited.”

  His mouth twists as he glances at me then looks straight ahead again. “Thanks. Yeah. I wouldn’t expect you to keep tabs on me. I’m sure you’re busy.”

  “If Lauren knew, I thought she would’ve told me,” I mutter, looking out the window, blinking away the sting of tears. I don’t know why his comment about being too busy to keep up with news of him hurts so much, but it does. I should be used to it, though. After he found out who I am, he wanted nothing to do with me. That clearly hasn’t changed.

  But if that’s the case, why did he follow us and get in the car?

  Turning to face him, I let my frustration bubble to the surface. I’ve tamped it down and kept it at bay long enough. Keeping my emotions in check didn’t help at Gabby’s reception. What do I have to lose now?

  “What are you doing here, Damian?”

  His head whips around to face me, a passing streetlight illuminating the surprise on his face before the shadows of the back seat close in again. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  I snort, crossing my arms and settling against the door. “I came for Lauren’s recital. I should think that was obvious from the fact that I came out of the greenroom after it was over. But I came to support her, not to steal her thunder. So Gabby and I had to miss the reception, and the longer we stayed in the building, the greater the chance of someone barging into the greenroom and finding us.”

  “Or us being too loud and someone coming in to find out who’s still in there,” Gabby interjects.

  I can’t help smiling. “Yeah. Or that. So that explains our presence. Why did you tell me to wait? And follow us into the car?” I make a gesture at him with one hand, inviting him to answer.

  We’ve stopped at a red light, and a bright white streetlamp washes over all of us as we wait for it to turn green. The muscles in Damian’s jaw are working, and his hand is clenched in a fist on the seat between us, and I’m growing more curious than ever to hear his answer.

  “I don’t know,” he says finally, the light fading as we pull away from the corner. “I saw you, and I couldn’t … I didn’t …” He trails off, and I wait. Wanting an answer, but not willing to push. I reached out repeatedly over Christmas break, only to be rejected, ignored. I’m not willing to beg. Not anymore.

  He lets out an explosive breath. “I miss you.” His hard ey
es look me over, seeming to flay skin from bone. “At least the version of you that I knew.”

  Gabby visibly bristles at that. “Look, Damian—“

  “It’s okay, Gabby,” I interrupt. “He’s allowed his feelings. Even if you think he’s being unfair.”

  She catches my eye in the mirror, and I hold her gaze calmly. Much more calmly than I feel, because I want to defend myself too. But that didn’t work before. There’s no reason to expect it to now, even though I love Gabby for wanting to try.

  Damian snorts at our exchange, and I look at him again, eyebrows raised.

  “Please continue. What version of me are you referring to?”

  We’ve stopped in a parking lot somewhere, I don’t know where. But it’s well lit, and I can see Damian clearly now. He looks me over again. “The version of you with dark hair and glasses. The one who was just another student, not some …” He waves a hand at me.

  I suck in a breath, getting angry again despite my earlier attempt at calm. “Some what?” I spit. “Some … slut? Some … spoiled rich girl? Some …”

  His eyes widen in alarm and dismay. “No! No. God, no,” he interrupts before I can continue supplying endings for him. He shakes his head and takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes before putting them on again and looking at me, his face softer now, the anger leached away. “No, Charlie,” he continues softly. “None of those things. I’d never think any of that about you.” He looks away and takes a deep breath. “I meant some celebrity who’s miles out of my league.”

  “Oh.” It’s the only response I can muster. And now Damian won’t look at me again. His words echo in the space between us, making me more aware than ever of the distance that separates us. Not just physically. For him, I’m no longer the girl he dated and fell for. I’m something—someone—else. Some other. Unknown and separate. Far outside the bounds of his experience.