Copyright @ 2020 by M.W. McKinley
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form on by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. M.W. McKinley is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
First Edition: December 2020 (ebook)
ISBN 978-0-578-81898-6 (ebook)
Published by M.W. McKinley
(facebook.com/mwmckinleywrites)
For my husband,
who never gave up on our love story
Prologue
“Where words fail, music speaks.”
Hans Christian Andersen
Avery
Everything was oversized. Oversized Christmas trees were on display in store windows. Oversized angels made of white lights held oversized trumpets. Oversized ornaments in the shape of red shiny balls were stacked together as if one might roll off any second.
"Why were some of them wearing clothes and others weren't?" Dad asked as we hurried down a jam-packed sidewalk nearly colliding with another tourist holding his phone in the air for a selfie.
"I liked the orange cat’s vest. It was snazzy," Mom said.
"But they're all cats. Cats don't wear clothes." Dad pulled me close as we maneuvered around a light pole papered with flyers.
"Have you been in a pet store lately?" Mom argued. "They're full of adorable little outfits for cats."
I looked up in time to see Dad playfully roll his eyes. "That doesn't make it any less ridiculous."
As a gust of cold wind barreled between the impossibly tall buildings and nipped at my skin, I pulled my coat tighter. Mom said New York City during the holidays would be magical. So far, it had been magically arctic. It would make more sense if polar bears were walking around sightseeing instead of us.
"It's a Broadway musical, not a nature documentary," I said.
Dad still hadn’t recovered from the matinee of Cats we saw earlier that day. He was too literal to appreciate a story about a bunch of cats who threw a party and competed to see which one of them would be reborn into a younger, hotter cat. Sure, it was weird, but it wasn’t the National Geographic channel.
Mom nodded in agreement. "Excellent point, Avery." She rearranged her sky-blue scarf so it covered more of her neck.
Dad pretended to take his coat away from me. "Hey, now! Whose side are you on?"
I gripped his lapels with my mitten-covered fingers while snuggling closer. "Whoever keeps me warmer!"
He smiled before wrapping his arms around me tightly as we waited at the crosswalk. A city bus whooshed past us causing my chin-length brown hair to ruffle and tickle my cheek. The smell of exhaust made my nose wrinkle until it was replaced by the sweet smell of honey-roasted nuts as we crossed the street. I looked longingly at the street cart as my parents picked up their pace towards the next block.
When we finally made it to Lincoln Center, I could hear water splashing as a large round fountain came into view. The fountain was surrounded by three almost identical, enormous cream-colored buildings with columns that reached the roof. The faces of the buildings were made completely of glass, which created a soft glow around the entire area.
We jogged to the box office since we were in a rush to make a New York Philharmonic performance in time. It was as if my parents took all the Tripadvisor recommendations and attempted to squeeze them into one weekend.
Overhead lights flickered as we climbed the stairs to the second-tier balcony. We apologized repeatedly while stepping over people to find our seats just as the lights dimmed completely. I settled in for a two-hour nap by slouching down and resting my head against the back of my cushioned chair. We could be doing something fun like getting our aura’s read over on Canal Street, but instead we were here.
My eyes were still closed as the opening notes of the orchestra echoed throughout the large space. The sounds of strings, brass, woodwinds, and percussion blended in a way that made my body become suddenly still but at the same time made my heart race. The intensity of the music reminded me of the kind of thunder that rumbled for a few long seconds but was only a preview of something more powerful to come.
It felt as if the notes were floating and expanding around me until every tiny molecule of air was filled with music. The hairs on my arms stood up as if they were inviting the sounds inside. Something in me shifted even though I had lived twelve long years with music never once affecting me this way. I opened my eyes just to be sure I wasn't in some exhaustion-induced dream from walking around the city all day.
The sound of Mom’s sniffling tore my attention away from the performance. A tear had escaped the corner of her eye. I watched it trail down her cheek and rest on her jawline. I thought she would make a move to wipe it away, but she let it rest there proudly as silent praise for how much the music affected her.
Not that it took much for Mom to cry since I found her on the couch just a few days ago crying over an Expedia commercial. But this time, I completely understood as a few of my own tears escaped.
When she noticed, she smiled and ignored them as if she read my mind.
My plan of napping completely abandoned, my chair creaked as I leaned forward and tried to absorb every note. After the last song, and a standing ovation, I almost expected my parents to say, "We told you so!" I would have totally deserved it this time.
After we left the concert hall, I saw a boy around my age over to the side pulling a violin out of its case. A navy knit hat completely covered his hair, and his matching jacket appeared to be a size too big by the way it hung loosely on his frame. He seemed a bit frazzled as he paced for a few seconds.
As we walked closer, I noticed his violin case was covered in stickers as if he was a traveling musician. When he finally lifted his bow and began playing, I stopped in place. The sounds of the city faded in the background as he moved his bow back and forth. I fell in love with music for the second time that night.
As his jaw caressed the instrument, it seemed as if they were having a conversation. It was immediately clear he was just as consumed by playing as I was by listening. Never had I seen anyone my age so passionate about anything.
I couldn't tell if time was moving too fast or too slowly. But when he finally lowered the violin, his gaze captured mine.
We just looked at each other until someone walked in between us and dropped a dollar in his case. I quickly dug into my coat pocket. When my fingers found a dollar, I sent a prayer up to the candy gods that the chocolate rocks I purchased earlier from Dylan’s Candy Bar didn’t eat up all my cash. Asking my parents for money in front of a cute boy would have been mortifying.
After a pep talk, followed by a deep breath, I took the several steps necessary so I could drop money in his case. I noticed one of the larger stickers on his case read, “Where words fail, music speaks.” That quote really resonated with me after what I just experienced, not only with the orchestra, but with him as well.
I could already feel my cheeks heat as I said, "That was . . . amazing." Even the word amazing felt too insignificant to describe his performance.
When an answering sm
ile reached his remarkably blue eyes, I experienced the crazy feeling of butterflies in my stomach for the first time. It felt like minus something degrees outside, but I was suddenly warm all over. Where the orchestra performance made my heart race, standing in front of this boy made my heart feel as if it might stop all together.
Just as he opened his mouth to finally say something —literally anything would have been fine— our moment was interrupted when Mom touched my shoulder letting me know it was time to leave.
As I followed my parents away from Lincoln Center and the blue-eyed boy, I looked back one last time to find him still staring in my direction. I would have given anything to read his mind. I wanted to know if our chance meeting, that only lasted a few minutes, felt as big to him as it did to me.
It turned out New York City was the first place I fell in love with music. It was the first place I ate the most delicious French toast bagel from a street vendor. It was the first place I stood underneath the largest Christmas tree in the country. And it was the first place I had a crush on a boy.
But New York City was the last place I went on vacation with my parents.
Chapter One
Avery
"I expect to see a different guy on your Instagram page every day. The more British, the better," Trinity says from the back seat as we pull up to a very crowded departure zone at the airport.
"How can you tell how British someone is?" I check the floorboard to make sure nothing accidentally fell out of my purse. It would be just my luck to leave my passport or wallet behind.
"I have a sixth sense about these things.”
"That seems like a wasted sense," my grandmother, Meme, says as she parks in a temporary spot reserved for unloading passengers.
"I'm just saying, I'll be very disappointed if I only see lame pictures of touristy crap," Trinity continues.
"Even though the main reason I'm going is to take photos of touristy crap. " I quickly open my camera bag to make sure my Nikon is still safe and sound. Especially since I upgraded from the fifty-dollar camera Meme got me for my fourteenth birthday. That was the camera that started my whole obsession with photography which, by the way, is totally healthy.
Trinity leans towards the center console, and the smell of her mint gum travels in my direction. "How else am I going to live vicariously through you?"
The chance to photograph places other than my small town in South Georgia was my sole motivation for applying to the study-abroad program at the University of Oxford in England. Guys, British or otherwise, did not play a part in my decision to travel across an entire ocean.
I need to take photos of new places. Something happens when I have a camera in my hands. I feel completely myself. I like the idea of making a moment in time permanent, because in real life, nothing is permanent.
Meme sighs next to me. "Where is the emotional goodbye between best friends I was expecting? You girls can hardly go a day without seeing each other.”
Without another word, Trinity climbs in between the front seats directly into my lap and begins mock sobbing into my shoulder. I start laughing since it tickles like crazy which makes her over-the-top crying turn into laughing as well.
“Watch the camera,” I say while trying to catch my breath.
Trinity gasps dramatically. “Oh no! Did I hurt the baby? Poor Nicki, come here.” She picks up my camera bag from the floorboard and cradles it like an infant.
“Please stop calling it Nicki.” But I can’t help but smile as she smooshes her cheek against the bag.
“It needs a name. You’re not truly a photographer until you name your camera.”
I gently pull the bag away from her face. “It has a name. Nikon Z50.”
“Boring!” Trinity exclaims.
Suddenly, the passenger door opens. I grip the headrest to keep us both from tumbling out.
Meme looks down at us affectionately. “You don’t want to miss your flight.”
The summer heat hits me hard as we manage to untangle and get out of the car. The sounds of horns blaring, luggage wheels rolling along the pavement, and people trying to talk over all the noise surrounds us.
After grabbing my luggage from the trunk, I reluctantly turn to say goodbye. Meme pulls me into her arms, and the familiar scent of her vanilla lotion helps calm my anxiety over traveling to another country for the first time at eighteen years old.
"Promise me you'll be careful, Avery." Her voice wavers. As I pull back to see her face, my grandmother’s hazel eyes are watery underneath her glasses.
"I will,” I promise.
“And I think you should take this.” She opens up her hand to reveal my necklace, the one I usually never take off.
I immediately shake my head. “I’m afraid I’ll lose it.” My hand covers her fingers to close them safely over my most cherished possession.
“You know you won’t. If you haven’t lost it since your mother gave it to you four years ago, you won’t lose it now. No matter where you are.” She removes my hand and holds up the necklace as if she’s going to put it around my neck. “I know you’ll feel better with it on.”
I already caught myself twice on the ride to the airport touching my sternum to find it missing. When I lift my hair so she can clasp it around my neck, I instantly feel better as the silver, warm from Meme’s palm, touches my skin.
“I know your mother wishes she could be here in my place, seeing you off for your first overseas adventure.” Her small smile is touched with a sadness we both share—hers from losing a daughter and mine from losing a mother.
I notice she doesn’t mention Dad, though. “I guess I’ll have to make do with you and Trinity,” I joke since I don’t want to keep talking about my mother while standing in the departure zone.
When I turn towards Trinity, she has her eyes closed while wiggling her fingers. "My sixth sense is predicting you'll have a magical and very British summer romance!" Today, her inky-black hair is slicked back into a low ponytail, and her deep bronze skin is beautifully contrasted against a white eyelet shirt.
My laugh breaks through the noise around us. "Are you pretending to be a fortune teller? Because you just look crazy."
The sight of three women laughing and running towards the sliding glass doors of the airport distracts me for a moment. They’re all wearing the same long flowing skirts but in different vibrant colors of purple, blue, and green as if their destination is somewhere tropical. As their rustling skirts cause shadows to dance along the concrete, I touch my camera bag before remembering I have a flight to catch.
I look back at Trinity trying to remember what we were talking about. "Like I said, the only date I have is with my camera.”
“Kinky. You know Nicki is totally a unisex name—gives you more options.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
I shake my head. “Why are we friends again?”
“Because you love cake.” Her grin is cheek to cheek.
So true. And now I’m hungry.
When I moved in with Meme the summer before I turned fourteen, I met Trinity over red velvet cake. It seemed as if everyone knew about Meme’s daughter, my mother, passing away from breast cancer. Even though the memorial had been in Seattle, where my parents and I lived at the time, people still supported Meme in her hometown which meant bringing over a lot of food.
Trinity gives me a look. "I still think you should consider occasionally putting your camera down. Someone may come along and sweep you off your feet.”
“You’re such a romantic.” I pull her in for a normal hug—the kind people do standing up—since being attacked in the front seat of a car is not part of my love language.
Trinity pulls back, and her expression is serious for the first time. “I’m really going to miss you.”
“Same,” I tell her.
I still can’t believe we’ll be spending most of the summer apart. Sure, we’ll be rooming together when we start college, me at The Art Institute of Atlanta and her at Georgia State University, bu
t that’s more than two months away.
"What about hot British guys standing next to lame touristy crap?" Trinity compromises.
"I'll do my best.” Just the thought of asking a random guy to pose for a photo, however, makes me cringe.
"And don't let Katherine become your new best friend.”
There are students from all over the state enrolled in the same study-abroad program, but Katherine is the only other student from our high school coming along.
"Like anyone could replace you.” I try to pull on the handle of my rolling suitcase, but it gets stuck.
Trinity nods in agreement. "Doubt anyone else has my patience to pierce through that thick skin of yours.” She bats my hand away and easily pulls the handle up as if she’s proving her point.
True again. “See, you have nothing to worry about.”
As I roll my luggage towards the sliding doors of the airport, Trinity yells out, “Bye Avery and Nicki!”
When I turn around and wave one last time, I realize I’m leaving my only support system behind. But Trinity is out of her mind if she truly believes anything, especially an unlikely summer romance, could make me put down my camera.
Chapter Two
Liam
As I roll away from the sunlight streaming in through my bedroom window, my body feels sore. My bare back meets sweat-damp sheets as fragments of the familiar nightmare return one by one. It’s always the same —trapped in a small space, in an abandoned room, with only the sound of silence for company. Since my world is normally saturated with music, silence is the worst of the three.
The sound of knocking is a welcomed distraction. "Just checking on you," Rob says as he puts his hands on either side of my open doorway. Even though his sandy-brown hair is the definition of bedhead, he’s already dressed for the day in dark jeans and a Muse t-shirt suspiciously similar to one of mine.
Please Stay for Me (The Brotherhood Series) Page 1