Please Stay for Me (The Brotherhood Series)

by M. W. McKinley

  I push damp strands of hair away from my face. "Yeah, thanks. Sorry I woke you." I try to shake the sleep out of my hoarse voice as I sit up in bed.

  "No worries.” But his expression is the definition of worry. “Been a spell since your last nightmare, yeah?"

  I quickly do the math in my head. "Six months, at least."

  "You were in it pretty deep this time. Everything okay?" His brows are still pulled together.

  Even though my recurring nightmare may never go away, at least I understand it now. "I’m good.”

  Rob seems somewhat satisfied with my short reply as he nods. "I was thinking we could rehearse that new song after Lei and Eric wake up.”

  I move to get out of bed. "Fine with me." That’s the benefit of your bandmates also being your roommates.

  Rob regards me carefully for another moment before nodding again and pushing away from my doorway.

  I throw on the black jeans hanging off the end of my bed and then search my wardrobe for a shirt Rob hasn’t stolen. My nineteen-year-old body shouldn’t feel this sore, but on the rare occasion I have one of my nightmares, I tend to thrash around.

  The floor-length mirror catches my attention. Even though I almost expect to see bruises on my chest and arms, my fair skin is blemish-free as I pull on a clean shirt.

  The kettle makes a high-pitched noise as I join Rob in the kitchen. “I’m heading over to Hugh’s to pick up my bow. Need anything?”

  Steam escapes as Rob fills a mug with hot water. “More guitar picks.”

  “You know I opened the fridge last night and found one sitting next to the milk.”

  He smirks before dropping in a Yorkshire tea bag. “And?”

  “Think you might have a problem?” I tease.

  “Liam, there are people out there in the world with real hoarding problems. You’re insulting them by worrying about a few guitar picks.”

  “Sure.” I sit down at our kitchen table to put on my trainers. “Where's Emily?”

  He shrugs nonchalantly which is completely out of character for him when it comes to his girlfriend of four years.

  "What happened?"

  He stares at his mug as if it will help the tea steep faster. "Just a misunderstanding at the pub last night.”

  "A misunderstanding involving another girl?" I guess.

  As usual, Rob’s impatience wins, and he removes the tea bag too early for the strong brew he prefers. "She should know by now I don't want anyone else."

  I shake my head. “You can’t assume that anymore. Did you see how many people were at our last show? We could hardly get off stage.” I pick up his phone, holding it out. "Call and grovel. You really think you’ll find another girl that will put up with you?”

  He takes his phone but puts it back on the counter. "Already did. She's on her way over."

  I ruffle his hair before heading towards the front door. “You’re adorable, mate."

  As soon as I make it outside, I nearly escape before hearing Ms. Chen’s voice. “Liam?”

  Ms. Chen, Lei’s grandmother, lives in the terraced house next to ours. Both houses are owned by Lei’s parents.

  I turn towards her. “Morning, Ms. Chen .”

  “Good morning. You’re up early.” She tightens the tie around her floral dressing gown. The orange and pink colours are a tad bright for my taste, but they match her colourful personality.

  “Just on my way to Hugh’s shop,” I reply politely.

  Her expression brightens. “You tell that handsome man it’s never too late to get remarried.”

  My laugh sounds too loud for the early morning. “Will you be first in line, then? Not sure how your grandson will feel about that.”

  She scoffs but then smooths down her hair. “I won’t keep you. Tell Lei to stop by later. I made him some butter cookies.”

  My mouth instantly waters. “I can take those off your hands.”

  She waves a finger at me. “I know better than that. Last time you did not share.”

  “That’s only because you make them so good. I can’t help myself.” I’m not normally huge on sweets, but Ms. Chen’s butter cookies are more butter than sugar.

  “I’ll let you go but give Hugh my love.” She goes back to watering the roses by her front door.

  The walk down our long street of terraced houses is quiet since Oxford is a ghost town this early. There’s always a layer of dew on the ground regardless of the weather. Even in the summer, the air always feels wet as if spring is just around the corner.

  Hugh’s shop, Wright Instruments, is only five minutes away which is convenient any time I need a violin repaired or one of my bows rehaired—not to mention supplying Rob’s guitar-pick habit.

  My phone pings with an incoming text. It’s a picture of our twenty-one-pound cat, Beethoven. He’s lying upside down on the top of Mum’s piano with all four paws in the air while staring straight into the camera. Show off.

  I text Dad back. “Mum barely lets me touch her piano! Tell him gloating is unattractive.”

  Technically, Mum and Dad adopted Beethoven before me. If Beethoven were a person, he’d be all about the technicalities. But he’s a cat. I win.

  When I walk around to the alley, I find Hugh unloading an oversized box from the back of his van. Gray hair sticks out from his favorite tweed cap as he strains to carry the box.

  I jog over and take it out from under his arms. “I told you to call me for all the heavy lifting.”

  He wipes his brow and smiles in greeting while holding the back door open. “I know, but it felt too early.”

  “See me here, completely awake. I promise I’m not sleepwalking or anything.” I shift the box around to get a better grip.

  “Yes, yes. I promise I’ll call next time.”

  “Very convincing.” I put the box down on the shop floor as he turns on the overhead lights.

  The familiar smells of wood and polish greet me. Hugh’s shop felt small to me when I was younger. Now, I can take a few steps in each direction and run into a wall. One side of the store has various hand-crafted string instruments on display. The other side has shelves neatly stacked with sheet music. The rest of his shop is used as a workspace.

  Hugh’s the only Master Luthier in Oxford. His whole business is building and repairing bowed instruments. He’ll repair guitars, but he doesn’t build them—much to Rob’s disappointment.

  I walk over to Hugh’s worktable and inspect my bow. “Looks perfect.”

  He hands me a violin. “Try it out.”

  Hugh pulls out two stools before grabbing his own violin.

  I smile as I walk over to the offered stool.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Every time we play together it’s like I’m nine years old again.”

  His smile matches mine. “I’m just glad you were finally brave enough to come inside. I watched you drool over that first violin through the shop window for weeks.”

  “I was not drooling,” I protest .

  “Whatever you say.” His brows knit together. “I still wish I could have done more for you back then. I’ll never forget when you finally faced me, and I saw that black eye of yours.”

  Hugh had visibly blanched before quickly schooling his features. The bruise around my left eye hadn’t fully healed yet, but it had faded from dark purple to a light green colour.

  “You must be having a laugh.” I position the violin under my chin just the way he first taught me ten years ago in this very spot. “You put a violin in my hands and gave me a reason to wake up every morning, despite that bloody awful foster home I was stuck in at the time.”

  He picks up his bow. “Well, I still wish I could have done more.”

  “You gave me everything I needed, Hugh.” I later learned that Hugh had lost his wife a few months after opening this shop, and he was barely functioning during that time. He still gave me free violin lessons and cheese sandwiches whenever I stopped by which was as often as possible.

  I remembe
r copying every move he made during our first lesson. When my bow created that first note as it slid against the strings, I almost didn’t care about whatever waited for me back home. I almost didn’t care that home wasn’t really home. I almost didn’t care I would probably be afraid when I closed my eyes at night. Almost.

  Hugh’s shop, and the man himself, became a safe place for me until I was adopted by my parents. The violin he first put in my hands gave my life a purpose.

  “Vivaldi?” he asks.

  After I nod in agreement, we spend the next few minutes lost in a duet so I can test out my rehaired bow.

  As I’m getting ready to return to the house, Hugh hands me a small box. I groan when I pull out the brand-new pick puncher and immediately try to hand it back.

  “No way. There’s a reason Rob broke the last one.” The pick puncher is exactly like a hole puncher but for guitar picks. Lei’s still upset with Rob over the pick-shaped holes in one of his thin plastic cutting boards.

  He only says, “Unlock the front door on your way out, please.” I can hear the laughter in his voice, though.

  When I get back to the house, the smell of butter makes my stomach rumble.

  "Extra eggs on the stove," Lei says as a greeting.

  Emily’s sitting at the kitchen table. Her fiery red hair is loosely braided to one side, and she wears one of our newer band shirts. Our band name, Brotherhood, is printed on it using a brilliant font Lei created himself.

  I squeeze her shoulder as I pass by. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning to you! How’s Hugh?”

  “Still trying to do too much.” I set my things on the counter.

  Lei immediately snatches up the new pick puncher and gives me a look.

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “It’s from Hugh.”

  “What’s from Hugh?” Rob asks from the sofa as he quietly tunes his guitar.

  Lei hides the puncher in the closest drawer. “Liam’s bow,” he smoothly answers.

  I grab a fork and eat eggs straight from the pan. “Your grandmother made butter cookies again, but she wouldn’t let me deliver them.”

  Lei’s infectious laugh fills the kitchen. “She knows you too well. Maybe the rest of us will get some this time.”

  Eric emerges from his room still half asleep. I do a double take before remembering he dyed his normal dark brown hair white yesterday. I still haven’t gotten used to it.

  Eric sets his drumsticks on the counter before opening the drawer and grabbing another fork. He leans over me to stab a piece of egg out of the pan, so I move it in between us. “Eddie just sent me a text about this weekend.” He looks at his phone while taking another bite of eggs.

  “Tell him we’ll be there.” Eddie is the first person to ever give our band a paying gig. His pub is still our favourite venue even though we’ve outgrown the small space. For our first few gigs, we just set up in the corner where there was room for Eric’s drums. When Eddie mentioned the idea of taking down a wall and expanding in order to add a proper stage, we all pitched in to make it happen. But now, we’ve even outgrown the expanded space.

  “I finished the new flyers.” Lei walks over to the bookshelf to grab a stack of neon green papers and holds them up for us to see.

  Rob groans. "Why are we still taping paper around town when social media exists?"

  Eric gives Rob a look. "I didn't realize we were already selling out The O2. Until that happens, I have no problem putting up a few flyers. We have to keep getting our name out there one way or another. Which reminds me, we need to talk about the music festival.”

  "Honestly, mate, I can't even think about that until this next ULSO concert is over," I reply. He already knows this since I’ve been rehearsing nonstop. The University of London Symphony Orchestra is a multi-collegiate student orchestra I’ve been playing with for the past year.

  "And I'm honestly concerned about your loyalty, mate. " Eric moves around the counter putting space between us. "I'm afraid a time may come when you have to choose between us or your precious violin."

  "That's awfully dramatic, Eric,” Rob says.

  “Is it? We all know the amount of time and practice it takes to play in a symphony, much less the London Symphony Orchestra. Is that not your end goal?"

  I’m not ready to talk about this, especially since I have no idea what I want yet, but I try to swallow back my frustration. "I have not missed a single practice or show. I’ve been available to you, to this band, whenever you needed me.”

  Our touring schedule has been more intense lately. Instead of only playing at local pubs around Oxford, we’ve been driving two to three hours away for gigs at larger venues. We had a brilliant show at Village Underground in London a few weeks ago along with a noticeable increase in our followers on social media.

  Eric holds my gaze. "We'll see, I guess." He turns and walks towards his drums in the corner of our sitting room.

  Rob affectionately grips my shoulder and quietly says, "He's just in a mood."

  Eric isn’t wrong, though. Many people know me as the lead singer of Brotherhood, but less people know I’m a violinist first. There may come a time when I have to choose, and the paths couldn’t be more different.

  Chapter Three

  Avery

  “It’s too early for orientation,” Katherine complains as we sit on a wooden bench near Oxford University’s music department. The campus tour officially began exactly three minutes ago, but Katherine insisted on being fashionably late.

  "Not a morning person?" I ask.

  "Not during the summer.” She pulls long blonde hair away from her face while searching for something in a purse that probably cost as much as my camera.

  "If you were living with Meme, your hands would already be in a flower bed.” The moment I sleep too late in her opinion, a vacuum cleaner accidentally hits my closed bedroom door. Her intent is obvious since she normally sweeps the green-patterned linoleum hallway any other time.

  Katherine pulls out her phone. "You two seem really close."

  "Yep." I try not to dwell on the reasons why we’re so close as I kick a beige pebble away from the grass so it safely returns to the pathway.

  After being on campus a few days, I’ve quickly learned Oxford University loves their grass. Maybe the word love isn’t strong enough. Fancy little engraved signs warn people to stay off, which is strange since every coming-of-age movie has the same scenes of college students either lounging or playing Frisbee on a patch of grass somewhere on campus. Maybe I just haven’t come across grass designated for the stereotypical college experiences yet.

  Like their grass, the buildings that make up Oxford University are neat and pristine, all built out of the same matching natural-colored limestone. The music department is right next to Christ Church, where I already spent two hours yesterday taking photograph after photograph. I may have sacrificed a few blades of grass in order to capture the perfect shot.

  "Did you know Meme mailed me a card last year saying how much she liked my solo in the Christmas concert?" Katherine’s tone is laced with disbelief. “I mean, who is actually that thoughtful?”

  "That sounds like her.” I can’t help but smile. “My Mom was the same way. She left sticky notes for me everywhere. Not just in my lunch box or on the fridge but in really random places with really random messages.” One time I found a note stuck on my bedroom window when I was ten that said, “I used to look out this window when I rocked you to sleep.” Of course, I also found one that said, “Please stop sneezing on the laptop.” I still say that note wasn’t for me, though.

  “I’m sorry about your mom.” She pauses. “I should have said something when you first moved to town.”

  My focus drifts back to the ground. “No worries.” Someone should teach a class on the art of graciously accepting sympathy because I still never know what to say. “Anyway, Meme keeps the sticky-note tradition alive.” I pull pepper spray out of my purse to show Katherine the attached note. "Carry everywh
ere and trust no one. Except Mr. Darcy, bring him home."

  Katherine laughs. "I didn't know she was a Darcy fan."

  "Apparently, my grandfather was the 1940's version of Mr. Darcy, and she refuses to remarry until she finds another one."

  "She should have packed herself in your suitcase then because there are definitely no Mr. Darcy's in our town. Unless we gave J.R. a makeover."

  The thought makes me laugh. J.R, Meme’s next-door neighbor, has a wardrobe consisting only of stark white undershirts and green army pants. He lost part of his left arm in World War II and has a metal clamp prosthesis in place of his hand. I always watch in awe as he uses it to expertly pack a pipe with tobacco. He also grows the most delicious grapes in town. I’m convinced he’s secretly sweet on Meme.

  With the note still stuck on my fingertip, I think about Mom’s sticky-note tradition. I always assumed she started it, but now I realize it was probably passed down from Meme. The first note Meme ever wrote me was in ninth grade. It wasn’t just my first day of ninth grade but my first day at a brand-new school.

  The summer after Mom died, I pretended I was just visiting Meme for the summer which was completely normal. I visited her for three weeks almost every summer for as long as I could remember. But once school started, there was no more pretending. At fourteen years old, that was my new life. I was no longer just visiting Meme; I was living with her. My mother was dead, and my father had totally checked out.

  My first day of school had been awful. Everyone was curious about the girl who lost her mother. Why was she there? Why wasn’t she living with her dad?

  After school, I noticed the sticky note above my bed-side table. In Meme's handwriting it said, "Have a great first day of school! I love you." I must have missed it in my rush to get out the door that morning.

  As the edge of the note stuck on my fingertip, just like this one, I joined Meme in the kitchen with the intention of thanking her for the thoughtful gesture. When I sat down at the small kitchen table, my gaze shifted to the set of salt and pepper shakers sitting in the middle. They were porcelain Dachshunds I found at the farmer's market we always went to on Sundays in Seattle. I mailed them to her after Peewee, her dog of twelve years, passed away.