Please Stay for Me (The Brotherhood Series)

by M. W. McKinley

  When I lower my bow, I realize I have everyone’s attention. No one is writing anything down. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. Even though I know I didn’t rush any of the audition pieces, I still don’t remember the past few minutes.

  The music director speaks again. “Any questions for Mr. Brooks?”

  “Yes.” The reply comes from the assistant director of music sitting to his left. “You have two teachers written down on your application. Of course, one from Oxford University, but then a Mr. Hugh Wright, whom I understand has been retired for quite some time. Is he your current teacher as well?”

  “Not exactly—”

  “He’s the music store owner, right?”

  My heart rate picks up when I realize the question comes from Andre. He must have actually watched my introduction video. Another thing I know about Andre Merrill—he was adopted at age five. “That’s right.”

  “When did you start taking lessons from him?” Andre asks.

  “When I was nine years old.” I probably started later in the game than most students applying to Juilliard.

  “How often?” He leans back in his chair, my application ignored.

  The question takes me by surprise, but I quickly recover. “Honestly, it depended on how far my foster home was from his shop at the time. Sometimes, every day. Other times not so often if I was being transferred around.”

  “What are Mr. Wright’s qualifications?” another judge asks.

  Andre rolling his eyes catches my attention, but I try not to react as he answers for me. “He was a violin teacher at Oxford University for thirty years, and he played with the London Symphony Orchestra for ten years.”

  “I’ve just never heard of him is all,” the other judge says. This is the other part of my application lacking. Hugh isn’t a violin teacher sought after by students applying to Juilliard or other prestigious schools. Although my Oxford teacher is well-known, it’s clear from my application most of my instruction comes from Hugh.

  “Just because he’s not a well-known teacher doesn’t mean anything. Did you just hear that?” Andre says while waving a hand in my direction. “It seems as if he actually enjoys playing. What did you say in your intro?” He looks down at the paper in front of him. “He put a violin in my hands giving me a reason to live.” Andre slaps his hand on the table. “What are we even talking about?”

  Before the other judge cuts in again, I say, “I know Hugh isn’t a sought-after violin teacher. And I know I started playing violin later than some of your applicants. But to me, the violin has never been just an instrument to master. There’s been many times in my life when this,” I say while holding the violin to my chest, “was all I had. When I say the violin gave me a reason to live, I mean it.”

  I lower the violin. “And I only feel gratitude that my path crossed with Hugh’s. He gave me a passion for the violin I assure you no one else could have. I wouldn’t change anything.” If it costs me Juilliard, so be it.

  The music director lifts his hand, probably worried my speech will continue, but I’ve said everything worth saying. “That will be all, Mr. Brooks.”

  Even though I completely blew this audition, I won’t let anyone think I’m ashamed of the training I received from Hugh. I pick up my case without taking the time to put my violin away. I turn to the judges one last time. “Thank you for your time.” I look at Andre last, and he nods in return. I hold my head up as high as I exit the room.

  The audition might not have gone as planned, but I played my best. And I’ll always stand up for the people in my life I care about. I just wish they could understand on any level what Hugh means to me, instead of questioning his qualifications.

  The first time we met, after he taught me how to properly hold the violin and move the bow, I asked Hugh to play something for me. I was looking for any excuse to stay longer.

  With the first few jagged chords of Bach’s Partita No. 2, I knew my life would never be the same. Constant notes of unrest and then resolution took over the small instrument shop as Hugh’s movements guided his violin expertly. I’ve still never heard anyone master that piece like him—including myself.

  But I remember the day I came close. Hugh told me I could take the violin home free of charge. But in my mind, nothing was free. In compromise, he said when I felt I had mastered my first song, then it would be mine. I picked the same Bach song. Partly to prove to myself I could play it, and partly because I knew there was a chance I might never learn it, which meant I could take lessons from Hugh forever.

  After I finished the song and lowered the bow, I looked at him. Hugh was sitting on his stool with his mouth open. It took him a long moment to speak. “You just did that?”

  I wasn’t sure if it was a question. “I’ve been practicing.” Even when I wasn’t taking lessons from him, he gave me a key to use the shop after hours to practice. Maybe he didn’t realize how often I used that key. Or maybe he did since I always ate the food he left for me.

  He suddenly looked upset. “It’s been what,” he mumbled to himself as he counted off on his fingers, “four months?”

  I assumed he meant how long I’d been playing. “Five,” I corrected him.

  He shook his head and stood up. “You need a better teacher.”

  I stood up, too. “What? No!”

  “Liam, son. You’ve mastered one of the most technically difficult pieces, and you picked up a violin for the first time five months ago?”

  Son. It was the first time anyone had called me that. I wanted it to be true, but I knew social services would never approve someone like Hugh. He was a widower barely scraping by with no experience with children. All I knew was I couldn’t lose him. I panicked. “Because you taught me.”

  “Exactly. I’m not sure what else I can teach you at this point. But I still have some connections with violin teachers. Teachers that will look good on your resume.”

  I pushed the stool away with my foot. “I don’t care about my bloody resume!” I waved my hand around the store. “I can’t lose this!” My gaze held his. “I can’t lose you.” I choked out the last word, and my eyes filled with tears.

  He held out his hands towards me. “That’s not what I mean, Liam. You’re always welcome here. I want you here.” He looked away briefly. “I never thought I’d teach again. I could barely convince myself to pick up a violin after Miriam passed. And then you came along.” He met my gaze again. “This has given my life purpose again.”

  I nodded in understanding. Even at ten years old, I could recognize how similar we were. We had both lost people, he his wife, and me my parents. We were looking for something to make us feel whole again. Although that might never happen, the violin gave us both purpose—his teaching and my learning.

  Hugh never brought up the idea of another violin teacher again. In the end, he was wrong. He had plenty more to teach me over the next ten years. And I just left everything he taught me back there in that audition room. If they couldn’t see that, then Juilliard wasn’t the place for me anyway.

  As I’m leaving the building, my phone pings. I take it out to see a text from Rob. “Well???”

  I text back. “They think Hugh’s not well-known enough.”

  Rob responds immediately, “What? Hugh’s ace. Hope you told them to sod off.”

  Leave it to Rob to make me smile. “I did. Just a tad more politely.” I add, “Don’t tell Hugh.” It would devastate him if he thought I didn’t get into Juilliard because he’s my teacher. The sound of the splashing fountain as I walk across Lincoln Center makes me think of Avery before my phone pings again.

  “Wouldn’t dare.” Rob texts back. “Call me later.”

  As I’m putting my phone away, I hear my name. “Liam!”

  I turn to see Andre approaching. “Mr. Merrill,” I say.

  He waves me off. “Just Andre, please. I wanted to catch you before you left. Look, I only have so much control over admissions, but I want you to know I’m fighting for you.”
r />   I shake my head in disbelief. “Why?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve had to sit there all day and listen to kid after kid play technically perfect . . . but with no heart at all. You come in and do both. Then, you have to defend your teacher? It’s not right. I told them so, too.”

  I’m blown away. “I can’t thank you enough, mate. No matter what happens.”

  We shake hands, and before he leaves, he says, “Nice case, by the way.”

  I look down at my violin case covered in stickers. “It’s my good luck charm.”

  “Hope it works.” He waves one last time before disappearing back into the building.

  Me, too. It brought Avery and me together twice before, what was one more time? I walk over and stand in the same spot where I first laid eyes on her. Regardless of what she says, being in the same time zone would have to change things between us. I would have her and Juilliard. Now if I can find a way to get Brotherhood here, too. But who gets everything they want?

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Avery

  Meme is cleaning our spotless house again. I watch as she squats down to wipe the already clean kitchen cabinets.

  “He probably won’t even show up.” I hate that she’s going to all this trouble for nothing.

  “What did his email say?” She shuffles over to clean the oven door without getting up. Her lower-body strength is actually pretty impressive.

  “I’ll be there,” I admit.

  She gives me a look over her shoulder as if I’m being the crazy one. “Exactly.”

  I sigh. “I’ll be in our sparkling-clean living room unless you need any more help with dinner.”

  She waves me off. “Everything’s on schedule.” In addition to cleaning, we’ve prepared twice as much food as normal.

  As I’m looking through pictures on my laptop, a knock on the side door makes me jump, but then I immediately freeze. I promised myself I would be laid back about this whole thing.

  When I walk into the kitchen, Meme nods her head once in silent encouragement. My hand shakes as I reach for the doorknob and pull it open. Only the thin screen door separates us.

  My first look at Dad makes my breath catch. Even though it’s only been three years, it seems as if he’s aged ten. There are more lines on his face and more gray in his hair. But his familiar green eyes are the same.

  As he pulls open the screen door, he gives me a nervous smile.

  "Hey.” My voice wavers.

  "Avery." The way he says my name has so much emotion in it that I’m a second from flinging myself into his arms. His eyes move all over my face.

  "Um, come in." I open the screen door wide, moving out of the way.

  After Meme greets him, we stand in the kitchen awkwardly as he looks around. I look around, too, trying to see my home of the past three years through his eyes. Before I moved in, Meme’s house had never changed. Now, there are signs of me everywhere —my favorite denim jacket hanging by the door, photography equipment in the corner, framed photos of the town’s old peanut mill above the television, a stack of textbooks on the ledge of the cupboard, and a handmade Jane Austen teapot I found at a small shop in London as a gift for Meme.

  "Can I get you anything to drink? Tea? Shot of whiskey?" At least Meme remembers her manners.

  Dad smiles but shakes his head as he continues to look around.

  “Dinner’s not quite ready. Avery, why don’t you two go into the living room and catch up.”

  Like we can catch up on the past three years just like that. My smile feels tight as I look back at Dad.

  “Lead the way,” he says.

  After dad sits down on the sofa, I sit directly across from him in my favorite chair. It’s an oversized periwinkle blue recliner. Since it’s the most comfortable chair in the house, that also means it’s ancient. There’s a picture of Meme and my grandfather holding me as a baby while sitting in this very chair. That’s how old it is. Meme doesn’t believe in replacing things that aren’t broken, though.

  Dad leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. Then, he looks at me. He looks at me as if he really sees me. I try to remember the last time he’s looked at me this way. Maybe briefly when I spread Mom’s ashes.

  It forces me to really look at him in return. A montage of memories quickly plays through my mind. And not just memories of the last time I saw him, but good memories, too—Saturday mornings of our making pancakes from a box mix, his drawing a diagram of the human heart on the giant chalkboard in our kitchen to help me study for a biology test, when teasing him was more fun than watching whatever terrible movie he picked out for movie night, our sitting together for hours hunched over a laptop while I helped him make power-point presentations for medical seminars, and the way he used to wrap his arms around me in a hug so tight, I would lose my breath for a moment. But I never minded a few seconds of lost air if it meant someone loved me that much.

  I deserve to have more of those memories. I deserve to have a future with my dad in my life.

  He breaks eye contact and lowers his head while running fingers through his hair—hair that still curls near the bottom. He was always bad about getting haircuts. Mom used to trim his curls before they got too out of control. It makes me realize he’s had no one to take care of him. At least I’ve had Meme.

  When he starts shaking, I realize he’s crying.

  My reaction is immediate and unconscious. I fall out of my chair onto my knees in front of him grabbing onto his arms.

  Dad gathers me close, and I hear him mumble into my hair. “I’m so sorry.” A sob gets stuck in his throat. “I’m so sorry, Avery.”

  I don’t say anything but seeing Dad like this makes me cry, too.

  When we finally break apart, he uses his thumbs to wipe away my tears. “I missed you so much,” he says in a hoarse voice.

  I start to say it back, but then I shake my head. “Then why? Why did you let me go? Or why didn’t you come get me?”

  He seems to take a second to gather his thoughts. “At first, I was so far gone over your mother, I knew Meme was right. I couldn’t take care of you. Then, you wouldn’t take my calls. I thought maybe we both just needed more time. When I did finally come to get you—”

  I sit up straighter. “You never came!”

  He nods. “I did. It must have been three months after you left. I just got on a plane one random Saturday, the earliest flight they had. When I finally got here, I didn’t have the nerve to pull in your grandmother’s driveway yet, so I just pulled over to the side of the road. And then I saw you.” His small smile is sad. “You were lying on a blanket in the front yard with another girl. The two of you were laughing, the kind of laughing that made you hold your stomach. I could even hear it with my windows up. You looked so happy. I couldn’t take you away from that.”

  I don’t remember the exact moment he’s describing, but Trinity and I spent many Saturdays lying around in the front yard like that.

  “And then when you finally did call me back, you sounded so happy.”

  “Of course I sounded happy, I was mad at you! I didn’t want you to think I missed you.”

  His eyebrows raise. “Oh. I guess I should have realized that.”

  I shake my head. “No, that’s on me.”

  “Avery, I’m the parent. It’s all on me.” He uses his sleeve to wipe at his cheeks.

  “We promised we’d both be there for each other,” I argue.

  Dad’s expression softens. “I remember.”

  I think about the lyrics in “Another Chance” again. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  His eyes fill again. “Think you’ll be able to forgive me?”

  I take his hands—hands that have picked me up more times than I can count. “I want to try.”

  He nods before saying, “You look so grown up.”

  I shrug. “I’m just me.” But he looks different, too.

  "I want to hear all about your trip.” He picks up a framed picture of Meme and me. "Real
ly, I want to hear about everything."

  "That makes me wish my life has been more interesting."

  He puts the picture down and shakes his head. "I hate that I've missed even the smallest thing." I understand what he means when I think of all the time we’ll never get back.

  An idea comes to me, and I grab my laptop from the end of the sofa. The easiest way to share my life with him is through photographs. We go through photos from high school and some from my study-abroad trip. Neither of us seem to realize how much time passes until Meme says dinner’s ready.

  When a picture of Liam and me pops up next, I freeze. It’s a candid shot Emily took without us knowing. Liam is standing on the edge of a fountain. His arms are spread wide with his violin case in one hand and a huge smile on his face. I’m clearly laughing with my arms stretched towards him like I’ll save him from falling backwards into the water. I could remember the moment perfectly if I let myself.

  I start to close my laptop. "Are you hungry? I could definitely eat."

  Dad catches the screen. "I think I can make it through one more picture first."

  I sigh. "Sure. This was taken at Oxford on campus. That fountain is really . . . historical."

  "While that's very fascinating, who's the guy? Because this is the first picture where you're alone with a member of the opposite sex."

  "We're hardly alone on a college campus."

  He gives me a look he’s given me a million times, a teasing look I had no idea how much I've missed.

  I take a deep breath. "That's Liam. He's a student there."

  "Just a student?"

  I point at the violin case. "A student studying music?"

  "Try again."

  My gaze drifts over his features and the way his smile makes him appear younger. "A guy that really loves fountains?"

  "Avery,” he says in a playful tone.

  Just hearing him say my name with such affection makes it both easier and more difficult to breathe. "Okay." I pause a moment before continuing. "He's a guy I met at twelve when I put money in his violin case at Lincoln Center. He's the same guy I met again at Oxford and fell in love with. And he's the same guy I rejected because I'm absolutely terrified."