Fi walked up to him, dragging her fingers across Trent’s chest just as Lindsey had. Okay, it was snide. And her fingers lingered on the edge of his muscles longer than necessary. She pulled her hand away. “Sprinkle girl.”
“I don’t care about Lindsey.” He watched her for a long, long moment. Fi couldn’t decipher his expression—even so, her heart beat faster.
“I should probably get going,” she said, faking a lame yawn.
“Don’t do that,” he snapped. “Just go if you want to.”
“It’s not like I didn’t have fun,” she said, sounding whinier than she meant to. While having the same best friend for nine years definitely had perks, the “seeing right through you” part could be annoying. “It’s just, you know, I have to work up to it.”
Suddenly, Trent’s whole body tensed. He yelled—growled, something—and threw his cup against the wall. Frothy liquid splashed upward, splattering against the painted concrete blocks, before the cup fell to the floor with a little tink. “That would have been more impressive with a glass,” he said, frowning.
Fi stared from Trent to the cup. “And just as crazy.”
“Since when are you Queen of Sanity?”
“Yes, that’s helpful,” she snapped. “Tell me I’m crazy. Call me a hermit. Smugly look down your nose at me. While. I. Grieve.”
“Are you kidding me? I have listened to you whine for almost a year! Months longer than anyone else has been able to. Your own mother is sick of it!”
“Oh no, Caroline Doyle is disappointed in me! What shall I do?”
“Right, because no one else’s feelings matter anyway, do they?”
“No one else has a dead boyfriend in a jar!”
“I am sick of your dead boyfriend.” Trent’s nose flared at the corners as he yelled. “And your crappy lacrosse team! And your stupid issues with your brother!”
“Just say you’re sick of me, Trent. It’s all the same thing.”
“Yeah, okay, sometimes I am sick of you. You’re a hell of a lot of work, Fi.”
“And you’re a horrible best friend!”
“I never wanted to be your best friend.” Scowling, he picked up the cup and chucked it into the trash can. “And if this”—he gestured between the two of them—“is what we are now, I’m not interested anymore.”
Fi’s head snapped back like he’d hit her. “Are you breaking up with me?”
“I already told you,” he answered quietly. “You can’t dump someone you never dated.”
“We dated,” Fi answered weakly, not sure what they were fighting about anymore.
“No we didn’t—because you never let us. And you are always the one who gets to decide.” Trent watched her a long time, his chest pulling in big, heavy breaths. “This is the last time though, Fi. Last chance. Tell me what my role is here. Pick one.”
“I can’t.” She wiped away the sudden tears with her fingers. “I can’t.”
“Pick,” he demanded, his teeth biting down on each other.
Fi was full-out crying by this point. Mascara coated her fingers. Grabbing her bag, she wrenched open the door. As it closed behind her, she choked out, “Why bother? I never pick right.”
FIONA
Fiona had not seen or heard from Jackson since he left her on the path. She’d stood there, watching him slowly disappear, and hadn’t had a call, text, note on the door, or “accidental run-in” since. She’d brooded about going to his room, but couldn’t stomach all the potentially awful outcomes. He might refuse to speak to her or slam the door in her face. Or demand back what was his brother’s.
Or might be his brother’s.
They would never know. The big question—Did Fiona Doyle wear part of Marcus King?—would never get answered. Even if she wanted to find out, which she very much did not, the hospital wouldn’t tell her. As she heard over and over before the surgery, the anonymity of donor and recipient was nonnegotiable.
She’d thought about calling her parents, just to double-check. But then she’d have to deal with her mother, and she had enough major life crises at the moment.
Because today was February 27—the day nothing good ever happened. The day she would perform an original song in public for the first time ever. The day she may or may not be going on a date with a boy who may or may not despise her.
She procrastinated in bed as long as she could—counting the ceiling’s acoustic tiles, attempting to find a pattern in the floor’s linoleum speckles. Each minute wasted was one less to worry about.
When the phone rang with Ryan’s programmed ringtone, Fiona hesitated. Of course he’d pick today to finally call. After three rings, she answered. “Hey.”
“How you doing?”
Fiona stared at the ceiling.
Ryan tried again. “I got the message about the critique. I was calling to wish you good luck.”
“That was days ago.”
“Sorry. It’s been busy.”
She did not say We’re all busy, Ryan or harass and scold him like their mom—she didn’t reply at all.
Ryan sucked in a big gulp of air and exhaled the statement, “I’m dropping off the team.”
Fiona shot upright. “What?”
“It’s too much—my grades are mediocre, I’m constantly canceling on Gwen, you’re always mad at me. I never have time for anything.”
“But you love soccer.”
“I think I’d love it a lot more if I played club. Had some fun, you know? Coach kids or something.” He sighed. “Mom and Dad will probably kill me. Walking away from the scholarship.”
The scholarship reminder felt like a gut punch. One more reason to stress out about the critique. “They’ll understand,” she said, hoping it was true. “Mom wasn’t big on you playing Division One anyway.”
He said “yeah” noncommittally. “Enough about me. How are you?”
“I’m playing for a group of music and theater majors—who are quote, encouraged to comment, unquote. Which is just code for ripping each other to shreds.”
“You’ll do fine.”
“I really don’t think I will.”
“Then you’ll just do. And that’s okay, too.”
Despite herself, Fiona smiled. Then she looked at her watch. “Crap, I’m late!”
Ryan called “Good luck!” as she hung up. Grabbing her guitar and a stack of Moleskines, she ran through campus. Mounds of dirty snow lined all the paths.
At class with seconds to spare, she leafed through her books, still not certain which song to perform. She’d rearranged five, not sure about any of them.
Weitz consulted her list. “Are you ready, Jacob?”
Jacob had been in Flem’s class, and Fiona knew he was good. He sat on the stool, looking cooler and more relaxed than Fiona could ever imagine being. He put his violin on his shoulder and said, “This is just something I’ve been working on.”
A few minutes later, he lowered his violin. Fiona couldn’t say if he’d played a waltz or a pop song. He could have sprouted horns and danced an Irish jig, for all she knew. But when Weitz said, “Thoughts?” Fiona was all ears.
“I’m not familiar with that technique,” said Redhead. She tilted her head, like she found this discussion oh, so interesting. “It seemed almost self-taught. Did you train with any trained musicians?”
“Several,” Jacob said calmly. “I was first chair in the Boston youth symphony.”
Normal people might have been impressed, but not Redhead and her bloodthirsty friends. Flute Guy, Yankees Hat, and a few black-clad drama majors offered the following helpful insights: Your fingering looked awkward. Was that intentional? Are you certain your violin was properly tuned? I didn’t really hear anything original.
Ten minutes later, when Jacob’s work had been picked apart until it was nothing but a senseless pile of quarter notes, Weitz let him go and called Fiona up.
With shaking hands—her cuticles were a mangled mess by now—she pulled her guitar from its case, brought the
whole stack of Moleskines up front, and sat on the stool.
“You’re a singer and musician, yes?” Weitz said, looking at her notes. “Your composition will come with lyrics, I assume.”
“I was only going to play,” Fiona said. She was near enough meltdown from just that.
Weitz raised an eyebrow—then nodded to Fiona’s guitar. “When you’re ready, Ms. Doyle.”
Fiona clenched her jaw, swallowed, and began to strum.
It didn’t start well. She played like someone taking a test. She sounded like a paint-by-numbers painting—formulaic, emotionless, and without any nuance at all. As she picked the melody, it only got worse. Each note was a painful and-now-I’m-going-to-play-the-A experience.
She sucked.
When she finished, Fiona kept her eyes on the strings, terrified to look up. There was complete silence.
Professor Weitz cleared her throat. “Yes, well. That was . . .” She looked at the class. “Anyone have thoughts to share?”
It was an assault.
There was a glimmer of something intriguing, but it was hard to pinpoint it in the mess. The progressions came off stale. It’s a case of proficiency without spirit. I wasn’t sure of the point. I found myself craving more emotion. It was trite. It had no soul.
You’re really a music major?
It wasn’t just Redhead and her ilk, either. Almost everyone—even French Horn Girl, who was normally as quiet as Fiona—had something to say. “I think it needed a little something more.”
Fiona sat on the stool, paralyzed and taking it.
“Did you write lyrics to go with this composition?” Professor Weitz eventually asked.
Fiona nodded, forcing herself to say, “Yes.”
“Play it again, please. With the lyrics. We might get a better sense of intention.”
The students murmured lukewarm agreement to this idea.
Fiona’s eyes darted from her persecutors to their leader. “Um, I hadn’t really prepared—”
“You’ve had weeks to prepare.” Weitz leaned back in her chair. It creaked in a sharp D. “As this is a significant portion of your grade, I suggest you try once more.”
Fiona exhaled, sucked as much air back in as she could, and tried again.
I got ripped down the middle / Accidentally
Her voice creaked as she reached for the A. She hadn’t warmed up her vocal cords at all.
I heal little by little / Coincidentally
The chord change worked better here, now that it was paired with words. Still, it highlighted some awkward spots in the phrasing.
It’s piracy / It’s mutiny / God I hate the scrutiny
What was she thinking, putting this chorus with these lyrics? They didn’t make any sense together. She wished she’d worked with the words, when she’d done the rearranging.
Dates create me and narrate me / Fate dictates me and negates me.
And back to the ridiculous refrain about pirates.
As the last note bounced around the room, Fiona forced herself to face her tormentors head-on. She hadn’t looked up the first time, so she wasn’t sure if these expressions were any better.
“Anyone?” Weitz said, and it began again. I wasn’t sure how the phrasing was meant to underscore the lyrics’ intentions. The meter was off, it distracted me. There wasn’t any real marriage between the lyrics and the composition; they just felt put together without much thought; it was like three different songs. It didn’t make sense. And then the worst one of all: The lyrics confused me—was I meant to feel pity?
“I agree with the class, Ms. Doyle,” Weitz said. “I think you have some work ahead of you.”
Fiona nodded. Weitz looked at her watch. “Okay, everyone. Next week then.”
Fiona kept her head down and gathered her things. She zipped her guitar up as quietly as she could and slid it on her back carefully. She took each step from the music building to her dorm as if the path was covered in ice, walking as if to minimize the impact of her every move.
Her throat burned—not from singing with cold vocal cords but from the lump stuck right in the middle. Her mind may have been numb from the whole thing, but her eyes seemed to work fine. Warm tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she walked home.
She’d go back to her room and stay in bed the rest of the day.
Head down in the dorm lobby, she collided with another body on the way. Books slapped to the floor. She and her victim stooped to pick them up. “Sorry.”
And of course it was Jackson.
One of her hands clutched the Moleskines as the other went to wipe her cheeks. She wanted to erase the evidence. Why did she always cry in front of this boy?
“It was bad?” he asked.
Fiona didn’t respond. Surely the answer was clear enough.
“Sorry,” he said.
She shrugged. His eyes went to her face—to the area that always seemed to mean everything. Slowly, he began to back away. When a good ten feet separated them, he said, “I can’t make it tonight. Something came up.”
She watched him continue his path backward, her hand on her cheek. Then, like he’d done the day they’d discovered their “coincidence,” he turned away. Through the glass doors, she watched until he’d disappeared down the path, swallowed by the icy branches on the leafless trees.
She turned toward the stairs. On the way, she passed the row of three trash cans—brown for garbage, green for glass and aluminum, blue for paper. She took only the briefest look at her Moleskines before dumping the lot of them in the blue one.
Maybe one day, they’d be turned into something useful.
FI
Fi was still in her pajamas—well, sweats and a T-shirt—when she opened the door. Jackson stood on the porch, more appropriately dressed in jeans and a button-down. It was three in the afternoon, after all.
“Late night?” he asked with a smirk.
Fi glared back. It was after one in the morning when she got home from the disastrous night at Ole Miss—and hours later before she finally fell into a fitful sleep. Her mood—and breath—was foul. Her eyes were swollen, her throat felt raw from crying. She may or may not have lost her best friend.
And now her dead boyfriend’s obnoxious brother was smirking at her. “Do you need something?”
He held a wrapped package out to her. “Peace offering.”
She eyed the package—and Jackson—suspiciously. “For?”
“Traditionally speaking, peace.” He held it higher, nudging it toward her. “It’s not a bomb.”
She took the gift—it looked like a book—weighing it in her hand. “Uh, thanks.”
“Now we’re at the part where you invite me in.”
Fi stepped aside. When he hesitated in the living room, Fi realized he’d never been in her house before. How odd—he’d been such a basic part of her life the past two years, but he didn’t know where her kitchen was.
“Come on,” she said. “I haven’t eaten yet. Are you hungry?”
“Sure.”
Fi pulled out apples, cheese, some crackers. She grabbed a knife, the cutting board, some glasses, and a pitcher of iced tea, and sat across from him. After pulling together a cheese-and-cracker plate that would have made her mother proud, Fi centered it between them.
Jackson took an apple. “Are you going to open it?”
“Oh. Right.” Fi inspected the package, mentally preparing herself for an oh-it’s-just-what-I-wanted expression. Sliding her fingers along the taped edges, she pulled the book free and turned it back and forth in her hands. “A journal?”
“It’s a Moleskine. Which is just a fancy name for a notebook, I guess.”
“And I need this because?”
“Read the first page.”
She opened it. “‘Never May the Fruit Be Plucked’?”
Underneath the title, a poem was written in the blocky handwriting she knew well. For a few moments, as she stared at the words Marcus’s living hand had formed, she forgot to brea
the.
“It’s the poem I was telling you about,” he said.
She looked up at him and he looked away, rubbing his neck. “I wasn’t totally honest about how I remembered it. I’ve had this since he died.”
Fi stared at the words a long time before, quietly, reading them. “Never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough / And gathered into barrels. / He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs—”
“Stop,” he said. “Please.”
She ran her fingers over the page, feeling the bumps from where Marcus had pressed too hard. “Why are you giving me this?”
“Because it was for you—or probably for you. Marcus didn’t say specifically . . .”
“I don’t understand.”
“He had a few of these—journals where he wrote down quotes he liked. After I read that poem, he asked me to get him a fresh one. Then I had to read it, really slowly, while he copied it down. I offered to do it for him, but he wouldn’t let me.”
“And you’ve had it this whole time?”
“Yeah.”
“So—why now?” she asked, too overwhelmed to be angry.
“Because he would have wanted it,” he said. “Plus, I’ve been thinking about what you said in the park, all those questions you had. I felt bad. I didn’t handle it well. Since I’m not the best moral support, I thought a journal might work instead.”
She nodded. Tears splattered onto Marcus’s words, so she quickly closed the book, to protect the pages. “Thank you.”
He gestured between the two of them. “Hanging out with you—it’s weird that it doesn’t feel weird anymore. Like, we’re friends.”
Fi remembered how Trent looked, glaring at her, saying he didn’t want to be her friend anymore. And then, it felt like her heart actually twisted around itself—because she’d thought of Trent before she thought of Marcus. “Marcus would be happy,” she said.
Jackson made a sad smile and took another apple.
“Do you think he’d want us to—” She put the Moleskine on the table, like it should be farther away when she asked the question. “Move on?”
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