Glancing back at Dominic, I found him pensive and on the verge of inquisition. More than a hundred percent positive he was about to insist I elaborate, I quickly parried with my own wonderings.
“So when exactly did you decide to break in?” I asked, infusing my tone with a laughing note.
I’d caught him with only a second to spare; his lips were parted, partially forming the beginning of a word. Needing most of my concentration to keep my expression cleverly disguised, I speculated and questioned the effort behind evading his question. Perhaps only that the timing was wrong; here, in the parking lot of my school, was not where I wanted to confess to Dominic that I had fallen in love with him. Or that it was not any doing on my part, but only his faith in me that had led to the magic he referred to.
Dominic was the magician; I was simply the hat he pulled things from.
“I don’t remember seeing you come in,” I added hastily when he didn’t immediately answer.
Amusement claimed his face, one segment at a time, starting with the twitch of his lips and working its way up to the arc of his right eyebrow.
“It’s hard to say,” he allowed, stepping backward and propping his back against the door. “I wasn’t so much keeping track of time, as I was racing against it.”
I gave him a look of frank bemusement, wrapping my arms around myself. Dominic noticed my trembling and held out his arms for me to come forward. I did so with alacrity, settling into the still warm spot.
“Once I heard your voice—heard you start to sing,” he continued softly and somewhat ruefully, “I think I made it about thirty seconds before I went a little mental.” He chuckled. “Jake basically had to climb on top of me and pin me to the ground to keep me from barging through the doors. Guy’s strong. And he gave a fairly convincing speech about why it was better I not go in. We all figured that after the warning notice, there would likely be someone patrolling the entrances. I wish I could say I cared, but like I said, as soon as I heard your voice . . .”
He pulled back to meet my eyes, keeping his arms firmly locked around me. “I never had a choice.” He smiled and gave me a curious look. “What’s the grin for?
I considered obfuscation, but decided I couldn’t hide everything from him. “I . . . I said the same thing to myself, just before I walked onstage.”
I expected him to be bothered by this admission, but he just nodded as if he’d already known.
“You know . . . honestly I—” He laughed, amused, pushing back a thick tendril that flopped into the middle of my face, only to have to do it two more times. I didn’t even want to know what this wind was doing to my hair. I probably had my own zip code by now. “How about we sit inside the car?” he suggested, already beginning to move me.
“Oh-no, I’m fine,” I insisted, my hands reflexively tightening around him. Battling against the cold was a far more alluring alternative than the barrier of a gearshift between us.
Dominic seemed to know where my thoughts were. “Fine,” he agreed amiably, shrugging a shoulder from a sleeve. “But you’re wearing my jacket.”
“Dominic, you’ll freeze out here in just a shirt,” I demurred.
He laughed, taking my arm and slipping it into a wide sleeve. “You’ve been in this California weather too long, Foster. Anything above forty degrees is warm for me.”
I had grown up with my fair share of snowstorms; no matter how you looked at it, this was not warm. What was, however, was his blissful jacket; the tremors ceased at once. And I certainly wouldn’t complain that the aroma enveloping me was pleasantly Dominic.
“Thank you,” I murmured, melting into the soft, supple leather.
“Do you remember what was I saying?” he asked, dropping his nose to the top of my head. “Oh, wait, I remember now.” He took a deep breath. “I was just going to say that it doesn’t surprise me—you and me thinking alike. Sometimes it’s like . . . it’s like I can hear you in my mind.” His eyes flashed down, full of questioning uncertainty. “Does that weird you out?”
Joyously unnerved by this confession, I could only stare agog. Dominic misread my expression, thinking it was discomfort stated on my dull look. “It does weird you out.”
“No! Not at all, actually . . .” I trailed off, unsure. I’d already said too much, though; he would never let me change my mind. “I hope it doesn’t weird you out, but sometimes I can hear your voice . . . if I’m scared or worried about something.”
His eyes sharpened. “Did you hear my voice today?”
I nodded and cast my eyes elsewhere, embarrassed even though he’d admitted the same.
“I heard yours too,” he said very quietly.
“You did?” I raised my eyes just in time to see his bottom lip disappear, fold into his mouth. Slowly, it slipped back into place, the white teeth marks vanishing, leaving only the deep pink hue of his lips. “You heard me?” I whispered, awed.
“It’s why I kind of went berserk. Why I had to sneak in,” he said fervently. His eyes poured into mine. “I don’t think anything would have kept me out. Not when I knew you wanted me in there.”
A rush of chills ransacked my entire body, covering my arms, legs, and stomach with a fleet of goose bumps.
“I almost didn’t do it,” I blurted.
His eyes shut for one long second, then opened them and smiled. “I know.”
I stiffened, wondering if he had been there the whole time, watching as I cowered in the darkness. “You know?”
“I know you,” he said meaningfully. “Without Emily or me there to fend off the lies you tell yourself, you were bound to have second thoughts about auditioning. And thirds and fourths and fifths. I don’t think I have ever wanted something more than I want you to realize your gift. You know it, you just, for whatever reason, won’t believe in it. This was the first step, though.” He smiled, his eyes softening. “And I needed to be there to see it.”
He flicked a brow skyward and sighed through his nose. “But I should probably apologize to Jake.”
The abrupt shift in topic had me reeling a bit. I got the feeling the transition wasn’t an accident and decided not to press the issue. “Jake? Why? What happened?”
“I told you he tried to prevent me from going in, right? Well, the guy was only trying to be a good friend,” he explained, “but I sort of plowed through him when I was trying to get to you. He didn’t seem mad about it after—when we came out of the auditorium . . . but I shoved him pretty hard.”
“Jake is one of the most understanding people I know,” I said, laying my hands on his forearms. “It would take an awful lot to upset him. And, as far as I know, Emily is the only one I know with the ability to do this.”
“Yeah, still . . . I was a jerk,” he said definitively. A slow smirk built at the corner of his mouth. “Do you think I could make it up to him with a number three from In-N-Out?”
I laughed. “Yes,” I answered emphatically. “I’m pretty sure he would not only forgive you, but might even tear up with gratitude.”
“How about tomorrow we go out to lunch? I’ll take everyone out to celebrate.”
“That sounds perfect,” I said, “but how about we start to celebrate now?” I grinned up at him, fiddling with the row of buttons at his neck. “Funnel cake or ice cream?”
Dominic’s eyes sparkled with laughter. He raised a hand, tugging gently on one of my curls.
“Uh-oh,” he began reprovingly. “Maybe I was wrong and you are entirely aware of how incredible you are.” I was having trouble following, but continued to smile as he wrapped my curls around his fingers and unwound them. “I can’t say I mind this sudden flare of confidence, but don’t you think we should wait until after we find out you’ve got the part to celebrate?”
“Oh . . . right.” I laughed lightly, and using the wind to my advantage, ducked my head to hide my expression. “I suppose that would be smart.”
My reasoning for wanting to celebrate likely differed from Dominic’s. And if he knew that I
already counted myself out of this competition, he would likely have something to say about it. Many somethings.
“I forgot to ask . . .”
I met his eyes, finding them curious, but without that look of heat just before he pulled truth from me. “Mm-hm?”
“What was it Mr. Balfy said to you when he was walking you back to your seat? You had this look on your face—I couldn’t figure out if it was bad or good.”
I smiled. “It was good,” I replied quietly. “He said”—I closed my eyes concentrated, clutching for the exact words—“‘I’ve only been teaching music for the last four years, but in my experience working with students, I have encountered two kinds of musicians: those who want to, and those who are able to. I appreciate and accept both kinds of will, but only one kind of musician understands what you just accomplished a moment ago.’” I opened my eyes, blinking up at the consternated face pointed down at me.
“Okay,” he said, his eyebrows one long furrow, “I won’t even pretend I followed all of that. In English?”
“Well . . .” I stalled a bit, not wanting to appear supercilious with an immediate explanation. I quickly assembled an analogy. “I think—and I could be wrong, but you know how there are those who consider an activity a hobby, and then there are those who consider that same activity a necessity?”
He nodded. “Sure.”
“Take painting, for example,” I suggested airily. “So, one way to paint is by picking out a pattern, buying the specified brushes, canvas, colors, and so on and so f—” I stopped speaking as a piece of hair flew into my mouth.
Dominic chuckled. “Forth,” he finished for me, pulling the tendril pressed flat against my cheek from my mouth and tucking it behind my ear.
“Yes, thank you.” I turned my body so that I faced the wind. “So, once all the suggested supplies are purchased, that person would likely follow instructions, doing their best not to deviate from the example. Many would agree there is nothing wrong with painting like this—that the result is basically the same, the experience is pleasant and enjoyable, meriting a sense of accomplishment at the completion of the project.” I paused, thinking I sounded like I was reading from a teleprompter. This was why I had always disliked show and tell days. “Anyway,” I said, dismissing the thought, “there is another way to paint.”
Dominic began to nod his head. “Keep going.”
“This painter has never followed a pattern a day in their life; they blend colors until they have no name, and would paint with sticks and rocks if nothing else was available. Replication is seen as cheating or derogatory. They would never consider copying someone else’s art. What I believe Mr. Balfy was saying, was that he can understand both sides of the logic—the desire to create art is there for both kinds of painters, but there is definitely a difference. So, while both groups can paint a picture of the world, only one inspires the world to paint.”
He lifted an eyebrow, summarizing. “One is born to paint.”
I smiled, picking up on his very obvious insinuation. “Yes. Exactly,” I said, realizing only then that he had known all along what Mr. Balfy meant. He had only played daft, feigning ignorance.
Dominic grinned, watching me put this together. “I love listening to you talk like that.”
“You’re a bit of a menace,” I said, unable to keep the smile from both my voice and face. I smiled at his incredibly boyish expression, finding the slightly agitated voice endearing.
“I won’t argue with that,” he said solemnly. “All right, so when do we find out when you get the part?” His eyes glimmered, studying my expression. It was the second time he’d asked; the second time he had pointedly phrased the question that way, leaving absolutely no room for if in the result. And again, I pretended not to notice, answering as I had previously.
“Pretty soon, I think.”
I would be happy for whoever was chosen for the part, but I had a sneaking suspicion that Dominic would be inconsolably disappointed when it wasn’t given to me. To him, clearly it was evident that the part belonged to me. How ironic that I felt exactly the same way about the opposite outcome.
Already thinking of ways I could pull him from the glum mood, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my phone. “Mr. Balfy said he would send out a mass text no later than four.”
“And what time is it now?” My heart gave a tiny squeeze at the excitement in his voice.
“It’s, ah . . . it’s three fifty-two,” I told him, forcing a smile.
An exasperated sound flew from his mouth. “I hate waiting,” he complained.
“That’s because you have no patience.” I touched his cheek gingerly with my palm.
“None,” he agreed, not the least bit ashamed. He widened his stance, repositioning his arms around me. “You’re going to have to distract me.”
“I am?”
“It’s the only reasonable solution, isn’t it?” he asked, bringing his lips close enough that I could feel his breath, very warm in contrast with the wind.
My heart gave a little flutter, studying that small scar I had grown to adore. “What do you suggest I do to distract you?”
“Hm . . .” Though he pretended to muse, I was pretty confident he’d long since made his selection. “How about a reprisal?” Dominic waggled his eyebrows.
“Here?” I exclaimed. “In the parking lot?”
His eyes swept around panoramically. “Sure.” He reached one arm around the back of his neck, a fully mischievous look on his face. “Why not? We’re alone, aren’t we? And I missed the first part of your performance, so I don’t see any reason why I—”
He stopped abruptly, glancing down at the small object that had just emitted a loud buzz on his chest. Our eyes met and I watched his throat work as he swallowed, before whispering in staccato, “Is that it? The text?”
Not yet! I pleaded inwardly. Why was it that the moments you would give anything to extend and prolong were always the briefest?
“I . . . I don’t know.” The phone was pressed face down. I wouldn’t know who was texting me until I flipped it over.
His face, like a candle in a room without light, exploded with brilliancy. “Let’s find out.”
This moment had arrived like a dead end—a brick wall offering no way around and teasing me with glimpses of my desired destination through thin embrasures. For one moment, I had experienced the perfect existence; Dominic was happy and proud of me, and I could take pleasure in what I had accomplished today. When I turned the phone over, and was forced to tell Dominic that someone else would be singing the National Anthem tonight, he would be crushed.
“Dominic . . . I—”
This time, with anxiety and doom encroaching, I was unable to hide my expression, too despaired to conceal the fear I felt on his behalf. He looked into my eyes and instantly knew my thoughts.
The disappointment that flashed into his eyes pierced straight through my heart. “You don’t think you have a chance, do you?”
“It’s not . . . I don’t . . . there’s twelve other people,” I said reasonably.
“And what? That means you don’t have as good a chance as everyone else?”
I knew it was frustration more than anger, but still, seeing him upset before he was about to receive even more upsetting news was heart wrenching.
“It’s okay. I don’t need to win,” I said. “I don’t even want to win.”
“No?” Disbelief saturated his voice. “I don’t believe that for a second, Foster. I think that’s what you’ve told yourself—to make it easier if you don’t get the part. But I think you want it just as badly as everyone else.”
I took a step backward. “But I’m not going to get the part, Dominic.” I didn’t look at the phone, but let both my arms fall to my sides. “I’m not going to get it,” I said adamantly, surprised to realize there were tears brimming in my eyes. “And that has to be okay. It has to be.”
Compassion and empathy swam across Dominic’s features. “Does
it?” It was just enough to push the tears past my eyelids. The wind, unremitting and growing colder as the afternoon sun waned, instantly froze the wet streaks.
Dominic took one step, erasing the distance between us. It was moments like this I was certain his eyes possessed the ability to turn an even deeper shade of blue; fathomless pools of intuition. Without breaking eye contact, I felt his long fingers encircle my wrist. Even with the addition of his jacket, my flesh was chilled, but his hands were warmer than I would have thought imaginable. He raised the hand clutching the phone and, pressing it to his chest, used his other hand to try and coax it from my grasp.
I shook my head, a lump in my throat preventing words.
Softly, he said, “Give me the phone, Foster.”
“No.” It was a desperate, strangled sound. “I don’t want you to be upset.”
“Foster.” He touched my cheek, wiping a tear with his thumb before it could fall. “Give me the phone.” The way he spoke to me, it was much too gentle to be considered a demand. It was a demand, though.
I relinquished the phone into his possession, feeling that as I did so, I relinquished the joy of the day along with it.
Not that I expected him to delay or draw out the already heightened moment, but by the time I had summoned the strength to meet his eyes—no more than a few seconds—he already had the verdict. I’m not sure how I knew this, because his expression hadn’t changed. But something in his eyes registered unspoken information.
“Please don’t be upset,” I pleaded.
“I’m not.” He handed the phone back to me, and I took it without looking.
“I’m glad I auditioned. I have you to thank for giving me that moment.”
“No. You have you to thank for that moment,” he countered evenly. “And a little later this evening, you will have you to thank again.” He allowed the first sign of emotion into his voice, though his face remained impassive.
As if my chest suddenly compressed, I felt my heart go taut and still. “What?”
His eyes shot downward. “Look at your phone.”
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