Gabby just shakes her head, giving me a look like see what I have to put up with? Tugging Lauren behind her, Gabby squeezes past me. “We’ll meet you in the lobby. I’m pretty sure I heard someone say there’s cake.”
She’s right. But I don’t find out right away, instead staying where I am, watching her chat with Lauren as they wait for the professor in the audience to sign their programs. Once they reach him, I move into the aisle, making my way to the door so I get to the lobby less than a minute ahead of them.
Someone is behind a table cutting a chocolate sheet cake with white frosting into squares for people to take. Gabby and Lauren head straight for the table, me trailing behind them. They balance their plates and programs on their hands, taking bites and conferring quietly. Then Lauren drifts away to talk to another group of students and Gabby turns her attention to me.
Her smile looks almost shy, and she moves to stand next to me, looking all around the room as though she isn’t sure what to say and hopes the clusters of people chatting and eating cake will provide some inspiration.
I wait, watching her. Taking perverse enjoyment in her sudden lack of confidence. She’s a study in contrasts.
The pieces of cake are small, and we both finish quickly. Turning to face me again, finally, she holds out her hand. “I’ll throw away your plate for you.”
I let her, waiting while she moves to a large trash can then comes back to me. Her cheeks are pink again, but she meets my eyes. “Um, I’d like to go put my program in my locker so I can turn it in tomorrow. The office is locked, or I’d do it now. Do you want to come with me? Or do you need to go?”
Arching an eyebrow, I ask the first question that comes to me. “You have a locker?”
She grins. “I know. Funny, right? It’s like high school all over again.” She starts to move to the hallway, expecting me to follow. “I asked my brother if other departments have lockers, and he looked at me like I was crazy. He said he had a locker in the locker room, but only because he was on the football team. And that if you have a PE class you might get one while you’re in that class for your workout clothes, but otherwise no. Most departments don’t give their students lockers. I haven’t seen them in any other buildings either. But I have to admit, it’s nice to be able to leave stuff here.” She laughs lightly, leading me upstairs to another hallway with a bank of lockers on one wall across from classroom doors.
They’re the half lockers like I had in middle school. She goes to one about halfway down on the top, twisting the dial to put in her combination, talking to me without glancing away. “I actually have two lockers. This one, and one for my violin downstairs off the rehearsal room.”
“Two lockers? In the same building.” I follow her, leaning my shoulder against a locker a couple feet away while I wait.
She looks up at me and grins. “I know, right? But it means I only have to take books with me when I have homework. And my violin is always where I need it to be. It’s not like I’m going to practice in the dorm. Could you imagine? Everyone would hate me.”
After slipping the program inside, she slams the door shut. When she turns and steps toward me, my eyes automatically go to her lips. They part on an indrawn breath, and I have this sudden, insane desire to kiss her.
But it’s too soon. A coffee this morning and sitting next to her at a recital? Straightening to my full height, I cross my arms and look around. “You know, they just opened this building last year. I haven’t even been in here before.”
“You want a tour?”
Looking at her again, I smile. “Sure.”
She gestures to the doors across from us. “These are two of the classrooms.” She points at the one closest to us. “This is the smart classroom. And that one’s the dumb one.” She points at the other door.
I let out a quick laugh. “The dumb classroom? Is that for the remedial classes or something?”
She grins, and I want to do whatever I can to keep her smiling as much as possible. “No. The smart classroom has all the technology. The other one doesn’t, so we call it the dumb one. It’s kind of a joke.”
I fall in step beside her as she leads me through the hallway where the professors have their studios, then to another hallway full of practice rooms. We head downstairs next, and she says, “You’ve already seen the lobby. The rest of the classrooms are in the basement.” She leads the way to another set of stairs and takes me down, showing me a room with mirrors on one wall, and then another room full of electric pianos. “That’s where I have my theory class. Sight Singing and Ear Training are upstairs.”
She stops and looks around, her bright expression turning more uncertain as she chews her lip, avoiding my eyes. “Well, um, I think that’s everything. You’ve already seen the recital hall.”
“It’s a nice building. Thanks for showing me around.” I take a step closer, drawn to her, but I stop when her eyes finally meet mine.
“Sure!” she chirps, her eyes sliding away again. “So, um, what do you want to do now?”
What do I want to do now? I’m not ready to leave yet. I want to spend more time with her, keep her talking, see if I can make her laugh some more. “It’s a nice night. How about a walk around campus?”
“That sounds good.” The chirpy quality is gone, and she seems more relaxed at my suggestion. I let her lead the way up the stairs and out the door. The recital crowd has dwindled, and now only a couple of people are left cleaning up the remains of the cake and putting away the table.
Gabby smiles and waves at one of the women before we head out the door. I take the lead, gesturing with my head in the direction I want to go. We walk side by side, and she chatters about her classes. She’s funny, telling stories about her English professor who thinks he belongs in Dead Poets Society. I know exactly who she’s talking about, I’ve had him too, but it’s funny to hear her talk about him. It’s dark out now, but the campus is well-lit enough that I can see her expressive face as she talks.
Our hands bump into each other a few times before I finally give in to the urge to wrap my fingers around hers.
Her sentence trails off and she stops talking, her eyes darting down to our interlaced fingers, then up to my face. I give her a quick smile and squeeze her hand. She smiles back, returning the squeeze. We walk in silence for a few more minutes while I lead her to my favorite place on campus. It’s not exactly a secret, but it’s a little off the beaten path, and there’s a bench almost hidden by a group of tall pine trees. It’s a little island of seclusion on the busy campus, and looks out over the city. The view at sunset is perfect, but the moonlight streaming down over the lights on the buildings is almost as magical.
“Wow.” Her voice is full of wonder. There aren’t any lamps here, but I can still make out her parted lips, her eyes looking all around. Woman impressed. Mission accomplished. And we get some time alone while still in a public setting. Which means I could kiss her before the night is over.
Then she says, “I had no idea this was back here. I haven’t explored campus much outside of the places I need to go for classes.”
And it hits me that she’s just a freshman. She’s only been here for a few weeks. And I’m graduating in May. Leaving.
What am I doing here?
Chapter Four
Gabby
I switch off my metronome and loosen my bow to stow it in its slot in my open case, carefully nestling my violin in its snug little home before closing the velcro strap around the fingerboard and covering it with its satin and velvet blanket. After latching and zipping the case, I stretch my arms overhead, then behind me, loosening up the muscles that have been working hard for the last hour.
I made good progress on my Mozart concerto. My violin professor pointed out where I was out of tune in my lesson yesterday and wants me to play each measure slowly to make sure I hit each note exactly right. When I can slow play a measure with perfect intonation three times in a row, I get to move on to the next measure, then string them together unt
il I get through a phrase.
It’s slow and arduous work, but I can already tell a difference. She also has me working on some simple, one-measure-long exercises the same way, but with increasing speed each time I get through a measure perfectly three times in a row. Those exercises make my fingers fall in the exact right places more often, so correcting the intonation in the Mozart is easier than it would be otherwise.
Still, an hour of working like that makes me tired, and I finished up by playing through a movement of a Handel sonata for fun. Even though I played it last year, I can hear now where I’m slightly out of tune, places I got lazy or didn’t notice I was doing it wrong before.
But that’s why I’m here, right? To get better. And Dr. Clara Davis—Clara to her studio—is kicking my ass into shape.
I gather my music off the stand and stuff it into the pocket on my case, ready to get some dinner. But I freeze when I open the door.
Jonny B—Jonathan—has his back to me as he closes the door of the practice room across from mine. A guitar case leans against the wall next to him.
Should I say something? Or just leave? Which would be weirder?
I enjoyed our conversation after the recital last week while we walked around campus. Granted, I did most of the talking, but I do that when I’m relaxed with someone. And when I’m nervous. And he makes me feel both. Nervous and relaxed together. What would that be—nervlaxed? Renervous?
Anyway.
He held my hand, and I thought he might kiss me when he took me to the bench in the trees. But for some reason he backed off. It wasn’t anything obvious, but he stopped looking at my mouth quite so much, and we didn’t stay there long before he said, “It’s getting kind of late, and I have to get through some reading for tomorrow. I’ll walk you back to your dorm.” When we got there, he said goodnight and left me at the door. I watched him leave, his hands in his pockets, and he glanced back at me once, but didn’t return my smile. For the rest of the weekend I’d checked my phone whenever I got an alert, hoping it was him texting. But he never did. And I don’t have his number, so I couldn’t get ahold of him, either.
And now here he is, in the flesh.
With a small shake of my head, I start to move past him. If he wanted to talk to me he knows how to reach me. Since he hasn’t, clearly he’s not as interested as I thought.
But I only get a few steps before his calloused fingertips graze my arm. “Gabby. Wait.”
I stop, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath before turning to face him. “Hey. What’s up?”
His dark brows crinkle as he looks down at me, his eyes looking more hazel today in the bright fluorescent lights of the hallway. Standing this close to him, I’m forced to look up, taking in the sharp angle of his square jaw and high cheekbones. I forgot how much taller than me he was. But confronted with him again, I realize he’s about as tall as my brother, Lance, which means if I hug him, my nose will be level with his sternum.
Not that I’ll be hugging him anytime soon.
He withdraws his hand, running it through his hair. “Um, nothing. I just wanted to say hi. I was hoping to run into you, actually.”
Adjusting the strap of my case so it’ll stay on my shoulder, I cross my arms and raise an eyebrow. “Hi. I haven’t ever seen you in here before. Decide to change your major after all?”
A low chuckle answers that question. “No. I’m a senior. Changing my major now would be a terrible idea.”
Huh. I guess I didn’t realize he’s that much older than me. It’s been a long time since I had all the stats of the Brash brothers memorized. They’ve been out of the limelight for several years now. And since I jeopardized our last conversation, it didn’t come up before now.
“Okay, then. Well, it was nice seeing you again, but I’d like to go put my instrument away and get some dinner.” I give him a polite, closed-mouth smile, and start down the hallway.
With his long legs, he catches up to me without any trouble. “Cool. Mind if I join you?”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, a smile tugging at my lips. “You want to eat dinner with me in the cafeteria? Really?”
He rubs the back of his neck, following along as I head downstairs to the instrument lockers off the orchestra rehearsal room. “Umm. Could I convince you to come with me somewhere?”
I wait to answer until after I slide my case into its locker, retrieve my backpack, and snap the lock closed. “Why?”
He stops fidgeting with the latch on top of his guitar case and meets my eyes. “What do you mean?”
Crossing my arms, I lean against the lockers. “A week ago you dropped me off at my dorm after a nice night. I thought maybe you’d want to see me again. But all I got was crickets, so I assumed you aren’t interested. Which is fine, if you’re not. I’m a big girl. I get how things are. But,” I wave my hand in his direction, “now here you are again.”
His fingers tap a quick rhythm on the top of the case and his nostrils flare. “I liked talking to you when we met.” He looks away, letting out a sigh. “I just—” He stops himself and swallows before meeting my eyes again. “It hit me how much younger than me you are. And I wasn’t sure if it would be a good idea to pursue anything.”
Several different emotions hit me at once—giddiness that he does like me (I knew it!), confusion over why “pursuing anything” would be a bad idea, and a little bit of irritation. So I arch an eyebrow again. “And now? You still haven’t answered that question.”
He runs a hand through his hair and meets my eyes again. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. And I finally managed to run into you. So now, can I take you to dinner?”
He gives me his most charming smile. Now that I know who he is, I recognize that smile from the profiles of the band I read in magazines when I was twelve. The magazine covers and posters all had his broody scowl, but the interior pictures for interviews usually had all three boys smiling. His smile is breathtaking. I’d thought so at twelve, and it’s even more true now that I’m eighteen and he’s a man, not a teenage boy.
Unable to control my reaction, I smile back at him. “Okay.”
Picking up his guitar case, he leads the way to the door. “Was that your Mozart concerto you were working on? I heard you play a little at the end. It was beautiful.”
I wrinkle my nose and my smile falls away. “Um, thanks. But no. At the end I was playing a Handel sonata.”
His eyebrows raise. “You don’t believe me that it was beautiful?”
Shrugging, I follow him into the hallway and out the door into the September evening. I cross my arms against the chill in the air. The sun hangs low on the horizon, bathing the campus in golden light. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. I’m just aware of my deficiencies.”
He gives me an odd look, but doesn’t press the issue. Pulling out a key fob, he presses a button and unlocks a blue Acura. Newer. Good shape. Peering in the windows, I see a sweatshirt and some books on the back seat, but otherwise it looks clean and well maintained. My dad, the mechanic, would approve. He always lectured me about taking care of my car when he finally let me have one. Marissa and Lance had both helped him rebuild the engines for their first cars. I had no interest, but he found a junker and fixed it up for me anyway. I helped some, but not as much as my siblings did with theirs. Dad had been okay with it, though. As long as I knew how to change a tire and check and change my oil, he was satisfied.
Marissa’s the one who wanted to be a grease monkey, but Dad wouldn’t let her, even though she works at his shop. He wanted Lance to take over, but Lance had other plans. I’m the only one who didn’t grow up fixing cars with Dad. I was more interested in art and music, singing in the school choirs in elementary school and moving to the violin when the strings program started in sixth grade. I started private lessons the next year when my mom saw how excited I was about it.
Jonathan holds the passenger door open for me. Guys around here don’t do things like that very often. I l
earned that pretty quickly when I was behind a group of guys headed into the student center one day. I figured they’d hold the door and let me go first, but nope. Not only did that not happen, but they didn’t even prop it behind them for me to grab before they went in.
In Texas, all the guys I know always hold open doors for girls. They’ll wait for you if they beat you to the door and let you go first. Always.
Here, there’s no guarantee of any such thing. It surprised me at first, but I’m starting to get used to it. So Jonathan opening a car door for me? That seems significant in a way it wouldn’t have a few weeks ago.
I look up at him for a moment, hesitating. I’m still thrown by him ignoring me for a week then suddenly showing up again.
But he’s charming and funny and easy to talk to. He seems interested in what I have to say. I know I talk a lot, especially about subjects I care about, and sometimes people sort of glaze over. Not Jonathan. He listens. To everything I have to say. Laughing at my jokes, asking questions, prompting me to continue when I try to rein myself in.
And he’s obviously been hanging around the music building trying to find me. He didn’t say that, but the implication was clear when he said he’s been hoping to run into me combined with the fact that I’ve never seen him in the building before.
Before my dawdling can become awkward, I slip my backpack off my shoulders and slide into the passenger seat, my bag in my lap.
Jonathan stows his guitar in the back seat, then climbs into the driver’s side, starts the car, and backs out of the space before glancing my way. “Any preference on where we eat? Do you have a lot of homework tonight?”
I shake my head. “No. I did most of it already. Just some theory homework, but it shouldn’t take too long.”
“So we can go to a sit-down place?”
“Um.” I bite my lip. “My bank account might appreciate something less expensive.”
He shoots me a grin. “That’s cute that you think you’ll be paying.”
Double Exposition (Songs and Sonatas Book 1) Page 3