And I can’t blame that part of me. This has disaster written all over it. But I just don’t care.
Chapter Twenty-One
Kate
I’m melting into him. It’s the only way I can describe it. For the first time, I’m not fighting against Drew Markham. I’m moving toward him, with him. It happens slowly for the first few seconds as we’re hesitant in our actions and unsure of one another’s intentions. But somewhere within those inches we both draw the same conclusion. I lurch toward him and he catches me in his arms, both of us falling backward onto the couch. Our lips connect with a ferocity that is jarring.
His hands are in my hair and we’re like two starving wretches who have stumbled upon a feast. My hands are under his shirt, feeling the smooth plane of his back, absorbing his warmth through my skin. We’re both gasping and panting, pushing and pulling. And then he stops. I nearly fall off the couch when I no longer have the resistance of his body to push against. I pull back and look up at him, confused.
“W-what? What is it?”
His eyes are closed and he’s shaking his head. His face is a mask of regret.
“Drew?”
“I can’t. I’m sorry, Katherine. You…me…”
He gestures toward the four empty bottles of wine on the coffee table. “We’ve both had way too much. You’re still not a hundred percent well. I’m your professor. You’re my student. There are a million different reasons why we need to stop this. Why I need to stop this. Right now. Right. Now.”
I take a deep breath and extricate myself from what’s left of his embrace.
“Umm, okay,” I say quietly as I readjust my shirt and scoot down the couch a few feet so I can get a better look at him. “It’s okay. Really.” I nod and give him a slightly confused but reassuring smile.
Still, he doesn’t look convinced. He stands up abruptly, his right hand raking through his dark hair while he paces behind the couch. I twist around to watch him.
“I don’t know where that came from,” he’s muttering, more to himself, than to me. “What’s wrong with me? I know better.”
With a sigh, I wonder the same thing about myself. We hate one another. Don’t we? Apparently not. But even I, with my limited knowledge of psychology, recognize that there’s a very fine line between love and hate. Not that I love him or anything. But I certainly wouldn’t mind another one of those kisses.
“Please don’t make yourself nuts over this,” I say, desperate to pull my thoughts away from his lips. “It’s just one of those things. You said it yourself—we had too much to drink. So I propose that we keep drinking. And we pretend nothing ever happened. Jeez, it’s entirely possible we won’t even remember this in the morning. What do you think?”
He only waits a split second before replying.
“Yes. Absolutely.” He nods. “I think there’s another bottle of chardonnay in the wine cooler.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Kate
“What’s so funny?” I smile up at him, from where I’m lying on the floor by the fire. He’s in his chair, the sound of the wooden runners creating a hypnotic rhythm as they rock back and forth, back and forth against the slate hearth. He glances down at me, still rocking.
“You know, at first, I couldn’t believe my bad luck—to have you, of all my students, stuck here with me. Now, I realize what incredibly good luck it was. And I still can’t believe it.”
“What? Are you saying you wouldn’t have had just as good a time with Evan and his bassoon?”
“Hah! No, you’re considerably more attractive than Evan. Or his bassoon, for that matter.” He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “And, I’ve got to say, I’m just not really a fan of the scraggly goatee look.”
“But I look like Casey.”
“Yes, you do,” he admits. “But not the same.” He takes me by surprise when he leans over to tuck a rogue strand of hair behind my ear. I fight the urge to lean in to his touch. “The fact that you remind me of her isn’t the attraction. In fact, it’s been a deterrent all these years. I’ve been so angry with her for so long.”
“Because she killed herself?”
“Exactly.” His face clouds with concern. “Is that totally screwed up?”
I shrug. “I don’t think so. But then, I’m not the best person to ask. I’m still angry at my mother for dying on me and that wasn’t even her fault.”
Despite our best efforts at increased inebriation, we’ve both sobered up fast after our aborted attempt at ill-advised romance. Gone now are the delicate wineglasses, replaced by green and white Shepherd University mugs, full of steaming hot chocolate. He hands me his to hold, so he can slide from his chair to join me on the floor.
“So,” he begins, taking the beverage back into his own hands when he’s settled on the rug. “Your father.”
I look down into my own cup, as if there might be a secret message for me in the bottom, telling me how to avoid this unavoidable conversation. Unfortunately, there’s nothing but warm, milky goodness looking up at me.
“My father,” I repeat on a sigh of resignation.
“Are you close?”
“Hardly. I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Seriously?” I hear the incredulity in his tone; I see it on his face. I almost wish he’d stayed up in his rocker so I could avoid the uncomfortable intensity of his dark eyes.
“Uh-huh.”
“But the way those jackal reporters hound you… What do they think they’re going to get out of you if you’re not even in contact with the guy?”
“They don’t know I’m not in contact with him. Nobody knows.”
“Well why the hell not? Maybe if they did, they’d finally leave you alone.”
“Look, Drew, here’s the thing. It’s not what’s true that matters. It’s what people think is true that matters.” I can see from the way his brows are furrowed that he doesn’t understand what I’m getting at. “My classmates. My professors. You, Drew Markham. You don’t know a damn thing about me, but none of you is willing to cut me an inch of slack because of the kind of person you believe me to be. No matter what I say to them, or to you, or to the press, everyone is going to believe what they want to believe. That I’m entitled. That I’m rich. That I support my father’s ridiculous bill to defund the arts.”
“Well that’s pretty jaded, don’t you think? Maybe if you actually explained to us—to them—what the situation really is, things would be different for you,” he suggests and the sincerity on his face tells me that he believes it could really be this simple. Unfortunately, I know better.
I give him a patronizing smile. “Or maybe they’d take what I said and twist it.”
“Oh, now you’re being paranoid again,” he scoffs dismissively. But I won’t be put off.
“Think about it, Drew. Imagine someone finds out I was stuck here like this with you. The two of us, alone, for days. Suddenly you’re being accused of an improper relationship with a student and I’m being accused of sleeping with my professor for a good grade. That’s not at all what happened. And, even if the truth came out after the fact, do you think people—your boss, my peers—are just going to erase their initial impressions? Hell no! That’s one bell you can’t un-ring.”
I’m thinking this is a good analogy, until I notice Drew Markham looking very pale suddenly. He’s verging on green, in fact.
“You wouldn’t tell anyone, would you, Katherine? About this? That I kissed you before?”
The question is wrapped in thinly veiled panic.
“What? No! God, no!” I gasp. “Are you insane? That was just an example. My point is that I can’t say anything about my father to anyone because there’s no guarantee that the truth is what will be printed. So, unless I decide I hate him enough to invent some scandal that’ll hurt his career, I won’t be saying anything.”
He looks visibly relieved and I try not to giggle as the color gradually returns to his face. For a few seconds the crackling of the fire is the only
sound in the room.
“Would you do that to him?” he asks.
I glance at Drew, who’s watching me intently.
“You would,” he determines from my split-second hesitation.
“Not now. But there was a time when I was so angry that I might have. Remember when I told you I got into the New York Conservatory?”
“Ah, yes, the ‘long story,’” he recalls from our earlier conversation.
I smile. “Yes, exactly. So, when I was getting ready to graduate high school, I told him I was going to visit my aunt in New York City.”
“And you didn’t go?”
“Oh no, I went all right. Except, I didn’t just go to visit my aunt. I also went to audition for the New York Conservatory. I was so careful not to tell anyone anything. I even auditioned under a pseudonym. As luck would have it, though, there was a reporter there doing a fluff piece about the musicians who come from all over the world to audition. He recognized me and snapped a picture with his phone. Next thing I know, it’s in the papers. And on Twitter. And Instagram, and Facebook, and—”
Drew gives a long, low whistle.
“Shit. I’m guessing Senator Dad wasn’t too thrilled by that,” he surmises.
“Not so much,” I confirm. “I was so sure I could convince him to let me go, but he saw the whole thing as a personal betrayal. Oh God, he was so furious.”
I close my eyes as an involuntary shudder runs through my body at the memory. They fly open again when I feel the press of warm flesh. Dr. Drew Markham gives my hand a supportive squeeze. I don’t comment. Nor do I pull away.
“What happened then?” he asks, his eyes glued to my face.
“I was given the choice between studying something that he approved of, like political science or business or premed with his total backing…or continuing with a music degree without his financial or emotional support.”
He inhales sharply and his hand tightens around mine.
“He—he kicked you out?”
“Pretty much. I got to keep my car and he gave me a little bit of money to start with, but I was told not to come home. Not to call home. Not to write home. He said I had embarrassed him so deeply that I might very well have cost him his career.”
“He really thought you studying music could have that kind of an impact on his career?”
My eyebrows go up and I shake my head slightly. “In all fairness,” I concede, “he did get a lot of shit from his opponents when word got out. Here he was all ‘We don’t need the arts. The arts take food out of the mouths of starving children.’ and then suddenly his own kid is studying music. Some people accused him of being a hypocrite. Others talked about how it was easy for him to oppose arts education funding and scholarships when his kid didn’t have to worry about who would pay for her education.”
“But, wait—I have to ask this question again, Katherine. If you got into the New York Conservatory, and you were determined to study music regardless of your father’s wishes, why come to Nowhere, North Carolina? Why not just take your acceptance letter and go to New York City?”
Good question. And one that pains me to answer.
“Ah, well, it was the last card my father had to play. I wasn’t eighteen yet, so he declined the admission on my behalf. I tried to undo it when my birthday rolled around a few weeks later, but it was too late by then. They’d given my spot, and my scholarship, to someone else.” I try to sound neutral as I tell him all of this, but there’s still a tinge of sadness to my tone. “I was pretty heartbroken. But, I didn’t have a lot of options. Shepherd was my safety school and I got just enough of a scholarship to cover tuition and books.”
“But not housing or food.”
I shake my head. “No. That’s when I picked up a job working mornings in the North Dining Hall. And that office cleaning job I told you about. That’s not all the time, though. I pick up per diem shifts when things aren’t too crazy at school, like they are now. It’s tight, but if I’m careful, it’s enough.”
He’s silent, but I can feel the anger coming off him. How strange it feels to not have it directed at me for a change.
“He’s not a bad guy, you know. My father,” I hasten to say.
No reply.
“I know it doesn’t look that way from where you’re standing—”
“From where I’m standing? Katherine, how can you not see?” He drops my hand and rakes it through his dark hair, leaving it nicely tousled. “I mean, I thought the guy was an ass because of his politics. But now…”
“Now what?”
“Now I see that he’s abandoned you for not sharing his political views. You! His own daughter! Who does that?”
I consider how best to answer this question and finally decide that honesty is my best tack here.
“Drew, he wasn’t always like this. It was after my mother died. He got so angry. The music…and the way I played it was just a constant, painful reminder of her.”
“Still, to take her death out on you—”
He stops abruptly and I’m indescribably relieved that I won’t have to connect the dots for him. Because, thankfully, he connects them for himself.
“Oh. Oh, fucking hell,” he mutters, closing his eyes and shaking his head at his own hypocrisy.
“Yup.”
“Did I really just say that?”
“You did.”
“Oh my God. Katherine, I am sorry. So not only am I a dick for treating you like that in the first place, I’m a dick for doing to you exactly what your father has done.”
“Kinda,” I say, looking up at him with a smile.
He’s staring at me with such intensity that I want to look away. But I don’t. Instead, I scoot the short distance between us until my face is just inches from his.
“But I might let you make it up to me.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Drew
“Okay, okay, wait. Let me see if I’m understanding this. You went to school with Daniel Gillies?”
“Yes,” I confirm for the third time. “He was my roommate for undergrad. We shared an apartment in Brooklyn. I was best man at his wedding a few years back.”
“We’re talking about the same Daniel Gillies? The one on the conducting faculty at New York Conservatory?”
I get up on my feet unsteadily and stand in front of a tall bookcase, perusing the shelves until I spot what I’m looking for. I reach up, grab the thin volume, and take it back to the couch with me. “Making it up” to Katherine turns out to involve her picking my brain about my time at the New York Conservatory. She’s peppered me with a dozen questions about the curriculum and professors. And, the truth is, I’m only too happy to walk down memory lane with her. Those were the good old days for me. And Casey.
“Come here,” I say, patting the cushion next to mine. She gets up, blanket still wrapped around her, and sits where I’ve indicated. I flip through the plastic-coated pages until I find the one I’m looking for. “There,” I say, pointing to the picture of myself in a black cap and gown, pink tassel hanging. I’ve got an arm around a tall, goofy-looking guy with a ridiculous amount of hair.
“Look at you! You’re so young!”
“Gee, thanks,” I retort, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “’Cause, you know, I’m such an old fart now.”
“Oh, stop it,” she giggles, giving me a gentle jab with her elbow. “You know what I mean. What’s he like?”
I shrug. “He’s a good guy. An exceptional conductor. We all knew he’d be going straight to the top.”
Katherine reaches over and flips to the next page of the photo album. Looking back at us are Daniel and his wife, Vivica, a spectacularly beautiful black woman who looks as if she just stepped out of a Victoria’s Secret commercial. She’s wearing a wedding dress and clutching a bouquet of flowers with one hand and Danny’s tuxedoed arm with the other. I’m standing to the right in my own tux. Casey is standing to Vivica’s left in her silvery maid of honor gown.
“Wow,” Kat
herine says from next to me.
“Yeah, I know. All the girls thought he was hot. I never saw it myself…” I chuckle.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Not him. You.”
“Me what?”
“You. You look so happy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look even close to that in the years I’ve known you. It’s a…” She pauses and looks up at my face. “It’s a really good look on you.”
“Huh. I guess I’ll have to find more things that make me happy,” I murmur as I close the distance between us with my lips.
“Well, Dr. Markham,” she purrs against my mouth, not an inch from her own, “I can tell you from having taken your classes for so long, when you’re happy, everyone is happy.”
I tilt my head back to laugh, but I don’t get away for long. Katherine reaches up and takes my face in her hands, gently but firmly pulling me back down to her and her waiting lips.
She’s right, I am happy. It’s been so long that I’d almost forgotten how good it can feel. But, as I pull her into a tight embrace, something tells me I won’t be forgetting again anytime soon.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kate
My neck is stuck at a weird angle. When I reach behind me to adjust my pillow, it groans.
What?
My hand moves farther down and it takes me a second to realize I’m not lying on a pillow, I’m lying on an arm. Drew Markham’s arm. We’re nestled together, squashed up against one another on the big, soft couch in his den. We must have fallen asleep like this. I think. I’m a little fuzzy on the details of last night and there’s a wicked throb behind my eyes that isn’t from being sick this time.
His big, warm hand wraps around my waist from behind, pulling me into his chest. I feel his cheek against the top of my head.
“Good morning, Miss Brenner,” he murmurs in my ear. It makes me smile.
“Good morning, Dr. Markham. I wonder, sir, could you enlighten me as to our…activities last night? I’m not sure I recall everything that went on.”
“Oh, well, let’s see,” he begins, pulling the blanket farther down around us so I’m completely covered. “We drank too much. We kissed. We confessed our deepest, darkest secrets. We kissed again. We drank hot chocolate and kissed some more until finally…we fell asleep on the couch.”
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