A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2)

by Q. T. Ruby

  She lights up. “That’s great! Got to jump right back into the ring! You know, this past Friday, your father called your old principal, Mrs. McGrath, to let her know you were moving back this way.”

  I whip my head around to face her. “What? Why did Dad do that?” I ask, trying to rein in my horror.

  She huffs. “Well, we’re certainly not going to let you go to waste over here.”

  “What do you mean ‘go to waste’?”

  “Claire, if it were up to you, you’d probably just sit around and sulk. Don’t you remember the last time with Mark? You just moped around. We’re not going to let you waste any more time doing that. Life is precious, Claire.”

  Oh my God. I might kill her. “I didn’t mope around.”

  “Yes, you did. You wore your sweatpants the whole time, too, just like you are now, except at least this time it looks like you showered.”

  “I’m not allowed to be sad?”

  “No, it’s just that time is marching ahead with or without you, and if you want to do the important things in life, then you can’t waste time wallowing. It’s unhealthy.”

  I turn back to the computer without a word. My mother, ever so observant, takes the hint and leaves.

  Before bed that night, my cell rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Claire, how are you?” Camille asks.

  I immediately soften. “I’m okay. How are you guys doing? I miss you two.”

  “We miss you, too. I guess that means you’ll visit us soon—like this weekend.”

  “Um, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s this thing called a job that I don’t have that gives me money to be able to haul my ass into the city.”

  “Oh shut up and get over here.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. You need a break from your mother. I can tell she’s already got you slumping and into sweatpants again, huh?”

  I look down at my sweats and snicker. “Why does everyone have such an issue with my sweatpants? They’re comfortable.”

  Camille giggles. “So what have you been doing, aside from dodging Rita?”

  I snort at the truth of that. “Revising my resume.”

  “Already on the job hunt, I see. That’s good. You think asshole John will give you a recommendation now that you’re far enough away from his precious school?”

  “Hope so. Things seem to have calmed down. Of course, I was going to call my old principal I worked with here, but it looks like my father already took care of that for me.” I sigh. Loudly.

  “What? He called your old principal for you?”

  I sigh again just in case the neighbors didn’t hear. “Yes.”

  “I cannot wait for Halloween. I am totally egging your parents’ house.”

  I laugh. “I dare you.”

  “No need for a dare.”

  There’s a pause. It’s obvious we both want to discuss the same thing, but I’m not about to bring up the English’s name. Not unless I want to lose my very fragile grip on sanity.

  “My offer still stands, Claire. I can afford your rent—”

  “I really appreciate that, Camille, but I have no future in New York. You know that.”

  Camille sighs. “Well, we miss you—all of us.”

  I know exactly who she means, but I don’t ask even though I want to. “I miss all of you, too.”

  She sighs again. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Kiss the sweatpants hi for me? I miss seeing your ass all flabby in them.”

  “Shut up,” I say, chuckling.

  “Night, sweets.”

  “Night.”

  I lie back on my outdated paisley comforter, and now, thanks to Camille, I want to talk to Dan. Who am I kidding? I want to be with Dan. I want to snuggle my head in the nook of his arm and chest. I want him to hold me close and tell me all this crap will work itself out.

  But it won’t.

  Why can’t I just have him and a career, too?

  I search my contact list and find his name. It’s there—lit up, waiting to be dialed. How easy it would be just to press the button, to have the velvet voice soothe me to sleep.

  No. Calling him will only make this harder.

  I shut the phone down. Toss it to the floor. Lying back, I twist and turn in bed, finally handing myself over to the sadness that called to me all day, only to find release at night under the safe cover of darkness.

  “Dan!” I call out, spotting him looking as perfect as always.

  He turns around and slays me with his beautiful smile. I run to him, like in those movies, but we aren’t in a field, we’re somewhere—I have no idea where and don’t care. All that matters is that my boyfriend is here!

  I leap and he catches me, squeezing me tight.

  “Oh, Claire, I’ve missed you,” he murmurs into my hair again as we continue our embrace. He puts me down, still holding me. “I’m so happy you came back.”

  “Me, too. I’ve been so lonely without you.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I had to.”

  His face falls, and he lets me go.

  I awake with a jolt and it takes me a moment to realize where I am.

  I flop back on my pillow and adjust his flannel shirt under my head. I fall asleep silently chanting: Don’t forget me. Don’t forget me . . .

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  By Friday of that first week home, my resume is polished and ready to go. I head to the post office to mail copies out to several local districts. It feels good to complete step one of the Get the Hell Out of Hell plan. Not wanting the satisfied feeling to end quite yet, I steer clear of The Microscope a while longer and head to one of my favorite places in the world—the public library.

  I love libraries. There’s a cozy factor I just can’t find anywhere else. The quiet, the peace, the thousands of worlds to lose myself in just waiting on the shelves; it’s a magical place. God, how I love the musky scent of old books and the way the spines of new books fight against the first cracking.

  Walking in, my first inclination is to head over toward the fiction section, but stop in my tracks in front of the checkout desk. I shouldn’t read fiction. There’s a lot of romance in fiction, and that’s the last thing I need to read. So what else? Nonfiction? Yes. Planes? Yep, planes are safe. Trains, too. Or maybe automobiles? I stand there quietly giggling at my lame joke when I’m tapped on the shoulder.

  “Are you here for the job?”

  I turn to see an older woman with a white, buttoned up blouse and pearls smiling at me.

  “Job?”

  “Yes, the job,” the woman says, pointing to the ‘Library Assistant’ help wanted sign on the counter in its neat, eight-by-ten frame.

  “Oh. Can you tell me about it?”

  She smiles, leans in, and whispers, “It’s basically shelving the books.”

  I smile. “Oh, well, I can do that.” Why not? I have nothing else to do, and it’ll keep me busy until I find a teaching job.

  Ten minutes later, I’ve learned that the woman is the head librarian, she’s been working here for the past twenty years, and she thinks I’ll do just fine.

  * * *

  It’s mid-afternoon when I proudly arrive home to tell my mother I’m good for something. She’s loading the dishwasher.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say, grinning. My mom looks up and smiles in return.

  “Hi, Claire,” she says casually as she continues loading the dishes.

  I open the refrigerator, looking for a snack.

  “What did you do this afternoon?”

  With my head in the fridge, I casual
ly explain, “I mailed my resumes and then headed to the library for a while. I ended up getting a job there, actually.”

  Dreaded silence. Oh no.

  “A job? Doing what?”

  I shut the refrigerator and turn around to see my mother’s raised eyebrow aimed at me.

  I brace myself. “I’ll be assisting the librarians with shelving the books and organizing things.”

  My mother silently appraises me. I wonder when the tumbleweed will roll by.

  “This is just for now, right? You don’t plan on that as a career.”

  I close my eyes a moment in frustration. “Yes, it’s for the time being, Mom. I thought you’d be happy that I’ll be working somewhere, doing something.”

  “I am, Claire. I just think you’re too smart to spend the rest of your life shelving books.”

  Exasperated, I leave the kitchen and speed up to my bedroom, which is a genuine mess. Boxes are still stacked; some are open with their contents half spilling out. The remainder of my Saturday afternoon is spent trying to right the disaster I’ve managed to create in a week.

  I dive into box after box, examining each and every artifact of my life—from photos of the girls and me, to photos of my nieces and nephews, to old textbooks and old shoes. I sit for hours getting lost in one memory after another and smiling fondly at some of the outfits I’ve actually worn in public.

  My heart stops, and I’m sure the smile on my face is as big as Texas when I find my box of music. Inside contains blank sheet music, books of Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, old class notes, and programs from various concerts I’ve played in. My mind sifts through memory after memory of my musical life.

  Knock. Knock.

  “Come in,” I say, distracted.

  My mom peeks in. She gauges the mess, happy, yet disgusted. “Are you organizing?”

  “Trying to.”

  “That’s very good. I wanted to tell you that your dad and I are on our way to Pokeno.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t know what time we’ll be home, so good night.”

  “Night.”

  Resuming the clean out, I come across my black folder with the white cleft note in the corner. I open it and see them—my compositions. I hug them to my chest.

  “Well, hello! I haven’t seen all of you in a while.” I take the musical scores out and examine each of them, affectionately remembering the experience of composing them. “Hey, I know! Why don’t we have a play date?”

  For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I’m happy. Like the dork I am, I bounce downstairs to the mausoleum of a living room with my folder and turn on a table lamp.

  “Hi there,” I say, sliding onto the mahogany piano bench. “Looks like Mom’s kept you clean, at least.” I run a finger over the sleek, spotless cover.

  Slowly, I creak open the top, revealing the shiny black and white keys. I’m bubbling with excitement. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?” I place the music on the rack.

  I quickly slide my fingers across the keyboard in one long scale from low to high and laugh at just how loud it is in the quiet house. “Oh my God! You’re in tune, too? Go you!” I say, patting the piano gently.

  “Okay, ready? Let’s play!” I line up my fingers for Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata—a relatively easy piece I’ve always warmed up with. I can hear the notes in my head as if it were just yesterday that I last played it. I press down on the first chords and . . . my fingers slip. I line my fingers up again and begin, but my fingers only go a bar or two before they falter.

  “Okay, come on,” I say, trying again but hitting a discordant mass of notes. My excitement fades fast as I stretch my fingers a few times before trying again.

  Again they stumble.

  “What is going on?” I snap, my heart sinking. I try again, but my fingers aren’t nimble and my pinkies aren’t reaching the notes.

  I shake my hands out as my heart races. Panic is setting in. “Come on!”

  It’s just not happening—my hands can’t do what I see them doing in my mind. A sick, hollow fear rises. “Oh God, I can’t do this, either? What the hell?” I yell in the silent house.

  Tears well up as I stand and pace in front of the piano. I breathe deeply, in and out, in and out. When I’ve gathered myself, I sit again and close my eyes a moment, envisioning my hands working the keys. I open my eyes, give the keys a death stare and try again, but my hands don’t work like I pictured them.

  I run to grab my cell phone from my bedroom and frantically dial.

  “Hey, Claire!” Camille says.

  “Camille,” I say in a panic. “I can’t . . . it’s just not working right. I can see it in my mind, I can hear it, but I just can’t do it—”

  “Slow down, take a breath.”

  I take a deep breath, but it’s doesn’t help.

  “Now, what are you talking about? What can’t you do?” Camille asks calmly.

  I breathe deeply again and then begin to pace. “I can’t play the piano, Camille. I found my old music and my parents are out, so I thought I’d play for a while since it always made me happy, but I just can’t do it. My fingers aren’t working! I’m hitting all the wrong notes!” I pull on my hair.

  “Deep breaths, Claire . . .”

  In.

  Out.

  “Why can’t I do it, Camille? Why? What is going on with my life?” I burst into tears.

  “Shh . . . breathe.”

  I do, and after a few moments, Camille continues. “Claire, you haven’t played in a long time. How can you expect your fingers to do what they haven’t done in years?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, have I lost this, too?”

  “No, you haven’t; you just have to remind your fingers what to do, you know? If you took years off from running, you wouldn’t be able to run as far as you do now, right? Breathe again.”

  In.

  Out.

  “I just . . . why did I let it go?”

  Camille pauses a moment. “Well, that’s what happens when you’re busy being in love. You and Mark were inseparable, Claire. You know that. You went to all his intramural baseball games and his work events, and you were in the midst of getting your teaching certification. You just . . . put your music on the back burner.”

  “Why did I do that? For what? So that now, when I have nothing else, the one thing I thought I’d always have is gone? Damn it! I’m a complete idiot!” The tears continue to fall.

  “No, you’re not an idiot, and it’s not gone. The music is still in there. Your fingers just need reminding. It’s like the bike thing, you know? Get on a bike after, um—”

  In.

  Out.

  “You never forget how to ride a bike?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. And it’s true. If you can see it all in your head, it means it’s still there. You just need to practice.”

  With a smidge of relief, I say, “I suppose . . . but I can’t believe I did this to myself!”

  “It happens. You can’t beat yourself up over it, though. The good thing is that you have time to practice.” Camille’s soothing voice and encouraging words calm me.

  “Hell, do I have time.”

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “I’m feeling a little more hopeful.”

  “Good. So, how are you—other than panicking? You get sold at the market yet?”

  “Ha-ha. No. They haven’t found a suitor with enough cattle. Actually, I found a job.”

  “A teaching job? Wow, that was fast.”

  “No, not a teaching job, one at the library shelving books.”

  Camille snickers. “My God, you live in the fast lane, Parelli.”

  I laugh. “I know. You’re jealous.”

  “Very.
Well, that’s good. It’ll keep you busy if nothing else. So . . . have you talked to anyone?”

  “Anyone? Hmm . . . you mean like my mom and dad?”

  Camille snorts. “You make me laugh, and stop avoiding my question—have you talked to Dan?”

  Clearly, she’s not letting this go. “No, I haven’t. It’s too hard. I want to, but—”

  “But what? Just call the guy. He misses you. You know that, don’t you? I don’t know why you’re torturing yourself like this.”

  “Torturing myself? Do you think I want to be without him? I miss him like crazy. I think about him all the time. I even dream about him, and it’s actually painful to wake up.”

  “So call him, Claire.”

  “I can’t, Camille. It’d be such a tease—that’s the real torture.”

  Camille pauses before she asks, “Do you really think it’s totally over with him?”

  “I don’t want it to be, but honestly Camille, I don’t see how it can work.” My heart sinks all over again. “Even though I probably shouldn’t, I’m still clinging onto that one percent chance this situation might work its way out. I’m hoping that at some point something, somewhere, gives; that a new option—anything—comes to me, but the reality is it’s pretty hopeless.”

  “Do you have to teach? Can’t you do something else?” Camille asks gently.

  “Like what? Teaching is what I do. It’s what I went to school for; it’s what I know. We’ve talked about this. If I could only figure out a way to have them both.” My voice cracks. God, I’ve become such a pathetic, emotional wreck.

  We’re quiet for a moment when Camille says, “I just think you ought to know that Colin told me—”

  “No! I don’t want to know, Camille. I don’t,” I say, my heavy emotions seeping through my voice.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to upset you. I just want to see you happy, and I’ve never seen you happier than when you were with him.”

  I wipe the tears that have begun to fall. “I know. I never felt happier.”

  We’re silent again. My head and heart give up the fight, and I wallow in thoughts of Dan.