Reverb (Songs and Sonatas Book 7)

by Jerica MacMillan

  Somehow, I don’t think Lauren will be all smiles about this.

  My phone beeps with a new incoming call. I pull it away from my face and see it’s her, as though she could hear my thoughts about her.

  With another sigh, I put the phone back to my face. “Lauren’s calling. Gotta go. I’ll let you know if I want your help.”

  “Alright. Good luck, man.”

  “Thanks.” I’m about to hang up, but Jonathan’s voice stops me.

  “Brendan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Congratulations.”

  I blow out a breath. “Thanks.” Then I hurry to switch to Lauren’s call, not wanting it to go to voicemail before I can answer.

  “Our pictures are online. And in like tabloids and shit.”

  I close my eyes at the tortured sound of her voice. “I know. I’m sorry. It didn’t even occur to me that anyone would care enough to pay attention to what I’m doing.”

  “Me either,” she chokes out, and it sounds like she’s crying. Her crying guts me, and I stand like I’m going to run and jump on a plane so I can fly up there and comfort her right this second. But I can’t do that. The Professor would kill me, for one thing. And it’d take too long, for another.

  Times like this, I wish I had Jonathan’s access to a private plane. I sink back into my chair, at a loss. “It’ll be okay. I promise.” The words sound as empty to me as I’m sure they do to her.

  “How?”

  I close my eyes and let my head tip back, racking my brain for an answer that will in any way satisfy the question. “I can, um … Jonathan offered to let me use his PR team to clean this up.”

  She makes another choking sound. “You told your brother?”

  “No. He called and told me to Google my name. Then he offered his PR team when I saw the results.”

  “Oh.” She’s quiet for a long moment, and I hate that I can’t see her to figure out what she’s thinking. She takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly, then another, and it seems like she’s steeling herself to say something.

  “Brendan.”

  “Yeah?” Apprehension wraps its fingers around the base of my neck.

  “Was this a horrible mistake?” she whispers.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Getting married.”

  My heart sinks down to the floor, and I think I might be sick. “You think getting married was a mistake?” Somehow I manage to keep my voice calm and steady when I feel anything but.

  A heavy sigh comes over the phone. “No. I mean, maybe? I don’t know.” She sniffles, and part of me wants to switch to a video call like we’ve been doing, but if just listening to her cry is killing me, how will I react to seeing her and not being able to hold her? To comfort her? And if she thinks we’ve made a mistake, would she even want my comfort? But she called me …

  “I love you,” she says, and the words are a balm. “But maybe we should’ve taken things slower. An engagement would’ve been enough. Then we could’ve taken the time to like, tell people and plan and get your brother’s advice on how to keep the media out of it, releasing pictures on our own terms like he and Gabby did.”

  I swallow past the lump in my throat, wanting to make my voice come out steady. It doesn’t work, though. “What are you saying?” The question is the harsh rasp of metal on metal.

  Another sigh. “I don’t know. I’m just … I’m upset. I haven’t even told my parents.” The last sentence is a whispered confession, like it’s too shameful to give it full voice.

  I close my eyes. “I’m sorry.” I told mine a few days ago. It wasn’t a pleasant conversation. I can only imagine how much worse it would’ve been if they’d learned about it from some trashy gossip rag.

  I drop my head into my free hand, trying to figure out what to do. What I can say that’ll make her feel better. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think it was a mistake. I love you. I want to be with you.”

  She makes a choked sound. “But we’re not even together. You’re a thousand miles away, and I don’t even know when I’m going to see you again.”

  With my eyes still closed, I suck in a breath and force out the question. “Do you want, like, a divorce or something?”

  “No. Fuck.” She makes an inarticulate sound of frustration. “That’s not what I’m saying. That wouldn’t make anything better.” Another choked almost-laugh. “God, imagine that conversation—‘Hi, Mom and Dad. Guess what? I got married last weekend. But don’t worry, I’ll be getting divorced soon.’”

  Normally I’d crack a smile at that, but I can’t. Not when the subject of the joke is our potential divorce less than a week after our wedding day. “Is that the only thing that makes you not want a divorce? Having to tell your parents?”

  A harsh exhale greets my question. “No. That won’t fix anything.”

  “Yeah. Honestly, it’d just give the tabloids more dirt.”

  “God, I didn’t even think about that. I know nothing about handling this kind of media attention. And that’s what’s fucking with me the most. But what I meant was that the real problem is that I hate that we’re not together. Getting a divorce will only push us apart more. How is that helpful?”

  Relief makes my muscles turn to jello, and I slump in my chair. “Good point.”

  “I always make good points.”

  My lips twitch, another wave of relief hitting me. There’s the Lauren I know and love. “Yes, you do.” I blow out a breath. “I think we should take Jonathan up on his offer to get his PR firm on top of things, see if we can calm it down. Pretty soon there’ll be some other scandal or crazy thing for them to sink their teeth into. I’m not that big of a deal, really. It’ll blow over before you know it.”

  This time the sound of her exhale is more of relief. “You think so?”

  “Yeah,” I answer with more confidence than I feel. There’s really no predicting what those assholes will think is newsworthy. “Let me know if you start getting followed by photographers. I can get security for you.”

  “Ugh. Gabby had that for a while. I thought it was awful then. But at least she got to shack up with her boyfriend as a consolation prize. What do I get?”

  “The knowledge that you got the better brother?”

  She laughs, which was my goal, and it sounds more relaxed now. “That’s very true.” She pauses. Sniffs. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Lauren

  After hanging up with Brendan, I decide that I’ll call my parents. Tell them everything.

  But first I want to practice. Just for a little while. So I can feel more like myself and approach how to tell them in a calmer frame of mind.

  Before I can get out the door to go to the music building, though, my phone rings, my mom’s name appearing on the screen.

  With a gulp, I set my violin and keys back down and force myself to answer. Because I’m a terrible daughter for not telling them sooner. And even though I want to put it off, with her calling me like this, I just can’t.

  Eyes closed, I tap the green button and hold the phone to my ear, a tremulous smile on my lips. “Hi, Mom! How are you?”

  She exhales loudly. “Lauren.” Her voice is confusion in auditory form. “I don’t … Your father was watching the news last night. He got up to use the bathroom, and the TV kept playing and went to one of those entertainment news shows. You know I don’t watch them, but they said your name. They said you got married? I didn’t believe it at first. Or, well, I thought they must be talking about someone else. But they had your picture. And … and they showed a marriage certificate.”

  Oh god. My mouth is open, my jaw working, but words won’t come.

  “Lauren?” my mother continues. “I don’t understand. Are you married? Did you get married to that boy who took you to New York City at Christmas?”

  “Yes.” The word leaves me in a gust, and I suck air back into my lungs. Clearing my throat, I force myself to repeat m
y affirmative into the dead silence that follows. “Yes, Mom. Um, we went to Vegas last week. It wasn’t planned. Getting married, I mean. Well, the trip was only planned like a day ahead of time too. But that’s not the point. The point is that yes, we got married. It was impulsive and probably stupid and I’m not sure how we’re going to work everything out, but …” Trailing off, I let the sentence hang. I don’t know how to finish it. Or what else to say.

  “I didn’t even think you were still talking to him.” There’s no censure in my mother’s voice, just shock, but I flinch like she’s giving me the tongue-lashing I deserve.

  “Um, well, I wasn’t. For a while. And then we talked a couple times.” I suck in another gulp of air, closing my eyes and forcing myself to tell all. Well, all the parent-safe parts, anyway. “He was supposed to come to my recital, actually. I invited him. He’d said he’d be there, but at the last minute couldn’t make it.”

  “That’s why you were upset,” Mom interjects softly.

  I pause. “Yeah.” I didn’t realize she’d noticed. She’d given me a couple of concerned looks, but I’d reassured her I was just suffering from the lingering effects of nerves and adrenaline from the recital. She’d seemed to accept my answer at the time. “Yeah, that’s why I was upset. So, um, he showed up after you and Dad left, but it was awkward, and then we didn’t talk again until after the concerto competition finals.”

  “Really? Did he come to that too?” Bless her, my mom still isn’t being judgy. Just surprised.

  “No,” I croak. “No. I called him after. After Damian got the call that he won.”

  “Oh.” The single syllable is soft, weighted with dawning understanding.

  I press on. “And then we didn’t talk for a while, but he and his brothers showed up in May when Gabby and Charlie came to visit. He was with them because Jonathan had scheduled a Brash set in his next few performances. Anyway”—I wave a hand in the air—“that’s when we really started talking again. And, um, kind of, uh, dating.” I squeeze my eyes shut harder at the ensuing silence. I’m the worst daughter. The actual worst. And a terrible friend. And now I’m shaping up to be a terrible wife. Is there anything I can do right?

  Mom sighs. “Honey, why didn’t you say anything?”

  That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?

  I swallow, peeling my eyes open and staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “At first there didn’t seem like anything to tell.”

  “Lauren.” For the first time, a hint of scolding enters her voice. “We like to know what’s going on with you. If you’re in a relationship, that’s worth telling. If you’re taking trips, that’s worth telling. We want to make sure you’re safe. We love you.”

  “I know.” My eyes fall closed again at her words, and a tear slips down my cheek, quickly followed by another. I sniff and rub my nose. “I’m sorry. I—” I what? I don’t have any justification for any of this. I shake my head. “I guess I just got so used to keeping information about Brendan to myself that it’s become a bad habit. I wasn’t trying to keep things from you. I just didn’t know how to tell you. You were so upset about the New York thing, and—”

  She scoffs. “Yes. We were. Because, once again, you didn’t tell us anything. Are you starting to see a pattern here?”

  I huff out half a laugh. “Yes, Mom. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

  She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, then, “Okay. Good. Now. I’m going to put you on speakerphone, because your father needs to hear your apology too, and then you’re going to tell us the rest of how you ended up married to this boy we haven’t even met.”

  Settling into the couch, I wait for Mom to switch to speakerphone and tell them everything. How everything seems perfect when we’re together, how hard it is when we’re apart, how getting married somehow seemed like an amazing idea that would keep us committed to working through our time apart until we can figure out how to be in the same place.

  “I know,” I say in response to Mom’s sigh. “I know it’s stupid. I realize that now. We should’ve taken our time, thought things through.”

  There’s a long pause, then Dad says, “Yeah. That probably would’ve been smart.”

  I purse my lips and roll my eyes at my dad’s wry tone. “Thanks for confirming that for me, Dad.” There’s no doubt about where I get my sarcasm from.

  “But you didn’t,” he continues like I didn’t speak, “so now you have to deal with the consequences. The big question is, are you happy?”

  I suck in a breath and hold it. Am I happy? I mean, not right now. Not with the way things are. But when we’re together … “Kinda? Like I said, when we’re apart, it’s really hard. I’m not happy about that. But when we’re together … everything’s better. With him, yeah, I’m happy.”

  Mom clears her throat. “We’d like to meet him. Since you’re married now, it’d be nice to meet our son-in-law.”

  I nod. “I know. I’m really sorry. I wasn’t …”

  “Thinking,” Dad finishes for me. “You weren’t thinking. Even though we’re disappointed and hurt that you left us out, we still love you.”

  Tears well in my eyes. My parents are the best. “I love you too.”

  “And now you’re dealing with all this media attention,” Mom says. “How are you doing? Is anyone bothering you? Do you want us to come there? If you need us, we can be there tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.”

  A choked laugh comes out, a few more tears accompanying it. “No. Not right now. No one’s bothering me, and Brendan said he’d get me security if that changes.” Dad grunts in approval. “I need to keep going with my routine, though. Teach. Go to my lessons. Practice. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing this summer. I’m still going to be a counselor at the orchestra camp in a couple of weeks. And once I know when Brendan’s coming to visit, I’ll let you know so you can come over.”

  “Okay,” Mom says. “That all sounds good. If you change your mind, though …”

  “I know. You can be here the next day at the latest.”

  “Lauren?” Dad says.

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  “Let us know if your plans change, okay? A quick phone call, even a text. It doesn’t have to be anything major. I just don’t want to find out on some trashy entertainment show again, okay?”

  I gulp, guilt slamming into me. “Okay. I promise.”

  I spend my days in the practice room over the next week. Even though it’s summer, I’ve still been going to the music building to practice. Since Brendan and I showed up in the tabloids last week, now I’m there even more. The tiny closet rooms with their regularly tuned pianos help me focus, blocking out the hard questions with no answers. When will I see Brendan next? How long can we continue like this? How are we going to survive once school starts?

  The Professor runs him ragged while he’s there, punishing him for his time away. And once classes start, I won’t have much flexibility with my schedule. Will we be stuck with one night together at a time here and there for the next few months? And where will we spend Christmas?

  But I always circle back to when will the tabloids leave us alone? That’s the question that plagues me the most right now.

  In the practice rooms, I can push all that aside and focus on the click of the metronome. The precise little dots lined up on the music staff. The feel of the strings under my fingertips and the weight of the bow in my hand.

  The practice room hall is almost always empty. Other people have lives away from campus. They go home for the summer or they have jobs or they just practice at home like normal people.

  But at home, it’s too easy to get sucked into endless searches and masochistic reading of all the articles about Brendan and me. Especially the ones about me.

  “Don’t look at them. Don’t Google yourself. Don’t read them,” Gabby told me when we talked. I’d called her after I talked to Brendan the day the story came out, tears still leaking from my eyes at irregular inter
vals.

  She started out scolding me for withholding information from her again, but when she heard me sniffling, she immediately changed from outraged friend to conciliatory and helpful.

  “Ignore whatever trash they print about you,” she said. “Because I guarantee it’ll be trash.”

  “Oh you mean like you ignored it when Jonathan’s video went viral?”

  She chuckled. “I know. I know it’s not easy. But trust me, it’s better if you can manage it.”

  Charlie told me the same thing when I talked to her. “Let the PR team handle it,” she said. “That’s their job. They’re good, I promise.”

  I can’t leave it alone, though. Every night I find myself trolling the internet for stories about me. I’m like a junkie. I know it’s bad for me, I know it’ll only leave me a sniveling wreck, but I can’t help myself.

  Tonight I continue what’s become my routine. After coming home from an after-dinner practice session, I video chat with Brendan. It’s the part of my day I look forward to the most. We’ve gotten better about talking like this, and when we lapse into silence and just look at each other’s faces on the screens, it’s less awkward than when we’d lapse into silence on a regular phone call. And when he’s actually at home instead of the studio, we have sizzling video sex sessions. It’s nowhere near as good as the real thing, but right now we have to make the best of what we’ve got.

  We’ve started making plans for him to come visit, which has me feeling hopeful for the first time since I got back from Vegas.

  Once we finish talking, I switch over to my email. I’ve managed to train myself to ignore it during the day, because since the story broke, I’ve been hounded by reporters wanting an interview as well as acquaintances hoping I’ll somehow get them an in with my semi-famous husband and his more famous brother.

  Ha. Right.

  Those all get deleted after a cursory glance. And their names get added to my mental list of people to distance myself from.