Reverb (Songs and Sonatas Book 7)

by Jerica MacMillan

  She left. And this is her Dear John letter.

  Giving in to my rage, I turn and slam my fist into the wall. The drywall crumbles under the force, and I’m instantly filled with shame as I extract my hand from the mess. It filters through my veins, sinking into all my cracks and crevices, weighing me down like cement.

  Sinking to the chair in front of her note, I prop my elbows on the table and my head in my hands, staring at her handwriting. The only thing left of her in my apartment.

  I knew this weekend was a mindfuck. I knew taking her to the studio was a bad idea, especially so soon on the heels of the encounter with my mom. She’s been withdrawn ever since. But this …

  I didn’t see this coming.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I block out the sight of the note. It doesn’t help, though. It’s burned into my retinas.

  She’s gone.

  What the fuck do I do now?

  Hours later, my phone finally rings, Lauren’s smiling picture mocking me from the screen.

  “I’m sorry,” she says immediately when I pick up, before I can even croak out a hello.

  “What happened?”

  She takes a shuddery breath, but her voice is steady. “There was another article.”

  My eyes fall closed. Even though her voice isn’t giving anything away, I know that’s killing her. “I didn’t see it.”

  “You’ve been busy.” It’s a soft statement, free of accusation. “And you don’t keep tabs on that kind of thing anyway.”

  “No. I don’t.” I never have. Mom always did before. And I guess Jonathan does now. But I don’t want to know if people are talking about me or what they’re saying. It doesn’t matter. At least it never has before.

  I guess now it does.

  “What did it say?”

  She lets out a low grunt, a world of pain and distress encapsulated in that one small sound. “More of the same.”

  My free hand clenches into a fist. I’m not sure if I believe her. Because she hasn’t run before. “Then what changed?”

  A soft exhale so near I can almost feel it. Her throat clicks as she swallows. “I’m sorry, Brendan,” she whispers, sounding near to tears. “We should’ve waited. Taken our time. Had a plan. But now they’re never going to leave me alone. We’ve both already lost too much. If we keep going, it’ll only get worse. I can’t …” Her voice cracks and she clears her throat. “I can’t do this anymore. I think … I think we need to end it.”

  “End it?” I don’t bother to hide the outrage in my voice. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? I thought we were on the same page. I thought we were going to make it work. Wasn’t that the whole reason you came here?”

  “Yes. No.” She sighs, exasperation tingeing her tone. “I don’t know which question to answer first.” Her frustration somehow gives her strength, though, and I’m angry at myself for inadvertently giving her the ability to state the words in bald terms. “Yes, we need to end it. Divorce. I don’t think we qualify for an annulment. It’s been too long, and we weren’t incapacitated, and we’ve definitely consummated the marriage, so …” She clears her throat. “I’ll stipulate that we both leave the marriage with the things we brought into it. I’m not trying to get anything from you. I …” Now she seems to falter. “I’m sorry, Brendan. I’m really sorry.” Her voice thickens over the course of the last few words, tears rendering her almost speechless.

  Before I can open my mouth, my mind racing to come up with some way to refute what she’s saying, convince her to change her mind, she ends the call. And I’m left standing in the middle of my apartment, my phone pressed to my ear like a moron, wanting to rage. Scream. Get on the next flight to Spokane. Shake her. Yell at her. Somehow force her to change her mind.

  But as soon as that thought enters my mind, all the fight drains out of me. All the rage and anger. Instead I’m filled with despair, the weight of it covering me like a lead blanket. Sinking to the floor, I sprawl in the middle of the living room, staring up at the ceiling, blinking the tears away from my eyes.

  It’s over. It’s really over.

  There’s no forcing her to change her mind.

  I did my best.

  And it wasn’t good enough.

  She’s gone.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Lauren

  Clara greets me with a warm smile after my knock on her open doorframe. It’s the second week of classes, and I’m here for my first lesson of the semester.

  She gets up and raises the desk of the music stand in the corner, pulling it into the center of the room. “How are you doing?”

  “Fine.” My smile is as wooden as my voice. Gutted. Hollowed out.

  Clara doesn’t ask how my summer was as I set my music on the stand and my instrument on the usual chair, opening the case and pulling out my violin. She knows. Even though I haven’t seen her since my fateful trip to California. After I got back, I canceled the rest of my lessons for the summer, both the ones I was supposed to take and the ones I was supposed to teach, and spent the rest of the summer at my parents’ house in Chelan. I doubt the parents of my students were too beaten up about it. Not if they’re tabloid readers. Or entertainment news followers. Or casual browsers of social media and television. They all accepted the cancelation without protest, making polite noises when I assured them I’d start teaching again in September.

  It’s not September yet. I’m not sure if I have the guts to contact any of my old students. Or to try to get new ones. Maybe I shouldn’t bother.

  No one has asked how my summer was. They all know already.

  Clara takes my single word answer in stride, not pressing for more details. She knows me well enough to know that I’m not who the stories have made me out to be. But I hate that anyone’s read that about me. That it might’ve planted a doubt in their minds. That guys on campus feel emboldened to approach me, despite my death glare. And when I reject their advances, they come back with something along the lines of, “Oh, that’s right. You only fuck guys with money or connections to fame.”

  In the music department, I’m a leper. Everyone gives me a wide berth in classes. Except Damian. He gets it. Kinda. The best of anyone, at least. He knows how it feels to have speculative stories written about you, at any rate. It still happens to him, too.

  He pulled me aside last week after our first orchestra rehearsal. “Hey. It gets better. I swear.”

  “Does it really? When? How?”

  His warm brown eyes were full of pain behind his glasses as he stared at me, the top of his cello case sticking up above his head. I gave him a smile. Or the closest thing I could muster, anyway. “Thanks, Damian. Tell Charlie hi for me.”

  “Tell her yourself,” was his comeback as I shouldered my own case and turned away. I just shook my head. I haven’t talked to her in over a month. I haven’t talked to anyone, really.

  Gabby once or twice. My parents.

  My divorce attorney.

  Thinking about him causes bile to rise in my throat. Swallowing it down, I blink a few times while keeping my face toward the wall, focusing on the Stradivarius poster Clara has hanging there. Trying to ground myself here and now. This is what I need. Me. My violin. Nothing else. My instinct last summer was right all along. No boys. No men. No dating. For fuck’s sake, no getting married. Why did I ever think that would work out well?

  We were both deluding ourselves.

  And now here I am, right back where I started this time last year. Hurt and dragged through the mud, but this time on a much grander scale. This time brokenhearted to top it all off. It’s not just my pride that’s bruised. It’s my heart and soul.

  I don’t know how I’m going to recover from this, but I know that the only thing that will help me pull through is my music.

  Finally ready, I turn and face Clara, who’s been patiently waiting for me to gather myself. But I won’t let her concern reduce me to tears. Again. I’m so tired of crying. You’d think I’d run out of tears, but no. Not yet,
at any rate.

  Maybe once the divorce is final. The papers were sent to Brendan yesterday. He should be getting them today.

  Swallowing, I stare at the books and loose sheet music stacked on my stand.

  Clara clears her throat. “Should we get started?”

  I nod, not trusting my voice.

  “Alright …” She steps closer, picking up the giant Flesch scale book. “Let’s start with the D minor three octave scale. Then we’ll do arpeggios and tackle the double stops.”

  I stifle a groan. Double stop scales are rough. I don’t mind them in a piece of music, but scales? Ugh. But if I can do scales in all the double stop permutations in the book, when I encounter that in music, it’ll be even easier.

  Placing my violin on my shoulder, I check the tuning and then start. We spend half the lesson on scales before moving to repertoire, and she has me play through one of the new pieces we chose for this year’s recital.

  I’ve been hammering this piece for the last month, breaking it down into bite sized chunks and polishing each one until it shines, and then slowly stringing them together like beads on a necklace. I’ve made headway, gaining a significant head start.

  When I finish, I tuck my violin under my right arm and face Clara. But instead of her usual smile and word of encouragement, her brows are drawn together, her lips pursed.

  “What?” My voice is rough and demanding. This isn’t the reaction I’d anticipated. “What’s wrong?”

  She shakes her head, her gaze on the music on the stand. “You’ve made really good progress.”

  I wait a beat, but she says nothing else. “But?”

  With a sigh, she stands and moves closer, turning back to the first page. “But … it’s missing heart. Your technique is solid, especially since you’ve worked this up all on your own. There’s no trace of the intonation problems you had last year. But …” She finally turns and meets my eyes. “It’s mechanical. Soulless. I’ve never heard you play like that. Not an entire piece. There’s not an ounce of Lauren in this piece. I know you want to enter more competitions this year. And I think you should. But if you want to win, flawless technique will only take you so far. I know you’ve had a rough time the last few months …” She presses her lips together, sympathy flickering in her eyes.

  I step back, unable to hold back the tide of emotion threatening to swamp me. The only way I’ve managed to survive the last month is to compartmentalize. Only allow myself to feel in controlled situations—alone, where I can sob without being overheard and embarrassed.

  Shaking my head, I clench my jaw, trying to keep my chin from wobbling and my eyes from filling with tears. Not here. Not now.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, turning to put my instrument away with jerky movements. I sniff loudly. And I hate it. “Sorry,” I say again, trying to sound firm, but it comes out shaky anyway. Dammit. I shake my head. “I can’t do that right now.” The zippers on my case make a swift grating sound as I yank them closed and snap the flap over the top.

  “Lauren.” Clara’s voice is placating as I gather the music off the stand in one controlled sweep. “We still have ten minutes. You don’t have to—”

  “I do. I have to. I’m sorry. I can’t …” I tilt my head back, staring at the pock-marked ceiling tile. “I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry. I’ll see you next week.”

  And I’m out the door before she can say anything else, head down, not making eye contact with anyone I might pass on my way to the door. I have class in twenty minutes, but I’m not going to make it. Instead, I make a beeline for my car, not even stopping when Damian’s voice calls my name.

  It’s too much. All of this is too much.

  I’ll be able to distance myself from my emotions enough to make it through the day at some point. But that day is not today.

  And if I succeed in doing that, I might never be able to play worth anything. Which only makes me want to cry harder.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Brendan

  A knock on the door to my office wakes me up. Blearily, I sit up and rub my face, pulling out my phone to check the time. It’s barely after eight a.m. I’ve slept for about three hours on the uncomfortable couch in my office.

  The knock sounds again, more like the insistent sound of police about to break down a door. Or at least that’s the way they do it on TV.

  With a heavy sigh, I stand and shuffle over to the door. Chloe, the weekday receptionist, stands on the other side, looking me up and down with a sniff, her mouth twisted in distaste. She’s not my biggest fan, especially since I haven’t even bothered to be civil to her the last few weeks. “You have a delivery. He insisted on giving it to you personally. He’s waiting at reception.”

  “You could’ve just called me.”

  She glares at me. “I tried four times.” She turns and starts down the hall, not bothering to wait for me to follow. I stumble out of my office, pulling out my keys to lock the door. Stopping, she glances back at me over her shoulder. “Someone suing you?”

  I raise my eyebrows, surprised. “Not that I’m aware of. Why would someone sue me?”

  She shrugs, unconcerned. “How should I know? You’re the asshole with a process server waiting for him.”

  Process server?

  My gut plummets. All curiosity about who could be insisting on delivering me something personally vanishes. I swallow against my suddenly dry throat.

  I know why a process server is waiting for me. No one’s suing me. It’s divorce papers.

  The certainty is lodged deep in my soul, and in a daze, I wander in Chloe’s wake, following her to reception where an unremarkable man in an unremarkable suit looks up at my entrance. “Brendan Brasher?”

  I nod.

  He passes me a thick envelope, nods, and leaves.

  I stagger back to my office, and shut the door. Sinking into my chair, I stare at the envelope like it might explode in my face. Drawing in a bracing breath, I slide my finger under the flap and tear it open. Papers spill out filled with long paragraphs of legalese. A yellow flag points at the signature line, my name typed neatly underneath.

  My heart stops at the sight of Lauren’s signature on the line next to the one I’m supposed to sign.

  The papers crinkle in my hands. I force myself to release them, smoothing the crumpled edges with shaking fingers.

  What happened? What exactly went wrong? The questions repeat in my mind like they have countless times over the last few weeks.

  She hasn’t spoken to me since she called me the evening that she left. I never found out what The Professor said to her. I know there was that article, but we were dealing with all that shit. The change really started after he took her on the tour of the studio, then left her with Tiffany.

  That’s the key to figuring all this out.

  All vestiges of the exhaustion that’s been dragging at me since she left burns away, replaced by determination and the first flames of fury.

  I don’t care what The Professor is doing right now. He’ll make time to tell me what he told my wife that ended up destroying my marriage.

  The Professor looks up as I bang through the door of his office, his face placid. He sits back in his chair, gesturing at one of the chairs across from him before steepling his hands in front of his face—his favorite condescending pose. “Please, Brendan. Come in. Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

  Without bothering to close the door behind me, I stalk to his desk and plant my fists on it, leaning closer to him. “What. The fuck. Did you say. To my wife?”

  He blinks at me from behind his glasses. “I’m not sure what you mean. I haven’t spoken to her in weeks.”

  I restrain the urge to growl at him, but just barely. “Then. When she was here. The only time you talked to her, as far as I know. Whatever you said, you fucked everything up. You’re going to tell me what it was.”

  A smug expression slides across his face, quickly covered by his placid mask again. “Oh? Trouble in paradise?”r />
  This time I do growl. “Listen to me, you egomaniacal control freak. I don’t need your permission to get married. Or to spend time with my wife. If you don’t like my choices, then fucking fire me. You don’t get to ruin my whole life for your sick entertainment.”

  His eyes blaze, and he sits forward in his chair, no longer affecting his relaxed and uncaring attitude. “I didn’t ruin your life. I saved you from yourself.” Spittle comes flying out of his mouth from the force of his words.

  My head jerks back, but I don’t retreat. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  He pounds his index finger into his desk. “If what I said was enough to send that little girl running, she’s definitely not cut out for this life.” He throws his hand out in my direction. “You’re biding your time with me. I know it as well as you do. I’m using you to keep the labels happy, because you make me hits. And you’re using me for my connections so you can launch on your own in a few years. You’re going places. You know it. I know it. I’m just going to make as much as I can off your back while I’ve got you so I can retire with a big, fat bank account. That girl would only hold you back. Let her go and good riddance.”

  “What did you say to her?” My voice is dripping with menace. My hands are now gripping the edge of his desk, my knuckles white and my muscles shaking with the effort not to sweep all his papers to the floor then grab one of his monitors and chuck it at the wall. I’d just leave and never come back, but I still need to know exactly what lies he planted in her mind so I know how to counteract them when I go talk to her.

  Because that’s next on the list. I’m calling my brother, getting him to send his plane here to take me to Spokane—because I’m in no state to deal with the hassle of flying commercial right now—and then I’m going to find Lauren and make her listen to me. But before I can do that, I need to know exactly what I’m up against.

  Shrugging, The Professor leans back in his chair again, seemingly unbothered by the barely-leashed violence oozing from every particle of my being. “I told her the truth.” He steeples his fingers in front of his face again. “I pointed out that the tabloids would never leave the two of you alone. That she’d always be a source of intrigue and negative attention. That her bad press would drag you down and keep you from reaching your potential. To say nothing of the hell it would rain on her life.” He flicks his fingers in an off hand way. “I may have also implied that she’s just trying to hitch her wagon to whatever rich and famous train she can, between living with Charlie and now shacking up with you.”