Falling for Forever

by Melissa Chambers

  The look on my face must show my excitement at his words because he shakes his head.

  “Son, don’t you get it? They let go of anyone who has built a career and is making any money so interns can run the place for peanuts. Yeah, I’m sure you could get hired on and make about twenty-five grand. But you’d get fired at thirty to make room for another twenty-year-old, and that’s if the music business hasn’t imploded entirely by then. Consider something worthwhile for your future. I’d even be okay with something in the medical field.”

  My blood boils. “Great, Dad. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He narrows his gaze at me. “This is about Nat, isn’t it?” He shakes his head. “You do realize at some point in your life you’re going to have to separate from that kid?”

  “No, this has nothing to do with Nat. It wouldn’t matter if he was going or not. I want to go there. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  He rubs his forehead. “Look, I’m tired of arguing this point. All I’m asking is for you to fill out the goddamned applications and do the essays.” He meets my gaze with the wariness of a soldier who’s done six months of straight battle. “You can’t pay for college without me, and you know it, so just do it.”

  He holds my stare, and I’m the one who looks away this time. Nobody in the world takes away my power like my father.

  He glances around my room at my music posters and then looks back at me. “You think I didn’t like music when I was your age?” He chuckles to himself. “When I was seventeen I saw Guns N’ Roses open for Aerosmith.” He purses his lips and does some weird move with his shoulders, and then swats a hand in the air. “I get it. I really do. But what you don’t understand at this age is that this phase in your life will pass. You grow up. You can’t see it now, but you will. And when you wake up and realize that life is about getting married and raising kids and providing for a family, I don’t want it to be in a dorm room in Nashville, Tennessee.” He points at me. “Unless it’s Vanderbilt.” He shakes a finger at me. “You know, I talked to a friend who knows someone in admissions there. He said he didn’t think it was impossible for you to get in even with this high school on your record.”

  My dad acts like Nashville’s Academy of Creative Arts is like Juvie. He never says the name of my school. If it weren’t for my mom, he’d never have agreed to let me go there. Thank God I’ve got her in my corner…at least for high school.

  As far as college goes, she thinks my brother and I should both pay for our own no matter where we go. She says when she left for college, her mother handed her fifty bucks and a wholesale warehouse-sized box of Ramen Noodles. She paid for every penny of it working as a street musician and waiting tables. She used to strum a harp on the streets of Atlanta.

  I can’t even imagine. She’s so…Belle Meade now.

  He points at my laptop sitting on my desk. “Fill out the applications. I’m not kidding. We’ll argue later about what school you attend, but you’re going to fill out the applications.” He holds his pointed finger at me for a few seconds before closing the door behind him.

  I want nothing more than to hurl this phone in my hand at the door behind him. I look down at it, remembering Jenna’s last text, and I get anxious again, but for a different reason.

  I turn the ringer back up and see three texts from her.

  Jenna: I’m really sorry.

  Jenna: Like REALLY sorry.

  Jenna: Will you please talk to me?

  I’m not sure how I want to respond. Things could be so different if she hadn’t stolen my number that day. Half a million bucks came with that recording contract. I wouldn’t have had to rely on my dad for as much as pizza money if I’d gotten that.

  Me: Did you even tell them I had just stepped out of the room?

  I’d always wondered, but I figured I knew the answer.

  Jenna: No.

  A knife stabs through my gut, and I shake my head, the anger hitting me once again. I know that this is all my own fault. I should have brought my backpack with me to the bathroom, but the guy next to me who I thought I’d gotten tight with was supposed to be watching it. I guess his ass was out of there the second he got his number called. It’s not like I can blame him. He may have just gotten nervous and forgotten about me. He didn’t owe me anything.

  Jenna: You look different now. Your hair was short then. And you didn’t wear glasses, right?

  Like she even gave me a second thought back then. She was so busy talking to her friend in that room the whole time, I doubt she even noticed me. But she damn sure noticed my number. To be fair, I noticed hers, too. I knew she’d taken my number when I saw hers in my backpack. I noticed everything about her. She was hard to miss.

  I don’t respond. I’m too itchy with uncertainty. I know I need to, but I’m not ready to let her off the hook so fast.

  Jenna: That was Chloe, by the way. The friend who was with me at the auditions. The one dating the football player.

  I try to ignore my phone, but I can’t help but stare at the moving dots indicating she’s typing.

  Jenna: I’ve changed my mind again. She would totally be into you.

  I roll my eyes and type.

  Me: Quit kissing ass.

  Jenna: He’s alive!

  I can’t help a smile, but I’m still not ready to just move past this.

  Me: I’ll see you tomorrow.

  Jenna: Will you meet me at your locker in the morning? You have my Spanish workbook in there.

  I don’t want to see her tomorrow…to have to deal with her big green sorry eyes. I’m not ready to forgive, but I don’t see where I have a choice. Besides, I’ll have to see her in Music regardless.

  Me: Okay

  Jenna: Would you mind meeting me early so I can do my homework?

  I roll my eyes.

  Me: Okay

  Jenna: Thank you. :)

  I frown at her smiley face emoji and toss my phone down. At least she knows now, and at least she is sorry. It could be worse. She could have found out and not have been sorry. Then I’d have to spend every day looking at her unapologetic face. This way, I just have to look at her regular face…which, actually, isn’t so bad to look at.

  Chapter Seven

  Jenna

  We’re so early that the school isn’t even open yet. As soon as it is, I kiss my dad on the cheek and then head inside. I walk to Miles’s locker and pop a squat below it. All I can think of is holding my phone. I swear it would be easier getting off crack.

  I notice a guy walking down the hallway, unlocking doors, and I think one of them is the guitar conservatory. I go in and have the big room all to myself. I pick up an acoustic and strap it on, strumming a few chords and messing around. A pile of guitar tablatures sits on a table, and I thumb through it to find something interesting. All classical guitar stuff. Boring. I go back to strumming, and pick out an Elle King song and sing along.

  I’m singing quietly, using my inside voice, when I realize I’m at a music school, and nobody’s here anyway. So I pump up the volume on the guitar and my vocals, letting loose. I’m shaky, of course, since it’s early still. But I have been up for hours now, and I talked to my dad a lot in the car, so my vocals aren’t as awful as they could be.

  I close my eyes as I power through the song, imagining myself on the Sensation stage…or better yet, my own stage in L.A. A local performance…my first. An intimate but important performance. Maybe a showcase my manager has set up for me with A&R people and booking agents. Or maybe I’m in front of a sea of fans at the Staples Center performing at the Grammys. I finish the song with a huge smile on my face and take a bow. I open my eyes as I raise up and find Miles standing in the doorway. I jump a mile high, pressing my hand against my chest.

  “Crap. You scared me.” I take the guitar off. “I didn’t think anyone was here.”

  He narrows his gaze. “You play.”

  “Not really. I learned that song for Sensation but we went another direction with the performance.” H
e looks away, and I wince. “Sorry, I—”

  “Sounds like you play to me,” he says.

  I wave him off, meeting him at the door. “My parents are bluegrass musicians. Both of them can play anything with strings.” We head toward his locker. “When I was little, my dad used to take me with him to people’s houses where he gave lessons. Kind of hard not to pick up how to play.”

  “Why’d you go the other direction…on Sensation? Why didn’t you do that song acoustic?”

  I shrug. “It’s not my specialty. I’m a performer. If I’m sitting on a stool, hiding behind a big ole guitar, what’s there to see?” We stop in front of his locker.

  He meets my gaze with intense, dark eyes. “Plenty.”

  My cheeks heat up at his intensity, the two of us alone in this big ole empty school.

  I scratch my nose and nod at his locker. “Can I have my workbook?”

  He opens his locker and hands it to me. I think he might be cuter than I remembered. His clothes are still a train wreck, and his hair is all over the place—curly, straight, wavy, and frizzy—but there’s something in the shape of his eyes that I like. They sort of angle downward, from what I can see behind those glasses. He’s got a little Ian Somerhalder thing going on…without the smoldering hotness, of course. But if Miles wanted to, I think he could be balmy.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Did you do your AAA’s and ABA’s?”

  He puts some books in his locker. “Yeah.”

  “Well, lay them on me.”

  He pulls out a folder and hands me a piece of paper. I recognize two of the groups, but only because of Chloe. She’s a music freakazoid and is constantly making me listen to new bands. I’ll run this third one by her. If she doesn’t know it, she’ll be able to analyze the album by the day’s end.

  “I’ll add these to mine and have the assignment ready to turn in by fourth period,” I say.

  “Sounds good.” He shuts his locker door, and we stand there in awkward silence…and I’m someone who takes talking to an art form.

  He points behind him. “I’m going to head to the piano conservatory.”

  I swallow, nodding way too hard. “Sure. I’ll see you in Music.”

  He smiles with his mouth, but his eyes are not into it at all. As he walks away, I’m clenching everything on my body, trying to think of what to say to him. Looking him in the eyes now, knowing what I took away from him, is causing actual, physical pain to my heart.

  I can’t help myself. I run after him. “Miles!”

  He stops and turns around, eyebrows raised.

  I stop in front of him. “I really am so incredibly sorry. I feel awful. Like a total horrible person.”

  He lets out a deep exhale, positioning his books in one hand and holding them down at his side. “Yeah, you said.”

  I smile with my eyebrows raised. “Any chance for a little forgiveness?” I hold my thumb and forefinger together. “Just that much? That’s all I’m asking for. Like a pea of forgiveness.”

  He stares into my eyes, and I almost have to step backward from the weight of his gaze on me, but I hold my ground.

  “Sure,” he says, his expression impassive, and then turns around and walks away.

  I can’t follow him again. I’ll look desperate, and I’m so not. God. But I do really want his forgiveness…like for real. Not just me begging for it and him giving in. I want to earn his forgiveness.

  I head back to the guitar conservatory. A guy is walking down the hallway ahead of me, and I think it might be that cute guy Shane. As he rounds the corner into the room, I see that it is him. I follow in behind him.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He turns around and meets me with a huge smile. “Hey. What are you doing here so early?”

  I hold up my book. “I left my Spanish book in someone else’s locker.”

  He puts his books down on a table. “Yeah, I saw you with Miles a minute ago.” He looks up at me with curiosity in his eyes. “You and he are buds?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know about that. We’re partners, though, in Music class, the songwriting unit.”

  His eyes open wide. “Oh shit. How’d you score that gig?”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  He sits on one of the tables, putting his feet on a chair. “Miles is the shit. He’s a composer.”

  I huff a laugh. “I thought he was a deejay.”

  “He does that, too. But he writes original music. Scores and stuff.”

  “Really?” I ask, a little surprised for some reason. “What kind of scores?”

  He rests his elbows on his thighs. “He wrote original music for our rock opera last spring. I know. I played it.”

  “He wrote a rock opera?” I ask, my eyes so wide cool air is getting in them.

  “Not the lyrics, but yeah, pretty much all the music.” Shane shakes his head. “It was badass.”

  “Hmm,” I grunt, staring down at the floor, trying to figure out how I feel about this news. On the one hand, I’m probably guaranteed an A on the unit, but on the other hand, I kind of want to make sure he knows I can write music, too. Now I just have to learn how to write music.

  Shane jumps down from the table and heads toward the row of electric guitars lining the wall. “I assume you’ve heard about the talent show.”

  “Yeah. Are you entering?” I ask.

  He straps on a neon green electric and plugs it into an amp. “Hell, yeah. You know tryouts are Friday, right?”

  “So I heard,” I say. “I better get my act together.”

  “What are you going to sing?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. Something by Ariel Loveall maybe. What about you?”

  He does a little showing off on his guitar on my behalf. He’s really good…like way better than I was expecting. He finishes and holds the strings down with his hand. “I’m still deciding. Whatever it’s gonna be, it’s got to be freaking perfect. Competition is stiff in this school.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask. “Who’s our biggest competition?”

  “Probably your partner…but he’s not gonna take it without a fight from me.”

  He stands up on the table and throws down a guitar solo like he’s on stage at the arena downtown with Avenged Sevenfold.

  I feign a yawn and turn my head toward the door as my peripheral catches people walking down the hallway. I glance back at him, and he’s all performance, not even noticing I’m not interested. Bless him.

  See, now a few years ago, I’d have been pulling up a chair and panting, because he is hot, and he does know how to play. But I have had my fill of dating budding guitar players who think they are god’s gift to girls. Besides, only one person can be the star of any relationship, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some overstimulated Jimi Hendrix wannabe steal my thunder.

  I grab the books I came in here for and wave as I’m headed out the door. The music stops. “Where are you going?” he shouts.

  “Tarea de Español,” I shout back.

  He follows me into the hallway. “Hey, do you want to eat lunch with me?”

  “Okay,” I say, not breaking stride.

  “Cool,” I hear him say as I walk away.

  I find myself wishing away my three morning classes for my fourth period Music class. I’m not sure why I want to see Miles. He definitely doesn’t want to see me. He’s made that crystal clear. Maybe I just want him to forgive me for real. That makes the most sense.

  I get to the class first, and I sit in the wooden chair he sat in yesterday. I cross my legs and fold my hands over my lap casually. He walks in, head down as usual, and stops in his tracks when he realizes I’m in his seat. I lift my eyebrows. “Can I help you?”

  He drops his books into one hand and steadies them on his thigh. He pushes his glasses up farther on his nose. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable on the couch?”

  “Oh no. I’m good right here, but thanks for asking.” I smile politely and then look down at my empty notebook paper.

&n
bsp; Mr. Weston closes the classroom door as the bell rings. “Good morning, people. Please pass forward your assignments from last night.”

  I hand Miles ours and point at the bottom. “Sign there.”

  I’ve printed his name and left a signature line like a legal document. His last name is Cleveland, which I know from nosing around on his profile last night, so I was sure to make the C in his name into a smiley face. He cuts his eyes at me before he signs.

  I hold my hands to the side like I’m confused. “What?”

  He passes the sheet forward. As Mr. Weston takes his time flipping through them, Miles turns to me. “You could have used a couple of your ABA’s and AAA’s. You did work on them.”

  I wave him off. “Yours were less basic.”

  He gives me a look and then puts his attention on his notebook in his lap.

  Mr. Weston stops on a page and then peers up at Miles and me. “Some interesting choices here, Ms. Quigley and Mr. Cleveland. I’m going to have to look a few of these up.”

  Miles gets a worried look on his face. “We’ve got some extras if—”

  Mr. Weston waves him off as he continues to read.

  I lean down to Miles’s ear. “Make him look that shit up. He’s a music teacher.”

  Mr. Weston drops the stack of pages onto his desk. “Okay, folks. Looks like you did the work…for the most part.” He glares at a couple of teams who look guilty as sin and then turns back to the rest of us. “So this is the part where what happens in Music class stays in Music class.”

  A chorus of giggles erupts around the room.

  He leans in like he’s sharing a plot to overthrow the principal. “I’m supposed to take you through all these boring as hell steps to show you how to place lyrics into these patterns, but before we waste a semester on that, I want to gauge you all. I want to see what’s already in you. Most of you have been at this school for a while now and breathed the talent and competition in this air long enough to know where I’m setting your bar for this class. And those of you who are new have their own experiences to draw from.”