And then, for the first time ever, I heard him play.
When I first learned to drive a car, I was incredibly nervous. I had to think about every movement, run through checklists in my head to make sure I was braking when I should, checking the mirrors when I should. Years later, the movements had become automatic, but they were still precise and controlled. Turn head left. Look in mirror. Indicate. Pull out. My playing was the same—every movement had to be exactly right.
Connor’s playing wasn’t like that at all. It was…lazy. Not bad-lazy. Relaxed-lazy. Lazy like driving with one hand on the wheel and the other around a girl. Effortless.
Something stabbed through me, something totally unexpected. It took me a few seconds to realize that it was jealousy. That’s ridiculous! It’s a completely different style of music, on a completely different instrument.
And yet…did I ever look that relaxed and carefree while playing?
The music surprised me, too. I’d been expecting thrashy guitar solos, but this was slow and almost sad. As he got to the end of the intro, he leaned forward and started to sing.
I was right at the back of the crowd, near the bar. I took a step forward, to see around a tall guy.
Long way from home, plane ticket and a guitar
Twenty dollars, four leaf clover and the courage of youth
Met you rum-drunk and said I was a rock star
You kissed me, made me coffee and said your name was Ruth.
Ruth. The tattoo on his arm said “Ruth.” His voice was incredible, his Irish lilt turning the words into little silk-wrapped shots of hard silver that soared and curved and then hit you in the heart.
The music was all deep, rolling chords, smooth as butter, and then his hand suddenly whipped down the strings and the guitar wailed as he launched into the chorus. He had his eyes closed now, which meant I got to look at his face properly without worrying about him looking back at me.
His hair was messy, as usual, like he’d run a hand through it and declared it ready. It looked soft and glossy, like it’d feel amazing against the sensitive sides of your fingers if you stroked through it.
I hadn’t noticed before how long his lashes were. They softened what would otherwise be a hard face, with his strong jaw and angular cheekbones. With his eyes closed—just for a second—he looked vulnerable.
I was bad for you, you were bad for me
Twisted love, needed my daily fix of you
Everyone said it but we couldn’t see
Held your hand, you cried but you knew it was true
I realized with a shock that I was at the front of the crowd. How had that happened? I’d only meant to move past one person, to get a better look! I’d just kept pushing through without being aware of it, as if drawn to—
That’s stupid, I reasoned. Of course I wasn’t.
And then Connor opened his eyes and saw me. I looked around in a panic, resisting the urge to run and hide. The top I was wearing suddenly felt flimsy and insubstantial. Every square millimeter of my exposed skin was alive and tingling. And then I met his gaze.
The first thing I saw was surprise. He actually blinked, as if not quite believing it was me. Then, as he continued to sing, he threw me a questioning look. There was none of the swagger and arrogance I’d seen at Fenbrook. This was simple and direct: What do you want? But there was a little of that Irish sparkle in his eyes, too. Did he like the fact I was there? No, that was crazy. More likely it amused him.
He held my gaze and I swallowed. I felt like I was inching out over thin ice with nothing but cold blackness below. I wanted to flee back to the safe world I’d always known.
But there was nothing to go back to. He was my only hope.
My head seemed to weigh about a thousand pounds, but I forced myself to inch my chin up and stare levelly back at him. I swore I saw him blink again, as if he wasn’t ready for that.
And then a smile touched his lips, and he gave me just the tiniest hint of a nod, as if he approved.
The song ended, and there were cheers and applause and stamping feet. I forgot to clap, and he didn’t seem to acknowledge the audience at all for a second, still staring into my eyes.
Then he looked away, and I did too, my face going hot for no reason whatsoever. He smiled and waved to the crowd, back to being the performer again—if he’d ever stopped. More likely, that momentary connection had been my imagination.
I looked up just in time to see him disappear through a doorway behind the stage. A bored-looking guy was sitting in a plastic chair, half-blocking the doorway and watching warily for interlopers. I hurried back to the bar.
“I have to get backstage,” I told Natasha.
“Like a groupie?” asked Jasmine. “I can see why. He’s even better when he sings.”
“I don’t like him. I just need to get backstage,” I told her.
“Like a groupie.”
“Not like a groupie.” I sighed. “Okay, okay, how do groupies get backstage?”
Jasmine grinned. “Well, traditionally they—”
Clarissa slapped a hand over her mouth. “This is Karen.”
“What?” I asked, bemused.
Natasha took me by the hand and pulled me away from the others. “Come on. We’ll figure something out.” We started wending our way through the crowd towards the stage and then around it to the door.
She headed straight for the doorway, as if she hadn’t even noticed the guy in the chair. For a moment, I thought we were going to make it. Then the guy put his arm across to stop her. “Performers only,” he told her.
Natasha looked down at him as if he was mad. “I am a performer,” she told him. “We’re the dancers.”
The man shook his head. “It’s all bands tonight. No dancers.”
Natasha smiled down at him. “We’re on at the end. It’s a last minute thing.” And then, without any apparent effort, she lifted one elegant leg and planted her foot on the wall behind his head, as if she was standing at the barre. Her skirt fell away from her thighs, as if by accident, and I saw the guy’s eyes flick to the bare flesh before he could stop himself. “We just need to get limbered up,” she told him. “Don’t we?”
I realized that was meant for me. “Yes,” I managed. “We have to stretch.” And I did my loose interpretation of a calf stretch, almost falling over in the process.
The guy in the chair had probably been guarding the door, or ones like it, for a decade. He knew all the tricks and had heard all the lies.
But at that moment, a ballerina’s thigh was six inches from his cheek.
“Okay,” he told us, nodding. “The room at the end’s free.” And he dropped his arm to let us past.
“How did you do that?” I asked in awe when we were out of earshot.
Natasha looked at me pityingly. “We really do need to get you out more, don’t we?” She hugged me, then pointed me down the corridor. “Good luck. I’ll see you back in the bar.” And before I could stop her, she was gone.
Part of me wished she’d stayed. But maybe it was better I meet Connor alone—it was going to be agonizing enough without an audience.
There were only three rooms off the corridor. One was a restroom. One was dark and empty. The last door was firmly closed. I raised my hand to knock, and then stopped.
What on earth was I going to say?
“I think we can help each other,” I said out loud, trying it out. Except…could I really help him? He was going to be doing me a big favor, but what could I offer in return?
Maybe I could appeal to his ego. “I thought you were amazing out there,” I tried. And then wanted to stab myself, because it sounded so fake. The annoying thing was, he really had been good. I just didn’t know how to say it.
“Remember how you caught me, when I fell?” I tried. “Well, I kind of need you to—”
“I like the second one,” said Connor.
I whipped around. He’d been standing behind me, having come in the same way I had.
&n
bsp; “But you’re—” I pointed at the closed door.
“I went out there to look for you.” He had that look again, curious and amused. “So…what do you need my help with?"
***
He took me into the dressing room, which was fine. Then he closed the door, which wasn’t fine at all. As soon as the door closed, everything felt different. Alone with him suddenly became alone with him.
My entire life felt like it was teetering on the brink: my future, because without his help I didn’t have one; my past, because without his help it had all been a waste.
He pointed me to a stool, its peeling seat patched with tape. As soon as I sat down, he moved over to me and I tensed as he drew close….
Very close, his body inches from mine as he leaned over me. Our faces were almost touching. Oh my God! Is he going to—
The rubbery gasp of a refrigerator door opening behind me, and the clink of bottles. And then he was leaning back and offering me a beer.
You idiot, I told myself angrily. I took the bottle without thinking, and sat there shredding the label.
“So,” he said, opening his beer. “Here you are in my dressing room.” Again, that Irish lilt making everything sound innocent, yet filthy.
There was no delaying it any longer. I took a deep breath. “The recital…you haven’t chosen your piece yet.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t seem much point.”
“I need you to do it. With me.”
He paused, genuinely thrown by that. “Like a duet?”
“Yes. A duet.”
“You know I play guitar? Electric guitar. Not violin or piano or…you know. Anything that goes with a cello.”
I was surprised, for a second, that he even knew what instrument I played. Weirdly, a part of me felt flattered. Then I realized that a cello was pretty hard to miss, and I’d been carrying it on my back my whole time at Fenbrook. Of course he’d know that.
“It’s sort of an emergency,” I said. And I told him about Dan.
When I’d finished, he got up. “But why not just skip it? You’re Miss Uber-Geek—no offence. You can’t need the grades.” And then he peeled off the vest he’d been wearing.
His narrow waist flowed up into a powerful back layered with muscle and broad shoulders that reminded me of an athlete—maybe a boxer. He didn’t look like the pretty-boy male model types Jasmine posted on her Facebook page. He looked somehow raw and real, his muscles for use, not show. He was lean rather than huge, everything tight and defined, his stomach hard with muscle.
“It is my dressing room,” he told me.
I realized my mouth was open. Had I gasped? I had a nasty feeling I had. I tried to focus. “I had some issues with my presentations,” I told him. “I need a good recital, or I won’t graduate.” I stared at his arms. There was another tattoo above the Ruth one, a tangled clump of barbed wire, and I wondered what it meant.
He looked around for something. Hopefully a t-shirt. I was trying to keep my eyes off his upper half, but that left me starting at his crotch. “But the recital’s not for months,” he said as he searched. “And I’d have to be here to do it….”
He finally found his t-shirt and lifted it, though he didn’t put it on. He was waiting for my answer.
I nodded slowly. “You’d have to stay in Fenbrook. And graduate.”
He laughed out loud. Not a cruel laugh. A laugh of disbelief. He pulled on the t-shirt—a band name I didn’t recognize stretched across the broad curve of his pecs.
“I could help you,” I said desperately. “I could help you get your grades up.”
“What makes you think I want to stay?”
I just looked at him dumbly. My whole life had been so focused on doing well that the idea of just casually allowing yourself to fail seemed…insane.
“You’ve been here over three years,” I said. “Surely you don’t want to waste it?”
He shrugged. “I’ve had three years living in New York, with enough money to pay my rent and put food in my mouth. I play my guitar and that makes me a little more. That wasn’t a waste. Now, working my arse off until I graduate, only to fail anyway—that would be a waste.”
I nodded slowly. Suddenly, all his partying made sense. I’d seen it as him throwing his degree away, but it wasn’t that at all. He’d never had any intention of graduating. His time here was the prize, and he’d made the most of it.
I could feel the panic start to knot and twist my insides. He was my only chance!
“If you don’t do this,” I said in a small voice, “I won’t graduate.”
Now he’d say “Yes.” I was sure of it. However many hearts he’d broken, however many classes he’d missed, he was still human. He wouldn’t just let me fall.
But he sighed and looked away. When he looked back at me, I could see real pain in his eyes, as if he wanted the answer to be different. “I’m sorry,” he said at last.
I couldn’t breathe. This was the one thing I’d never imagined. I’d thought that he might laugh. I’d even considered that he might want money. But never that he might just flat-out refuse. “There must be something I can say,” I told him, hearing the panic rising in my voice. “There has to be something I can say that’ll—You have to!”
He closed his eyes for a second, as if considering.
And then he pulled the door open.
When I got up off the stool, my legs felt like they weren’t strong enough to take me. I walked slowly to the door and, just as I left, put the beer he’d given me down on the table.
“You can keep the beer,” he said, sadness in his voice.
“I don’t want your stupid beer!” I said viciously, tears filling my eyes. And then I was blundering down the corridor, feeling the wetness rolling down my cheeks.
***
I found a door that led out to the street and pushed through it. Natasha and the others were still back in the bar, but I could always call them. I needed to be alone.
Outside, the clouds had finally decided to give up their snow and thick white flakes were blanketing everything. Snow can make anything look beautiful, even an alley filled with overflowing dumpsters.
That was the moment, I thought. That was the moment my entire life to date ended, and some new one began. One spent in Boston. One without music.
Professor Harman had been right—it had been a stupid plan all along. All I’d done was prolong the inevitable for a few hours. I wasn’t even angry with Connor, really; I was angry with myself, for believing in miracles.
I stumbled on, the snow crunching underfoot. I was only wearing the little strappy top and jeans and I knew, in an abstract way, that it was bitterly cold, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. There was a burning pain inside that pushed the cold back, leaking out through my tears to scald my face. The life I’d wasted, ever since I was a kid. All the things I’d given up to practice, practice, practice. All for nothing.
I came to a set of iron railings, and realized I was looking out over water. The bar backed almost onto the river, with just the alley separating them, and the water shone like black glass, reflecting the colored lights of the bars and stores. Further out, away from the glare, it was just a black, gaping maw.
I leaned against the railings and cried, hot wracking sobs that left me breathless. Cried until there were no tears left, but I didn’t feel better. I felt like I’d been broken open, my stupidity exposed for everyone to see, and I had no idea what to do next.
“Alright.” It came from right beside me and when I jerked around, I saw Connor was standing next to me at the railing.
Numb shock. The tiniest sliver of hope, but I couldn’t allow myself to even acknowledge it without being sure. My voice was little more than a croak. “What?”
“Alright.” And this time I knew he was serious. I could hear in his voice how deep he’d had to dig, how he was going against every instinct he had.
I wiped my hand across my eyes. I didn’t want him to see me crying, even though I knew i
t was too late. “Why?” I asked.
He gave me a look that made me catch my breath. He looked like he was screaming inside, as if he wanted to do something, but had to hold back.
“It’s the right thing to do,” he said at last. It didn’t feel like the truth, but then why was he doing it?
Maybe he felt sorry for me.
Chapter 5
8.45am.
I was standing outside Professor Harman’s office. I’d nearly stopped at Starbucks for coffee, but I’d worried that it might remind him of me knocking the last ones over his carpet. Also, the last thing I needed was more coffee.
I was wired. After I’d said goodbye to Connor, I’d rushed back into the bar and found the others. They were all delighted for me, if a little cautious about the idea of us working together.
“Just remember he’s not a musician,” Jasmine had said.
“Of course he’s a musician! He takes most of the same classes I do!” I’d told her.
“Yeah, he’s a musician, but he’s not a Musician with a capital ‘M’. Musicians are sort of….”
“Sort of like you,” Natasha said helpfully.
“And he’s not,” said Jasmine. “He’s more like—”
“A dancer?!” I asked, incredulously.
“No, not a dancer. Or an actor. A civilian. A normal person. Just…bear that in mind.”
I hadn’t understood, at the time. Now, I was beginning to.
I’d said that we should meet there at 8.45 to be sure of being there at 9:00. And if you agree to meet someone at 8.45, you get there at 8.30, right? Just to be sure.
I’d been there since 8.20. My watch ticked over to 8.46. Where was he?!
That morning, I’d printed out a calendar that covered the ten weeks until the recital. I’d blocked out my classes in pink, and the ones we had together in purple. His classes would be blue, as soon as he gave me his timetable. Then we could start blocking out rehearsal time in green.
In Harmony Page 6
