Solo (Symphony Hall)

by Lauren E. Rico

  “Housekeeper, huh?” There’s just a hint of accusation in his tone.

  “Yeah,” I say between slurps. “My mother died when I was seven and my dad…well, you know about him. He wasn’t home much, so the housekeeper made sure I at least had a hot breakfast and dinner.”

  “Oh, I see. I’m sorry about your mother. I didn’t realize you were so young when she passed,” he says a little stiffly.

  “Thanks,” I murmur.

  “And do you rent a room or something?”

  “Excuse me?” I ask, looking up, confused by the sudden turn in topic.

  “You mentioned your current living arrangement doesn’t allow for you to cook. I thought maybe you don’t have access to a kitchen.”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, I live in a little studio apartment on the south side of town. I have a small fridge, a microwave, and a little two-burner stove. There’s barely enough room in there to make a sandwich, let alone cook a whole meal. So you can see why I’m so blown away by your kitchen.” I smile as I gesture at the impressive room around us.

  “South side? Where about?”

  “Marquette and Twenty-Second,” I say a little too quietly, clearly embarrassed by my address.

  He clears his throat before he speaks again. “That’s not a very good part of town, you know.”

  I hear the concern in his voice and it irritates the hell out of me because I’ve been here before, and I know what the next part of this conversation sounds like.

  “Yeah, well, it’s what I can afford. So…”

  I brace myself for the next awkward question, the one concerning my father being a senator and the money he must have to help his only child. Surprisingly, that’s not the question he asks.

  “Have you thought about getting a roommate? Maybe you could swing something in a better neighborhood if you shared a place.”

  I’m caught off balance by this change in trajectory and I find myself stumbling to answer.

  “I…I, uh, I did. I mean, I tried, you know, initially. It’s just difficult finding the right person, you know? I mean, ideally, it’d be someone who either doesn’t know or doesn’t care about…you know…”

  His brows furrowed together. “What?”

  I look up and meet his eyes. Is he serious?

  “Who my dad is. What he does. What he’s like.”

  I see the light of understanding spark in his eyes. “Ah. Yes, I see,” he says with a nod. “Is it still that much of a problem for you?” he asks curiously.

  “Yeah, sometimes. It’s better than it was back when I first got to Shepherd. I’m sure you remember all the fuss.”

  He nods his remembrance.

  “Yeah, well, it’s better now. Or it was until rumors started about him running for president. Now it’s starting all over again. You know a reporter actually disconnected my battery cable to get me to accept a ride from him? When I figured out who he was, the jerk didn’t want to let me out of his car. I had to call the police from inside the car to get him to let me out. Can you believe that?”

  “What did he want?” Markham asks, sounding suddenly alarmed on my behalf.

  “The usual. He was looking for a quote about my father. But, jeez, he seemed like such a nice, normal guy. He almost got me to go out with him.”

  “How did you figure out who he was?”

  “God, it was just…just dumb luck.” I shrug. “Remember when I came in with this cut on my forehead?” I ask, pointing in the general vicinity of the scab. “The one that was bleeding in class the other day? Well, I’d done it right before he offered me a ride and when I got inside his car, I just happened to pull down the visor so I could get a look at it in the mirror. I wanted to see if it was still bleeding. That’s when I found this little microphone attached there. The jackass was recording our conversation.” I shake my head, still in disbelief when I recall the events of that morning. “I felt like—I feel like such an idiot for trusting him. For getting into that car with him—”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Markham says, holding up a hand to stop me before I continue. “This happened that day? The day you were late?”

  I nod. Let’s see if Dr. Drew can put together two plus two.

  “Is that why you were late? Because some reporter was holding you hostage in his car?”

  And there it is. Four.

  “Kinda,” I say, taking another spoonful of the soup so I don’t have to look at him.

  “Did he hit you? Is that why you were bleeding? Is that why you thought I was going to hit you?” he asks, his tone turning angry now.

  My head whips up.

  “What? No. Well, I mean, it was his fault, but he didn’t do it, no.”

  When he looks perplexed, I explain the circumstances leading up to me banging my head on the hood of the car.

  “Did you catch his name?”

  “Oh yeah. I got a good picture of him, too. Kevin something from the D.C. Courier.”

  “Kilpatrick? Was his name Kevin Kilpatrick?” he asks me with sudden interest.

  I shrug. “I don’t know, he didn’t give me his last name. Why? You know him?”

  “Maybe,” he says distractedly, like he’s trying to piece something together.

  “Yeah, well, anyway, he’s like the rest of them. Always trying to get me to say something inflammatory about my father. And when they realize that’s not going to work, they start digging around for skeletons in my closet.”

  “And do you?” he asks mildly.

  “Do I what? Have skeletons in my closet?” I chuckle. “Sure, if you call eating canned soup and ramen noodles skeletons.”

  He smiles and, once again, it transforms his face.

  “No, I meant, do you say inflammatory things about your father? Is that why they keep chasing you around campus?”

  I’m mid-swallow when he asks this, so I wave my spoon around in a hold-on-a-sec gesture. “No, the opposite, actually. I refuse to comment on him or his politics or our relationship. So they keep coming back again and again.”

  We’re quiet for a minute, sipping Stracciatella until my spoon hits the bottom of the bowl with a noisy clank.

  “Here, let me get you some more,” he says, taking my bowl to give me a top-up. I don’t stop him. In fact, I’d chug this stuff if I thought I could get away with it.

  “It isn’t that I agree with him.”

  Where the hell did that come from? What do I care what he thinks about me or my father?

  Markham sets the newly filled bowl in front of me and returns to his own.

  “Your father?”

  I nod. “I hate his politics. I hate his attitude. But, he’s my father, you know? How I feel about him is not for public consumption.”

  “That’s perfectly reasonable,” he agrees.

  “I think so. But the press doesn’t. And my classmates don’t,” I mumble and sip down some more soup. “Everyone assumes that if I’m not against him, I must be for him.”

  “But you’re not for him. So why not just say so and spare yourself a lot of grief?” he asks.

  “Because no matter what he’s done or what he thinks or what he says, he’s still my father.”

  “Does he know about the reporters?” he asks, frowning into his bowl.

  “Probably. Though, I don’t think he knows to what extent they’ll go to get to me. That last guy.” I start, waving my spoon around animatedly. “That Kevin asshole—sorry, Dr. Markham, but that’s what he is—turns out he’s been watching me for months.”

  “You’ve seen him before?” he asks, a flicker of horror flashing through his eyes.

  “No, and that’s what’s so scary. The fact that I hadn’t noticed him. And then he was asking all kinds of questions like…why am I driving a car that gives me so much trouble? How can I live in an apartment that’s so small? He even asked me why I don’t have a winter coat. He really freaked me out.”

  Something seems to occur to him.

  “Is that why you were out in a blizzard with nothing b
ut a hoodie? Because you don’t own a winter coat?” he asks incredulously.

  “Umm…”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Drew

  I’ve asked the question before I can stop myself and I immediately see it’s a mistake by the look on her face. She’s not offended, she’s embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry,” I hasten before she gets a word in. “That’s none of my business.”

  She looks at me for a long moment, then shakes her head. “No, it’s fine,” she says with a weak smile and a shrug. “The coat I’ve been wearing for the last five winters finally fell apart back around Christmas. I figured I could get through the season by layering my clothes. Who knew we’d have the coldest, longest winter on record?” She laughs a little, but I’m confused.

  “Okay…the old car. The apartment. The coat. I have to ask—why don’t you just ask your father? Surely he can help you with a coat…” I immediately regret this question even more than the other one. The look that passes over her face is some cross between sadness, regret, and mortification. “Jesus Christ,” I mumble. “I’m turning into Tessa.”

  I’m startled when she suddenly bursts out laughing. “You mean Professor Morgan? Hah! So I’m not the only one who thinks she’s nosy.”

  I smile, but I can’t quite bring myself to laugh with her.

  “Yeah, well, we’re kind of friends,” I let her know. I’d hate for her to say something that she’ll regret when she realizes the connection I have to Tess.

  She slaps a hand across her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Dr. Markham. I…I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to—to be offensive…”

  She looks so horrified that I feel myself soften. I shake my head.

  “No. Don’t be sorry, Miss Brenner, you’re right. Tessa is very… Well, she’s just… She’s…” I don’t know what makes me stop defending Tessa, but I do. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I say, throwing down the napkin that I’ve been holding. “You’re right. She just can’t mind her own goddamn business,” I say and then we’re both laughing. It’s nice, the sound of laughter in this kitchen again. “Of course, we’re just friends.”

  Now why, for fuck’s sake, did I feel the need to go and say that?

  “Oh, I, uh, of course…” she stammers, the sentence hanging there.

  “Well, yeah, so we’re just friends,” I repeat for some inexplicable reason. “She was a big help to me when…when my fiancée…”

  Now I’m the one having trouble finishing my sentences.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, meeting my eyes. “I’m sure that was a really difficult time for you. It’s good that Professor Morgan was around to help you get past it.”

  Did she seriously just say that?

  I suddenly feel my face harden and, when I speak, it’s chillier than even I expect it to be.

  “Yes, well, Miss Brenner, it’s hardly the kind of thing one ‘gets past.’”

  She blinks hard and looks down into her bowl. I get up from the table abruptly and busy myself loading the dishwasher. When I spin around, she’s standing so close that I nearly crash into her.

  “Jesus Christ,” I hiss. “Did you need something else?”

  “I—uh—I just wanted to apologize, Dr. Markham. I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

  I can only glare at her, our short-lived thaw replaced with that familiar sense of irritation. She speaks again before I have a chance.

  “I—um—I think I’ll go back upstairs and lie down for a bit, Dr. Markham,” she says, her voice tight and small, like she’s trying not to cry.

  Oh, hell…

  “Miss Brenner…” But I’m too late. She’s out of the kitchen. I move quickly to catch her in the den, but she’s already a blur of white cotton shirt and long dark hair on the staircase.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kate

  How could I be so stupid? Why on earth had I let myself get comfortable enough to tell him about myself? And why, for God’s sake, did I have to go and bring up his ex-girlfriend? Fiancée. Whatever.

  When I get to the master bedroom, I close the door behind me as quietly as I can and contemplate locking it. No, that’s just stupid. It’s his house. Besides, it’s not as if he’s going to come up here after me. He’s probably grateful for the break from me.

  It isn’t until I take a long, shaky breath that the tears start to fall down my cheeks. I go into the bathroom and shut that door before walking to the shelf that holds a stack of clean towels. I take one and push my face into it, allowing the plush cotton to swallow my sobs as they rise from within my chest.

  My rational mind tells me that I’m overly emotional because I’m exhausted and weak. My irrational mind tells me that I have conflicting feelings about him.

  He hates me. But then he took care of me. And now he hates me again. And why do I care anyway? Another wail escapes my lips and I sink down until I’m sitting on the cold tile floor, my back against the vanity. My arms come around to hug my legs and I rest my face on my knees. I wish that I could just sink right into the earth. But I’m not that lucky.

  “Miss Brenner?” comes the muffled voice from inside the bedroom.

  Oh no… Really?

  I try to stifle my crying, but I can’t. He knocks on the bathroom door. I don’t answer. I’m certain he can hear me, but I don’t know how to stop, and I just don’t give a damn anymore. What’s he going to do? Laugh at me? Yell at me? Fail me?

  I hear something against the door. Like he’s sliding down next to it onto the floor.

  “Miss Brenner?”

  The direction of his muffled words confirm my suspicion about his position.

  “I—I’ll be out in a sec,” I manage to say in a small, shaky voice.

  “May I please come in and talk to you?”

  I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.

  “Please?”

  Well, shit, it’s his bathroom. I can’t exactly keep him out, can I?

  “O-okay,” I sob at last, turning my back so I don’t have to see the look of disgust on his face when he comes in.

  I hear the creak of the bathroom door behind me and there’s a palpable shift in the room as he enters. Then I feel his hand on my shoulder. It just makes me cry harder. And then he is there, on the floor with me, pulling me up against his chest with strong arms. I shake my head no. I don’t want this. But I do. I don’t need this. But I do. And, somehow, this awful, mean, arrogant man seems to know this already.

  With my face buried in his sweatshirt, I just cry and cry until the only thing left is the sound of my dry, hiccupping, heaves and sniffling nose. He’s patting my back, rubbing my arms and shushing me softly.

  Oh. My. God.

  This is my worst nightmare, and then some. I sit up, abruptly, trying to wipe my sodden face with my hands, not looking at him. I can’t look at him.

  “I’m sorry,” I say in a hoarse whisper.

  Drew Markham gets to his feet and holds out a hand for me to take. I do, still not able to meet his gaze. When I’m upright once more, he turns away from me and briefly runs the water in the sink.

  “Here,” he says, cupping my chin in his hands gently, trying to direct my face to his. I stare at the floor and shake my head. “Please? Katherine?”

  When he says my name, it’s so unexpected that my head jerks up. He reaches toward my face and I just close my eyes, allowing him to press the wet, cool facecloth to my skin. When I open my eyes again, he’s smiling. But not any smile I’ve ever seen in his limited repertoire of pleasant expressions. It’s shocking. And disarming. And sexy as hell.

  Wait. What? Where the hell did that thought come from?

  He’s gently leading me back into the bedroom. That’s when another fleeting thought hits me.

  Is he trying to seduce me?

  I mean, is it all that far out of the realm of possibility? He’s my professor, but he’s barely five years older than me. If he wasn’t such an uptight jerk so much of the time, I probably would have been considering
the scenario sooner. In the end, he holds the covers up for me to climb under. Alone. And I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

  “Come,” he says quietly. “You’re beyond exhausted and far from well. I’m sorry I didn’t remember that myself.”

  I slowly walk past him and slip under the blankets. He pulls them up to my chin and looks down at me. “I don’t, you know.”

  “Don’t what?” I ask, already feeling the heavy pull of my eyelids.

  “I don’t hate you, Katherine.”

  No more pulling. My eyes fly open like a pair of shades snapping up to the top of a window.

  “Excuse me?” my voice is barely a whisper.

  He sits next to me on the edge of the bed.

  “When you were delirious—with the fever? You apologized. You said you were sorry for whatever you did to make me hate you. I don’t hate you, Katherine. I never have.”

  I feel my face grow hot, though not from the fever this time. I don’t want to believe him, but there’s no reason for him to make up something like that. And it does sound like something ripped right out of my subconscious. I stare at him in horrified silence.

  “Can I show you something?” he asks. When I nod dumbly, he pulls his phone from his pocket, pokes at the screen a few times, and turns it around for me to see.

  I’m looking at a picture of a woman sitting on the front steps of this house. It must be summer because she’s wearing what looks to be a yellow sundress. Her hair is dark and it falls in long waves down and around her shoulders. Her eyes are bright blue and her smile is wide and easy. And, if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that she and I were related.

  “Who—who is that?” I ask in a shaky voice, though I have a feeling I might already know.

  “That’s Casey. We had just moved into this house that summer.”

  I stare back at the screen and then up at him again.

  “Anyway,” he continues, “you might have noticed that you bear a striking resemblance to her. I…I think that’s why I have such a hard time with you in my classes. When you were a freshman, she had just…well, she was gone and I was so angry. I’m still angry,” he admits. “And I’m so sorry that I took that out on you.”