The Accidentals

by Sarina Bowen

  * * *

  When I get back after rehearsal, Jake is still lying on the couch, his computer on his stomach. I’m still a little stunned that such an attractive guy is waiting for me and not someone else. And after I’ve been such a grump.

  “Hi!” I get a rush of pleasure just walking into a room where Jake is.

  “Hi.”

  “What are you doing?” I ask, hoping to sound conciliatory.

  “My fun homework. I’m writing an algorithm to parse text in a string.”

  “Oh, baby.” I drop my coat on the desk chair and sit on the edge of the S.L.O. next to him. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I was stressed out, and I took it out on you, and I’m basically a horrible person.”

  He clicks his laptop shut. “Let’s hear it for rehearsal! You always come back from there happy.” He reaches around me to put the computer on the table, then he grabs the end of my scarf and begins to unwrap me. He kisses the skin he’s just exposed on my neck.

  I close my eyes at the pleasant shiver it sends down my spine.

  “Aurora just left, by the way,” he says. “She was meeting someone.”

  “Really?” I swivel to face him. “How do you know?” Aurora has gone missing a couple of nights this semester. When I’ve asked, “Who is he?” my roommate refuses to divulge her secret. Even when I complain that it isn’t fair—that she knows everything about me—she won’t budge.

  “It’s a new and fragile thing,” she explained. “I’ll tell you when I can.” And then she’d given me a devious smile before flouncing out of our room.

  “Well.” Jake’s eyes dance. “She answered her phone, and then I swear she said ‘rehearsal is over?’ So the mystery lover is either in a singing group or a play.”

  “Or a comedy group, or an orchestra or quartet. That doesn’t give us much to go on.”

  “True,” he says, grinning. “But since she’s not here, and we are…” He leans back onto the arm of the sofa, pulling me with him. I brace my arms on either side of his head and look down into his smile, which quickly fades. I always know when Jake is going to kiss me, because his expression is solemn, as if he’s about to do something serious.

  He begins slowly, with a silent question, his lips fitting softly against mine, testing my willingness. In answer, I wrap my arms around his neck and lean in. He’s suspiciously minty, as if he’d been chewing gum in preparation for my return.

  This is a new thing in my life—all this affection. As Jake’s kisses deepen, we’re having a wordless discussion about how much we care.

  I care a lot tonight, it seems.

  Jake pulls me farther down until I’m lying on top of him. I run a hand across his jaw, examining the pleasant roughness of his whiskers under my palms. We kiss, and the heat of his mouth spreads through my chest. Every point of connection between us stirs me. And there are a lot of them. He puts his hands on my hips and holds me in place.

  I feel it everywhere.

  Jake’s fingers slide underneath my shirt, skimming my ribcage. I can hear the lingering shimmer of a cappella music in my head, the vibrating voices still serenading me as our mouths join again and again.

  At some point we roll sideways, and I end up propped against the back of the couch, my head lying on Jake’s bent arm. His kiss travels along my cheekbone and across my brow. He smooths the hair away from my face.

  Everything is beautiful until his hand slides down, over my jeans and between my legs. First comes the shock at how good this feels, even through two layers of clothing, my body thrumming beneath his touch.

  But as my heart rate accelerates, that thrum turns on me. Tension begins to rise up through my gut and into my chest. We’re very alone, and anything could happen.

  I try to calm down, to go on kissing him, but it’s no good. With a gasp, I shove him back, scrambling into a sitting position.

  Jake looks up at me, his glasses askew. He doesn’t say a word.

  I straighten out my shirt, covering myself, then put my head into my shaking hands. “I’m sorry.”

  Jake rights himself slowly, leaning back on the couch. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I grunt. Unfortunately, there have been several of these incidents. I can never explain it to him, because I don’t really understand it myself. Fooling around with Jake is always fabulous, right up until the moment it isn’t anymore.

  He looks at his watch. “I should really get going, anyway.”

  “You’re mad,” I say.

  “I’m not.”

  “Just say it! You are,” I hear an edge of hysteria in my voice.

  “No.” His voice is low and quiet. “Mad is when somebody did something wrong. This is…confused.” He takes a slow breath. “It’s like playing the fifth level of ‘Real Enemyz,’ when you think you’re going along great, and then the serpent comes out of nowhere and bites your head off. The screen goes black, and it’s game over.” He adjusts his glasses. “It does not, however, dull my enthusiasm for the game.”

  “You may have taken the analogy too far.”

  “Let a guy cool off a minute.”

  I watch, at a loss, as he shoves his laptop into his backpack and stands up. My heart grows heavy as he goes for the door. Before he opens it, he turns around.

  “Rachel.” His eyes don’t quite meet mine. “Am I the one you want to be with?”

  What? “Of course you are!” I straighten up, indignant.

  His hand is on the doorknob. “You know, I’ve had it bad for you since, like, the second email. And I still do. But there are these invisible tripwires. And I’m always stepping on them. If you told me where they are…” He opens the door. “That might help. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Winter holds on with both hands and both feet, just to prove that it can. I learn—the hard way—how to avoid black ice on the sidewalks. Midterms loom, and I see Frederick exactly once, for brunch. We’re both on our best behavior.

  “I’m basically hiding in New Hampshire these days,” he says. “The record label is pushing me to work with younger songwriters for the new album. And they all want to make me sound like Ed Sheeran.”

  “Why?” I ask, spreading jam on my toast.

  “Demographics,” he grumbles. “My fan base is starting to go gray, but the kids are the ones who spend the most money on music. So they want to make me sound younger.”

  “Huh.” I consider this. “Sheeran drops the odd curse word into his lyrics.”

  “Fuck, is that what it takes?” His grin is wry. “I can fucking do that.”

  I smile in spite of myself. “We’ll have to work on your Yorkshire accent.”

  Frederick doesn’t mention his girlfriend at all. And I’m curious whether he straightened things out with her. But it’s really none of my business. And for once, he volunteered something about his work. That seems like progress.

  “So what’s up with you these days?” he asks.

  That should have made for the perfect opening to mention my upcoming Belle Choir concert, which is only a week away. “Not much,” I say instead.

  And—proving myself to be the biggest chicken that ever lived—I don’t call him again until the day of the jam.

  “Hi Rachel,” he answers his phone. “What’s shakin’?”

  “Where are you?” I ask, almost hoping he’ll say, “At Logan airport, waiting on a flight.” It would serve me right.

  “I’m in Norah’s car. Just taking care of a little appointment.”

  So they are still together.

  “Well…” I swallow. “Sorry for the short notice. But I want to invite you to something. I’m in an a cappella singing group. And the concert is tonight.”

  “Reeeeally.” He chuckles. “I guess you’d better tell me where and when.”

  * * *

  Seven hours later, I follow the Belle Choir onstage, regretting all my life choices. This had seemed like a clever way to reveal my favorite hobby. But now it feels gimmicky and d
esperate.

  And it’s too late to change my mind. I have no choice but to stand on this stage and deliver my solo—his own song—knowing he’s out there listening with a songwriter’s ear.

  I take my place with the altos, putting one arm on Daria’s shoulder and one on Other Jessica’s. We all watch Jessica in the opposite corner. Our pitch hums a note, which I drop by a fourth and bank in my brain. When Jessica raises her hands, we launch together into Bonnie Raitt’s “Something to Talk About.”

  The singing makes me feel better. It’s easy to blend with the others and forget myself. And for a while, the performance is nearly as therapeutic as rehearsal. Between songs I sneak looks into the audience. I can see Aurora and Jake in the front row, where the stage lights reach them. But the rest of the auditorium is too dark to pick out faces.

  He’s out there somewhere.

  Probably.

  As my moment in the spotlight creeps closer, stage fright grips me with her iron claws.

  I used to sing in choral competitions all over the state of Florida. I had stomachaches every time we competed, leading my mother to wonder aloud whether choir was meant to be a blood sport.

  I have a stomachache right now.

  Daria steps forward to sing “Blackbird,” which is one of my favorites. The alto part is bold and dissonant, and it soothes me to concentrate on singing it. It’s such a beautiful lyric about waiting for the right moment in life.

  I’ve waited plenty, but now all that waiting seems like a mistake.

  And Jessica scheduled my solo for dead last. With each passing song—and there are fourteen—my anxiety mounts.

  When the time finally comes, Daria gives me a gentle shove on the back, and I step into the center of the horseshoe. Time moves too fast, and I don’t feel ready as Jessica sweeps her hands in a circle. The others launch into the bass line of “Stop Motion,” by Freddy Ricks and Ernie Hathaway.

  I force myself to exhale. Jake is looking right at me, his face wide open and smiling. I take a deep breath and sing the first verse.

  You would build her up just to tear her down

  You expect gratitude for the crumbs you throw around

  I’ve changed the key of my arrangement, raising the pitch to the very center of my vocal range. And because I’ve practiced this song a hundred times, my voice doesn’t shake.

  You need another fan, an acolyte

  She’s the one who bears witness to the man at his height

  The first thousand times I’d listened to this song, I’d heard it as Frederick had intended—an observation of an imbalanced love affair. But then I realized that from my mouth the lyrics take on an entirely different meaning.

  You’d have her click that shutter only when you have the time

  All the hours in between she’s your woman on ice

  If you don’t look now, she’s gonna come undone

  I hit the high note with all the force and passion that I’d hoped to bring to it.

  ‘Cause she can’t live her life…

  …as a stop motion flick

  It’s a forceful criticism. But he wrote those words, not me.

  After the first chorus, I’m able to let the song take over. The other women’s voices curl around me like a blanket. This is their finale too, and I feel the swell of their effort pouring forth from behind me. I’m lucky just to be a part of it.

  The song seems to end too soon. It’s followed by a swell of applause. I step back into formation and everyone takes a bow together. The audience stands up to cheer, and I see Jake put his fingers to his lips and whistle.

  Then the horseshoe breaks apart, and everyone is in motion. Jake reaches me first, his hug lifting me off the ground. “That was awesome,” he crows. “No wonder they put you last. You smoked them.”

  “Thank you,” I say, my eyes darting around over his shoulder. I find Aurora next. She’s stopped to give Jessica a congratulatory hug, which was awfully nice of her. Then my roommate hustles over to give me a squeeze.

  But not Frederick. I don’t see him anywhere.

  There are plenty of parents in the crowd. A few of them stop me with praise. “What a solo!” Daria’s dad says.

  “We were lucky to snag her,” his daughter is nice enough to add.

  But I still don’t spot Frederick. With the house lights on, I can now see all the way to the back of the auditorium. But his big frame isn’t waiting in any of the chairs, or leaning against the back wall.

  “Maybe he’s out front?” Aurora suggests.

  Maybe he didn’t come. “Let me get my stuff and I’ll meet you outside.”

  “We can wait some more,” Jake offers.

  I shake my head. “I’ll be right out.”

  I fetch my bag from the wings and then hop down, the last one to leave the stage. There are only a few stragglers left in the auditorium and none of them is Frederick.

  But as I walk up the aisle, a woman steps out in front of me. “Rachel?” After a beat, I recognize her as Frederick’s girlfriend. “I’m Norah. Frederick will be just another minute.”

  “He was here?” I blurt.

  “For the whole thing. You were amazing.”

  I can’t stop myself from asking, “Did he hate it?”

  “No,” Norah says with a strange smile. “He liked it so much that he had to mop himself up off the floor after your song.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t hear it from me.”

  And then Frederick appears in the aisle, walking toward us both, with red eyes and an embarrassed grin on his face. “Look at that. Both my girls in one place.” He crushes me to his leather jacket. “I’m sorry to disappear. But I wasn’t prepared for that. Christ, girl. You absolutely killed it.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, my heart nearly failing.

  “Can we take you out for, I don’t know, ice cream?” Frederick asks.

  “You almost said, ‘a beer,’ didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know any other musicians who are too young to drink.”

  I flick my eyes to Norah. I’m still surfing on a killer wave of adrenaline. I don’t think I can sit down with Frederick’s girlfriend tonight. “Well, I have a quiz tomorrow,” I hedge. “And my friends are waiting. Can we go this weekend instead?”

  “Of course,” Frederick agrees. “We can do dinner.”

  We walk outside. Norah hangs back, probably so that I can say goodbye to my father. “Thank you for coming.” I feel Jake and Aurora watching me from the corner. I’d imagined introducing Jake to Frederick tonight, but now I feel too depleted.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

  “Dad?”

  His face changes with a soft kind of surprise. I’ve never called him that before. “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He puts his hands in his pockets. “Music is supposed to be moving. Mission accomplished.”

  “Yes, but…” I chose it to make you feel guilty.

  “But nothing. I didn’t know you could sing like that. I’ve been kicking myself for nine months over all the things I stole from you. It never occurred to me that being my child might give you anything you could use.”

  I stare up at him. Seriously? He’s the only man alive who could find some way to flatter himself in the face of my lyrical indictment.

  “Uh, well… Then will you teach me how to play the guitar?” There, I’ve finally asked.

  “Heck, yeah!” he says, hugging me again. “I love that idea. We’ll start next week.”

  I let him hold me for as long as I dare, and then I run off to join my friends.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Okay, now stretch that third finger onto the low E string.”

  I stretch. Or at least, I try.

  Frederick and I are sitting on Norah’s sofa, in her cute little house on Maple Street.

  “I’ve finally left the Inn,” Frederick had told me over the phone. “I’m staying with Norah.”

  “Well, that’s
one way to solve your real estate woes.” There’s a joke in there somewhere about what a full-service brokerage Norah works for. I hadn’t gone there.

  When I’d knocked on the old wooden door today, it was Norah who answered. “Hi,” she’d said. “I’m on my way out to show a condo, but make yourself at home. There’s soda in the fridge.”

  “Thanks.” Norah’s house is little and pretty, with a carved wooden mantelpiece and stained glass. “I like your windows,” I’d offered, looking for something to say.

  “They’re original to the house,” she’d said. “I love antiques.”

  Then Frederick came out of the kitchen, and Norah laid a hand on his chest. “I’ll see you for dinner?”

  “Absolutely.” He gave her a kiss, and I looked away.

  Now it’s just Frederick and I, and I’m learning that my fingers on Frederick’s guitar are almost as awkward as those first few moments in Norah’s house.

  “Who invented this thing? Why are their six strings, when I only have five fingers?”

  “Aliens, duh. Now switch back to D7,” my father coaches. “Yes! Now try for G again…”

  Unable to quickly cram my fingers into position, I flub the G chord. “Damn.”

  “You’ll get it. Just takes some practice.”

  But I don’t believe him. I’d had this foolish idea that Frederick’s daughter wouldn’t have trouble playing her first G chord. And yet here I am, smashing my fingers together on the frets. Then I strum softly.

  “That’s right, except…” Frederick reaches down and strums again, hard. And the chord echoes throughout the room. “Got to hear you, whether it’s right or wrong. If you’re going to make a mistake, make it loud.”

  “Okay.” I check my fancy watch. I always wear my birthday present on the days I’m going to see him. “I have Spanish in half an hour.”

  “All right.” He takes the guitar into his own lap and strums it absently. “There’s two things I want to talk to you about, though. Do you have just a couple more minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  “The first one is easy. I’m playing a music festival in Quebec next weekend. Do you want to come?”