by Lily Kay
Table of Contents
COMPOSE
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
COMPOSE
The Arts Series
LILY KAY
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
COMPOSE
Copyright©2018
LILY KAY
Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-68291-665-0
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To Benward,
With love, always.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my editor, Cheryl Yeko, and to everyone at Soul Mate for making this book possible. A humongous thank you to my beta readers — Jana, Jen, Sally, Krys, Krystin, Luann, Linda, Hana, Amanda, and Meagan. To all the folks who helped make this book possible, my eternal gratitude. Finally, special thanks to my family for supporting me through all the crazy.
Chapter 1
First official day of my junior year. I paused on my reflection in the mirror and forced my lips to curve up because my therapist required it. Dr. Liz had insisted I say at least two affirmations a day, preferably one before I started my day and one before I headed to bed.
She’d also informed me how this year we would focus on the origins of my eating disorder and my fear of intimacy. In order to move forward, I first had to learn to love myself and then, God forbid, actually try dating.
I think Dr. Liz smoked a little too much weed in her youth, because I wasn’t ready.
I considered the face staring back at me and exhaled. I opened my mouth but before words came out, I shook my head. Nope, not happening. I pulled the towel turban off the top of my head and hung it on a hook on the back of my bedroom door.
My gaze shifted to the clothes in my closet as I avoided the full-length mirror hanging on the other side of my closet door. Choosing a baby blue skirt, I rummaged through my shirts before settling on a black Star Wars tank top.
“Yoda, really awesome you are,” I mumbled. I released my wet hair from the confines of my shirt and braided it to the side, securing it with a hair elastic from my wrist. The braid hung down below my chest and I wrung out some more moisture from the bottom tip. Then, I forced myself back toward the rectangular mirror above my dresser.
Sometimes I still surprised myself when I saw my reflection. I spent the first ten years of my life thinking I would wake up with wider rounder eyes and a miraculous fold on my eyelids. I was twelve before I figured out I’d need plastic surgery.
No matter how often I wished for them to change, my eyes stayed the same almond shape with dark brown irises framed by jet black hair, in stark contrast with the blond hair and wide sky-blue eyes of my family.
The reflection in the mirror mocked me, but I forced another smile. I turned to the side and measured the distance between my ribcage and the indent of my stomach. The distance shrunk from earlier this year and that was a good thing. I knew it was a good thing.
I continually reminded myself I never wanted to end up at The Institute of Health in Boston again. One-time in-patient exceeded my quota, thank you very much.
With an additional fifteen pounds on my five-foot five frame, my period had finally graced me with her presence. She hadn’t visited since I turned thirteen. I suppose it was about time.
I sighed again, closed my eyes, and clasped my hands together. “Louie, you have a nice collarbone. I like my collarbone.”
I widened my eyes and my smile felt real this time. “Like my collarbone, I do. Ha, Dr. Liz. There is no try, only do.”
Maynard, my roommate Sierra’s pet ferret, escaped into my room and nuzzled up against my leg. I found his favorite spot behind his ear and scratched before I grabbed my purse and backpack.
I swiped a banana from the counter, fifty calories and no fat, and headed out the door. No, a banana didn’t provide adequate calories for breakfast, but I’d make up for it when I joined Sierra and my other two roommates, Matt and Nick, at lunch today.
When we all decided to rent the house last year, living a block from the university provided an extra perk. As my foot landed officially on campus soil, my phone buzzed from my purse.
Nick texted:
Nick: UR FANTASTIC, love. Don’t sweat it even if Gupta calls on u2 play.
Me: Probably jinxed me, thanx a lot, asswipe.
Nick: That’s me. Come find me after studio, we’ll head 2 Groove.
Me: Sure ☺
I swear to God, he probably did jinx me. As a composition music major, I belonged to the piano studio. Being a composition major and not a performance major further complicated my life, as my playing lacked technique most of the other piano majors possessed.
Having another music major as a roommate mostly helped, though sometimes Nick didn’t quite understand why I struggled. Music came easy to him with his blasted perfect pitch.
Even with having to take off a semester to recover from his own addiction, he’d still graduate in four years with a performance and education major that took four and a half.
I, on the other hand, barely had relative pitch, making dreaded classes like music theory and sight-singing even more daunting. Relative pitch beat tone deafness, so I couldn’t complain too much. If I practiced constantly, my chances of identifying the right note increased two-fold.
My only saving grace regarding composition? My ability to put sounds and instruments together. It’s almost like music possessed me, where my hands channeled what to play. My mind disengaged from my body as my fingers traveled across the k
eys, and voila, the first draft of a piece completed.
The remainder of the song became a jigsaw puzzle where I maneuvered the rest of the ensemble in place until it sounded right in my head. Using theory befuddled me, to the dismay of my composition professor. Despite the number of times Dr. Mickelson told me theory would make my composition pieces more interesting, I disagreed.
My brain didn’t think in tonics, dominants, or I, IV, V, half-diminished seventh chords and shit. In my head it sounded right, or it didn’t end up in the song. When I wrote music, I always ended up in another realm. Safe and peaceful.
I didn’t have to think, pretend, or remember. That’s why I stayed in the program, despite Matt’s razzing me to leave the dark side and enter the realm of the living, AKA, normal majors like his. I remained in composition because no one could hurt me when I created music, and I remained in control.
Before I knew it, I was inside Bannon Hall. I sighed as the door to theory class came into view. Here went nothing.
As Nick would say, bollocks. Theory class officially sucked. Dr. Haven took over the class for Dr. Ford, who had a family emergency. Once Haven confirmed her permanent status, I knew I had no hope of getting a B.
Haven notoriously flunked as many students as she passed. Maybe I exaggerated a little, but still, even other professors in the department mentioned how getting a C in her class equated an A in theirs.
I had her freshman year for both theory and sight-singing, (note C number one and two on my transcript), and I made sure to never sign up for her classes again.
At least my friend Emmy would suffer with me. She’s a clarinet education major I met freshman year, and we’d both successfully dodged Haven until now.
Lord knows why, but Emmy still lived in the dorms, though at least she finagled a single room with her own bathroom.
When class ended, I reminded her the gang would meet at Groove for lunch, and we could continue our commiserating.
All this thought about Haven made me think about school and grades. Double Fuck. I worked my ass off to raise my GPA.
Either my reputation preceded me, or Haven remembered how bad I struggled freshman year. She pulled me aside after class ended and told me to see the department’s Teaching Assistant. Usually some nerdy grad student who’d rather marry their staff music notebook than a human.
Unfortunately, said TA only held office hours for my level during the noon hour on Wednesdays. At least it was only one day a week where my free lunch hour would be lost in complete suffering. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad, and I would only have to use the tutor a few times throughout the semester.
Or maybe elephants mated with wolves.
After theory class, I scuffled toward the piano studio of Dr. Johar Gupta and slid into a seat in the back corner next to Dave Spence, a sophomore performance major. Dave encompassed both humor and prodigy-like piano playing. Sometimes he’d do this comedy sketch on the piano down at Groove. It was always a packed show. He represented one of the reasons I continually felt inadequate in this studio. Thankfully, he never bashed my playing.
“Yo, how was your summer?” Dave held out a tin of Altoids, winter-mint flavor. The mints explained the peppermint freshness emanating from the corner of the typically musty infused room.
“Hey. Pretty good. You? Have any gigs?” I snatched two mints and crunched down on them, letting out a sneeze. Peppermint and cough syrup gave me the same reaction, without fail. No idea why.
“Always. I had a pretty sweet deal at the club downtown where I live. Every Thursday night. Helped pay off some debt.”
When I first met Dave, I tried to identify his ethnic background, but gave up. Yup, I’d asked. “All-American Mutt,” he’d said. Welsh and Cherokee on his mom’s side, Chilean on his dad’s side.
As an adoptee with not a whole lot of information on my birth family, I constantly tried to identify people’s backgrounds, because it felt safer and easier than figuring out my own. Though I wanted the ability to trace back hundreds of years on both sides and discover why I had certain traits, I feared it as well.
I got angry I didn’t know anything about my background other than basic stats available in an adoption file. I realized it wasn’t fair of me to want the information, then be afraid of it, but there you have it. Confused me too.
Dave assessed me with a perma-grin plastered on his olive skin. “Tell me, did you do anything wicked and outrageous?”
Confessing my whereabouts this summer? Not happening. Spending three weeks inpatient and then three more outpatient at an eating disorders clinic didn’t come close to being neither wicked nor outrageous. I faked boredom by shrugging. “Not much, home with the ‘rental units.”
“Sounds overwhelming.” Dave knew I hailed from Lenox, Massachusetts, where the population didn’t exceed five thousand. The only notable event of consequence? Tanglewood Music Festival resided there every summer. Don’t ask me why they decided some cow town in Western Massachusetts would be the perfect location. The only thing I got is some rich dude liked music and cows.
“You have no idea.” If he only knew how overwhelming.
Especially sessions with the shrink not nearly as cool as Dr. Liz. Tomorrow I’d finally see her in person again, and the day couldn’t come fast enough.
“Have you met the newbies yet?” Dave fidgeted with the bangs of his black curly hair.
“Nope, no clue. You?”
I knew he already had their résumé memorized. As the resident gossip and flirt extraordinaire, no one eluded Dave’s machinations. He once told me he preferred to identify as pansexual because, it’s not their gender I’m attracted to, but what’s on the inside.
“Okay. There’s three freshmen, a transfer, and two grad students. Two freshmen are of the female persuasion, but the undergrad dude is very straight. He’s out of the selection process. But the girls? One of them is going to be very lucky if she plays her cards right.”
“Going in for the kill already?” I turned my chair and scanned the room. I didn’t notice anyone new enter yet and swiveled back around in my seat toward Dave. “Got a particular one in mind?”
When two girls entered, looking every bit like the bait they became, he leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Nope, I’ll take either one. I’m an equal opportunity lover.”
With his back lounged against the chair, Dave bowed his head toward my ear. “The brunette is some chick from the Dominican named Lisa. The blonde, her name is Sasha and she’s from Kansas of all places. It’s their lucky year because I’m going to show them both how we court the ladies on the East Coast.”
“Oh, is there a difference?” I pulled out my notebook and fanned myself, as I mentally denounced the effects of humidity with a suck ass air conditioning system.
“Louise, Louise, Louise. It pains me you are an ostrich. Certainly, there’s a difference. We men do it better back east. Much more finesse and sophistication.”
Dave snatched my notebook from me and placed it on my desk. “Please stop, it’s only creating more sweat and not helping curb the bodily stench filling the room.” He felt around in his backpack and pulled out a mini black hand-held plastic fan.
“Thanks. This is heaven. Am I truly an ostrich?”
“When it comes to dating and the opposite sex, you are a castrated ostrich.”
“Ouch, harsh, dude.” I held out my hand. “Give me one more of those mints.”
“What, are you making a move on one of the newbies? There’s a transfer student—”
I interrupted. “Just give me a damn mint. I’ll leave the wooing to you.”
Dave leaned toward me, the side of his mouth turned up. “You wait, after studio is over watch the pro in action and be amazed.”
“Okay, lover boy. I’ll wait with minty bated breath.” I stifled a groan.
Yeah, yeah, just because my virgin-self spazzed out at the idea of being naked with a guy didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate six feet plus of male hotness. He had a Calvin Klein model look with his defined jawline, light stubble, and aquiline nose.
His biceps flexed as he rubbed the back of his head, and I immediately reached my hand out, imagining what it would be like to run my fingers through his slightly wavy chestnut hair falling over his ears.
Shit, is this what it felt like for those girls I always made fun of for throwing themselves at Matt and Nick?
I studied his eyes and realized they weren’t brown, but they weren’t green either. Hazel? Shaped almost like mine, yet bigger. Wider.
I remembered my still semi-outstretched hand in the air and pulled it back.
Dave clapped and cackled. “You may want to wipe the drool off your chin.”
“Muzzle it, Davy Crockett, or I’ll volunteer you to play first.” I glared at him and eventually snickered. “Lordy, I’m a dork. Do you know anything about them?” My thoughts focused on guessing the background of our mystery man.
I thought he might be part Latino, seeing how his bronze skin went quite nicely with the maroon V-neck he sported, which complemented his muscled calves emerging out from his dark khaki shorts. Maybe part Asian or Native American?
I reeled in my imagination because it prayed some poltergeist would kill what little air conditioning we had and force Yummy-man to take off his shirt.
Whatever he was, he won the genetic lotto and I found myself hoping for the first time in forever, I could insert myself into the gene pool with him and pass on all his genetic perfection to our two-point-five children.
