“I’m sorry,” Sarah said, “I’ll be out of town. Family thing.”
Lisa gasped, and did her best to imitate a stoner. “Where’s your devotion to the band, man?”
“I have to keep the band on the down-low. It’s my great-aunt Trudy’s ninety-first birthday, and she’d be shocked by my hedonistic ways.”
“Doesn’t being on the down-low mean you’re gay?” Lisa asked.
Rick snorted. “I think it also means you’re black.”
“I… have no idea,” Sarah said. “That’s what I get for trying to be hip.”
They all settled on Thursday night at seven, and a few minutes later, Dean and Aiden were alone.
“You were fantastic!” Dean said, still apparently riding high.
Aiden smiled affectionately at him. “Thanks. I was… serviceable.”
Dean made a rude noise and waved his self-criticism away. “I’m in charge of the septet, so what I say goes. You were fantastic.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How are your hands?”
Aiden flexed his fingers. “I don’t feel any pain.”
“Good.” Dean took his hand and kissed each of his fingers one by one, sending a thrill up Aiden’s arm to pool in a warm spot deep within his chest. “You have your first rehearsal tomorrow afternoon, right?”
“I do.”
“Make sure you rest tonight,” Dean commanded. “I’ll drive you in. Are we taking the Tesla again?”
Aiden nodded. “I’m sorry if it makes you feel….” He wasn’t sure how to end that thought.
“Like an inbred country hick?” Dean suggested.
“Ouch.” Aiden didn’t want to turn this into a fight. Things had been going so well—he was still on a high from last Saturday, and Dean had been happy just seconds ago. “Dean—”
“I’m sorry,” Dean interrupted. “I was trying to be funny. It didn’t really come out that way.”
Aiden pulled him close and wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist. “That’s not how I think of you. I’m just… I guess I’m trying to make myself feel as if everything is normal, as if nothing has changed, and I’m the same man I was before the accident.”
“You used to own a Tesla?”
“I didn’t have a car. Nobody does in New York. I took cabs everywhere, especially when I was in other countries.”
“Would you like me to dress like a cabby? Or maybe put on a chauffeur’s uniform?”
Aiden hesitated, afraid they were heading for an argument, but Dean grinned at him, so he relaxed. “How about we grab something quick to eat and go to bed?”
“How about we grab something to eat, you fuck me silly, and then we go to bed?” Dean waggled his eyebrows in case he’d been too subtle.
Aiden laughed and kissed him. “Sounds like a plan.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
SATURDAY morning, Dean made them coffee and forced Aiden to eat an omelet and some bacon. Aiden resisted, but Dean knew an attack of nerves when he saw it. “You’re eating something,” he said in his best imitation of Opa. “I’m not letting you ride over two hours, then go into a long rehearsal without any food in your stomach.”
Aiden grumbled something about how nobody forced him to eat in Moscow, but here in the so-called Land of the Free…. Then he shut up, sat down, and ate. Dean jumped in the shower first and dressed while Aiden showered. He’d bought a couple of button-down shirts on the sly during the week, along with a pair of slacks. He knew nothing about clothes, but figured they’d look better than jeans and another of Mr. Scott’s ill-fitting shirts.
Aiden stepped into the bedroom naked, and looking far too fuckable for someone Dean didn’t have time to throw on the bed and lick from head to toe. He took just two steps before freezing and gaping at Dean. “You… had those clothes in your closet?”
“These?” Dean said self-consciously, wondering if his lack of clothing sense had betrayed him. “No, I bought them a few days ago. Do I look like an idiot?”
Aiden shook his head slowly. “You look magnificent.”
“Well… your father’s shirt didn’t really fit well—”
“Because my father could only dream of having a chest like yours.”
Dean blushed, simultaneously pleased and embarrassed. “Thanks.” Then, because he was still feeling out of his element, he asked, “So the colors match and all that?”
“Yes, the colors match.” Aiden smiled and reached into the closet for the clothes he’d brought with him. “You were the hottest guy there last Saturday, and now you’ve turned it up a few notches. Poor Martel’s head will explode.”
THE rehearsal started out well. Aiden knew the concerto forward and backward, and the orchestra had been rehearsing it long before he came on the scene. There were performance issues to work out—Martel, of course, had his own vision of tempo and dynamics—but nothing major. Unlike the audition, however, Martel stopped the orchestra every few minutes or so to go over fine points.
This was typical, and Aiden had expected it. He would have been bothered if Martel hadn’t been a perfectionist. This was his comeback, Aiden Scott performing in front of an audience after a two-year hiatus. As much as the Manchester Philharmonic needed him to be perfect, he needed them to be perfect.
At least as much as possible. They weren’t the best orchestra he’d ever performed with. A few might be good enough for New York or Boston, but most wouldn’t make the cut. Still, they were fairly good, they worked hard, and he was grateful they’d given him this opportunity.
After two hours, Aiden’s hands were beginning to ache, but he ignored it, praying Martel would end the rehearsal soon. At last Martel said, “All right. Let’s try the third movement one more time. If we can play it all the way through and the trumpets manage not to anticipate the climax this time, we’ll wrap for the day.” He glanced at Aiden. “How are you doing?”
Aiden knew Martel had reason to be concerned, but he still found it embarrassing. He was a professional. He should be expected to rehearse just as hard as anyone else there. “I’m fine.”
Martel nodded, turned to the orchestra, and raised his baton.
Unfortunately, Aiden wasn’t fine. Halfway through the movement, he knew his timing was off. The pain grew worse, until it was impossible to ignore, and his fingers weren’t responding as well as they should. To his horror, he missed some notes. At first, it probably wasn’t noticeable to anyone in the audience—which consisted of Dean—just notes missing from the arpeggios, as his fingers refused to strike the keys hard enough. Martel noticed, and a slight frown flickered across his face, but Aiden struggled to recover from it.
Except that he couldn’t. His playing deteriorated, until he was actually striking the wrong keys. The pain seared through his hands and up his forearms. At last Aiden realized he’d simply stopped playing. It hadn’t been a conscious decision. But he was staring at hands poised motionless above the keyboard, only dimly aware they belonged to him. His fingers were curled like claws.
The orchestra faltered, and at an impatient gesture from Martel, fell silent.
The silence was awful. It went on and on and on, while Aiden sat frozen, the heat rising in his face.
“Are you all right?” Martel asked quietly.
Aiden couldn’t look at him. He slowly lowered his hands to his lap. “I can’t… I can’t play any more today. I’m sorry.”
“It’s been a long rehearsal. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard.” Martel was trying to be nice, but Aiden didn’t want to be coddled. He just wanted to crawl into a hole and never show his face again. “Everybody!” Martel addressed the orchestra. “Good rehearsal! We’ll call it quits for the day. I’ll see you all next Saturday. And, Carlotta, I don’t want to hear that weird syncopation you played in measure thirty-nine. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
THIS was bad. Dean wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, but he knew Aiden had choked. The romance novel he’d been reading during the rehearsal—Good God! Listening to musi
cians going over and over the same passages was hell, even if they were good—lay forgotten in his hand as Dean watched Aiden get up from the piano. He moved slowly off to the edge of the stage, as if he were one of the undead, until Martel called his name. Then Aiden stopped and allowed the conductor to catch up to him.
Dean closed his book and scooted down the row until he could step out into the aisle. By the time he reached the stage, Martel had wandered off, leaving Aiden standing by the steps leading down to the floor of the auditorium. Aiden stood erect, his head held high and his expression unreadable.
“Aiden.”
Aiden glanced down at Dean, as if he’d only just now become aware of his presence. Then he walked down the steps and passed Dean, saying quietly, “Get me out of here.”
Dean followed him out to the parking lot and climbed into the driver seat of the Tesla. Aiden fumbled with the seat belt, his fingers refusing to cooperate as he tried to buckle it, until Dean finally had to do it for him. Then he sat in silence in the passenger seat as Dean navigated through the tangled streets of Manchester. Dean didn’t try to force conversation on him.
This is bad. This is so fucking bad….
He didn’t realize just how bad until they were riding north on Highway 93, and had just passed Concord. Aiden was sitting with his hands in his lap, his fingers curled like claws. Staring down at them, he said in a flat, emotionless voice, “It’s over.”
“What?” Dean asked in alarm.
“My career. It’s over.”
“It was just a bad rehearsal.”
“It was more than that.”
“Did Martel fire you?”
Aiden laughed bitterly. “Not yet. He’s hoping I’ll still manage to do the concert. But he’s worried now. They all are. With good reason.”
“So you’ll rest for a few days, and then—”
“And then what?” Aiden snapped. “Miraculously my hands will be healed? Don’t you fucking get it? No amount of rest can fix this! Nothing can fix this! No surgeries, no fucking physical therapy, nothing!” Dean’s eyes went wide. He’d never seen Aiden this angry. Aiden’s voice had become shrill, and his eyes were tearing up. “One goddamn misstep, one idiot on a bicycle who couldn’t be bothered to slow down taking a corner, and everything I’ve worked for my entire life is over! It’s all over! You might as well cut these fucking things off!” With that, he raised his fists and smashed them down on the glove box.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dean immediately pulled the car off the highway into the breakdown lane and stopped. Then he lunged across the gearshift and grabbed Aiden’s wrists. “Don’t hurt yourself more, you fucking idiot!”
He was afraid Aiden would fight him, but he didn’t. Instead, he fell apart. He collapsed back into his seat and sobbed while Dean held one of his wrists and stroked his forearm, trying to comfort him.
“It’s not over,” Dean said quietly. “I won’t let it be over.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
AIDEN was dimly aware of Dean dropping the Tesla off at his parents’ house, then dragging Aiden out of the car and practically stuffing him into the passenger seat of the truck. Later, he would remember saying he just wanted to be alone, and Dean telling him to fuck himself.
Dean took him to the farm, made him take a couple of Ultram, put him to bed, and sat by him until Aiden drifted off under the influence of the pills. Aiden had cried softly the entire time, like a child. He’d felt like an idiot, but he couldn’t stop the tears. In the two years since the accident, he’d never experienced this level of despair. At first, he’d clung to the hope everything would heal. Then, as time dragged on, he’d slowly begun to lose that hope. But some part of him must have hung on by the fingernails, because that part had just lost its grip, sending him tumbling down into the depths, end over end.
He would never regain his skill. He knew that now with absolute certainty. He might be able to play well, perhaps even brilliantly on occasion, but the pain would always be there. Not agonizing pain—not if he managed it properly—but enough to present a barrier, a signpost warning, “This far, and no farther.”
He must have slept, because he woke in the wee hours of the morning to find Dean sleeping beside him. The warmth of Dean’s body was comforting, but Aiden hadn’t eaten anything before he’d given in to exhaustion and passed out. Now he was starving. He carefully extracted himself from the bed, managing not to wake Dean, and snuck out into the kitchen.
He was in his socks and boxer briefs, though he didn’t recall undressing. Fortunately, the night was warm. He found a container of raspberry yogurt in the fridge and ate that in the light of the nightlight Opa had always had on the wall near the coffee maker—a curved piece of white plastic with roses painted on it. Dean had hated the nightlight when they were teens. It was totally something for “old people,” and not at all cool. “Someday I’ll replace that stupid thing with a skull,” he’d told Aiden.
But he never had. Aiden knew he never would.
Aiden wasn’t as hungry as he’d thought. He tossed the empty yogurt cup into recycling and wandered into the living room, not wanting to go back to sleep. He was still a little fuzzy-headed from the Ultram and emotionally drained. Here, away from the bedroom door, he flicked on the table lamp beside the couch. It cast a warm yellow glow upon the new keyboard.
Aiden sat down in front of it. He couldn’t bear the thought of playing anything from his professional repertoire, but the sheet music to one of the songs he’d been learning for the septet was still on the music rack: “I’ll Be Seeing You.” He turned the keyboard on and began to play. He hadn’t remembered to buy headphones yet, so he turned the volume down as low as he could. The pain in his hands had subsided to a dull ache. Dean had been right about one thing—if he went easy on them for a few days, he’d be almost as good as new by the weekend.
Almost. But never quite.
Playing piano alone at four o’clock in the morning could have been miserable and depressing, but the depression had been wrung out of him before he slept. Now he felt oddly at peace. The lyrics of the song echoed in his mind, and they reminded him of Dean. Not that Dean was gone, but his presence permeated Springhaven. He’d probably done repairs on half the buildings in town, mowed half the lawns, patched fences, repaired this or that…. Aiden couldn’t look at anything he passed by without thinking of Dean, either as a teenager or as he was now. He was a part of the town, and it was part of him.
And he’s a part of me.
He always had been, and he always would be. Aiden had gone through a few years of pining for Dean when he was young, but he’d convinced himself it was just a “teenage crush.” He’d dated other men, though he’d always found them wanting. None of them were as handsome as Dean, none were as cool as Dean, none were as good a kisser as Dean. But he’d grown up and finally put that behind him.
Until now. Now he’d returned to find a Dean who’d matured in ways Aiden never could have imagined. He was more handsome, kinder, more loyal, more responsible. The rough edges had been polished off, until the man underneath shined. He was beautiful. And Aiden knew now he could travel the world and never find a man who dazzled him more than Dean Cooper.
And what have I grown up to be? A self-centered, self-absorbed brat.
Aiden tried to be considerate of others, but he’d been spoiled by his parents, and later he’d been surrounded by people who were just as self-absorbed as he was. Not that there weren’t good people in the music world, but… perhaps he’d chosen his friends unwisely. Few of the people he’d hung out with could be considered close friends.
Now he was back in an environment with very different values. Springhaven was full of busybodies who knew everybody else’s business, but if a neighbor was in trouble, the gossip network often proved beneficial. People showed up at the door with apple cobblers. And as much as Dean hated the gossip, he went where he was needed and did what he could to help, often without charging.
Again, Aiden’s thoughts retu
rned to Dean. All roads lead to Rome….
Dean had loved him enough to set him free when they were teens. He’d swallowed his hurt and insisted he was happy about Aiden going off to Interlochen. Perhaps he had been, in a way. He’d wanted what was best for Aiden, even if it hurt him. And Aiden had been an idiot, interpreting Dean’s casual front as a lack of caring. He hadn’t been brave enough to come back, and he’d hurt Dean immensely.
Now history was repeating itself. Dean was doing everything he could to help Aiden return to his career, though he knew it meant being left behind again. And Aiden was being a self-centered asshole. Not intentionally. But he’d been thinking mostly about himself, gearing up to leave Dean behind once more.
What if he didn’t? What if he stayed in Springhaven with Dean?
Do I even have a choice?
Yes. He still had a choice. Despite the disastrous rehearsal, Martel would be unlikely to drop Aiden from the program at this point—assuming there were no further incidents like that before the scheduled performance. At least he hadn’t indicated he was ready to do that. Still, even if the Manchester performance went off well, Aiden knew it was time to scale back on his goals. Paris, London, Vienna… those were pie-in-the-sky fantasies now. What he could accomplish with the limitations he had… well, he’d have to think long and hard about that. It was more than he’d hoped when he first came to Springhaven—and that was something—but he’d never regain everything he’d lost.
As he played the last chorus of the song, the bedroom door opened. Aiden glanced over his shoulder to see a stark-naked Dean stumble into the living room.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m all right,” Aiden replied. He segued into “Sentimental Journey.” It seemed appropriate. “I just wanted some time to think.”
“About what?”
“Stuff.” Then, because he knew Dean wouldn’t be content with that answer, he added, “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m all right.”
Small Town Sonata Page 16
