Anticipation rising, I turn around. But it's not Frannie. Instead, there's Rowan, decked out in tight black clothes, high black boots, and her curly black hair flowing down nearly to her waist. Perhaps it's because I haven't seen her in a couple of weeks, but my heart misses a beat. She doesn't have the innocent, fresh beauty of Frannie. Rowan looks more like Morticia Addams with a bad attitude. But holy hell, she'll always be sexy to me. I haven't tried to contact her. Finding her sexy and wanting her back in my life are two very different things. Except for the first couple of weeks after our breakup, she hasn't been back after me, either. In fact, she made quite a show of how well she was getting along with her new, all-guy band. It doesn't matter to me anymore, given my growing feelings for Frannie, but I'd be lying if I said the sight of her doesn't still arouse me. Because it does.
“Gran,” she says sulkily. “What do you think you're up to with that little mealworm in there?”
“What? You know her?”
“No, but I've asked around a little bit. She's a freshman, music major, studies under Dr. Rosetti. She's a good little classical pianist, she can play the dead white guys by the book, she has no friends, she's terribly shy and is pretty much just a little lump. So what's a guy like you hanging around with someone like that for?” She sounds genuinely offended.
I open my mouth to answer, but she cuts me off.
“And she can't sing. She sounds like a scared little girl.”
“That isn't true,” I say. “She's very talented. Yeah, she's extremely shy and needs to get used to singing for people, but once she does that, who knows how far she can go? She can play piano beautifully, too. And she writes music.”
“Yeah, sure. What, two songs?”
I gaze at her, disbelieving. “You've been following me for how long?”
“About a week and a half. I got curious. For Pete's sake, what kind of girl is this? She's so crazy shy that she can't even sing while you're in the room with her? That's nuts, Gran. You think I'm messed up, but this girl is way beyond neurotic.”
“Rowan, we don't need to get all tangled up in each other again. I...” Damn. I didn't mean to say it like that. Into my mind flashes an image from memory, of us physically tangled up in each other, in her apartment, me sitting on her keyboard bench, naked from the waist down, her straddling me and impaling herself on me, up and down, slowly and deliciously before we wind up on the floor among our musical instruments, me going at her hard and fast, her beautiful voice moaning full throttle before building up to a scream.
She must have seen my eyes darken. Yes, some things about Rowan I miss. She takes my hand and leads me onto the second floor. Yes, I'm going along. What does she want? I know what she wants, but where does she want it? That was always one of the fun things about Rowan, seeing exactly where she wants it. Because you never know. She keeps a guy guessing.
When I see she's taking me to the elevator, lust flares in my mind like a supernova, then I tell myself, no. Don't do it, Granville. You'll be damn sorry, bringing Rowan back into your life when you have a chance with a girl who is equally gorgeous and equally gifted, and not one tiny part of her is even close to being as messed up as Rowan, except the part of Frannie that is damaged by people who brainwashed her into thinking she isn't good enough as she is. Beautiful and luminous Frannie, radiant with gentleness and goodness, with deep wounds, but also possessing great stability. Perhaps, one day, it will be me and Frannie expressing our love for one another among our musical instruments, only without drugs, without drama, without trauma. Love without pain.
That is what I want.
Who I want.
“Rowan. I can't.” I stop walking despite her tugs on my hand. I don't know what game she's playing, but I'm not her pawn. Not anymore, and not ever again.
“Why not? For old time's sake. There's no reason we can't be friends.”
I gesture toward the elevator. “What you want goes beyond friends.”
“Okay. Friends with benefits. Whatever. But I miss you, Gran. And I want to show you what you're missing.”
Yes, I miss it, too. But I can do better. I can have a relationship that's filled with music, love, and passion, but without angst, drugs, fighting, and nuclear meltdowns. That's what I want, and that's what I'll insist on.
At least, if Frannie will have me.
“It's that little mealworm, isn't it?” She's glaring at me. “Don't bother to deny it. You're thinking about her, and that's why you don't want to fuck me.” She says fuck vigorously, as though to make me think about the act itself, when we'd get unleashed and really go at each other.
No. Don't think about that. Not with her.
As though reading my mind, she says, “It would never be the same with that girl, Gran. Shit, you'd be lucky if she'd let you fuck her at all, unless you wanted to marry her, and even if, after two or three years, she actually did let you into her pants, she'd want to do it the same way, all the time, in a bed, in the missionary position. Boring. As. All. Hell. Is that what you want for yourself?”
She's got tunnel vision when it comes to Frannie. She sees Frannie in such a one-dimensional way, completely and totally defined by her shyness. If she's followed me enough and been close enough to really hear Frannie sing, to hear her intense piano work on her original songs, to hear the lyrics she sings, she wouldn't be saying these things. But perhaps Rowan only sees and hears what she wants to see and hear, which doesn't have a damn thing to do with the real Frannie. She's much more than just a shy girl, and I'm willing to take the time and make the effort to get to know her and uncover the incredible, passionate, deep-feeling girl I can already see within.
“That's none of your business, Rowan. And I've got to head out of here and study for class. You need to go do your own thing, whatever that might be.”
Interestingly enough, Rowan used to be a chemistry graduate student before she flubbed herself up and had to drop out. Bad grades, for one thing. Losing her fellowship, for another. Bad choices. The only thing she has going for her now is that band, and apart from her, they really aren't very good.
As they say, though, not my circus, not my monkeys.
“I wish you good luck, but we each have a new path to walk. Separately.”
I head back to the stairwell. I hear Rowan behind me, but I don't slow down. “Bullshit,” she calls. “You need me, and you know it.”
I keep walking. I reach the first floor landing, then keep going until I exit the music building. She follows but doesn't say anything else until I start to cross the street.
“You need me,” she calls, heedless of everyone walking around us on the sidewalks. “At some point, you're going to remember it. And I'll be there.”
I cast a glance over my shoulder at her. She's giving me her best sultry look.
In my mind, I superimpose over her an image of Frannie, smiling at me shyly, her smile full of promise, joy, passion, and music to share.
From now on, when it comes to love, Frannie is North on my compass.
Chapter Six (Frannie)
My cell phone plays Mozart as I walk into the practice room. Wow, what timing, whoever it is calling. It can't be Mom. She doesn't call this early in the morning. She doesn't even know I get up and do this. The only people who know are Jake and Granville, but Granville doesn't have my number. It's like our friendship exists only here, in the practice room, as if it were its own little world for just the two of us.
I smile at the thought. It's Monday morning, the day I'm going to try to sing with him standing here in the room instead of out in the hall. Maybe something else will happen, too. I hope it does. Warm tingles course throughout me at the thought.
Mozart again. It has to be Jake. Guilt pokes needles into my stomach. But there's no logical reason to feel guilty. I still have strong feelings for him, yes, but I can't wait forever, can I? And he was the one to basically end our romance, so it's in his court. I might be waiting for years to come, while he marries some other girl, a friendly count
ry type who can sing bluegrass with him and who isn't ever shy.
I pull my phone out of my purse. Yes, it's Jake. What's he doing, calling so early? He is so not a morning person.
“Hey,” I say.
“Wildflower.” He sounds sleepy.
“What are you doing up this early?”
“I couldn't sleep.”
“I'm sorry. Is anything the matter?”
“Yeah. Well, I don't know. I just...”
He pauses, and I can't help but think how sexy his voice sounds when he's sleepy. All husky and deeper than usual. His bedroom voice. What would it be like to wake up in the morning and hear that sexy voice of his after we've made love all night? At the thought, I blush furiously.
“I just couldn't sleep,” he continues. “So I thought I'd give you a call. Just to say hey, I'm thinking about you.”
He used to do that sometimes when we dated, just call and say, “Hi, Wildflower. Just thinking about you. I love you.” Then he'd tell me what he wanted to do to me. Where he wanted to kiss me. What he wanted to be rubbing, touching, massaging. Oh, God. I don't need to be thinking about this now. I'll be blushing red as a fire engine when Granville gets here.
Granville.
He'll be here at any moment, and here I am, on the phone with Jake. But I don't want to push him off the phone, not when he wanted to call me, feeling lonely and who knows what else. He sounds almost jealous. But that doesn't make sense, given that he's the one who said we need space.
“What's that guy's name you're seeing in the mornings?” he asks.
“Granville.”
“Sounds like a rich guy's name.”
Well, it is a rich guy's name. Granville comes from a wealthy family. He hasn't said as much, but from what I've been able to read between the lines, especially given his expensive clothes and shoes, I can tell his family has plenty of money. I won't tell Jake that, though. It would really send him off the rails. He has a pretty hefty resentment of people who have lots of money. When we've had fights before, he's called my parents snobby, privileged yuppies. Though they aren't rich, they're comfortably middle class. Jake comes from a poor, rural family who scrapes to make ends meet and he resents that, and he resents families who haven't had as hard a time. But he especially loathes the wealthy. In that way, he's like his dad.
“So, what do you and this guy do?” he asks. “Just play music?”
I haven't talked to him much about Granville, but I've told him a little bit. After all, it isn't like I want to hide anything. I've also thought, what if Granville and I start dating? It could happen. We're very attracted to each other. It's different from with Jake, but then, they're very different guys. If I start dating Granville, I hope Jake can stay my best friend, but it might be tough. For one thing, I'm attracted to them both. For another, I doubt they would get along. They're from such different backgrounds. Plus, they're both attracted to me.
Jake tries to hide it, but I can tell. I've wondered if, given enough time, we might find our way back to each other. But then, that might not happen. It hasn't gone anywhere in a year. By contrast, things with Granville are definitely happening.
“Yeah, we play music.” If—when?—things get romantic with Granville, I'll let Jake know. He's my best friend and all. But I don't see the point in saying anything now.
“Didn't you say he's a science major?” Jake asks.
“He's a physics major, but he plays in a band, too. All the band members are science majors who are really into music. They call themselves the Neutron Stars.”
A long pause. Then he asks, “What does he play?”
“Keyboards. And he writes music and sings.”
“Just like you.” Jake knows about my aspirations, my songwriting and my desire to perform my songs for audiences. I think it frustrates him that I've never been able to sing in front of him. He knows it's because of my shyness, though, and he's always been very patient.
I have no doubt, though, that it would make him sad and maybe even jealous that I've sung in front of Granville—well, within earshot of Granville—and that I'll be hopefully singing with him in the room today. I'll leave that out. I don't think it's something we need to discuss. It'll only hurt him.
But it's simply the way it happened. I guess Jake never thought about having me sing while he was within earshot but out of eyeshot.
I need to get off the phone. It's a weird feeling, wanting to get off the phone with Jake. I don't really want to, but things could get awkward if Granville comes in while we're still talking. It would make Jake uncomfortable, and me even more uncomfortable. I still don't want to rush him off, though, because that would make things even weirder between us.
Even though Jake is the one who calls me Wildflower, it's Granville who makes me feel like a blossoming bud under his warm attention. He's good for me. He draws me out, toward his light.
“Well, be careful,” Jake says. “You don't really know this guy.”
Yes, that's Jake, suspicious of people he doesn't know. He can be very funny onstage as frontman for the Hickory Hollow Boys, but by nature, he's guarded, wary. Not shy at all, but he has some of what I think of as country reserve. Kind of clannish, I guess. But oh my goodness, his kindness and loyalty are second to none once you've earned his genuine affection and respect.
I feel a pang. It could have been Jake and me. Sometimes I still wish it could be us. But it just isn't working out that way.
“Granville is a really nice fellow,” I say. “We enjoy the music thing. Don't worry.”
“He might ask you to be in his band,” he says.
“I doubt it. I'd have a long way to go overcoming my shyness before I could even think about something like that.”
“I guess so.” Jake seems reluctant to get off the phone.
A knock sounds at the practice room door. I look at my watch. Eight o'clock. Granville is right on time. “I guess I'd better go,” I say. “He's here.”
“Oh.” He still doesn't get off the phone.
Granville knocks again. “Come in,” I call.
“Hi, Frannie,” he says, his gaze warm, his hair invitingly messy. He moves closer to give me a hug. We hugged when we said goodbye last time. Now, though, he stops short, his gaze falling on my cell phone.
“I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?” he asks.
I don't know why I feel so torn between Jake and Granville. It isn't like Jake and I are more than friends these days. I'm perfectly free to date Granville, and if I didn't date Granville, who knows when or if Jake would ever come back to me? And at this point, would I want him to? With the feelings I'm developing for Granville, I could possibly hit a point of no return.
Could that possibly have something to do with why Jake couldn't sleep last night, thinking about how I've been meeting a new guy friend in a piano practice room every morning for two weeks?
I swallow hard, wondering if his feelings for me run deeper than I imagine. “No, you aren't interrupting me. Jake and I were just saying goodbye.”
“We were?” Jake says, an edge to his deep voice.
I respond with silence. I can't believe he's making this so hard on me. He's acting like a jealous boyfriend. Nothing about this makes any sense and it makes my heart hurt.
He sighs. “Talk later, Wildflower.” He disconnects on his end and I put my phone on the top of the piano.
Damn.
Before I can think too much about the dilemma with Jake, though, Granville gives me a wonderful, engulfing hug. Warm and solid. “Are you okay? Looks like you were having kind of a stressful conversation. I don't mean to be nosy, but if you want to talk about it, I'm happy to listen.”
“That was Jake. My best friend. We used to date, too, a while back. Not anymore, though.”
A shadow crosses Granville's face. “Well then, what's the matter?”
“Nothing really...” I pause. I don't want to tell Granville that Jake is jealous of him. I think Granville's interested in me, but what if he is
n't? What if he's just a very enthusiastic, warm friend?
“It's okay,” he says, to my relief. “We don't have to talk. I just want to hear you sing. You know I love your voice, don't you?”
I nod. He does. I can tell by his expression every time we've talked about it. And today, I get to see his expression right in front of me as I'm singing, not just imagine him out in the hall listening. Can I really do this? I've gotten pretty good at singing while he's in the hall. But for somebody like me, having a person out of sight is a far cry from having him right in the room with you while you're performing.
“Okay.” I take a deep breath and sit down at the bench. “I'm going to sing my new song, ‘A Little Bit of Home.’ You probably remember I've already played a little bit of it for you, but I worked on it some more, and I think it's ready to share.” What I don't say is that I wrote the song with him in mind, inspired by how, even though we've only known each other for two weeks, he already feels like a little bit of home. I love how he challenges me, gently and compassionately, to overcome the wall of shyness that keeps me from going for my dream as a singer-songwriter.
I've worried whether or not I'd be brave enough to sing the words for him. They're kind of hot and speak to my attraction for him. But if I'm going to be like Nikesha Sloane, I will have to sing songs that reveal me as a person—at least facets of my heart and feelings and what makes me tick. If I'm going to make it as a singer-songwriter, I can't hide behind walls of shyness and invisibility anymore.
Well, here goes.
I put my hands on the piano keys and close my eyes. Yes, I'll have to close my eyes for this first performance. I can't look at Granville as I'm singing. I've grown so fond of his face, his elegant lines, radiant smile, and brilliant hazel eyes, his ready laugh and his precise, brainy way of speaking, but I don't think I'm ready to watch him while I'm performing. I would probably freeze and the shyness would paralyze me. I've come too far with Granville for that to happen. I start playing the piano, playing the intro softly to warm up, then I launch into the song, playing the intro again with more oomph, building up to the singing and reminding myself that Granville has heard my voice every morning now for two weeks and there's no reason for me to feel nervous.
Shy Page 5
