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Hand falling to the edge of the bench, my fingers curled around the side, digging into the smooth wood as I gazed over the rows of chairs, my eyes straying back to one row in particular again and again.
I’d been hiding.
“What did you mean before?” he asked, drawing me away from the memory trying to reveal itself to me.
Jolting, I glanced up. “What?”
“Before, you said you have amnesia, but then you corrected yourself and said had.”
I nodded. “I’ve started to remember things.”
“What kind of things?” he asked, eyes narrowing.
I shrugged one shoulder. “Just stuff I forgot.” Glancing at the piano, I smiled. “And clearly, I didn’t forget how to play.”
He made a sound. “Of course not. Being gifted is not a memory. It just is.”
I glanced back at the row of chairs but this time felt nothing. It made me doubt what I’d felt before. Suddenly, I gasped. “I had a piano lesson!”
“Pardon?”
I glanced at the director, excitement widening my eyes. “I remember! I was giving a piano lesson that night in the practice room.”
“Don’t you do that often?”
Something about the general statement rubbed me the wrong way. “I thought you didn’t pay attention to student affairs.”
His eyes narrowed. “Unless it has to do with music.”
“Right.” I agreed, the back of my neck prickling again.
“Well, now that I know I haven’t forgotten the whole reason I’m here at Westbrook, I should go,” I said, using the bench to help me stand. “I have some work to make up.”
“Can I expect to see you at rehearsal later this evening?”
I paused. Something about that seemed like a veiled threat. Or maybe a challenge. Whatever it was made rehearsal the last place I wanted to go.
Clearing my throat, I focused on the action frame of the piano instead of on him. I knew it was rude to not make eye contact when being asked a direct question, but I found it increasingly hard to look at him. He was making me uncomfortable, and the presence of that discomfort was sending off alarm bells in my head.
“Actually, I think I will take the rest of the week off from rehearsals as my doctor recommended.” I lied. Suddenly, getting back to my “routine” seemed like the worst thing I could do. “I wear out quite easily with this cast, and—”
He shifted closer, something I felt rather than saw. My eyes snapped up, confirming that he indeed had moved.
“And?” he questioned, reminding me that I’d been speaking.
“And,” I said, swallowing, “the stitches in my head are quite sore.”
He made a sound that was not at all sympathetic. “You should probably go home and lie down. Don’t think too much.”
I glanced at the crutches, which he’d somehow moved in front of. “I think that’s good advice,” I said. “Excuse me,” I asserted, gesturing to the crutches.
He glanced between me and the walking aids, then stepped back.
On one hand, I was immensely glad he was out of my personal space. On the other, how freaking rude. I was literally standing there balanced on one foot, admitting the stitches in my skull were hurting, and instead of handing me the things I needed, he stepped back as if he wanted to watch me struggle.
If he were in a horror movie, he’d be the first to die, and the people in the audience wouldn’t even feel remorse.
Served him right.
