The door swung back and broke me from my internal musings. He gently closed the door, separating me from my parents.
“Christine Day.” Devlin stood in front of me and all around me. His head tilted to the side.
“Maestro,” I said. “I wasn’t eavesdropping.”
His eyebrows shot up.
“I mean, not intentionally,” I clarified.
“I’ve already spoken with your parents, but I wanted to ask you directly.” He said the words while his eyes bored into me.
His words were clear, not muffled, despite the barrier. The mask only made his focus all the more flustering. There was nowhere else to look. All I could do was stare back into those deep, dark eyes.
My eyes were brown too. Boring brown, like an Ikea side table. They matched my long, brown, stick-straight hair. I was easily forgettable. Tucked away in a corner, most people thought I was a side table. But his eyes were almost black. Where did the pupil end and where did the iris start? And why was I spending so much time thinking about his pupils when he had clearly just said something?
“What?” I smiled. It was a nervous knee-jerk reaction. It usually gave me enough time to disarm somebody until I thought of what I needed to say.
“My showcase. I need a cellist to help me work through some issues with my newest composition,Smokey Mountain Suite.”
“A cellist?”
“Yes,” he said flatly.
I wanted to ask, “What about Carla?” The first chair cellist would love that. I was nobody. I was fourth chair. Literally by rights, I was the fourth most qualified person to help him. But my words got stuck. The longer I stalled, the more the tension built around us. With every second that passed without me answering, the little furrow between his brow deepened.
But what was I supposed to say? Had he even asked me a question?
“I—I … Are you asking me?” That was definitely not what I should have said.
I had meant it sincerely, but he obviously took it as snark. The slice of emotion I could see turned downright thunderous. Suddenly the stories of holes punched in walls and flying music stands were believable.
“Yes,” he growled.
This was a big decision. I needed more information. I needed to talk to Mom and Dad. So why couldn’t I just say that? I could not decide this right now. Not with him standing there, studying me like that. What did he think my reaction would be to him showing up in my house? I was wearing pink flannel PJ bottoms and a tank top, for crying out loud. I hadn’t even messed with a bra today. I hadn’t expected to leave my suite of the house.
I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to appear casual, despite feeling anything but.
“Yes or no.” Without seeing his mouth, I sensed he was scowling. That more-familiar growl was back in his voice. “Forty-eight hours.”
And as though we had both decided the conversation was over, he turned on a heel and left. Only when the rumbles of his bike were no longer audible did I finally breathe easy.
I wasn’t sure how long I stood there like a wall-eyed fish out of water. Eventually, my parents came out from the sitting room to find me stupefied in the hallway.
“I’m so confused. What should I do?” I whispered more to myself.
“It’s a wonderful opportunity, working with the Maestro every weekend,” my mother said, her voice smooth and calm as always.
“But you don’t have to do it. If you—” My dad turned to my mother as if a thought had just occurred to him. “How did he know her real name?”
“Green Valley isn’t that big,” she said. “Most people know Kim. Gossip probably got up to Knoxville somehow.”
That wasn’t exactly true. Not many people connected Jethro’s ex, Kim Dae, the truant who ruined her chances for Juilliard, with Christine Day, the fourth chair cellist in the SOOK. That was the whole point of the stage name. I had split myself off into a new person.
Of course my friends in the Scorned Women’s Society, SWS for short, knew; we all had our own baggage in addition to being Jethro’s exes. We took care of each other.No ex left behind.
My father argued, “He’s got a temper.”
“He’s an artist,” mom countered.
