I settled on the piano bench while Noah stood and flipped through a binder of music sheets.
“First things first, we need to pick a direction,” Noah said without looking up from the binder. “Who did you answer for Slade’s question on inspirators?”
“Debussy,” I answered, then frowned at my leg when it shook again.
Noah is just a boy, I reminded myself.Try to be normal.
Noah paused in his flipping, and his gaze cut to me. “An impressionist?”
I shrugged under his shrewd stare, telepathically ordering my overzealous leg to behave. “I don’t think he liked being called that, but yes.”
“I lean toward neoclassical,” Noah said, and I bit my lip to hide a smile. Of course he preferred a style associated with order, balance, and emotional restraint. Who would’ve guessed? His judgement of impressionism made more sense now, too, considering it put such a strong weight on mood and emotions.
“I’m sure we could find a sweet spot somewhere between the two,” I said. My leg finally settled against the bench, and I breathed easier.
Noah’s brow rose, and the room felt a little smaller. “You’d rather have two competing styles? Why not choose one and create the strongest piece with that style?”
I frowned, wondering if that was a trick question. “I take it you’re not big on compromise?”
He mirrored my frown. “Not when there’s no reason to.”
“So, you’d be okay with us choosing impressionism, then?” I asked while crossing my ankles. “Since I’d rather not do pure neoclassical and you see no reason to compromise.”
Noah’s eyes narrowed to slits, but he wasn’t going to steamroll me in all our decision-making when I had a scholarship riding on this. Then again, since I was the one failing, maybe I shouldn’t be so vocal. That didn’t stop me from holding his stare until my eyes watered. But he didn’t cave.
I sighed. What was the point of disagreeing on this if we weren’t even partners in the end? I took a deep breath for courage, deciding to rip the Band-Aid off.
“Don’t worry, it’s a moot point since you probably won’t have to put up with me much longer. Once I fail out, Slade will match you back up with Miss Legs-for-Days,” I said, then winced at my own pettiness when I realized I’d called her that out loud. “Blaise, I mean. I’m sure you two will be very happy together.”
That didn’t sound bitter at all.
The skin between Noah’s brows pinched together. “You’re failing?”
“Slade officially recommended I drop the class.”
I dropped my gaze to the ivory keys to avoid looking at Noah while he digested that. At least I was honest, even if it meant he thought I was an idiot now.
“Are you?” Noah broke the silence, pulling my eyes up. He eased the binder closed and rooted me in place with a hard gaze. “Dropping?”
I took a deep breath and let it out. This part I was sure about. “No.”
Just saying the word infused a new surge of hope in my veins, and a knot eased in my stomach. I wasn’t giving up.
“Then I don’t see why we shouldn’t continue what we started,” he said. He flipped the binder back open and set it atop the piano before turning a few pages. “Let’s work with what we know now.”
I scratched my knee, more than a little surprised by his attitude. Okay, then.
Noah’s eyes didn’t waver from the page when he spoke again, as if it was an afterthought. “And I could see something along the lines of Ravel’s style doing well.”
Something warm and fuzzy unfurled in my stomach at his suggestion. I told myself not to smile smugly, repeating it twice in my head when my lips didn’t listen.
Maurice Ravel was a compromise.
Knowing how impossible it would be to stifle, I ducked my head to block Noah from seeing my grin. “Sounds good to me.”
He nodded and pulled out a sleek black phone before checking the screen. “I need to cut this short, but let’s meet for another hour after next class?”
Again? “You do know this project isn’t due until December, right?”
