Page 146 of Wait for Him

"Fuck right off, Jackson Five." He gives me the finger and goes back to whatever he was doing.

I reach for the coffee Blaire left behind.

"So we're keeping the name?"

"Get out of my fucking house."

Fair.

Rose

“How long has it been since you played?”

I let out a startled laugh. “Was I that bad?”

Our cello instructor, Macy, shakes her head and leans forward in her chair. She's around my age, with beautiful caramel skin and hazel eyes that seem to catch everything. This is only my fifth class, so I know I'm still rusty compared to most of her other students. I haven't played since college, and twenty years away from an instrument does, in fact, have consequences.

But God, I used to love it.

I'd forgotten how much until I picked up a bow again. The vibration beneath my fingertips, the concentration it takes to get the sound exactly where I want it, even the frustration when my hands know something my brain hasn't quite remembered yet. There's a familiarity to it that I didn't expect after so long.

“No, not at all,” Macy says. “You just seem like you're reconnecting with it rather than practicing it. I'm not sure if that makes any sense.”

She laughs a little after she says it, almost nervous, like she's worried she's overstepped.

“No. It makes sense.” More than she knows. “It's been about twenty years. I played in college, but then life happened. You know?”

Macy nods, and I appreciate that she doesn't ask what life happened means. People tend to hear something like that and immediately start digging, convinced you've cracked open a door instead of simply acknowledging there is one.

“Well,” she says with a smile, “welcome back, then.”

“Thanks, Macy.”

I start packing up while the rest of the class mingles around us. I haven't gotten to the social part of this whole endeavor yet. The Hi, I'm Rose. Wanna be friends? part.

There are only ten of us, but eight are clearly a close-knit group. They came in together, have inside jokes I don't understand, and already seem to know who is ordering what whenever someone mentions going somewhere after class. Then there's a teenage girl, seventeen maybe, who always seems about as unsure of where to stand as I am.

At least she has the excuse of being seventeen.

I'm a grown-ass woman waiting to be adopted by a friend group.

Laughter spills in from the hallway as everyone starts filtering out, and I take my time securing my cello in its case. I've been doing that every week, letting everyone else leave before me, and I'm not entirely sure why.

That's a lie.

Maybe some part of me is hoping one of them will turn around and ask if I'm coming too. Or maybe I don't want that awkward moment where they're all deciding where to go while I stand there pretending I have somewhere else to be. It's ridiculous. I can negotiate an eight-figure contract without blinking, but approaching a group of adults and asking if I can join them for a drink is where Rosalie Bennett finally finds the limits of her courage.

“Rosalie?”

I don't even register that Macy is talking to me until I realize the room has gone quiet.

I blink and look over at her. “I'm so sorry. What were you saying? I'm distracted today.”

“I noticed.” She chuckles.

“Was it that obvious?”

“A little.” She reaches for her bag. “I was asking if you'd like to join me for a drink. There's a wine bar two streets over that stays open late, and you're packing up your cello like a woman who doesn't have anywhere to be.”