Page 50 of Solo

I shrug. “I don’t think so. But then, I’m not the best person to ask. I’m still angry at my mother for dying on me and that wasn’t even her fault.”

Despite our best efforts at increased inebriation, we’ve both sobered up fast after our aborted attempt at ill-advised romance. Gone now are the delicate wineglasses, replaced by green and white Shepherd University mugs, full of steaming hot chocolate. He hands me his to hold, so he can slide from his chair to join me on the floor.

“So,” he begins, taking the beverage back into his own hands when he’s settled on the rug. “Your father.”

I look down into my own cup, as if there might be a secret message for me in the bottom, telling me how to avoid this unavoidable conversation. Unfortunately, there’s nothing but warm, milky goodness looking up at me.

“My father,” I repeat on a sigh of resignation.

“Are you close?”

“Hardly. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Seriously?” I hear the incredulity in his tone; I see it on his face. I almost wish he’d stayed up in his rocker so I could avoid the uncomfortable intensity of his dark eyes.

“Uh-huh.”

“But the way those jackal reporters hound you… What do they think they’re going to get out of you if you’re not even in contact with the guy?”

“They don’t know I’m not in contact with him. Nobody knows.”

“Well why the hell not? Maybe if they did, they’d finally leave you alone.”

“Look, Drew, here’s the thing. It’s not what’s true that matters. It’s what people think is true that matters.” I can see from the way his brows are furrowed that he doesn’t understand what I’m getting at. “My classmates. My professors. You, Drew Markham. You don’t know a damn thing about me, but none of you is willing to cut me an inch of slack because of the kind of person you believe me to be. No matter what I say to them, or to you, or to the press, everyone is going to believe what they want to believe. That I’m entitled. That I’m rich. That I support my father’s ridiculous bill to defund the arts.”

“Well that’s pretty jaded, don’t you think? Maybe if you actually explained to us—to them—what the situation really is, things would be different for you,” he suggests and the sincerity on his face tells me that he believes it could really be this simple. Unfortunately, I know better.

I give him a patronizing smile. “Or maybe they’d take what I said and twist it.”

“Oh, now you’re being paranoid again,” he scoffs dismissively. But I won’t be put off.

“Think about it, Drew. Imagine someone finds out I was stuck here like this with you. The two of us, alone, for days. Suddenly you’re being accused of an improper relationship with a student and I’m being accused of sleeping with my professor for a good grade. That’s not at all what happened. And, even if the truth came out after the fact, do you think people—your boss, my peers—are just going to erase their initial impressions? Hell no! That’s one bell you can’t un-ring.”

I’m thinking this is a good analogy, until I notice Drew Markham looking very pale suddenly. He’s verging on green, in fact.

“You wouldn’t tell anyone, would you, Katherine? About this? That I kissed you before?”

The question is wrapped in thinly veiled panic.

“What? No! God, no!” I gasp. “Are you insane? That was just an example. My point is that I can’t say anything about my father to anyone because there’s no guarantee that the truth is what will be printed. So, unless I decide I hate him enough to invent some scandal that’ll hurt his career, I won’t be saying anything.”

He looks visibly relieved and I try not to giggle as the color gradually returns to his face. For a few seconds the crackling of the fire is the only sound in the room.

“Would you do that to him?” he asks.

I glance at Drew, who’s watching me intently.

“You would,” he determines from my split-second hesitation.

“Not now. But there was a time when I was so angry that I might have. Remember when I told you I got into the New York Conservatory?”

“Ah, yes, the ‘long story,’” he recalls from our earlier conversation.

I smile. “Yes, exactly. So, when I was getting ready to graduate high school, I told him I was going to visit my aunt in New York City.”

“And you didn’t go?”

“Oh no, I went all right. Except, I didn’t just go to visit my aunt. I also went to audition for the New York Conservatory. I was so careful not to tell anyone anything. I even auditioned under a pseudonym. As luck would have it, though, there was a reporter there doing a fluff piece about the musicians who come from all over the world to audition. He recognized me and snapped a picture with his phone. Next thing I know, it’s in the papers. And on Twitter. And Instagram, and Facebook, and—”