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I don’t even think that the word kiss is accurate. I’ve never felt anything like that. When our lips touched, it was like magnetic puzzle pieces coming together, everything fit and felt so…right.
My phone rings again and I grit my teeth and answer it as I step into the room she said I could use. ““Hey, Dad.” I flop onto the queen-sized bed against the wall and close the door.
“Hey, Carter. Your mother’s here, too.”
“Hey baby, I miss you,” she chimes in and despite my irritation at the call, I smile.
“I miss you, too."
“We need to talk about the interview tomorrow.” my father gets to the point.
I groan. “Why do I have to do this? I signed the contract, isn’t that enough?”
“Carter!” my mother admonishes me and I change my tone.
“‘I’m sorry. I know you worked hard to make this happen. But it’s late and I’m on vacation. Can we do this tomorrow?”
My dad sighs, but when he speaks his tone is softer, too. “I know it’s late, but the interview is tomorrow and we need to talk about what you’re going to say.”
“What do you want me to say?” I ask, resigned and annoyed to be having this conversation right now.
“They want to know that you’re happy being the drummer.”
“So, basically, you want me to lie.”
“Carter, come on. I told you, prove yourself, and you’ll be on the road to where you’ve always wanted to be.”
“You mean, then you’ll decide I’m ready to be lead.”
“Trust me. You’re not ready, son. Do this interview. You’ll need these people in your corner.” My father looks so tired and I feel guilty.
“Fine. But can we do this in the morning? I’m not home.”
“Where are you?” His voice is tense again.
“With a girl.”
“Is her name Stella?” he asks.
I bristle at the reproach in his voice.
“No. But Stella and I are basically over."
“I think you need to tell her that, son.”
I bristle at the reproach in his voice. He’s not wrong about what I owe Stella. But, that's a conversation that needs to happen face to face.
“I will. Was there anything else?”
We say a tense, but civil, goodbye and I finish drying off. I rifle around the chest of drawers for clothes. By the time I’m dressed, my mood is dark and heavy.
I step out into the hallway. If I go back in there right now, she’ll ask me what’s wrong and the last thing I want is to talk about any of that.
Instead, I head downstairs to cool off and wait until she comes looking for me.
When I get to the first floor, I walk through the sparsely furnished living room to peer out of the window. But a long corridor at the end of the room catches my attention. I walk until I reach the door at the end of it. I shouldn’t snoop, but I’m curious.
I open the door and flip on the light. I half gasp, half groan when I see the beautiful, baby grand piano in the center of the huge room. Talk about being in the right place, at the right time. Like a supplicant answering a call to prayer, I sit down and start to play.
