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TJ’s face convulsed. “Sounds like a stalker breeding ground. I still don’t get it.”
“This is why Silas is the app developer, not you.” Lucy sighed like there was no hope for him. “I’m going to convince Melody to set up a profile, too. Once she does, you send her a match request and get to know her as somebody new.”
TJ let the thought digest. What would it be like to get to know Melody from scratch?
No way. It would be wrong. Deceptive. If he had any hope of winning Melody, it had to be done honestly. He’d have to be brave. But it took a lot of courage to be that brave. He’d lost his courage a long time ago, and with it, his honesty.
“What then? How would I go from this new Mr. Amazing she falls for, to me, TJ, without losing her?” This smelled like a disaster. No, it reeked. Like last week’s garbage. He shouldn’t even consider it. Certainly his pastor wouldn’t approve. Nor his parents. Nor his God.
The fact that he was still sitting on Lucy’s bed thinking about it told him he was very, very desperate. And not courageous at all.
“You’ll figure that out when the time is right. Now, should we use Bobby’s picture? She’s never met him.” Lucy flashed an image of their cousin in front of him. TJ pushed it away. Desperate or not, he still had standards.
“I’m not using a fake picture. That’s an outright lie.”
“I know.” She bit her lip. “I don’t know how else to hide that it’s you, though.”
This was so wrong…
“Do I have a picture that kind of obscures my face? But not in a creepy way?”
She seemed to think for a moment, then clapped her hands. “No, but we can create one! Come by Silas’s place tomorrow on your lunch break. I’ll use the studio. I can work my magic in there.” She made a face at his look of protest. “I’ll get his permission, don’t worry. In the meantime, I’ll fill in the rest of your info for the app. I’ll make you so amazing that no woman could resist you.”
TJ listened as she detailed all the ways she would make his online profile irresistible until he mentally checked out. She could do whatever she wanted. But it wouldn’t change who he truly was.
What was wrong with him as-is? Tyson Jeremiah Halverson? Would he ever be enough for Melody?
Chapter Two
“One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Come on guys, keep up the tempo.” Melody clapped her hands in rhythm to the four-four time signature. Why were her wind instrument students struggling with this piece so much? It had to be her fault. She wasn’t explaining something right.
“Stop, stop, stop.” She extended her hands in a “halt” motion. “Take it from page two, third measure. I need to pinpoint where you’re losing the timing.” They sounded so good when they began—before they veered off like a rogue train, bent on auditory disaster.
Why did she have not one, but two jobs where public performances were an evaluation of her success as an employee? It was exhausting.
“Practice, practice!” she called out as her college students filed from the room. “We’ll conquer this piece yet, never fear.” Their hanging heads said otherwise, and Melody had the urge to pull them back through the door one by one and go over the song again. But there was no more time. For her or them.
Skidding in her boots across the employee lot of Silver Lake City Community College where she taught two music classes, one in the late morning and one right after lunch, Melody clambered into her car. She let the engine heat while she dug into her insulated cooler bag.
Her lunch hour had passed in preparation for her class as she practiced the songs on her own instruments. That way she understood exactly what her students needed to learn. Theoretically. Something wasn’t working right. She’d skipped lunch for nothing.
Sandwich in one hand, she drove across town with the other. Artisan’s Hope was situated in an aging auditorium on the corner of Madison and 16th. Walking distance from her humble one-bedroom bungalow. At least she lived to the west of 16th Street, if barely. Everyone in Silver Lake City knew if you lived east of that street, between Quincy and Madison, you were poor. Dirt poor. Probably dirty, too.
She knew because she’d grown up there.
“Not going there today, Mel,” she said firmly to herself as she pulled into her usual spot behind the cement building that housed the nonprofit where she spent her later afternoons and some evenings as Production Engineer. It was a fancy name that meant stage director. Artisan’s Hope sponsored underprivileged youth and young adults to attend creative classes and workshops. The Actors of Artisan’s Hope put on four plays a year. Melody directed them all.
Performing in them as a teen in between learning everything she could about music had been one of the things that saved her. That and TJ. She was merely returning the favor by keeping the performances going.
“Melody, do you have a minute?”
At the voice, she wished she’d attempted to walk by a little softer, not clumping through the door in her fluffy red winter boots.
“Sure. What’s up?”
The executive director of the nonprofit frowned at her casual language. Melody sucked in her lower lip. No matter what she did, she would never measure up for Debra. Some things never changed. It didn’t matter who it was. Boyfriends. Teachers. Bosses. Her mom. She never met their expectations.
“What’supis we lost a donor. Silas Mc-whatever backed out.”
