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“I’d notice.”
Tessie is definitely one of those people who pays attention to everyone else’s details. I’d like to believe that she’s not judgy about it, but I know she is. I think that’s something people can grow out of. Tessie was raised to notice. It matters to her. To her family. I mean, most of the same things matter to my family as well, but I let go a lot of the concern about appearances and what other people think when I derailed my perfect future.
And usually, I’m completely okay with it.
But if I’m all that okay, why did I hide my hands?
While Tessie keeps talking about shoes, I think about how I’ve moved from prodigy to disappointment. And how much I might still care.
Sometimes, there’s an itch. A hint of unease about dropping everything I’d given years to. About walking away from my gift. Part of it is guilt, of course, for the uncountable dollars my parents spent on my training. But that’s small in comparison to the weight of the looks I feel like I get when people find me back here. Not excelling at music. Not excelling at all.
But usually I’m just happy to know I’m not living my life to please anyone else. That, for better or worse, this is what I choose.
I’m only half listening to Tessie talk about starting a trend of wearing sneakers to the Harvest Ball (she could definitely make it happen) when she makes a little squealing noise and waves at the door.
I glance behind me and see Hayes Kline swoop in the door, a beam of sunshine lighting his way. I mean, he’s no Grayson Mercer, but the boy has a golden glow. Tessie jogs at him and he sweeps her up into a hug that shows everyone in the library that they belong together.
It’s adorable.
A person could be forgiven for a little gagging, right?
I turn back to my monitor before I have to witness the kiss that attempts to make up for the ninety minutes since they were together last.
And now that Tessie is running up the stairs with her guy, I wonder what Hayes did to get in Desi’s bad books.
I write Desi a text.‘My cousin is dating a kid and I think you know him.’
No. I don’t want to set it up like that. Tessie said there was a “run-in,” whatever that means. It could be any number of things. Maybe he was playing music too loud. Maybe he left a mess at a study table. And if I bring it up, it becomes clear that I’ve heard about it. What if it’s nothing, but I make it something? I don’t want to wreck anything for Tessie. Delete.
‘Anything I should know about Hayes Kline?’
Too obvious that I already know something’s wrong. It’s the text equivalent of hanging an old-fashioned wanted poster in the work room. Delete again.
‘Have you been having trouble with any specific blonde students in the library, possibly ones who look like toothpaste models who also happen to play lacrosse?’
Yes. Very nonspecific and not at all leading.
Forget it. If asking a simple question is this much work, I don’t need to know the answer.
I delete everything and get back to work.
I recognize when it’s dinner time in the cafeteria, because there’s a mass exodus, and then, thirty minutes later, kids start to trickle back in here. The fast eaters first, or the ones with earliest deadlines. Or the ones who are more comfortable working on their assignments in the library. It’s chilly outside, but not uncomfortable, so I know some are studying on benches and under trees. In a few weeks, they’ll be carrying fleecy blankets around with them to stretch the autumn as long as they can.
By the time the sun goes down, we’re back to a comfortable hum of quiet activity. There are about a thousand students enrolled here at a time, and maybe a quarter of them are here right now. I think about where I spent most of my study time when I was a student here. Not the library. I mean, of course I did my homework, but I usually worked in my dorm. Everything else was a practice room in the music building, a soundproofed closet of a space with a chair, a music stand, a tiny window in the door, and the songs I played.
A shiver runs over my hands. I get a mental picture of my violin, its case open, showing off the warm, caramel-colored wood. This is strange. There’s a feeling here, a fuzzy, soft image that I can’t quite see. I try to put words to this passing emotion, but nothing seems to stick. What is this? It’s not regret. It’s not even nostalgia. Not an eagerness to pick up the instrument.
But it’s also not revulsion. It’s not anxiety. It’s not anything negative.
I blow out a breath. So I’m feeling something, and I have a fairly comprehensive list of what it’snot.
“Shake it off,” I whisper to myself. “Think about something else.” I don’t need any mysterious violin-related feelings when I could be thinking about Dr. Grayson Mercer instead. Dr. Mercer with his soft, quiet voice, his everlasting patience for my medical worries, his dark hair and eyes, the way he looked at me and smiled when he asked me out.
On a date.
Sigh.
I’m absolutely going on a date with Dr. Mercer. The man is such a Chamberlain fantasy that it’s practically a cliché. I’m living in the cliché and the grin on my face tells me I don’t mind at all.
