AllFreeNovel
Share Us
But the thing is, I’m still good at it. The sound coming from my instrument is still excellent. My technique might be rusty, but I still have my talent. My fingers remember where to go. My bow arm knows how to move. I even found that with the first notes, my feet were in correct position and my torso was swaying.
It still works. The instrument is still available to me. And that’s a nice thing to know. Where do I go from here? Well, that would be a nice thing to know as well.
For now, this is enough. I did the thing. And I survived it.
When I set the violin back inside the case, I gave the scroll a little pat. Nice scroll. Good girl. Something like that.
And now it’s six, and I have half an hour before Grayson’s expecting me, and my hair looks like a special effect for a Halloween movie. Or an impressionist version of a mushroom cloud.
I mean, it’s hair. But it’s all the wrong hair in all the worst ways. It’s a bundle of frizz, made worse by nervous tugging and autumn static. I pull it into a braid, but the world’s healthiest cowlick (the one above my left eyebrow) is working its voodoo in terrifying ways, and pulled back is not going to work. When I take the braid out, I’ve only magnified the frizz issue.
I put on my sweater. Oh, mercy. That does not help. The hair is behaving as if I’ve plugged it in, somehow.
Hat. Yes. I pull on the favorite beanie, and it solves about sixty percent of the problem, but is this the image I want to convey? I know it’s cute, but it is date-the-doctor cute? I’m afraid it’s too throwback-to-high-school cute. And nobody needs reminding how much younger I am.
No beanie.
Seriously, the hair is expanding as I stare at it in the mirror. Remember Merida in Brave? Yes. That.
Except, as I may have mentioned, frizz. All the frizz.
There is only one real solution here, and it’s not going to get me to Grayson’s on time.
I do a quick calculation. Being on time is good. Terrifying him with this hair attack is bad. Okay. I can manage the hair and be only a little late.
I want to hose the whole thing down, but that will add way too many minutes to the process. Instead, I work the spray bottle until my fingers cramp. I think tame thoughts. I use all the right products (one of the perks of having a mom with serious control issues is that she researches, documents, and procures all the best products to pacify my hair), and with a bit of serum-ing and gelling and scrunching and diffusing, I arrive at satisfactory hair. I’d prefer amazing hair, but after the last forty minutes, I’m grateful for what I get.
I take extra care putting on a scarf, because when I take it off, I don’t want it to have undone half the work I just did, and button up my coat.
I’ve never really thought about Grayson living above the clinic. It’s weird that we’re all here, together on this campus. But if I had known when I lived in the dorm that he slept right upstairs from where I had my appointments? I don’t think I could have managed a coherent conversation.
But I’m so mature now, right? Because I graduated from high school and went away to a single year of college and ran back home to Chamberlain. I stop myself from going back down this path. Grayson doesn’t seem to care that I’m younger than he is. And if he doesn’t care, I shouldn’t either. Not when there are SO MANY other things to worry about.
He’s standing at the clinic door when I walk up the sidewalk, one hand in his jeans pocket and the other scrolling his phone.
He has that slightly slouched posture I love to look at, with his torso tilted to the right as one ankle crosses over the other, his shoulder against the wall. He looks relaxed but ready for whatever comes his way. (Or, you know, whoever.) I can feel my fingers buzzing at the thought that he’s here waiting for me.
“Is there a doctor in the house?” I ask. As soon as I say it, I hope it didn’t sound like I was planning to roleplay some weird doctor-patient thing. No way. Too real. Too soon.
But when he looks up he’s already smiling, and he puts the phone away without even thinking about it. That little gesture proves that nothing he’s doing is more important to him right now than I am. A girl could get used to that kind of treatment.
He takes a step toward me and reaches his arms out. Instead of a full hug, he places a hand on each of my arms and presses, just holding on to me and looking right at me.
“Sorry, no doctor tonight,” he says. “I’m busy being something much more interesting.”
I know he’s setting me up for a perfect flirty moment. He’s going to say being my date is better than any job. It’s not terribly original, but let’s face it—anything he says is going to make me swoon. And even though I know, I can’t help it. It’s like a primal reaction. I tilt my head to the side and ask, “Really? What could be more interesting than being a doctor?”
“Film critic,” he says.
I laugh. “And what kind of critic are you?”
He pushes open a door behind him and smiles at me. “The most critical of all.”
I shake my head as he leads me inside. “I don’t believe you.”
“Only because you’ve never watched a film with me before.”
“Maybe you just need to watch movies that need no criticism,” I say, following him up the stairs. Stairs I will forever know are here, right beside the clinic. Stairs that lead to his place. I haven’t really thought about what Grayson’s apartment might look like. A post-grad frathouse with the world’s biggest TV and a third-generation leather sofa with one sunken cushion? A man cave with—okay—that same TV, but this time with every possible game console ready to attach? Or maybe something with beaded curtains and green velvet couches, lava lamps, and gold accents. No chance. I can way more easily picture him living in something that looks like the clinic, with a spinning chair and computer consoles attached to the wall next to an exam bed.
