Hannah
ALLIE CALLS THE next evening as I storm out of the music building fuming over another disastrous rehearsal with Cass.
“Whoa,” she says when she hears my curt tone. “What’s up your ass?” “Cassidy Donovan,” I answer angrily. “Rehearsal was a fucking
nightmare.”
“Is he trying to steal all the good notes again?”
“Worse.” I’m too pissed to rehash what happened, so I don’t bother. “I want to murder him in his sleep, A. No, I want to murder him when he’s awake so he can see the joy on my face when I do it.”
Her laughter tickles my ear. “Shit. He pissed you off good, huh? Want to vent about it over dinner?”
“Can’t. I’m seeing Graham tonight.” Another appointment I’m not keen on keeping. All I want to do right now is take a shower and watch TV, but knowing Garrett, he’ll hunt me down and yell at me if I dare to cancel on him.
“I still can’t believe you caved about the tutoring thing,” Allie marvels. “He must be very persuasive.”
“Something like that,” I say vaguely.
I haven’t told Allie about my arrangement with Garrett, mostly because I want to delay her inevitable teasing when she finds out how desperate I am to get Justin to notice me. I know I won’t be able to hide the truth from her forever—she’s definitely going to have questions when she finds out I’m going to a party with the guy. But I’m confident I can come up with a good excuse by then.
Some things are too embarrassing to admit, even to your best friend. “How much is he paying you?” she asks curiously.
Like an idiot, I throw out the first number that comes to mind. “Uh, sixty.”
“Sixty dollars an hour? Holy crap. That’s insane. You better take me out for a steak dinner when you’re done!”
A steak dinner? Shit. That’s like three shifts’ worth of diner money for
me.
See, this is why people shouldn’t lie. It always comes back to bite you
in the ass.
“Sure,” I say lightly. “Anyway, I gotta go. I don’t have Tracy’s car tonight so I need to call a cab. I’ll see you in a couple hours.”
The campus taxi takes me to Garrett’s, and I make arrangements to get picked up in an hour and a half. Garrett told me to just let myself in when I come over because nobody ever hears the bell over the blaring TV or stereo, but the house is quiet when I walk inside.
“Graham?” I call out from the entryway. “Upstairs,” comes his muffled reply.
I find him in his bedroom, clad in sweatpants and a white wifebeater that shows off his perfectly formed biceps and strong forearms. I can’t deny that his body is…appealing. He’s big, not in a bulky linebacker way, but long and sleek and leanly muscular. His sleeveless shirt provides an eyeful of the tattoo on his right upper arm—black flames that curl up to his shoulder and coil around his bicep.
“Hey. Where are your roommates?”
“It’s Friday night—where do you think they are? Partying.” He sounds glum as he pulls the class readings from the backpack on the floor.
“And you’re choosing to study,” I remark. “I’m not sure if I should be impressed or feel sorry for you.”
“I don’t party during the season, Wellsy. Already told you that.”
He had, but I hadn’t really believed him. How is he not partying every night? I mean, look at the guy. He’s drop dead gorgeous and more popular than the Bieber. Well, at least before Beebs went off the rails and abandoned his poor monkey in a foreign country.
We settle on the bed and get right down to work, but each time Garrett takes a few minutes to read over a theory, my mind drifts back to tonight’s rehearsal. Anger continues to simmer in my belly, and although I’m ashamed to admit it, my bad mood leaks into the study session. I’m crabbier than I mean to be, and much harsher than necessary when Garrett misinterprets the material.
“It’s not that complicated,” I mutter when he completely misses the point for the third time. “He’s saying—”
“All right, I get it now,” he cuts in, aggravation creasing his forehead. “No need to snap at me, Wellsy.”
“Sorry.” I briefly close my eyes to calm myself. “Let’s just move on to the next philosopher. We’ll come back to Foucault at the end.”
Garrett frowns. “We’re not moving on to anything. Not until you tell me why you’ve been biting my head off since you got here. What, did Loverboy ignore you in the quad or something?”
His sarcasm only intensifies my annoyance. “No.” “Are you on your period?”
“Oh my God. You are the worst. Just read, will you?”
“I’m not reading a damn thing.” He crosses his arms. “Look, there’s an easy fix for this bitch fest of yours. All you have to do is tell me why you’re mad, I’ll assure you you’re being ridiculous, and then we can study in peace.”
I’ve underestimated Garrett’s stubbornness. But I really ought to know better, seeing as how I’ve been bested by his tenacity on more than one occasion. I don’t particularly want to confide in him, but my argument with Cass is like a dark cloud over my head, and I need to dispel the stormy energy before it consumes me.
“He wants a choir!”
Garrett blinks. “Who wants a choir?”
“My duet partner,” I say darkly. “AKA the bane of my existence. I swear, if I wasn’t afraid I might break my hand, I’d punch him right in his smug, stupid face.”
“You want me to teach you how to throw down?” Garrett presses his lips together as if he’s trying hard not to laugh.
“I’m tempted to say yes. Seriously, this guy is impossible to work with. The song is fantastic, but all he does is nitpick every microscopic detail. The key, the tempo, the arrangement, the frickin’ clothes we’re going to wear.”
“Okay…so what’s this about a choir?”
“Get this—Cass wants a choir to accompany us for the last chorus. A fucking choir. We’ve been rehearsing this piece for weeks, Garrett. It was
supposed to be simple and understated, just the two of us showcasing our voices, and suddenly he wants to make a huge production out of it?”
“He sounds like a diva.”
“He totally is. I’m ready to rip his head off.” My anger is so visceral it coats my throat and makes my hands tremble. “And then, if that’s not infuriating enough, two minutes before rehearsal ends he decides we should change the arrangement.”
“What’s wrong with the arrangement?”
“Nothing. Nothing is wrong with the arrangement. And Mary Jane—the girl who wrote the fucking song—is just sitting there saying nothing! I don’t know if she’s scared of Cass or in love with him or who the hell knows what, but she’s no help at all. She clams up whenever we start fighting, when what she should be doing is voicing an opinion and trying to resolve the issue.”
Garrett purses his lips. Sort of like the way my grandma does when she’s deep in thought. It’s kind of adorable.
But he’d probably kill me if I told him he just reminded me of my grandmother.
“What?” I prompt when he doesn’t speak. “I want to hear this song.”
Surprise filters through me. “What? Why?”
“Because you’ve been babbling about it since the moment I met you.” “This is the first time I’ve ever brought it up!”
He responds with that flippant hand-waving thing again, which I’m starting to suspect he does often. “Well, I want to hear it. If this Mary Jane chick doesn’t have the balls to offer legitimate criticism, then I’ll do it.” He shrugs. “Maybe your duet partner—what’s his name again?”
“Cass.”
“Maybe Cass is right and you’re just too stubborn to see it.” “Trust me, he’s wrong.”
“Fine, then let me be the judge. Sing both versions of the song for me— the way it is now, and the way Cass wants it—and I’ll tell you what I think. You play, right?”
I furrow my brow. “Play what?” Garrett rolls his eyes. “Instruments.”
“Oh. Yeah, I do. Piano and guitar…why?”
“I’ll be right back.”
He ducks out of the room and I hear his footsteps thud in the hall, followed by the sound of a door creaking open. He returns with an acoustic guitar in hand.
“Tuck’s,” he explains. “He won’t mind if you play it.” I grit my teeth. “I’m not serenading you.”
“Why not? You feeling self-conscious or something?”
“No. I just have better things to do.” I give him a pointed look. “Like help you pass your midterm.”
“We’re almost done with postmodernism. All the hard stuff starts next session.” His voice takes on a teasing note. “C’mon, we’ve got time. Let me hear it.”
Then he flashes that boyish grin, and damned if I don’t cave. He really has mastered that little boy look. Except he’s not a little boy. He’s a man with a big, strong body and a chin that lifts in determination. Teasing grins aside, I know Garrett will harass me all night if I don’t agree to sing.
I accept the guitar and plop it in my lap, giving it a few test strums. It’s in tune, a bit tinnier than the acoustic I have at home, but the sound is great.
Garrett climbs on the bed and lies down, resting his head on a mountain of pillows. I’ve never met anyone who sleeps with so many pillows. Maybe he needs them to cradle his massive ego.
“Okay,” I tell him. “This is how we’re doing it now. Pretend there’s a guy joining me in the first chorus, and then singing the second verse.”
I know a lot of singers who are too shy to perform in front of strangers, but I’ve never had that problem. Ever since I was a kid, music has always been an escape for me. When I sing, the world disappears. It’s just me and the music and a deep sense of tranquility that I’ve never been able to find anywhere else, no matter how hard I try.
I take a breath, play the opening chords, and start to sing. I don’t look at Garrett because I’m already somewhere else, lost in the melody and the words, wholly focused on the sound of my voice and the resonance of the guitar.
I love this song. I truly do. It’s hauntingly beautiful, and even without Cass’s rich baritone to complement my voice, it still packs the same punch, the same heart-wrenching emotion that MJ poured into the lyrics.
Almost immediately, my head clears and my heart feels lighter. I am whole again, because the music has made me that way, just like it did after the rape. Whenever things got too overwhelming or painful, I’d go to the piano or pick up my guitar, and I’d know joy wasn’t out of reach. It was always within my grasp, always available to me as long as I was able to sing.
Several minutes later, the final note lingers in the air like a trace of sweet perfume, and I float back to the present. I turn to Garrett, but his face is expressionless. I don’t know what I was expecting him to do. Praise me? Mock me?
But I hadn’t expected silence.
“Do you want to hear Cass’s version?” I hedge.
He nods. That’s it. A quick jerk of the head and nothing more.
His shuttered face unsettles me, so this time I close my eyes when I sing. I move the bridge to where Cass argued it should be, add a second chorus like he insisted, and I honestly don’t think I’m biased when I say I prefer the original. This second version drags, and the extra chorus is overkill.
To my surprise, Garrett agrees with me once I’ve finished. “It’s too long when you do it like that,” he says gruffly.
“I know, right?” I’m thrilled to hear him validate my own concerns.
God knows MJ can’t speak her mind around Cass.
“And forget the choir. You don’t need it. Hell, I don’t think you need Cass.” He shakes his head in amazement. “Your voice is…fuck, Wellsy, it’s beautiful.”
My cheeks heat up. “You think so?”
His impassioned expression tells me he’s dead serious. “Play something else,” he orders.
“Um. What do you want to hear?”
“Anything. I don’t care.” I’m startled by the intensity in his voice, the emotion now glittering in his gray eyes. “I just need to hear you sing again.”
Wow. Okay. My entire life people have been telling me I’m talented, but other than my parents, nobody has ever pleaded with me to sing to them.
“Please,” he says softly.
So I sing. An original piece this time, but it’s still rough so I end up switching to another song. I play “Stand By Me.” It’s my mom’s favorite song, the one I sing to her every year for her birthday, and the memory carries me away to that peaceful place again.
Halfway through the song, Garrett’s eyes flutter shut. I watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, my voice cracking from the emotion behind the lyrics. Then my gaze travels to his face, and I notice a small white scar on his chin, bisecting the stubble shadowing his jaw. I wonder how he got it. Hockey? An accident when he was a kid?
His eyes stay closed for the duration of the song, and as I strum the last chord, I’ve decided he must be asleep. I let the last note trail off, then set down the guitar.
Garrett’s eyes pop open before I can rise from the bed.
“Oh. You’re awake.” I swallow. “I thought you were sleeping.”
He slides up into a sitting position, his tone laced with sheer awe. “Where did you learn to sing like that?”
I shrug awkwardly. Unlike Cass, I’m far too modest to sing my own praises. “I don’t know. It’s just something I’ve always been able to do.”
“Did you take lessons?” I shake my head.
“So you just opened your mouth one day and that came out?”
A laugh slips out. “You sound like my parents. They used to say there must have been a mix-up at the hospital nursery and they got the wrong kid. Everyone in my family is tone deaf. They still can’t figure out who I got the music gene from.”
“I need to get you to sign an autograph for me. That way when you’re cleaning up at the Grammys, I can sell it on eBay and make a killing.”
I let out a sigh. “The music business is tough, dude. For all I know, I’ll crash and burn if I try to make a go at it.”
“You won’t.” Conviction rings in his voice. “And by the way? I think you’re making a mistake singing a duet for the showcase. You should be on that stage alone. Seriously, if you sit there with a single spotlight on you and sing like you just did now? You’ll give everyone in the audience chills.”
I think Garrett might be right. Not about the chills thing, but that I made a mistake teaming up with Cass. “Well, it’s too late. I’m already
committed.”
“You could always back out,” he suggests. “No way. That’s a dick move.”
“I’m just saying, if you back out now, you still have time to come up with a solo. If you wait too long, you’ll be screwed.”
“I can’t do that.” I eye him in challenge. “Would you let your teammates down if they were counting on you?”
He answers without hesitation. “Never.” “Then what makes you think I’d do that?”
“Because Cass isn’t your teammate,” Garrett says quietly. “From the sound of it, he’s been working exclusively against you from the start.”
Again, I’m afraid he’s right, but it really is too late to make a change. I committed to the duet, and now I have to follow through on it.
“I agreed to sing with him,” I say firmly. “And my word means something.” I glance at Garrett’s alarm clock and curse when I notice the time. “I have to go. My cab’s probably waiting outside.” I quickly slide off the bed. “Just have to pee first.”
He snickers. “TMI.”
“People pee, Garrett. Deal with it.”
When I come out of the bathroom a few minutes later, Garrett wears the most innocent expression on the planet. So of course, I’m instantly mistrustful. I stare at the books strewn on the mattress, then at the messenger bag I left on the floor, but nothing seems out of place.
“What did you do?” I demand.
“Nothing,” he says nonchalantly. “Anyway, I have a game tomorrow night, so our next session will have to be Sunday. Is that cool? Late afternoon-ish?”
“Sure,” I answer, but I still can’t fight the sneaking suspicion he’s up to something.
It isn’t until I walk into my dorm room fifteen minutes later that I discover my suspicions were warranted. My jaw drops in outrage when a text from Garrett comes in.
Him: Confession: I deleted all the 1 Direction from your iPod when u were in the can. You’re welcome.
Me: WHAT?? I’m going to kiss u!
Him: With tongue?
It takes me a second to realize what happened, at which point I’m completely mortified.
Me: Kill u! I meant KILL u. Damn autocorrect. Him: Surrrrrre. Let’s blame it on autocorrect. Me: Shut it.
Him: I think someone wants to kiss me…
Me: Goodnight, Graham.
Him: U sure you don’t want to come back here? Give our tongues some exercise?
Me: Ew. Never.
Him: Uh-huh. PS—check your email. I sent u a zip file of music. Actual music.
Me: Which will be going straight to my trash folder.
I’m grinning to myself as I send the message, and Allie chooses that exact moment to wander into my room.
“Who are you texting?” She’s drinking one of her nasty juices, and the straw pops out of her mouth as she gasps. “Holy shit! Is it Justin?”
“Naah, just Graham. He’s being an annoying jackass as per usual.” “What, you two are friends now?” she teases.
I falter. It’s on the tip of my tongue to voice a denial, but it feels wrong when I remember I spent the past two hours confiding in Garrett about my issues with Cass and then serenading him like a frickin’ troubadour. And honestly, as insufferable as he is at times, Garrett Graham isn’t as bad as I thought he was.
So I offer a rueful grin and say, “Yeah. I guess we are.”
