FINAL BOOK 1: EPILOGUE

Eight months later “Welcome to Vanier University auditions. We’ll call you when we’re ready.” The man at the registration table gives me some paper to fill out. “ Please confirm your name and contact information here.” I fill out the paper and hand it back to him in exchange for a number. I can’t help noticing all the people warming up. I’d expected talented musicians and vocalists, but this is next level. There’s a corridor beyond where the auditions are being held and a sign saying “PLEASE STAY IN THIS AREA.” I ignore it. My feet are soundless on the tile floor that looks like marble. The hallway is full of people my age of all shapes and colors and sizes. Some are with parents, some alone wearing headphones. This building, between the Upper West Side and Harlem, is stone. Attached to the original four-story building are another six stories of glass. A spiral staircase goes up the middle as if it ascends all the way to heaven, though it can’t be more than four floors. My phone jumps in my bag, and I answer it. “Avery?” “Did you go yet?” “They’re running behind. Where are you?” “Still at Columbia,” she says. “It’s amazing, and I maintain you’re insane for not coming, not only because your dad will murder you when he finds out you lied to him. But you’ve got this. Any hotties you can grab for a quick pep-talk-slash-make-out?” I glance around. There are lots of attractive people, but the only thing I feel are nerves. “I don’t think that’ll help.” “Break a leg, girl. I’ll meet you for lunch.” We hang up, and the reality starts to settle in. This is it. My chance. I’ve only put everything in me into this. Every ounce of time and emotion and focus for the last year. More than that. I start down a hall lined with practice rooms. Between them are portraits of award-winning actors, dancers, musicians, conductors who graduated from Vanier. I know almost all of them, at least by name. They win Oscars, Grammys, Tonys. I look in the first door interrupting the line of photographs. There’s a girl playing piano, lost in her music—which I can’t hear, thanks to soundproofing. I wish I could. I continue to the next one, and there’s a boy rehearsing an acting piece. The man from the desk comes up behind me, frowning. “Excuse me? You’re on deck. You should stay in the audition area.” I nod. “I’m sorry. I just needed a moment. I’ll be right there.” I can’t go back yet. The third door is open. The sounds from that room invade my ears, vibrate through me, call to every part of me. Including parts I thought were dead. I peer around the door frame, an inch at a time, holding my breath. Inside, there’s a man sitting on a stool. A man with dark hair falling across his forehead who plays guitar as though he was born to do it. My heart stops, every bodily function except my eyes and ears shutting down. For months after he walked out of my life, it was all I could do not to picture him, to think about where he was, with whom, doing what. His hair is jet and styled, no trace of blue. His mouth is firmer, more sculpted. His black dress shirt is crisp. Lines of black snake out from under rolled sleeves, twining around muscled forearms like an embrace as he plays. When Timothy left, it gutted me. I can’t think about the things I did in those weeks and months. The broken girl who cared too much, arguing with the universe, wanting Timothy, wanting us. One dark, empty, soulless day, I decided it was time to mourn both. I moved forward because there’s nothing else to do, because you can keep living or stop. But Timothy Adams is in New York. At the school that’s my dream. The boy who broke my heart doesn’t look destroyed… He looks whole. Timothy sets down the guitar and looks up but not at me. A girl with dark, edgy hair, wearing jeans and a loose sweater, slides onto his lap. His hands—those beautiful hands I used to dream about—thread into her hair, and it’s as if they’re reaching into my belly, grabbing hold of my stomach, and cranking it. One vicious turn after another. “Miss?” I whirl as the administration guy appears near my elbow. “They’re waiting for you.” I nod tightly, but before I follow him down the hall, I look back toward the room. Timothy’s attention isn’t on the girl in his lap. His gorgeous brown eyes are wide and locked with mine. Because my twisted muse, my rebel prince, my ex-friend… He sees me. And he’s every bit as fucking floored as I am. ///////////////////////////////////////////// I hope you enjoyed the first episode part Love Story "A love song for liars" of Timothy Adams and Emily Carlton's angst, forbidden story. ///////////////////////////////////////////// EPISODE 2: A love song for rebels - What happens when Timothy and Emily come face to face in New York? WE'LL SEE YOU FOR OUR NEXT EPISODE !!!