CHAPTER 30

The rest of the weekend, I’m a bundle of nervous energy—practicing with Timothy and alone. Because of the tight timeline, we’re all business. Every minute, from dawn until midnight, we write and rewrite, play and sing, go over every section of my vocals and his guitar until the result is real and powerful and moves me from the first chord. Monday morning, I can barely listen during Entertainment Management, my stomach flipping over as I stare off into space and go over the arrangement in my head. On my way out of class, I notice a missed call from Haley, plus a voicemail. Emily, we sent you flowers for midterms, but the florist couldn’t deliver them because there was no one with your name at the dorm address you gave us. I told them to try again, but here’s the number— I write down the number, then hang up on the voicemail. This is bad. I call the florist, who’s super confused and asks if there’s another address to deliver to. I don’t want to give her the Vanier one, so I go down to the shop and get them myself, calling my dad on the way back. “Hey,” I say when he answers, panting as I take the steps up from the subway, the big arrangement of purple orchids and roses heavy in my arms. “I got the flowers. Thank you, guys, that was very sweet.” “The florist said they couldn’t deliver them.” I can hear him frown over the phone. “It was a mix-up. Everything’s fine. There’s actually something else I wanted you to send me.” I tell him, and he pauses. “If we send it to the same address, it’ll arrive.” “For sure,” I tell him. After hanging up, I text Avery to remind her I gave her dorm as my address and that if someone happens to show up with a package, she should sign for me. “It’s a little early for congratulations flowers. You haven’t even auditioned,” Rica points out from her desk chair as I push open our door. “They’re from my dad and stepmom. The card says, ‘Good luck on midterms!’” I set the arrangement on my desk, still wrapped, and Heath swims to the glass to check it out. I drop onto the bed, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes. “Fuck, I’m an asshole.” “Not the usual response to flowers.” I roll onto my side to look at her. “My dad doesn’t know about… the showcase.” “Parents don’t need to know everything,” Rica says, folding her arms. “Mine don’t.” “You never talk about your family. You’re not close?” Her dark brows lift. For a moment, I think she’s not going to answer, but she does. “My parents are both doctors. So’s my brother. They’re not thrilled I’m here. I told them it’s better here than Ibiza, where I spent last summer.” “You were never tempted to be what they wanted? Or to pretend?” Rica opens her notebook computer in front of her. “I’m not gonna tell someone else’s story. I’m going to be the biggest DJ in the world. And every person who thinks that’s not true gets to be wrong about me.” An expression of sheer determination crosses her face, and I can’t help being inspired by her resolve. “This sounds stupid and self-centered,” I start, “but did I do something to make you not like me? Because I really wish we could start over.” She shifts in her seat. “Just because I like my space and my resting bitch face is on point doesn’t mean I hate you. I mean… I fed your fish the other day.” “Really?” Rica shrugs. “He looked hungry.” That lightens my heart. “Thank you.” “For what?” “For being you.” She shakes her head before turning back to her computer, but I swear there’s a trace of a smile on her lips too. “Whatever. What time’s your audition?” I check my phone. Shit. “In an hour. I need to go warm up.” I get off the bed, grab my things and start for the door. I’m halfway down the hall when I hear her call, “If you fuck it up, I’m sending the flowers back.” He’s not here. I’m in the grand auditorium twenty minutes before our scheduled time, and Timothy’s nowhere to be seen. I call him, text him, but nothing. I pace in the hall until the door cracks and an admin assistant sticks her head out. “Mr. Adams?” “That’s me.” “You’re on deck.” She looks at me dubiously but lets me inside. I head in the back door and into the wings as the current performer, a pianist, continues his audition. “Next. Timothy Adams.” The disembodied voice comes through a microphone. Wiping sweaty palms on my pants, I take the stage. A panel of adjudicators sits half a dozen rows back, representing each of the faculties. Their faces are familiar Miss Tamayo, Frank, the dean, plus a man whose name I don’t know who’s a classical music teacher. “Miss Carlton,” Ms.Tamayo observes tightly. “You’re not on our list. What are you doing here?” “Timothy and I are auditioning together.” The judges exchange looks. “Where is Mr. Adams?” the dean asks. My stomach twists as silence falls over the auditorium. The thought that rises up is involuntary, and awful. He left. He left again. When I’m about to open my mouth, the doors of the auditorium burst open, and Timothy strides in, guitar on his back. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he says loudly enough the judges can hear too as he makes his way up the aisle. “One of our first-floor neighbors was broken into, and he cut himself on the glass. I called 9-1-1 and got him into an ambulance.” My jaw slackens. “Is he okay?” “I think so.” “We’ll give you a few minutes to warm up,” the dean decides, turning to the admin assistant. “Let’s get the next person, please.” I shut my eyes, heart still hammering as we head back to the wings together and a ballerina crosses our path for the stage. Timothy squeezes my shoulders. “I wouldn’t leave you,” he murmurs, reading my expression. “I won’t. Not again.” I study him, the nerves warring with gratitude in my body as he quietly tunes his guitar. “Mr. Adams,” a voice calls moments later when the dancer finishes. “Are you ready?” We take the stage, and the dean nods. “Miss Carlton, you can accompany Mr. Adams, but if you make the showcase, you won’t be credited for the performance. It would be unfair to the freshman students who were not permitted to audition.” Before I can argue, Timothy’s on it. “She’s not my backup. She wrote the song. She’s in this every bit as much as I am, and if you won’t let her audition, I’m not auditioning either.” Could my heart expand any more? My gaze trains on the four adjudicators. “I say we let them do it. If it’s not good enough, we say no,” Frank weighs in. “All right,” the dean decides. I turn and close the distance between Timothy and me. He gives me a nod of encouragement. “Thank you,” I murmur so only we can hear before returning to take my place at the other mic. ///////////////////////////////////////////// High By: The Speaks Emily: Will it ever be? I've tried so hard to find sweet serenity Timothy: Are you still afraid? Just close your eyes and dream, and fear will fade away. Both: Time won't flow, everyone knows When the pain fades away And dreams won't die, with tears in our eyes You've got to hold your head up high... Yeah yeah... Emily: It's taken some time And I've given up the will to change your state of mind Timothy: Try and understand It's not so hard to see that I am just a man Both: Time won't flow, everyone knows When the pain fades away And dreams won't die, with tears in our eyes You've got to hold your head up high... Yeah yeah... Hold your head up high... Hold your head up high... Emily/slow: Hold your head up high. mmm... ///////////////////////////////////////////// The song is magic. I don’t need to watch the faces in the audience, because in my heart, it’s not for them. It’s for us. Our performance is a blend of who we were, who we are, who we’re becoming—the imperfect synergy of Timothy and me and what we could create together. It's all life lessons in the songs, they come from the heart. They are who we are. They are who we live as people. Every lie, every struggle, every moment, makes sense in this instant. When we’re done, the stone-faced adjudicators tell us we’ll hear back as early as tonight. I trip off stage after Timothy, and as he sets down his guitar in front of him, I leap onto his back, throw my arms around his neck. “That was so good,” I pant in his ear, loving the feel of his warm, hard body under mine as he catches my legs. He chuckles. “You were great.” I drop off his back, and he turns to face me. “You were great,” I echo because I can’t find other words. Now, staring at him, the emotion slams into me. “What you did for me today,” I start, “what you risked…” “You’re worth it,” he murmurs. I’m thinking about that kiss Saturday night. From the way his eyes darken, so is he. “What are you doing now?” he asks. I groan. “I have a sociology assignment to finish for tomorrow, then Andie and I got free tickets to the symphony tonight.” “Keep your phone on.” I sigh out a breath of excitement. “Yeah.” He shoots me a look that’s pure wanting, and my entire body tingles as he strokes a thumb down my cheek before turning to lead the way out of the auditorium. It’s so good, and not nearly enough. “That better be a booty call,” Andie whispers over the symphony. I flip my phone to hide the light in the darkened theater. “I’m waiting for the showcase results,” I whisper back. I don’t want to be that asshole interrupting a public event, but I’m waiting for the biggest news of my life. All of the emotional turmoil I’ve felt this semester I put into five minutes with Timothy. Three choruses. Five verses. One bridge. The symphony orchestra is amazing, The Planets a work of art, but I’m fidgeting, picking at the hem of my black dress. When it’s done, we applaud, then I hit refresh again. “It’s here!” I say hoarsely as the email subject line imprints on my brain. The patrons in the next several seats look over. I scan for my name or his. A breath whooshes out when I finish. “Well?” Andie demands. Emotion wells up in my chest, and I shake my head. “We didn’t get in.” She sighs. “I’m sorry.” “No, I mean, we didn’t only get in. We’re closing the show. Me and Timothy.” I hold up the phone so she can see both our names. Her face splits into a grin. “Damn.” I scan our row and the one behind, recognizing a couple dozen Vanier students. Since we’re at intermission, I race out of the row and sprint to the subway. I debate texting Timothy, but this requires a face-to-face conversation. My fingers drum the pole until the doors open at his stop. I bound up the stairs, and the city lights blend with the throbbing in my gut. These aren’t the heels for sprinting, so I half jog, half limp down the street to Timothy’s. In the dark, there’re a few sketchy-looking people, but they can’t crush my high. I ignore them, ignore everything until I’m under the streetlight in front of his building. I hit the intercom, the buzzer ringing on the other end. No answer. I take off toward Vanier. I’m going to have serious blisters from these shoes, but within minutes, the familiar building looms over me, graceful and stately in the dark. The glass doors give under my hands, the light of the hallways beyond. My feet ache, and my lungs burn, and I don’t know what I’m running toward until a hoarse voice from down the hall has me grinding to a halt. “Emily.” He’s dressed in the same clothes as earlier, and he fills the hall despite the trickle of students moving past him. His face is full of emotions—maybe the same ones I’m feeling that create this impossible expansion in my chest. Timothy closes the distance between us. “You weren’t at home,” I say as he comes to a stop inches away. “I was looking for you.” His chest isn’t heaving like mine, but his eyes are wild. I must look like a mess, my hair sticking to my neck and face, my skin flushed. He doesn’t seem to notice as his mouth curves with the ghost of a smile. “Congrats.” I muster a cocky smile. “Was there ever any doubt?” He shakes his head, then before I can protest, he wraps his arms around my waist. He’s going to kiss me. Every nerve ending in my body tingles as I stare at his mouth. My hands land on his chest, and my eyes drift closed. A moment later, my eager lips brush his cheek as he tugs me into a hard hug. “Oh,” I blurt. “Um. Thanks.” I try too late for an awkward recovery. I almost think I’ve gotten away with it when his chest rumbles with laughter. “What did you think I was gonna do?” “This,” I lie, my fingers still trapped against his pecs. “Exactly this.” But I can’t bring myself to care about the embarrassment, because being enveloped in his strength feels like home. His hand slides around my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. I melt against him. God, it’s good to be in his arms. When he pulls back an inch, our lips are a breath apart. “I could kiss you now,” he murmurs, and my heart skips. “You’d kiss me back, too,” he continues in that beautiful voice. His mouth moves to brush my ear, lips skimming my skin and sending shivers through me. “You seem extraordinarily confident,” I manage. Students pass us, but I don’t know if they’re looking. I’m trapped in Timothy’s attention. His chest is heat and muscle beneath my hands, and my fingers flex on his pecs through his thin shirt. Timothy turns his face, lips grazing mine when he speaks. “A man who’s seen heaven is more dangerous than one who only believes. And I’ll never forget how it feels to have you need me.” My fingers dig into his muscled arms. I want him so much I ache. I cut a look past him to the students in the hallway, the ones who don’t know that everything in my life has been leading to this moment. Not only because of the showcase, but because of the man holding me. “You don’t have to remember it.” I take a deep breath, ready to dive off the cliff. “I need you now.”