I grin at my phone as I walk down the hall of the arts building that’s tucked away on the east side of campus. I’ve never actually had any classes here. I’m not too creative.
NEway, I text back, where u at?
None of your beeswax, Hartley replies, punctuating the message with a smiley face.
“It’s a good thing I know your schedule,” I say aloud. “Morning, sunshine.”
Hartley jumps in surprise as I approach her from behind. She was about to walk into one of the music rooms, but now she spins around.
“What the hell!” She makes the cutest little growling sound. “No way, Easton. I only get three solo practice hours a week and I’m not letting you spoil it! Go away.”
I mock pout. “But I was so excited to hear you play the…” I slant my head. “What do you play again?”
“Violin,” she says grudgingly.
“Fancy.” I reach around her and open the door. “Let’s go.”
“You’re really going to listen while I practice?”
“Why not?” I give her a little nudge. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
She hesitates but then enters the room. While she pulls her instrument out of its small black case, I take stock of the tiny practice space. It’s not much wider than the piano shoved up against the wall. Other than the bench under the piano, which Hartley pulls out, and a black metal stand to hold her music, the place is empty.
“Will you kill me if I sit on the piano?”
“Yes,” she says without looking up from the violin.
“Thought so.” I drop to the floor. “I prefer rubbing my ass against the dirty tile, anyway. Builds up my immune system and all.”
“Good for you.”
“I don’t sense much sympathy over in your corner of the room.”
“Isn’t helping you be healthy something that a best friend would do?” she says as she arranges a few sheets of paper on the music stand.
“Ah ha! You admit we’re besties.” I close my eyes, lean back against the wall and cross my arms over my chest. I wait for some retort, but instead I hear the mournful wail of music.
The notes are thin at first, just a few slow reverbs hanging in the air followed by a few more, but she builds the sound in layers, until the chords are played almost on top of each other and the music is so full that I can’t believe it’s only one instrument.
I open my eyes and find that Hartley has closed hers. She’s not even looking at her instructional sheets. And she’s not playing the violin with just her fingers—her whole body is into it. That’s why it sounds like there’s a full orchestra in the room.
The music fills me up, quieting all the extra noises in my life, making my heart swell larger and larger until there’s nothing left of me but ears and a soul.
And that scares me half to death.
I pop up to my feet. “I’m going to wait outside,” I mumble.
Hartley barely acknowledges me as I leave.
Outside the practice room, I rub my hands over my bare arms. I actually have goose bumps. Now that my lungs aren’t filled with her melody, I can breathe again.
I slide down the wall until my ass hits the floor. The sounds she creates with her violin seep out the cracks of the door I can’t quite bring myself to close entirely.
It’s as if with every pass of the bow across the strings, she’s trying to flay me open and expose me. I’m not deep. I’m not affected by music. I’m Easton Royal, superficial and only interested in how to have a good time.
I don’t want to look deep into my being and see the bottomless, black, boring pool of nothingness. I want to live in blissful denial.
I should leave right now. Get up and go find someone to fight or to—actually, if I want to do the latter, I have Hartley.
I don’t need to go anywhere. I just need to convince her that this friendship thing would be so much better if we were naked during our alone time.
And I have just the way to get that done.
I slip back into the cramped room, steeling myself against Hartley and her magic violin. Luckily, I’m able to make it through the rest of the practice without a breakdown.
I’m not affected by the way her fingers fly over the strings. I don’t notice the light sheen of sweat that breaks across her forehead. I don’t care that all the features I previously marked as plain make her look like some sort of goddess when she’s in this musical trance.
None of that bothers me. Not one bit.
“Done already?” I ask when she sets the violin on her lap.
She points her bow at a light above the door. “Time’s up.” The light is flashing red at her. “We’re only allowed an hour.”
An hour passed already? It barely felt like ten minutes. “I can’t believe it’s already been an hour,” I remark, frowning.
“You didn’t have to come in or stay.”
The frown deepens as I watch her pack away her instrument, an unruffled expression on her face. She truly doesn’t care whether I was here or not.
The itchy feel between my shoulder blades is because it’s only going to be that much harder to get in her pants, not because I’m disappointed that she doesn’t seek my approval or praise.
I take the case from her and drape her book bag over one shoulder.
“So why the violin?” I ask as we leave the room. I nod to a couple of my classmates, who give me a wide-eyed look of surprise as I meander down the hall next to Hartley.
She, of course, ignores them.
“Music was a requirement in my house. My older sister took piano, my younger sister plays the flute, and I picked the violin. It seemed like a cool idea when I was five.” She hesitates, just for a second, and maybe somebody who wasn’t playing as close attention as I was would’ve missed it. “My dad played it. I thought it was amazing.”
A curiously sad smile plays around her lips. I wonder what it means.
“I can see that. I wanted to fly planes after my—” It’s my turn to break off. “A guy I knew took me up as a kid.”
Hartley doesn’t miss my hesitation, either. “A guy you knew?”
I scratch the back of my neck. “You know much about my family?” The Royal drama was all over the papers last spring, but she wasn’t here then. Gossip has died down a little.
“Like the legal stuff?”
I give a brief nod.
“I read some stuff online, but I figure a lot of it isn’t true.”
“If the story you read said that my dad’s business partner killed my dad’s girlfriend and tried to pin it on my brother, then it’s pretty accurate.”
“And the guy you knew is that business partner?”
“Yup.”
“So now you’re trying not to love flying and planes anymore because you’re afraid that it makes you too much like him?”
Her summation hits way too close to home. “I’m not anything like that asshole,” I say tightly.
Except…I am.