A big, warm palm landed on the back of my neck. “Okay. And that’s why you didn’t go to Juilliard?”
“Partly. There were a lot of reasons. But I didn’t change my plans on a whim. I did a lot of recon. My voice teacher hooked me up with some of her old students in New York, and I went down to visit them. It was kind of horrifying.”
“Why?”
“These girls were successful by any measure—they had small parts on Broadway or on tour. They were working singers, which is amazing. But none of them felt even a little bit secure. And they auditioned like crazy. One of these girls said to me, ‘A professional singer is a professional auditioner. If that doesn’t appeal to you, do something else with your life.’”
Jude was silent for a minute. “You hate auditioning.”
“Yep. I really do.”
“But what if she was wrong?”
I shook my head. “She wasn’t. I tagged along with her to an open call for an off-Broadway musical, and there were girls in line around the fucking block. They were singing scales to stay warm, and every one of them had amazing pipes. And I just saw that and started to wonder whether I wanted it badly enough. I love music. But I didn’t want to show up for cattle calls and get excited just because the director tugged on his ear or scribbled on his pad while I was singing.”
“Juilliard would have been fun, though.”
“Yeah.” I sighed. “Sure. But now I’m getting a degree in a field that has actual jobs. Also, it allowed me to stay here in Vermont when my mother needed me.”
“What are you going to do when she doesn’t anymore?”
As if. “I’ll figure something out.”
Jude and I cuddled and kissed until I had to go. It was torture climbing out of his warm arms and putting on my clothes. “I count down the days until Wednesday,” he whispered. “Keeps me sane, knowing that if I stay strong all week I get to see you.”
I leaned over the bed and kissed him one more time so that I didn’t have to answer. For the next six days I’d look for Jude on every street corner, just hoping for a glimpse. He didn’t keep me sane—he made me crazy. Until he’d showed up again I hadn’t realized how lonely I was.
My life seemed more impossible now than it had at any other point these three years.
His strong fingers stroked my back as I leaned down to put on my socks. “Have a good week. I’ll be thinking about you.”
“I’ll be thinking about you, too. Every day,” I confessed. Every hour, when I’m supposed to be writing my last exam and trying to figure out how to fund treatments for a deaf toddler.
One more kiss. One more sweet hug against his firm chest.
Then I got the heck out of there, hurrying down the steps outside his room. Running off into the lonely night.
Chapter Seventeen
Sophie
Internal DJ tuned to: “Blue Christmas” Elvis version
“Come on in, the kitchen is this way,” I said to the caterer, holding open our back door.
“I got it,” the woman said, her arms wrapped around a tray. “I remember from last year.”
Of course she did. My father’s annual holiday party was just another reminder that my life had been in the same rut for a while now. Next year, I vowed to myself. This won’t be my life.
I had to get out of here.
But tonight I was trapped. I held the door three more times for the caterer and her assistants, and then for my father. “Evening,” he grunted as he passed me. We were barely speaking these days. “Food’s here, huh? What did your mother order this time?”
Ouch. I’d done the ordering, of course. Because calling in the menu would require ten minutes of focus, which was ten more than she could spare us. “Pigs in blankets, of course, because there would be a riot if we cut those off the menu. Pulled-pork sliders. Potato salad. Cheese quiche for anyone who doesn’t eat meat.” Hopefully no vegans had joined my father’s police force since last Christmas. Because they were going to go hungry.
My father made no comment. He just kept right on going through the house, past the rooms I’d spent all day cleaning. Every year he threw this shindig for the cops who worked for him and their wives. Departmental money was tight, so we hosted the party. Which meant that I spent hours cleaning our house and trying to make the place look festive.
Today, instead of hitting the books, I’d picked out a Christmas tree and decorated it myself. I put a wreath on the front door and candles and pine boughs on the mantel. By five o’clock I’d been tired, dusty and covered in pine sap.
And all the while I asked myself why. My life-long good-girl streak was partly to blame. But if I blew off the party, my father would scream at my mother and possibly at me. And there were guests coming. Our dysfunction wasn’t their fault or their problem.