“No, of course not,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat up. At around age ten, my dad and I developed an unspoken agreement we would not discuss uncomfortable topics like anything related to puberty or boys. He dutifully signed me up for classes and gave me a credit card to purchase whatever I needed. It’s worked well for the past seven years, and I have no desire to change our agreement now.
“Okay, good. You’re too young for a boyfriend.”
“I know,” I reply to get him to drop the subject.
When we reach his SUV, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and give him a kiss on the cheek. I always enjoy seeing him, but, tonight, it will be nice to get away from his stifling dad routine. It’s bothering me much more than usual. “Thanks for coming today.”
He nods. “Love you, pumpkin.”
“Love you, too.”
I wait until he disappears into the dark before heading back to my dorm. It only takes me half an hour to finish my homework; then I contemplate what to do until my yearbook meeting. I’ve got an hour and should probably read ahead for one my classes, but I can’t stop thinking about Logan and what almost happened earlier today. I could ignore it, but I know that’s not the right thing to do. We need to talk about it.
I head back to the rec hall, but he’s not there. I ask a freshman to see if he’s in his room, but he can’t find him anywhere in the boys’ dorm. After checking the library, the mess hall, and the track, I’m at a loss. It’s like he disappeared. The longer and longer I look, the more concerned I become he just got up and left. If he went AWOL, he’s in serious trouble. Leaving campus without permission is even worse than an Honor Code violation.
The last place I check is the band room. I don’t have much hope since, every Wednesday night, he acts like band practice is a fate worse than death, but it’s the only place I haven’t looked.
I hear the music before I open the door. It’s loud and hard and immediately recognizable. It’s the song we listened to on repeat in my car only a few hours ago.
After slipping through the door, I stand in the corner as Logan quickly slides his hands up and down the guitar, playing along to the music coming out of his phone. He hits a wrong note and shakes his head before stopping the song and letting the guitar hang from his neck as he runs his hand over his head.
I remain silent. Despite acting like he hates band, he obviously loves playing the guitar. And he’s amazing. I’ve been first chair clarinet for nine months now. It’s an accomplishment I’m proud of, but seeing and hearing Logan play makes me realize I’m an amateur, surrounded by even more amateur musicians.
He plays a few notes, furrows his brow, then checks a sheet of paper lying on the chair next to him. His foot taps rhythmically as his eyes wander the page, left to right, top to bottom. Then he starts the music and plays along again. This time, it’s perfect.
He grins, turns off the music, then plays the entire song by himself. After the elaborate ending, I can’t help but clap.
He jumps in his seat and spins to face me. “Jesus, Paige,” he says, shaking his head. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to see how talented you are.”
He frowns and shakes his head. “Not really.”
“You taught yourself a new song in a matter of what? An hour?”
“No,” he says, “I used to play this. I … refamiliarized myself with it.”
I cross the room, turn a chair in front of him around to face him, then sit down. “Play something else?” I couldn’t stare into his eyes all day like Leah, but if he were playing the guitar nonstop, I could watch him all day. It’s mesmerizing, probably partly because of him and partly because I love his choice of songs.
He lifts the guitar and starts something much slower, this time singing along quietly. There’s no crazy riff or complicated chords, but his performance is equally impressive. And his voice is nice. It’s not the same as the lead singer of the band, but it’s far better than I could do.
“I’ve never heard that one before,” I say when he’s finished.
“It’s from their first album. I prefer their older stuff.”
“I like it.”
“I can put it on your phone, the real version, if you want.”
I nod. “Thanks. I take it you like rock better than jazz?” We only play jazz during band. He’s just as good but not nearly as enjoyable to watch then.
He nods but says nothing. After unplugging the guitar, he asks, “Were you coming here to practice? I’m done, you can have the room.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I was looking for you.”
He stills. “Why?”
“So, this afternoon,” I say, keeping my eyes on the amp near his foot. “I’m … sorry about what happened.”
“It’s not your fault. Jernigan and your dad were worried. I can’t blame them.”
“No, not about that.” I meet his eyes. “I mean, yes, I’m sorry about that, but … I was more thinking about what happened before.”
“The almost kiss?”
I nod. “I’m sorry I put us in an uncomfortable situation. It was wrong. I’m an officer and I know better, but I had a momentarily lapse in judgment. I blame … never mind,” I say, shaking my head.
“You blame what?”
“I should get going. I have yearbook.”
“You blame what?” he says, his body stiffening. “Me? You had plenty of time to shove me away.”
“No, not you in general, more…”
When I don’t finish my thought, he says, “Do I need to remind you a cadet will never lie?”
I shake my head. In certain situations, withholding information would be considered lying, though not here. Still, I have to give him credit for trying. “Our argument, okay? And standing too close to each other. And holding your hand. And your eyes and smile. It all clouded my judgment, and I’m sorry.”
“My eyes and smile?” he asks as a grin gradually builds on his face. I’m sure this wasn’t the answer he expected, but he seems to like it.
“Yes. I apologize for my inappropriate behavior, and I promise I won’t let it happen again. I have already assigned myself head duty to make up for the indiscretion.”
The grin vanishes. He stares at me with a blank face for much too long.
“What?” I finally ask.
“You’re making yourself clean a nasty bathroom because you like my eyes and smile?”
“Yeah.”
With a shake of his head, he says, “You are such an odd person.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, a normal person, would say, ‘Gee, you’re cute. Want to go out sometime?’ An odd person would say, ‘Gee, you’re cute. I better clean a toilet so I don’t think about you again.’”
“We’re at Wallingford. The normal response isn’t realistic.”
“Sure it is.”
“Ah, no, it’s not. Who has time for dating here?”
“You’re telling me no one has ever dated at Wallingford?”
“A few have tried, but it never ends well.”