“Callum!” I hear Mrs. Webster shout. The tone in her voice is enough to alert me that she’s not happy. Not that she is often, but she sounds pretty fired up.
I close the box back up and kick it under the old armoire closet, unsure how long I was staring into the black hole of memories.
I slip off my jacket and toss it aside. It lands among some dirty books, and I head out of the room. Don’t want to keep the queen waiting. God knows she already hates me enough.
I’m tucking my shirt in when I spot her walking out of my room. She closes the door with a loud thud and strolls toward where I stand at the opposite end of the hall.
“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Her jaw clenches, and she reaches out, grabbing my ear and pulling. “Breaking into the Beckhams’ house and stealing. Don’t you know this behavior will keep you here until you're eighteen years old?”
“Son of a bitch!” I spit out, immediately regretting my choice of words.
Mrs. Webster drags me to my room, by the ear, and opens the door then shoves me inside. “You’ve just lost your chance at getting a family today. Do not exit this room until you’re called for breakfast.”
“Wait. No!” I shout as the door slams shut.
Disregarding my punishment, I open it back up. “Mrs. Webster, I didn’t steal anything.” It’s a lie, but it was only a dress. Who cares about a measly old dress?
“That’s not what Trent Beckham says. Claims you stole money from Mr. Beckham’s safe. Don’t try to deny it, Callum. I saw the picture as proof that you were in that house minutes ago.”
She stomps off in a fit of rage and I’m almost thankful because I don’t like dealing with the old hag when she’s acting like a royal bitch.
One thing is for certain, if I lose my place in this adoption, those boys will live to regret what they did to me. It’s like I’ve always said, “Trust is priceless, but once you lose it, you are useless.”
CHAPTER ONE
My nerves are officially shot. I’m holding the weight of a thousand bricks on my chest, and my heels feel like they are on the verge of snapping in half. It would be just my luck. They break and send me crashing down on the stage before I can even perform.
I grip the banister beside me, squeezing it so tight that the braided embellishment imprints on my skin.
I’m not sure if I’m losing my mind in the process of trying to find Cal, but I’ve noticed things lately. Or a person, rather. One man in particular that I’m almost positive has been following me since I arrived in the city this morning. The first time I saw him was when I checked in to my hotel. He stood back idly watching me over his phone. If he was trying to be inconspicuous, he failed.
The second time was when I arrived here at the hall. He was walking casually with his head held low, failing to be discreet once again.
It doesn’t scare me, though; I’m almost positive Cal has sent him, or them, if there are more.
And now, I’ve managed to spot him in the crowd. Out of hundreds of people, there he is. Same guy with the same Men in Black suit. Slicked-back, black hair and dark eyes.
I’ll know who he is soon enough.
There are so many people out there. At least two hundred, all expecting me to perform like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I pinch my eyes shut, thinking that maybe if I do it long enough, the entire crowd will be gone when I open them.
Nope. Still there.
It’s been years since I’ve played the piano for an audience—well, aside from the time Cal requested I play for him nude. But it was only him and, oddly enough, I felt at ease.
This is by far the largest audience I’ve ever faced and I’m not exactly thrilled to perform. Playing the piano is a passion I have behind closed doors. During high school, I dabbled in some musicals, but it wasn’t the same as playing from my heart. I’m not sure that I’ll be able to give this crowd what they want.
Nonetheless, I’m here. The only reason because I know damn well Cal sent my audition tape of Our Song to Carnegie Hall. It wasn’t actually an audition. In fact, he must’ve recorded me playing for him during my stay at Cori Cove. There is no other way that anyone would know about this piece, unless it came from him.
Now I’m standing behind this cracked door, ready to make my way across the stage, wearing a teal gown similar to the one I wore that night I played for Cal. My caramel-colored hair in tiny little ringlets bounce off my shoulders as I take my first ungraceful step. Palms sweating, thighs sticking together, and breath being held as everyone watches me.
There are rows of people. Some on the ground level, some on the second floor, and more on the upper tier. The lighting dims over the crowd, and all that’s left is a white beam following me as I make my way to the piano.
Another step. And another.
God, please don’t let me fall.
My heels clank against the hardwood floor, the echo reverberating through my entire body.
Everyone begins clapping, and it’s during that melancholic sound that I’m offered a sense of peace. A smile tugs at my lips, and before I know it, I’m at the piano. I place one hand on the hood and tuck the other around my waist as I bow before them.
The clapping subsides and I take a seat at the stool, sliding it in until my elbows are bent at a ninety-degree angle. My trembling fingers hover over the keys and I fill my lungs before beginning.
As soon as the first note fills the empty space around me on the stage, Cal enters my mind.
That first smile when I saw him at the top of the stairs at The Webster House. It was a cheesy grin and I knew at that moment that boy was nothing but trouble. Once my social worker left and I witnessed him filling his pockets with snacks, when he didn’t think anyone was watching, I knew I wanted to be part of that mischief.
My heart cries for him. My soul bleeds for him. Each night apart has been an agony worse than the years we spent apart the first time I left him. There are times I cry myself to sleep, wishing I’d never known him at all, because then I wouldn’t know what missing him feels like.
In a fluid motion, I hit the chorus. Pounding away at the keys, pouring my heart into the piece I wrote for him.
When I wrote it, it was meant to radiate positive energy. Now when I play, it’s heartbreaking. I see two soulmates living a life where they are unwanted by others. Brought together during hard times and torn apart just to test the depths of their love. Only to be reunited and tested again because life is cruel like that. So very cruel.
It’s like the crowd has disappeared, and it’s just me. Back at The Webster House. An eleven-year-old orphan, gyrating my fingers across the keys as I search for myself in each note I hit.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes. It’s impossible not to get emotional. Something this deep is meant to make you feel. As much as I don’t want to, it’s necessary to convey the passion as I play.
Near the end of the song, my heart gallops in my chest in anticipation of the crowd’s reaction.
Seconds later, I end it on the final note and rest my hands in my lap. My eyes close briefly before I slide the stool back. To my surprise, the crowd erupts in a burst of applause. A smile grows on my face. I’m not sure if I’m humbled or surprised.