Without discussion, or even manners, she grabbed a fork and started eating straight out the container. “Wanf som?” she asked around a mouthful of food.
I shook my head at her.
“What? No? And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you how to write your own music. It’s your decision.”
“Kim, stop. It’s good.” I took the container from her hands. “I wouldn’t have asked for your help if I didn’t want input.”
I wouldn’t make a big deal about it, but I liked seeing this side of her. The side that offered glimpses of her assertiveness, like I saw at dinner with Wes. It was what was missing at practice. She was not overthinking. She was just being herself.
We dug back in, chewing in silence, occasionally tearing off hunks of bread with our teeth from the loaf of French bread we passed back and forth.
After a few minutes we sat back with sighs against the sink. We hadn’t even made it to the table. In our defense, the clock read almost five. We’d played almost six hours without a break.
“I guess we were hungry,” she laughed, wiping her mouth. “I feel like I ran a marathon.” She rocked her head back and forth to stretch. I debated offering another massage but the last one had sucked years from my life.
“We’re making progress,” I said.
“Don’t hurt yourself with all that praise, over there.” She rubbed her slightly protruding stomach. “Look, a food baby.” She turned the side and stuck her stomach out even more, rubbing her hand over the area like a proud mother-to-be. The vision sent a weird warmth through me and an unsettling sense of déjà vu made me dizzy. I shook my head with a laugh and looked down.
“I think I’ll name her Ricotta,” she said.
“You look Prego.”
She looked up at me shocked. “You made a pun.”
“It’s less funny when you point it out.”
She crackled with laughter. “That was a good one.”
“I can be funny,” I complained, acting out a wound that I felt deeply. The price I paid for playing the bad guy.
“You are funny. You should show it more.” Her eyes widened as she realized what she said.
“Humor doesn’t get results,” I said. My smile fell.
She chewed her bottom lip and refused to meet my gaze.
“What? What are you trying so hard not to say right now?” I asked and crossed my arms, turning fully to face her.
“Nothing?” Her voice lifted at the end.
“Just say it.”
“You could soften a little at rehearsal.”
I growled.
She faced me now as well and her arms came up as though to settle me. “Hear me out. You’re so much more than this image you portray. You’re funny and nice and sometimes even a little patient. You come across as such an—”
My eyebrows raised at her abrupt stop. “An asshole?”
“Your words.”
“Your thoughts,” I said.
“To me, it feels like you’re trying to make them respect you. But there’s a chance you’re pushing people too far the other way. People aren’t bending. They’re about to snap.”
“They need to be better.” Heat crawled up my neck.
“I understand a little bit more now.” She gestured to my face. “Because you want to …”
“Get to the point, Christine.” I regretted the words as soon as I’d said them, but if she were about to lecture me about presenting a different face to the world, the hypocrisy had to be pointed out.
Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to be anything you’re not. But let them see your humor. It might get you better results. There’s talks of people—”
“I know what they say about me. And I couldn’t care less. They have no power. They don’t like things the way they are, they can leave. I’m not changing who I am to make them more comfortable. They’re all replaceable.”
A look of hurt crossed her features. “Me too? If I left, you’d easily replace me?”
I went to the cabinet for a glass. “This isn’t about you. You committed to me. To this September showcase. If you can’t handle the pressure, tell me now before we go any further.” I filled the glass of water and immediately chugged it down.
“So quick to anger.” She shook her head, still leaning against the counter. “I’m not saying that. But treating people like they’re instruments, and not living, breathing, feeling humans will only make them hate you.”
My heart hammered in anger. A horn sectioned blared in my ears.
I growled. “Being funny and wearing a mask are sort of contradictory.”
Her gaze moved to my fisted hands before she looked up at me through her lashes. “You don’t have to wear the mask.”
“I think you’re forgetting, I’m the Maestro. The conductor and the composer. Sorry if I made you think anything else.”
Her face drained of color. “I haven’t forgotten. Not for a second.”
Chapter 18
Luck is timing and preparation.
KIM
Our next practice was considerably less awesome.
My comments about his behavior had gone too far. I regretted relaxing so much around him. The veil between here and symphony rehearsal often felt so thin I forgot it was still there. My thoughts flowed so freely. I shouldn’t have made comments about who he should be in rehearsal. So many lines were crossed this weekend.
We rehearsed and I did my best. When we got to the area I had mentioned working on, I had lost the courage to bring up my suggested changes. There was disappointment on his face, but I didn’t have the emotional energy to defend myself.
I didn’t get any feedback when we broke around nine that night. It had been a long time since I’d played that many hours in one day and my body felt it. And though it would make sense that my body would be exhausted, I was filled with anxious energy after dinner—cold cut sandwiches. Separately. He shook off my invitation to share a meal under the pretense of having calls to make. Maybe that was true, but it likely came back to boundaries. Message received.
My body hummed with extra energy that needed to be dispelled. Between the storm trapping us in the house, the rehearsal, and that massage earlier—which I absolutely refused to think about—my mind felt like a caged bear. But not the peaceful sleeping kind; more like the kind left starving and with a raw steak just out of reach.
I went in search of adventure.
The halls of the house were endless. Every turn down a new hall led to more empty rooms and closets. And yet, not a home gym in sight. A body like Devlin’s in a house like this had to have one.
“Can I help you?” His deep, brusque tone cut through the air.
A yelp escaped me. My hand shot back from the door handle to the next room. It was as though he’d materialized by my thoughts alone. Thank God, I didn’t actually have that super-power, or he’d pop up embarrassingly often.
“I was looking for a gym. Since I’m stuck here another night, I need to work out,” I said, sounding short to my own ears and with just a pinch of salt. It wasn’t his fault we were trapped another night and yet …