Daphne is there when I wake in the morning, asleep in her bed with her face turned toward me and her mouth ajar, snoring lightly. She’s still wearing her Tinkerbell makeup. I wonder what she thought when she came home last night and found me here instead of at Garrett’s. He didn’t let me sleep at his house, and I was too afraid to ask. I think he’s putting me in my place, showing me that I am not in a position to expect anything of him—not permission to lay my hands on him in a crowd, and certainly not to think I can occupy half his bed. Did he have some idea how badly I wanted to press my naked body against his while he slept, to fool myself into thinking his unconsciousness was something like benevolence? He must have. Denying me was the perfect castigation; now I crave him more than ever.

I hear a knock at the door and dig out my phone to check the time. 9:12 a.m., and I have at least ten messages between Bethany, Daphne, and Rome. Now I remember that I was the one who drove to the party, which means my car must still be parked there. Possibly towed. One more fucking thing. I heave myself up out of my bed and open the door a crack.

“Rome.” I slip out into the dim hallway. Rome’s got his head bent a little, that ridiculous wide-brimmed hat of his almost hiding his eyes, but not quite—he’s staring at me from under the brim, very serious.

“Why are you knocking so early?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

“Just had to check.” His eyes are dark and cold.

“I only just got your messages. Sorry, I—”

“It’s making me sick, Malory.”

My jaw drops. I don’t know what to say. “Rome, it’s really none of your—”

“None of my business, yeah, obviously, but that’s not what I mean.” He takes off his hat and scrapes his fingertips through his short curls. He’s got his head turned from me now, like he can’t bear to look at me.

And then it hits me: “Rome, are you jealous?”

“So what if I am?” He faces me again. “Mal, I just…I know this guy, and maybe you think you know him too, but you don’t. He’s…done things. People talk. He’s not right.”

A tremor of fear rattles my insides, instantly chased away by a soft heat. I swallow over the tightness in my throat. “I know who he is.”

“You sure about that?” He reaches out like he’s going to touch my face, and I cringe backward. “Did he hurt you?” He narrows his eyes and steps closer.

I resist the urge to look down at my arms.

Rome pulls his hand back, his other hand still clutching his hat to his chest. Then he straightens himself, cocks his head at me, and says it again, slower, quieter: “Did he fucking hurt you?”

Like it’s any of his business. I tilt my chin up, defiant. “Rome,” I almost laugh. “I let him hurt me. I like it when he hurts me.”

I know I shouldn’t be able to see it in this dim lighting and with his dark skin, and I suppose I can’t really, but somehow I know that Rome is flushing—that I’ve said something he feels way down deep in his gut the same way I feel it when Garrett toys with me and makes me come alive. I guess Rome likes to be tortured as much as I do. Now I really do laugh. We’re a couple of sick fucks. I wonder what happened to Rome to make him love wanting something he can’t have.

He closes his eyes, rubs his hand over his mouth like he’s trying to wipe away the filth of my words. “Well,” he says, his voice scratchy. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“So,” I say, brightening my tone, “are we still studying later?” I smile at him through tight lips, as if I have the right to be so cocky. I am a liar, liar, liar.

“Ah,” he says. “Today? Maybe not today. I think…I think I’ll just see you in class on Tuesday, okay?”

“But we’ve got a quiz.”

“You’re ready, right? You don’t need my help.” His expression is hopeful, but I can’t tell what he’s hoping for, if it’s for me to need him or for me to leave him alone.

I’m bad for him; any idiot could see that. “No,” I say, my voice soft and accommodating. “I don’t need you.”

He presses his eyes closed and makes a sharp huffing sound, shakes his head the way people do when someone they thought they knew has turned out to be a terrible disappointment. Then he turns and walks down the hallway, leaving me to pretend that I’ll get on without him just fine.

---

I play downtown Sunday, demurely. Lots of Bach. A few folk tunes, some children’s songs. I’m stiff, but accurate, and I make money, which I keep for myself despite passing two homeless people on the way back to my car. Garrett doesn’t call.

Bethany texts me Monday morning, asking where I am. I couldn’t make myself get out of bed; couldn’t make myself care. At my lesson with Yarvik, I’m a robot. She sets herself apart from me, glides back and forth across the room in her rolling office chair, puzzling over me like I’m an abstract piece of art.

Still nothing from Garrett.

I study by myself for Tuesday’s quiz. I’m getting better at pinpointing the details that need the most focus, remembering to elaborate on the why and how as much as the who, what, when. I glance at Rome as we’re passing our quizzes forward at the end of class, and he tips his head at me, polite but detached, like he’s reevaluating his involvement with me. It churns my gut, him looking at me like that, like I’m poisonous. Rome was right—I don’t need him. He can fuck off, anyway.

By Wednesday, I still haven’t been able to force myself to get up early enough to meet Bethany in the practice rooms. She captures me in the hallway on my way to Music Theory: “Malory, where have you been? And why didn’t you answer my messages?”

“Sleeping,” I say, not missing a beat. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

She either doesn’t catch that I’m a little off or she’s good at pretending. Her smile is friendly and bright, and her freckled cheeks are round and rosy. “Well, I miss you! Talk to you soon!” Then she’s walking down the hallway like nothing is a big deal. I guess nothing is.

Thursday afternoon I perform in studio class, and after playing robotically for several minutes, my instrument ticking like a clock, I come apart. I make it to the end of the etude, barely, but I sound like an old man falling down a flight of stairs. Professor Yarvik sighs openly—her disappointment is tangible enough that I could almost take it in my hands and mold it like clay. But afterward, I get a message from Garrett, the first since the Halloween party: Come over for dinner tonight.

OK, I text back, my heart an earthquake in my chest.

At his house that night, he doesn’t have to ask me to beg. I’m on my knees as soon as I come through his front door, before he even closes it, unzipping him and opening my mouth so he can fuck me there, and he’s thrusting into me and laughing, “That’s my girl.”

---

It’s Saturday and I’ve managed to extricate myself from Garrett long enough to see the Conch Garden Symphony Orchestra with Bethany. Well, and Rome too, but Garrett doesn’t know that. Rome was the one who got the tickets, showed up at my door yesterday afternoon all “I don’t know how not to be your friend,” earnestly clutching three tickets and his hat against his chest.

Like I can fucking say no to that.

Bethany, Rome, and I sit in the balcony, midway up—the discounted student section—while the orchestra tunes. Tonight’s performance is Mahler’s Fifth, a symphony I desperately love but have never had the opportunity to hear live. Not that I’ve heard many live orchestra performances—only two, and both school fieldtrips.

The somber opening begins, that lone trumpet call, and now more than ever I recognize the foreshadowing of doom in those cold, clear notes. The strings growl in response—the futility of optimism. Sitting in the darkened auditorium, in this world where I always believed I was meant to belong, I am overcome with a profound sense of hopelessness. Beads of sweat dribble down my back. I lean forward, try to slow my breath, but I’m clawing at the arm rests, gritting my teeth against the What am I doing? What am I doing? that is threatening to shout itself from my throat. It hits me like a tsunami then, sends me spinning—the awareness that I have come to some perilous point, a point from which there is no turning back.

Bethany is facing the orchestra, eyes wide in rapt attention. She has no idea. The call and response fanfare of the opening has ended and now the entire orchestra has joined in with its avalanche of ordered chaos, a dramatic push and pull that sucks the breath right out of my lungs. The music is crawling all over me, shimmying under my skin and making me feel all the ordinary things I should’ve been feeling but couldn’t because I’ve been too busy shrouding myself in a more acute kind of pain. I am radiating distress, sending it out over the audience like shock waves. I cannot breathe. I am going to choke and die here. I’m going to suffocate. On music.

Rome’s hand is suddenly on top of mine, warm and soft, a blanket over my trembling fingers, exploring the stiffness of the wiry tendons as they clutch and release in rhythm with the cacophony. I turn to face him and realize he’s already watching me. I swear I can see the violin bows moving in his brown eyes. He still has his hand over mine, and in his face, in his furrowed brow, is a question—a request for permission. I nod, and he peels my fingers from their grip on the armrest until he’s got my hand clutched between his. He massages the heart of my palm, then pulls at my fingers one at a time until they are forced to relax. I let him keep my hand while I return my attention to the music. The sound is huge, like a movie score but a million times better because the images are already there in the notes.

My breath is coming slower now. Rome massages my hand through the entire first movement, and as the movement comes to an end, I feel my shoulders let go. The audience coughs and readjusts during the pause, shuffling in their creaking seats while the musicians turn the page in preparation for the second movement. I could pull my hand back now, but Rome has it pressed against his chest. And in the few moments of silence before the conductor brings down his baton, I am sure I can feel the warm, solid thrum of his heartbeat against my skin.

---

When the concert is over, the three of us make our way backstage in hopes of meeting some of the musicians. Getting backstage is easy. This isn’t a rock concert—no desperate groupies. The principal cellist, Claire Pyles, is younger than I expected given her bio in the concert program—she looks barely out of college herself, pale and thin with huge blue eyes and a truckload of curly blond hair. When Bethany and I introduce ourselves, she grins, revealing a gap between her two front teeth, a small one, but impossible not to notice.

“I’m a cellist too,” I tell her. “Your solos in the Mahler were perfect.” Bethany nods in agreement beside me. Rome is standing behind us, looking around as he takes in the bustle of backstage.

“Thank you,” Claire says, and her attention is diverted for a moment. I follow her gaze over my shoulder to a woman with a violin strapped to her back. Claire holds up a finger to her, then refocuses on me. “Are you the one who plays downtown all the time?” she asks. “Some of the orchestra members said a young cellist with black hair is always jamming in the streets.”

I feel my face heat up.

“That’s her!” Bethany says, smiling proudly.

“Cool,” Claire says. “They say you kick ass.”

“Thanks,” I say. Not that they’re right, of course not, but I’m so flattered I think I might actually die.

“You should go hang out with the orchestra musicians after,” she tells us. Apparently it’s a custom for everyone to go to the Refinery after the Saturday concerts; Claire won’t be going tonight, but most of the musicians are. She says the other orchestra members would love mingling with up and coming musicians.

Claire and her chocolate-haired violinist friend go on their way, and Bethany and Rome pester me to go hang out at this Refinery place. I had expected Garrett to tell me to come over, but when I see I have no messages, I agree to go. It’ll keep me distracted until he calls, at least.

The bar is still serving appetizers, so we order wings and fries while I do mental math to make sure I have enough in my account to cover my share. We’re laughing and having a fine time—they’ve pushed several tables together and there are fifteen or twenty people crammed around it. Claire was right, everyone is friendly and inclusive, curious about our musical backgrounds and generous with their own stories. I’m sure they think we’re adorable, clueless first years, or maybe they see their younger selves in us. I wonder what they would think if they knew I got pounded against a baby grand last weekend. I shiver at the memory. The bruises on my elbows have faded to a faint yellow now, almost healed.

The musicians order pitchers of beer, but somehow things get a little disordered so that Rome and I end up with cups in our hands and no one seems to notice or care that we’re drinking. The alcohol warms my belly, soothes my frayed nerves. Bethany rolls her eyes and says she’ll be the designated driver. Again.

Rome is all teeth and crinkly, smiling eyes, tossing out one lame joke after the next, and the raunchier his jokes become, the harder Bethany and I laugh, though she blushes furiously each time. “Here’s another one,” he says, taking a swig from his beer and clunking it down on the wooden tabletop. “Why was the guitar teacher arrested?”

I try to think of a possible answer, but I come up empty every time. How on earth does he remember so many?

“For fingering a minor,” he says, and Bethany blushes and laughs.

I snigger and sip my beer, nudge him with my right shoulder, and he pretends he’s going to fall off his chair, sending Bethany and I into another fit of giggles.

Rome rights himself. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding, I’m—”

His face has gone hard as stone. He’s looking past me, and I turn to see what he’s looking at, even though I already know.

Garrett is here.