Chapter Eighteen
Gabby
Jonathan leaves me sitting on the couch with Colt and heads back to the bunk area to have a conversation in low tones with the tour manager on the phone. I give Colt a questioning look, but he just shrugs and says, “You’d have a better idea of what’s going through his head than I would at this point.”
When he comes back, Jonathan sits on my other side and threads his fingers through mine, giving me a blinding smile. “We’re going to stay the night in Spokane. You can stay at the hotel with me.”
I startle at that, but quickly smile back. Another night with Jonathan? Please and thank you.
“What?” Colt’s surprised question betrays his displeasure with this change of plans. “What the hell, man?”
Jonathan gives him a cool look. “The equipment bus will go on ahead and stay the night where we’d planned. We’ll only be a few hours behind schedule. We’ll get to the next venue with plenty of time for the sound check. There’s no reason for me to be there for the load-in.”
With a huff, Colt stands and heads to the back of the bus, clearly irritated with his brother. Jonathan isn’t bothered by Colt’s attitude, though, ignoring him in favor of talking to me. “We’ll have to leave early so that we aren’t too far behind. I’ll call an Uber for you in the morning. Is that okay?”
“Of course.” I give Jonathan’s hand a squeeze, then grab his shirt and pull him to me. “Any extra time with you is time well spent in my book.” His grin is huge before I pull him in for a kiss. He wraps his arms around me, dragging me closer to him on the couch, deepening the kiss.
When Colt’s sound of disgust breaks through my Jonathan-induced lust-haze, I pull back, an unrepentant grin on my face.
“You think he’d be used to it after this weekend,” I whisper to Jonathan.
“Don’t worry about him,” he whispers back. “He’s just jealous.”
My brows fly up. “Your brother …”
He catches onto my question before I can finish it and gives me a reassuring squeeze as he shakes his head. “No, no. Not like that. He doesn’t have a crush on you or anything like that. No, he’s jealous that I’m the one on stage and the one with a hot girlfriend while he’s stuck working for me. Instead of performing.” His gaze turns thoughtful and abstract as he stares at the front of the bus. “Although, the couple of Brash songs I performed this weekend went over really well.” His eyes meet mine again. “If Brendan is willing, it’d be fun to have him and Colt come play with me for a couple of concerts. We could do it on a few of the new dates, help drum up some more ticket sales that way.”
I huff a laugh. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with ticket sales even without that. But it’d be really fun to see the three of you perform together again. I know I’d pay to see that.”
He gives me a crooked grin. “Like I’d let you do that.”
Then he kisses me again, putting an end to that conversation.
After getting an extra night with Jonathan, I’m rushing for class the next morning. The Uber driver drops me off at the dorm, and I drag my suitcase up to my room. I wish I’d thought to ask him to wait and drive me to the other side of campus. Because even though I jog the whole way to the performing arts building, with my backpack bouncing and jostling no matter how tightly I hold the straps, I’m still ten minutes late when I rush through the door of the music building.
I take the stairs two at a time, grabbing the handrail to help pull myself up as fast as I can. Arriving at the classroom door, I try—and fail—to sneak in quietly. I guess I got used to the weight of the heavy doors at the venue and hotel this weekend. Or I don’t know my own strength. Because when I push on the door, it flies open, banging against the wall, causing everyone to turn and stare as I stand in the doorway.
With a little wave, I scoot sideways to my usual desk next to Lauren. She’s glaring daggers at me, along with the professor. The rest of my classmates give me a mix of confused, curious, or speculative looks.
I clear my throat and slide into my seat. “Sorry. Got a late start this morning.”
Dr. Paulsen continues to stare at me for a moment, his mouth a thin, pinched line, then he lets out a sigh and turns back to the piece of music sitting under the document camera. His hand appears larger than life in the projection on the wall as he points out the chord progression in the orchestral score. “You can thank me for giving you a C based score, saving you from having to transpose the wind instruments.”
God, I can’t even imagine. Picking out the notes across all the different clefs and instrument groups is tricky enough. Remembering to transpose the clarinets and trumpets and whatnot on top of that? No, thank you.
Slipping my textbook and binder out of my bag as quietly as possible, I’m surprised when Lauren hisses, “So nice of you to make it. I didn’t think you would.”
I dart a glance at the professor. “Can we talk about this after class? Dr. Paulsen’s pissed at me enough as it is.”
She gives me another irritated look, but turns to face the front. Not to save me, though. No, she doesn’t want to get on Dr. Paulsen’s shit list with me. And she’s perilously close just by virtue of association.
As the class is drawing to a close, Dr. Paulsen passes out a piano sonata, several pages long stapled together.
“This is a Handel piano sonata. You’ll analyze it, and then use the chord progression to compose your own sonata.” At the collective groan, he gives what can only be described as a sadistic little smile. “Yes, it’s time for the dreaded sonata project. I promise, you’ll all do fine. You’ve already composed two short pieces for me. This isn’t that much different.”
“But those were only sixteen measures. And that took me forever to come up with something that didn’t suck. And my piano skills aren’t up to something like this.”
Dr. Paulsen turns his attention to Jason, one of the percussionists. “Good thing the computer will play it back to you. You don’t need to be able to play the sonata for yourself. And your melody can be insipid and simplistic. I don’t care. You just need to change the key and follow the chord progression laid out for you. Many students before you have successfully composed a sonata for me. I’m confident that all of you can do it too.”
His gaze falls on me. “Some of you may even write something worth playing.”
Several people turn to look at me, including Lauren, and I drop my gaze, suddenly fascinated by my mechanical pencil with its twist up eraser. Last year I had the cheapie mechanical pencils. This year I sprung for the nice ones with the big eraser since I need it so much for all my theory homework. Between analysis for this class and chord and melody dictation in sight singing, I erase things all the time.
Dr. Paulsen has complimented me on the short baroque dances I’ve written over the last few weeks. And now I guess he’s starting to expect good things from me in that department. On the one hand, that’s exciting. My professor thinks my compositions have promise, even if they are just little sixteen bar theory assignments. On the other hand—gah! Expectations. Bigger ones piling on top of the pressure of juggling my relationship and my own musical goals. And trying to decide if those are even the same as they used to be.
I push that away, focusing on the rest of the directions for the sonata assignment and writing down the due dates for the different parts of the project. It’s in the syllabus, too, but I’ll remember better if I write it down.
We have this week to analyze the Handel sonata, and then two weeks to write our own.
While everyone else is moaning and groaning about the assignment as they pack up when Dr. Paulsen dismisses us, I’m cautiously excited. I want to come up with something interesting and pretty. I’ll let my brain work on that in the background for now. I have some time.
Lauren’s hand wrapping around my arm startles me out of my thoughts about composing. “Hey!” I yelp. “Let go!”
She ignores me and drags me toward the door. “Come on. We need to talk.”
Once in the hall I manage to shake her off. “Fine. We can talk. Let’s go get coffee and something to eat. I’m starving.” Rubbing my arm, I shoot her a dirty look. “You can just ask, you know. You don’t need to manhandle me like I’m trying to avoid you.”
She raises her eyebrows and snorts. “Aren’t you?”
With a sigh, I shake my head. “No, Lauren. I’m not. I’ve had a busy weekend. And more than one last-minute change of plans.”
Crossing her arms, she stops and turns to me in the lobby of the music building. “Yeah. About that. I expected you back last night. I was going to pick you up from the airport. I figured we’d binge on ice cream and dish in our room. Instead, I get a text from you as I’m getting ready to head to the airport that you’re not flying back after all. You’re on the tour bus. And then another text a few hours later that you’re staying in a hotel.”
I cross my arms and return her glare. “Uh-huh. Would you rather I didn’t tell you what’s going on? Because I thought you’d appreciate the heads-up.”
She lets out an exasperated breath, throwing her hands in the air. “Of course I appreciate knowing. What I don’t appreciate is being treated like an underling or like I should be grateful for the crumbs of attention you throw my way when you’re with Jonathan.”
Sputtering, I look all around, trying to come up with something to say to that. “What are you talking about?”
With a roll of her eyes, she turns to the door. “Come on. You obviously need coffee.” I’m still stunned and have to jog a few steps to catch up to her. “Lot of late nights this weekend?” she calls over her shoulder as she pushes out into the October sunshine.
Days like this always throw me off. It looks so nice, so pretty outside. The sun is bright, the sky is blue, and it looks like it should be eighty degrees. I think it’s maybe fifty, and I should’ve grabbed my jacket this morning, but in my rush I only grabbed my sweater. I didn’t notice the cold earlier because I was running, but now I do.
I wrap my arms around myself. “Yes, actually. Concerts Friday and Saturday night, and you know how that goes.”
She gives me side-eye. “Not really, Gabby. That’s pretty far out of my frame of reference.”
“Please. You came to the festival with me last month. You went to the afterparties. You schmoozed with rock stars. Don’t tell me that’s outside your frame of reference.”
She halts in the middle of the parking lot, and I manage to step to the side at the last second to avoid running into her.
When she speaks, it sounds like she’s making a supreme effort to keep her voice calm. “Gabby.” Her nostrils flare as she takes a deep breath. “That was one time. That was a festival. I have no fucking clue what life on tour is like. And you sent me like three texts this weekend.” She jabs her right index finger into the air, and I have to brace myself so I don’t step back at the ferocity of the movement. “One when you landed letting me know you got there.” Two more fingers go up. “And the two yesterday. I have no idea what’s going on with you!”
My mouth hangs open. She crosses her arms again and glares at me.
I adjust my backpack straps and look around us as I try to figure out what to say. I was not expecting anything like this outburst. I mean, I could tell she was unhappy when I got to class, but I thought it was because I was late. I was expecting a lecture on being on time. Actually, I figured she’d be mollified by the fact that I actually showed up for class, since the last time I was with Jonathan I skipped my Monday classes and she’d gotten pissed at me about that.
But the longer I think about that—her lecture last month, and her outburst now—the more irritated I get. Who does she think she is? My mom?
Taking a fortifying breath of my own, I meet her glare with my own. “I’m sorry, Lauren.”
Her face softens for a second, but I continue. “I didn’t realize you’d taken over the position of mother. Here I thought mine was in Texas.”
Her eyes narrow into slits at my words, a sudden breeze blowing her auburn hair around her face and making her look like an avenging angel with her nostrils flaring again. “And here I thought I was your friend.” Her voice is so quiet I have to strain to make out the words over the sounds of traffic drifting up to us from the city and the general sounds of people moving around on campus. “Where I come from, friends talk to each other. They don’t ditch each other for boys.”
“So I’m not allowed to have a boyfriend if we’re friends?”
“That’s not what I said!” She finally raises her voice. “I’m just tired of being an afterthought. Of you not acting like the plans we make are important.” I try to interject something, but she holds out a hand to stop me, plowing on with her words. “I’m not just talking about this. If Jonathan calls while we’re watching a movie or about to have dinner or do anything, you take his call. You go off in your bedroom and have phone sex or switch to FaceTime and have video sex.” She throws a hand out to her side. “I’m right on the other side of the door. It’s not like I can’t hear you. These days I leave when you talk to him because I’m tired of listening to you moan.”
Heat washes from my chest up to the top of my head, and I look down at my feet, unable to hold her gaze. Oh my God. I can’t even—
Finished with her tirade, Lauren stands there, her feet shifting as she waits for me to respond.
I think back over the last couple of months. And she’s right. She’s so right. I do always ditch her when Jonathan calls. I just hadn’t realized she was that bothered by it.
Closing my eyes, I suck in a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” When I lift my eyes to her face, she’s still giving me her narrow-eyed glare. “Really. I am. I didn’t realize I was being a crappy friend. I didn’t mean to, I swear. But you never said anything, so I didn’t know you were upset. I’ll make sure I don’t ditch you to talk to Jonathan all the time anymore.” My cheeks grow hot again. “And I’ll make sure to warn you before …”
Lauren laughs. “Before you start getting it on with your long-distance boyfriend? Thanks.” Her eyes warm as she looks me over. “Apology accepted. And you’re right. I didn’t say anything. I should’ve before it built up to this. So I’m sorry too.”
I nod, adjusting my backpack again. “Why didn’t you? Say anything, I mean. I really didn’t think me taking a phone call instead of watching a movie would bug you that much. I guess I just figured … I don’t know. That we’re together all the time, and I barely ever get to see Jonathan. Our phone calls are the only thing I have most of the time.” I blink away the tears starting to sting my eyes. “It’s hard.” My voice comes out hoarse and clogged with tears, and I clear my throat, trying to get rid of the frog in my throat. I don’t want to cry right now.
Wrapping her arms around me, Lauren gives me a quick squeeze. “This. This right here is why I haven’t said anything. I know it’s hard for you. And I know you feel like everyone’s picking at you here, me included lately. I was trying not to make you feel more pressured.”
I squeeze her back. “Yeah. Okay. I can see that.” We fall in step together, heading for the campus coffee shop. I really do need that coffee today. And I’d kill for a cherry danish right now.
“How about this,” I say when we reach the brick walkway in front of the coffee shop. “You quit lecturing me about school stuff, and I’ll make sure that movie nights or whatever are sacred. If Jonathan calls, I’ll let him know I can’t talk and call him back later. Deal?”
She looks over at me, examining my face. “But what if I think you’re making stupid choices?”
I shrug. “They’re my stupid choices. I’m allowed to make them. That’s part of the whole growing up thing, right? Besides, Dr. Paulsen and Clara, not to mention my parents, are pretty clear on what they think of my choices as it is. I don’t need my roommate piling on. I mean, if you want to tell me you think I’m making the right choice, that would be great. But instead of yelling at me for missing class or being late after being gone for a weekend, just fill me in on what I missed from now on. And I’ll stop being a shitty friend.”
A grin stretches across her face as she pulls open the coffee shop door. “Okay. Deal. I’ll be supportive, or at least nonjudgmental, and you’ll quit ditching me. And we’ll both stop being shitty friends.”
I stick out my hand for her to shake. “To not being shitty friends.”
Her palm slaps against mine, and she gives me a firm handshake. And just like that, at least one niggling problem is resolved. Wouldn’t it be nice if all the others could be solved so easily?