Текст книги "The Singles"

Автор книги: Emily Snow

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Текущая страница: 31 (всего у книги 45 страниц)

Chapter One

Now

Last night, I dreamt of my sister. Lily. It was the second time she’s crept into my dreams since I lost her nearly two years ago.

She looked the same as she did the last time she talked to me, with her straight, golden-brown hair pulled into a taut ponytail at the nape of her neck, her red and white track windbreaker partially unzipped and exposing her plain white t-shirt, and the corners of her chocolate brown eyes crinkled because she was wearing a big, cheesy smile. Lily was always, always smiling. That single expression had been what everyone else loved about her the most, and yet it had frustrated the hell out of me while she was still here.

My sister was an eternal optimist.

I’d been too much of a bitch to appreciate that. Even after I realized just how much I lost the day she was ripped away from me, I was too selfish not to feel sorry for myself.

That was me. Evie. Always, always selfish.

But that messy and screwed-up part of me had never seemed to bother my older sister, and in my dream, she’d flung my tie-dyed bedspreads off of my body and onto the carpet before jumping on the bed next to me.

“Get up, and get it over with, Evie,” she sang, her typically quiet voice booming, strong.  Crossing her slim arms over her chest, she stared me down, her ponytail swishing as she twisted her face into a dramatic scowl.

“Look, I don’t care if you’re still mad at me. Get up. You’re gonna thank me when your lazy ass graduates. So, come on before you completely wreck your day.”

Before everything had changed, she said the same thing to me just about every morning—well, minus the part about me being mad at her, which was something that was sprinkled in whenever we had an argument.

So just like I did back then, I got out of bed. The only difference was that for once it wasn’t begrudgingly, and when I opened my eyes, my sister was gone. With reality now facing me, sleep was an option that could go screw itself.

Wiping cold beads of perspiration from my forehead with a towel I found balled up on the floor beside my bed, I slid my feet into a pair of worn flip-flops. I’d crept silently downstairs, taking care not to bump into any of the boxes and suitcases in the dark foyer waiting to be toted off to my new college in the morning—the second school in less than twelve months.

In the kitchen, I downed a glass of OJ, cringing at the citrusy burn in the back of my throat as I slid down on the floor beside the fridge. For the longest time I sat there, the hardware from one of the cabinets digging into my back, and the blinking light on the stove directly across from me causing the edges of my vision to blur. I sat there with my regrets and memories of my sister tumbling through my brain.

“Don’t worry,” I finally promised aloud, the sound of my voice in the empty kitchen slowly piercing my chest. “I won’t screw up this year. I won’t. I will not wreck things this time.”

Now, several hours and a lonely drive from Bristol to Richmond later, that mantra still pings sharply through my mind, a slight distraction to the task at hand—getting to my academic advisor’s office for our four o’clock meeting.

Telling myself that I wouldn’t screw up seemed to help during summer break. I hadn’t purposely gone out of my way to see how far I could push myself away from everyone I knew, everyone who was left. Of course, the fact I had exiled myself to my parents’ house all summer couldn’t exactly be described as progress.

Still ... this year is going to be different.

If I don’t tell myself that every single day, I’m just giving myself permission to mess it all up again, and with my track record, I need all the motivation I can get.

Shuffling across the grass and into the courtyard teeming with students back from summer break, I squint down at the campus map. I’d picked it up this morning during the mandatory student orientation I attended, along with the rest of the residents of Campbell dorm’s seventh floor. Once I attempt to commit the shortcut to the music department to my memory for the third time since leaving my room, I fold the map into an uneven square and shove it into the side pocket of my crossbody purse.

This campus is at least four times bigger than the one I attended last year and, to be honest, this morning was the first time I ever laid eyes on the place. It was also the first time I’ve ever stepped foot into Richmond. I’ll never tell anyone here that.

Especially not my new roommate Corinne, who spent most of the afternoon drilling me with question after question.

I’d applied to the school last minute without visiting, letting the photos on the website and my aunt’s enthusiastic claim that this was the best college in the history of all colleges act as my guide. The fact that I was accepted despite my awful grades from last year—well, that was a definite plus.

The biggest draw, however, is being four hours away from my former college, and nearly five hours away from Bristol, where most everyone I know lives.

Because nobody here knows me.

Smiling to myself and fussing with my hat and hair, I jog up the back steps to cut across the dining hall; only to jerk to a stop a moment later when I ricochet off a tall, incredibly toned, masculine body attempting to leave the building.

I know the collision is my fault. My thoughts and actions have been all over the place since last night, but that doesn’t stop me from hurling out the first thing that comes to mind as I try to regain my footing. “Holy shit, watch where the—”

The Body’s quick apology, murmured in a slight Southern accent, brings my angry words to a jolting halt. “You all right? Sorry ‘bout that.”

Oh.

Oh.

Holy shit is right.

I haven’t seen his face, but there’s one thing for certain about this person who nearly knocked me on my ass: his voice is drop dead sexy—baritone and more than a little intoxicating.

A few years ago, I picked up my mom’s copy of A Literate Passion, her book club’s flavor of the month. I’d flipped through it, pausing briefly on the line about voices reverberating against bodies like a caress. I knew what it meant, but hearing that voice speaking to me now, asking me once again if I’m all right—I understand Anaïs Nin’s words so much more.

That voice is just enough to make me want more of him.

When I whip around to face him, his mouth is the first part of his body my gaze settles on—full lips framed by the faintest shadow of dark stubble along a strong, square jawline—followed by a straight nose, high cheekbones, and the faded remains of a rounded scar right beneath his right eye. The scar automatically yanks my attention to his eyes.

Set in a face that’s still a little tan from summer, those eyes are haunted, beautiful. They’re not quite green or blue but an unsettling place in between the two.

Come to think of it, everything about this boy, this man, is just a touch unsettling and without a doubt beautiful.

And also, oddly familiar.

His eyebrows, the same off-black as his messy, medium-length hair, arching together in genuine concern. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, I’m fine, I swear.” But I take a few steps back until my shoulder blades bump a wall covered in flyers and brochures. A few drift to the floor, but I don’t break eye contact with the man standing right in front of me. I know I’ve seen this guy before. The question is ... where?

When?

Oh, great. He’s not from Bristol, is he?

“You dropped your hat when you tripped over your own feet.” He gestures down on the floor between us but doesn’t budge move to pick it up.

I belatedly realize my wavy brown hair is everywhere, a frizzy mess obscuring parts of my face, and my hands fly up to smooth down the untamed locks. He’s watching me carefully, smiling like he knows a secret, which means I probably look like a certified dumbass.

“I’m pretty sure your feet tripped me,” I argue, but he moves his head from side to side.

“Right. It’s not like you were staring down at the floor—” He cocks his head to the side, squinting at my student ID dangling from an orange and blue lanyard I’m wearing around my neck. “—Evelyn.” Very few people other than my dad and a few of my former teachers have ever called me that, but hearing him do so sends a shiver coursing through me, despite the stifling late summer heat inside the dining hall.

Before I can move, he kneels, keeping his eyes fastened on mine. I should look away, at anything and everything else besides him, but I can’t. Why should I when he won’t stop staring?

“So I guess I just won the graceful freshman award, huh?” I question nervously.

“I’d blame it on your shoes, but it looks like they’re innocent.” His words cause my toes to curl in my flat sandals. Standing, he places my floppy fedora in my outstretched fingers, his thumbs skimming along my palms as he pulls away. When I dust the brown felt material off, my hands are trembling.

“I like you better without it,” he admits the moment I start to pull the fedora over my hair. “Like seeing your eyes.”

For a moment, I freeze.

I’ve always been pretty happy with my features—I’m tall with long legs, a small C-cup that I’m incredibly proud of, and clear olive skin—but my eyes have always been my favorite thing about myself. They were the only similarity I shared with my sister. My mom always claimed that it was like Lily and I were from completely different families because we were so different, but when she looked into our eyes, it was impossible to deny we were blood.

I tremble slightly because I can’t think of a moment since Lily’s death that my mother has looked at me, really looked into my eyes, for longer than a few seconds.

“And I like to hide my shitty hair days,” I finally tell him, dragging the hat over my head, and lowering my gaze so I won’t have to directly face his penetrating stare any longer. “And, you know, my clumsy shame face.”

He steps away from me, drawing his bottom lip between his straight white teeth like he’s fighting the urge to smile. Or laugh in my face. “If it makes you feel any better, I can name about ten people right off the top of my head that I’ve seen here over the last few years who’ve got you beat.”

The last few years. So what does that make him? A junior? Senior? Better yet, why do I care and where the hell have we met before? I cross my arms over my chest, and tilt my head to the side, sizing him up.

“It doesn’t help,” I let him know. “Not even a little.”

At last, he smiles—a crooked, sexy turn of his lips that probably draws this campus’ female population to him in droves—before taking another step away from me. “Try not to attack anyone else, Evelyn.”

“I’ll do my best.” I only make it a few feet before I turn back around, determined to ask him where we’ve met before. If I don’t, it’ll drive me up the wall trying to figure it out. “Hey, do you—.”

But I’m too late. He’s already ducking through the double doors and heading outside. All I see is the back of the plain gray t-shirt expertly hugging his ripped shoulders and biceps.

“Who are you?” I murmur.

At the bottom of the brick steps, a beautiful brunette girl flags him down, and he stops to talk to her in the courtyard. They go back and forth a few times before she says something to make him laugh and shake his head. He does that thing with his mouth—that smile that’s bound to screw with her breathing—and then he looks down at his watch. I watch as he sprints across the courtyard. Like me, the other girl doesn’t move until he’s out of sight.

Obviously I’m not the only one affected by him.

I inhale harshly, wait a few seconds, then exhale, irritated with myself. The first hot guy I run into, literally, and I fall all over the place thinking I somehow know him. I’m probably getting him confused with some actor I saw during one of my Netflix binges this summer—he did have that look. The only thing I know for sure is I can’t afford falling for anything this year.

“I can’t screw up. I won’t,” I mutter in a fierce voice. “I will not wreck things this time.”

I turn away from the doors before the brunette girl comes inside the D-hall, and finish cutting through the cafeteria and out the front of the building. Pulling my map out of my purse once again, I hurry to the music building, which ends up being a five-minute walk away. I’m sweaty and out-of-breath when I reach the third floor, but I have two minutes to spare. There’s an Advising – Please Sign In & Have a Seat sign hanging on Professor Cameron’s door, so I write my name on the clipboard and sit in the seat provided.

Whatever’s going on inside that office doesn’t sound good. I can hear raised voices, but I try to tune it out. After ten minutes of waiting, though, I fish my phone out of my purse and check my messages.

There’s one from my dad that, in less than a hundred characters, tells me that A) I shouldn’t avoid his calls because B) I’m at school on his dime this year, which really serves to remind me that C) he’s still livid that I blew the whistle on his affair five months ago, he doesn’t think I deserve shit, and I need to call and let him know that I made it to school in one piece.

I’m fine, I message to him.

“And you can wait until tonight for a phone call,” I say as I open my other text. A picture from my closest friend. With her nose wrinkled and her lips twisted down in a dramatic pout, I almost miss that Kendra’s holding up a flash card. The message she’s written on it is short, simple, but it makes my chest clench.

Miss you. Be good.

We hadn’t become close until our senior year of high school. Before then, she was my sister’s best friend, and we’d tolerated each other for Lily’s sake. But here’s the thing: Loss does one of two things to those it leaves behind—it meshes us together, forcing us to let go of every feel we know so we can try to form some semblance of existence again, or it tears open the wounds, widening the divide so much that we’ll do whatever it takes to try and pretend the pain’s not real.

Losing Lily had done both for me, but Kendra ... she was one of those things that had worked out.

Last year it was Kendra who talked me into pursuing the music degree. Even though my training before then consisted of a handful of private voice lessons and a few semesters in the honor’s choir—definitely not the makings of a voice major—she thought I’d make it. And then, when I started spiraling out of control, she was also the only person who told me to slow my roll.

I hadn’t listened. Which is why I’m here. Sitting outside of a new advisor’s office, listening to her rip another girl—someone who’s probably a classmate—to shreds.

My fingers feel wooden as I text my response to Kendra. Miss you, too.

Professor Cameron’s door creaks open, and I look up. A petite blonde who looks like she walked right out of Bring It On darts out of the office, bright patches of red blooming on her cheeks. She gives me a look that tells me I should probably escape while I can, and then she rounds the corner. Before I have a chance to consider taking her wordless advice, a bespectacled woman with a salt and pepper pixie cut pokes her head out the door and glances down at the clipboard.

“Evelyn Miller?” Professor Cameron doesn’t meet my gaze as she scratches out my name with a fine-tipped black permanent marker.

“Yes, that’s me.”

Crooking a scarlet-nailed finger, she motions for me to follow. “Come on in.”

In spite of her almost chilly attitude, there’s a warm vibe inside her office. Photos are everywhere—everything from what appears to be family pictures to snapshots of her in costume for several musicals. She takes her place in a vintage-looking, yellow and brown striped chair behind the desk, and I sit on the edge of a smaller, matching seat across from her. I focus my gaze on the tabletop fountain sitting on the corner of her desk until she clears her throat.

“For a voice student, you’re incredibly quiet. My students are usually talking before they make it through the door.”

“I—” But she immediately stops me, shaking her head and leaning forward to look me directly in the eye. Instead of wilting under her stare, I straighten my back and plaster on a confident expression.

“Why are you a voice student, Ms. Miller?”

I think on it for a moment before I answer. “Because music has always been my life.”

The corners of her mouth tug, but I’m not sure if she’s trying to smile or frown. “Honestly, I’m looking for a response that’s different from what you put on your entrance questionnaire.” She waves her hand down to a bunch of papers spread out on the desk. “I can’t tell you how many girls—and boys—have sat in that chair, telling me that music is their life only to change their mind a semester or two down the road.”

“Well ... I was a music major last year, too.”

“I’m aware. I’m also sure you’re aware that I didn’t think you were ready for my program.”

I’ve known that ever since my aunt Janine, my dad’s older sister who studied piano here in the early eighties, had approached the head of the entire music department about my acceptance. I was lucky to get into the school, period. The fact that I was let into the voice program with only an audition tape that was made two years ago was a miracle. A miracle that I’m starting to worry might be my downfall with Professor Cameron.

“Yes, I’m aware,” I say softly.

I don’t want to be known as that girl, the one who moved forward thanks to connections instead of hard work. Maybe a couple years—or hell, even a year ago—I would’ve been fine with it, but now the thought makes my stomach twist into knots.

I refuse to be that girl no matter what it’s in reference to.

“You can’t sight sing, which is so essential,” she points out gently, and I nod in confirmation, my face tingling more and more with each bob of my head. “Your grades last year were—excuse my language—bullshit. Your application left much to be desired. But—” She pauses, makes a teepee with her hands, and rests her bow-shaped lips against it. “You have the right voice. You can be amazing at anything else involving this program, but if you don’t have the talent ... well, there’s no point in racking up thousands of dollars in student loans, is there?”

“Glad to hear that.” My voice is tinged in sarcasm, which she obviously notices because she purses her lips. She gathers all the paperwork before her into a neat stack and drops it in a file organizer.

“I don’t think that—” she begins, but I’ll never know what she was going to say next because someone knocks on her office door. A split second later, before she can give the word for whoever is outside to come in, it opens. I’m stunned to see The Body from the D-hall on the other side staring back at us.

When he looks at me, a slow grin slinks across his face. “Sorry I’m late,” he drawls, taking the seat beside me. He’s changed into a pair of cargo shorts and a turquoise polo shirt that highlights his piercing blue eyes. I stare at him dumbly and try to process why he’s here until Professor Cameron speaks up.

“Evelyn, this is my TA—one of my best students, and your new best friend for the next semester. Although you’ll be working with me as well, you’ll have additional lessons with him each week—on Mondays and Fridays—to get you up to snuff by finals this December.” At my raised eyebrow, she explains, “Your fate in this program depends on how you do during the music department exams, your midterms, and your recital performance.”

The last time an advisor told me that, this spring, I lost my scholarship. I nod slowly, but next to me, The Body doesn’t seem the least bit phased.

“She’ll kick ass,” he promises Professor Cameron, earning a tight, disapproving smile. Then, he turns to me. I can tell he’s trying like hell to work his features into a professional mask and not say anything about our earlier encounter as he holds out his hand.

"Nice to meet you,” I say. “And thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He takes my fingers in his. Once again, his touch causes my skin to warm. “Rhys Delane,” he says, pronouncing his first name like “Reese.” “And just to be clear, you are going to kick ass.”

Rhys Delane.

Delane.

I pray he doesn’t notice when I snatch my hand away a little too quickly. I hear my voice as I formally introduce myself. Hear Professor Cameron begin talking again and myself respond almost robotically. I hear all of this, and yet, I’m not sure I’m altogether present.

Because the moment I can finally put a name to The Body, my brain wraps around how I know him and my mind is no longer in the music building or even on this campus.

My thoughts are in a funeral home in Bristol two years ago, as Rhys Delane introduced himself and told my family how sorry he was for our loss. Right before my mother’s hand flew across his face in rage because of what his brother did to my sister.