“Then okay.” Hannah smiles at me. “Let’s make it official.”
A dark cloud obscures some of my happiness. “What about Justin?”
“What about him?”
“You told him you’d go out with him,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Actually, I canceled the date before I came out here.”
The dumb butterflies inside me take flight again. “You did?”
She nods.
“So you’re not all hot for him anymore?”
Humor dances in her eyes. “I’m hot for you, Garrett. Only you.”
Just like that, my anxiety dissolves into a burst of pure joy that brings a grin to my lips. “Damn right you are.”
Rolling her eyes, she moves in and rubs her cold cheek against my chin. “Now can we please go inside? I’m freezing my butt off and I need my fluffer to warm me up.”
I narrow my eyes. “Excuse me?”
She blinks innocently. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I say fluffer?” Her smile lights up her whole face. “I meant boyfriend.”
Sweetest words I’ve ever heard in my life.
33
Hannah
Life is good.
Life is wonderfully, amazingly, scarily good.
These past two weeks of dating Garrett have been a blur of laughter and cuddling and hot sex, intermingled with real life events like classes and studying, rehearsals and hockey games. Garrett and I forged a connection that caught me by surprise, but even though Allie continues to tease me about my sudden about-face when it comes to the guy, I don’t regret my decision to date him and see where things go. So far, it’s been working out great.
But see, here’s the thing about life. When it’s this good?
Something inevitably goes bad.
“I know this is an inconvenience,” says Fiona, my performing arts advisor. “But I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do except advise you to speak directly to Mary Jane and—”
“No way,” I cut in, my stiff fingers curling around the arms of my chair. I stare at the pretty blond woman across the desk, and wonder how she can possibly describe this atom bomb of a disaster as an inconvenience.
And she wants me to talk to Mary Jane?
Fuck. That.
Because why the fuck would I talk to the stupid, brainwashed bitch who just ruined any chance I had of winning a scholarship?
I’m still reeling from what Fiona told me. Mary Jane and Cass dumped me. They actually got permission to kick me out of the duet so that Cass can sing it as a solo.
What the hell.
Yet in the back of my mind, I’m not even surprised. Garrett had warned me something like this could happen. I had worried about it myself. But never in a million years had I expected Cass to do this four weeks before the showcase.
Or that my advisor would be totally fucking cool with it.
I grit my teeth. “I’m not talking to Mary Jane. It’s obvious she’s made up her mind about this.”
Or rather, that Cass had made it up for her, when he’d cajoled her into speaking to our respective advisors and blubbering about how her composition is suffering in its duet form and that she’s pulling it out of the showcase if it’s not a solo. Of course, Cass had quickly pointed out that it would be egregious to waste a perfectly good song, and he’d graciously offered to let me sing it. At which point, Mary Jane insisted that it should be sung by a male voice.
Fuck you very much, MJ.
“So what am I supposed to do now?” I ask in a tight voice. “I don’t have time to learn a new song and work with a new songwriter.”
“No, you don’t,” Fiona agrees.
Normally I appreciate her no-nonsense approach, but today it makes me want to slug her.
“Which is why, given the circumstances, Cass’s advisor and I agreed to bend the rules for you. You won’t be teaming up with a composition major. We’ve agreed—and the faculty head signed off on it—that you can sing one of your own compositions. I know you have a lot of original songs in your repertoire, Hannah. And in fact, I think this is a great opportunity for you to showcase not just your voice, but your songwriting abilities.” She pauses. “However, you’ll only be eligible to win the performance scholarship, since composition isn’t your major.”
My mind continues to spin like a carousel. Yes, there are a few originals I can sing, but none of them are even close to being performance-ready.
“Why isn’t Cass being penalized for this?” I demand.
“Look, I can’t say I approve of what Cass and Mary Jane have done, but unfortunately, this is one of the drawbacks of duet work.” Fiona sighs. “Every year there’s at least one duet partnership that breaks down right before the showcase. Do you remember Joanna Maxwell? She graduated last year?”
Beau’s sister.
I nod.
“Well, her duet partner bailed three days before the senior showcase,” Fiona confides.
I blink in surprise. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah. Let’s just say it was pure chaos around here for those three days.”
My spirits lift, just a bit, when I remember that not only did Joanna win the scholarship, she also caught the eye of an agent who later got her that audition in New York.
“You don’t need Cassidy Donovan, Hannah.” Fiona’s voice is firm, ringing with reassurance. “You thrive as a solo performer. That’s your strength.” She gives me a pointed look. “As I recall, that’s exactly what I advised at the beginning of the term.”
Guilt warms my cheeks. Yep. I can’t deny it. She had told me her concerns about the project from the start, but I had allowed Cass to convince me that we would be a powerhouse together.
“You’ll have whatever you need to prepare,” she adds. “We’ll rearrange the schedule so you’ll have access to rehearsal space whenever you need it, and if you require accompaniment, any number of orchestra students can help you out. Is there anything else you think you might need?” A tiny smile tugs on her lips. “Trust me, Cass’s advisor isn’t happy about this either, so if there’s something you want, tell me now and I can probably make it happen for you.”
I’m about to shake my head, but then something occurs to me. “Actually, there is something I want. I want Jae. I mean, Kim Jae Woo.”
Fiona furrows her brow. “Who?”
“The cellist.” I stick out my chin in fortitude. “I want the cellist.”
*
Garrett
“I cannot believe he did that!” Allie sounds livid from her side of the booth, her blue eyes blazing as she looks up at Hannah.
My girlfriend wears that I’m-trying-really-hard-not-to-show-how-furious-I-am-right-now expression, but I can sense the volatile emotions radiating from her body. She smooths out the bottom of her apron. “Really? Because I can totally believe it,” Hannah answers. “I bet this was his plan all along. Drive me crazy for two months and then screw me over right before the show.”
“Fuckin’ Cass,” Hannah’s friend Dexter mutters from his seat next to Allie. “Someone needs to give that boy a good ass-kicking.” Dex glances at Logan and me. “Can’t one of you hockey players do it? Rough him up a bit?”
“Gladly,” Logan says cheerfully. “What’s his address?”
I jab my friend in the side. “We’re not beating anybody up, jackass. Not unless you want to face Coach’s wrath—and a suspension.” I turn to Hannah with a rueful look. “Don’t worry, I’m beating him up in my head, baby. That counts, right?”
She laughs. “Sure. I’ll allow it.” She tucks her order pad in her apron pocket. “I’ll be right back.”
As Hannah heads for the counter, I admire her ass for so long it gets me three loud snickers from my companions. And don’t get me started on how weird it is to be sharing a booth with my best friend and Hannah’s best friends.
I was certain that Hannah’s artsy friends would be all condescending and frigid around me—especially after she told me what they think about Briar’s jock crowd—but I thi
nk my natural charm has won them over. Allie and Dex already treat me like we’ve been buds for years. Stella, who discovered her passion for hockey during the Harvard game, now texts me every other day to ask hockey questions. And while that dude Jeremy is still a bit snarky whenever I see him, his girlfriend Megan is pretty cool, so I’m willing to give him a few more chances to not be a dick.
“She’s pissed,” Logan remarks as he watches Hannah chatting with the cook behind the pick-up counter.
“She should be,” replies Dex. “Seriously, what kind of selfish douchetard dumps his duet partner right before a show?”
Logan snickers. “Douchetard? I’m totally stealing that phrase.”
“She’ll be fine,” Allie says confidently. “Hannah’s originals are awesome. She doesn’t need Cass.”
“No one needs Cass,” Dex agrees. “He’s like the human being equivalent of syphilis.”
As everyone laughs, I tune them out and focus my attention on Hannah. I can’t help but remember the first time I came to Della’s, with the sole purpose of persuading Hannah to tutor me. It was only a little more than a month ago, yet I feel like I’ve known her forever.
I don’t know what I was thinking taking that whole anti-girlfriend position. Because having a girlfriend? Fucking rocks. Seriously. I get to have sex whenever I want without having to work for it. I have someone to vent to after a shitty day or a devastating loss on the ice. I can make the worst jokes on the planet and chances are Hannah will laugh at them.
Oh, and I love being with her, plain and simple.
Hannah returns to our booth carrying our drink orders. Or rather, Allie and Dex’s drink orders. Logan and I asked for sodas, but what we get is water.
“Where’s my Dr. Pepper, Wellsy?” Logan whines.
She levels him with a stern look. “Do you know how much sugar is in a soft drink?”
“A perfectly acceptable amount and therefore I should drink it?” supplies Logan.
“Wrong. The answer is too damn much. You’re playing Michigan in an hour—you can’t get all hopped up on sugar before a game. You’ll get a five-minute energy boost and then crash halfway through the first period.”
Logan sighs. “G, why is your girl our nutritionist now?”
I pick up my water glass and take a sip of defeat. “Do you want to argue with her?”
Logan looks at Hannah, whose expression clearly conveys: you’ll get a soda over my dead body. Then he looks back at me. “No,” he says glumly.
34
Hannah
My phone meows just after midnight, but I’m not asleep. In fact, I’m not even in my PJ’s yet. The second I came home after work, I grabbed my guitar and got right back to work again. Now that Cass has thrown a selfish, vindictive wrench into my life, things like “sleep” and “relaxing” and “not panicking” don’t exist anymore. For the next month, I’m pretty much going to be a walking basket case, unless I magically find a way to juggle school, work, Garrett, and singing without having a nervous breakdown.
I put down the acoustic and check the screen. It’s Garrett.
Him: Can’t sleep. You up?
Me: Is this a booty call?
Him: No. Do u want it to be?
Me: No. I’m rehearsing. Totally stressed.
Him: All the more reason for this to be a booty call.
Me: Keep it in your pants, dude. Why can’t u sleep?
Him: Whole body hurts.
Sympathy flutters through my belly. Garrett had called earlier to say they’d lost the game, and apparently he’d taken some brutal hits tonight. Last time we talked, he was still icing his entire torso.
I’m too lazy to type, so I dial his number and he answers on the first ring.
His husky voice slides into my ear. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I lean back against my pillow. “I’m sorry I can’t come over and kiss all your boo-boos, but I’m working on the song.”
“It’s okay. There’s only one boo-boo I want you to kiss, and you sound too distracted for that.” He pauses. “I’m talking about my dick, by the way.”
I choke down a laugh. “Yep. I got that. No need to clarify.”
“Did you decide which song you’re going to sing?”
“I think so. It’s the one I sang to you last month when we were studying. Do you remember it?”
“Yeah. It was sad.”
“Sad is good. Packs more of an emotional punch.” I hesitate. “I forgot to ask you earlier—was your dad at the game?”
A pause. “He never misses one.”
“Did he bring up Thanksgiving again?”
“No, thank fuck. He doesn’t even look at me when we lose, so I wasn’t expecting him to be chatty.” Garrett’s voice is thick with bitterness, and then I hear him clear his throat. “Put me on speakerphone. I want to hear you sing.”
My heart squeezes with emotion, but I try to hide the response by donning a casual tone. “You want me to sing you a lullaby? Aren’t you precious.”
He chuckles. “My chest feels likes it got hit by a truck. I need a distraction.”
“Fine.” I hit the speaker button and reach for my guitar. “Feel free to hang up if you get bored.”
“Baby, I could watch you watching paint dry, and I still wouldn’t be bored.”
Garrett Graham, my own personal sweet-talker.
I settle the acoustic on my lap and sing the song from the top. My door is closed, and although the walls in the dorm are paper-thin, I’m not worried about waking Allie. The first thing I did after Fiona told me about the duet was give Allie a pair of ear plugs and warn her that I’m going to be singing late into the night until the showcase.
Weirdly enough, I’m not angry anymore. I’m relieved. Cass had turned our duet into the kind of flashy, jazz-hands performance that I despise, so as infuriating as it is to get dumped, I’ve decided I’m better off not having to sing with him.
I run through the song three times, until my voice goes hoarse and I finally have to stop to chug the bottle of water on my nightstand.
“Still here, you know.”
Garrett’s voice startles me. Then I laugh, because I honestly forgot he was on the line. “I couldn’t put you to sleep, huh? I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”
“Flattered. Your voice gives me chills. Makes it impossible to fall asleep.”
I smile, even though he can’t see me. “I need to figure out what to do about that last chorus. End high or low on the last note? Oooh, and maybe I should switch up the middle section too. You know what? I have an idea. I’m hanging up now so I can figure it out, and you need to go to sleep. Night, dude.”
“Wellsy, wait,” he says before I can hang up.
I take the phone off speaker and bring it to my ear. “What’s up?”
I’m greeted by the longest pause ever.
“Garrett? You there?”
“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Still here.” A heavy breath reverberates through the line. “Will you come home with me for Thanksgiving?”
I freeze. “Are you serious?”
Another pause, even longer than the first. I almost expect him to rescind the invitation. And I don’t think I’d be upset if he did. Knowing what I do about Garrett’s father, I’m not sure if I can sit across a dinner table from that man without reaching over to strangle him.
What kind of man hits his own son? His twelve-year-old son.
“I can’t go back there alone, Hannah. Will you come?”
His voice cracks on those last words, and so does my heart. I let out a shaky breath and say, “Of course I will.”
35
Hannah
Garrett’s father’s house is not the mansion I expected it to be, but a brownstone in Beacon Hill, which I suppose is Boston’s equivalent of mansion living. The area is gorgeous, though. I’ve been to Boston several times, but never to this ritzy part of it, and I can’t help but admire the beautiful nineteenth-century row houses, brick sidewalks and quaint gas lamp
s lining the narrow streets.
Garrett barely said a word during the two-hour drive into the city. Tension has been rolling off his suit-clad body in steady, palpable waves, which has only succeeded in making me even more nervous. And yes, I said suit-clad, because he’s wearing black trousers, a crisp white dress shirt, and a black jacket and tie. The expensive material fits his muscular body like a dream, and even the perma-scowl on his face doesn’t take away from his sheer hotness.
Apparently his father demanded he wear a suit. And when Phil Graham found out his son was bringing a date, he requested that I also dress formally, hence my fancy blue dress, which I wore to last year’s spring showcase. The silky material falls to my knees, and I paired it with four-inch silver heels that made Garrett grin when he showed up at my door, as he informed me that he might now actually be able to kiss me standing up without getting a crick in his neck.
We’re greeted at the front doors not by Garrett’s dad, but by a pretty blonde in a red cocktail gown that flutters around her ankles. She’s also wearing a lacy black overlay with full sleeves, which I find odd because it’s like a million degrees inside the house. Seriously, it’s hot in here, and I waste no time shrugging out of my pea coat in the elegant parlor.
“Garrett,” the woman says warmly. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”
She appears to be in her mid-thirties, but it’s hard to judge because she’s got what I like to call “old eyes.” Those deep, wise eyes that reveal a person has lived through several lifetimes already. I’m not sure why I get that sense. Nothing about her elegant outfit or perfect smile hints that she’s seen hard times, but the trauma survivor in me immediately feels an odd kinship with her.
Garrett answers in a brusque, but polite voice. “It’s nice to meet you too…?”
He lets that hang, and her pale blue eyes flicker with unhappiness, as if she’s realized that Garrett’s father hadn’t told his son the name of the woman he was dating.
Her smile falters for a beat before steadying. “Cindy,” she fills in. “And you must be Garrett’s girlfriend.”