He rolled his eyes before looking at his watch and holding it out to Fi. "Not that this impromptu playdate isn't the highlight of my day, but shouldn't you be getting back home? It's at least an hour drive."
Fi frowned at the pitch-black winter sky. "Ugh. That's going to suck."
"You could sleep here." He frowned at his roommate's bed. "Though I couldn't swear how clean those sheets are."
"That's nasty." Fi pushed herself up, stumbling over Trent's legs as she got off the bed. "I have an early class tomorrow anyway."
Trent stood and opened the door. "I'll walk you out."
"Maybe I should ruffle up your hair. In case Lindsey's lurking."
Trent paused to look at her. "You're awfully concerned about Lindsey."
"I'm not concerned," she mumbled.
He studied her another moment or so before taking her hand and dragging her down the stairs behind him. Once outside, both hunched over, drawing their thin sweatshirts further up their necks. Trent pulled her a little closer, wrapping an arm around her as people do when they're cold. At the car, Fi fumbled with her keys, her fingers stiff and shaky. She popped the door and slid in, cranking the heat. Trent squatted just in front of the open door, his face nearly the same level as hers. "If I make the slob wash his sheets and throw his crap away, will you visit one weekend? I could show you around."
"Um, maybe." Fi looked away from Trent to the steering wheel, her hands sliding up, down, and around it. It surprised her that the idea sounded good, suddenly. "Yeah. Okay."
"You'd have to shower. It's not required-I know you have an aversion-but I recommend it."
She smiled at her hands. "I think I can handle a shower."
Trent put his fingers under her chin, gently turning her face to him. "I'm glad you came down."
"Me too."
"It's going to be okay," he said, still crouched in front of her. Still holding her face so she couldn't look away from this heartfelt Trent McKinnon who made her uncomfortable and awkward and not sure what do with her hands. "You'll be okay."
Fi swallowed a sudden lump in her throat and nodded.
He dropped his hand and smiled just barely. "It's because of you, you know."
"What's because of me?"
"My evolution past the fart joke. And if you can wield that sort of magic on a dumbass such as myself, then it's only a matter of time before you pull yourself out of this funk."
They stared at each other a long moment. Trent slowly leaned forward-probably to hug her, she was sure it was just to hug her-but Fi immediately tensed, gripping the wheel. Trent paused, his eyes leaving her face to take in her rigid posture. He took a slow breath, shook his head, and slowly placed his lips on her forehead.
FIONA
Fiona hadn't taken a word of Lucy's advice. All break, she had avoided Jackson-and real conversations with David. Now back at school, she had a new semester with new classes-and the same old problems.
For example, she should be thrilled about her music class. Professor Weitz was a published jazz composer, played guitar beautifully and-unlike Flem-she'd yet to bow to anyone's clarinet. However, the class had One Major Flaw-or opportunity, as Weitz called it.
"Each of you will perform an original composition," she had said in the first class. "And benefit from the feedback of your peers."
"So," Weitz was now saying. "Who's up?"
A tall, pretty blond girl-Fiona recognized her from the dorm-walked to the front, oboe in hand. She sat on what Weitz called the individual critique stool. "I call this Interlude in D," Oboe Girl said.
She played about five minutes. The piece was a little old-fashioned, but man, the girl's fingering was crazy good.
"Comments?" Weitz asked, when the girl finished and rested her oboe on her lap.
Fiona braced herself. The redhead held up her hand to go first-of course.
"Isn't the point to bring classical elements to modern compositions," she said. "Not the other way around?"
Redhead always went first. She had been the first to play for the class-cello-and had therefore escaped the bloodbath that these critiques had slowly descended into.
"It didn't sound very original to me," Flute Guy was saying, nodding toward Redhead. "It was just Brahms and Mozart squished together."
"Three hundred years later," Yankees Hat added.
And the ball was rolling. Oboe Girl sat up there, enduring the "helpful feedback" free-for-all, while Fiona broke into a sweat.
If she couldn't handle someone else being criticized, what was she going to do when it was her turn? Where was Flem and his eighties covers when she needed them?
After class, Fiona merged onto the path back to the dorm, biting her nails and wondering how to "divide one of her existing melodies into phrases, making sure the cadence in the second phrase completes the incomplete cadence in the first."
She called Lucy to whine. "It's negative ten outside. My coat is freaking enormous."
"And I was just wondering about the weather in Chicago. And your coat."
"Sorry. Bad class."
"Let me guess," Lucy said with a sigh.
Okay, Fiona might have complained about this class a few times already. "Those people are insane. They'll eat me alive."
"It's only opinion. You don't have to listen to them."
"I just can't do it."
"Fiona Doyle," Lucy said. "You are the most ridiculous person I've ever met. What kind of singer doesn't want to sing?"
Fiona wished she knew. In theory, her fear should have been cut out of her, left on the operating room floor with the scars. She was fixed now. She should be able to do this.
"I know. I know, it's crazy," Fiona admitted. "I just don't know how to, you know, fix it."
"Well, you could always just sing."
"They'll all be looking at me."
"And lucky they will be, my non-scarred friend."
"I'm not unscarred."
"Oh. My. God. Get over yourself and sing a damn song."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"None of them are ready."
Fiona had to pull the phone away from her ear, Lucy's exhale was so loud. "Right. New rule à la Tough Love. You can't call me again until you've sat someone down across from you, looked them in the eye, played your guitar, and sung one of your songs."
"What? That's not fair."
"Oh, it's totally fair-and a requirement for my sanity."
"But, I have played for people. I've sung for you."
"Amy LaVere covers don't count."
Curse Lucy and her Tough Love. "Okay. I'll sing one of mine for you. Tonight."
"What, over the phone?"
"Yeah. It'd be better anyway. Baby steps."
There was a painful pause. "Nope," Lucy finally said. "I've waited six years to hear an original Fiona Doyle. I want it in person." Fiona heard another deep breath. "So this is where I tell you good-bye and say I truly hope to hear from you soon."
"Lucy-"
"Hanging up now." And then she did.
Fiona stared at her disconnected phone-then trudged back to the dorm, numb. She didn't notice the biting cold or the slippery path or the ugly gray-white snow.
She was Lucyless. She felt like a cat with a bandanna around its middle.
She was almost to the top of the dorm steps when she looked up. The person she wanted to see most-and least-stood on the landing, looking down at her.
This was the first she'd seen Jackson since the disaster that was Otherlands. He'd texted a few times over break-asking her to meet him at the coffee shop, to help him spend his Christmas money at Shangri-La, to come with him to the Harry Potter marathon at the bargain theater. She gave lame excuses each time-rather than saying, I have a boyfriend but I like you more, which makes me feel like the most horrible person ever.
"You look like you lost your best friend," he said.
"What a perfect summary."
"What happened?"
"Something with Lucy. Music assignment thing." She shook her head. "Nothing."
Jackson opened the door and followed Fiona up the interior stairs.
"So," he asked. "How was the rest of your break?"
"Good." This was such a lie. "You?"
"Kind of sucky, really. First Christmas without Marcus."
Fiona drew in a long breath, looking at Jackson. "Oh, I'm so sorry. And all those texts-you needed a distraction."
"Looked like you had all the distraction you could handle."
So much for hoping the Coffee Shop Awkward hadn't been obvious. "Your schedule's good?"