I’d been there since 8.20. My watch ticked over to 8.46. Where was he?!
That morning, I’d printed out a calendar that covered the ten weeks until the recital. I’d blocked out my classes in pink, and the ones we had together in purple. His classes would be blue, as soon as he gave me his timetable. Then we could start blocking out rehearsal time in green.
8.47!
Maybe he was waiting in the wrong place? I should have got his cell phone number. But by the time I’d said goodbye I’d been emotionally exhausted, barely capable of thought.
8.48. I started to pace. What if he’d been in an accident? He could be hurt. Dying. And it would be my fault for getting him here hours before he’d normally waltz in. I couldn’t stop, officer. I guess the poor schmuck just wasn’t used to the intersection being so busy.
At 8.55, I ran to the stairwell to see if he was climbing up. Nothing.
Where are you, Connor?
8.59. What if he’d forgotten?!
9.00. What if he’s changed his mind?!
Footsteps, and I offered up a prayer to whoever would listen to please, please make them be Connor’s battered black boots.
The feet rounded the corner, and they were brown loafers. I looked up.
“Karen,” Professor Harman said, slightly wearily. “I see you, but not Mr. Locke. Can I take it you were unsuccessful?”
“No! He’s going to do it! It’s all agreed, he’s just—He’s running late! Just give him a few more minutes.”
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “If this is indicative of how you two will work together, I really think it shows that this isn’t a good idea.”
“Professor Harman, please!”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Karen. I gave you a simple deadline and your partner has shown he’s incapable of meeting even that. I was wrong to even entertain the idea.”
God, no! Not like this! Not just for the sake of a few minutes! “Professor!”
He opened the door to his office. “Sorry, Karen.”
We both stopped.
Connor, his feet up on Professor Harman’s desk, woke up and yawned. He checked his watch.
“You’re late,” he told us.
***
Luckily, Professor Harman was too shocked to erupt into full anger and, once Connor had been turfed out of his chair, he settled for irritation. He took out a fountain pen and wrote our names in a book (that’s the music department for you—in another twenty years, they’ll move to typewriters) and that was it. We were scheduled for the recital.
There was only one problem.
“What are you going to play?” Harman asked.
I’d been giving this some thought. There was absolutely nothing written for cello and electric guitar—I’d looked—so it would have to be….
“Original composition,” I told him.
I could feel Connor’s eyes on me. I hadn’t shared that little gem with him.
“So, in addition to all the rehearsals, you’re going to compose the music as well?” Harman asked.
“Correct,” I told him, with no idea how we were going to do it.
He sighed, but wrote it in the book. I could feel the tension in my stomach unwind a single notch. We were in.
Now all we had to do was pull it off.
***
Later that morning, we had our first rehearsal. I knew that, since we hadn’t even started composing yet, we couldn’t really rehearse. I just figured we should get together and play, and exchange ideas. Mostly, I just wanted to get a feel for what it was going to be like to work together.
He let me go into the practice room first, which was surprisingly polite and gentlemanly of him. But it meant that when he squeezed in, I didn’t have anywhere to go. And then, when he had to come even further into the room so he could get the door closed behind him, he was pushed right up against me, just like when he’d caught me on the steps what seemed like weeks ago.
We stared at each other, my head level with his chest, my face upturned to him. I was close enough to feel his body heat, and it seemed to radiate from him like a furnace. “Sorry,” I said, even though it wasn’t my fault.
He closed the door and finally stepped back. Then I had to get my cello out of its case. Backing up with it in my arms, I felt my ass brush against his groin, my hair stroke his stubbled chin. “Sorry,” I said again.
And then the strangest sensation, like my hair had lifted just fractionally, and then fallen again. Like something had sucked a few strands of it upwards. Did he just smell my hair?
No, don’t be stupid. Or if he did, he meant it as a joke. He’s playing with you. Just ignore it. I turned and promptly tripped over the cable he’d stretched across the room to power his amp. I caught myself, but his hands were already on my waist, so big they felt like they could almost encircle it.