Eternal Heat (Firework Girls #3) (11 page)

I blinked at her, trying to keep my wits about me. “Are you sure you want to? Are you okay? We could go get a test right now, if you want.”

Sam sighed, considering. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m ready to deal with it if I am. But it’s been kind of haunting me all day.”

“Come on,” I said, standing. “Let’s get you one, and then you’ll know.”

So we did, and as we went to the store for the test, and later as she went to the bathroom to take it, I tried not to let my memories of doing all those things the year before haunt me. I tried not to start aching over Erik again, something I still did often even though I really didn’t want to. What kept it all at bay was my worry for Sam. I didn’t want her going through all that.

If she came out of that bathroom with a look of dread on her face, I was prepared to give her my support.

What I wasn’t prepared for was what actually happened.

She came out triumphant, arms up, big grin on her face. “Halle-fucking-lujah!”

Relief on her behalf washed over me and I jumped up, smiling too. I gave her a big congratulatory hug.

“Maybe I’ll try those birth control shots after all,” she said. “The pill doesn’t agree with me but I don’t think I want to bank on condoms anymore.”

And that was the very instant I went from smiling and celebrating with her, to completely breaking down. It was like a dam somewhere deep inside me burst and knocked the shit out of me before sweeping me downstream.

“Hey,” Sam said, furrowing her brows at what she must have thought were tears of relief, but still having a half grin on her face, “I think you were more worried about me than I was.”

My tears escalated to sobbing and I sank to the bed, covering my face. Sam sat next to me, her arm on my back. “What the hell?” she said softly. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

It all came out then. I hadn’t told anyone else on the planet my story. My parents knew, and that was it. But I told Sam everything. Absolutely everything, including how much I was still hurting about it and how nothing I did seemed to help.

Who knew it would take wild, little Sam to help me through it? She listened and commiserated with me, but it was when I talked about how I’d been with boys that she grew even more concerned.

“Listen, honey,” she said firmly, “I think you need to step back from men for a while.”

I blinked at her in disbelief. I couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d said she found sex to be an absolute bore. “Huh?”

“It’s not good for you. God, you’re like a lost little girl right now. Fucking a bunch of guys is only going to make that worse.”

I still didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t believe Sam was saying this, but yet, what she was saying felt right. In fact, hearing those words out of her mouth felt like such a
relief.

I gave her a quizzical look. “Not the Samantha Lawson advice I would have expected.”

She shrugged easily. “Look, I know people judge me for the way I am with boys, but I don’t really give a shit. It’s not hurting the guys I’m with and it’s not hurting
me.
I know what I’m doing. It’s
fun.
That’s it. I don’t want anything more than that and I look for guys who feel the same way, because I’m not interested in screwing around with some dude’s heart. But this is not fun for you. It’s destructive and making you completely miserable. You need a better way to cope, sweetheart.”

I nodded slightly in agreement. “It used to be my music,” I said. “Erik kind of...” I paused, trying to find the right words. “It’s like he’s all wrapped up in it now, and I don’t want him to be. I... I miss how it used to be with the music. It used to be mine.”

“Fuck that shit,” Sam said firmly. “It’s still yours. Your music belonged to you before he ever came into the picture. Don’t let him take it from you now. When you sit down at that piano, you find a way to make it yours again.”

It took some time, but eventually, I did just that.

I took Sam’s advice and stepped back from boys, and I kept the drinking under control. Sam was a big help there too, because even though she had a high tolerance for alcohol and could really put it away, I’d never once seen her really drunk.

I realized I’d been holding back with my music, and bumped my practicing hours up to where they should have been all along. I put in extra time after practicing my assigned pieces and—this was probably the biggest thing—I started to play around with the music I heard in my head.

I hadn’t improvised at all since Erik and I had done it together, but since the music in my head was just mine, playing it made the piano just mine again too. Whatever part of me had been huddled and hiding from the music let go, and I started making better progress in the program.

I never did tell Chloe and Isabella my story. It wasn’t because I couldn’t. I knew I could tell them and they’d accept and support me just like Sam did. Maybe that’s exactly what made me feel like I didn’t need to say anything. It didn’t feel like I was hiding a dark secret. I simply didn’t tell them because talking to Sam unlocked something inside me, and I didn’t want to curse it. I was finally starting to get better and leave things in my past at last. Why mess with what was working?

After a time, I dated a bit. Eventually I figured it was time to move on, even though part of me would always have a soft spot for my first love.

That’s how it works for everybody, right?

There have been a few guys I’ve gotten deep in enough to be intimate with, but they’ve all fizzled out in the end. They never got that high off the ground to start with, in spite of them being good guys. But I’m okay with not having a serious relationship. My chosen career path isn’t exactly friendly to that kind of thing anyway, what with all the traveling concert pianists have to do. The toll on relationships is famous in my field. But I don’t need it. My music has taken over my soul in the big way it used to.

I’ve often thought there may not be room enough in my heart to love a man the way I know I can
and
love my music the way I do.

And then Erik shows up at that pre-audition for the competition, over five years after the last time I saw him, and it all comes back to me.

It was all in the past. Over. Sure, my heart still hurt if I thought about him too much, but the easy fix to that was just not to think about him too much. Everyone kind of aches for their first love from time to time anyway, don’t they? You can’t let stuff like that stop you from being happy.

And I haven’t. I’ve been happy. I have.

But now he’s here, on my turf, and I feel trapped.

Now
I’m
the one who wants to run.

I’m in the living room at Sam’s house, a little fixer-upper she bought a few months ago only a mile from Hartman College and a couple miles from her job where she works as a graphic designer. The house has a distinct seventies feel, but she has a fun vision for it. Until she gets around to actually making changes, though, the walls will remain what Sam refers to as “puke” green. Sam and I are sitting cross-legged on the pink shag carpet and video chatting with Chloe and Isabella.

Chloe’s just an hour and a half away, on the coast in Swan Pointe. She and her fiancé Grayson live there, but they come up from time to time to hang out with us. Isabella, on the other hand, is in her second year of grad school—like me—and is clear across the country at Harvard working on her masters in microbiology.

The four of us Firework Girls group text pretty regularly, but when I started telling them about a certain ghost from my past named Erik, it was easier to get Chloe and Isabella caught up on screen. Now that my past has reappeared in my present, I’m going to need all the support from my friends I can get. I wish I’d waited for Jack to get here too, because telling the story has worn me out and I don’t want to have to do it all over again.

“Wow...” Isabella says, once I’ve finished and we’re all sitting in silence, taking it all in. Isabella trails off, like she’s not sure what to say. I’m fidgeting with my hair, which I’ve only worn in a single braid for years now. Hell, I don’t know what to say either.

She leans heavily back in her chair. She’s sitting at her desk, I can tell. Her long, brown hair is pulled up into a bun and she has a pencil stuck in it. There’s an impressive stack of massive textbooks off to one side. She sighs, crosses her copper-colored arms, and tilts her head, considering me.

“So where are you with him?” she finally asks.

“Nowhere,” I say firmly. “I don’t want to be anywhere with him. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want him anywhere near me.” I groan in frustration and toss my braid behind me. “I can’t believe he’s here!”

“Did he transfer here or something?” Chloe asks. She’s lying on her stomach on her bed, her auburn hair tucked around in front of one shoulder and her feet kicking up behind her. Even on screen, her ice-blue eyes are striking. “He definitely wasn’t there last year right?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“Maybe he transferred here from somewhere else because he knew you’d be here,” Sam says next to me.

“I don’t know,” I say. “If anything, he probably thought I wouldn’t be. Even if he assumed I came here for my undergrad degree, he probably thought I’d be gone by now. Most people go somewhere different for their graduate work.”

“Why didn’t you?” Sam asks, cocking her head at me.

“Hartman has a great program,” I say. That was mostly the reason. I don’t need to add that I was scared to apply anywhere else. I barely admit that one to myself.

“Didn’t you say he looked shocked to see you?” Isabella asks, returning to the topic at hand.

I nod, reliving that moment when Erik met my eyes. He looked as mortified to see me as I’d felt about seeing him. I still feel the echoes of what it was like to pass him in the aisle, my body tuned into him like a beacon.

Then I remember what happened next, how I fumbled over my own fingers like I’d never played the piano before in my life. Sure, I pulled it around in the end, but I wasn’t happy with my performance, and clearly Professor Reinecht wasn’t either.

Erik, on the other hand, played like a god.

“Ugh,” I say. “I can’t believe he’s in the competition. I’m so screwed.”

“Oh, come on,” Isabella says, reassuringly, leaning forward in her chair. “You’re always nervous about this stuff.”

“And you never have any reason to be,” Chloe adds, kicking her feet slightly behind her.

I know what they’re talking about. If I’m forced to be honest with myself, I know I don’t have as much faith in my abilities as maybe I should. Sometimes I still can’t believe how far I’ve come as a musician. It doesn’t seem like a girl like me should have the kind of success I’ve had. That self-doubt is a recurring theme I can’t seem to shake. This would not be the first time my girls have had to give me encouragement before a competition or performance.

But this is different. This is Erik.

“You don’t understand,” I say soberly. “His music is like something from another planet. I can’t beat that. I know I can’t.”

Sam huffs next to me. “Well, not if you think like that you won’t. No one’s unbeatable. Especially when they’re playing against you, girl.”

Isabella and Chloe both nod in agreement. I don’t argue. I guess we’ll all find out soon enough.

“Thanks for your support,” I say glumly.

“Give it your best,” Isabella says.

I nod. I will. It probably won’t matter in the end, but I will.

“I still want to know what he’s doing here,” Sam says sternly. She sounds like she’s ready to hunt Erik down and hogtie him somewhere as punishment for hurting her friend. Knowing Sam, she’s probably thinking
something
along those lines. It’ll only get worse when Jack’s in the mix. They’ve been known for taking matters into their own hands before. After all, they were the ones to come up with the prank that earned us our name, the Firework Girls.

Of course, that was our freshman year in college. We’ve all grown up a lot since then. Sam and Jack are getting too old for those kinds of shenanigans.

I glance at the mischievous look on Sam’s face.

At least, I think they are.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk to him?” Chloe asks. “Even if only to find out what happened?”

“I know what happened,” I say firmly. “He abandoned me. I don’t give a shit why he did it.”

By the time I’m in my one-on-one session with Professor Reinecht the next day, I’m feeling a little better. After talking to my girls (and later Jack, when he showed up for a late-night raid on Sam’s pantry), I feel like I have a kind of armor around me. I’m not here alone. I have my friends. And like Jack said, Hartman belongs to me more than it does to Erik. “Let
him
avoid
you,
” Jack had said.

That part is easier said than done, it turns out. I
have
been glancing around for Erik everywhere I go, especially in the music building. But I haven’t seen him. I’ve had at least one session of all my classes this semester, so I know we don’t share any, thank god. But lately I haven’t gone to the Gizmo—the college’s on-campus cafe I tend to haunt—and I took a different walking route this morning. I usually walk along the outskirts of campus, but didn’t want to risk seeing him.

In session, I can tell Professor Reinecht is a little miffed about my screw up on stage yesterday. “What happened with your audition, Ashley? That was pathetic.”

“Sorry,” I say, my cheeks flushing a bit. “It was something personal. I won’t let it happen again.”

He grunts and taps the sheet music for my competition piece, indicating the conversation is over and he wants me to play. I’m getting off easy. He’s a notoriously tough task-master. Some students complain about it, but given how brutal the music world is, he’d be doing no one any favors by treating us with kid gloves. I like that he’s blunt, because then when he praises me I know I’m really doing something right.

As I begin to play, he paces next to the piano with gusto, another habit students find annoying. Several measures in, he gives a sharp, “Ah!”

I stop obediently.

“Listen,” he says, tapping his ear. He plays the left-hand only of two bars. “This. Not this.” He plays it again, and I can hear the difference. “Understand?”

I nod. Professor Reinecht is a man of few words. He’s told me before he likes that I can
hear
his instruction without him having to waste a bunch of words on it. He’s unlike any professor at Hartman, that’s for sure, but he’s my favorite. He retired from his own successful career after playing in celebrated halls all over the world and he’s brilliant. He was one of the reasons I wanted to continue my graduate degree at Hartman.

“Again,” he orders, and resumes his pacing.

I start over. When I get through the measure he just corrected he keeps pacing instead of stopping me, a good sign. We continue on this way until we’ve gone all the way through the number together.

“How are your practice sessions?” he asks, stopping by the piano.

I give him a rundown of my current routine and he nods with approval. “Double your time on this,” he says, tapping the sheet music in front of me.

“Okay.”

“See you next week.”

I get up and gather the music together. “Do you think I’ll do all right in the competition?” I ask, trying not to sound nervous.

He nods, and I feel heartened. I expect him to say something encouraging. I can count on him for that almost as much as I can count on my Firework Girls. But what he says is this: “It’ll be a tough run this year.”

Feeling somewhat deflated, I pack my bag. I don’t want to ask why he thinks it’ll be a tough run.

I’d rather not hear him say it aloud.

After a few more days go by without running into Erik, I start to relax a bit. Whatever his schedule is, it doesn’t seem to overlap with mine. The fact that he’s at Hartman at all almost starts to fade into the background. The only time I really think about it is when I’m practicing for the competition, which I’ve been doing with gusto.

I added the Gizmo back into my routine yesterday, but today is the day I regret it. As I pick up my caramel macchiato from the barista, I turn to find Erik right behind me. I stop cold. He’s looking right at me, and God, he’s so close. Not invading-my-personal-space close, but yet again my body seems so in tune with his physical location, I feel like a moth being pulled to the flame.

I hold my ground though. He burned me once. That was more than enough.

“Hi Ashley,” he says quietly. “I’ve been looking for you.”

I frown at him. “Really? I’ve been avoiding you.”

He nods, contrite. Or he appears that way anyway. Who the hell knows what he’s really thinking? “Do you think we could talk?” he asks.

Oh
now
he wants to talk? Fuck that. I walk around him and head for the door. “Leave me alone,” I say.

I leave the Gizmo and cross the patio to the campus grounds. He doesn’t follow me.

I’m disappointed that he doesn’t follow me.

I hate us both for that.