The Singles (60 page)

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.

Two Years Ago

––––––––

“I
-I don’t think I can go,” I tell my mom, looking directly at her and wanting nothing more than for her to meet my gaze. She won’t—I already know that—because looking at me would mean facing the inevitable.

Lily’s gone for good.

Mom drums her nude, gel-manicured fingernails on the thatched placemat, the beat uneven and rushed. “The car will be here to pick us up in an hour.” Her hazel eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, focus on the kitchen window. From the looks of it, she’ll start crying again at any second.

Five more taps of her fingers. A sniffle. Then two additional beats against the table.

She turns her head slightly in my direction, and I get a clear view of her face. My mother’s always been beautiful. Even with her skin splotchy from crying and her short, mocha-colored hair unbrushed, she’s still stunning in that tragic, ethereal sense.

“The car comes in an hour,” she repeats before pushing away from the kitchen table and shuffling away, her bedroom slippers dragging on the hardwood floors. Even though it never left her mouth, I know the exact word rolling through her mind while I listen to her climb the stairs and slam her bedroom door.

Selfish
.

Maybe she’s right. But maybe, if she’d just looked at me, she would have seen that selfishness is rooted in an even deeper emotion: fear.

I don’t want the last time I see my older sister to be ... this.

I don’t even want to face the memory of my last real encounter with Lily, but this—
this
is not a memory I think I can deal with.

In the end, though, my dad, who’s always taken my side on any and everything, stalks into the kitchen and motions for me to follow him. He gives me a gentle nudge toward the staircase with the instructions to get dressed and do it fast. Skin flushed, I find myself in my room. By the time I’m ready there are clothes and jewelry all over the place and my chest is heaving up and down. I glare at myself in the mirror, at my chocolate brown eyes that are clear because I’ve been too numb to cry.

Eyes just like Lily’s.

“You selfish bitch,” I mutter and make myself look away. “You’ve wrecked everything.”

On the way to the funeral home, none of us say a word to each other. The closer we get, the more I don’t mind the silence. Maybe quietness, solitude, is what I need to make it through today.

I sit on the front row with my parents, unable to cry or breathe or think clearly as, one-by-one, people who knew my sister—who adored her—tell us how sorry they are for our loss.

There’s her overachieving snob of a best friend, Kendra. Tyler, the boy who broke Lily’s heart a year ago; the same one who tried, unsuccessfully, for the last eight months to win her back. There are teachers and teammates and her closest friends and those who knew her in passing. There’s my own boyfriend, James. When he walks past, he stops for a moment to give my hand a reassuring squeeze, but I don’t say anything to him.

I don’t trust my words.

So I watch in stunned silence. There are so many people I don’t personally know that I barely notice the tall man who stops to talk to my parents. He’s speaking in a hushed voice, but the moment, “Rhys. Owen Delane is my brother,” tumbles from his lips, my horrified gaze snaps up. I don’t see very much of him through the sudden haze of tears, but I listen to every word, each one catching my breath.

“...so sorry for what happened. For what this has done to your—”

Before he can finish, my mother—who’s never physically disciplined me a day in my life, the same woman who hasn’t been able to look me in the eye since we received the news about Lily—is on her feet, her eyes meeting his as she swings her hand roughly across his face.

The slap sends a jolt through my body. Like everyone else, I’m frozen in my seat, shocked at the harsh exchange playing out before my eyes.

“What gives you the right to think you can come here?” Mom demands, shrugging off my dad who stands and tries to take her by the shoulders. “Will it help you sleep better at night? Do you think I give a shit if you or your brother is sorry?” With every word, her volume rises, until she’s practically screaming.

Every emotion that Delane is feeling passes over his tan face, and I can’t help but feel for him, the brother of the man who killed my sister. Driving my eyes down long enough for me to catch my breath, I dig my fingers into the pew beneath me. What happened to Lily wasn’t
this
man’s fault. Mom must know that. But the more I try to reason with myself, the more bitter I feel , the more tightly the knots threading through my ribcage pull.

It’s not his fault,
I silently yell at myself.

When I look back up, Delane’s back is straight, and his expression is unreadable. His eyes sweep over me for a brief moment, just long enough for him to give me an earnest nod, and then he turns on his heel and walks away. I know every head inside the funeral home is turned on him, so I look at my mother instead.

Dad has pulled her back down on the bench beside him, and she buries her face in the crook of his neck, sobbing uncontrollably. He looks ahead—quiet and tearless—his gaze zeroed in on the white casket that’s not even ten feet away. Behind us, I know there’s more crying and hushed whispers because my mom just decked a guy, but there’s a blaring in my ears that tunes it all out.

And then I’m on my feet, looking down at my parents with wide eyes that burn at the corners. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, finally breaking my silence.

I don’t fully realize that I’ve left the building until the brisk fall air hits my face. It, combined with the tears that have begun to fall, stings my cheeks. As soon as my foot touches the bottom step, a hand clamps down on my shoulder. I half-expect it to be my father, but when I spin around, I’m staring in to Kendra’s dark brown eyes.

In spite of everything she must be going through herself, her jet-black eyebrows are pulled together in concern for me. I’ve been nothing but a bitch to this girl since she and my sister became friends, but now she’s looking at me like I’ll break at any moment.

Kendra presses her lips together for a moment and then releases a breath. “Evie ... where are you going?”

The sad reality is, I don’t know.

“Oh God,” I whisper. “I’ve fucked everything up.” Before I can murmur another word, her arms are around me, drawing a gasp and a guttural sob from the back of my throat. I drop my head against her shoulder. “I don’t even have the—”

“Shut up,” she orders in a calm voice as she holds me even tighter. “Shut up and stop trying to do this on your own. You shouldn’t.” She releases me, takes a step back, and braces herself. “I don’t want to do it on my own either, okay? If you want to walk, I’ll go with you. If you want to talk, I’ll do that too. But it’s better if you go back inside. Here—” She sits on the bottom step—“I’ll stay with you until you’re ready.”

For the next ten minutes, she and I sit together on that bottom step. We say nothing—I’m almost certain neither of us manages more than a few breaths—but she doesn’t leave and neither do I. Finally, at the sound of Lily’s favorite Regina Spektor song that I’d suggested we use for the slideshow, Kendra stands and jerks her head to the front door.