The Singles (66 page)

Scowling, I whip my gaze up. “You have ketchup on your chin.”

He swipes a napkin over the spot but offers me a crooked smile nonetheless. “You’re not still mad, are you?” Considering the last words we said to each other prior to tonight, this is an odd question for him to be asking me.

“Oh, I don’t know. Your fraternity called me out—very publicly, might I add—for being a hobag, and you went right along with them. So ... I guess I’m a little mad.”

“I swear you hold a scary grudge.”

Two years ago, he said nearly the same thing to me just before my mom called me downstairs to let me know what had happened to Lily. For more reasons than one, those words have so much more meaning after everything that’s happened, both with my family and between us.

“No grudge here. Just a little smarter.”

“You fucked two of my friends. I had to listen to them tell me how hot your goddamn body was and—” James takes a shuddering breath and then scrubs his hand over his face. “What you did was wrong, Evie.”

My gaze zeroes in on the slight bump on his nose, the result of an elbow to the face during a basketball game during our sophomore year. At the thought of my fist making contact with that bump, I smile sweetly.

“We were broken up,” I remind him through clenched teeth. “And you hooked up with more girls than that—way more. A
lot
of them while we were dating. You can lie all you want and tell me you never cheated, but I know better. I’ll take being called a hobag over actually being a cheating shitbag any day of the week.”

He doesn’t confirm or deny my allegations as he crosses his arms over his chest, wrinkling his gray t-shirt. For some reason, I can’t help but picture Rhys Delane, of all the people, in that gray shirt that hugged his body like a glove on the day we ran into each other two weeks ago.

James reaches out to touch my face, but I quickly recoil. “You changed.”

“Yep. That’s what you told me.”

“It was like you had a goal to see how much shit you could screw up after your sister died.”

“Unless you want your balls in your throat, be careful what you say.”

“Damn, Evie.” At my stony expression, he bends forward, gripping the edges of the table. “I’m not telling you this to hurt you but because I love—I
loved
you. I’m sorry things went the way they did with us. I overreacted, but you pushed me away at every turn.”

“I’m doing it again right now.”

“What?”

I get up from my seat, feeling several eyes turn in my direction. Not that I care. “I’m no longer hungry.”

“Evie,” James groans. He’s right behind me when I stalk out into the parking lot, and before I can open the door of my car, he pulls me around, dragging me to him. I shove my palms against his chest, pushing him away, watching the hurt look take over his face. “I’m trying to say sorry to you and you’re being difficult. You need to learn to let go.”

“Apology accepted, but trust me, the grudge I have for you is nowhere near as big as you try to make yourself believe. No hard feelings—just not very pleasant ones at the moment.”

“Wait ... what are you doing tonight?” There’s a sudden suggestive lilt to his voice, and I swallow back the bile in my throat. Jabbing my tongue in my cheek, I shake my head, saying nothing, and my ex gives me a pleading look. “Oh, come on. It’s not like we haven’t—”

Leaning in close to him, I point my finger at the front of the diner. I can see James’ idiot friends looking out the window at us, leering. “They’re waiting on you. So go on inside and feed them a lie about how I couldn’t keep my hands off you.” The last word is nearly shouted as I slam into my seat and start the Hyundai. I can practically smell my tires burning as I speed out of the parking lot.

What the hell was I thinking even talking to James?

A year ago when we first headed off to school together, things had been shaky between us at best. Even though a year had passed, I was still reeling from my sister’s death, and I thought getting away was what I needed. In spite of Kendra’s influence, I’d turned into a full-on party girl. At some point, I stopped caring whether or not James was actually around because there was something about going out Wednesday through Sunday that numbed away all my guilt. I knew he was messing around on me—I would have been an idiot not to know that—but I numbed the feelings associated with that away too.

He did us both a favor by ending the relationship, and up until tonight, I was pretty sure I’d cemented my “do not call again” status by sleeping with two senior members of his fraternity. He sure as hell earned himself a spot on my list thanks to his reaction.

My head pounding, I drive past the road leading to my house and get on the interstate, taking the first exit to go see my sister. I’m humiliated to admit I’ve only been to her grave once since she passed away, but fifteen minutes later, as the sun starts to disappear from the sky, I find myself sitting in front of her headstone. There are fresh flowers here, and guilt pierces my chest at the thought of my mom coming out here alone.

“How does this work?” I ask aloud, my voice breaking. “Do I tell you I miss you? I do ... but is that enough?” Burying my face in my hands, I shake my head.

“I’ve thought about you every time I close my eyes here lately. Owen Delane’s brother ... I see him now. Everyday.” Raking my hand through my hair, I release a painful laugh. I don’t say another word for several minutes and when I do, they tumble out one after the other in a raw, desperate whisper. “He doesn’t remember me, but I sure as hell remember him. He’s going to help me get everything back on track. I’m tired of screwing up.”

Over the next half an hour, I tell Lily as much as my voice will allow, realizing it’s the closest thing I’ll ever get to the girl in the red tracksuit sitting on the edge of my bed, telling me to wake up and stop being a lazy ass. By the time my phone rings and Kendra’s name scrolls across my screen, the corners of my eyes are wet.

“I’ll come back sooner next time,” I whisper, pushing myself to my feet. “I swear.”

***

W
ith my parents off on their weekend getaway, and Kendra leaving to go back to school on Sunday because of cross-country conditioning, I cut my trip a day short and drive back to Richmond on Sunday morning.

The hall I live on is eerily quiet, with only a few people around. Neither my roommate, who went to Farmville with some girls from one of her classes, nor my suitemates are back yet, and I don’t expect to see them until tomorrow night. I text Nathan inviting him to dinner, and he tells me he’ll meet me at the D-hall in an hour after he finishes practicing for the upcoming sight singing test. Since I haven’t even begun to prepare for it, I begrudgingly gather my textbooks and make the walk over to the music department.

I can hear Nathan’s powerful tenor voice as I pass by practice room three, and my lips move into a smile. I resist the urge to interrupt him. Because the campus is so empty right now, I assume the room next door is available, so when I open it to see Rhys Delane of all people behind the piano, scribbling on a blank sheet of staff paper, I freeze in the doorway.

His playing comes to a sudden halt, and he turns those amazing blue-green eyes on me, his expression just as stunned as mine. Although he’s been freshly shaven every time I’ve seen him the last couple weeks, he’s got that sexy, shadowy thing going again—the same way he looked when we first met.

“Your lesson isn’t until Tuesday. So why are you here, Evelyn?”

––––––––

M
y eyes fall to his full lips as they move, and I immediately wonder how he kisses. Is it slow? Each flick of his tongue torturous, each movement of his body carefully orchestrated. Or is it desperate? Hard and fast, rough.

Biting my tongue, I lift my eyes until they’re level with his.

“I—” Though I should turn around and leave, I take a step inside and hold up my Sight Singing and Dictation books and the frayed sheet music I’ve been going over with Professor Cameron. “I came to practice for next week,” I admit. When his lips part in a silent “ah,” I move closer, until the edge of the piano is jabbing against the side of my body. “I thought you’d be gone all weekend.”

His lips press into a thin line, and I jump when he palms several bass keys. “It didn’t work out. What about you?”

I shouldn’t—God, I know I shouldn’t—but I wonder if his issue is female-related. The thought of it being so makes me a little jealous. “I only left to see my best friend and she had to go back today, so here I am.”

“To practice.” His lips move into a smile that gives me heart palpitations. “You can always go to another room. Or wait until I’m done with this one.” Then, a little softer, he says, “Or I can give you that first lesson.”

The way he says “lesson” pulls my eyes back up to his. From where I’m standing, I take in the sight of him, from the top of his off-black hair to his plain white t-shirt to his jeans. I look at him, and no matter how wrong it is—especially after going home this weekend—there’s no denying that Rhys Delane has some kind of effect on me. And it’s powerful, at that.

When I don’t answer, he stands up and reaches for my books and music, which I quietly hand over to him.

I glance back at the clipboard by the door. “Do I have to sign in?” I whisper as he plays the key my first piece is in.

He shakes his head. “Not tonight.”

***

“Y
ou’re going flat again, Evelyn,” Rhys interrupts me two days later, on Tuesday, as we have our first official lesson. When I don’t immediately stop singing, he scoots the piano bench around just a little so that I have a clear view of him. He leans forward to rest his forearms on his knees. I look at him, from the khaki-colored pants to the black Polo shirt that keeps drawing my attention to his broad shoulders and chest and up to his blue-green eyes, which at the moment, are zeroed in on me.

If I thought Professor Cameron was bad about stopping me mid-measure, Rhys Delane is that much harder. We’ve been together for the last twenty minutes and after he had me do a warm-up, he immediately asked me to pull out “Florian’s Song,” even though I’ve never looked at that particular song before today. The first time he stopped me, I’d only been able to sing through the first four measures. This time, I at least made it to the second page of sheet music, but that’s not saying much.

“You know, maybe I’d be able to get through the damn thing if you didn’t keep telling me that.”

“I’d rather you get through it right then at all.”

Already, I’m starting to question any sanity I might have had when I made the decision to put aside my apprehension to work with Rhys. The nearly forty-five minutes we spent in here on Sunday night had lulled me into a false sense of security. Irritated, I shove my hands in the front pockets of my shorts, rock back on my heels, and glare at the bottom of the black music stand for a moment before lifting my narrowed eyes at him. “Alright, we’ve got another ten minutes, let’s do this—” My words catch when he abruptly stands up, his full lips twisted to the side as he examines me closely. “Why the hell are you looking at me like that?”

“I want you to try something for me,” he says. I shift my eyebrow, so he moves in close to me. My body is instantly aware of him, and goose bumps pucker across my skin. Since he’s a few inches taller than my five-foot-eight, I tilt my head back to search his gaze. He points to the knit black beanie holding in my mess of wavy chestnut hair.

“Take the hat off.”

“What?
No
.” At his insistent nod, I demand, “Why?”

“Because you’re hiding beneath it.”

“Told you, I’m having a—” I gasp when his fingers skim the sides of my face as he carefully plucks the hat off my head.  Before I can protest, he shoves the cap in the back pocket of his khaki pants and starts to walk backwards.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snap.

“What’s the deal with the hats? You’ve got one for every day.”

“There’s no deal, it’s called frizzy hair,” I shout, trying to reach around him, but he effortlessly blocks my hands. Straightening my back angrily, I run my hands self-consciously through my long strands of hair, my fingers shaking violently. Who the hell does Rhys think he is?

“You had no right to touch me.”

Dragging the piano bench back to its usual spot, he sits down and readjusts his sheet music. “Start from measure one,” he orders, like he didn’t just come over to me and physically remove an article of my clothing. To be honest, I’m still so stunned that I find myself touching my hatless head again just to make sure it actually happened.

When he plays the key the song is in, I give my head a jerky shake and cross my arms tightly over my chest. “You’re going to give me my shit back.”

I’m not the least bit surprised that he ignores my request. “I’ve noticed something about you.” Staring directly at the sheet music, he plays the first chord of “Florian’s Song.”

I release an exasperated noise, and his long fingers spread to play the second and then the third chord. “What would that be?”

“You hide behind all those hats. I was gonna say something about the one you had on Sunday—the red fedora-looking thing—but you showing up here caught me off guard.”

The red fedora-looking thing.
Now,
I’m
caught off guard that he even remembers what I was wearing two days ago. Swallowing the lump that’s pushing its way to the back of my throat, I force myself to focus on the issue at hand. “You still had no right to touch me,” I say again.

“I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you’re waiting for.” Playing the next few chords, he skims his stunning eyes over the length of my body, from the toes of my black flats to the tiny strip of skin exposed between my skinny jeans and pale pink t-shirt and finally to my face, where he stares into my dark brown eyes.

“You sure are cocky, Rhys.”

“I think you’re more pissed at me taking away your security blanket than the fact I touched you. Here’s my issue with all your fucking hats: If you’re hiding behind them, you’re uncomfortable. If you’re uncomfortable, we get nowhere.
Now
we can finish.”