Patience was never one of my strong suits. I took a deep breath and dialed.
“Hey,” I said when Eliot picked up. “Did you get my texts?”
“Yeah.” Definitely mad.
“I’m sorry. I was out of line.”
“I know.”
I began to pace. “I was pissy about Simon blowing me off, and I took it out on you.”
“I know.”
“And I was sick of Addie acting superior, and I have to put up with it until this stupid suspension is over, and I took that out on you too.”
“I know,” he said, not hiding his exasperation.
“You’re very smart. And probably right about Simon.” Before he could tell me he knew that, too, I rushed on. “How was class today?”
There was a pause. “Fine. Quiet.”
“I’ll bet. Did you show your map to Shaw?”
“Not yet. I want it to be perfect.”
“Nothing’s perfect,” I reminded him. “Not even me.”
“Definitely not you.” Warmth trickled back into his voice, the first signs of a thaw.
“But you love me anyway,” I said, giddy with relief.
Another pause. “It’s late. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“I’ll be here,” I said.
I couldn’t sleep, imagining the look on Simon’s face when he’d finally given up on me. I worked on our composition, but my fingering was clumsy, my pacing off, the melody hovering just out of reach. Maybe a trip to see Doughnut Simon would help. Without thinking, I moved toward the pivot—and then stopped. Another make-out session would be a distraction, not a solution. Eliot might be on the path to forgiving me, but Simon was another question entirely.
Tomorrow, I’d have my answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
JUDGING FROM THE stiff line of Simon’s back when I slunk into music the next day, forgiveness was a long way off.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered as Powell started the day’s lecture. Simon stayed immobile, the chill coming off him practically visible. “I had a family thing.”
He leaned over to Bree and murmured inaudibly. She dipped her head toward him, giggling, and Powell frowned at us over her cat-eye glasses.
“Change of plans,” she said. “Take fifteen minutes to check in with your partner, make sure everyone’s on the same page.”
The class split up, but Simon continued to face front.
“Hey.” I tapped him on the shoulder. “I said I was sorry.”
“Everything okay, you two?” Powell asked, arms folded.
“Great,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Simon?”
He sank down farther in his chair. “Awesome.”
“Sounds like it,” she replied dryly, and circled the room.
“You can’t ignore me for the whole project,” I said.
“You blew me off!” he growled, spinning around. He looked more shocked than angry. For Simon, being stood up was probably as incomprehensible as gravity failing.
“Not intentionally. I was out with my family and I lost track of time. And I apologized.”
“So what? You’re as bad as everyone says,” he shot back.
Guilt shifted to temper. “Everyone? Or Bree? How was the party, by the way? Did you two have a nice ride?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You blew me off because you were pissed about the party?”
“Please. Like I care.”
“Then why’d you bail?”
“I didn’t bail! I had to do something with my sister and it went longer than expected.” When his expression didn’t soften, I added, “Here. I worked on this last night.”
“It’s supposed to be a team project,” he said, taking the staff paper from me.
“Fine. You do the next part and I’ll take a nap,” I said. “It’s a peace offering, you jerk.”
He stared down at the notes. “I don’t know what any of this means. Does it sound decent?”
“Of course it does.” I moved to Powell’s piano. Grudgingly he joined me on the bench, and I played the opening measures.
“It’s nice,” he admitted. “It sounds like . . . I don’t know. Rainy nights.”
“A little bit, maybe.” I’d taken the music from the band at Grundy’s and improvised, adding and subtracting until the song was both familiar and new. Kind of like Simon.
“The party sucked,” he said.
“Bummer.” Impossible to keep the satisfaction from my voice.
“Would have been better if you’d come.” There was no gleam or charm to his words this time, only a quiet honesty that brushed away the remnants of my hurt.
I kept my eyes on the music and my voice light. “Wasn’t invited.”
He pressed a low C. “I’m sorry. I should have . . .”
I shrugged. “We’re even.”
“Guess so.” The dark blue of his eyes turned thoughtful. “Play it again.”
He traced the notes as I played, and I couldn’t help remembering the feel of his fingers against my cheek as we’d stood in the rain.
“How do you keep the notes straight?” he asked. “The minute the parts start going in different directions, I’m lost.”
“Perfect pitch, remember? I can hold the notes in my head more clearly. Plus, I’ve been playing violin since I was four.”
“Definitely a prodigy,” he said, shaking his head. “Your whole family is musical? Even your sister?”
“Addie’s good at everything.” I rolled my eyes. “Wait. Addie’s perfect at everything. Good isn’t good enough.”
I was accustomed to thinking of our abilities as genetic, but Simon’s question spurred one of my own. If Walking was my birthright, why did I feel like such an outsider in my own family?
“Could perfect write this? I don’t think so.” The words were teasing, but there was an undercurrent of sympathy to them. “Perfect is boring. No challenge to it. And you know how I love a challenge.”
Flustered, I turned the conversation back on him. “What about you? Brothers or sisters?”
“Neither. I was all the kid my mom could handle,” he said, a note of wistfulness creeping in. “It would be nice, though. Especially now.”
“Why now?” I asked.
He bumped his shoulder into mine, mouth curving. “I could make them do my homework.”
I glanced down at the half-filled score. “I can finish it at home. It’s no problem.”
“I told you, it’s a team project.” He scooped up the pages and held them out of reach. This Simon, it seemed, had a stubborn streak. “You don’t play well with others, do you?”
Eliot, sitting a few feet away, made a choking sound. I twisted in my seat and glared at him. He put his hands up and made a show of turning his attention to Bree.
“I play fine,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Glad to hear it. We’re never going to finish this here, you know. Let’s get together and”—he tapped the score and leered comically—“make beautiful music.”
I threw one of the crumpled papers at him. “Very funny.”
“Couldn’t resist,” he said, batting it back at me. “Look, Del. I need this grade.”
I scoffed. “You’re not failing the class. Everyone says you’re a lock for a basketball scholarship. Who’s going to care about your music grade?”
“My mom.” He looked genuinely worried. “How about Thursday? I’ve got three games this week, and my other nights are kind of shot.”
Spending time with him outside of school wasn’t a hardship. “My sister has taken over my weeknights. What about Saturday?”
“Away game,” he said apologetically. “Sunday?”
A full week before I could see him alone, away from school. I fought back disappointment. “Sure, as long as it’s in the afternoon. Library again?”