“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.
Chapter Two
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.