Chapter 11 #2
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “That sucks.” My Sunday hadn’t been much better. I’d spent the entire day catching up on a week’s worth of homework I’d blown off in order to finish my portfolio.
Xander didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on the nearby intersection.
I was about to ask what he was waiting for when a sleek car turned the corner and slowed to a stop in front of us.
As a valet hopped out, Xander stepped off the curb and rounded the hood.
He said something to the man I couldn’t hear, who nodded in response and handed him the keys.
Only after slipping into the driver’s seat did Xander remember I was still standing on the sidewalk.
He rolled down the window and leaned over to look at me, one hand already on the wheel. “You coming?”
Not needing to be asked twice, I yanked on the handle and climbed inside. “Where are we going?”
He paused for a brief moment of consideration. “Any intention of returning to the premiere?”
I shook my head and buckled my seat belt. “Not if you don’t want to.”
“Okay then, I’ll take you home,” he replied, putting the car into drive.
Home? My heart shrank slightly. I’d been under the impression we were going to hang out together. “Oh, all right.”
My disappointment must have been plain, because Xander glanced at me, eyebrows raised. “I thought we could finish our movie marathon. Is that all right?”
“Oh,” I said again, this time in a completely different tone. “Yeah, sounds good.”
Xander nodded—it was the crisp sort of nod that punctuated a decision made—and reached over to fiddle with the radio, eventually settling on a station that featured country classics.
Neither of us spoke as he wove into traffic.
Conversation usually flowed naturally between us, so the gathering silence felt loud and abrasive.
Every part of me was itching to say something, but Xander was clearly lost in his thoughts, so I clasped my hands in my lap and stared out the window.
The farther we drove, the more Xander relaxed.
Whether it was the music or the act of driving itself, every mile he put behind us seemed to draw the tension from his body.
By the time we reached Violet’s house, he appeared completely at ease.
I, on the other hand, was on the verge of chewing through the inside of my cheek.
Xander had yet to explain our hasty exit, and as we climbed from the car, I began to wonder if I’d need to resort to questioning him after all.
The sound of waves crashing against the shore filled an otherwise quiet night as we made our way up the front walk. After withdrawing a set of house keys from my clutch, I unlocked the door.
“Can I ask you something?” Xander said as we stepped inside. They were the first words he’d spoken to me since we’d left the theater.
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I swear I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop or anything, but, um—while I was looking for the bathroom Saturday, I overheard part of your conversation with Violet. She mentioned something about you applying to Juilliard?”
My lips parted in surprise. For a moment, all I could do was blink at him.
“Sorry, never mind.” Ducking his head, Xander prodded an invisible spot on the ground with his toe. “I shouldn’t have pried.”
“No, it’s fine. You caught me off guard, that’s all.
Come on. Let me show you something.” I quickly yanked off my boots and led Xander upstairs.
“My family hasn’t always lived in Laguna Beach.
I actually grew up in San Bernardino, but then Violet’s career took off.
She always wanted to live by the ocean, so when I was sixteen, my parents sold our house, and my sister bought this property,” I explained, stopping in front of a door at the end of the hall.
“I wasn’t happy about leaving, so during the renovation, Violet designed a place for me to practice.
I think she was trying to make up for us moving. ”
“Practice?”
I gestured for him to go first. “See for yourself.”
Xander pushed open the door. It took him a moment to realize what he was looking at, but once he did, his entire face lit up.
I bit down on my smile as he turned in a slow circle, taking everything in.
The room was long, nearly the length of the house, with a herringbone hardwood floor.
A row of wide windows bathed the entire space in moonlight.
In one corner, two leather sofas were arranged around a glass coffee table, and hanging on the far wall was a collection of Gibsons.
But the centerpiece of the room was a grand piano, positioned so whoever was playing had a perfect view of the Pacific.
Sometimes, I’d throw open the windows and play until my skin soaked up the salty scent of the ocean.
Finally, his eyes widened in understanding. “You’re a musician?”
Nodding, I flipped on the lights.
“What do you play?” he asked, his gaze eagerly cutting to the guitars.
“A little bit of that,” I said, gesturing at the piano, “but mainly violin.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” There was no accusation in his voice, only curiosity.
I raised my shoulder in a half shrug. “It never came up.” Also, I couldn’t imagine a conversation where I didn’t come off sounding like a wannabe. Hey, Mr. Multi-Platinum-Selling Rock Star, guess what? I’m a violinist. Let’s bond over our love of music.
“How long have you played for?”
“Thirteen years,” I said, making my way over to the sofas and taking a seat.
Xander trailed slowly behind me, distracted by my dad’s vinyl collection, which was organized by genre in a large display cabinet. He ran his fingers over the colorful jackets, pausing now and then to extract a record and study the cover art.
When he finished his examination, he plopped down beside me. “Is this why you told Melody that makeup is just a hobby? Because you want a career in music?”
“Uh-oh,” I said, gently nudging him with my elbow. “This is starting to sound like another one of your interrogations.”
The crooked grin he frequently wore made an appearance, and damn it—why did he look so cute when he was embarrassed? “Sorry, it’s just I have a habit of asking lots of questions when I’m excited about something.”
“Don’t apologize. I was just teasing,” I told him. “And the answer is yes. I’ve dreamed of being a concert violinist since I was a kid.”
Xander opened his mouth, presumably to ask something else, then hesitated, his sheepish smile stretching even further.
“Yes?” I prompted.
“Well, how come? A concert violinist seems oddly specific.”
“Because of my mom. She used to be a concert violinist, but then she got pregnant with Violet and decided to settle down instead.” My gaze subconsciously drifted to the spot on the wall where I’d convinced Mom to hang her old Los Angeles Times article.
Beside it, I’d framed a handful of black-and-white photographs taken during one of her performances.
Settled back against the cushions, Xander gave the room another sweep, his eyes lingering again on the Gibsons. “I take it you look up to her?”
“I idolized her. Violet had zero interest in taking lessons, but I was obsessed. My mom gave me my first violin when I was six and started teaching me how to play. The rest is history.”
Xander peeled his gaze from the instruments and looked at me. “Meaning what?”
“Remember telling me you had to try a few sports before you found archery? It wasn’t like that for me. I was good from the start. Like scary good,” I said. “Do you know who Tracy Hoop is?”
He nodded. “Yeah, the band’s been on Talks with Tracy before.”
I pointed at the bookshelf where a picture of me with the talk show queen stood. “Me too. She did a segment on prodigy musicians when I was nine. I got to perform for the audience and everything.”
“Seriously?” Xander jumped to his feet, walked over to the picture, and picked it up. He smiled as he examined it. “Wow, this is so cool.”
“Yeah, I really rocked those pigtails, didn’t I?”
“You were cute,” he said, putting the frame back in place.
“Were cute? Ouch.”
The smile slid off his face. “I didn’t mean—”
“Xander, relax,” I said, trying not to laugh at his panicked expression. “I’m giving you a hard time.”
“Right, of course. Um—back to your story.”
“Well, when I was ten, I was accepted at Worthwind Music. It’s the world’s leading musical preparatory school, and most kids who study there go on to be famous classical musicians or composers.
The thing about Worthwind though is that it’s kind of like training for the Olympics; you live and breathe music, and my dad didn’t want that for me.
He insisted I have a normal childhood—go to public school, play an intramural sport, get a part-time job, that sort of thing.
My mom, on the other hand, who gave up her career to raise us, thought he was holding me back. ”
“What happened?”
“They compromised. Mom agreed to forgo Worthwind as long as I kept up with my private lessons and practiced every day. I’ve been planning on Juilliard ever since.”
“So there was never anything else you wanted to do?” Xander asked. “Nothing besides music?”
I shook my head. “Never.”
“Wow.” He sounded impressed. Then, like a magnet to metal, his gaze flickered back to the Gibsons.
“You know, those guitars aren’t just for decoration,” I told him. “You can try one out if you’d like.”
“Really?” Xander shot across the room before I could blink. When he didn’t go for the vintage Les Paul, I cocked my head in surprise. He pulled down a Hummingbird instead.
“What about you?” I asked as he tested out the guitar with a few soft strums. “What made you want to play?”