Chapter Eighteen
After the kiss—which didn’t feel like either of us had been pretending—I didn’t know how to act. So, the coward I was, I let Jeremy slip back into his work routine while I focused on anything that would keep my mind occupied. I baked cookies that came out slightly burnt, skimmed a chapter of a book I couldn’t concentrate on, and threw myself into a deep clean of the bathroom with a single-mindedness that bordered on mania. Even with my arm in the sling, I scrubbed grout like I could purge all the confusion from my brain.
Although it was all an act, it felt so real. No one kissed like that unless there was a deeper meaning behind it. There was just no way.
Predictably, I overdid the cleaning. By mid-afternoon, my elbow throbbed, and the dull ache radiated into my shoulder. Begrudgingly, I downed a pain pill, lay on the bed, and let exhaustion claim me.
The knock startled me awake, sharp and deliberate. My heart jolted as I scrambled to sit up, wiping sleep from my eyes. I hesitated at the door, peeking through the peephole before unlocking it. Jeremy stood there, his wavy hair catching the golden hues of the late afternoon sunlight. Something about the sight of him sent a flicker of warmth through me, even as my heartbeat quickened in a way I wasn’t ready to give a name to.
“Hey,” I said, cracking the door open and ushering him in with a wave. “No costume today?”
He grinned, a crooked, boyish smile that somehow made my heart leap and my knees feel like jelly. “Retired for now. But just wait—fantasy night’s around the corner.” He waggled his eyebrows, a teasing glint in his eye that drew an involuntary laugh from me.
I caught myself staring too long and dropped my gaze to the floor, grounding myself in reality. After all, this was supposed to be fake, just a game to make Derek jealous. Except... had it been entirely fake last night? That kiss had felt too real, too charged.
And then there was Mac. Why, if we were just acting, had I felt something akin to blind jealousy in her presence? She had glared at me as much as I wanted to glare right back. Maybe I had?
Jeremy interrupted my spiraling thoughts with his usual casual charm. “What time’s your practice?”
“Oh beans!” I turned to glance at the blinking clock on the nightstand. “In twenty minutes?”
“Are you asking or telling me?” he teased, his laugh warm and disarming.
“Telling,” I replied quickly, wiping at the corner of my mouth where the crusted remnants of a drool nap gave me away.
He chuckled as he stepped further into the room. “Still need a ride? I’m heading into town anyway—promised Grandma I’d stop by.”
My elbow protested at the mere idea of driving, but I shoved the thought aside. I wasn’t known for making the smartest decisions, especially when stubbornness got the better of me. “If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’d really appreciate it.”
Jeremy plopped into the chair by the window, slumping with the easy grace of someone completely at home in his skin. “Ready when you are.”
I glanced down at my rumpled sweater and leggings and winced. “Give me two minutes to change.”
I ducked into the bathroom, quickly swapping my wrinkled clothes for a fresh sweater and a pair of clean leggings. My reflection caught my eye in the mirror. Despite the lingering haze of sleep and the dark bruise peeking out from under my sleeve, I didn’t look half bad.
Not that it mattered. This wasn’t about Jeremy.
When I came out, Jeremy was sitting in the chair by the window, casually spinning my flute case in his hands like it was the most natural thing in the world. His long legs stretched out in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other, and he looked so at ease it made me pause. He glanced up as I entered, and the way his eyes softened sent a small flutter through my chest.
“All set?” he asked, rising to his feet in one fluid motion.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
The late afternoon air was crisp, carrying the faint tang of pine and the distant scent of someone’s wood-burning stove. Shadows from the parking lot trees stretched long and lazy over the pavement as we walked. I nodded toward my old car parked at the far end, her faded paint looking almost nostalgic in the golden light.
“We can take Char, if you don’t mind driving.”
Jeremy’s smirk was instant, as though he’d been waiting for this exact opportunity. He handed me the flute case, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment—long enough for my pulse to trip over itself. “I think your car likes me better when I don’t drive it. Besides, Merlot’s ready to go, and I’d feel bad taking your wheels.”
“Fair enough,” I said, unable to fight the smile tugging at my lips.
I climbed into his truck, the warmth of the leather seats meeting me like a small luxury, and he slid into the driver’s seat with an easy confidence that made it impossible not to watch him for a second too long. I shook my head at myself as he started the engine.
The hum of the truck filled the comfortable silence as we pulled onto the highway, the town unfurling in front of us. I fiddled absently with the strap of my sling, feeling the weight of his gaze flick toward me and back to the road.
“You sure you’re up for playing? You don’t want to risk making that arm worse,” he said, his tone warm but edged with concern.
“I can manage,” I replied, feigning more confidence than I felt. “It’s just a flute, not a tuba.”
His laugh came quickly, a low sound that sent warmth curling in my stomach. “Hey, don’t underestimate the workout musicians get. I heard triangle players are shredded under their tuxedos.”
I shot him a look, unable to hide the grin breaking through. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time you’re auditioning for the Philharmonic.”
“I’ll have you know my air guitar is legendary,” he said, his boyish smile lingering at the corner of his mouth, inviting a laugh that bubbled out of me before I could stop it.
“Oh, I’m sure,” I said, rolling my eyes. “The triangle players are trembling in their boots.”
The banter was easy, almost too easy, and for a second, I let myself enjoy it—the lightness of his laugh, the way his gaze lingered just a beat longer than necessary when he glanced my way.
But then his tone shifted, softer, more serious. “Hey, Molly?”
I turned to him, the sudden change pulling me out of the moment.
“Take it easy tonight, okay? Don’t push yourself so hard you set yourself back. You’ll only regret it more.” His voice carried an edge of sincerity that made my chest tighten.
I blinked, caught off guard by the genuine concern in his words. For a moment, I wanted to argue, to shrug it off with a joke, but something in the way he looked at me made me pause. Instead, I nodded. “I’ll try.”
The truck rolled to a stop outside the practice hall. As I reached for the door handle, he leaned slightly toward me, his voice light again. “I’ll pick you up in ninety minutes, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice softer than I intended.
I stepped out, the crisp air hitting my cheeks, and turned back for one last glance. Jeremy gave me a quick smile, one that stayed with me long after I walked into the building.
And despite myself, my heart did an annoying little flip I tried very hard to ignore.
The familiar hum of voices and the rustling of sheet music filled the room as I shuffled in, cradling my flute case against my hip with my good arm. My left arm, snugly immobilized in its sling, was a stark reminder of my stupidity.
“Molly!” Amy, our trumpet player, jumped out of her seat and rushed over. “What happened?”
I quickly explained that while it wasn’t sprained, it was severely bruised.
“Are you sure you’ll be able to play?”
“Of course,” I replied, flashing a grin that felt as fake as it sounded. I wasn't okay, not even close, but I wasn’t about to sit out the year-end concert. Three days to go. I could tough it out, and if I took it easy for the next two days, I should be able to lift the flute and play my heart and soul out, filling my bucket as only music could.
Sliding into my seat, I laid my flute on the stand and carefully attached the pieces. My right hand moved smoothly, but the absence of my left was a glaring problem. Bracing the body of the flute awkwardly against my chin, I lifted it to my lips. My first note wobbled like a drunk bird.
“Focus,” I muttered under my breath, gripping tighter with my fingers. The pain bloomed immediately, sharp and hot under the sling. I bit my lip.
The conductor rapped his baton against the stand. “All right, everyone. Before we get started, a quick note about Saturday’s fundraiser concert.”
A ripple of murmurs swept the room.
“The local press will be in attendance,” he continued, holding up a stack of papers. “Some representatives will be filming segments for a feature on community music programs. That means cameras in the room. If you’re uncomfortable being photographed or filmed, please let me know. But for everyone else, I’ll need you to sign a media release waiver.”
He began passing out the forms, and a sinking weight settled in my stomach. Cameras. Filming. Exposure.
I swallowed hard, feeling my pulse quicken. It wasn’t that I was camera-shy. But being filmed meant putting myself out there—letting people see me. The thought made my skin crawl.
The waiver landed on my stand, stark and accusatory. I stared as if it had personally wronged me. My chest tightened. Signing it felt like a step too far, a risk I wasn’t ready to take.
“You good?” Amy whispered, noticing my hesitation, as she passed me a pen.
I forced a nod, pushing the paper to the edge of my stand. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”
She arched a brow but didn’t press.
“Molly?” The conductor’s voice jolted me out of my thoughts.
I shook my head, offering a tight smile. “I’m not signing.”
His brows furrowed, but he nodded. “Understood. Just let me know if you change your mind.”
As he moved on, I exhaled, the tension in my chest easing slightly.
The downbeat came, and I fought to keep my posture steady. My fingers flew—too fast—rushing notes that begged for control. My right hand cramped from overcompensating, and my breathing came in shallow bursts as I struggled to maintain the embouchure.
“Oh, beans!” I hissed under my breath when the flute dipped, nearly slipping from my grip. A wrong note followed, drawing a dissonant groan from the trumpet section.
“Sorry!” I called out, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“You’re trying too hard,” Amy whispered from her seat. “Relax a bit!”
Easy for her to say. My vision swam slightly, but I blinked it away and refocused. Determination swelled in me, even as doubt nipped at the edges. I wasn’t quitting. Not for a stupid swollen elbow, not for anyone. I needed to prove, more to myself than the others, that I could do this.
This was going to hurt. A lot.
But I’d make it happen. I needed to. I’d quit too many other things in my life—my job, my cushy life, my family—this had to be something that I stuck to.
“One more time,” I muttered as the conductor stopped the piece for corrections. My voice cracked, but soft enough only I could hear. The dull pain in my arm wasn’t going anywhere, but then again, neither was I.