Chapter 8
Easton
Dreamer—Dermot Kennedy
I’m Sorry.
Two words. An apology, but no explanation. I didn’t answer Rayne’s message yesterday, even though I read it, and now she’s standing in front of me, staring at me in horror with those gray eyes. I’m ashamed of myself.
But to answer and tell her that it’s okay and she doesn’t need to feel bad would have been a complete lie. Asking her why she ran away, and why she didn’t tell me she was in Boston, would have been pointless. She probably wouldn’t have told me anyway.
Would she really not have told me? the stupid, much-too-persistent voice in my head asks.
I’ve been trying to ignore it for days. First it tried to get me to text Rayne, and then to answer her message.
I didn’t do either. Now I’m not only ashamed of myself, but I regret not listening to it.
Because maybe this time she would have responded, and then we would have started to have a real conversation again.
Eventually, we would have both figured out that we’d see each other again this morning.
Then we wouldn’t be so shocked. Rayne’s lips are moving, and I don’t have to be a genius to know what she’s trying to say.
What are you doing here?
I’m asking myself the same question: What is she doing here? She shouldn’t be here. Correction: She doesn’t want to be here.
At least not the Rayne I know. Or knew? I’m not sure.
Because I don’t really know her, do I? Rayne is Liam Bellamy’s daughter, and I didn’t notice, didn’t know, didn’t figure it out.
Not even when she was standing right in front of me.
Maybe I would have recognized her sooner if she hadn’t hidden her hair under her hat.
Those long purple locks that are impossible to miss are now pulled back into a tight bun.
“Okay, everyone, to the barres.” Mr. Conrad claps his hands and snaps me out of my thoughts. Rayne flinches and turns away abruptly. Only when she turns to the two girls beside her do I notice Zoe and Mae.
Mae waves cheerfully at me, while Zoe smiles warmly.
At least they seem happy to see me. Rayne, on the other hand, ignores me completely, and I can see how tense she is.
Her shoulders are hunched and her hands are clenched into fists.
My instincts urge me to go over and talk to her, but this is not the right time.
After all, I’m not here for her; I have a job to do.
I force myself to turn away and sit down at the piano. The instrument is beautiful and probably worth more than all the instruments we have in our living room at home put together—and we have a lot of them.
My heart skips a beat as I place my hands on the keys.
I wish I could say that it’s no big deal, that this is a job like any other and I’m only here to earn money.
But that’s not entirely true. Sure, I’m mainly here for the money, but it’s definitely not a typical job.
Not like the one at the record store or the one at the Lighthouse.
Working at Repeat Records is chill and not very demanding. And people come to the Lighthouse because of me and my music. They get lost in it and just want to forget their lives and their problems for one night. They want to be free, at least for a few hours. I can help with that.
But this . . . I can’t just play anything I want.
I’m accompanying the dancers while they practice, and for that, more is necessary than just mastery of the piano and the talent to improvise.
For this job you need to understand ballet, and I’m grateful to my sister, Willow, and all the years that I spent accompanying her practice at home for that.
I’m also grateful to my friend Jase, of course, who suggested me as a replacement for the usual accompanist when she wasn’t able to make it.
I look up and immediately see Rayne in the mirror.
She looks different from last time I saw her, which is no surprise.
After all, she’s wearing a form-fitting black leotard and white tights that cling to her petite body rather than a coat that’s too big for her.
Her hair is pulled back into a tidy bun.
The rings and bracelets are gone, and only the piercings in her nose and ears remain.
She’s pale, staring stubbornly straight ahead, not even blinking in my direction.
But her fingers intertwine nervously with one another, as though she wants to twist the rings that aren’t there.
Then she looks at me. Only very briefly, but her gaze hits me directly in the heart.
I know we have to talk. There’s no other way.
I’m going to be here every day, and I’m going to see her. I can’t just pretend that nothing happened, that we don’t know each other. We have to talk. I can tell by the way she’s watching me with this insecure look in her eyes that she wants to talk as much as I do.
“Let’s begin.” Mr. Conrad’s clear voice brings me back to the task at hand, reminding me to concentrate on why I came here. I begin to play.