“Okay,” he simply says. “If she’s good with it, take her upstairs tonight.”
I’m not sure why I’m so surprised that he agrees so easily. Or maybe I do know. “You’re not afraid I’m going to cross a line?” Saying those words, I realize thatI’mafraid I’ll hurt her, and I need his reassurance.
“No,” he says with a clarity that immediately eases the tightening worry around my chest. “You’ve broken out of your shell. You’ve learned your lesson—a very hard one at that. I know you won’t hurt her again because you’ve finally accepted your emotions for her.” He pauses, voice softening. “I know you don’t want to see her like that again.”
I breathe through the weight of his words and let them settle deep within me. It’s so damn hard to hear it out loud from another person—embarrassing—but he’s right. I do care about her—so damn much—and she’s all that matters now. I still don’t understand how it happened. It’s like something cracked, irrevocably, that night when I humiliated Jenna and came downstairs to find her broken and unresponsive. It’s like I woke up from a bleak nightmare that had gone on for years—the numb shell broke and I could suddenly feel again. All those feelings are about to get the better of me each and every day, threatening to drag me into crippling uncertainty. But I won’t linger on them. Because none of that matters when I remember the sight of Jenna’s frozen body and her distant gaze. Dad is right. I don’t want to see her like that again. Ever.
I must have zoned out, lost in thought, because Dad snaps me back to the present with a change of subject.
“It’s only two weeks until the competition. You and Jenna have to start practicing “Die Moldau” together. She has her part down to a tee—we’ve been working on it this week—but you need to play together before the big day.”
“I know,” I say. “Tonight, after dinner, I’ll bring her upstairs, and we’ll practice. Then, if she wants, I’ll keep her up there.”
He gives a nod of agreement, and I turn to leave, suddenly overwhelmed by all the honesty and long-unspoken things I’ve opened up to. But it’s not the baring of my vulnerabilities that sits heavy in my stomach when I go upstairs and practice “Die Moldau”—the melody that I knowsheloves. It’s something else. A feeling of having taken from her and still doing so. This competition is all about me and my selfish need to win. I don’t want that. I want to do what’s best forher.
62
The New Plan
Jenna
Ian and I have just sat down to eat when Killian comes rushing down the stairs in the evening, a determined look in his eyes, hair disheveled as if he’s been raking his hand through it repeatedly.
His voice is steadier than I’ve heard in a while when he approaches us with quick steps and announces, “We’re not doing the competition.”
I drop the spoon into the pasta pot. “What do you mean?”
Stopping at the end of the table, he presses a palm into the surface and leans in to tuck my hair behind my ear. “You’re not ready.”
My face falls. “I want to play.”
His expression takes on a stern edge. “You’re not ready.”
A twinge of hurt tightens my chest. “What are you saying? That I’m not good enough?”
“Killian, you’ve been working toward this for seven months,” Ian says. “You’re both as ready as can be. You just need to do some polishing together. We just talked about this.”
“I don’t mean it like that.” He slips a hand behind my hair, resting it at the back of my neck, possessive and so damn tender it nearly draws tears to my eyes. “She’s still recovering. From w-what I d-did to her.” He firms his grip, and his voice becomes steady again. “I’m not taking any risks with her.”
“Killian, I can do this,” I insist.
He tightens his grip, leaning so close that all I can focus on is his demanding blue eyes. “I’m done making everything about Dad’s and my need to win. I’m not risking your well-being for a shitty trophy.”
His hand on my nape—that unwavering authority—makes it hard to breathe, let alone speak up to him. “This is not just about you,” I say, too softly. Swallowing hard, I steel myself and muster more resistance. “I’ve been working my ass off for months. I’ve been waiting five years to do a competition. Five years. You can’t take this away from me.”
He looks off to the side, jaw ticking. “Okay,” he finally relents. “We’ll do the competition, but not ‘Die Moldau.’ I know you wanted to play the melody, and there’s not enough time for you to learn the primo part.” He rounds me and takes a seat at my side. “We’ll play your piece instead.”
I whip my head toward him. “What? No!”
“What piece?” Ian asks, but his question fades in the surge of my incredulity.
“What do you mean?” I press. “You said I wasn’t ready. I’m most certainly not ready for this.”
Killian flashes me a wide, self-satisfied smile. “Always underestimating yourself. Just like I did. But I’m done underestimating you.”
“Killian,” I insist, “I can’t do it.”
“Of course you can.” Eyes darkening, he trails his tongue across his lower lip. “You did it with that wooden phallus stuck in your ass, me watching. Doing it on a stage will be no feat.”