His words and how he watched me as he said them, like he respected and valued me, made my chest feel airy and light. I recognized he was trying to be a good friend. I glanced down at my hands, feeling self-conscious beneath his steady and apprizing scrutiny.
“I am happy.” I nodded at this assertion.
I was happy.
Even without Martin I would be happy and this realization caused a burst of gratefulness to warm me from my head to my toes—for him, for our week on the island, and for our odd Christmas in New York.
Because I wanted him to know he’d helped me and that I would always be grateful, I continued unprompted, “I love music, I love playing it and composing it. You were right to push me. You made a difference in my life and I don’t think I’ve thanked you for that yet. So,” I glanced up, found him watching me with avid interest, “thank you, Martin. Thank you for finding me in that chemistry closet and seeing me in the first place. Thank you for helping me see myself.”
We were at a light and Martin studied me for a long moment. His jaw ticked pensively and he seemed to be working through a problem of some importance. I allowed him time and silence to ponder.
At last he said, “I’m sorry.”
Or, at least I thought that’s what he said. But the chances of Martin Sandeke saying I’m sorry out of the blue felt really slim. More likely he’d said, I’m starry or, I’m a Ferrari.
I sought to clarify. “What? What did you say?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his eyes moving over my face while his lips curved into a small smile, possibly because I looked so entirely incredulous.
The light turned green and we were off. As he spoke his eyes never strayed from the road.
“I let you down, and you’d trusted me. I thought…after spring break, I thought I could wait you out. I kept expecting you to change your mind, kept thinking you were bluffing, that eventually you’d agree to see me in secret—that way we’d both get what we wanted. But when I chased you down in the student union and you told me I was ruining you…I saw that you were right and how fucking stupid I’d been to wait. It didn’t occur to me that we were over until you asked me to walk away. And when you did, I realized I was too late.”
The sobriety that accompanied an unpleasant memory and serious matters chased away my smidge of warm fuzzies, and replaced them with a simmering discontented heat and a renewed flush of discomfort. I remembered that day with vivid starkness, like it had just happened. I remembered how well he’d looked at the time, how unchanged, until I’d practically begged him to leave me alone.
And then he’d looked destroyed. His agony a tangible thing, and a mirror of mine.
I stared at his profile, really looked at him. He was the same Martin, but different. We were both so different. I wasn’t hiding in closets and he wasn’t losing his temper.
“You deserved better,” he said quietly. He sounded like he was talking to himself.
Martin pulled into the senior center and parked the car. His movements were jerky, like he was irritated with himself, or regretting his words, or the memory. Whatever it was, he was agitated and distracted as he exited the car. Meanwhile I felt incapacitated by the puzzle pieces arranging themselves in my mind.
He’d looked fine that day at the student union because he hadn’t thought we were over. And this realization made me feel hollow, because I’d misjudged him.
And he’d deserved better.
CHAPTER 11
Molecular Shapes
Martin stayed for the show, but things were tense.
Willis glared at Martin.
Fitzy glared at Abram.
Janet glared at the senior citizens. I surmised she wasn’t a fan.
And Abram…well, he played his guitar and ignored the ire.
Luckily the show was only two sets of classic Christmas hits. When it was over, most of the band went their separate ways in record time and with no pleasantries. I hoped the weighty tension was due to spending a week together almost non-stop, and we’d get our groove back after a break.
Abram lingered, taking his time packing up his bass. Once we were alone, he walked over to where I was stuffing my tie and jacket into my bag and stopped just in front of me.
“Hey,” he said, his smile small and genuine, but as always with a hint of smirkiness.
“Hey.” I peered at him through one eye. “You look like you’re up to no good.”
“Me? Never.” His grin spread as he reached for my hand and pulled it face up between us. Then he placed a small bunch of greenery tied with a white ribbon in the center of my palm.
“What’s this?” I split my attention between him and the little package.
“It’s mistletoe.” His smile became lopsided and his dark eyes danced merrily. “For granting wishes.”
I laughed, though I’m sure it was shaded with dejection, and I sighed. “You’re good people, Abram Fletcher.”
“So are you, Katy Parker.”
I stared up at him and he stared down at me. I knew he perceived my melancholy because his crooked smile became a questioning frown.
“Hey…everything okay?”
I didn’t know how to answer, but in the end I didn’t have to, because Martin picked that moment to walk into the room. Both Abram and I turned our heads at the interruption. Martin’s gaze narrowed as he assessed the scene before him, his eyes settling on where Abram still held my hand between us.
Before he could slip a mask over his features, I saw a range of emotions flicker behind his eyes, but none were permanent. In the end it was just an unreadable jumble.
Eventually, he straightened, standing taller, and his gaze meandered back to me, cool and aloof.
“Are you ready? I don’t want you to miss your train.” His tone was as flat as the line of his mouth.
“Yeah, almost.” I turned to my bag and placed the mistletoe gently in the front pocket then retrieved the gift I’d purchased for Abram and handed it to him. “Here, this is for you.”
His eyebrows lifted into sharp arches and his small, genuine smile was back. “For me?”
“Yep. You don’t have to open it now. Put it under your tree and save it for when you need a mug.”
He laughed and rolled his eyes. “Well, thanks for ruining the surprise.”
“You’re welcome. And thanks for the…other thing.”
“You’re welcome.” Abram gave me a gracious nod then lifted his chin toward the door where Martin waited, his eyes never leaving mine. “Now go. I don’t want you to miss your train.”
***
Martin carried my bag to the car, which was silly because it weighed almost nothing. But I let him because I got the distinct impression that carrying my one-pound bag meant more to him than it did to me.
Plus, he was scowling.
My suspicions regarding his mood were confirmed as soon as he pulled into traffic. He was driving really fast, and aggressively, and impatiently. I checked the security of my seatbelt.
It was one of those situations where I felt like, had we been meant for each other, then I would know the right thing to say. But I wasn’t sure whether he was upset about his sudden confession on the drive to the senior center, or if he were irritated about something else.
Regardless, I felt compelled to break the silence and say something. I wasn’t okay with stunted communication between us.
“So, my mother wants me to perform at a fundraiser she’s having.” I allowed my eyes to flicker to him, watched as the hard lines of his profile didn’t exactly soften, but almost.
“Your mother wants you to perform? So she’s okay with the change from chemical engineering to music?”
“I didn’t really give her a choice to be honest. I just decided, then told them about my decision. I then started working two jobs to make sure I could cover myself financially.”
“Because you thought they might cut you off?”
I shook my head before he finished asking the question. “No. I wasn’t ever concerned about them cutting me off. It’s just, it was important to me to prove I could support myself financially, that music was my career and not a hobby funded by my parents.”
He nodded and I noted that most of the tension had eased from his shoulders. Maybe distraction had been the right approach.
“I can understand that. I mean, if you think about it, you’re more self-made than I am. All of my money, all the money I’ve invested, has come from my father, even though he didn’t willingly give it to me.”
“Does that bother you?” I tried to keep my voice low and gentle so he didn’t think I was judging him, because I wasn’t.
He shrugged but said, “Honestly? Yes. He used me. I used him. I’m so fucking tired of being used and using people. I’m…” he paused, his chest rising and falling with the silent breath, “I’m just tired of it.”
“So, stop using people,” I said before I thought better of it.
Martin glanced at me then back to the road, his expression a cross between incredulous and amused. “Just stop using people?”
“Yes. And don’t let them use you.”
I watched the corner of his mouth reluctantly curve upward as he gave an almost imperceptible head shake. “Okay… Maybe I’ll try that.”