Page 32 of Class Act

“Me, too,” I replied.

Dad slid in first, leaving Mom and I to sit together, which we were happy about. The seat on the end next to me remained empty, as we’d agreed to have a night just the three of us, even though we had four tickets for occasions when I couldn’t come, allowing another couple to attend with my parents. Mom and I spoke in soft undertones, me telling her about my classroom and her updating me on the convention she’d be attending the next week. She was taking a full week away from in-person patient work to travel to Boston and meet with other psychiatrists about the latest innovations and new practices. Mom was passionate about her work, and it showed in the way her eyes danced as she told me about meetings and discussion forums she’d be participating in.

“I wish you could come,” she said to me. “My evenings are free, and Dad can’t get away. Although I’m not sure how hard he tried. He’s a terrible homebody. But Boston is beautiful in the fall, and it would be wonderful for you and me to have some time together.”

I leaned against her and nodded. “I agree. Too bad that getting subs and prepping a week’s worth of lesson plans isn’t easy on short notice. Next time?”

She patted my knee. “Okay. I’ll do better about giving you a heads up.”

We settled back into our chairs as the lights dimmed in preparation for the beginning of the opera. I tugged my wrap off and rested it across my lap, my eager eyes focusing on the stage. Chills started at the top of my head and washed over me as the beauty of the music filled the space. It had always been like this for me: the music calling to me in a powerful way. The familiar melodies wrapped around me as the acoustics of the auditorium were put to the test, and when the singing started, I was spellbound. For nearly two hours I was so still I hardly breathed, and when the last notes faded and the lights came up signaling intermission, I had to blink a few times and suck in a breath.

“Wonderful,” Dad said as he stood, clapping enthusiastically. “Simply wonderful.”

“The cast this year is incredible,” Mom agreed, also standing.

I stood too, my heart in my throat, and wiggled my shoulders to get some blood moving again as I clapped alongside them.

“How is it intermission already?” I smiled when the sound died down. “I was so engrossed in it that the time absolutely flew.”

Mom squeezed my arm. “That’s how you know it was a truly remarkable performance.”

“We have twenty minutes. Would anyone like to walk around for a minute?” Dad asked.

I nodded. “It would be good to get my circulation going again.”

“Wait.” Mom grabbed my forearm, stopping me from turning. “Isn’t that Leonard’s friend, Ford Whittaker?” she asked.

I froze, scanning the area, but didn’t see him below us. “Where?”

“Over there, on the opposite balcony.”

I looked up and was surprised to find him looking back at me from across the way. It was straight out of my dreams, and my chest felt suddenly tight and warm. Regardless of all my pretending, I’d never have suspected he was actually an opera guy. This new knowledge tugged at something deep inside of me, something frightening that stirred a desire for . . . more.

How would it feel to sit next to him in the darkness while beautiful music floated around us? The image made my mouth suddenly dry.

His expression was calm as his eyes locked on to mine. He stood with one hand in his pants pocket, his suit jacket pushed back, and the other hand braced against the balcony railing. If the theater company had wanted a model for promotional material, they could have snapped his picture in that moment and had the ladies flocking to buy tickets. It was unfair how good he always looked.

I’d typically shied away from beautiful men and the way that they made me feel unaccountably tongue-tied. It was a struggle without explanation. It was how my mind worked, and I’d never had much reason to question it. I simply ran the opposite direction.

Tonight, this strung out, electric moment only confirmed that quirk of mine. He looked capable of hurting me in a way I couldn’t make sense of. I shivered under the questioning intensity of his gaze and looked away, grabbing my wrap off the chair to sling around my shoulders.

Who was he really?

I had to shut the questions down, and it had to happen now. I lightly pulled away from my mom, ducking my head and swallowing hard as I turned to leave our row.

“That’s him, yes,” I mumbled. “Shall we?”

I snapped my shawl tightly around me and led the way out of our row and down the staircase to the foyer. Dad followed, but Mom stayed in her seat, begging off and saying she’d spotted a neighbor she was hoping to catch up with. Dad and I reached the foyer in record time, and I guided us toward the long hallway that would lead us outside. Dad fell into step beside me, his feet nearly soundless on the long gold and black rug as I walked quickly, trying to escape my rapid heartrate that had everything to do with seeing him, here. What was he doing in my happy place?

“Some fresh air might be nice,” I said, explaining my rush to the front doors.

What I didn’t say was that I wasn’t interested in running into Ford in the foyer.

“You really dislike him, huh?” Dad commented as he held the entrance door open for me.

I hugged my shawl closer against the outside air and turned right, setting a slow pace. “Who?”

Dad chuckled. “Ford Whittaker.”

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