Page 13 of When He Saved Me
FINN
It was widely expectedthat children of a certain status should be well-rounded individuals, participating in a variety of activities that would both reflect well on their status and look good on school applications.
I suspected these activities were yet another thing a parent could point to in order to lord it over their peers at their country clubs, society dinners, and PTA luncheons.
“Look atmyson. He scored the winning touchdown!”
“Mydaughter placed first in her categoryandfirst in her age group at her dance competition.”
“Myson was selected as Best Young Artist at his piano competition.”
Never mind that the only contribution these parents made to these accomplishments was to foot the bill. Disregard the fact that these kids spent more time with their nannies than their parents or that they couldn’t remember the last time they received a proper hug. Thosesmalldetails were irrelevant in the political games played by those in affluent circles.
The amount of pressure some of my peers had nearly folded under trying to live up to these ridiculous expectations of success was staggering, all in the hopes of gaining their parents’ attention. All so the parents could bask in their own made-up definitions of glory.
My parents, not ones to be left out of such societal games, had enrolled me in piano at the age of seven. I don’t recall asking to take piano lessons, but I do remember being trotted out to perform for my parents’ peers at dinner parties.
Oddly, despite my general disdain for people and my introverted nature—often confused with shyness—I didn’t mind performing. Early on, I learned that when I lost myself in the music, the people in the audience simply disappeared.
In between those dinner parties and piano recitals, I practiced like mad. When I longed for my parents’ attention, I filled the void with music. When I wanted to bring order to chaos, I chose Bach. To soothe, I chose Debussy. Gershwin, Chopin, and Rachmaninoff became my companions. My parents never understood my passion for music—I don’t think they understood passion of any kind—but they couldn’t take this away from me. Once given, there were no takebacks.
In high school, I stumbled into jazz. Everyone at my private school knew I played piano—we all came from the same country clubs and had been forced to socialize together for years—so I’d been approached by the jazz band instructor to join his group. Sports reigned supreme at our school, so the band was mediocre at best, but I didn’t care. Once I’d discovered the genre, I couldn’t get enough of it. I devoured the recordings of Thelonious Monk, Duke Ellington, and Chick Corea.
And when my parents asked me to leave the day after my eighteenth birthday, I couldn’t take the grand piano, but I took my electric keyboard and every scrap of sheet music. In the same week, I secured a gig at Ivory, a piano bar in the Crossroads District. They’d been reluctant to hire me, considering I wasn’t even old enough to drink in their bar, but I’d convinced them to let me audition, and they’d reluctantly given me a chance to play on Tuesday nights. Over the last three years, I’d shown myself worthy and regularly played there two to three nights a week. It wasn’t enough income to pay my bills, but between my shifts at The Daily Grind and my gigs at Ivory, I made do.
It served the dual purpose of supplementing my income and indulging one of the few joys in my life. Tonight, I’d walked into Ivory, the weight of my conversation with Carmen a heavy burden, but after a few hours immersed in music, I’d felt lighter. I hadn’t come to any new conclusions about the Jamie situation, but it had been a good distraction.
Now, heading home a little after midnight, I heard a thump, and my car jerked to the right. The low tire pressure light lit up my dashboard. “Shit,” I muttered as I carefully pulled over to the shoulder of the road. It had been lightly snowing, but as I stepped out of the car to take a look, the snow began falling harder, fat flakes swirling in the glare of my headlights.
“Fuck my life,” I yelled, looking up into the night sky. It had been a really weird fucking day, and I just wanted to go home and crash since I had to be back at The Daily Grind in about six hours.
I rose from my crouch and turned at the sound of a car approaching. Shielding my eyes from the glare of the headlights, I strained to see who might be driving, and as the black Honda Accord Hybrid rolled to a stop next to me on the deserted street, I was surprised to discover the object of my thoughts from only moments ago.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I asked in surprise after he’d rolled down his window.
He ignored my question, asking one of his own instead. “Flat tire?”
I looked at the very obvious flat and then back at him, raising my eyebrow as if to say, “Duh!”
He let out an exasperated sigh, tucking a strand of hair that had fallen loose from his bun behind his ear. “Look, do you want my help or not?” He sounded tired. Defeated. And maybe a little irritated. In all our interactions, I’d never heard that tone from him, and I realized I was being kind of a dick. I’d rejected him earlier today, yet here he was, offering me help in the middle of the night, and I was being a sarcastic asshole.
“Yeah, sorry. Um, can you give me a ride?” At his nod, I crossed to the other side of my Jeep, killing the ignition, and then got into his car. The snow had begun falling in earnest, and I nearly sighed in relief as the warmth of his car enveloped me. My tired eyes wanted to droop immediately. After plugging my address into his GPS, he eased back onto the road, heading toward my apartment.
I watched him surreptitiously as we drove. He wore the same jeans as earlier, though I couldn’t see if it was the same sweater underneath his coat. Had he been home yet today? His blond hair was swept into a man bun as usual, but some strands had come loose, falling around his face. It was hard to make out in the darkened car, but I thought I could see dark circles under his eyes and a growth of stubble on his chin. He had a weighted air about him, as if he was carrying the entire world on his shoulders.
Whenever I’d seen him in the past couple of weeks, he’d been the picture of perfection. Hair perfectly tied up, freshly shaved, fairly preppy attire, wide-open smiles, and eyes that danced with good humor. It had always put my back up, reminding me of the kids I’d grown up with who walked around without a care in the world, everything handed to them, with no regard for how their words and actions affected anyone else. Seeing this side of Jamie made me wonder if there was more to him than I’d originally assumed. It made me uncomfortable in an entirely different way. It made me worry about him, and I didn’t want to.
“Are you okay?” I blurted out, immediately wishing I could retract my words. He glanced my direction, eyes drawn up in surprise at my outburst, before returning his gaze to the road. “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”
“It’s okay.” He blew out a breath. “It’s just been a shitty week.”
“I’m sorry.” My words seemed trite and inconsequential, but he didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t know what else to say. I supposed most people would ask questions in this situation, inviting the other person to talk about it, but I wasn’t most people. I wasn’t comfortable talking about feelings, and I lacked practice with this sort of conversation.
We continued to ride in weighty silence before the guilt got the best of me. The guy’d had a shitty week and had still been friendly when he came in today. And when he’d asked me out, I’d been kind of an asshole. I huffed a breath. “I’m sorry I was a dick to you at the shop this afternoon.”
“So you’ll go out with me then?” he quickly replied.
I looked up at him, catching his shit-eating grin, and rolled my eyes. “That’s still a no. But I am sorry I was such a dick about it.” I paused before forcing the next part out. “You seem like a nice guy, and I’m sorry you’ve had a shitty week. Sorry if I made it worse.”
