Page 11 of Score
“That’s my spot,” I mumble, closing the door and settling in to kill some time before I can respectably leave. I wouldn’t put it past Petra to grab me by the collar on my way out the door. I pull the small leather notebook I always carry from my back pocket. One of my senior projects involves scoring a film. I have to partner with another senior, a student filmmaker, and ever since he and I met about the project yesterday, notes and entire musical phrases have been flitting through my mind. Just snippets, but I jot them down in my notebook as soon as they come to me.
I’ve been at it for maybe ten minutes when the sliding door opens. My head snaps up, but I remain otherwise perfectly still. Small talk with some stranger is the last thing I’m in the mood for. The only thing worse would be someone asking me to play a song on some out-of-tune instrument they had stashed in a closet. Once people realize I’m musical, it’s like I become their personal karaoke machine.
It’s not some stranger, though.
It’s her.
“Stupid, stupid girl,” she mumbles, pushing her hair back and dragging her hands over her face.
“You shouldn’t talk about yourself like that,” I say.
Verity startles, jumping a little and turning wide eyes in my direction. I lean forward into the porch light so she can see my face.
“Oh. Sorry.” She looks away quickly, a handful of the frothy skirt clutched in her fist. “I didn’t know anyone was out here. I thought you were gone.”
My eyebrows shoot up. I didn’t even think she knew I was here.
“I’ll be leaving soon.” I tie the leather strap on my notebook and stand. “If you want to be left alone I can—”
“No, it’s fine.” She clears her throat and nods toward one of the other nearby lawn chairs. “You mind if I…?”
“It’s your girlfriend’s apartment,” I say dryly. “That probably gives you first dibs, or do you live here?”
“Live here? With Petra?” She laughs and drags one of the chairs close before sitting down. “We just met at the beginning of the semester. I live on campus. Besides, Petra’s too messy.”
“The place looks pretty clean to me.” I grin.
“Yeah, ’cause I spent the afternoon cleaning it.” She drops her head back, the elegant line of her throat moon-kissed. “It’s why I’m exhausted now.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Eyes still closed, she allows a small grin. “She knows how much I enjoy cleaning.”
“That makes one of us. My mom would kick my ass if she saw the state of my apartment most days.”
She sits up, humor in the wry glance she gives me. “Yeah, my aunt was not having a dirty house when I was growing up, so I learned to clean fast.”
“She raised you?” I ask. “Your aunt?”
Her expression closes off. Oh, shit. Maybe that was a pretty intrusive question.
“I’m sorry.” I lean forward. “It’s none of my—”
“It’s fine, yeah. My aunt Rosalyn—we call her Roz—raised me when my parents died.”
“You lost both parents?”
“In a fire, yeah.”
“Wow. That’s tough.” I hear the inadequacy of my sympathy. “I mean, I’m sorry that happened.”
“It’s okay.” She draws in a breath and leans back, stretching her legs out in front of her. “It was years ago.”
I try not to get distracted by the sleek, curvy length of her body in repose, but it’s not working. I clasp my hands and lean forward, elbows on my knees.
“What about your parents?” she asks. “Since you kinda stepped in it asking the poor orphan girl about her dead folks, you have to bare your soul a little.”
That elicits a chuckle from me, and my shoulders relax, even though I hate discussing my family.
