Life is good.
Life is wonderfully, amazingly, scarily good.
These past two weeks of dating Garrett have been a blur of laughter and cuddling and hot sex, intermingled with real life events like classes and studying, rehearsals and hockey games. Garrett and I forged a connection that caught me by surprise, but even though Allie continues to tease me about my sudden about-face when it comes to the guy, I don’t regret my decision to date him and see where things go. So far, it’s been working out great.
But see, here’s the thing about life. When it’s this good?
Something inevitably goes bad.
“I know this is an inconvenience,” says Fiona, my performing arts advisor. “But I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do except advise you to speak directly to Mary Jane and—”
“No way,” I cut in, my stiff fingers curling around the arms of my chair. I stare at the pretty blond woman across the desk, and wonder how she can possibly describe this atom bomb of a disaster as an inconvenience.
And she wants me to talk to Mary Jane?
Fuck. That.
Because why the fuck would I talk to the stupid, brainwashed bitch who just ruined any chance I had of winning a scholarship?
I’m still reeling from what Fiona told me. Mary Jane and Cass dumped me. They actually got permission to kick me out of the duet so that Cass can sing it as a solo.
What the hell.
Yet in the back of my mind, I’m not even surprised. Garrett had warned me something like this could happen. I had worried about it myself. But never in a million years had I expected Cass to do this four weeks before the showcase.
Or that my advisor would be totally fucking cool with it.
I grit my teeth. “I’m not talking to Mary Jane. It’s obvious she’s made up her mind about this.”
Or rather, that Cass had made it up for her, when he’d cajoled her into speaking to our respective advisors and blubbering about how her composition is suffering in its duet form and that she’s pulling it out of the showcase if it’s not a solo. Of course, Cass had quickly pointed out that it would be egregious to waste a perfectly good song, and he’d graciously offered to let me sing it. At which point, Mary Jane insisted that it should be sung by a male voice.
Fuck you very much, MJ.
“So what am I supposed to do now?” I ask in a tight voice. “I don’t have time to learn a new song and work with a new songwriter.”
“No, you don’t,” Fiona agrees.
Normally I appreciate her no-nonsense approach, but today it makes me want to slug her.
“Which is why, given the circumstances, Cass’s advisor and I agreed to bend the rules for you. You won’t be teaming up with a composition major. We’ve agreed—and the faculty head signed off on it—that you can sing one of your own compositions. I know you have a lot of original songs in your repertoire, Hannah. And in fact, I think this is a great opportunity for you to showcase not just your voice, but your songwriting abilities.” She pauses. “However, you’ll only be eligible to win the performance scholarship, since composition isn’t your major.”
My mind continues to spin like a carousel. Yes, there are a few originals I can sing, but none of them are even close to being performance-ready.
“Why isn’t Cass being penalized for this?” I demand.
“Look, I can’t say I approve of what Cass and Mary Jane have done, but unfortunately, this is one of the drawbacks of duet work.” Fiona sighs. “Every year there’s at least one duet partnership that breaks down right before the showcase. Do you remember Joanna Maxwell? She graduated last year?”
Beau’s sister.
I nod.
“Well, her duet partner bailed three days before the senior showcase,” Fiona confides.
I blink in surprise. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah. Let’s just say it was pure chaos around here for those three days.”
My spirits lift, just a bit, when I remember that not only did Joanna win the scholarship, she also caught the eye of an agent who later got her that audition in New York.
“You don’t need Cassidy Donovan, Hannah.” Fiona’s voice is firm, ringing with reassurance. “You thrive as a solo performer. That’s your strength.” She gives me a pointed look. “As I recall, that’s exactly what I advised at the beginning of the term.”
Guilt warms my cheeks. Yep. I can’t deny it. She had told me her concerns about the project from the start, but I had allowed Cass to convince me that we would be a powerhouse together.
“You’ll have whatever you need to prepare,” she adds. “We’ll rearrange the schedule so you’ll have access to rehearsal space whenever you need it, and if you require accompaniment, any number of orchestra students can help you out. Is there anything else you think you might need?” A tiny smile tugs on her lips. “Trust me, Cass’s advisor isn’t happy about this either, so if there’s something you want, tell me now and I can probably make it happen for you.”
I’m about to shake my head, but then something occurs to me. “Actually, there is something I want. I want Jae. I mean, Kim Jae Woo.”
Fiona furrows her brow. “Who?”
“The cellist.” I stick out my chin in fortitude. “I want the cellist.”
GARRETT
“I cannot believe he did that!” Allie sounds livid from her side of the booth, her blue eyes blazing as she looks up at Hannah.
My girlfriend wears that I’m-trying-really-hard-not-to-show-how-furious-I-am-right-now expression, but I can sense the volatile emotions radiating from her body. She smooths out the bottom of her apron. “Really? Because I can totally believe it,” Hannah answers. “I bet this was his plan all along. Drive me crazy for two months and then screw me over right before the show.”
“Fuckin’ Cass,” Hannah’s friend Dexter mutters from his seat next to Allie. “Someone needs to give that boy a good ass-kicking.” Dex glances at Logan and me. “Can’t one of you hockey players do it? Rough him up a bit?”
“Gladly,” Logan says cheerfully. “What’s his address?”
I jab my friend in the side. “We’re not beating anybody up, jackass. Not unless you want to face Coach’s wrath—and a suspension.” I turn to Hannah with a rueful look. “Don’t worry, I’m beating him up in my head, baby. That counts, right?”
She laughs. “Sure. I’ll allow it.” She tucks her order pad in her apron pocket. “I’ll be right back.”
As Hannah heads for the counter, I admire her ass for so long it gets me three loud snickers from my companions. And don’t get me started on how weird it is to be sharing a booth with my best friend and Hannah’s best friends.
I was certain that Hannah’s artsy friends would be all condescending and frigid around me—especially after she told me what they think about Briar’s jock crowd—but I think my natural charm has won them over. Allie and Dex already treat me like we’ve been buds for years. Stella, who discovered her passion for hockey during the Harvard game, now texts me every other day to ask hockey questions. And while that dude Jeremy is still a bit snarky whenever I see him, his girlfriend Megan is pretty cool, so I’m willing to give him a few more chances to not be a dick.
“She’s pissed,” Logan remarks as he watches Hannah chatting with the cook behind the pick-up counter.
“She should be,” replies Dex. “Seriously, what kind of selfish douchecanoe dumps his duet partner right before a show?”
Logan snickers. “Douchecanoe? I’m totally stealing that phrase.”
“She’ll be fine,” Allie says confidently. “Hannah’s originals are awesome. She doesn’t need Cass.”
“No one needs Cass,” Dex agrees. “He’s like the human being equivalent of syphilis.”
As everyone laughs, I tune them out and focus my attention on Hannah. I can’t help but remember the first time I came to Della’s, with the sole purpose of persuading Hannah to tutor me. It was only a little more than a month ago, yet I feel like I’ve known her forever.
I don’t know what I was thinking taking that whole anti-girlfriend position. Because having a girlfriend? Fucking rocks. Seriously. I get to have sex whenever I want without having to work for it. I have someone to vent to after a shitty day or a devastating loss on the ice. I can make the worst jokes on the planet and chances are Hannah will laugh at them.
Oh, and I love being with her, plain and simple.
Hannah returns to our booth carrying our drink orders. Or rather, Allie and Dex’s drink orders. Logan and I asked for sodas, but what we get is water.
“Where’s my Dr. Pepper, Wellsy?” Logan whines.
She levels him with a stern look. “Do you know how much sugar is in a soft drink?”
“A perfectly acceptable amount and therefore I should drink it?” supplies Logan.
“Wrong. The answer is too damn much. You’re playing Michigan in an hour—you can’t get all hopped up on sugar before a game. You’ll get a five-minute energy boost and then crash halfway through the first period.”
Logan sighs. “G, why is your girl our nutritionist now?”
I pick up my water glass and take a sip of defeat. “Do you want to argue with her?”
Logan looks at Hannah, whose expression clearly conveys: you’ll get a soda over my dead body. Then he looks back at me. “No,” he says glumly.
