Listen to Your Heart(10)

Stupid rain.

I hate the rain.

Caleb’s ruined it for me. It’s sad that I’ve only known him for a few days and suddenly everything reminds me of him. The rain, my favorite 80s radio station . . . all of the little things we have in common are now just miserable reminders of what might have been and proof of how stupid I really am.

When I finally make it home, I change into my most comfortable, ugly sweats and bury myself on the couch under my favorite blanket. The pizza makes my stomach do somersaults but the wine’s good. Ironically, I’m too tired to sleep, so I grab the remote and flip through the channels.

VH1 is showing an I Love the 80s marathon and Dirty Dancing is playing on TBS.

I turn off the TV, throw the remote across the room, and bury my head under my blanket.



My ringtone jerks me out of a dreamless sleep. Blindly, I smack the end table until I find my cell.

“What?” I mutter into the phone.

“Are you sick?”

My brother.

“No, Nick, I’m not sick.”

“Are you sure? You sound sick.”

“Didn’t sleep well, so I took the afternoon off.”

“I woke you up.”

“Yep.”

“Then I really feel bad about this, but I need a favor.”

Of course you do. I love my brother a lot, but I’ve been doing him a lot of favors lately.

“What do you need?”

“Do you remember Sanchez? From my birthday party?”

“No.”

“Not important. But he’s had a death in the family. He asked if I could take his shift, which means I’m working a double.”

“So you need me to watch Eli? No problem.”

“And pick him up from guitar.”

My eyes snap open.

No. No. No.

In my sleep deprived misery, I hadn’t even considered that I would probably have to face Caleb whenever I picked up Eli from his guitar class.

“I don’t think I can—”

“Please, Sis. I could call Jill, but it’s my night and I’ll have to hear her bitch about how I’m neglecting my kid again.”

Jill wouldn’t be completely wrong. I know my brother needs to work. After all, divorces don’t come cheap. But lately, Eli’s spent more and more time at my house and less with his dad. Even though company’s the last thing I want tonight, I could never say no. At least if Eli’s with me, I know he’s being taken care of.

“Sure, Nick. No problem.”

He sighs with relief. “I owe you so much.”

You have no idea.





“Mr. Lynch, you look like crap.”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard that today. It is the first time, however, that a student said it loud enough for me to hear it.

The truth is I do look like crap. Feel like it, too. Zero sleep will do that. I’m so out of it, mentally and physically, that I gave each class a practice day so they’d leave me alone and let me wallow in peace.

Naturally, that hasn’t happened.

High school kids can smell bullshit from a mile away, and it doesn’t bother them a bit to call you out. Which mine have been doing all day long.

“You really don’t look well,” Maya, one of our clarinet players, says softly. “You didn’t even shave. You always shave.”

You’re lucky I’m dressed.

“Girl trouble?” Jaxon asks, placing his trumpet in its case.

“Girls will break your heart, man,” Noah says, tapping his drumsticks on his knees. “They will chew you up and spit you out.”

“Oh, and guys won’t?” Maya shoots back. “I could give you a long list of jerks who’ve—”

“Stop!” I’m seriously about to lose my mind. “Please just practice. Or . . . text your friends. I don’t care. Just leave me alone.”

Worst. Teacher. Ever.

The fact that I’m willing to ignore the schoolwide ban on cell phone use during class is enough incentive for them to leave me alone until the end of the period. When the bell finally rings, a weary sigh escapes my throat.

I’ve never been so grateful for three o’clock.

Unfortunately, going home to crash isn’t an option. The gifted and talented class is waiting for me, so I drive my tired ass to the elementary school.

It’s only two hours. I can do anything for two hours.

I keep repeating that to myself as I make my way into the band room.

Naturally, the first person I see is Eli playing his guitar. As soon as he spots me, he smiles up at me with those bright green eyes—the exact shade of his aunt’s—and the last shred of sanity I still possess completely vanishes.

Thankfully, these students are too focused on their instruments to notice my disheveled clothes and scraggly beard. They’re so talented that very few of them need my help at all, but as I walk by Eli’s group, I notice he’s having trouble with a chord progression. After working with him for a few minutes, his little fingers start to flow seamlessly over the frets.

“You’re really talented, Eli. Good job.”

“Thanks.” He studies my face. “So . . . how was your date with Aunt Skye?”

“It . . . wasn’t really a date.”