What He Never Knew (What He Doesn't Know, #3)(4)

And for getting me the connection to Reese Walker.

The past year had challenged me, tested me, changed me. As if the injury I’d suffered that hindered my piano playing wasn’t enough, I’d been spread wide on the ground under the piano by the professor who was supposed to help me overcome my injury. He was supposed to help me get better, and instead, he’d taken the me that was partially broken and had completely shattered me.

And I wanted to give up.

I wanted to throw in the towel, quit, surrender. And that’s what I’d done when I’d gone home for winter break. I told my mom I wasn’t going back, and being that I was only a semester away from graduating, she didn’t like that. She didn’t understand. And when I’d shaved my head and completely changed my wardrobe?

Well, she’d gone from concerned to absolutely distraught.

My mother was a therapist, and though her specific focus was on failed marriage, she had always been locked into me as a growing child. She read my signs, my pleas for love and attention before I even understood them myself. So, shaving my head and quitting school a semester before graduation? She knew something was wrong.

Thankfully, my mom was a mom first and a therapist second.

I knew it killed her to let me be, to nod in understanding when I begged her to believe that I was okay, but that I needed time. I needed space. And when I was ready, I came to her, and I told her I wanted to study piano again.

In my own way.

I wouldn’t go back to Bramlock, and whether she knew the reason why or not, my mom supported me. Instead, I thought of a man my dad had talked about often, one I’d followed online, one who I truly believed could help me overcome my injury.

Because as much as my wolf had stolen from me, I wouldn’t let him steal my dream.

My injury was a repetitive strain injury, and it wasn’t easy to overcome. I’d been on the very messy road to recovery before I left Bramlock, and once I’d acclimated to life back in Atlanta, I’d worked on it more, myself.

But on my own, I could only go so far.

I needed professional help if I wanted to make my dream come true, and I would do anything to make that happen.

I took my time as I followed behind my uncle, taking in the scenery of the busy downtown and the restaurant I would be working at while I stayed here. I knew him well enough now to know he’d be stopped several times on his way to wherever we were going. He was known by nearly everyone in Pittsburgh, it seemed, and definitely by everyone in Mount Lebanon — a small borough right outside the city. He was the headmaster at Westchester Prep, one of the top prep schools in the nation, and his reputation in the community was strong.

Still, when I was with him, he got a lot more curious glances than when it was just him and my aunt Betty.

If my aunt and uncle noticed the raised eyebrows and hushed whispers when I was with them, they faked that they were oblivious. But I was used to those kinds of stares.

I didn’t fit in.

At least, not with them.

My aunt and uncle’s skin was creamy white, their eyes a frosted blue, and though both of them now sported white hair, it was easy to see it used to be blonde. My uncle looked so much like my father, it often stopped me in my tracks. I saw the same kindness in my uncle’s blue eyes that I always saw in my father’s. And when he smiled, my heart would squeeze with the desire to see my father’s smile again.

I would have given anything.

Yes, my aunt and uncle were always dressed to impress, never knowing who they might run into, and I’d yet to see my aunt without her pearls around her neck — even in her pajamas.

So, the question everyone wanted the answer to, then, was why were they walking with a young, freakishly tall, black female with baggy clothes and a bald head?

Maybe before, it wouldn’t have been so jarring — when I wore clothes that were bright and cheery, pinks and yellows and oranges being the majority of my closet. Maybe, when my hair was curly and bouncy, framing my face in a wild, but feminine, bob that ended below my chin — maybe that would have been easier to swallow.

But the me who existed now? She didn’t want attention. She didn’t want to be seen as beautiful or tempting or in any way touchable. So, I’d painted the exterior to match the interior.

I was dark now.

Dark skin, dark clothes, dark eyes. No hair. No jewelry.

The only way I wanted to communicate with the world was through my music, and I didn’t need to be sexy or cute to do that.

Still, the looks I got when I walked with my uncle were just like the ones I used to get when I did dress to impress — except they were harder, more curious, and harder to stomach. Maybe it was because even though my uncle had the same eyes my father had, I’d never felt like an outsider when I’d walked with him. When it was my dad, my mother and I, we were nothing more or less than a family unit. And we were the happiest when we were together.

I missed those times.

“Mr. Henderson!” the sweet, smiley young brunette greeted when we made it to the reservations desk. Her smile was half the size of her face, her cheeks rosy and round. “It’s so nice to see you this evening. Shall I take you to your usual table, or would you like to try a new seat tonight?”

“Oh, the usual is perfect,” my uncle replied, his smile just as big. “I have a special guest with me tonight, so please have a bottle of my favorite wine brought over as soon as possible.”