But a funny thing happened when she got around the kids. Her pinched expression morphed into one of the sweetest, sunniest smiles he’d ever seen. And the same kids who’d glared at him swarmed her with hugs and high fives and how- was- your- summers. His ice- cold accompan—collaborative pianist had simply transformed when the kids came in. She’d come to life.

She’d become almost pretty.

But this joyous reunion, this transformation, further emphasized the adversarial relationship between the Peterson choral program and its new director. Obviously the lack of continuity at his position would lead to a certain closeness between the kids and their one constant, but that closeness came across as a concrete wall he had no hope of scaling. An exclusive club he would never be welcomed into.

The office door opened, and he jumped. “What?” It came out as half word, half growl.

Blair stood in the doorway, eyebrow arched, a cardboard coffee cup in her hand. “I’m sorry.” Her tone contained no apology whatsoever. “Am I disturbing you?”

Yes. “No.” It was her office too, after all. She even had a desk near the upright. Smaller than his but in much better condition. A vase of artificial flowers and a candle adorned its otherwise pristine surface, and the wall behind it was littered with mementos and photos and thank- you notes.

More evidence he was on the outside looking in and always would be.

Not that he wanted in. By no means.

He’d only be here for the year.

There. Finally. The assignment for music theory was done. I tore it from my spiral notebook of manuscript paper. Oops. Almost forgot to put my name on it. That would’ve been a silly ten points to lose. With a flourish, I scribbled my name in the upper right-hand corner, then walked to the front and put the assignment in the wire basket on Mr. Gilbert’s desk. He glanced up, brows arched over his black plastic glasses. Small wonder, since there were still twenty minutes before the bell. Everyone else still hunched over their desks, pencils dancing.

But I’d finally finished, and I had twenty minutes— twenty precious minutes— to devote to my own music. Thank you, God. My pencil scratched across the page. My hand trembled, frantic to keep up with the stream of notes in my heart. Composing was sometimes like this for me. The music seemed to exist outside space. Outside time. It was like God had held it there, fully formed, and chose me to bring it into the world. I’d feel him watching me, beaming as I scribbled notes onto the paper, bringing the music to life. I’d feel his joy as I composed. Writing music was an honor.

But if I was being brutally honest, sometimes the pressure of the melody, the urgency to get it out of me . . . sometimes it felt like a bit of a curse too.

The phrase ended, and the melody was kind enough to pause so I could sketch out a few harmonies. Just to remind myself what I heard. Bare bones now, but I could fill them in later. Harmony was far more patient with me, but Melody stood there, arms crossed, foot tapping, eager to share more with me.

One second, Melody. Harmony needs my attention for a bit. Just need to fill in these—

“I thought we weren’t supposed to use parallel fifths.”

A voice interrupted the music. A shadow fell across my desk. The chords in my head shattered, almost audibly. My neck grew hot, and my heart leaped into my throat.

Victor stood at my desk, his gaze fastened on my paper. My notes. My melody. My harmony. I flung my arm across the composition. Had the lunch bell already rung? It must have, since the other students were gathering their things and heading toward the door.

How long had he been standing there? How much had he seen?

“That’s some incredible voice leading, though.” He seemed undaunted. He slid into the desk next to mine, his eyes fixed on the spot my arm hadn’t covered. He kept his volume low. “I love what you’re doing in the alto line. That E- flat major chord . . . it’s beautiful.” “Oh, it’s just . . . this is . . . it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” Victor reached over and touched my paper.

Touched it.

My grip tightened. “Please don’t touch that.”

Victor’s long, slender fingers slid off my paper and I could breathe again, but he didn’t angle away. He was so close I could feel the warmth of his body. Smell whatever aftershave he used. It was strong— all scents were— but not unpleasant.

Callum watched him leave, the stadium lights reflecting off his satiny Peterson Patriots jacket. It was entirely plausible. The librarian could have interpreted events one way, while Vic’s version could be the real story.

But why would Vic have first claimed not to know Iris at all? Why not just come out with the truth? They’d dated briefly and ended things. That happened often enough in high school. And maybe Iris meant so little to him, maybe the relationship had been so brief, that Vic truly hadn’t remembered it. Not until something jogged his memory.

But what didn’t happen every day was someone’s high school significant other passing away while still in high school. Surely that would’ve been worth at least a little bit of brain space.

But what didn’t happen every day was someone’s high school significant other passing away while still in high school. Surely that would’ve been worth at least a little bit of brain space. Blair was still up in the stands, clutching a Styrofoam cup of something and leaning over to talk to Joy. Her puffy coat and her adorable hat were the same shade of Peterson blue, and her fingertips were peeking out of a cute little pair of white gloves, and why did the words cute and adorable continually spring to mind when he saw her outside of work? It was bad enough Wednesday with the T- shirt and jeans, and now, with her all bundled up like a snow princess despite the fifty- degree temperature . . .

At least he didn’t find her cute at work yet. That would make things wicked awkward. Well, cute or not, he needed to talk to her. Tell her what Vic said and get her read on it. She knew Vic far better than he did. And he wanted to believe Vic..

But right now, he wasn’t quite sure he did.