Chapter 22
Winter
The next month and a half pass quickly. Hunter and I grow closer, spending as much time as possible together.
He seems more at peace now that the killer has been found and is in prison. When he first told me, he sounded angry and in shock, which I would have expected. And that game he played—holy crap. He and Liam looked like one person as they played that game for their daddy. I was so proud of them, and as I watched it, tears streamed down my face.
But once the shock wears off over what the murderer did the night he shot and killed Mr. Storm, Hunter seems to relax. He’s more open, more willing to be vulnerable with me. We have some good talks, and I find myself wishing I weren’t leaving. I’m falling for him. Like really falling for him. Honestly, I love him. But I don’t know how to broach the concept of dating with him because I know Hunter isn’t into commitment. Plus, I’m going to be leaving eventually. And what would we do then?
I channel my attachment to him through sex. Which we have a lot of. Like every night he’s in town.
And when he goes away on a team road trip, I miss him. Also a lot.
But now, we don’t lose touch. He calls me every night even if it’s just to say goodnight before he has to hop on the plane to fly to another city.
I put my loneliness into working on my musical, which is coming along.
One day, I stop by to visit an old friend.
Mr. Les Anderson was my first piano teacher. He taught me the classics and how to read sheet music and write songs. His lessons were my musical foundation. But he also taught me how to play the songs I wanted to sing. From rock to pop to country, we sat side by side at his piano and played for hours.
I would come by after school when all my friends were hanging out or doing homework, and Les would give me invaluable training for my future. He had lived it. He used to be a director on Broadway, and he’d walked away to slow down and have a family.
I didn’t understand his choice then, but I certainly have a better grasp of it now.
I walk through the French Quarter and stop outside a burnt orange building with a green arched doorway and matching shutters on the windows. The second story is the quintessential New Orleans cast-iron balcony with the same green shutters and an American flag hanging from the window.
I push open the door.
I see Les right away. He’s sitting at the piano, and he’s got his back to me. His hair is white now, and he’s a little more hunched, but he’s still playing. Still singing, too.
“Hello, old friend,” I say as I walk across the room.
Les turns around on the bench. His entire face lights up when he sees me.
“Winter Allen. My dear.” He stands up and opens his arms.
I fall into them.
“My Winter,” he says. “Welcome home.”
The tears come so fast I’m not expecting them.
“Now, now.” Les reaches for the box of tissues on his desk. “Here you go.”
I take a tissue and wipe my eyes.
Les leads me over to the two hard-backed chairs by the window. “Let’s sit and talk.”
I wasn’t planning on telling him everything.
But I do.
I think it’s why I waited so long to come see him. In the back of my mind, I knew I couldn’t see him without sharing my whole story.
Because Les Anderson has always been my surrogate grandfather. He was the man who helped me get up the courage to move to New York City. He said it would be hard but assured me I had what it took. And even though I made good on his faith in me, I’m ashamed I haven’t gotten any roles since the assault. It makes me feel weak.
“You’re the opposite of weak, my dear.” Les takes my chin in his hand. “Remember that. Sometimes, things happen, and our priorities change as a result. That’s not weakness. That’s listening to our hearts.”
