CHAPTER
ELEVEN
I learn allthe back entrances that don’t look like back entrances. And that isn’t a euphemism.
Not yet anyway.
The music building has three: the delivery ramp (too exposed), the stairwell by the faculty lounge (smells like burnt coffee and tenure), and the practice-room fire door that sticks unless you hip-check it just right. Thursday night, three weeks and change since New Year’s, I’m at the fire door at 9:02 a.m., hands jammed in my jacket, pretending to be part of the brick.
He’s late by two minutes, which for Ollie probably counts as a felony. I hear him before I see him: the soft thud of sneakers, the whisper of nylon, the careful way he breathes when he’s trying not to look winded. Then he turns the corner, hoodie up, cap pulled low like we’re avoiding paparazzi instead of Econ majors with gossip addictions.
“You look like you’re about to rob the bursar,” I say.
“Hello to you too,” he mutters, and I can hear the smile he won’t risk yet.
We don’t hug. We’ve learned not to. Cameras on every hallway, coaches who hear about everything, teammates who think “privacy” is the name of a bench player. Instead, I bumpmy shoulder into his as I key open the door. He bumps back, a second longer than necessary, and my ribs loosen.
The door sticks, like always. I hip-check. It gives with a sigh, and we slip inside. The stairwell hums with the old building’s lungs: clanking pipes, the distant drone of a piano that’s been out of tune since the Bush administration, vents rattling like they’re practicing scales.
He peels his cap off as we climb and shoves it into his pocket.
“I booked the room till ten.”
“You bribed someone.”
“Booked,” I repeat innocently before adding, “With coffee.”
He huffs, almost a laugh. His hand brushes mine on the railing. Not on purpose. Notnoton purpose. The tiny arc jumps through my skin and sets up shop behind my sternum.
Room 3C is the one with the busted fluorescent that dims whenever the AC kicks on. It’s also the one farthest from the hallway window, which means fewer curious faces—less chance of a random trumpet player clocking the captain of the Panthers slipping into a practice room with the tattooed bassist. I killed two birds with one room: bad light, good privacy.
I close us in and click the tiny slide lock, the one the fire marshal pretends doesn’t exist. Ollie exhales; some piece of him drops its shoulders.
“Hi,” I say at normal volume for the first time.
“Hi,” he says back, and it hits harder than it should.
We do the inventory because we always do: ear to the door, quick glance at the window, the automatic check of phones in pockets set to silent. Then I pull the secondhand acoustic from the stand and hand it over. He takes it like it’s a living thing. He’s careful with gear in a way that makes me want to kiss him just for understanding.
“I can only stay till nine fifty,” he says, settling onto the low bench. “Film review at ten.”
I drop onto the amp opposite, ignoring the sting of disappointment that he has to leave early as I sling my own guitar into place. “You’ll be gone by nine forty-eight,” I promise. “I’ll even walk you out and pretend I don’t know you.”
“I’d appreciate that,” he says, deadpan, and then he bends his head and starts changing the B string I bought him last week because “Metallica experiments” apparently shredded the last one.
The way he focuses… it’s not for show. It’s not the captain mask. It’s just how he’s built. He braces the guitar against his thigh, fingers sure and careful as he threads and winds, and I swear I feel another verse scratch at the back of my skull like a polite cat.
“You wrote today,” he says without looking up.
“How could you possibly know that?”
“You texted me two lines at 6:17 a.m. and then nothing after.”
“Maybe I fell asleep.”
“You don’t sleep after you send me lyrics,” he says quietly, and that little truth lands right where it’s supposed to. “You pace. You rewrite them. You fight with your coffee.”
I grin at my fretboard. “You spying on me now, Captain?”
