A sliver of hope permeated the fear and depression that had been pulling me under all week.
I nodded, my jaw setting with determination I hadn’t felt in days. “At least I’ll know I tried. At least I’ll know I fought for her with everything I have.”
“Exactly.” Ava’s lips lifted in a big smile, pride shining in her eyes.
“What do you think, baby girl?” I whispered to Rory. “Should we go get Harper back?”
Rory stared up at me and babbled loudly in a tone that sounded a lot like Ava’s had. I chose to take that as a yes.
It was time to get off my ass and fight for my girl.
FIFTY
I’d been sitting in my truck outside the downtown Missoula building where the Phil rehearsed for twenty minutes, watching musicians file out after their rehearsal. My palms were sweaty with nerves because if my plan didn’t work then I was fucked. I’d spent the last two days thinking about every possible option to prove to Harper that what we had was real.
It was a lot harder to come up with something solid than I’d thought it would be.
But then I’d found the folder of music Harper had left behind—Rachel had come to get some of her clothes, but had left the rest of her things for the time being. It had all the original songs she’d written. Some were half finished, but others were complete. It had given me an idea that hinged entirely on my ability to convince Harper’s maestro to go along with my insane plan.
The door opened again, and I straightened when I saw Harper’s red hair catch the light from the fading sun. She walked slowly to her small blue Honda, her violin caseslung over her shoulder and her body language screaming exhaustion.
Fuck. She looked like a ghost.
Even from this distance, I could see there were deep purple bags under her eyes, and her clothes seemed to be hanging looser on her already lithe frame.
“Hang on, Freckles,” I whispered. “I’m gonna fix this.”
She got in her car without looking around and drove off.
More musicians trickled out, and I was starting to think I wasn’t going to get my chance when the door opened one final time. I recognized Maestro Brennan from the website.
It was now or never, and after seeing Harper, I knew I needed to fix this quickly.
I got out of my truck and jogged across the parking lot. “Maestro Brennan?”
He turned, his expression politely confused. “Yes?”
“I’m Drew Dumontier. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.”
His face remained professionally distant. “If you’re looking for audition information, you’ll need to contact our main office during business hours.”
“It’s not about me,” I said quickly, my heart hammering. “It’s about Harper Tinsley.”
That made him pause. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he reassessed me. “What about Ms. Tinsley?”
“Could we talk somewhere private? Please. It’s important.”
He studied me for another minute, and I held my breath, hoping and praying with everything I had that he didn’t shut me down. Finally, he nodded toward the building. “My office. You’ve got ten minutes.”
Maestro Brennan’s office wasn’t quite what I’d expected. It was a small room on the floor that housed the symphony’s administrative offices. There wasn’t a lot of personalization apart from a few pictures of him with other musicians. He gestured to a chair across from his desk but remained standing with his arms crossed.
“Go ahead, Mr. Dumontier.”
Here went nothing.
I reached into my backpack and pulled out the folder with Harper’s music. “Harper writes original compositions. And I think you should perform one.”
His bushy black eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”
