I nodded slowly, my throat suddenly tight. Itwasa bigdeal. The Montana Philharmonic summer fellowship was the most prestigious opportunity for music students in the state. Getting it would mean spending eight weeks working with professional musicians, getting master classes from visiting artists, and performing in the summer concert series.
It would also mean proving to my parents that I wasn’t wasting my time. That music wasn’t just a hobby I needed to “grow out of.” Even if I didn’t make a career out of performing, I wanted to prove I was good enough to perform if I wanted to.
“Are your parents coming to watch?” Drew asked, and something in his tone made me look up.
I let out a laugh that sounded bitter even to my own ears. “No.”
He was quiet for a moment, studying my face. “They’re not supportive of your music?”
“That’s putting it mildly.” I stared down at my hands, surprised to find them trembling slightly. I never talked about this—not with anyone except Rachel and Brody, and even then, only when I was particularly upset. “They think it’s a waste of time. A hobby. Something I’ll ‘get over’ when I finally decide to grow up and get a real degree.”
The words came out sharper than I intended, edged with an old hurt that never seemed to fade no matter how many years passed.
Drew was watching me, his expression unreadable. “That’s fucked up.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrugged, trying for casual and probably failing. “Not everyone gets to have supportive parents who show up to every game and cheer from the stands.”
“I always assumed your parents were supportive of yourmusic. You’re so good at it, I just figured they must be at every recital with those embarrassing signs parents make.”
I let out a laugh that sounded bitter even to my own ears. “No. That’s not really the Tinsley way.”
“I had no idea,” he said, and the genuine surprise in his voice made my chest tighten. “I’ve heard you play. I’ve seen how you light up when you talk about music. Anyone who doesn’t support that is missing something incredible.”
The sincerity in his voice shocked me. This was the Drew I’d glimpsed in sixth grade—the one who’d sat through my choir practices and seemed to care. The one I’d started to believe in before everything went to hell.
“They don’t understand what it means to me,” I said quietly, the words coming from somewhere deep and raw. Maybe it was stupid to confess this to him of all people, but I couldn’t stop the words. “Music isn’t just what I do, it’s who I am. When I play, it’s the only time I feel like I can breathe. The only time I feel like I’m actually good at something.”
“I don’t understand how they can’t see how important it is—not just for you, but for those you’ll eventually get to work with. I mean, music therapy is powerful. To be able to create something that moves people? To heal them that way? That’s a real gift.”
I stared at him, stunned by his understanding. “How did you know I was focusing on music therapy? I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that to you.”
A slight flush crept up his neck. He looked down at his notes, suddenly very interested in reorganizing his papers. “Back when I was planning to put that plastic wrap on your car last semester, I might have…done some reconnaissance.”
“Reconnaissance?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah, you know.” He made a vague gesture with hishand. “Know your enemy and all that. I was trying to figure out your schedule so I’d know when you wouldn’t catch me in the act.” His flush deepened.
I narrowed my eyes, not buying it. “You lived next door. You could just look out your window. Why would you need to know my major?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking caught. “Okay, fine. I was curious. Sometimes you’d be practicing these pieces that sounded…different. Not classical, like they were for performances. And…Rachel leaves her window open and her room is right beneath yours so whenever you guys would talk about your classes, if I was in my room I could listen to your conversations. Not in a creepy way, I swear. It honestly did start out as just trying to find something I could use to get back at you.” He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “Not my finest moment, planning pranks like a twelve-year-old.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to do with that information—that Drew had been eavesdropping on me and my roommates, albeit for entirely antagonistic reasons.
“It’s pretty cool, actually,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Using music to help people heal.”
Warmth spread through my body like sitting down by the river on a warm, summer day. I’d never expected Drew, of all people, to understand or appreciate what music therapy meant.
“Thanks,” I said, surprised by how unsteady my voice sounded. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m wasting my time,” I admitted. “If I’m deluding myself thinking I could make a career out of this when my own parents don’t even believe in me.”
The silence that followed seemed to stretch forever. I kept my eyes fixed on my laptop, embarrassment burningthrough me. I never should have said that out loud, especially not to Drew of all people.
Then his hand covered mine on the table.
His palm was warm and slightly rough from hockey, his fingers curling gently over mine in a gesture that was somehow both cautious and sure. I froze, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs.
“Harper,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Anyone who’s heard you play knows you’re the real deal. Your parents are wrong.”
I looked up and found him watching me, his expression so open and earnest it made my chest ache. We were sitting close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. Close enough that I noticed the small scar near his left eyebrow, barely visible unless you were really looking.
