“Eh,” he said, shrugging in response to my question. “It was boring. We had a never-ending meeting on Sunday to finalize some tour details.”
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “That sucks.” My Sunday hadn’t been much better. I’d spent the entire day catching up on a week’s worth of homework I’d blown off in order to finish my portfolio.
Xander didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on the nearby intersection. I was about to ask what he was waiting for when a sleek car turned the corner and slowed to a stop in front of us. As a valet hopped out, Xander stepped off the curb and rounded the hood. He said something to the man I couldn’t hear, who nodded in response and handed him the keys. Only after slipping into the driver’s seat did Xander remember I was still standing on the sidewalk. He rolled down the window and leaned over to look at me, one hand already on the wheel. “You coming?”
Not needing to be asked twice, I yanked on the handle and climbed inside. “Where are we going?”
He paused for a brief moment of consideration. “Any intentionof returning to the premiere?”
I shook my head and buckled my seat belt. “Not if you don’t want to.”
“Okay then, I’ll take you home,” he replied, putting the car into drive.
Home?My heart shrank slightly. I’d been under the impression we were going to hang out together. “Oh, all right.”
My disappointment must have been plain, because Xander glanced at me, eyebrows raised. “I thought we could finish our movie marathon. Is that all right?”
“Oh,” I said again, this time in a completely different tone. “Yeah, sounds good.”
Xander nodded—it was the crisp sort of nod that punctuated a decision made—and reached over to fiddle with the radio, eventually settling on a station that featured country classics. Neither of us spoke as he wove into traffic. Conversation usually flowed naturally between us, so the gathering silence felt loud and abrasive. Every part of me was itching to say something, but Xander was clearly lost in his thoughts, so I clasped my hands in my lap and stared out the window.
The farther we drove, the more Xander relaxed. Whether it was the music or the act of driving itself, every mile he put behind us seemed to draw the tension from his body. By the time we reached Violet’s house, he appeared completely at ease. I, on the other hand, was on the verge of chewing through the inside of my cheek. Xander had yet to explain our hasty exit, and as we climbed from the car, I began to wonder if I’d need to resort to questioning him after all.
The sound of waves crashing against the shore filled an otherwise quiet night as we made our way up the front walk. After withdrawing a set of house keys from my clutch, I unlocked the door.
“Can I ask you something?” Xander said as we stepped inside. They were the first words he’d spoken to me since we’d left the theater.
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I swear I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop or anything, but, um—while I was looking for the bathroom Saturday, I overheard part of your conversation with Violet. She mentioned something about you applying to Juilliard?”
My lips parted in surprise. For a moment, all I could do was blink at him.
“Sorry, never mind.” Ducking his head, Xander prodded an invisible spot on the ground with his toe. “I shouldn’t have pried.”
“No, it’s fine. You caught me off guard, that’s all. Come on. Let me show you something.” I quickly yanked off my boots and led Xander upstairs. “My family hasn’t always lived in Laguna Beach. I actually grew up in San Bernardino, but then Violet’s career took off. She always wanted to live by the ocean, so when I was sixteen, my parents sold our house, and my sister bought this property,” I explained, stopping in front of a door at the end of the hall. “I wasn’t happy about leaving, so during the renovation, Violet designed a place for me to practice. I think she was trying to make up for us moving.”
“Practice?”
I gestured for him to go first. “See for yourself.”
Xander pushed open the door. It took him a moment to realize what he was looking at, but once he did, his entire face lit up. I bit down on my smile as he turned in a slow circle, taking everything in. The room was long, nearly the length of the house, with a herringbone hardwood floor. A row of wide windows bathed the entire space in moonlight. In one corner, two leather sofas were arranged around a glass coffee table, and hanging on the far wall was a collection of Gibsons. But the centerpiece of the room was a grand piano, positioned so whoever was playing had a perfect view of the Pacific. Sometimes, I’d throw open the windows and play until my skin soaked up the salty scent of the ocean.
Finally, his eyes widened in understanding. “You’re a musician?”
Nodding, I flipped on the lights.
“What do you play?” he asked, his gaze eagerly cutting to the guitars.
“A little bit of that,” I said, gesturing at the piano, “but mainly violin.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” There was no accusation in his voice, only curiosity.
I raised my shoulder in a half shrug. “It never came up.” Also, I couldn’t imagine a conversation where I didn’t come off sounding like a wannabe.Hey, Mr. Multi-Platinum-Selling Rock Star, guess what? I’m a violinist. Let’s bond over our love of music.
“How long have you played for?”
“Thirteen years,” I said, making my way over to the sofas and taking a seat.
