Another New Life Read online

  "My what?"

  "Guy coach. Yeah, I can teach you how to talk to guys and pick up guys." She bounced off the bed and into the bathroom, grinning all the way.

  I stayed seated. She seemed so excited. I didn't have the heart to tell her I knew more about men than any eighteen-year-old girl should ever know.

  ***

  Freshman orientation continued, and Darcy swore hell and damnation on me if I didn't participate in everything. With her southern accent, I kind of believed her.

  The goal of freshman orientation was to acclimate students to the rigors of college life, but I think they needed to reevaluate the activities. Every day the school sponsored a different activity, but every night, it ended the same. Students stumbling back to the dorms after drinking or smoking too much.

  It all seemed rather silly. I watched these kids, first time away from home, trying every vice possible all in their first week of school. The school needed to have a seminar about pacing ourselves. I couldn't imagine keeping this up for four more years.

  Darcy and I survived, and I was so ready for classes to start, but it only took until my first class to discover another seminar they failed to include. The one on how to deal with the unexpected. That lesson I had to learn on my own

  Tuesday morning at 9:30 a.m., Darcy and I arrived to our first class early. Darcy wanted to sit up front, but I managed to talk her into sitting near the back. With over a hundred students in the class, I told her, we had a better vantage point to check out the guys from the last row. I had learned quick how to negotiate with Darcy. It was all about understanding what motivated her.

  I looked over the syllabus while Darcy talked a mile a minute. Some guy she didn't recall meeting kept texting her.

  "Randa, read this."

  I turn to read, but my eyes fixated on the door even before he walked in. His deep, full laugh entered the room before him. The booming laugh drew everyone's attention. As he entered, the door framed his body, and he paused for a second to scan the room.

  Please don't come this way, I said to myself while leaning closer. He headed up the aisle and caught me staring back. I tried to look away, but my brain didn't have control over my eyes, my breath, or my sweat glands. He looked away.

  The closer he got to my row, the more the air in my vicinity dissipated. In contrast, studying his features gave me a weird surge of energy.

  I inhaled as he walked in front of me. He was the guy I had created in my head: my dream guy. The smell of soap and something sweet floated in my direction as he collapsed into his seat. I stared at the back of his head. Willing him to turn his face, even a little. I blinked when he showed his profile as if obeying my internal command. I made a mental note of his features: nice lips, strong jaw, clean-shaven, good nose, and a smile that made my heart ache. He leaned over to speak to the guy sitting next to him, and his voice triggered a hint of recognition.

  As the professor droned on about course requirements and expectations, I watched as the object of my attention lifted his left arm and rubbed the back of his neck. The gesture seemed familiar. He had large hands, and I imagined his hands touching me, and I couldn't catch my breath.

  Then it hit me. Oh my God, I knew him, but we hadn’t seen each other in eight years.

  I felt like I was going crazy. Did we enter another universe? Was I having an episode? My brain slipped back eight years ago, and I saw him sitting on the curb outside of my house, crying and waving.

  He looked the same, but different.

  "Are you okay?" Darcy whispered in my ear.

  My logical self said it couldn't be him, but in my heart, I knew.

  He had the same dirty blond, shaggy hair, and he pushed it out of his eyes as he smiled. The same as he had when we were kids. I saw the same eleven-year-old boy in his six-foot-two-inch muscular frame. It was him.

  He turned and leaned over to whisper something to his friend, again. If he turned a millimeter more, he would see me. I panicked and turned to face Darcy, hiding my face with my hand. She mirrored the look I carried on my face.

  "I have to go," I said.

  "Miranda Preston," the professor said.

  "Please, I have to go," I whispered to Darcy again, but she didn't hear me.

  "This is Miranda Preston," Darcy said.

  I was so focused on getting out of the room; I didn't understand what was happening. The entire classroom looked in our direction, but their eyes weren't on me, they were on the guy. They were on Troy, my childhood best friend.

  I bit my bottom lip and rubbed my hands together.

  "Miranda?" he said.

  As soon as he said my name, the tingling sensation in my hands went away. I forgot the unique way he said my name. He sang it. I raised my head and stared into his vivid green eyes.

  "Hi, Troy."

  I felt the class staring at us, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from him.

  "Mr. Anderson," the professor said, "I trust this little moment you and Ms. Preston seem to be having can wait until after class?"

  Troy smiled, and the butterflies returned. I managed to smile back before he took his seat.

  Throughout class, Troy peeked behind him. Perhaps checking to make sure I was there, and I was real. Darcy shifted in her seat and did her best to get my attention without disrupting the class. It killed her not to know what was going on. I ignored her.

  Finally, the professor dismissed the class and everyone filtered out of the room except Darcy, Troy, his friend, and me. I wished that Darcy would leave. I didn't know her well enough to trust what might come out of her mouth. At the same time, I imagined that when I tried to stand her assistance would be greatly appreciated.

  "So, how do you know Miranda?"

  "Darcy." I apologized to Troy with my eyes.

  "What?" she asked.

  I turned to Darcy, "Don't you have a class to go to?"

  "Yeah, but—"

  "I'll see you at lunch, okay?"

  With no words, she pleaded with me to let her stay, and I pleaded with her to go.

  Our nonverbal tug of war ended in a draw when Troy's friend spoke up.

  "Hi, my name is Ryan." He held his hand out to Darcy.

  Darcy took it, and flashed him a thousand watt smile "Hi, I'm Darcy."

  "Let me walk you to your next class, Darcy."

  They left us standing in the empty classroom.

  Troy watched them exit the room, which gave me another opportunity to study him. Everything about the way he stood, the way his arms hung at his side, and his movements were relaxed. If I had a piano in front of me, I could have played through Beethoven’s whole repertoire by now, but he was calm and cool.

  "I can't believe it's you," Troy said.

  "Yeah, me too," I said as I pushed my hair behind my ears and began clearing off my desk.

  "How are you?"

  I paused before answering him. An innocent question, but my mind rehearsed a multitude of answers before settling on "I'm good, and you?"

  "Good," he chuckled, and I stopped and stared. Was he laughing at me?

  "I feel like we should probably shake hands or hug or something."

  I smiled and took a deep breath, trying to prevent my heart from beating out of my chest.

  We walked to the end of the row, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, hesitant at first, but when his hands touched my waist, I pulled him closer. We melded together nicely, and I laid my head against his chest and exhaled, but it didn't help settle my racing heart.

  "You have another class?" Troy whispered in my ear, and it felt too intimate. I stepped out of his embrace.

  "Not until eleven thirty."

  "You want to grab some coffee?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  As we walked down the stairs and out of the classroom, he placed his hand on the small of my back, and I willed my body to slow down although my first instinct was to take off into a sprint.

  ***

  Troy motioned to a table outside. "What can I get you?"<
br />
  "Latte."

  He started walking away, and I stared. He turned back to asked me how I took my coffee. I was thankful he was too much of a gentleman to bring attention to my blushing red cheeks and the fact he caught me staring at his ass.

  I averted my eyes until I was sure he wouldn't turn back. As soon as he entered the student center, I watched him through the window. He spoke to the person behind the counter and laughed. He gave a half hug to another guy while waiting for our coffee.

  When he walked behind a wall, I missed him and felt relief when he appeared again. I was laughing at myself when he returned to the table.

  "What's so funny?" he walked up behind me and set the coffee down over my shoulder. His arm brushed against me. I couldn’t recall being so aware of my body. When he touched me, a mysterious charge flipped a switch, and my energy level shot up.

  "Nothing.” I sipped my coffee. "So, how have you been?"

  "I missed you." He took a sip of his coffee, but his eyes didn't leave mine. No hint or concern in his eye about what happened eight years ago.

  Sitting across from me, we mirrored each other, but while he stared at my face, I looked anywhere but his. His striking green eyes looked the same as when we were kids, and the effect played with my sanity.

  I tried to distract myself from reaching out and touching the muscles on his forearm with my fingertips

  "I think I cried every time I looked over the fence at your house," he said with no hint of embarrassment in his voice. Some things he remembered, but how much, I had no clue.

  "I remember you sitting on the curb in front of my house as we drove away." I swallowed, feeling the emotions of that day like it was yesterday. Even eight years later, it hurt my heart. I never got over it.

  "Where did you go?" Troy asked.

  I straightened in my seat and took another sip. This time, I did study him, trying to figure out what he knew. What he remembered.

  "What did they tell you?" I asked.

  "They wouldn't tell me anything, and every time I asked, my parents got mad and sent me to my room. After a week, I stopped asking."

  My shoulders relaxed. "I went to my grandparent's house in San Diego for awhile, but we ended up moving to Seattle, Washington."

  "You've been there every since?"

  "Yeah."

  "This is weird. Seeing you again, here."

  I couldn't look at him even though I wanted to. I didn't trust my newfound emotional side to react properly. He had no problem looking at me.

  I sat back and ran both my hands through my hair. I needed to shake his gaze off. It made me claustrophobic. I was trying hard to hold it together.

  "So, tell me about you. What have you been up to?" I asked, turning the attention off of me. The more he talked, the more I felt grounded and normal.

  "We moved about six months after you did, to San Antonio."

  "You still play football?"

  "Yeah, how did you know that?" he asked. He tilted his head and paused, waiting for my response.

  "When we were little, you always said you were going to be a football player." We both smiled at the memory. "You used to make me play catch with you. You couldn't throw a spiral for shit."

  "I got better," he said. "How about you? Still playing the piano?”

  “You remembered?”

  “Yeah, I remember you hated to practice.”

  “I learned to like it. I’m a music major.”

  “Uh, imagine that. Not much has changed since we were kids.”

  I knew what he meant, but he had no idea how wrong he was.

  “How do you like UT so far?"

  "It's different," I said with not much emotion.

  "Come on, us southerners aren't that bad."

  "Southerner, really?

  "Well, little lady, I am every bit the southern gentleman." Troy gave me his best southern accent.

  "No, everyone has been nice, which feels strange."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know." I looked off across campus. "It's been my experience; not everyone is nice all the time."

  He told me about the last couple of years of his life, and I listened. Well, I tried to listen, but my eyes jumped from the wrinkle on the side of his eyes when he smiled and his broad shoulders and a vein on his neck that moved as he spoke. He was a man. An attractive man, and I haven't had a lot of positive experiences with grown men in my life, but at the same time, so much of this guy reminded me of the best friend I grew up with. My brain toggled between the eleven-year-old I remembered, and the man sitting in front of me now. It was disorienting. Like everything I knew about the world, now seemed different.

  What kind of trick was the universe playing on me?

  "I really don't want to, but I have to go to class," he interrupted my daydream.

  "Oh, yeah, me too."

  "I have practice after class, but can I call you later?"

  I shook my head, or at least I think I did.

  He took out his phone and started typing. Then, he stopped and looked at me.

  I stared back, not sure what else to do, but scared to look him straight in the eye. Like in doing so, I would do something strange like kiss him or something.

  Oh, great, now all I could think about was kissing him.

  "Your number?" he said.

  "Oh." Pull it together, Miranda. "206-213-0808."

  We stood up. The wind had blown a strand of my hair across my lips. He reached out and removed it. His finger grazed my cheek.

  He pushed it behind my ear and leaned in to wrap his arms around me. My palms began to sweat, but I made myself hug him back. When I wrapped my arms around his waist, he pulled me closer, and we stood there and held each other, I let myself believe somehow, this was supposed to happen.

  We eventually let go, and I managed to make it to the music hall before my music performance class. The department director, Professor Davidson, taught this class himself. By the time I found the classroom the other students were seated at the upright pianos, which lined the center of the room, four on each side. I walked in, and seven pairs of eyes turned to watch me walk in the room. I felt like I was about to walk down a catwalk.

  "Good morning," Professor Davidson said, "and you are?"

  The rest of the class snickered.

  "Uhm, Miranda Preston."

  "Miranda, really?"

  "Yes." I met Professor Davidson at my audition, but he didn't recognize me. I looked a little different then when I auditioned over a year ago. He looked the same: short, round, with a seventies tie and a seventies mustache to match.

  He flipped through some files, pulled out a folder, and stared at it as I stood inside the door.

  "Riley's student?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Oh, yes, our prodigy from the west. Nice to see you again." He closed the folder and motioned toward the only empty piano in the room, right next to him.

  I hated when people called me a prodigy. I wasn't a prodigy. I started piano when I was four and continued playing after others quit. You do something for fourteen years, and you would be pretty good at it too.

  I reached my piano, placed my stuff under the bench, and sat down. I lifted the piano lid and touched the keys, restraining myself from banging out a sonata.

  I played a C chord in my head as my fingers moved across the keys.

  "So, Miranda, tell us about yourself."

  I turned around so fast my elbow hit the keys, and the laughter from the other students echoed around the room. My first note in college sounded like a five-year-old child.

  "Uhmm, what do you want to know?" I asked.

  "Where are you from?"

  "Seattle, Washington."

  "What are your strengths?" he asked.

  It felt like my audition all over again.

  "Nineteenth-century classics."

  "Uh huh." He opened the file again. "Weaknesses?"

  "Composing." I sat up straight on the bench. "Everything I write either sounds li
ke a nursery rhyme or the devil's soundtrack."

  A couple of students laughed, but most just shook their heads. They could relate.

  "Well, you know we tend to write what we feel. Maybe you've never grown up or have psychopathic tendencies. I don't know." He scratched the back of his head. "We just met. I'll reserve judgment until I get to know you a bit more."

  The whole class laughed, and I couldn't help joining in myself.

  He went through the other student introductions, same drill, strengths and weakness. He continued by sharing information on class expectations, ensemble auditions, and general program information. The piano performance majors didn't have a formal orientation like other departments. There were only sixteen new students each year.

  You would think with such a small group we would be a tight, but our inherent competitive personalities made developing relationships difficult. There was a reason we all played an instrument that could be a band all on its own. We worked better alone.

  By the time we got through everyone, class was over, and I was disappointed I didn't get a chance to play a note.

  Professor Davidson dismissed the class, but I lingered behind.

  "Was there something I could help you with, Ms. Preston?"

  "I know the schedule says we wouldn't have full access to practice rooms until after ensemble auditions, but..." My voice trailed off as he busied himself gathering papers and dropping them into a crate at his feet.

  "Follow me."

  ***

  We exited the room and turned left down a long corridor. Halfway down, Professor Davidson stopped and handed me a key that he pulled out of his pocket.

  "Last room on the left." He pointed. "Drop the key off in here when your done."

  I headed down the hall, peeking into rooms as I passed. Each one was occupied by a student blowing or banging on an instrument. The rooms were soundproof, so none of the noise spilled out into the hall. As I continued, I feared the last room would be occupied too. I was relieved when I peeked through the window, and it was empty. I slid the key into the door and opened it. A sense of calm spread over me as I studied the baby grand sitting in the center of the room. The overhead light reflected off the high gloss finish. The white keys glowed next to the unblemished black keys. The piano looked new, and it was all mine, for the next few hours anyway.