Page 19 of A Wistful Symphony

That’s the last straw. “Yes, arsehole, I’m on a date with you!” I burst out in sheer desperation. “What’s happening? Did you seriously forget this or are you taking the piss? Because if it’s the last, that’s fucked up.”

My face blazes hot and I grip the pint so hard my knuckles turn pale.

My heart pummels painfully and my breathing follows quickly, shallow and uneven.

I try my best to get a hold of myself, but I suppose my state is obvious.

Please, Eric, get yourself together . The last thing I need is to embarrass myself any further and have an anxiety attack in front of you.

The shock on your face is almost as great as mine.

You stand still, eyes wide and shoulders tense, hands on the back of the chair as if it was the only thing keeping you from running away.

Your mouth parts, searching for words, but something makes your flight response wither.

Biting your lower lip, you sit down and rest your arm on the table, palm upward.

“Eric, give me your hand,” you say carefully, as if talking to a frightened pup.

“Seriously?”

“Oh. Sorry, I forgot.” You put a few napkins over your palm. “Better? You can wash it later, okay? Just give it to me.”

My wary eyes flutter from your covered palm to your face, but despite the imperative choice of words, you never move to take my hand by force.

He’s going to give you shingles or staph.

The bacteria may go through the napkin. The thoughts make me wince, but there’s something comforting about the way you smile at me.

It’s not pity. That I know all too well. It’s … understanding.

I swallow hard and tentatively reach out. My hand still trembles when it touches your paper-covered palm, and you tighten your grip to make it stop. Strong, reassuring. And though the thoughts keep nagging, after a minute or so, I manage to breathe easier.

“Look, it’s not that I’m not glad to see you. Because I am. But I seriously haven’t talked to you since the day of the party.” You shake your head with a puzzled frown and widen your eyes, as if something struck you. “Eric, how exactly did you come to think we had a date?”

“We talked Monday night on Facebook.”

“Facebook?” Your face grows even more confused. “I don’t have a Facebook account.”

“Then who did—?” I scrunch my brows. “Wait, let me show you.” I fish out my phone and search for the conversation with one hand. The other is secure in your grip, and I wonder if you realise you’re holding it still.

After I give you the device, you scroll through the chat with bewildered eyes. “That’s not me. I mean, that’s my name, but I’ve never seen this profile in my life, and I don’t talk like—” You suddenly grit your teeth. “‘ Super’ … freaking Astro!”

“What do you mean?”

“The friend I was supposed to meet is an idiot who says ‘super’ every three sentences. I can’t believe he set us up.” You glance at our joined hands and let go at once. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright.” I hide both palms under the table and rub them with sanitiser, just to be sure. “This is so twisted. Who the hell does that?”

“Sorry. The moron probably thought he was doing me a favour.” You cross your arms and twist your mouth. I’m ready to get up and end this mortifying night when you say, “But, um, since we’re both here and neither of us dislikes the idea … do you want to keep the date going, anyway?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, why not? Why waste the opportunity?”

My eyes narrow as I search your blithe countenance for any trace of hidden agenda. As if this situation isn’t humiliating enough, you throwing me a bone out of sympathy would be the cherry on top.

“You don’t have to do this just because you feel sorry for me.”

You compress your lips, looking rather offended. “Why would I feel sorry for you?”

I regret ever speaking. There’s something brutally honest about the way you act around me, around everything, and I don’t believe you’d have a problem getting up and leaving if that’s what you wanted.

“Sorry.” My shoulders relax and I plaster on a grin. “Of course I want to do this.”

We fall into an uncomfortable silence, our eyes averting. You chew the inside of your cheek, and I tap restless fingers on the table. As the ginger server passes by, you wave an eager hand in front of her, like the woman could rescue us from the painful awkwardness.

“Hey, Ms Hamilton, may I have a pint?”

She narrows her eyes. “You’ll have a soda if you know what’s good for ya, Andrew Westcott. I ain’t having the reverend pester me about serving beer to his underage son,” she scoffs. “And come fetch it by the counter. I ain’t your bloody maid.”

You wince, and I hide a chuckle behind my fingers.

“Must be a drag being the reverend’s son,” I say when you come back with your drink.

You grunt under the hiss of the can opening. “Ugh, the worst. Nothing I do ever goes unnoticed in this freaking town.”

“Indeed,” I mutter, recalling our photos splashed all over the web. “You sure it’s okay to be seen here with me?”

You shrug and take a gulp of soda. “It can’t make things any worse.”

I’m not sure I agree but keep the thought to myself.

“I don’t know how you thought that was me. All that slang and those spelling mistakes. It’s almost insulting.”

Masterful change of subject. “Oh, sod off.” I laugh. “How am I supposed to know how you talk online?”

“I don’t, that’s the thing. Dad says Facebook is a distraction and blocked it on all the computers back home.”

“You could use it on your phone.” I raise my eyebrows. “Everyone has Facebook. Even I do, and I’m practically a hermit.”

“Guess I’m a bigger hermit than you.” You rummage through your hoodie’s pocket and place a flip phone on the table. A freaking flip phone. Not even my grandmother has such an outdated device.

An incredulous laugh bursts from my mouth. “Gosh, Andrew, it’s 2013. How the hell do you live without a smartphone?”

“I hate them, and social media.” You chuckle along. “I don’t like people tracking me down and knowing what I’m doing all the time.”

“Would’ve made it easier to set this date.”

With a raised corner of your perfect bow-shaped lips, you take my mobile and type something. Your device rings and you turn it off before returning mine. “There. Now we have each other’s number, so we can set a date properly next time.”

I smile and save your number, warmth overtaking my face. Next time , you said.

“So.” I clear my throat. “Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’ as a ringtone?”

“It’s my favourite. What’s yours?”

“Nah, not important.” I wave a hand.

“Come on, I showed you mine. What is it?” When I refuse to answer, you ring me. The opening riff of “Can You Feel the Love Tonight ” sounds and your grin widens. “ The Lion King ?”

“Sir Elton John won an Oscar with that song, okay?”

You laugh a bit more. “It’s alright. I didn’t imagine it would be your ringtone, that’s all. Guess there’s a lot we don’t know about each other.”

That makes me wonder. For three years I’ve been in this town, and you were a constant presence throughout all of them.

By your father’s side, when Mum still dragged me to Sunday service.

At school, when you finished your high-end secondary and entered the same sixth form as me because it has an arts focus.

At our music classes, where no one would shut up about how brilliant you are.

Then at the psychiatrist, where I figured you’re probably screwed up like me, though I never knew how.

How can we spend so much time around people and still know nothing about them?

“You could just ask, you know?” I lean crossed arms on the table.

“Ask what?”

“Whatever you’re curious about. It’s about time we got to know each other properly.”

“Well, whose fault is that?” You throw me a keen stare. “I honestly thought you hated me.”

“Sorry.” I grimace. “I’m shit at letting people get close.”

“For sure.” A sweet laugh escapes your mouth. “What changed?”

“You know damn well what changed.”

You divert your eyes to the table, your smile somewhat wider.

“I don’t even know what to ask you.” You rub the nape of your neck. “Jeez, I really suck at this.”

“It’s alright. Start with something simple, and we can go from there.”

“Okay. What’s your favourite classical music period?

“Romantic.”

“Figures.”

“Why is that?”

“Your ringtone.”

“Shut up.” I bury my face in the pint and take a sip. “Favourite food?”

“Popcorn,” you say without hesitating.

“What? That’s not food. That’s barely a snack.”

“Whatever, it’s my favourite.” You chuckle. “I could eat only popcorn every day.”

“You’d be malnourished.”

“I’d be malnourished and happy.” You shrug, quite unconcerned. “What do you want to do after you graduate?”

“Move to London and enter the undergraduate programme at the Royal Academy of Music.”

“No, I meant after that. What do you want to do with your life?”

I pause and take another sip. That’s quite a long answer for the easy chat I had in mind.

“I’m not sure.” My voice comes out hushed. “I always thought I’d be a performance player and join an ensemble like my mother, but now I don’t know. It’s too competitive out there and I’m no Lang Lang.” I try to shrug it off, but you don’t take the bait.

“You could if you wanted to.” You lean forward and smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as hardworking as you.”

“Thanks, but that’s not the issue. I mean, I like what I do, but reproducing classics is starting to feel empty.

” I glance to the side and brush a strand of hair from my face.

“I’ve been composing for a while now. Mainly ballads, since I lack the skill to come up with elaborate arrangements yet, but I’m loving every second of it.

” A strained grin takes over my lips. “I don’t know what type of career I’ll pursue, but I want to make my own music. That’s for sure.”