Page 20 of A Wistful Symphony

Do you know, Andrew? I’ve told no one that before.

I’m the man with a plan and always have been.

Changing gears so close to a decisive point in my life has been nerve-wrecking, and I don’t want Mum to worry about me more than she usually does.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve been so obsessed with London and the Royal Academy.

It’s my only certainty. Everything beyond that is a vast unknown, and it terrifies me.

“That sounds awesome.” Your expression brightens. “Think you can show me someday?”

“Not a chance. I’d have to kill you later.”

“Ouch.” You chuckle and throw me a kind glance. “Few people can create, you know? I think you’re amazing for trying.”

“Thank you.” I look away, afraid my face will go cherry red with such an honest compliment. “What about you? What do you want to do with your life?”

Your smile subtly withers. You hold it still and go on as if nothing happened, but the glint in your beautiful hazel eyes is gone.

“Dad wanted me to be a performance musician as well. I was trying out for Guildhall, but he thinks the place is too bohemian and doesn’t want me there.

” You exhale bitterly through your nose.

“He has a friend on the board of the Royal College of Music, but I guess he wouldn’t mind if I entered the RAM as well. Not like any of that is happening now.”

The answer stirs, uneasy in my chest. It’s remarkable how you’ve spared no words telling what Reverend Westcott expects of your future, but not once spoken of what you want.

“May I ask you something personal?”

You nod in response.

“Why did you stop going to school?”

Your Adam’s apple wobbles up and down and you take a large gulp of your soda, almost forgotten on the table. The silence stretches enough for me to think you won’t answer.

“Dad and I had a fight when he found out about me; you must’ve heard,” you say at last, not looking at me.

“I left the house right after that, and it made little sense to keep going to school. Or uni, for that matter.” You shrug.

“I’m renting a flat on the outskirts of town.

Mum is helping me pay for it, but I don’t want to rely on her money, so I’m working at a club with my friend Astro.

He’s in a band. He’s a pretty good singer. ”

“Andrew, I’m so sorry,” I whisper, not knowing what else to say.

“Don’t be. It happens.”

You shake your head and grin as if it’s nothing but a minor inconvenience, a broken umbrella on a rainy day.

But I can see through your nonchalant facade, Andrew.

I’ve watched it too many times in the mirror to not recognise it.

I know how it hurts to have a parent reject you.

To have all you knew in life stripped out overnight. How lost you must feel right now.

“Good thing you got the job.” I try to steer the conversation to a lighter topic. “Are you playing in your friend’s band?”

“Oh, no, I tend the bar. Astro and the guys play metalcore, and that’s not my kind of jam.” You giggle silently. “He keeps pestering me to do a symphonic track with them.”

“Why don’t you? Could be an interesting experience.”

“Perhaps. I’ll give it some thought.” Your expression softens. “Okay, you asked two in a row. It’s my turn. Something you can’t live without. And don’t say music.”

“Coffee. I think I’d die without it.”

“Ew.” You wince. “Coffee tastes awful. I don’t know how people like it.”

“Excuse me?” I exclaim, eyes bulged. “I’d get up and leave if you weren’t such a damn good kisser!” All colour leaves my face the second the words come out, but it’s too late to take them back.

“Good to know I have that leverage.” The smug leer you shoot me is almost too much to bear. “Favourite cuisine?”

“Italian, no doubt. Anything with pasta and I’m yours.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

We keep talking, and I barely notice the time pass.

In a matter of hours, I find out you not only hate coffee, but most hot beverages.

You’re overly picky with food as well, not eating anything too sweet or too spicy, or with a funky smell or texture.

You wish you had siblings or pets. Once you snuck a cat in your room for two weeks until he ripped your mother’s curtains, and she didn’t let you keep it, which both made me laugh and feel sorry for you.

Your favourite trip was to Cornwall because the sea clears your head and makes you feel peaceful and relaxed.

I picture the scene and think you would look rather handsome with the sea breeze gusting through your golden hair.

I hang on to every shard of information you’re willing to give and put together a puzzle of the person you are.

Although there’s a pristine set of pieces, I still dip in shallow waters.

There’s a vast ocean inside of you, Andrew.

Hidden, waiting to be uncovered. That might’ve scared me, but I’m surprisingly eager to dive deeper.

What if I drown? The thought washes away with one sight of your gorgeous smile.

We share anecdotes for hours, our drinks warm and forgotten on the table. At some point, I glance at the watch on the far wall, marking nine and three quarters. “Shoot, my curfew is at ten.”

“I can drive you home.”

“Are you sure? Isn’t it out of your way?”

“No worries. I’d be more than happy to.” You get up and roll the key between your fingers.

“Okay. It’s nice to save the cab money,” I add nonchalantly.

A knowing smirk tweaks your mouth, and I can’t help mirroring it. We both know better than to believe such a blatant excuse.

The late-night gust greets our cheeks as we trade the noisy pub for the gloomy pavement. Only a few light posts glow their yellowish beams over the hood of parked cars. You lead the way to a shiny black SUV that makes all the neighbouring vehicles look like a pile of rusted bathtubs.

Noticing my awe, you explain, “Dad bought it for my seventeenth birthday. I thought it would be fitting to take it with me when I left.” You throw me a mischievous grin, rather proud of that minor act of rebellion.

“Definitely a good call,” I smile back in complicity and get in by your side.

We say little on our ride back. You put on a Radiohead playlist and we hum together to “Creep” while you tap the rhythm on the steering wheel.

Three other songs follow, and I embarrass myself by trying to hit the high notes of “Paranoid Android,” which I don’t mind at all.

Somehow, you’re an even worse singer than I am.

“We should really stick to instrumental,” you say, stopping the SUV in front of the cottage.

“No doubt. Thom Yorke must be shivering right now.”

“Or having a full-blown stroke,” you add, and I laugh out loud. Your smile is wide and sweet. “Hanging with you was real nice. We should do it more often.”

“Yeah,” I say. My heart pounds under your pressing stare. It’s not my eyes you’re caught on, but my lips. I want so badly to kiss you again, but end up pointing two awkward finger guns out of sheer panic. “Well, see you next time.”

A long silence follows. Your mouth twitches and you raise an eyebrow, looking from my hands to my face, probably not believing how much of a dork I am.

I slowly retrieve my fingers, face long and spine cold. “Can we forget this ever happened?”

A second or two pass before you burst into laughter.

“Jeez, you’re so hopeless.” You squint and rest your forehead on the steering wheel, thunderous cackles resonating through the limited space.

I hide my face behind both palms. Great, Eric. Brilliant. Everything was going so well, and you had to blow it .

“I’ll just leave now,” I mumble, voice muffled behind my hands.

“Hey, Eric.”

“What?”

When I uncover my face, your mouth touches mine.

You don’t kiss me like you did at the party.

This time you’re calm. Gentle. You take your time brushing my lips, nibbling them with the curiosity of an explorer, and I allow myself to dwell in your caress.

My mind is not empty, it never is, but in this fleeting moment, the thoughts are nothing but a whisper.

I’m here with you, enjoying every feeling, every taste, every second of this.

You reach for the back of my head, lightly gripping strands of my hair as our kiss grows deeper. I rest a palm on your chest, the hasty thump of your heart soothing my eager digits until you break contact, smiling wide against my lips.

“You know, I hate to admit, but Astro did me a huge favour today,” you say, your mouth a few millimetres from mine.

“You and me both.” I peck your lips again, unable to restrain myself.

“Good night, Eric.” You brush a lock of hair behind my ear and draw back. “Until next time.”

“Night, Andrew.” I begrudgingly reach for the door handle, aching to stay a tad longer.

You roll down the window to throw one last wave before manoeuvring around the road. I watch your headlights grow dim in the foggy lane and raise my fingers to my lips, frozen in a smile I’m afraid won’t ever wither.

With a chuckle, I shake my head to retrieve it from the clouds and head inside.

Until next time.