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CHAPTER 17

EMERSON

I wake up feeling warm and relaxed, but as I move to sit up I’m a little sticky. Nothing a shower won’t fix.

The bed is rumpled beside me, and I realize that Gunnar slept here with me. I’m not sure what to make of the rush I feel at that awareness. So, I grab his shirt from the floor, pulling it over my sticky body, and pad to the kitchen, where he’s scribbling a note at the counter. He has a bag draped over one arm and a giant bottle of … something … in his hand.

“Oh, hey, Salty.” His grin shines bright in the gray light of early morning. It must be very early. He slides the note to me, which reads

You’re beautiful, wife

I smile and point at his bottle. “What’s with the sludge?”

He glances at the liquid and frowns. “The trainer says I’m supposed to drink this before my first workout. They feed us during film before we get out on the ice.” His brows shoot up. “What’s on your plate today?”

I tug on the shirt, feeling a little chilly, but I don’t miss the way his gaze lingers on my legs at the hem or the heat in his eyes at the sight of me in his shirt. Gunnar likes identifying me as his. I realize I like it, too. I like him, this unexpected husband of mine. Things feel right with him, like I’m able to really be myself. If I could just figure out who that is…

I sigh and tell him, “I think I’m going to look into that school I saw. For kids into music.”

“Awesome. Let me know if I can help.” He glances at his watch. “I gotta run, but I’ll be back this afternoon.” And he steps toward me, kissing my cheek as if it’s a regular part of our routine. Gunnar’s out the door before I pull my hand from my face, wondering why it feels so real if we’re just here playing pretend.

It’s not typical to feel so at home with a man I just met, right? And yet, Gunnar and his family have been so welcoming. They make it impossible not to fold into their fabric. It seems hardly a lie that we fell for each other immediately…from my end, anyway.

I finally shower, reluctantly putting Gunnar’s shirt in the wash and considering pulling a dirty one from the pile just to smell him all day. “That’s gross, Emerson,” I chide myself, wondering if I can think of some excuse to sniff him later without it being weird. Is he open to more regular physical connection? Maybe he’s just leaning all the way in while this lasts…tightening the ruse as he gets closer to signing the contracts he wants?

I sit at the counter with his laptop and consider my options. I would absolutely love to join the String Fury music group, but I don’t even know if they’re auditioning for new members. Such a niche organization likely receives a thousand hopeful musicians contacting them every day.

I decide that the Scale Up Music Academy is a more approachable first step for me in establishing a purpose here in Pittsburgh. According to the website, students from under- resourced backgrounds can attend music classes at no cost, receiving instruments and even concert clothes for free. The school emphasizes many different styles of music, ranging from European classical to African drumming to Punjabi. My spine tingles with excitement at the idea of working in that sort of environment, helping kids discover the power of music and allowing them to explore the sounds and rhythms that feel right to them.

No one at Scale Up appears to be forcing children to play one particular type of instrument. Based on the photos online, there’s a balance of genders in all of the ensembles. I’m ready to float away as I click the button to apply to work with the organization … until I’m faced with the reality that I have no job experience and nothing to put on a resume for the application.

I don’t have a resume. I’ve never been employed. I’ve performed in various places, but I lack experience in providing instruction. I don’t even know how to be a receptionist.

My eyes dry out from a lack of blinking as I confront the crushing fear of having to go back home. My parents believe they provided me with everything money could buy, and perhaps that’s true. But it came at a cost.

Here I am, unable to flourish without them.

I can’t work in a music school for underprivileged youth.

I can’t work anywhere. I don’t know how.

There’s another tab on the website for volunteers with the program, but I realize I can’t do that either. Volunteering with children apparently requires background checks and clearance paperwork. That seems just as out of reach to me as a job offer.

I slam the laptop closed and walk down the hall to the music/trophy room, smiling at the memory of Gunnar nicknaming it “the McTrophy room.” I pause in the doorway, noticing that Gunnar has been organizing his things here. A bookshelf now occupies one wall, the kind with many cubbies. Each cubby displays his hockey awards, and while several boxes remain on the floor, they are neatly stacked.

The chair in the middle of the room and my cello are the focal points now. He’s carved out space for me, no questions asked. This man is as wealthy as my father, I assume, yet he doesn’t use his money as a weapon. Instead, he’s eager to make me comfortable, however I define that.

On the verge of tears, I hear a buzz from the kitchen. My phone dances across the counter with incoming messages. I risk a glance at the screen, fearing more tabloid or family drama, but see it’s from Gunnar.

Hospital gala Friday night. Can you make it? Would love to have you at my side, Salty.

He even sent a little emoji of a salt shaker. I stare at my phone, realizing that there is something I can contribute here in this city. I can be arm candy at a society event. I can help a wealthy man schmooze at a fundraiser. That’s what I was born to do, right? I type a response.

You bet.

I include an emoji of a dancing woman. I spend the rest of the day grooming myself, shaving, polishing, and moisturizing, so I’ll be ready to play my part.