His Unwilling Muse

Chapter 7: Glimpse of the Truth

I'm late.

The words echo through my mind while I force my legs to move in the slowest pace possible. My stomach is squeezed into a small bulb, yet I disregard the urge to rotate my feet in a faster rhythm.

Nothing's wrong with being late. At least, it's what I keep telling myself.

The light on the pedestrian traffic light still shines bright green and I know I could easily cross the road in time. Instead, I cease all movements and allow the bike underneath me to roll over to the crosswalk with a snail-like speed. By the time I reach the end of the road, the light already turns red, so I plant my feet on the ground and wait.

It's been a week since I agreed to help Nate, and by now the practice sessions have become a routine of some kind. Every day after my classes, I head over to his college, where we spend from an hour and a half up to two hours in the crammed practice room.

I still don't believe the stupid muse explanation, but that's because I have nothing to compare his playing to. The others, including Warren, continue to claim that it's true, which leaves me with no other choice but to continue.

When the light turns green again, I softly press my feet into the pedals and begin to move them in a slow rotation. Up until now I have never been late, but today I fight my own urge for once and move at the slowest speed possible.

By the time I reach the practice room, Nate is already playing. I almost gag at the Baroque piece that fills my ears the moment I step inside. Without a moment of hesitation, I hurry to the by now usual chair and pull out my headphones. The moment a loud beat fills my ears, I sigh in relief. For a moment there I thought I wouldn't make it.

Nate doesn't stop his practice even for a second, let alone looks up from his notes. With what looks like complete concentration, he is focused on the fingers of his left hand and the quick draws of his bow.

I'm about to look away when I notice his lips move. Because I doubt he is singing, I slide the right side of the headphones off my ear.

"What?" I ask.

"You've never been late before," he says, while slowing down his movements. "Is everything okay?"

"Peachy." I snort and pull the headphone back over my ear.

I focus my eyes onto the door, until I catch him turning back to his notes. Then I grab my backpack and pull out a stack of notes. With a sigh I lean even deeper against the chair's back and begin the torture of trying to memorize the sentences written on the note cards. The loud music blasting in my ears isn't helping me, but I know it's still better than the shuddering melody Nate is playing.

I switch the sixth card of the notes for the seventh one when a pair of casual black shoes appears in the background. My breath hitches and I snap my head up to find Nate peeking over the rim of my notes.

"What do you think you're doing?" I yank the headphones off my ears and wrap them around my neck.

"That's what I was about to ask you." He straightens back up as an always-ready smile crooks his lips. "What are those notes? Are you studying for an exam?"

"I'm preparing for my part of a presentation Warren and I are giving." I lay the notes onto my lap face down, so Nate wouldn't be able to read what is written on them.

"I thought you were one of those people who could easily wing a speech."

"Wouldn't that be nice." I snort, while ignoring the pang which threatens to tighten my chest.

"Why do I feel like there's something else behind it?" He folds his arms in front of his chest and looks at me with a new-found interest.

"And if there is? Who says I'm going to tell you anything?"