Double Time ✓

30 | bass

"Good season. I'll see you around, Vierra," Bay says, lingering on the footpath.

The nighttime air sweeps over the sweatiest parts of me, squeezing in through my clothing, and seems to impart its cool confidence into me. Testing the waters, I step closer, slide my hand around her neck and into her hair.

Bay sighs, a negative sigh, almost like I've asked her to perform a chore for me, looking me up and down. Examining our surroundings, her lips turn down, and concern flashes in her dark eyes.

She's worried about being seen in public with me. We never willingly associated with each other before but now, I almost want people to see us together—Bay and Callum, Callum and Bay—and not because we're getting into a heated argument.

Then she shuts her eyes and lets me kiss her goodbye, in the shadow of the arena, soft and slow and sweet, our mouths burning hot compared to the wintry air. It's like I've stepped into an alternative reality. One where things went a whole different way the first time we kissed, one where she's in my bedroom all the time, one where I can hold her in public, because I'm hers.

But that reality would require us to be actually compatible, which Bay keeps reminding me we aren't. From philosophy to relationships, we are wholly opposite. How come my brain can list all her flaws, and every other part of me goes insane at the thought of them?

"See you next semester," I whisper against her lips. Then I step away and watch her get to wherever she needs to be tonight, wherever takes precedence over the last party of the marching season.

About a minute later, my mother's voice, unexpected, sends a jolt of terror down my spine. "Callum. Who was that girl?"

Crap. How much did she see? Did she see us kiss?

Heart thundering, I turn around, pretending to be at ease.

"Hi, Cal!" Christian waves at me as my family approaches from the car park.

"Ah, that's Bay," I call back. "She's the co-leader of the percussion section, remember?"

"I know Bay," Christian chirps happily. "I wrote her a birthday card."

"That's Isabella?" Mom stops beside me and glances down the sidewalk, where Bay is strolling towards the residence halls.

"What?"

She shrugs. "I just... imagined someone less delicate when you said fire-breathing dragon." I believe the last time we spoke about Bay was when I expressed my frustration about Keller making me co-lead with her.

"And that's where you'd be wrong and charred, dear mother," I quip noncommittally. "She is so not delicate."

Mom purses her lips and examines my face. "She's certainly very pretty."

Blood rushes to my cheeks. I clap my palm over my exasperated face. "Oh, my God." Bay is the last person I want to share with my parents, especially when I haven't figured our dynamic out for myself.

"What?" Mom protest. "Just an observation."

"You played well tonight," Dad congratulates, patting me solidly on the back. Changing the topic. Very smart. Thanks, Dad. I love you. "This was the best show yet."

"I agree," Christian says. "The rain made it cooler."

"That's right," Mom, train of thought derailed, remarks, "Make sure you dry off properly. It's cold now and I don't want you getting sick when you need to study."

She starts asking about what my final exam schedule looks like and when I'll be home for winter. She asks me to bring back whatever clothes have become unseasonal so that I'm not overwhelming her with 'all my crap' when I return to Carsonville in summer. Motherly concerns, motherly conversations.