Angela Morrison - Sing Me to Sleep

“She’ll get over it.”

“Poor Meadow—and her parents.” I put down my spoon and lean forward. “They invested a lot in me last spring.”

“And you delivered in Lausanne. You don’t owe them anything.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” They counted on me for radio spots and their Christmas party this year.

Derek nods at my choir bag. “Go home and take a look at that music, and if you can honestly tell me you’d rather sing the baby stuff Terri’s got for you instead of what the AYS are doing, plus my fantastic creations in chamber choir—fine.”

I lift a spoonful of soup and pour it back into the bowl. “You know it doesn’t compare.”

“Good. How about we meet back here—Tuesday at 5:30 for a quick dinner before your practice.”

I glance around and frown. “Is this the only place to eat in London?”

“That I can afford?”

“Now who’s being sexist? I can pay—especially for better food.”

Derek wipes his sticky fingers on a napkin. “You don’t like the ambiance?”

“I don’t like the soup.” It’s even worse than the Dunkin’ Donuts by my house.

“Can’t beat the donuts.”

“If you get fat—”

“Me? Impossible.”

He’s right. I look at him closely. It’s not just that he’s leaner than in Switzerland like I thought on Monday. He’s thinner—probably by at least ten pounds. Drugs make you skinny. Even I know that. He slips out a few pills and swallows them—like in Lausanne. Right in front of me. Who takes vitamins at night?

“Do you think that’s a good idea? You have to ride your motorcycle home.”

“They’re for my stomach.”

I study his face. “Not vitamins?”

“Vitamins for my stomach.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be. My cold is cleared up for now.”

“But—”

“I’m fine.” He takes off for the guy’s restroom.

When he comes back, I smile truce at him and say, “Hey, why is your ex-girlfriend being so nice to me? She caught me staring and smiled. It’s weird.”

“She’s dating somebody else. We’re friends. She’s cool with you and me.”

“She’s too nice, though. There’s something kind of creepy about it.”

He shakes his finger at me. “Now that isn’t nice.”

“I live next to Detroit where people shoot you if you cut them off in traffic.”

“Here, people stop and wave you in.”

“I could see your ex doing that.” I stir my soup.

His eyes follow my movements. “I told you. She wants what’s best for me, and she knows that’s you.”

“How can she know that?” I drop the spoon and lean back, get his eyes. “Why isn’t she best? I think I’m best for you. But she should think she’s best for you.”

“It’s complicated. Ancient history. I don’t want to get into it tonight.”

“Of course not.” I dig a spoonful of soup out of my bowl and stare at it with distaste. I can’t eat it.

Derek clears our tray. I follow him to the door. He holds the door open and says, “Just let me —let us be nice to you. I want this to work. We need it to work.” He takes hold of my hand and strokes the back of it with his thumb while he talks low in my ear. “I love singing with you. I want to write with you.”

I shake my head at that. “We can always go back to Plan A.”

“I don’t want to be a fisherman.”

“Pack your guitar and we’ll head for Nashville.”

He takes my keys and unlocks my car. “With Motown in your backyard? You’ve got diva pipes. You could be the next Mariah.” He opens the door for me.

“Not Whitney?”

“You could be any of them.”

I get in and wait for him to go around and get in on the passenger side. “Motown is too close. It wouldn’t be running away.”

“I can’t run away. I’ve got—”

“Too many ties? I’m not enough? I’m not sure if I like your Plan B. I want you to myself. Too many Derek groupies back there.”

“You’re the only one I kiss good night.”

My eyes are drawn to his lips and heat pours through my body. “Prove it.”

Derek pushes his seat back as far as it can go. “Come here.” He holds his arms out.

I shift over the parking brake in the center console and onto his lap. I hold his face between my hands and kiss him.

He kisses me back. “I want what’s best for you.”

“And that’s you?”

“Probably not. But if I can get you singing with Amabile—that’s something. The best I can give you.”

I shake my head—press my lips to his chest. “Your heart. That’s all I want. That’s the best thing you can give me.”

“You stole that before we even met.”

“I don’t want to be a thief. I want you to give it.”

His arms tighten around me, and his mouth presses on mine again. “It’s yours, Beth.” His words flow into my soul and twist me into knots. “You know it’s yours.”

chapter 23

QUITS

You say that you’re mine.

You say that your heart is true.

I believe every line,

When you look at me the way you do.

And even though I doubt you,

I can’t live without you.

Your lips made it right,

Holding me tonight.

I close my eyes and say, “Yes.”

Say, “Yes,” forever after.

If I’m part of your song,

Nothing, love, will ever go wrong.

Our tune will hold laughter,

Soothe my fears of disaster.

I’ ll leap and f ly with you,

Fly with you forever after.

I couldn’t sleep after I got home last night—wrote that to my favorite song from junior high. I got groggy before I could finish it. It needs two more verses and a bridge. In the cold light of this morning’s cold cereal, I reread my scrawl, try to make sense of the crossed-out lines, and remember what he wants me to do. Derek’s Plan B is unbelievably great. Really. But I so don’t want to call Terri. Awkward times a zillion. It takes three tries dialing her before I have the guts to let it ring. She doesn’t pick up. I force myself to let it ring five times, get ready to hang up before her voice-mail comes on.

“Hello?”

Crap. “Hi, Terri.”

“Beth? Is that you?”

“Uh-huh.” I sit down on a kitchen stool and then stand right back up. “Sorry to bug you.”

“Don’t think of it.”

“I just wanted . . . I need to—”

“You sound upset. Is there a problem?”

“Um—not really.” I walk around the counter.

“Do you need help?” She pauses and her voice gets intense. “Are you safe? ”

“Oh, yeah. No. It’s nothing like that.”

“You scared me. I know your parents are divorced and—”

“No. No. Nothing like that.”

“Well, what can I help you with?” Her voice lifts. “I hope you like the pieces we’re doing.” Excitement comes through our static-laced cell connection.

“They’re all great. I appreciate you showcasing me.” I lean my elbows on the kitchen counter. “But, um, maybe the other girls don’t.”

“Nonsense.”

“I’ve been thinking . . . maybe I should . . . ” I trail off.

“Don’t worry about it a second. You’ll be off to college next year. We wasted so many seasons hiding you in the altos. I’m making this last one count.”

I realize I have a chunk of frizzy dyed hair clutched too tight in my hand. “I’ve been listening a lot to the Amabile CDs.”

“The guys or the girls?”

She caught me. “Both.”

“If you go to the right school next year, you’ll be performing pieces like that. Where are you applying? We should talk.”