

## Silent Key

### a Novella

### by

### Erin Leland Tuttle

Text copyright

© 2015

Erin Leland Tuttle

All Rights Reserved

# Table of Contents

Prologue: 2014 4

 Chapter One: Lull'd by the Moonlight 6

Chapter Two: Beam on My Heart 15

Chapter Three: Sounds of the Rude World 24

Chapter Four: List While I Woo Thee 30

Chapter Five: Starlight and Dewdrops 39

Chapter Six: Awake Unto Me 48

Chapter Seven: Mermaids are Chanting 54

Chapter Eight: Vapors are Born 61

Chapter Nine: Waiting for Thee 69

Chapter Ten: Out On the Sea 74

Chapter Eleven: Bright Coming Morn 82

Chapter Twelve: Queen of My Song 88

Chapter Thirteen: Wild Lorelei 97

Chapter Fourteen: Over the Streamlet 105

Chapter Fifteen: Clouds of Sorrow Depart 112

Epilogue: 2016 118

# Prologue: 2014

As I sit at my laptop, tapping the keys like I used to tap the keys of the piano in my stuffy college practice room, two things play heavily on my mind. One, I am dying of cancer. Two, the summer before my first year of college, I witnessed a murder.

My name is Foster Anne Hagan, formerly Foster Anne Farraday. I was born in 1971 in Kentucky amidst the horse farms and stone walls, the basketball and the bourbon, where I have stayed my entire life. I'm neither proud nor embarrassed of this. I would have liked to travel more—Rome always appealed to me—but the Bluegrass State is my home.

I live with my husband, Aaron Hagan, in a renovated home in the heart of Lexington—a home into which we have put many hours, sweat, and piles of money, a home I wanted to grow old in.

My husband is a talented and faithful man whom I have loved for over 25 years. I know our marriage hasn't been easy—what marriage is?—yet he still looks at me as if I hang the sun in the sky each and every morning. My smooth bald head, which was once covered with thick auburn hair, doesn't even seem to faze him. In fact, despite my groans, he kisses it daily.

Eight weeks ago, I found out that I have Stage II ovarian cancer. Getting that news was definitely the black icing on the cake. No matter how much I tried to take care of it, this body of mine never got to grow babies. Aaron and I did try. We both passionately wanted at least two children in our life. But after a painful miscarriage when I was 30, I decided I could never go through that again, emotionally or physically. If Aaron was disappointed in me for this decision, he never showed it.

At this stage in my disease (God, I hate that term), I could have five more years left to live in this world. The doctors want to do cytoreductive surgery, a fancy medical term that basically means open-me-up-and-cut-it-out. I'm not keen on this idea—I'm not keen on having cancer in the first place—but it, along with the continued chemotherapy, could buy my life back. And when I see the look on Aaron's face when he doesn't know I'm watching him, I'd be willing to cut it all out myself.

We push on in life, not so much for ourselves, but for those around us. The thought of leaving the ones you love behind is worse than the thought of dying. Much worse.

Truth be told, I am almost grateful for my cancer. That may seem dark, but in all honesty it has given me the courage to finally empty all of the secret, dusty cobwebs in my head. You would think that after this many years it would have gotten easier, but it hasn't. Each year has only solidified the feeling that I've lived a life that was split into two parallel roads.

Keeping secrets, no matter how justified they are, is a gut-wrenching job. It eats away at you, little by little, until one day you get to the point that you have to confess, even if the priest is a blinking cursor on a blank screen. In my case, cancer decided that for me. Or perhaps the secrets grew the cancer. No matter what the doctors say, it feels like a punishment.

Whether I will finish my story before the proverbial shit hits the fan is unclear. But I'm going to try. If I do pass away, I want to go clean. Unblemished. No matter how romantic some stories make it sound, carrying a secret to your grave only ruins the last moments of your life.

And so I begin ...

#  Chapter One: Lull'd by the Moonlight

I used the worn key attached to my Rubik's Cube keychain and unlocked the door to our temporary residence around 6:30 p.m. on June 8. Before the familiar smell of the musty dorm room hit me, a pillow did.

"Geez Louise, Foster! Have you been practicing this whole damn time?"

Reagan. I loved her very much. But in 1988, as she was winding her way through young adulthood, she was quite a pill—one that didn't always go down smoothly.

We had known each other since we were children, but we didn't find our friendship on our own. Our parents had been college buddies, so our getting to know each other was set before we were even conceived. But honestly, I don't think I would have chosen another for my best friend, warts and all.

We had just graduated high school and were in our fourth year of summer music camp at Central University. I had played the piano for five years longer than Reagan. She still liked to consider herself a "pianist," but she only dabbled in the craft. I think her parents tried to keep her involved in as many activities as they could so she wouldn't "get herself in trouble." Unfortunately, that only worked to a point.

I had been offered a piano scholarship to study at Central in 1987, before my senior year of high school began. Reagan was offered no assistance and therefore was free to choose any school she wanted. She chose Central. Although she would never admit it, I know it was because, in her own way, she needed me.

"Yes I have been practicing this 'whole damn time,'" I said, setting my keychain on my desk. "Am I being punished?"

Immediately, without answering, Reagan hopped up on her twin bed and smiled down at me, hands posed behind her head. That's when I noticed.

"Oh! Your hair is ... pink."

"Big time! What do you think?" She turned, pink and blonde strands of her naturally wavy hair gracefully lifting and falling back to her shoulders.

"It's ... big time pink."

Trying not to break into a fit of giggles, I put my hand over my nose and mouth to hide my amusement, but that never works. It's like trying not to laugh in church when the minister says, "and Jesus rode into town on an ass."

"Rude. You know I'm awesome."

"I do," I said, then feigned shock. "But what will your parents say?"

"Oh, who cares!" she said and jumped off the bed, her feet slamming to the floor. I winced.

The girls rooming below us were attending a different camp on campus, but they made sure to find me in the lobby of the dorm after the second day we were there.

"Hello there!" the tallest blonde had said, waving at me and hurrying to catch up before I headed out the front door. "I'm Meagan. This is Leslie. We are rooming in 132."

I looked from Meagan to Leslie before shrugging. "Okay."

"You're in 232, yes?"

"Yes," I said, noticing that Leslie, the shorter blonde, just stood there with a plastic pink smile on her face. I thought of telling her that she had forgotten to put mascara on her left eye, but figured it would be more fun if she discovered it for herself.

"Well, we're right below you," Meagan continued, "and it seems like your roommate—Reagan, I think—stomps around quite a bit ..."

"How do you know it's not me?" I asked, but Meagan continued as if I were simply a fly buzzing around her head.

"... and I was just wondering if you could tell her to maybe quiet it down? It seems like she is full of life, bless her heart, but it's really hard for us to concentrate down there."

Bless her heart. That, for those of you who may not know, is a syrupy Southern way of saying, "What a dumb twat."

I smiled at both of the neon-clad Barbie dolls standing in front of me. "I'll make sure to pass on your message. Enjoy your cheerleading camp."

I never relayed the message to Reagan.

"Where are you off to?" I asked Reagan, kicking my shoes off.

"I'm off to have fun," she said. "Remember? Fun? It's something that happens outside of the practice room, something that ..."

"I got it. Really. I got it."

I walked over to my half of the room and to my bed. It was small and squeaky, but warm and padded with an egg crate mattress pad that my mother had insisted that I needed my first year of camp. Although I would never admit it to her face, I'm glad I listened.

"You wanna come? A few of us are going dancing downtown. Brian is gonna be there."

"No, because one, Brian and his Star Wars talk wears on me, and two, I just want to crawl into my pajamas, read, and go to sleep."

I face-planted into my pillow. I practically heard Reagan's eyes roll.

"Suit yourself. Don't wait up."

I didn't.

____________

"Foster? Foster? Heeeey ..."

I opened my eyes and quickly sat up, alarmed.

"What? What time is it? Didn't you go downtown?"

Reagan burst into laughter, sending the rancid smell of alcohol into my face. "Good heavens, yes. It's almost midnight!"

"Have you been drinking?"

"No! I mean, not really. I'm awesome." Reagan flopped onto my bed and I bounced up in reaction. "We danced and danced and now I'm back. And I feel beautiful!"

My cheek, damp from the spit on my pillow, clung to a piece of my auburn hair. I pulled away and tucked behind an ear. I could have sworn that only a few moments had passed.

As I began to fully wake, my eyes focused on Reagan. She was flushed, exuberant, and intoxicated beyond what she was comfortable admitting.

"Good Lord, honey, who bought you alcohol? You need to go to your bed and lay down. Here, I'll help you."

"Nonsense! I shall not be moved! All the world is a stage and you are merely a ... a ..."

Reagan paused, her face distorting into a grimace, before leaping from my bed and into the bathroom. I heard her vomiting and crying. For as long as I can remember, she always cried when she threw up. I hated that.

I walked to the door and gently knocked. "You need help, Rea?" My head was beginning to throb, my patience dwindling with each ache. "Reagan? Are you alive?"

"Yes. Barely. No. I mean, yes. I'm cool."

"What do you need?"

"Can you get me a Schweppes?"

"Sure, Rea," I sighed. "I'll get you a Schweppes."

I walked away from the bathroom door, frowning. The soda machine in the lobby of the dorm did not carry Schweppes. I would have to walk to the student center. Despite being inebriated, Reagan knew this.

Selfish turd, I thought, snatching my hooded jacket from the post of my dorm bed. I grabbed a handful of quarters from Reagan's desk and put them in my jacket pocket.

Before I slammed the door, I heard Reagan call from the bathroom. "You're the best, Foster. Be careful. Don't get mugged or anything!"

____________

There was a chill in the air despite it being June. As any native knows, the weather in Kentucky can never make up its mind. It would be 80 degrees the next day.

I pulled my red hood down to my eyebrows as I walked through the ravine to the student center. Although it was partially wooded, I felt safe.

The campus was small and quaint with only 8,500 students. The college had been around since 1923. Nestled between two knobs, it was peppered with log cabin-like buildings and steep stairways leading to the dorms and classrooms. Although I knew I would have opportunities to study music at other colleges after high school, I fell in love with this one from the moment I saw it.

The student center was empty, but the doors to the main lobby were still unlocked. Apparently late-night Schweppes runs weren't unusual. I inserted change into the soda machine and pushed the green and yellow button. An ice-cold can tumbled out. I put it in my over-sized jacket pocket and immediately turned to head back to our room, the change from the soda purchase cupped in my fist. Drums were beating in my temples, making me eager to slip back down into my sheets.

As I began my second trek into the ravine, I pulled my hood down again. From the late night summer silence, I heard an owl suddenly call in a haunting leap of musical notes. A second hoot came almost immediately. Then a third. I stopped walking and a small smile formed on my lips.

The historic campus clock chimed twelve times in the distance and the first owl called again. I turned, looking up, and felt chills run down my arms. A small "ha" escaped my throat and I closed my eyes. As if on cue, a jogging breeze blew my hood back. The second owl spoke again. I waited. All was silent, a rest in the unmixed music, a fermata waiting for the conductor to begin.

What I heard next was neither bird nor any other natural sound. My private concert had come to an abrupt halt.

My bare ears tried to replay the unrecognizable sound so I could pin it down, unsure if it was human or mechanical. As I stood there with the Schweppes can in my pocket and the remaining quarters clutched in my hand, I suddenly realized how cold I was.

The trees danced in another gust of wind, and this time I swear I heard them whisper.

"Run ..."

I turned back to the pathway and took a few unsteady steps before I heard the sound again. There was no question this time. It was human.

I turned my head and noticed a large cluster of bushes to my right, which suddenly, violently shimmied. A fringed pink boot jutted out near the base of the bush. Another boot lay on the ground a few feet away. My body tensed.

The foot-filled boot convulsed once, then again. The third time I heard a hideous stomach-turning sound, like someone gargling with Jell-O. I choked on a dry gasp of my own. Another voice joined the first. This one was clear. This one was male.

"No," the voice said. "Not yet."

The new voice set off an internal alarm that I had never before experienced. Not even the pink boots or the gurgling sound could make my feet work. But this voice, dominant yet calm, lit a fire under me and I sprang into movement.

My eyes darted around and fell upon a group of round stones that looked like they had been stacked by Art students in some creative sunny-day endeavor, piled in a series of columns and mounds. I might have ignored them in the daylight, but there, in the exposing darkness, they were a Godsend. I scurried behind them.

The ravine around me was death silent. I sat on my haunches and peeked through a small crevice between the stones. I focused on breathing quietly. My feet tingled beneath me. Several minutes passed, but I didn't dare move. Terror made me part of the formation that concealed me.

The bushes came to life again. As my heart pounded my ears, a figure emerged and slowly stood, stretched, and rubbed his hands together. The top of his pants were sagging on his lean hips. His back was to me so I could not see his face as he slowly extended the muscles in his neck from side to side. What struck me was his lack of urgency, as if he had just woken from a satisfying nap.

I realized that I could not see the attached pink boot anymore, although the second still lay on the grass, alone. No one else appeared from the leaves and twigs.

The tall man continued to extend his limbs and muscles. His shoulders rose and fell again and I heard a deep satisfying breath rush out before he took ahold of the sides of his jeans. With a subtle wiggle to put everything into its rightful place, he yanked them up to his waist. I felt heat rise to my face.

He stood for a moment, looking around, then took a step forward in the opposite direction. I instantly became aware of how my entire body was aching. I didn't know how much longer I could hold my squatting position. I slowly rotated my shoulders, wiggled my toes in my shoes, and began to let go of the stiffness as the unidentified man slipped away into the shadows. He was leaving.

One by one, my muscles began to ease, from my forehead to my neck, down my arms, and to my hands. Before my brain could register what was happening, my fingers relaxed and the remaining coins slipped from my fist. The sound, though normally a minor one, was deafening in the moment. The metal _clinks_ of the coins hitting the stones seemed to bounce off of trees for eight minutes before dissipating into the night sky.

The man halted. I stiffened. The yellow light from a ravine lamp shined down on him like a crude spotlight.

Slowly, he turned sideways and his gaze fell upon the rocks. I saw all of him. He was wearing jeans and a white dress shirt, the top few buttons open to expose a thin layer of chest hair. Although it was untucked, his shirt was still pressed and professional. His red hair glistened in the artificial light, and as he stood there, fixing his eyes in my direction, a slow grin began to spread on his face.

There was no shame. There was no fear. This was no ordinary man. This was a wolf.

For a moment he just stood there, eyes glued on the stone formation.

_He can't see me_ , I whispered in my head. _My God, there is no way he can see me._

Before I could question my own thoughts, he began to turn back around as slowly as before, the grin still smeared across his rugged face. He stuffed his hands in his front pockets and with a casual few steps, slipped back into the shadows, leaving the orphaned pink boot behind.

I could have sworn that I heard a cheerful whistle escape in the distance.

Like that, it was over. My head drooped toward my chest and in that moment, I realized that I had pissed myself.

____________

I unlocked the door of our room and crept inside. The dim desk lamp was on but Reagan was nowhere to be seen.

I slid toward the bathroom and peeked inside. Reagan was sitting on the floor, forehead resting on her arms, arms atop the toilet seat. She was snoring. I gently sat the Schweppes can beside her. The coins I had dropped were still scattered around the stone formation like an audience in the round.

Without thinking, I pulled my feet out of my sickeningly wet shoes. I dropped the rest of my clothes, including my hooded jacket on the floor and, hitting the bathroom light switch to OFF as I passed, stepped into the shower stall. The water spurted cold a few times then burst full steam onto my skin. It ran down my body like hot wax and I pushed my hair back under the water, my eyes open and staring into steam. I did not bathe. I simply stood under the warmth of the shower until my skin felt red and tight.

When finished, I opened the curtain and saw Reagan stir. She snorted and mumbled, "Bite me, Jerome ..." then fell back into an intoxicated sleep.

Grabbing one of my towels from the plastic shelving over the toilet, I began to dry each part of my body with slow preciseness. I did not sing as I normally did.

I walked across the bare floor and, reaching under the lampshade to touch the switch, plunged the room into darkness. Without putting on a stitch of clothing, I crawled into bed.

I didn't remember falling asleep.

____________

"Aaaaa ..."

My brain began to wake. My body did not move.

"Aaaaa ... what the? Oh, sonuva ... Foster? Foster, are you there?"

I wondered if this is what it felt like to be in a coma. Perhaps you hear what is going on, but you can't move, you can't even open your eyes.

"Foster, dammit, are you there? Help me, please."

I remained still, my entire body under my covers. I had no idea what time it was. I had no idea what day it was. Was I dreaming?

"Foster? Foster!!"

I opened my eyes. No, not a coma.

Slowly, I pushed my covers back. Light was beginning to break through our blinds. As I slid to the floor, Reagan's voice became more panicked.

"Oh my God, is that you out there? Please come in here, Foster. Please!"

I drug myself across the room toward the bathroom and turned on the light. Reagan was still on the floor but had positioned herself up on her knees. Her head was bending over the toilet, her hair falling every which way.

When she caught sight of me in the doorway, she practically screamed, "Oh, thank God! Can you help me please? My hair is stuck to the commode! I'm totally freaking out! Wait. Are you ... naked?"

I looked down at my bare breasts and slightly rounded stomach. "Yes."

"Okay. Well, can you help me? I think a few strands of my hair are caught in the lid joint-y things." As I started to move toward her she added, "Just don't get your stuff on me or anything."

I moved behind her and placed my hands on either side of her head. "Please be careful. I don't want to make this worse than it ... owwww!" she howled. "Shit fire!"

In one swift yank, I pulled her head back. Her hair yanked away from the toilet lid with a sickening _Twarp_! A few strands of pink hair, detached from her head, hung limply into the bowl. She jumped to her feet, lost her balance, and grabbed a wall.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry."

Reagan raised her eyes to look me in the face. Quickly anger faded and her lips hung open. "Foster, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

I nodded, standing there naked as the day before I was born. "I ... I brought you ginger ale," I whispered. Then in one heavy heap, I fell to the floor, landing in a sitting position. My wrists burned as they caught my weight. Pain shot up to my elbows.

"Oh!" Reagan squeaked and immediately was at my side, trying to lift me to my feet. "Foster, what in the world?" With her arm around my bare waist, she led me back to my bed, her hangover momentarily subsiding. "Are you sick? What's wrong?"

As I eased back onto my feather pillow, I held Reagan's gaze. She covered me up, tucking my sheets and comforter under my chin. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. As my eyelids began to droop, I saw terror cover her face. Then the room disappeared.

#  Chapter Two: Beam on My Heart

I unlocked the door to our dorm room at 7:30 a.m. and stepped inside, greeted by the familiar smell of dust and hairspray. It was early October 1988.

As I tiptoed through the door, Reagan came padding in from the joint bathroom we shared with our neighbors, a robe tightly wrapped around her. Although it wasn't the exact room we stayed in during music camp in the summer, it was on the same floor. We were lucky enough to be assigned a corner room in one of the best dorms on campus our freshman year, only outshone by the historic hall down the road (which was said to be haunted).

"Are you just now coming home?" she yawned.

I tossed my purse and satchel into my desk chair and began removing my blue jean jacket. "Yes. I've been practicing."

"All night?"

"Yes."

"Again?"

"Yes. If you've forgotten, my dear, I'm a performance major. I can sleep when I'm dead."

"No need to get all sassy. I haven't even had my coffee yet. In fact, I should still be in bed. Hey, that's a grand ol' idea. Good night."

"It's morning."

"Whatever ..." she said, dropping her robe in a pile on the floor before jumping back into her bed.

"Reagan, for heaven's sake, wear pajamas to bed. We've talked about this!" I turned away, feigning annoyance.

A stretch was aching to get out of my body. I reached my hands upward toward the eight-foot ceiling and yawned.

"Coffee. That's a good idea," I said, moving toward the coffee maker on Reagan's dresser. She mumbled something from under her comforter.

Before I reached Reagan's side of the room, I heard a faint click on one of our windows. Then another. Leaning over my headboard, I peeked through the blinds of our second-floor room. A large pine tree stood outside our window and standing under the pine was a tall, thin body connected to two rows of large, white, smiling teeth.

Before I even completely opened the window, Grant was talking.

"Girl, I've totally got to tell you about what happened to me last night. Is Reagan awake? No, of course she isn't, it's not ten-thirty yet. Are you making coffee? That is perfect. I'll take it with cream and sugar. But you know that."

"How are we going to sneak you in this time?" I asked, smiling down at our friend.

"The box trick."

"Again?" I sighed. "Don't you think they are starting to catch on to that one?"

"Hell no. Those bitches at the front desk are dumber than a box of turds." Grant pointed at the exit door to his left.

"Grant ..." I started but he had already raised his arms in the air. "Okay, Okay. Give me a second."

I leaned back and went to my closet. On the top shelf was the empty bank box that we had used many times in the past few months to sneak Grant into our all-female domicile. I gently dropped it out the window without looking down.

"Got it! See you in 30!" I heard him call.

As I propped open our door, Reagan spoke from under her covers. "I hope you two get caught."

I scampered down two flights of concrete stairs to the first floor exit door without looking back at the security camera pointed directly at me. As I pushed the door open, a large box with legs was waiting. I held the door open and the figure entered, never revealing its face. When we reached the second floor landing, I peeked through the small round window in the door of our hallway.

"Coast is clear. Come on."

Pushing through the door, we immediately slid into our dorm room and Grant dropped the box.

"See? Easy as ... well, as easy as Reagan."

Immediately she responded, still under her covers. "You bitch."

Grant kissed the air at her. "Why are you up so early on a Saturday?" he asked me, mapping my face. "Wait. You've been practicing all night again, haven't you?"

I yanked a coffee filter and can of grounds out of Reagan's top drawer. "Why is everyone so concerned about my musical habits lately? I'm working hard. Just because everyone else seems to be stuck in Fun Party Land doesn't mean ..."

"Whoa, whoa, Nelly!" Grant threw his palms up in front of his face. "Don't pull out the leather and slap my ass! I'm just asking a question, baby." Grant was the only male in the world, besides my father, who got away with calling me _baby._ "And I only ask because I see those dark eye circles. You're clearly exhausted."

"I suppose I am. I just want to do well. I don't want to waste my life." I walked into the bathroom to fill the pot with water from the sink. "Life is just so short."

Grant was quiet as the coffee began to sputter to life, filling the room with a smell that immediately made my muscles relax. I sat on the edge of my bed, watching the brown water drip into the pot.

"Foster?" I hadn't heard Grant approach but suddenly he was beside me, his hand on my shoulder. "I'm concerned. So is Rea-Rea. And Vicki. We all love you."

I snorted. "Vicki doesn't love me. She barely knows me, and what she knows of me she only tolerates."

Vicki, an Amazon of a 22-year-old who rarely spoke to anyone except Grant, lived in an apartment off campus. In addition to her last year of classes, she worked at a local diner in town. She had the biggest breasts of any female I had ever met.

"Oh, that's not true. Vicki just has her own way," Grant said, standing to pour coffee into a Wile E. Coyote mug. "But Foster, baby, you need to slow down. Hard work is one thing. What you are doing is unhealthy."

I got up to retrieve the sugar and fake coffee creamer from atop the mini-refrigerator. "And what are YOU doing, party boy? What big story did you need to tell me about last night?"

"Don't change the subject. We'll get to the details of my sordid-yet-fabulous life later," Grant said, poking a finger at my chest. "Got any donuts?"

____________

"So," I said, licking powdered sugar from my fingers 20 minutes later, "You volunteered to get up on the stage?"

"Well, yes," Grant purred. "I didn't think I was capable of being hypnotized. I thought the guy was a phony. But before I knew it, I was swinging my shirt above my head and barking like a dog."

As I burst out laughing, Reagan swung her feet over the side of the bed. "I kid you not, someone in the next building who is sleeping with ear plugs could hear the two of you."

Immediately, Grant and I both closed our eyes until we knew that she was clothed.

"Pardon us, princess," Grant said.

"I'm decent," she finally announced.

"Well I don't know about that ..." I started, opening my eyes.

"You need to brush that mess before you put in your tiara?" Grant teased, reaching up to tousle her mane of hair. She jerked away.

"Betty."

"Spaz."

"I know you are, but what am I?"

"Children, please," I moaned. "It's still early. Reagan, want coffee?"

I made my way over to the pot and poured the last of the coffee in her favorite mug, which really wasn't a mug at all but a Campbell's Soup bowl with a handle. In my side view, I saw Grant hug her head and she grinned. If there ever were two fraternal twins separated at birth, it was Reagan and Grant. They even looked alike.

"I need to sleep," I said.

"Good," Reagan said. "Oh, and don't forget my show starts tonight. Are you coming?"

Reagan, despite defeated pleas from her parents, had decided to study theatre. Although very talented, her parents worried about her future, and rightly so. At the beginning of the semester, she added Performing Arts Education minor to her transcript, calming her high-school-history-teaching father enough to get him and her mom off her back. She was currently starring in Cabaret, a collaboration of both the music and theatre departments.

"I wouldn't miss it," I said, falling back onto my pillows.

As I closed my eyes I heard Grant say, "Girl, did you hear about what happened to me last night?"

____________

Grant and I stood in the lobby of the college theater. As always, he was dressed to impress, wearing a white collared shirt under a light blue sweater, and faded jeans. His eyes darted around the room, looking for people he knew. I wore a violet sweat suit. My hair was pulled into a high ponytail.

"All I am saying is that you might want to dress like you're going out in public, not going to a sleepover," he said.

"God, Grant, let it go. I couldn't fall asleep today and I'm tired."

"I'll tell you what is tired. The actor playing the Emcee. Could he be more straight? It was like watching a bull in a gay bull shop."

I began to laugh just as Reagan walked into the lobby. She smiled, then immediately broke into an over-pronounced frown. "What? What's so funny? Are you two talking about me?"

I hugged her. "No, honey. Grant is just being catty. And you were amazing!"

She squeezed me tighter. "Oh, thank you! It was a really rockin' audience tonight. It was like being at a real cabaret!"

"You looked pretty comfortable. Maybe you should consider a career as a stripteuse," Grant said as he joined the hug. I felt Reagan jerk an elbow into his ribs. "Ouch! I'm just kidding. You were fantabulous and you know it."

Reagan pulled back and grabbed my hands. "And speaking of fantabulous ..."

"Oh God," I moaned. I knew that tone of voice.

"Who is it this time, Reagan?" Grant asked. "Chorus member? Band member? The Emcee? Because heaven knows he's packin' a heterosexual one."

"It's not for me, silly!" she squeaked and turned back to look at me. "I want you to meet someone, Foster."

"Oh, GOD!" I moaned again and looked down at my sweat suit. I heard Grant let out an I-told-you-so _humph_. "Not tonight, Rea, please not tonight. I haven't slept, I look awful, and I'm too busy for this kind of nonsense."

"You can never be too busy for love!" she said as she began to drag me back into the theater.

"Wow, 'love,'" Grant said, following behind us. "She's never even met him and already he feels pressured."

As we moved back into the theater, lingering audience members leaned in to congratulate Reagan on her performance. She smiled brightly and nodded at them.

"Oh, thank you. I appreciate you so much. Thanks for coming." She was truly in her element.

As we entered the house, a few musicians were on stage putting their instruments away. I dug my heels into the floor.

"Reagan!" I hissed. "I can't do this! It's embarrassing! Look at them. Look at me. Please!"

Reagan completely ignored me as we moved down the stairs to the lip of the stage. Grant followed behind us, giggling through his nose.

_I want to kill myself_ , I thought. _Lord, please take me now._

"Aaron!" Reagan called. "Aaron! Come here for sec. I want you to meet someone."

The shortest of the musicians turned and looked down at us. He had a trumpet in his hand and was wearing tight leather pants and suspenders.

"Oh, hell no," I whispered and Grant broke into a single loud hack of laughter.

Aaron walked over and sat down on the edge of the stage, his legs dangling in front of me. "Hey."

Reagan beamed. "Aaron Hagan, this is Foster Anne Farraday. She is a music major but spends most of her time locked in her practice room, so I assume you two have not met yet."

"No we haven't. But I've seen her around." He extended this hand. "Hello there, Foster Anne Farraday. That's a mouthful. Are you Irish?"

"Dad's side," I mumbled, looking at his knees, leaving his lonely hand to drift back down to his side.

"I see. What instrument do you study?"

"Piano. I am a pianist."

"Cool. Well ... trumpet player," he said, lifting his instrument. "I came here to study under Dr. McGammon."

"Mm-hmm," I hummed, continuing to look at his knees. Did I even put on lip-gloss? I hated when Grant was right.

"The new trumpet professor?" Reagan asked, trying to continue the conversation.

"Yeah. He's pretty amazing. I studied under him last year while I was attending Bluestead Community College."

"So," Reagan said, leaning into me. "A sophomore?"

"Yep," Aaron said, eyes still on me. "And you're a first year?"

I shifted. "Mm-hmm."

Silence. Then Grant, most likely out of pity, took over.

"Hi. I'm Grant. You'll have to forgive our friend. She is such a dedicated musician and she has hardly slept in days. Last night she was asked to play for a benefit in Lexington. Between practice and being a sought-after performer, for which she makes good money, she has had no time to do laundry, poor thing, yet she insisted on coming to her best friend's show tonight to show her support for the arts. Amazing, this one is."

With that, he pinched my right butt cheek, making me yelp.

"Wow. That résumé is impressive," Grant said. I finally looked up to meet his gaze. "Do you do weddings as well?"

I had never been one to swoon over boys. Honestly, I had bigger ambitions. Jocks weren't my thing. Neither was the farming type. Musicians were those who passed me in the halls on my way to class and actors wore me out. But in that moment, I felt my heart pause for two beats, then start again.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," Aaron said. His eyes were the color of hazelnuts and he had the kindest smile of anyone I had ever seen. "Sorry to wake you. I'm Aaron Hagan."

I took a deep breath. "Yes. I'm so sorry. I'm Foster. I'm not normally this ... I'm just tired and ... well, with the benefit and everything ... I'm sorry."

Aaron continued to smile at me. "What benefit was it?"

I smiled back for a moment, and then realized that I hadn't answered him. "What? Oh! The benefit. Yes. Well, it was for ... it was for ..."

"AIDS research," Grant and Reagan said simultaneously, shooting each other an amused _Jinx!_ glance.

"Wow. Good woman," Aaron said. "Perhaps we can play together sometime."

"Yes," I breathed. "I'd like that. I'd like to play with you." My face burned hot. "You know, musically. Not in a sexual way. Not yet, I mean. Maybe not ever. We'll have to see. But just so you know, I do look better out of my sweat suit. In a dress. Not naked. I mean, I look good naked, too ..."

Grant and Reagan grabbed my two arms and I pushed my lips together as hard as they could go.

"Good to know," Aaron said, still smiling, not phased in the least. I instantly hated and loved him at the same time.

"We'll let you get back to cleaning up," said Reagan quickly. "I'll see you tomorrow night."

"Sounds good." Aaron stood up, winking at me. I watched him walk back upstage, leather pants and all, trumpet hanging in his left hand. I couldn't look away. I felt like a schoolgirl.

"Holy shit, Foster!" Reagan hissed. "You are unbelievable!"

Grant touched my stiff shoulder. "Smooth move, Ex-Lax. Maybe next time you can ask him for a sperm donation, or a swatch of those pants so you can sniff them at night when you're curled up in your lonely bed."

I turned to walk back up the stairs to the top of the house. "I hate you both."

Reagan ran after me. "What did I do? I was only trying to help you!"

"I don't need your help! I told you I'm too busy for this crap anyway!" I started to hop two stairs at a time.

"I'll get her back to the dorm," I heard Grant say. "Get out of costume and we'll see you later."

I didn't stop moving until I had stepped out into the cool evening air. I stood for a moment with my arms wrapped around my shoulders, waiting for Grant to catch up. If I could have teleported back to our room, I would have without a second thought of the possibility of arriving with an arm connected to my forehead.

As Grant approached, a tear rolled down my face and he put his hand on my cheek, turning my face to look at his. "Foster, baby. It's happened to the best of us. He's a good-looking musician with a butt like Baryshnikov. If I hadn't been so horrified for you, I might have gotten a little choked up myself."

I leaned my cheek further into his hand. "I know. It's okay. I'll probably never see him again. I mean, we've both been here since the beginning of the year and I haven't run into him yet. I'm sure I can continue that trend, given my lack of social life."

"Good girl," Grant smiled. "Let's get you back and tucked in bed. Do you have a cucumber in your fridge? I'll cut some slices for your eyes. After all, we need to get you rested up in case another AIDS benefit comes up."

"I appreciate it, but I don't think I'm up for the box trick again tonight." I took his hand. "Walk me to the lobby. I'm good from there."

As Grant put his arm around my shoulder, I leaned into him and sighed, replaying my first meeting with Aaron over and over in my head as we walked in silence across campus.

Each time I replayed the scene, I was wittier. And better dressed.

#  Chapter Three: Sounds of the Rude World

Mid-October brought a temperature drop. The tree-covered knobs around the campus looked like an aging man's head with strands of thin hair holding on for life. I hurried to the music building, purse and satchel clutched to my chest as cold rain poured down over my umbrella like a waterfall. Thunder boomed above my head as I reached the double doors.

Inside, I closed my umbrella and shook my body out like a soaked animal. As I bent over to fluff my hair, I noticed a pair of tennis shoes approach. Slowly I looked up, hair hanging over my face like a soggy mop.

"Foster Anne Farraday. Nice to see you again."

_Dammit_.

"Aaron Hagan. Hello." I used my free arm to push my hair back over the top of my head. "How have you been?"

"Great. Things have been great. I thought I'd see you around more but I guess our classes don't match up."

"I guess not. I've been really busy, too."

"Right. More benefits?" The way he smiled told me that he knew Grant had been lying.

"I need to get to my practice room," I said and smiled sweetly, trying not to look directly into his eyes. Beautiful eyes. "I'll see you around. Maybe."

"Wait!" He sounded so urgent that I stopped walking and turned again in his direction. A vocal professor passed by and grinned knowingly. Once again, my cheeks flushed. I wanted to get as far away from Aaron Hagan as possible. "I was just wondering ..." he continued. "Do you like basketball?"

"Basketball?"

He nodded and smiled. I noticed a dimple to the left of his mouth. "College basketball."

"Well, I was pretty much raised on Kentucky basketball, if that's what you mean."

"Perfect! Me, too. I have two tickets to Big Blue Madness on Tuesday. You know, the opening of the season. Great seats. My Dad works downtown and gets them from his boss. Interested?"

My lips felt numb. "Interested in ... what?"

"Going to Big Blue Madness. With me. It would be fun."

"Oh. Wow. That sounds like fun but I already have plans. I'm sorry. Maybe Reagan can go."

Aaron took a small step toward me. "I'm not interested in taking Reagan. Or Grant, before you go there. I'm asking you, Foster." A wave of his cologne hit me. "Do you really have plans?"

"I ... I do."

"What are your plans?"

"I ... I have to go to a ... a ..." My brain failed me. I stood there like an idiot, dripping wet, still clutching my bags.

"A benefit?" he smiled and took another small step toward me. I could see a beaded necklace outlined under his Big League Chew t-shirt.

It was too much. I had gone out on a few dates in high school but this was just too much. I didn't like the way I felt around him. It was foreign and frightening.

"Yes!" I said loudly. "I told you I have plans! I have a social life, too, you know. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go practice ... before my big date tonight. Yep. I have a date tonight ... and Tuesday night. Same guy. So, thanks, but no."

I quickly turned and walked down the hall toward the stairway leading to the second floor. I didn't look back but I knew he was still there, watching me. My wet shoes slid on the linoleum and I cursed under my breath before leaping up the steps to retreat into my practice room.

____________

As I put my key in the lock and opened the door, a strange sensation washed over me. I always kept the room locked, but this time I felt an eerie sort of company. My hand found the light switch and I flipped it upward.

Immediately my eyes found it. My throat closed as if an invisible hand encircled it. I don't remember dropping my bags, but I heard them hit the floor.

On top of the black baby grand piano sat a fringed pink boot. It sat in the silence of the brightly-lit room, frozen, waiting for a response.

"What?" My voice came out in a breathy vibrato. "What is this? What is happening?"

For a moment I didn't move. My legs felt wooden but I managed to jump into motion to close the door, kicking my bags out of the way.

"I ... I don't understand," I said to no one, my back pressed against the metal door. "What is happening? Whose boot is this? Whose boot is this??"

With a lurch I grabbed the boot and flung my door back open. "Whose boot it this?" I yelled. "Who did this?"

My practice room neighbor, a junior named Kristen, peeked at me through the window in the door, scowling. I continued to call out, begging for an answer, clutching the boot in my hand. Within seconds, my piano professor rounded the corner.

"Foster? What is going on? Are you okay?" Dr. Alexander moved toward me, his palms out. It reminded me of the way my dad once moved toward a raccoon that had gotten trapped in our garage.

"This boot! Someone put this boot in my room!" I was now screaming. A salty sweat was breaking out on my upper lip.

Dr. Alexander's eyebrows creased. "Okay. Calm down. Is it your boot?"

"No! No! It's not my boot! I don't know whose boot it is!"

From behind Dr. Alexander, Aaron appeared, mouth agape, trumpet in hand. Frantically I pointed the boot in his direction. "Did you do this?"

"What?" he asked. "What are you talking about?"

"Foster," Dr. Alexander quietly said, palms still out. "You need to calm down, please. Why don't you just give me the boot?"

I stood there, shaking, sweating, slowly attracting the attention of students and professors. In an instant, an unexpected wave of calmness washed over me. I dropped the boot from my hand. It hit the floor and fell over on its side.

Turning to walk back into my room I said, "Get rid of it," and slammed the door behind me.

____________

Hours passed. My wrists were aching, yet I pounded away at the keys. Rachmaninoff would have been proud. Musical phrases from his Polichinelle in F-sharp minor bounced off of the walls as I pushed through the first section, playing as fiercely as I could.

The crowd outside the door during my outburst had dissipated after a few minutes. I saw Aaron peek through the window but when I flashed him a middle finger, he went away.

I didn't want to think of the boot. I didn't want to think of Aaron. All I wanted to do was play and play until I was numb, until I had no memories. Tears flowed over my lips and onto my lap.

For months I had tucked it away—the night in the ravine that had scared me into a life of simplicity and study. At one point I even wondered if it had been a feverish dream. Perhaps I had seen nothing and there was never any Schweppes can or wolf in the bushes. Perhaps there were never any pink boots, and today's event was just a coincidence. I wasn't the only student with a key to the practice room.

I continued to play, intense, my eyes on the music. But my thoughts were on owl song and a calm, smiling face. Those eyes, looking right through the stones, right at me.

_He saw me_ , I thought. _He knows who I am. My God, he knows._

"Son of a bitch!" I screamed out and jumped from the bench. Gripping my left hand I bent over trying to cradle it. "Dammit!"

There was a quick knock on the door and Aaron walked in. "What happened?"

I gritted my teeth and looked up at him, tears pouring. "What were you doing, sitting outside of my door? Shit! I think I just broke my finger."

Aaron picked up my purse. "Let's go."

"Where?"

"I'm taking you to the ER. Let's go."

____________

It was 11:48 p.m. I sat on a sheet-covered stretcher in Room 4 of the Hayford County Emergency Room waiting for my release papers. My left ring finger was wrapped and supported with a splint. Though only slightly sprained, I was in pain and drowsy from the medication I had been given. Aaron sat across from me, watching my face. I refused to make eye contact.

"Guess you missed your big date," he finally said.

"What?" I slurred and looked up. His eyes locked with mine. "What do you mean?"

"Your big date. You said you had a big date tonight. Do I need to call the guy for you?"

"No. I didn't have a date. I lied to you."

"I know that."

"I don't have one Tuesday either."

"I know that, too."

"Then why did you mention my date tonight?"

Aaron smiled. "I wanted to hear you say it."

I looked down at my wounded hand. I didn't know what to do with this guy. He confused me. Yet having him sitting beside me at the hospital made me feel safe and warm.

"So, what was with the boot?"

"It was nothing. It was a mistake."

Outside of the room I heard a commotion and Reagan came bursting through the curtain. Her eyes scanned the room and when she saw me, she ran over with her arms open.

"Foster, what happened? Are you okay? Did you break something?" Her embrace made me claustrophobic. I wiggled and she loosened her grip, but only slightly.

"I'm okay. It's just a small sprain. I must have been playing too heavily. I jammed it."

"Thank God you're okay. So, what does this mean? No piano? What is going to happen to you?"

I managed a woozy smile. "You're so dramatic, Rea. I just need to back off and let it heal. It's not the end of my career. The doctor said I should be fine in two weeks, max."

"Oh, good." Reagan finally noticed Aaron. "Hey, thanks for bringing her here. That was very chivalrous of you." She winked at me. I groaned.

"Well, somebody needed to look after her. Torrential rain, pink boots, a sprained finger, and a missed date." He whistled. "Rough day."

"You had a DATE?" Reagan squealed. She began to bounce up and down.

"No, no, no. Just ignore him."

Aaron stood. "Well, if you two don't need anything else, I'm going to head back." He patted his pockets, as old men sometimes do, making sure they have their keys and other belongings. It was quite charming.

"Where exactly do you live, Aaron?" Rea asked. I pushed a non-sprained finger into her side.

"In an apartment off of Oak Street. It's an old home, from the 1940's I think. Pretty groovy. High ceilings and such."

"Well, that's not too far from campus, is it, Foster?"

I raised the corners of my mouth slightly. "Nope," I said.

Aaron returned my smile, though more genuine. "Cool. Well, see you guys around." He began to push through the curtain then turned to me once more. "Oh, and Foster. Try Debussy next time. I don't think anyone has ever jammed a finger playing Debussy."

Reagan turned to me. "Don't ask," I said, sliding off of the stretcher. "He's attempting to be witty."

The nurse walked in with the papers and I was free to go. Reagan linked arms with me and talked all the way to her car about classes, auditions for the next show, and a new cassette she had bought that afternoon. But all I could think of was Aaron. And a pink fringed boot.

#  Chapter Four: List While I Woo Thee

I awoke the next day to three pairs of eyes looking down at me. If you want to awake in the worst possible way, open your eyes to people staring at you. It's terrifying.

"What the ..." I quickly scooted back to my headboard, my aching splinted finger rudely waking with me. I could taste morning breath in my mouth and crust was jammed in the corners of my eyes. "What the hell?"

Reagan, Grant, and Vicki were all sitting around my bed, eyes on my face. I didn't know what time it was, but they all were fully dressed. Vicki wore her work clothes from the diner, nameplate bulging from where her massive breasts were trying to escape from beneath her beige polyester uniform. I could just imagine it flying off and stabbing me in the eye.

Reagan smiled. "Good morning, honey. How are you feeling?"

I tried to shake the confusion out of my head. "Honestly, I'm feeling scared shitless. What are you guys doing?"

Reagan's smile remained painted on her face. "We were just worried about you after yesterday. We want to make sure that you know that you can talk to us about anything. Or talk to someone else, that is, if you needed to."

"What?" I looked at Grant. "What is she talking about? Honestly, this is really creepy."

Grant sighed, cheeks puffing out. "God, Rea, she's right. You are being creepy."

"Well, I don't like interventions! I don't do well with approaching people!" She stood up and grabbed my large teddy bear from the bottom of the bed.

I had owned Teddy since my paternal grandmother had given him to me on my first birthday. With patches and stains and all, he had always lived with me like a stuffing-filled sibling.

"Intervention?" I asked. "Whose intervention?"

Grant took my hand. "Intervention isn't a good word. But, since it's out there already, let's just say that this is your intervention." I continued to stare at him, my face blank. "We feel that perhaps you are a bit overwhelmed ..."

"... stressed out ..." Reagan added.

"... and it might be a good idea for you to go talk to someone ..."

"... professionally ..."

"... only because we love you and we want you to be happy, baby. We don't want you to hurt yourself again or have any more ..."

"... hallucinations."

I quickly turned my head to look at Reagan who seemed to be holding _Teddy_ between her and me as protection.

"Hallucinations?" The room was quiet for a moment. "What are you talking about, hallucinations?"

Grant squeezed my hand. "Foster, Aaron told Reagan about the boot. How you totally freaked out in front of everyone yesterday."

Hot tears started to brim on the edge of my lashes. "I don't know what you mean."

Seeing my weakness, Reagan came back over the bed, laying _Teddy_ beside me. She didn't make a good punching bag, but she certainly loved to be a shoulder to cry on.

"You don't have to tell us anything unless you want to. But we all can see that you haven't been yourself lately. You're like a zit waiting to burst." Grant shook his head in disgust but she continued. "There is a good man on campus. Dr. Lane. I know a few students who have gone to see him. He's a good listener. Discreet. Professional."

"Dr. Lane? Is he a ... a shrink?"

I couldn't believe this was happening. I had worked so hard holding everything together since June, but after one small incident, my closest friends were ready to lock me away with the doo-doo throwers and public masturbators.

"I'm not crazy, okay? I don't need to see a shrink."

"He's a counselor," Grant corrected. "That's all."

"A good man," Reagan added.

"So you've said." I glared at both of them for a moment then turned my attention to the third body in the room. "Well, Vicki, do you have anything to say?"

Vicki shrugged. "My aunt went to a shrink. Last year she went through a phase of thinking she was Glenn Close. She ran around yelling, 'I will not be ignored, Dan, I will not be ignored!' Her husband's name is Archie."

"Oh dear God," I moaned, putting my head in my hands. "I can't handle this."

"Dr. Lane is a counselor, Vicki," Reagan corrected. "I can set up an appointment for you."

I looked up into the eyes of my two friends and Vicki. They all looked so hopeful, so worried. Perhaps they had reason to be. Though I had never told them what I'd witnessed—or thought I'd witnessed—that night in the ravine, they knew that something was wrong and that it was getting worse. Maybe I was in denial.

"I'll make the call today," I said.

They all embraced me, Vicki resting her bosoms on my head as she joined in. I honestly didn't know how she dealt with those things in day-to-day life.

"Dr. Lame is his name?"

"Lane," Reagan corrected as the three moved toward the door, "Dr. Alden Lane. Now why don't you go back to sleep? Rest that finger. I called your professors for you and told them you wouldn't be in class." She paused. "And I've already made your appointment with Dr. Lane."

"You did what? Oh, never mind. Thank you, I guess."

Reagan and Vicki walked out of the room and Grant lingered long enough to lean down and kiss my forehead. "Rest, friend. Your appointment is tomorrow."

_Teddy_ lay beside me on the bed, face down. I grabbed his leg and pulled him to me, clutching him tightly. What was I going to say to this counselor? I couldn't possibly tell him the truth, could I? I wasn't even sure what the truth was. What if everyone found out I was seeing a counselor? What if Aaron found out? Did Reagan already tell him?

"Well, Teddy," I whispered. "Dr. Alden Lane is going to have his work cut out for him. This should be interesting."

I stared at the water stains on the ceiling a few more minutes before my eyelids began to flutter.

____________

"Foster Farraday?"

I stood up. "That's me."

A kind-looking man in his 60's smiled and motioned for me to come with him. He had a full beard, the stereotypical picture I had in my mind of what a shrink should look like. The beard was peppered with brown, grey, and red. Narrow glasses sat on the bridge of his large nose.

"Come on back, Miss Farraday. Welcome."

I followed Dr. Lane into the back room, doing my best to hold in a fit of nervous giggles. If Reagan had asked me to construct a set design for a play that took place in a shrink's office, this would have been it. A big wooden desk sat in the back corner. A few comfortable chairs sat in a semi-circle in the center. They were covered in pillows of all shapes and sizes. Soft glowing lamps lit the room and the smell of cinnamon buzzed around my nostrils. Yep. No surprises here.

"Where should I sit?" I asked.

"Anywhere you feel comfortable," he said, standing calmly, waiting for me to make the first move.

"Okay. Sure," I said and flopped into the biggest chair with the most pillows. Dr. Lane sat in a chair that directly faced me but didn't invade my personal space.

Yes, very professional.

"So, Miss Farraday, tell me a little about yourself."

"Well, for one, you can call me Foster."

"If you like." He crossed his legs, displaying clean black and white Chuck Taylors.

"I'm a freshman. I study music performance. Piano. I've played since I was five years old. I was always told that I had talent. One day I actually started believing it. So here I am."

"That sounds very interesting. Do you enjoy what you do?" His pencil gently tapped on the yellow notepad on his lap.

"I do," I said. Then, without thinking, I added, "Do you?"

Dr. Lane smiled. "Do I like what I do? Is that what you're asking?"

I nodded, slightly embarrassed.

"Indeed. I do enjoy what I do."

"How long have you been at it?"

"Thirty years, give or take a few months."

"Wow. Cool."

A pause.

"Tell me about your family," Dr. Lane said.

"My family is great. No problems there. Mom, Dad, grandparents, cousins, all that jazz. They have always supported and encouraged me. I'm an only child, but I have a best friend who feels like a sister. Reagan. She's the one who called to set up my appointment with you. I have a lot of friends. I mean, I have a handful of really good friends. But the ones I have are wonderful."

"Sounds like you have a good base to start from."

"Yes. Yes I do."

Another pause.

"Do you have a family?" I asked.

"Yes," Dr. Lane said, smiling. "My wife and my daughter." His smile faltered. "Unfortunately, Lucy, my daughter, passed away a few years ago."

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry," I said, leaning forward.

Dr. Lane pushed his smile to the surface again. "Thank you for saying so."

The silence was thick. It went on for an eternity until I could no longer sit in it anymore.

"I sprained my finger because I was playing too hard on my piano," I said.

"I was wondering what had happened. Will you be able to play your music again soon?"

"Yes. In a two weeks."

Another pause.

"This summer I saw someone get raped in the ravine here on campus. I think they are dead."

Dr. Lane's expression did not change, but his pencil stopped its gentle tapping. So much for taking it slow.

A heat rose from my neck to my ears and it was suddenly difficult to swallow. "Can I get something to drink?"

Dr. Lane stood up and walked over to a small counter top that held a few glasses, a carafe of water, and a silver bucket of ice.

"Tell me what you saw," he said.

I took a deep breath. "I'm not exactly sure, Dr. Lane. It was late. There was this man, these sounds. There were these pink boots. I was getting Reagan a soda. See, she had been out late drinking—she always used to drink too much—and I had gotten her a soda and then I dropped the quarters ..."

Dr. Lane handed me a glass of ice water, which began to shake as soon as I took it from him.

"Let's take it slow, Foster. I want you to take a few sips and then slowly start again. We have time."

Adjusting my position in the pillow-covered chair, I began my story from the beginning. I didn't stop talking until two minutes before my session ended.

____________

Thanksgiving came and went as quickly as my grandmother's homemade biscuits. Everyone went home to visit family, including me. It was a nice break away from the world of higher education.

Because my finger had been healing nicely, the doctor deemed it safe for me to begin playing again. Not touching a piano for two weeks had been torturous, as if I had lost a piece of my soul. But during that time I did a lot of reading. I also met with Dr. Lane once a week.

One particularly windy and bitterly cold day I was walking across campus to his office. Attempting to keep my scarf pulled over my nose, lost in my own thoughts, I ran into someone. Literally.

Before I could tumble backwards, a pair of hands grabbed my shoulders. I smelled his cologne before I saw his face.

"Whoa there! What's your hurry, Foster Farraday?"

"Can I just talk to you another time, Aaron? I'm freezing cold and I have an appointment."

His hands remained on my shoulders.

"Okay. Sure. How about tonight? I'll pick you up at five-thirty."

"What? Pick me up for what?"

"I'm taking you to a University of Kentucky basketball game. You denied me last time and I ended up giving the tickets away. Well, just so happens, there's a game tonight. So, I'll pick you up at five-thirty. That will give us enough time to get to Lexington. Wear blue and white."

Before I could protest, he released my shoulders and hurried away. It was obvious Aaron was never going to give up. But I liked basketball. And maybe I liked him. Besides, he had taken care of me in the ER the night of the finger incident. He seemed pretty trustworthy. No, I wasn't going to win this time. He had learned how to avoid my excuses by just walking away. Genius.

As I entered Dr. Lane's office he leaned out of the back room. "Come on back, Foster. I'm ready for you."

It's not that his greeting was odd. I never had to wait that long to be called back into his office. But the expression on his face was different. I suddenly felt uneasy.

It wasn't until I had reached my favorite chair in his office that I noticed another person standing just inside the doorway. He was a stout man and wore a police uniform two sizes too small.

_Oh, my God_ , I thought. _I'm being committed_.

Dr. Lane must have seen the expression on my face because the lines around his eyes bunched up as his familiar smile returned.

"Everything is alright, Foster. You're not in trouble. Sit down and I'll explain."

The police officer nodded at me and I noticed something white on the front of his navy blue shirt.

_Is that cocaine?_ I thought, then almost burst into laughter when I realized that it was a different kind of addictive substance: powered sugar from a donut.

_Oh God, could this be any funnier?_

"Foster, this is Officer John Long," Dr. Lane said.

_Long John_?

A rogue giggle escaped my throat. Officer Long raised an eyebrow but Dr. Lane continued.

"At one of our last sessions, you gave me permission to gather some information for you about that night in the ravine. I have been working with Officer Long the past few weeks on finding some answers. Please understand that this is all very confidential. I've worked with the good officer here before, and it's my hope that the information we provide will put your mind at ease and help you move toward the future with less anxiety."

I looked from Dr. Lane to Officer Long, but did not speak. They now had my complete attention. Officer Long cleared his throat.

"I have looked into missing persons reports as well as police records in the area. There are no records to match your description of the alleged incident in the ravine from the time around the night of June 8, 1988."

I did not speak, but looked to Dr. Lane. He put his hand on the officer's shoulder.

"Thank you, sir. That's all I need for today."

Officer Long adjusted his waistband and nodded as if this accentuated his report. In a few moments, Dr. Lane and I were alone again.

"I don't understand," I said. "What did he just say? I don't understand."

"It's okay, Foster. With your permission, I asked him to check into your story. I wanted to make sure there were no missing persons reports, no rapes or homicides reported around the time of your observation."

"My 'observation'?"

"What you witnessed that night may not have actually been as violent as you originally thought. But that's good news, you see. With this information we can now move forward."

"Are you saying I imagined it?" I stood up, aware that the volume of my voice was rising. Dr. Lane remained as calm as always.

"No. Not at all. These facts were presented to you to help ease your mind. With this new information, we can begin the next phase: the road to acceptance and healing."

"Acceptance? Acceptance of what?" I was in full yelling mode.

"The acceptance that a young woman wearing pink boots did not die that night. The acceptance that you did not witness anything illegal and therefore do not need to feel the guilt of not reporting it to anyone."

"I don't feel guilty, Dr. Lane. I know what I saw."

"Does this new information not put your mind at ease?"

"I don't know," I said, suddenly quiet again. "Maybe."

"Maybe is a start," he said, smiling and sitting in his chair.

I was lying. I knew it and he knew it. It was going to take much longer than five minutes for me to accept anything that Officer Long John had said.

I sat down as well and attempted to mirror his smile.

"So. What is the next step?" I asked.

#  Chapter Five: Starlight and Dewdrops

Aaron squeezed my hand as we ran across the street, dodging honking cars filled with cheering fans. The game had been nothing short of foot-stomping fun, and I was laughing so hard my stomach muscles burned.

"Aaron, slow down! I'm wearing heels!" I pleaded.

"Well, that's your problem right there. Who wears heels to a basketball game?" We reached the sidewalk and he slowed down, panting. "Uh-oh."

"What's wrong?"

"Do you remember where we parked?"

"Are you for real?" I asked. "You don't remember where we parked?"

He looked at me for a moment, frowning, then broke into a hearty laugh. "Sike!"

"Dammit, Aaron, it's cold! Let's go!"

We began running again, happily darting through the celebrating crowd, blue foam fingers, and plastic pom-poms. When we reached his car, he opened the door for me and I slid in, shivering.

"Fun, wasn't it?" he prodded, jumping into his seat and turning the heat on. "See what you've been missing?"

"Yeah, yeah," I began. "You are a regular Don Juan ..."

Aaron's lips interrupted me. All at once I melted into him, putting my gloved hands on the sides of his face. As cold as it was, his lips were soft and warm, and when he leaned back, I felt a sudden sense of loneliness.

"What were you saying?" he asked, still close enough for me to smell nachos on his breath.

"I don't remember," I whispered and he leaned in once more to gently kiss my mouth.

If the first kiss hadn't done it, then the second one surely did because in that moment I knew that I never wanted to be apart from this man. I needed him.

"I have wanted to do that all night. In all honestly, I have wanted to do that from the moment I met you after Cabaret. You stood there in your cute little purple sweat suit ..."

"Violet," I corrected.

"... all stammering and nervous. It was adorable."

"You're whacked," I said

"If so, then I'll happily stay whacked for the rest of my life as long as you're at my side."

I couldn't believe this was happening. My heart was racing and my mind was wondering what this man saw in me.

"Drive," I said, leaning toward him and resting my head on his arm. "Let's drive and talk."

For a few minutes Aaron rattled on about the likelihood of the basketball team making it to the championship, about a few trumpet pieces he is working on, and about his professor.

"Have you met him yet?" Aaron asked. "Dr. McGammon?"

"No. I don't think so. His office is on a different floor than most of my classes. Besides, I don't socialize that much."

Aaron laughed. "You don't say."

After a moment of silence, I snuggled closer to him. "Thank you, Aaron. Thank you for tonight. My day wasn't going so well and I needed this more than you know."

"Foster, I've watched you since we met. I feel drawn to you." He paused a moment and I heard him swallow. "The night you sprained your finger, I was waiting outside of your practice room. I tried to go back to studying, but you wouldn't leave my mind. I ended up walking back and forth from my practice room to your practice room for hours. Your playing was just so beautiful, so intense. I could hear anguish through the notes. I couldn't leave you. Then, of course, you screamed out ..."

"I flipped you the bird," I recalled and looked up to smile at him.

"You did. And I liked you even more. I like sassy women."

"Women? Plural?"

"Well, not anymore," he said, kissing the top of my head. "Only one woman now."

I rested my head back on his arm, listening to the sound of the road humming beneath my feet. My session with Dr. Lane earlier that day was an unimportant speck compared to how I felt at that moment.

With the heater warming up the inside of the car and this kind, beautiful man by my side, I peacefully dozed off, content.

____________

"Only one woman now?" Grant was leaning forward, sitting on my bed with his legs crossed.

It was early the next morning and when I opened my eyes and, for the second time in recent history, had faces staring down at me. This time it wasn't an intervention. This time is was simply raw curiosity.

"Is that what he said?"

"He did."

"What did you say?" Reagan asked, also leaning forward.

"Well, I told him that sometimes, if he was into it, I'd actually like to get more than one woman involved. You know, just to spice things up."

Silence. I sat staring at Reagan's face, her bottom lip hanging open as she pieced it all together. From my right, I heard Grant snort.

Quietly Reagan whispered, "You did?"

Grant and I burst into howls at the same time, falling over on my bed as Reagan began pounding me with my own pillows.

"You wankers!" she yelled. "I can't believe you would do that to me in the middle of such a romantic story!"

"Come on, you asked for it. You are both like a couple of old women watching Days of Our Lives."

"Nothing wrong with that," Grant defended and settled back into his yoga position, his skinny legs twisted comfortably. "When are you seeing him again?"

"Probably every day. As much as possible. This is just so crazy."

I honestly couldn't believe it. Last night I went to a basketball game, screamed my head off, gobbled down nachos and soda, and became smitten. And all that after a very confusing counseling session with Dr. Lane and Officer Long John.

I must have started to frown because Reagan asked, "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing," I said. "Just thinking about something else. Not Aaron."

On cue, or maybe just because we'd been connected at the hip for so many years, Reagan put her hand on my arm. "How are your sessions with Dr. Lane going?"

"Fine," I lied. "Wonderful."

"Liar, liar pants on fire," Grant chimed in. "But, hey, tell us what you need to tell us. We're here for you no matter what. Especially if Aaron decides that he really would like a threesome because I'd make a fabulous third wheel."

"Okay, gross. But seriously. Everything is going fine. I have my difficult days but, for the most part, we're making progress."

I knew that one day I'd tell Reagan about what I had seen—or thought I saw—in the ravine. But after the new information I was presented with the previous afternoon, I wasn't even sure what that story would be. And I never wanted for her to feel responsible for it.

"I'd like to get a shower," I said. "I love you both, but get the hell out."

Reagan took Grant's hand and quickly slid him out into the hallway. I heard a girl down the hall call out, "Hey!" to which Grant replied, "Hey yourself!" and he and Reagan burst into laughter as they ran down the exit stairs.

So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours. Aaron, with his warm kisses and profession of admiration and Dr. Lane, with his cold facts and promise of healing.

I removed my pajamas and tossed them on the bed as I walked into the bathroom where the smell of Dep and Reagan's hair products left a constant fog.

Stepping into the shower stall, I sat down on the rough stone floor and pushed Reagan's pink rubber duck over the drain to pool the water running over me.

Slowly, my body began to wake and pleasant chills ran up my stomach and to my shoulders. I squirted my shampoo/conditioner/body wash into my hand and began scrubbing myself. Suddenly my inner voice spoke.

_There was no rape_. There was no murder.

Maybe the man, the wolf, was just some pervert doing God knows what in the bushes. But his eyes. His dress. He was no bum off of the street.

"But what about the boot in my room?" I asked aloud, under the roar of the shower so our adjoining neighbors would not hear me.

I didn't have all the answers because the questions were too numerous. Did he truly see me? What was he doing? Was he alone? If there was a girl and she didn't die, did he hurt her? Was the boot in my practice room merely a coincidence?

In a moment as quick as a sigh, a new realization occurred to me.

_It doesn't matter_ , I thought. N _one of this matters._

Here I was, the morning after my first date and first kiss with a man I could see myself growing old with, and I was obsessing over details of an event that did not matter anymore. If nobody died, as Officer Long John had said, and if this prowling man was long gone, why continue fretting over the details?

I stayed under the warm water for ten more minutes and when I turned off the faucet and wrapped myself in a fluffy white towel, I felt like a different woman. Baptized.

My worries, my hideous memories, swirled and vanished down the drain with the bubbles. It was time for a fresh start.

____________

Reagan burst through the door of the room, her voice frantic and wild.

"Foster! Foster! Where are you?"

It was early December and as cold as it had been in years. A burst of frigid air snuck in the door behind Reagan, changing the whole atmosphere of the room.

I sat up on my bed where I had been reading, covered by a quilt my aunt had knitted for me.

"I'm here. What's wrong?"

She slammed the door behind her and quickly turned to face me, an ear-to-ear grin on her flushed face. "You are never going to believe this," she said, hopping over her own bed to mine.

"Geez. What is going on?"

"Dr. Jeremy is taking a group of theatre students to Sweden this summer!" The students in the theatre department always called their professors by their first names. "Remember that 'secret' audition I went to in November, where we all went in for cold readings? Well, this is it! This is it!!"

I scooted back, giving Reagan room. She tended to flail about when she was excited about something.

"Wow. Sweden. That's great. So, when will you find out for sure?"

"Tonight," she breathed. "The list goes up early tonight. Will you go check it out with me? I may need moral support. I mean, I'm not really that worried about it. Basically the audition is just a formality. I'm not really that worried about it."

"You said you weren't worried twice," I smiled.

"Well, I'm not." She skipped over to the phone on my desk. "I wonder if Grant is in his room. I want him to come, too."

"I don't think so," I said. "He usually goes into work at the book store at this time."

The phone rang and Reagan squealed. "Grant? I was just about to call you! I may be going to Sweden! Come with us to check the list tonight. Please, please?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," I heard him say through the line. "What time? I work until five."

As Reagan filled Grant in on the details, I sunk back down under the quilt and picked up my book. I knew I should get some rest. It was going to be a long night, either way the list stood.

____________

Later in the afternoon, Aaron called and asked me to attend a music concert with him that evening. After telling him about Reagan's opportunity, he agreed to meet us in the theatre building beforehand.

"This shouldn't take long," I told him, "and then I can go to the concert with you. Nothing like a good, loud brass concert."

Aaron shot me a look and I smiled innocently, my sarcasm evident.

We followed Reagan, holding hands, Grant flanking my other side.

"Is anyone else a little anxious about this?" he mumbled out of the corner of his mouth. "If she doesn't get chosen, we're going to have to pop some pills in her."

Reagan moved quickly ahead of us and by the time we caught up with her backstage, her hands were clasped together and she was beginning to bounce.

"Well, that's a good sign," I said.

"I mean, I wasn't that worried. I really wasn't," she gushed. A few students were scattered around her, some with shoulders slumped, others talking excitedly. "I could have predicted this list, especially after auditions. But ... " Her brows creased and she turned back to the list. "I don't recognize this name. Who is Stephania Russo?"

From my right I heard Grant utter, "Sweet Jesus."

Simultaneously we all turned. Walking toward us, down the long hall, was probably the most stunning female I'd ever seen in person. She might as well have been walking down a runway. Her chestnut hair, which she accentuated with a shake of her head, was as broad as her chest and hips. She wore jeans and her tiny waist was wrapped with a thick black belt that matched a short leather jacket. Under the jacket she wore a fitted white tank and her breasts popped over the top like overfilled muffins, bouncing as she stomp-walked in our direction.

An audible sound fell out of Reagan's open mouth and she quickly reached up and put her hand to her lips as this tall specimen passed us and flashed a smile through her full red-colored lips.

"Buon giorno!"

Passing the list, she continued backstage and toward the professors' offices. There wasn't one of us standing there who didn't turn to watch her leave, her hips beating imaginary drums on either side of her body as she moved.

"What the hell was that?" one of the students breathed.

"That is trouble with a capital T," Grant said, turning to Reagan. "And it's my educated guess, my dear, is that you have just met Stephania Russo."

Reagan just stood there, staring at the empty space Stephania had just stomped through.

"I ... I don't ... who ... where ... what ... did she even audition?"

"Maybe she had a private audition," Aaron suggested and I squeezed his hand so hard he yelped. "Ow! I'm just trying to help."

"Well, you're not helping!" Reagan growled. "I'm going to see Dr. Jeremy. You guys go on. I'll see you later, Foster."

"Are you sure ..." I took a step toward her.

"I said I'll see you later!" she said and hurried away.

Grant tilted his head to the side. "Not quite the same watching Reagan walk away, is it?"

"Don't make it worse. Please. I have to live with her."

"Well, I don't know why she's so freaked out. She made the cut. She's been top diva around here since the beginning of the year and if some Cindy Crawford wannabe steps in, she's just going to have to make nice." He leaned in to kiss my cheek. "Enough drama for the night. Literally. I'm out, baby."

I turned to Aaron and sighed. "Ready to go?"

He kissed my other cheek. "Absolutely." As we walked into the lobby he added, "You know, I wasn't looking at ..."

"I know," I smiled. "You're one of those rare decent guys. Besides, she didn't even notice you."

"You're so good for my ego," he laughed.

As we walked to the concert hall, our joined hands happily swung back and forth and I felt the sort of pride you feel when you are joined with someone who feels like an addition to your soul.

____________

The sound of brass instruments warming up on stage is similar to listening to oversized insects buzz around your head. After about five minutes, the urge to swat something is overwhelming.

I playfully leaned over to nudge Aaron's shoulder, breaking the sound monotony. "Whatcha reading?"

"The program. Looks like they are going to do a special introduction."

At that moment the audience began to applaud, interrupting Aaron, as the elderly dean of the Music department, Dr. Carter, walked onto the stage. He smiled and held up his hands for attention, then gently tapped the microphone.

"Good evening!" he boomed. For a 70-year-old man, he still could command a room. "Thank you for coming to our annual graduate brass ensemble concert. I see lots of familiar faces out there and others that are new to me. Again, thank you for braving the cold weather to be here. I've sat in on rehearsals and let me tell you, these guys are top notch." The audience applauded and hooted, then Dr. Carter continued. "But before we begin, I'd like to introduce you to someone."

"Ah, here we go," Aaron whispered.

"What?" I asked. "What is it?" but Aaron just put his finger to his lips, smiling at the stage.

"I know many of you have already met our newest professor by now, but I thought that a formal introduction was in order. As an esteemed professor and musician who has traveled to various part of the world, we are extremely proud to have him as part of our Central University music staff. Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Jacob McGammon."

The row in front of me stood to their feet, applauding, as did Aaron. Through shoulders and heads, I caught a glimpse of a tall man walking on stage, hand outreached to Dr. Carter.

"Ah," I said, "Your trumpet professor."

Aaron applauded loudly, whistling through his front teeth. "It's about time he gets recognized."

The students in front of me all sat back down at the same time as the talented Dr. Jacob McGammon turned to face the audience. His red hair glistened under the lights and as he waved his small smile transformed into a broad grin for everyone in the house to admire.

_My mind began to scream._ _Oh my God!_

At the same moment I stopped breathing, my knees gave out. Before my head hit the floor, I felt warm piss beginning to run down the inseams of my jeans.

#  Chapter Six: Awake Unto Me

"Foster? Are you there? Are you waking up?"

I blinked my eyes a few times. They were dry and the room was too bright.

"Hit the lights," I heard a familiar male voice say.

The glow of the room dimmed and I could focus on the familiar faces around me. Aaron hovered over me and, over his shoulder, I saw Reagan trying to smile. It was clear she was really shaken up.

"There you are," she said. "Finally. Thank God."

I tried to sit up. "What? Where am I?" I asked, smelling the foreign scents in the room.

"Stop. Lay down," Aaron said. "We're in the emergency room. Again." He leaned down to kiss my forehead. "We must stop meeting this way, my dear."

"Why? Why am I in the emergency room again?"

"You fell," Reagan cut in, stepping closer to me. "You fell and hit your head."

"Passed out," Aaron added. "You passed out."

I was very out of sorts. "What day is it?" I asked.

"Friday." Aaron sat down on the edge of the hospital bed. "Well, actually in the wee hours of Saturday morning. We went to check Reagan's cast list tonight. Remember?"

I heard Reagan snort and an image buzzed through my head.

"That girl. Yes. I remember that girl who came in. The curvy Italian one."

"Stephania." Reagan's voice dripped acid. "Yes. How can we forget?"

"And then we went to the brass concert, Foster. Do you remember that, too?"

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. "The ... the concert. The graduate students."

"That's right. They were warming up. Then Dr. Carter came on stage to welcome everyone." Aaron spoke so slowly that for a moment I thought he was having a stroke. But when I looked at him, his eyes were clear, watching me intently.

"The people in front of us stood up. I remember ... they were clapping ..."

"They were."

"And then ... a man ..." My heart began to pound in my chest. "That man ..." My hands began shaking.

"What?" Reagan asked. "What man?"

I looked from Aaron to Reagan who both looked equally exhausted.

"I ... I don't remember anything else," I whispered and leaned back on the pillow.

The doctor walked into the room. "Ah, look who's awake. How you feeling, Miss Farraday?"

"I'm fine," I lied.

"Good, good," the doctor continued, buzzing around the room. "I want to get a CAT scan, just to make sure. Then, if it all checks out, you can go home to your own bed. We'll just need to make sure your friends here check up on you during the next few days."

"I'm her roommate. He's her boyfriend," Reagan said.

"Perfect. Well, somebody will be here in a few minutes to wheel you down for the scan. Until then, just relax."

As he left, I closed my eyes again. "I don't want to talk anymore. I'm feeling a little sick. Don't call my parents. They will only worry. I'll ring them later."

"Okay. It's okay," Aaron whispered.

All was quiet until Reagan began quietly clucking about her new female nemesis. I pretended to sleep. It was all I could do to keep from screaming.

____________

I was only in the hospital a few hours before I was released. The doctors assured me all was fine, so Aaron drove me back to the dorm, Reagan following close in her red VW Bug.

She took great care getting me a drink of water and found me comfortable clothes. All the while, I remained placid. I answered questions when asked. I nodded on cue. But inside I was crumbling, the seams I had held together for six months were pulling loose. I didn't want anyone around when the finale came.

"What do you need, hon?" Reagan asked.

"Just rest. Thank you."

"If you are sure ..."

"I am sure."

"Okay. I love you, Foster. You'll need more of that pain medicine when you wake up, I'm guessing. You hit your head pretty hard. I'll check on you every hour."

"You don't have to do that ..." I started but Reagan growled at me.

"Shut up. Get some rest. I'll be over here if you need me." Reagan sat on her bed, keeping quieter than usual, and reached for a book that I could tell she had just bought in the hospital gift shop. It still had the price tag on the cover.

My eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling and my hands clutched the blankets under my chin. I couldn't move. My head throbbed. My eyes were heavy. But, most of all, my soul felt broken.

I hadn't forgotten anything I had seen pre-concert. I remembered the smell of the room, the feel of the auditorium seats, and the temperature of the air. But most of all, I remembered him. His eyes. His smile. His name. Jacob McGammon. He was real. And he was here, on campus.

Thoughts overwhelmed my mind, realizations that this man was Aaron's mentor, that I had been in the same building with him for four months and never knew it. I had skipped my last session with Dr. Lane due to my newfound hope that my life was looking up and the past didn't matter. But the past has a way of creeping back upon us as soon as we release it.

I wanted to firmly grab Dr. Lane's head and turn it toward Jacob's grinning face and say, "See, Dr. Lane? Ghosts can be real—and you were wrong."

Exhaustion won the battle over my thoughts and I soon drifted off to sleep, the last image in my mind being that of the Cheshire Cat, licking his teeth.

____________

I returned to classes the following Monday. I had been in bed too much and staring at the ceiling only proved to aggravate my confusion. I needed to get back to performing.

I pulled my thick scarf around my face as I walked from the dorm to the music building. As I got closer the door, the snowflakes began to fall. I moved up the stairway to my practice room to drop my bags off before going to class. The desks in the rooms were small. I hated to lay all my stuff on the floor where others could fall over them. Yes, I'd had complaints.

Entering the hallway of the second floor, my shoes hit a wet spot, most likely left from others coming in from the wintery weather. I did an awkward slip and flap until I grabbed a nearby wall to catch myself.

From behind me, I heard someone start to applaud, slowly.

_God, I hate upperclassmen_ , I thought.

I righted myself and continued to my room, not looking back, but a voice stopped me. Although I'd ever only heard it say three words, I knew its timbre immediately.

"Good recovery," the voice said. "I was about to come wipe the floor so that nobody would get hurt. Good thing you're so graceful on your feet."

I didn't want to turn around. I thought that perhaps if I didn't see him, he wouldn't be real. But, after a few seconds, which felt like an eternity, I looked over my shoulder. I didn't speak. I just stared at his face until smile lines formed at the corner of his mouth, breaking my frightened daze.

"Yes, thank you. The floor is ... slippery."

"Indeed," he said, leaning on a mop he held in his right hand. "I don't believe we have met."

A shiver ran up the back of my neck. "No. I don't think so," I said quietly.

He tilted his head. He was older than I had remembered. "And you are ...?"

"You first," I said, immediately wanting to punch myself in the mouth when his grin grew.

"All right," he said, and began to walk toward me, bridging any gap of safety I felt, hand extended toward me. "Hello. I'm Dr. Jacob McGammon. Trumpet professor."

"All right," I mimicked. "I'm Foster Farraday. I'm a student. Piano."

McGammon's hand still floated in the air in front of me. To my horror, when I failed to respond, he reached down and took my hand on his own, shaking it firmly. His hand was warm and rough, like the skin of an elephant basking in the sun. After a few horizontal pumps, I pulled my hand back.

"Nice to meet you." My voice was still barely above a whisper.

Before I could turn and retreat, Aaron came around the corner.

"Hey! You're here!" Moving past McGammon, he came to me and put both hands on my face, a lovable move he had perfected. "I wasn't sure if you'd be in class today."

I smiled and lowered my eyes. Although Aaron's touch was one of the most comforting things to me, I wanted to run.

"I see you've finally met our Dr. McGammon!" Aaron said, backing up so I could meet McGammon's gaze again.

"We just met, yes," McGammon said. "Your girl—I'm assuming this is your girl—was about to go down and, embarrassingly, I was here to witness it."

Aaron quickly turned to me again, concerned. "Did you fall again, Foster?"

"Slipped. I slipped. That's all." _Please stop, Aaron. Please._

"Again?" McGammon prodded. "Is this something that happens often?"

Laughing way too loudly, Aaron's mood changed and he threw an arm around my shoulder.

"No, not really. She just had an accident the other night, passed out before the brass concert. Probably just needed to eat or something." Planting a kiss on my cheek, he continued. "Foster is an ambitious musician, very talented, and sometimes forgets to take care of herself. Her craft always comes first."

McGammon licked the corner of his mouth, a move that another bystander would dismiss as a reaction to having dry lips. I did not perceive it this way and, to my disgust, my gut flipped. Then, like light and dark, his demeanor changed.

"Well, it's good to meet another dedicated musician. Aaron, our 10:30 lesson is still on, correct?"

"Absolutely. I'll be there in a minute."

Before McGammon disappeared around the corner, he ran the mop over the spot where I had slipped. When he was out of earshot, Aaron turned to face me, beaming.

"I love that man. I'd follow him anywhere."

"Well, that's a bit creepy," I said, feeling my nostrils involuntarily flare.

"Not like that, silly," Aaron said, his mood light. "I've known him since high school. He is brilliant. He's been around the world. Who knows what kind of contacts I can make through him!"

"How wonderful for you," I said, looking past him. "I need to get to class."

"Whoa, Foster. What's wrong? Are you mad at me?"

"No. I'm not mad at you," I sighed. "I love you."

_Oh shit._ My words echoed in my ears.

Aaron froze. "Did you say you love me?"

"I ..."

"You're blushing!"

"I ... I did say it. I wasn't thinking. It just came out," I gushed. "I'm sorry."

Aaron looked like he had been slapped. "No! Don't apologize. For heaven's sake, Foster." He grabbed me in a strong hug and I couldn't see his face anymore. After a few moments, he added, "I'm actually glad. I'm glad you said it. I love you, too."

When I pulled back, I saw a tear in his left eye. "You love me?"

"Don't look so skeptical. The thought of waking up with you by my side, the thought of growing old with you ..."

Aaron's words were interrupted by a voice from around the corner. "Hagan? Are you still down there?"

"Crap." Aaron pulled out of my space. "I have to go to my lesson. We'll talk later."

Then he was gone and I was left alone in the cold hallway. I stood there several minutes before I took a step toward my practice room. I didn't go to class that day. I stayed locked away and played Chopin Nocturnes. It just seemed appropriate.

#  Chapter Seven: Mermaids are Chanting

Christmas came and went. I went to class, I practiced, and I played a few events for cash. It was an especially dreary January, with spiny bare trees fingering the constant gray skies, which spat rain and snow, muddying the ground. I had only lived 18 years but I couldn't remember a more dismal winter.

Aaron had been so busy with Jacob McGammon that our time together was sparse. But I didn't feel much like going out anyway. Then one Saturday afternoon I walked into our dorm room after playing a wedding. As soon as I opened the door, I saw Reagan and Grant sitting on Regan's bed, facing the door.

"What?" I asked, throwing my coat over my desk chair.

"We would like to speak with you about your social life," Reagan said. Her voice was metered and matter-of-fact.

"Is this another intervention?"

Grant chimed in. "Yes. You, my love, are a bore. A real downer."

"Give me a break. Is this why you guys are sitting here waiting for me? Do you not have lives of your own?"

Reagan mocked hurt. "I have a life. I'm an actress. And a student. And I just got a job at Hot Beans."

Grant turned to her. "The new coffee place? Congratulations!"

"Thanks!"

I flopped down on my bed across from them, pulling my skirt over my knees. "Okay, so what else?"

Reagan turned back to me, forgetting her own glory for a moment. "How is Aaron?"

I squinted. "Aaron is fine. Why?"

"I haven't seen you two together as often, that's all. Is everything okay?"

This was quickly becoming tedious. I stood up again.

"Yes. Everything is fine. He is busy, I am busy. He goes to class, I go to class. He plays gigs, I play gigs. When we're old and gray we can retire together and spend all day lying on a beach somewhere drinking margaritas. But, for now, we have work to do." I pulled off my heels and started toward the bathroom.

"Have you met Jacob McGammon?" Reagan asked.

I stopped, shoes dangling from my hand. "Yes. I have. Why?"

"I didn't know if Aaron had introduced you to him yet. He's attached to the guy's hip every time I see him."

"Yes. We've met." My heart started to pound in my throat. "A few weeks ago." Dizzy head. "I ran into him outside of my practice room." _Pink boot._ "I ... I need to sit down."

Grant jumped up.

"Goodness, Foster," he said, taking my arm. "It seems that the good professor has had an effect on you ..."

I pulled away, glaring at him. "He has no effect on me whatsoever! I've only met him once and I thought he was a douchebag. Why don't you both just back the hell out of my business for once?"

I couldn't stay in that room for another minute. I balanced on one foot and began sliding my shoes back on. "You know, I work my ass off and every time I can't live up to your social standards, I get a talking to."

Reagan cautiously lifted herself from the bed. "Foster, we ..."

"No!" My voice was above a normal level now, practically screaming. "Just stop it! I don't want to hear any more of what you have to say about me or Aaron or Dr. Jack-off McGammon!"

I grabbed my coat and flung the door open, getting in one extra "Dammit!" before I slammed it behind me.

____________

For once I didn't feel like going to my practice room. I needed a change of scenery.

With our conversation still running through my head, I drove to the new coffee shop Reagan had mentioned, not wanting to figure out where else to go. Though it was a weekend and most students had gone home, a few heads were visible behind the newly painted glass window displaying a cartoon-like cup of coffee and a half-eaten donut.

As I entered, a bell jingled and the woman behind the counter, between gum smacks, uttered a mechanical "Welcome to Hot Beans, first of its kind 'round here" before going back to her work.

I sat down at the counter. The Grateful Dead played through the speakers. The place wasn't so bad. Cozy. Social. A perfect job environment for Reagan.

"What can I get you?" the gum-smacking woman asked.

"Coffee. And a tuna salad sandwich."

"Pickle on the side?"

"Sure."

From behind me, near the back of the restaurant, I heard a burst of feminine laughter. The gum smacker rolled her eyes.

"They've been cackling like that for an hour now," she said, pouring my coffee in a large white mug. "Cream?"

"Yes, please." I smiled. "Sorority girls?"

"Doesn't look like it. Three girls and two guys. And everything the older guy says is _hilarious_."

I turned to get a better look. Though a small half-wall and a large plant blocked the table, one of the girls was in my view. I recognized her from Cabaret.

"I think I know one of them." I told the gum smacker. "Theatre student."

"Ah, I see. Yeah, we just hired one of those. A real diva. But cute. And friendly enough."

I grinned into my mug.

The coffee was hot, the tuna salad was sweet and, after about twenty minutes, I was beginning to feel slightly better. The waitress pushed the check over to me and I noticed her name tag.

"I'm going to use the restroom, Rhonda. I'll be right back."

"Sure, honey. It's in the back, past the laughing hyenas."

I spun around on the stool, putting my heels on the floor. My reflection looked back at me from a mirror on the wall.

_Damn. I look pretty good today_ , I thought, turning toward the restroom. My hips swung more under my fitted skirt as I picked up the pace. In that moment, I vowed to dress up more often.

As I ventured toward the back of the cafe, I glanced over at the rambunctious table I had involuntarily listened to for the past twenty minutes. Immediately I made eye contact with Aaron. When he caught sight of me, he quickly stood up, causing his chair to fall back against the wall.

"Foster? What are you doing here?"

I stood, my body profile facing the table. Despite my shock, I still knew how nice I looked and I held my posture confidently. Aaron took notice of my dress and swallowed air.

"I'm drinking coffee," I said. "You?"

"I thought you were playing a wedding today."

"I was. Earlier. But I wanted to ..."

Suddenly I noticed the others at the table and my sentence trailed off.

Flanking either side of Aaron was Stephania, her red lips smiling broadly at me, and Jacob McGammon. His eyes were not on my face. His gaze rested a bit lower. Immediately, I slouched my posture and his eyes crawled up to look me in the eyes. The other two girls at the table giggled.

"Good afternoon, Foster Farraday. Nice to see you again."

I pulled my attention back to Aaron, who stood there looking unnecessarily guilty.

"We were having a meeting ... I wanted to grab something to eat ..."

"Join us!" Stephania suddenly boomed, standing up. "I hear so much about you!" Her rolling accent was as thick as her brassiere.

I could see how other women would be threatened by her—truthfully, in that moment, I felt like a piece of bark with clothes—but there was something quite lovely about her, so I returned the smile.

"Thank you. But no. I've got some things to do." I nodded politely at her and looked back at Aaron, who remained standing, staring at me. "Aaron, sorry to interrupt your meeting. I'll talk to you later."

Without waiting for an answer, I turned and walked back to the counter, skipping the restroom.

"Aaron, you cad, you're a lucky man," purred McGammon and all the females at the table burst into giggles again.

Rhonda smiled at me when I pulled a five out of my purse and sat it on the counter.

"Worse face-to-face, aren't they?" she asked.

"Much worse." My voice was shaky and I pulled my coat back on. "Thanks, Rhonda. Have a good day."

"Will do." A pause. "Are you okay, hon?"

I nodded and hurried toward the front door, the bell jingling to announce my departure.

Snowflakes hit my face, but I couldn't tell the difference between them and the tears that had begun to flow. After fumbling for my keys, I slid into my car, feeling like there wasn't enough air for me to breathe. I grabbed the steering wheel and gripped it tight. My hands didn't feel like my own. My arms felt mechanical. As my knuckles turned white, I let out a growl and put my head down.

Minutes passed as my head spun. I didn't look up. I could only focus on my breathing. A small tap at the passenger window broke my trance and I jumped.

Aaron stood outside of my car, snowflakes clinging to his black sweater. He pointed to the passenger seat, asking for permission and, after a moment, I nodded.

When he closed the door he immediately turned to me and grabbed my hands. "Foster. What is going on? Are you mad at me?"

"I'm not mad at you."

"It is Stephania? I know she's a little overbearing but ..."

"No, Aaron. I'm not that shallow. Besides, I'm supposed to be able to trust you," I said, meeting his gaze. My heart ached and in that moment I felt that I needed to spill everything. "I can trust you, can't I?"

"Yes, of course you can."

"Why are all of you here with Dr. McGammon?"

Aaron looked surprised. "Oh. Well, we were discussing the trip to Sweden."

"The trip?" My brows furrowed. "What does that have to do with you and McGammon? You're not in the theatre department."

Aaron's face suddenly lit up and, while it should have made me smile, I felt an imaginary punch to gut.

"They're taking musicians with them. A few horns, a drummer, a fiddle player. Dr. McGammon asked me to go yesterday afternoon."

_Punch, swing, punch._

"Because you're his best student?"

"Well, yes," Aaron chuckled. "But also because he's going."

_Knockout._

"Dr. McGammon is going on the Sweden trip?"

"Yes."

"With you?"

"Yep."

"And with Reagan."

"Her, too, yes. And Stephania."

I turned and looked over my dashboard. Snow was beginning to pile up on the hood of the car. I pulled my hands back from Aaron and started my engine. The radio came to life and Aaron reached to turn it down.

"Foster?" Aaron asked. "What is wrong with you?"

"I don't like him," I said, eyes still forward. "I don't like him at all."

"Who? McGammon?"

"Yes. Jacob McGammon." Saying his name made me feel like I had just swallowed a bug.

"Why not? You've only just met him. He's a great guy, Foster. I'm learning so much from him."

"He's a predator!" I spat.

"A what? Why would you say that?" He leaned in toward me, voice lowered.

"He just makes me feel icky. That's all."

The moment had passed. There was no way I could tell Aaron anything that I had wanted to. I felt very alone.

"Okay. Well, I mean, he's a good-looking man. I'd do him."

I turned to stare at Aaron and he burst into laughter. I loved that sound. I forced a small smile.

"You're so queer."

"You are." He kissed my forehead. "Want me to go back to campus with you?"

None of the members of his party had emerged from the coffee shop, so I shook my head.

"No. You don't have to do that. Go back to your meeting." Then something struck me. "Hey, why wasn't Reagan invited to this meeting?"

"Oh, she was. So were the others. Including Dr. Jeremy. They just couldn't make it." Aaron winked. "Reagan tries to limit her contact with Stephania."

"That's going to be one long trip to Sweden."

"For real."

After we said our lip-pressing goodbyes, Aaron hopped out of my car and bounced back through the snow and into Hot Beans. I drove back to the dorm in silence, no radio, no tapes. By the time I pulled into a parking space on campus, I knew that it was time to talk to Reagan.

#  Chapter Eight: Vapors are Born

When I got back, I had two things on my agenda: one, to apologize to Grant and Reagan and two, to talk to Reagan about the Sweden trip, about Jacob McGammon, about everything. But when I returned, neither Grant nor Reagan was around. In fact, in the next few weeks, I rarely saw either of them. Reagan was working, rehearsing, or going to class and Grant doing what it was that Grant did.

During that time, I continued to plod through my routine. Aaron made a point to pay more attention to our relationship but, no matter how much he cared, we were all busy and our free time was sparse. He called me most evenings and we sometimes ran into each other in the music building, but I needed more.

Then, to my girly giddiness, a week before the February 14, Aaron approached me before class to tell me that he wanted to take me downtown Lexington to have dinner and see movie. My heart was ecstatic.

The morning of Valentine's Day, I was attempting to study in the campus library, a log-faced building that sat atop a small hill with dozens of tree-lined stairs climbing toward the entrance. Because it was unseasonably warm for February, I huffed and puffed to the top, carrying two bags full of books. I wanted to make the trip worthwhile. However, my brain was in my heart and all I could think of was Aaron.

After 50 unsuccessful minutes, I closed the hardback texts and began to pack up.

Maybe I'll go down to Elm Street and get my hair cut, I thought. Or a manicure. Or both!

I began to descend the concrete stairs to the common area. Above me, a sad bloom clung to an overhanging tree, unaware that Kentucky warm streaks can quickly and without warning turn bitterly cold again.

I was so busy eying the white bud that I didn't notice a lean figure quickly ascending the stairs. With his head down and my head up, we roughly collided in the middle.

"Omph! Shit!" I heaved, trying to assess my surroundings.

I smelled him before I actually saw his face.

"Whoa! I am so sorry." Jacob McGammon reached out to steady me. "Well. Miss Farraday. Hello."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, too."

Avoiding eye contact, I reached down to pluck up one of the bags that had slipped from my arm during the collision. When I stood up, McGammon had not moved. He stood completely blocking the stairway, both of his hands on opposite rails. Because he was a few steps down, we stood eye to eye.

"Excuse me, please."

He took a deep breath and squinted his eyes before letting the air hiss out again.

"Foster, I feel as if you and I have gotten off on the wrong foot. I feel a ... tension between us."

God, please make him move, I silently prayed.

"Now I know that you and Aaron are close. He's an amazing young musician. If you're jealous about how much time he is devoting to his craft, I can assure you that it's going to be worth it. He's going to do great things, Foster."

"I know he is," I said defiantly, scanning the area to try to catch a glimpse of someone coming to my rescue.

It always seems that everyone is in your business until you really need them. Then, poof! Nowhere to be found.

Jacob continued, still acting as a gate to my escape. "Do I make you nervous?"

"What?" I asked, my voice cracking. "No. Why would you ask that?"

"I've seen you eyeing me in the music building." He paused, holding my gaze, then continued. "Maybe we have met before, perhaps in a past life. Do you believe in that sort of thing?"

I clutched my bags on my shoulder. "No."

He shifted. "Hmm. Too bad."

"May I pass, please, Dr. McGammon?"

Jacob looked over his shoulder, and then over mine, before ascending one step so I had to look up to see his face. He had on a green Polo shirt and, as he moved closer, I noticed chest hair peeking through the open top buttons.

"Call me Jacob. Practically everyone does. Do you have somewhere important to go?"

"Yes," I croaked. "Please ..."

"My dear, you act as if I have you tied up. No need to beg. I'm not keeping you here."

Once again, like the first day we met in the music building, his demeanor did a complete 180 and he stepped aside, mocking chivalry with an extended arm to allow me to continue.

I cautiously passed him, then began to run down the rest of the stairway to the bottom. My bags banged against my side, bruising my ribs, but I didn't dare stop.

When I reached the bottom, I continued to run but looked over my shoulder. To my horror, I saw that he was still there, watching me, smiling. That's when, for the second time that morning, I ran into someone else.

"Whoa!" Two strong hands grabbed my shoulders.

Immediately I began screaming. "Let me go! Let me go! Please help!"

"Foster!"

The father-like voice boomed and I froze, lifting my chin, and looked into a pair of narrow eyeglasses.

"Dr. Lane. Oh my God." Without thinking, I threw my head into his chest and began to weep.

"Okay, Foster, okay." He gently pulled back and held me at arms length. In a brief moment, I saw him look over the top of my head to the staircase. "Would you like to go to my office?"

"I'm sorry I haven't kept my appointments. I've gotten your phone messages, I just ..."

"Don't apologize." He looked over my head once more. "What were you running from?"

I looked back over my shoulder but the stairs were now empty.

"I wasn't running from anyone." When Dr. Lane raised his thick eyebrows, I continued. "I'm just in a hurry. I have diarrhea."

Oh, what the hell, Foster?

"I'm sorry to hear that. Doesn't the library have a bathroom?"

"It does. I just like to have more privacy."

The thing about a lie is that once you're in the hole, you have to keep digging.

Dr. Lane considered my face for a moment before repeating his question. "Who were you running from, Foster?"

It was him! I wanted to scream. I'm not crazy!

"Dr. Lane, I really need to go. Like, really go. I'll call you this week for an appointment. I promise."

"Alright, Miss Farraday," he nodded. "I'll look forward to hearing from you again. My door is open all week."

I still felt the urge to run, but instead I walked calmly past Dr. Lane. I didn't stop moving until I was in my dorm room with the door locked.

____________

Knock, knock, knock.

"Foster?"

Knock, knock, knock, knock on the headboard.

"Foster? Aaron is in the lobby ready to pick you up." A pause. "Foster, come on." A second pause. "At least let me know you're not in a coma."

I placed my hand on the headboard knocked back three times, then pulled my arm back under the covers.

"Well, okay. You're alive. Great. Now what about your date? It's Valentine's Day, for heaven's sake."

I sat up and pivoted. A feeling of pressure began to well up inside of my chest and I looked directly into Reagan's eyes. "I need to talk to the both of you."

"Both of us? Aaron and me?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Do you want to go out? Maybe grab something to eat?"

"No," I said. "Right here. Right now." I stood up and made my way to the bathroom. "Get the box, sneak him in, and meet me back here."

I went to the bathroom, and when I emerged a few minutes later, both Reagan and Aaron sat quietly in the room. Reagan sat on the edge of my bed. Aaron had pulled up a chair from my desk and was straddling it. Neither spoke.

I let them sit in silence and stare at me for a few moments before taking a deep breath.

"I'm not sure where to begin. I'm just going to start talking and hope it makes sense." I ran my hands through my hair and directed my attention to Reagan.

"Do you remember that night during music camp that you went out drinking and came home sick and vomiting?"

In all seriousness, eyes still large and locked on mine, Reagan answered. "Which one?"

____________

Forty-five minutes passed. I was the only one who spoke. The rambling monologue bounced off of the walls. Finally, I said, "I guess that's all."

Aaron stood up and began to pace around the room, back to me, hands in his hair.

Reagan took a small breath. "Foster. I'm not sure what to say."

"Say something. Anything," I begged. "Please."

Aaron turned to face the both of us. His expression was disconcerting. "Dr. Lane is right. It never happened."

Reagan turned to Aaron quickly, "Wait just a second ..."

"It never happened. It doesn't make any sense except inside your head."

"Aaron!" Reagan stood up.

"Hard facts. No reports. No arrests. No rapes for God's sake." When he said the word rapes, Aaron looked like he had just smelled bad cheese. "The man got hired by the university. You don't think they do a background check? I've known him for years. He's an accomplished musician who has traveled the world. He can get laid any time he wants!"

"Are you saying she's lying, Aaron?" Reagan busted out. "Is that what you're saying?"

"I don't know. I don't know what I'm saying. And I sure as hell don't know what Foster is saying!" He was yelling now. I had never heard Aaron yell except to cheer on the basketball team on our first date. This was more terrifying.

"Is she jealous? I don't know! But none of this makes any sense."

I stood beside Reagan, covers falling to the floor. "Stop calling me 'she.' I'm right here. I am not lying and I am not jealous. This situation is very real. I've been living with it for months."

"I can't listen to this anymore. It's making me as crazy as you are!"

In one leap, Reagan launched toward Aaron and slapped his face so hard that he stumbled backwards into my desk, sending papers and sheet music cascading to the floor.

"Reagan!" I screamed.

"Don't you dare call her crazy, you asshole! She trusted you enough to tell you everything and this is how you react? Why don't you go spend Valentine's Day with him? And Stephania? Maybe he'll rape you both!"

"Oh my God, Reagan ..." I sat back down on the bed, dizzy.

Aaron, hand on his cheek, looked past Reagan to me. I saw pain flood his eyes as he turned and walked out of the room, letting the door click shut behind him.

Reagan faced me and kneeled at my feet. "I believe you. I promise that I do. You've always been there for me and I promise that I believe you."

I put my forehead against hers and we sat in silence for a few moments before she continued.

"But," she said, leaning back, "have you ever considered the fact that maybe, just maybe, Dr. Lane is right?"

I jerked back. "What? What do you mean? You said you believed me."

"I do. But a best friend always has her number one girl's best interest at heart. And I'm just thinking ..."

"Yes?" I asked, coldness creeping in.

"Well, there are always two sides to every story. Maybe we could explore them together. Find more answers."

"The man cornered me in broad daylight today. He's a predator. He left that pink boot in my practice room."

Reagan reacted.

"What?"

"I don't know about that pink boot, Foster," she said cautiously. "I mean, that part is a little hazy."

"How so?" I was starting to really ice over.

"Well okay, for one, he would have to have known that you saw him in the ravine that night. Two, he would have had to go back to get that boot. Three, he would have had to be able to get into your locked practice room. I mean, it would take a guy with nuts of steel to pull all of this off. He gets this job, discovers you, and then begins to taunt you, risking his job and reputation?" She took my hands. "I want you to really think and talk this over with me, your friend, your sister who knows you."

For the first time, I questioned my own memory. "But he cornered me on the stairs."

Reagan shrugged. "He's cocky. You're beautiful."

"Come on," I started. "There's no way ..."

"Maybe he's a perv, Foster. I mean, that wouldn't surprise me. You know musicians, they are a different breed. A horny breed."

"Good Lord, Reagan ..."

"Consider it." She really was gripping my hands now, almost violently. "Please. For me. For your sanity. For Aaron ..."

"Screw Aaron."

"Okay, screw Aaron. But do it for yourself. For your life and career and future."

"Okay. I'll consider it," I said, hoping Reagan would let go of my hands, which were now slightly numb.

On cue, she let go, but leaned in to hug me. "Good. Thank you. We'll figure this out together. But please don't go back into your cave again. This is too much for one person to deal with. And since Aaron is more in love with Jacob the perv than he is with you ... oh shit, Foster. I'm sorry. That came out wrong. You know what I mean. I think."

I nodded. "Yes, yes. It's all fine. I'm fine. I mean, my heart is breaking a little, but I feel ... free."

Reagan stood up and clapped her hands like a ten-year-old cheerleader. "Yes! Freedom!" She skipped over to my closet and began rummaging around inside. "Now, it's Valentine's Day. I'm single, you're free, and we're going to go out, eat good food, and celebrate! Who needs diamond rings?"

There was no arguing with her. I stood up and caught my reflection in the mirror inside of the closet door. Reagan was right. For the first time in a long time, I stared back at the young, talented woman I saw and recognized that she was quite lovely, sexy even. Freedom indeed.

#  Chapter Nine: Waiting for Thee

I drove. I drove because it felt like I was flying. I drove because I could open my car windows and turn up the music and sing as loud as I wanted. I drove because spring was coming to Kentucky and it felt like life was blooming, including my own.

With dedication and hard work, my reputation was growing. I had started to pick up a few young piano students that I could teach in the afternoon after school. I also continued to play wedding gigs whenever possible. It wasn't much, but it put some cash in my fairly empty pockets.

My car leapt over the top of a hill and I squealed, feeling the jolt in my stomach. It was a gorgeous day. The fact that Aaron and I had not spoken since Valentine's Day did not faze me (or at least I told myself that), nor did the fact that Jacob McGammon still shot glances my way, scanning every inch of my body and mind. Let him look. He couldn't touch me. Not really.

My dear Reagan, I thought as I rounded a curve. With the help of her quirky undying love, I came to the realization that whatever happened in the ravine in June did not concern me. In a way, Aaron was right. No reports, no arrests, no harm done. I dropped it all like a cartoon anvil and decided to start over.

____________

When I pulled my car up to the dorm, Reagan met me in the parking lot.

"Foster, I just wanted to let you know that we're meeting in the lobby. I saw you pull up and didn't want you to walk in and feel awkward."

"What? Who?"

"The Sweden Troupe. Me, Aaron, McGammon, Stephania, Dr. Jeremy, all of us."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry. I thought you were gone for the day and I offered. Hot Beans doesn't really want us meeting there anymore. Apparently we're too obnoxious and disturb the other customers."

I smiled. "Rea, it's fine. I promise. I'm just walking through."

She started. "Oh. You're coming in?"

"Yes, why wouldn't I? It's my dorm, too ..."

"No, I'm not saying that. I just meant ... " Then she smiled. "You know what? That's great. I'm proud of you." Taking my hand, we headed across the parking lot together.

As we opened the heavy front door, I heard Stephania laugh. "Aaron! You silly boy!"

Good God, I thought, but stood tall and followed Reagan inside.

Upon seeing me, Stephania stood. "Foster!" She bounced across the room and embraced me. "You look so fabulous! There's a glow to your cheeks, how lovely!"

I chuckled. "Thank you. You always know how to make a mousy girl feel good."

As she stepped back, I made eye contact with the group. Aaron stood.

"Hello Foster. It's really nice to see you."

"It's nice to see you, as well."

I would be lying if I said that my heart didn't flutter making eye contact with him again.

Others offered hellos. Dr. Jeremy shook my hand. Jacob, still seated, was the last to speak.

"Miss Farraday. Congratulations on your new piano students. I'm sure you will give them all they need."

I looked at Reagan and she shrugged slightly, admitting that she had shared my news.

"Thank you, Dr. McGammon," I said, then looked back to the group, "Well, I'll leave you guys to do your thing."

As I began to walk away, I noticed that Aaron was still standing. Feeling quite happy from my joyride, I looked over my shoulder and said, "You may sit back down, Mr. Hagan. The queen has left the room."

Stephania, Reagan, and a few of the other girls burst into laughter but I didn't look back again. When I got to our room, I leapt onto my bed and giggled. It was the best I had felt in a long time.

____________

It was a few hours later when I looked up from my homework and realized that the sky had grown dim. Stretching, I stood up, my rear end tingly and numb. I grabbed my purse walked down to the lobby. As I popped the top of a can of soda from the machine, I heard familiar murmuring outside of the front door.

Tiptoeing across the lobby, I pressed my ear to the door, feeling guilty to be eavesdropping. Soon I began to make out words. There were two distinct voices.

"What did he say when you told him?"

"He laughed. I don't know. He just laughed."

"I don't know why you talked to him about it, Aaron. There was no reason to do that."

"I think I just wanted to see his reaction. It was bothering me."

"But you don't believe her. So why now?"

"I told you, Reagan, I don't know. We were hanging out and it just came out."

"Was he upset?"

"No. Again, I told you he laughed. Like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. He fell back on the floor and rolled. Literally. When he sat up, tears were running down his cheeks."

"What did you do?"

"I laughed, too. Mainly at him. Then he asked who else she had told."

"And you told him me? And Dr. Lane?"

"No. Only you. I kind of forgot about Dr. Lane. Did she mention McGammon's name to him?"

"No, just the situation. What about Grant?"

"I didn't know about Grant. Did she tell Grant?"

"No. I did. I thought you knew that."

"No. I didn't. But it doesn't matter. He acted like I was talking about a movie I had just seen. It didn't seen to faze him. And you saw the way he reacted to her today. Not a flicker of anything."

"No, not to her. But I didn't like the way he kept touching my leg today."

"He does that to everybody, Reagan. He's very touchy."

"God, Aaron, stop acting like this guy shits gold. I've sensed something odd on him lately. Then today after Foster walked in, I dunno. It got worse. That's when he got really touchy with me."

"You have nice legs. A little short for my taste, but nice."

"Stop trying to make light of this."

"I just want to leave, Reagan. I'm tired. Are we done?"

"Listen, you're the one who started this conversation. What else happened?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I just wanted to tell you so you'd be aware."

"Well, okay. Will you let me know if he says anything else?"

"Yes, yes. I'll see you later."

I didn't hear Reagan say goodbye because I was doing a fast-paced tiptoe back to the stairs, pretending I was just coming down.

As Reagan came back in, I smiled. "Hey, lady."

"Oh!" She jumped. "Hey. You scared me. I was just saying goodbye to our team."

"Cool. How did things go?"

"Fine. Fine. Just fine. We leave in a few months so, you know, planning."

"I see." I stood, sipping my drink. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Why?"

I smiled. "No reason. I'm going back out for a while."

"Okey-dokey. Have you eaten dinner?"

"I'm not hungry. I'll eat later."

Reagan stood planted to the floor as I passed her, kissed her cheek, and walked out the door, soda can still in hand. "Be careful," she called.

As I reached the parking lot, I saw Aaron pulling away. I lifted my hand to wave but he never saw me.

It was starting to get dark but I crawled back in my car anyway. Maybe I would drive to Lexington. Though our small college town was winding down for the night, the city would surely still be bustling on such a warm evening. Besides, I was craving tacos.

As I put my car in reverse and pulled out of the lot, I didn't notice the headlights of the car at the opposite end of the lot suddenly pop to life and angle in my direction.

#  Chapter Ten: Out On the Sea

For the second time that day, I was car-jumping back road hills, both windows rolled down

With The Bangles blaring through the speakers, I sped through a tree-covered stretch of road and, for the first time, noticed the headlights of the other car in the rear-view mirror. It wasn't late, only 8:30, but a tinkle of fear rang in my ears. Without thinking, I pushed harder on the pedal.

No other cars were on the two-lane road and I knew I was still 15 minutes from a more occupied stretch in town. I began to reason with my anxiety.

"It's just another car," I said aloud. "Not every car on this road is following me. I'm not that special."

But as the high-beam headlights inched closer, I could no longer convince myself. My speedometer rose to 68 MPH, my heart accelerated, and I could feel sweat on my palms and on the steering wheel.

Please, I begged. Please, pass me.

My follower reached two car-lengths behind me and I gripped the wheel harder, waiting for relief to come when it passed. But it didn't. It stayed close enough behind me to blind my mirrors. Then the honking began.

First it was just a short BEEP. Then two, four, eight, and one long cry of the horn. An audible sound passed my lips, one of both fear and surrender. Suddenly the high beams fell and the car inched close enough for me to see the outline of a face in the driver's seat from my rearview mirror.

I have to say, I was almost relieved to see him. He was the devil I knew.

Jerking his car to the left, Jacob pulled into the oncoming lane, paralleling me. I wanted to reach over and roll up my window, but stubborn pride kept me from doing so, despite the fact that he was now pacing me.

He didn't say anything through his lowered passenger window. He only looked my way, waiting for me to meet his gaze. After a few seconds, which felt like an eternity, I glanced in his direction.

I was expecting a smile, that snake-like smile that I had seen before, but it wasn't there. He simply stared, his lips in a straight line. Heat radiated out of his eyes. A new level of fear fell over me.

I looked ahead again, trying to ignore him, seeing our pairs of headlights on approaching blacktop. When I glanced in his direction once more, he jerked his wheel, yanking his car closer to mine.

I yelped and reacted, the right wheels of my car skimming the grass shoulder. I slowly pulled back onto the road, thankful of the defensive driving class I had taken in high school. I heard a laugh but when I glanced in his direction a third time, his mouth was still set in stone.

Finally I found my words.

"What do you want?" I screamed. "What do you want from me?"

Immediately McGammon yanked his wheel, causing me to react again. This time, my right wheel hit a small ditch. My car vibrated as I tried to pull back onto the road. That's when I saw the fence post.

Not comprehending what was happening, I felt myself flipping upside down.

They say that in moments like that, time always seem to move in slow motion. I could feel my hair standing on end, blood rushing to my head, the heaviness of my vehicle as it went airborne. I could hear the sound of glass shattering and another sound—what was it? The scream sounded so primal, so low, so full of terror that I almost didn't recognize it as my own.

Finally, the car slid across the ground and came to a stop. For a few moments, I hung there, my seatbelt keeping me tightly strapped in. There was nothing but silence.

"I'm upside down," I croaked to no one. "I'm upside down!"

I reached down and hit the red restraint button and fell upward—or was it downward—to the roof of the car, landing in a pile. Feeling my claustrophobia kick in, I groped for the door handle but had trouble finding it. Everything seemed to be in the wrong place. When I was able to locate it, I pulled the handle and pushed outward on the door but nothing happened.

Through the darkness, my eyes quickly darted around inside my car, which now looked foreign. Then, in a blink of comprehension, I remembered that both windows were lowered and I crawled out onto the cool grass, head still spinning.

When I felt I was a safe distance away, I laid back, breathing heavily. Stars salted the sky above me.

"Oh God," I said, "I'm alive. Thank you, God. I'm alive."

At first I didn't remember the other car, the honking, the hard stare, but it came flooding back in small drops. I sat up, causing my vision to swirl, and looked around for him, blinking to steady my gaze. Was he there watching me? I saw nothing. I heard nothing. I was alone. But not for long.

Approaching headlights flickered on the branches of the trees around me.

"No," I whispered. "Stay away." Then stronger, my throat raw, "Stay away, you freak!"

The car slowed as it approached my overturned vehicle. I heard car doors open and two shadowy figures moved through the headlights toward me.

They did not speak at first. A woman, around 30, kneeled down on the ground in front of me. She started to speak but her words were confusing. Perhaps I had hit my head. I stared at her, confused, trying to make sense of what I was hearing when suddenly she lifted her hands and I realized what I was happening.

"I'm deaf," she mumbled and moved both hands in a quick display of sign language.

She must have seen the realization on my face because she nodded and turned to the man standing a few feet away. Furiously she signed to him and he finally moved, reaching into the car. He threw an over-sized hooded jacket to the woman and she wrapped it around my shoulders. The man seemed afraid to get any closer.

I looked at the woman in the face and said, "I think I'm hurt."

Her eyes darted to my lips and, nodding again, turned to the man and signed again. He waved, almost relieved, and got back in the car. As he pulled away I heard the woman speaking to me again.

"What?" I asked.

"He is going to call an ambulance," she said slowly, then put her arms around my shoulders.

It's funny what a terrifying event can do to people. It brings down the walls of formality. I leaned against my new friend and waited. 30 minutes later, red and white lights flashed down the road and the scream of sirens crescendoed toward us.

"Maybe they are coming for someone else," I said.

The woman laughed and shook her head. No, she signed, and pointed to my chest.

It wasn't until I saw the ambulance, fire truck, and two police cars that I began to cry.

____________

"We have to call someone, Miss Farraday."

I had seen enough of hospitals in the past six months to last a lifetime.

"Miss Farraday?"

I looked to the nurse. She was a young blonde with a thick Eastern Kentucky accent. She leaned over me to speak since the neck brace kept me partially immobile.

"Did you try to call his home?" I asked.

"We did but there was no answer, honey. We got the answering machine. Is there anyone else besides Dr. Lane? Family? What about your parents?"

"No," I said. I had kept my family at a safe distance from all this nonsense. I didn't want to bring them into it now. "You can call my roommate, I guess."

"What is your roommate's name?"

I sighed, not really wanting to bring her into this, either, but I had no other choice. The nurse, who most likely used to be in a sorority, was pushy.

"Reagan. Reagan Dawson."

"Same number as yours, I am assuming."

"Yes," I said, then added, "I have to use the bathroom."

"Okay. But I'll have to catheter you," the nurse said as she walked out of the room, "You can't move until the doctors check your x-rays."

This keeps getting better, I thought, closing my eyes. I knew that as soon as Reagan got the news, she would be pushing through whoever was in her way to get to me. I began to doze and barely even woke when the nurse hiked up my gown and prepared the catheter.

____________

Reagan didn't come to the hospital. Not at first. It wasn't until early the next morning, after I had been moved to a real room, that I had my first visitor.

"Come in," I said after I heard the knock, licking my dry lips.

As the door creaked open, I realized that it wasn't Reagan. She wouldn't have knocked.

"Vicki," I said, my voice not hiding surprise as she entered the room. "What are you doing here?"

I had been put through the proverbial wringer since the night before: X-rays, a CAT scan, blood work. Finally the nurses were able to remove the neck brace. But I was still tangled in an irritating array of heart monitor wires and IV tubes. My impatience was obvious.

Vicki, a small bag draped over her shoulder, closed the door behind her. The chair she pulled to my bedside screeched on the floor as she approached.

As she sat down, a scene from The Godfather floated through my mind and I imagined Vicki grabbing a pillow and calmly placing it over my face. Or perhaps she'd just use her massive breasts.

"Hi, Foster," she said. "Are you feeling okay?"

I gave her a look. "Well no, Vicki. I'm not okay. I'm pretty sure I was in a major car accident last night."

"I know," she said, awkwardly reaching over to pat my hand.

For a few moments we just sat staring at each other. I tried to read her face, she tried to read mine. Finally I spoke.

"Vicki, I appreciate you showing up. I really do. But I'm a little confused as to how you knew I was here. Reagan hasn't even shown up yet."

"I heard it on the police scanner."

"So ..." I began, feeling the need to speak slowly. "You heard about my wreck on the police scanner."

"Yes. I recognized the make of your car."

"Do you just sit around listening to police scanners all night?"

"No. Not the entire night."

Sighing, I ran my hands over my face. "Vicki, why don't you just tell me why you are here."

"Jacob McGammon."

I froze mid-face-rub and looked at her through my fingers. "What?" I asked, my voice quivering. "What did you say?"

"Jacob McGammon. The trumpet teacher."

"How do you ..." I started, "Do you know him?"

"Only by name. We have a friend in common.

"A friend," I repeated. "Who?"

Vicki pushed her lips together and unzipped her bag. In one swift movement she pulled something out and sat it on my blanketed legs.

I stared at the object in front of me, trying to grasp if what I was seeing was a hallucination. The breath I had quickly sucked in sat in my chest, waiting for my response.

"What am I looking at?" I finally whispered, my eyes fixed ahead.

"It's a boot." Vicki's calmness was unnerving.

"I know what it is, Vicki. Get it off." My voice was low. "Get it off me right now."

"I needed to bring it here so you would understand ..."

"Get it off," I repeated, my hand moving toward the nurse call button.

"Foster ..." Vicki said. "Just listen to me."

"Get that fucking pink boot off of me right now!" My sudden dynamic change made Vicki jump.

She reached over, plucked up the boot, and sat it on the floor where I could no longer see it.

The door opened and a nurse peeked her head in. "Are you all right, Miss Farraday?" she asked, eyeing Vicki suspiciously.

"I'm fine," I said, hiding my tremors. "My friend here just said something hilarious. I didn't realize I was being so loud. I'm sorry."

"Okay. Well, if you need anything let me know."

As the nurse shut the door, I wasted no more time.

"Where did you get that boot, Vicki?"

"It belongs to my friend. When I put the other one in your practice room I really didn't know ..."

"Whoa, wait," I interrupted, holding my hand up. "You put the boot in my practice room? It was you? You did this?"

"Yes."

"Why?" My anger was quick.

"She told me to. I was ... I was helping her."

"Her? Who is 'her'? I swear, Vicki, if you don't start giving me answers I'm going to get you thrown out of this room."

"Her name is Tatum. She is my friend ... "

"So you've said ..."

"... and she's been through some of the same stuff you're going through and she wants to talk to you."

"Oh, does she?" I said, venom welling up behind my lips. "So she's been harassed and stalked and run off the road by a sick man who ..."

"Yes," Vicki said. Her voice was so serious that it made me stop. "Well, not run off the road. Is that why you're in here? I thought that was just an accident."

"Are you saying that Jacob McGammon has been harassing her, too?"

"Yes. Well, sort of." Vicki wrung her hands together. "I just think you two should talk."

I sat for a moment, reminding myself to breathe.

"Do you know what this has put me through, Vicki?" I asked softly. "That boot, the counseling sessions ..."

"I'm sorry," she said and her head lowered. "I didn't really know you all that well at the time and I was only trying to help my friend and I really didn't know the details ..."

"Where is the other boot?" I asked.

"You didn't keep it?" Vicki seemed surprised.

"Why the hell would I keep it? I gave it to my piano professor and told him to get rid of it."

Vicki shrugged. "I guess he got rid of it. I only have this one, the one Tatum gave me."

"Okay. Listen, it's okay," I said, suddenly turning the tables and reaching over to pat her hand. "Tell your friend—Tatum, right?—tell her that I want to talk to her. As soon as possible."

Vicki looked up and nodded. "Okay. I'm supposed to give you her number."

She pulled a pen out of her bag and scribbled something on the palm of my hand. As she stood she picked up the pink boot and scooted the chair back across the floor. Once again, it screeched.

"Wait," I said as she started for the door. "Does Grant know about any of this? I mean, about you and the boot and Tatum?"

"No," she said then, out of character, smiled broadly before walking out the door. "If he did, Jacob McGammon would have already gotten bitch-slapped."

After she closed the door behind her, the phone on the wall began to ring. I was still a bit perplexed by Vicki's visit when I answered it after the third ring.

"Foster? Is that you? It's Dr. Lane. I just got home and got the messages from the hospital. Are you okay?"

#  Chapter Eleven: Bright Coming Morn

No sooner had I gotten off the phone with Dr. Lane, assuring him I was going to be okay, and promising to go visit him as soon as I was released, that the door creaked open.

Reagan peeked in and hesitated. "Foster?"

"It's me. Come in."

As she closed the door behind her, her pace quickened and before I knew it she was at my side.

"Foster. My God. What the hell happened?"

I patted an empty space of bed beside me. "Sit down. It's been a long night."

I told Reagan an edited story of the wreck, of the deaf couple, only leaving out one detail: Jacob McGammon. Reagan didn't speak the entire time, only watched my face. When I finished she took a deep breath.

"Thank Jesus you're alive, Foster. I could have lost you. What is with you and accidents this year?"

"I was wearing my seat belt," I said. "Buckle up for safety ..."

"Did you call Aaron?" she asked, ignoring me.

"No," I said. "I didn't even call my own family, Reagan."

"Oh. Well, I mean, I thought he'd want to know ..."

"I don't tell him everything," I said.

There was a moment of silence and, because I had known my friend for so long, I could read every second of her pause like an open book.

"You told him, didn't you?"

"I thought you'd want me to."

I pushed the button on the side of my bed, making me sit up straighter. It moved so slow that, in another situation, it might have been comical.

"You had no right, Reagan ..."

"Why didn't you call your family? I don't understand you lately ..."

"It's my life and I let whomever I want in my business ..."

"I'm just trying to help you, Foster ..."

We spoke over each other, rolling counter arguments until the nurse walked in. By then, my bed had reached a full sitting position.

"I just need to take your vitals," she chirped, wheeling equipment in with her. Eyeing Reagan, she added, "You sure have had your share of visitors today, haven't you?"

"It seems that way, yes," I said, shooting Reagan a look to let her know that our argument wasn't finished.

As the nurse exited, she announced that the doctor would be in later to speak with me. "You might want to get some rest," she added.

"I'm not leaving," Reagan said after the nurse exited.

"Good," I said, "Because I've got another bone to pick with you."

"God," Reagan moaned. "Even when you're bed-ridden you're a hard ass ..."

"Why did you tell Aaron about my encounter with Jacob McGammon outside of the library?"

Reagan's face froze. "What? What do you mean?"

"I heard you," said. "I heard you and Aaron outside of our dorm talking."

"I ... I just felt like he should know," she stuttered, shaken by the change of topic. You guys were dating ..."

"Aaron told Jacob."

"I didn't think he would. I mean, I know he thinks highly of him but ..."

"Reagan," I said slowly, "Please understand that there are things you don't know, things that are going on with me right now. I don't think you truly can grasp what kind of man Jacob McGammon is ..."

"Don't talk to me like I'm a child. I hate when you get like this ..."

"... and you're about ready to go to Sweden with him. Do you even know what he is capable of?

"I do know!" Reagan blurted.

"What?" I stopped.

Reagan stood, her face turned pale, and walked to the bottom of my bed, putting distance between us.

"I didn't get the call from the hospital last night because we were all out together."

"Who? Who was out together?"

"Me, Aaron, Stephania, a few others."

"McGammon?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"A bar downtown. The Dirty Dog. Aaron called me around 9:30 to say that Jacob—McGammon—had asked us all to meet there. He said he had some new news about our trip."

"McGammon didn't call you?"

"No, Aaron did. He said we could meet there to talk."

"And drink," I croaked, fearful as to where this story was headed.

"Aaron didn't say anything about drinking. But, I mean, we were meeting at a bar. There is this room in the back big enough for a meeting like this ..." Reagan trailed off and walked over the window to open the blinds. Sunlight streamed into the room. "I figured you were out doing your thing. I left right away and headed downtown."

"You guys had just met hours before."

"I know. But he said he had exciting news ..."

"Never mind," I said. "Just go on."

I waited as Reagan ran her hands through her wavy hair. It was a good two minutes before she continued.

"McGammon was already there when I arrived. I didn't see him at first. It was dark and the lights were blinking and there was fog. You know that fog machine they have there? Well, I made my way through the dancing, grinding people and, as I reached the back of the bar where the pool tables are, something caught my eye."

Reagan swallowed.

"I wasn't sure it was him. It was dark. But in the hallway by the bathrooms, I saw movement. There was a man. He was wearing a white button-down shirt. He was pressed up against the wall so hard that I didn't see the girl at first. Then he stepped back and her head flung back, revealing his hand around her throat. She was a blonde, wearing a short pink dress. She let out a sound, something like a laugh, but not quite. He pushed her toward the wall again and threw himself against her so violently that, even above the music, I heard her head hit the wall. That's when I walked away. I found a table and sat down."

"And then?" I asked, my breath shallow.

"Then the others began to arrive. Aaron came first. Stephania and the others showed up a few minutes later."

"And McGammon?"

"He got there later. He came in the front door. He must have gone out the back and walked around to the front again. I saw his red hair over the crowd before I saw anything else. The crowd parted and there he was, moving toward us, wearing a very white, very pressed, button-down shirt. And I knew."

I know that look, I thought and remembered him hiking up his jeans and turning his head ever-so-slightly in my direction in the dark ravine. My stomach lurched.

"Foster?" Reagan asked, moving again toward me. "Are you going to throw up?"

"No," I said. "Go on."

"Are you ... "

"Yes. I'm sure. Please go on."

"Okay," she said, moving back toward the window. "Well. I knew. I knew that it was him in the back hallway. And not just because of what you have told me, about the way he is. The problem was, from the moment he met my gaze as he moved through the crowd, I knew that he knew as well. He knew that I had seen him."

"Yes," I said, understanding.

"He slid into the booth beside me, although I was on the end and there really wasn't enough room. Everyone laughed."

"Reagan ... "

"Let me finish. Please." She began to pace again. "McGammon ordered a few pitchers of beer. We all began to drink. They didn't even ask for our IDs. Jacob talked about the trip and his new ideas for our performance. Honestly, they were really good. But the entire time, he ... he had his hand on my leg under the table."

"Reagan ... " I started again but she continued talking.

"But it wasn't just that. He was squeezing my leg. First just gently, playfully. Then a bit stronger. At one point I shifted and he pressed his fingers in so deep that I felt tears in my eyes."

"Let me see," I said softly and, hesitantly, she hiked up the left leg of her shorts.

I gasped, seeing the yellow imprint of fingers. "Reagan, what did you do? Did you say anything to anyone? Aaron? Anyone?"

Reagan turned to look out the window. "I was tipsy," she said. "I thought maybe I was just imagining it. Plus, I don't know ..."

"You liked it?"

Reagan quickly turned, her face turning crimson. "Foster, how dare you! Of all people ..."

"It's not your fault," I said, cutting her off. "I'm so sorry, Rea Rea."

With her shoulders slumped, she came back over to the bed and sat down. "I thought you were going to be so mad at me. I saw him with that girl in the hallway, then I let him touch my leg. I didn't tell anyone." A tear fell down her cheek. "And in the meantime, you needed me. You needed me and I was doing ... that."

I pulled her in for a hug. She didn't resist. "He did it on purpose," I breathed.

"What?" Reagan asked. "What did you say?"

"He's a manipulator. He knew you would tell me. It's all part of his game."

"Foster," she cried into my chest. "I'm so sorry. I've been a horrible friend."

"No. Never. Besides, you're here now. But," I added, "there is one thing you can do."

"What?" she asked, leaning back to look at me. "Anything."

"Will you go down to the lobby and get me a Schweppes?" For a moment she just looked at me, startled, then relaxed when I smiled. "Seriously. I'm parched."

"A Schweppes," she repeated and leaned in to kiss my forehead before heading to the door. "I'll be right back, Foster."

As I watched her walk out the door, my smile faded. Looking down, I picked up the phone and began to dial the number Vicki had scribbled on my hand.

#  Chapter Twelve: Queen of My Song

I was in the hospital for two days. In addition to Reagan, Aaron also visited, although he remained distant.

On the second day, several bouquets of flowers were delivered to my room by a pimply boy in wrinkled khaki pants. Aaron sent a single red rose. Dr. Lane sent a beautiful fern. Reagan and Grant had a candy basket delivered. The last to be brought to my room were large pink flowers that didn't include a signature card. I didn't need a card to know where they came from.

In the end, I simply told everyone that I had blacked out behind the wheel. The doctors and powers-that-be determined, after several more tests including a sleep study, that I had suffered from an anxiety attack and prescribed a small does of Citalopram to be taken once daily. I filled the prescription, but I never took the pill.

The day after I was released, I walked to Dr. Lane's office. It was a sunny afternoon and the 68-degree air was filled with happy anticipation of a gorgeous summer to come.

"Foster, it's so good to see you on your feet. Please, sit."

I giggled at his unintentional joke as he sat down across from me. He didn't respond. I wondered if he sometimes threw things out there like that on purpose.

As I began to tell Dr. Lane exactly what I had told Reagan and the doctors, he crossed his legs and characteristically began to bounce his sneaker in the air.

"You seem very calm about the whole situation," he said.

"I suppose I am," I said. "I can't explain it. Call it my moment of clarity."

"Anxiety attacks are very real. I see more cases every day."

"I thought you weren't supposed to talk about your other patients," I joked.

Dr. Lane smiled. "I didn't mention any by name. I thought it would be good for you to hear that you aren't alone in this."

"Not alone," I muttered. "No, I'm not alone. And I appreciate that. But I feel good. Better than ever, actually."

Dr. Lane paused, but never took his eyes off of my face. Finally, "Oftentimes moments of clarity occur when a person sees the truth in something. His or her vision clears and they suddenly see the nature of their problem."

"An epiphany."

"Yes," he continued, nodding. "That's another way to put it. So what is the truth that you have found, Foster?"

"I don't really think I've found the truth so much as I have found an answer."

"Where there wasn't one before?"

"Yes."

"Where do these answers take you?"

I smiled. "I guess we'll see."

____________

As I shook his hand to leave, I knew that Dr. Lane saw through my revelation. At one point he even began hinting about suicide prevention.

"No, no," I had said. "You don't need to worry about that. After surviving that car accident, I'm ready to get back to really living my life."

Besides, I thought, I have Reagan's eyes on me 24-7.

Reagan offered to walk with me to classes, although I knew her class schedule didn't always sync with mine.

"I'll just sit and read," she said. "I don't mind."

Reagan wasn't just my personal nanny—and I was never convinced that Dr. Lane hadn't put her up to it—but I would catch her looking at me while we were studying or eating, a question mark etched in her forehead.

"Do I have something in my teeth?" I would ask, grinning widely. She would giggle, but it was reserved.

A few days later, as the bruises on her leg were turning a dark purple, Reagan and I had a visitor to our dorm room.

"Vicki!" Reagan said as she opened the door. "Where have you been? Is Grant with you?"

I met Vicki's gaze as soon as she entered the room. I had been sitting on my bed, pretending to read my Music History textbook, but popped up as she stepped inside.

"No," she said. "He's at work. I just wanted to see if Foster wanted to go to lunch."

"Oh," Reagan said, looking from me to Vicki. "Well. Okay."

"Vicki was kind enough to visit me in the hospital," I said, picking up my purse. "She promised to take me to lunch when I got out."

"Oh." Vicki and I had only spoken a few sentences to each other in front of Reagan all year. I saw Reagan trying to piece it together as we stood there. "Well. That's nice. But how did you know Foster was ..."

I grabbed my purse and kissed Reagan on the cheek. "I'll be back soon."

As the door closed behind us, I turned to Vicki. "Is she coming?"

"Yes," Vicki said.

We walked down the stairs and out of the dorm, hopping into her old Monte Carlo parked illegally along the curb.

____________

As we walked into the Blue Door Diner, I was hit with the smell of decade-old grease. Although I had never eaten there, I had heard Grant say that they had the best cheeseburgers in town. They even toasted the buns.

We moved to the back of the rectangle room. A tall female stood up from the last booth. She was casual but well dressed with blonde highlights running through her brunette hair. Her pressed plaid shirt was tucked into a pair of skin-tight blue jeans.

"Foster," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Tatum."

As I shook her hand, Vicki sat down in the booth. Tatum sat next to her and I slid in across from them.

The waitress approached and leaned over Tatum to poke Vicki in the shoulder. "Hello there, stranger. How are you liking your new job?"

"It's good," she said, helping her former co-worker place plastic cups of soda around the table. "And I don't slip on the floors there."

The waitress let out a loud laugh before she moved back to the counter, leaving us to sit, waiting for the first move to be made.

"You don't work here anymore?" I asked Vicki. She shook her head. When she offered nothing else, I turned to Tatum.

"Well. I'm here. But it would have been nice if you would have pre-set a date and time. It was awkward suddenly leaving like that with my roommate there."

"We're here now," Tatum said, crossing her hands on the table.

"Well, no shit," I said, annoyed by her sarcastic nature. I had heard it on the phone when I had first called her from the hospital.

Two can play that game, I thought.

Wasting no more time, Tatum began. "I saw you that night. In the ravine. I saw you stand up from behind those rocks ..."

"Wait, wait," I interrupted, shocked by the immediate start. "You saw me." It was more of a statement than a question.

"I saw you, yes."

"Oh my God. You're ... her. You're the girl with the pink boots."

I looked over at Vicki and she nodded.

Tatum gave me a moment to let this sink in. Then she continued.

"I was still in the bushes when you stood up. I could see you from between the twigs. I had just ... come to." She took a breath and the small glimpse of weakness that flashed was gone as quickly as it had approached.

"You just stood there staring at my other boot out on the grass. I wasn't sure what to do. Then, after a few minutes you walked away. I followed you back to your dorm."

"I pissed myself," I said.

"Okay. Well I didn't know that."

"Why were you following me?"

Vicki shifted in her seat but held my gaze.

"I thought," Tatum began, "after I saw the look on your face, that you were ... interested in what you saw."

"What?" I blurted, then lowered my voice when the waitress looked our way. "Are you crazy? I thought someone—I thought you—had gotten raped and killed. If that's the kind of thing that turns a person on ..."

"It turns Jacob McGammon on," Tatum interrupted.

"So, what," I said, "you were having some kind of rough outdoor liaison with him and it got out of hand?"

"That wasn't the first time. It had been happening for almost a year."

"So you were dating?"

Tatum's lip curled. "No. Not quite."

I leaned back. "I don't understand."

Tatum leaned back as well. "Jacob McGammon is the kind of man who gets under your skin. He makes you feel attractive, desirable, even brings out your strengths. Then one day you realize that he's been the one in control from the beginning. By that point there is no getting away from him."

"Did you want to?" I asked, understanding beginning to set in.

"Well, that's the thing," she continued. "Yes. And no. But it doesn't matter. You don't decide when you leave. When he finds someone else, someone he wants to ... to mold ... then you fall away."

"And you think that someone is me."

Although I felt anger, it was mixed with pity. There was a tall, beautiful young woman in front of me. She looked strong and confident but, in fact, she had been trapped and, in her mind, I was the way out.

Without hesitation, Tatum responded. "Yes. Although he seems to be going to a bigger extreme this time to get your attention ..."

"You mean the car wreck."

Tatum nodded. "Vicki told me that he ran you off the road. Is that true?"

"Yes. So if this is some kind of game to get me into his bed, his romantic side seem to be a big skewed."

Tatum ran her hand over her lips and stared past me. Her eyes jerked slightly, deep in thought. I turned my attention to Vicki.

"So how does this involve you? Are you part of the club, too?" I asked, moving my fingers in the air to emphasize "the club."

Vicki's cheeks immediately flushed. "No. I've never had sex."

"Well, okay. But how did you get involved in all of this?"

Vicki glanced at Tatum who was still staring ahead, thinking.

"My Dad worked for Tatum's Dad's company. We went to the same high school." She paused. "We really didn't talk much then. We were in two different friend groups, I guess."

"I was a bitch to her," Tatum interjected, her attention back on us. "We called her Picky Vicki."

"They saw me picking my nose on the bus once. I put it in a tissue. But they didn't see that part."

Tatum continued. "Last summer I walked into this diner and she was working behind the counter. I was a total mess. Jacob and I had just gotten into an argument and I had been drinking. I went straight for the bathroom. A few minutes later there was a knock and Vicki just walked right in."

"She was sitting on the floor, crying. I sat down with her. After a while she started talking to me and telling me everything ..."

"Drunk," Tatum reminded me.

"... and we've been friends since then."

Looking at the two opposites across the table, I felt my heart grow. I immediately thought of Reagan.

"So you two worked together to force Jacob on me," I said, pushing the warmness away. "You told Vicki to leave that boot in my room to see how I would react. Did you know Jacob was going to start teaching in the music department in August?"

Tatum nodded and I continued. "You figured since I saw him that night in the ravine that I'd think it was him who put the boot there? Maybe that would spark something between us? You know, since I was so turned on by what I saw. Is that about right?"

"I had to do something," Tatum said.

"Yeah, well," I said, taking a defiant sip from my soda. "It didn't work. He knows that I know all about him. It's why he tried to scare me the night of the wreck. It's why he took it out on Reagan at the bar."

For the first time, Tatum's reaction was not composed. "What?"

Even Vicki seemed to wake up.

"My boyfriend, Aaron—ex-boyfriend—whatever he is—thought it would be funny to tell Jacob that I saw him that night in the ravine. I guess Aaron thought I had overreacted and that Jacob would find it entertaining. Maybe he was just trying to see Jacob's reaction. I don't know."

Tatum was now leaning forward. "How did he react?"

"He laughed," I said. "Aaron said he laughed and laughed like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. But within the hour, there he was, trying to kill me or scare me or whatever he was doing in his car."

"Reagan," Vicki said, learning forward as well. Her breasts rested on the tabletop. "What did you say about Reagan?"

"Right after he ran me off the road that bastard took off and called another meeting with some students he is working with, a group he is traveling with to Sweden this summer. They met at The Dirty Dog. I mean, a bar for God's sake. Reagan saw him making out and choking some girl in a pink dress in the back hallway. Then he came to the table and put the moves on her."

"Did he leave a mark?" Tatum's eyes didn't leave mine.

"A mark?"

"A mark. A bruise. A scratch. Anything."

"As a matter of fact, he did. He squeezed her leg so hard it left bruises. I almost screamed when I saw them."

Although Tatum's face didn't change, Vicki put her hand over her mouth.

"It's not you," Tatum said. "You're not next."

I pursed my lips. After a few seconds I was able to speak. "Is it Reagan?"

"He leaves a mark. It's his first big move." Tatum pulled down the shoulder of her shirt to reveal a small scar on her collarbone. "Then, after that ..."

"No," I said. "No. No. That is not going to happen." I clutched my hands together to keep them from shaking. "I refuse to let him ..."

"Where is Reagan now?" Vicki asked.

"She was in our room when we left, Vicki. You saw her."

"Yeah, but was she going to go anywhere?"

"I ... I don't know." My heart rate was accelerating.

"Call her. Use the payphone in the back. Vicki will come with you."

As we slid out the booth, Tatum stood and motioned for the waitress.

"I'm sure she's okay," Vicki said as she handed me quarters for the phone. "Just tell her that you got a bad feeling and wanted to check on her."

"Come on," I said as the phone rang on the other end. "She'll read through me immediately. I'll just ask her ..."

"Hello?"

I let out a sigh so long and deep at the sound of her voice that Reagan immediately started talking, "Listen, you perv. If all you're gonna do is breathe into the phone why don't you ..."

"Rea Rea, it's me," I said.

"Oh." She laughed. "Sorry. Wait. Are you okay? Are you still with Vicki?"

"I am. I just wanted to ... I needed to check ..." I looked at Vicki. She bugged her eyes at me. "I had a bad feeling and I wanted to check on you." Vicki smiled as I shook my head in defeat.

"Well that's weird. But okay. Yes, I'm fine. Just watching some T.V. We really should get better bunny ears on this thing."

"Do me a favor," I said. "Stay there until I get back. Then we'll do something together. I'm feeling the need for a girls night."

"Oh good," she said. I could almost see her hopping in place. My love for her grew. "I'm so glad you're feeling better. When will you be back?"

"Soon. Just let me finish up here."

"By the way, what did Vicki want? I mean, it's not like you two are bosom buddies or anything ..."

"Gotta go, Rea," I said, glancing at Vicki. "I'll be back soon."

When I hung up, Vicki patted my shoulder.

As we sat back down in the booth, the waitress approached and sat down a big plate of French fries.

"Perfect timing. Hot and crunchy. Your burgers will be out soon."

"So ... you ordered food?" I asked, looking at Tatum. "We're finished talking?"

"You love your friend, don't you?"

"Reagan? Yes. More than anything."

Tatum picked up a french fry and, after taking a bite, met my eyes once more. A new look radiated out of her.

"Just how much do you love her?"

#  Chapter Thirteen: Wild Lorelei

In the few days that followed, Reagan and my conversations about McGammon and Aaron were sparse, the familiar names of those around us only coming up when the trip to Sweden was mentioned. The tables were turned as I rarely let Reagan out of my sight.

My head was filled with our booth conversation at the diner. I stored every thought and emotion up in a compartment of my mind that I had never used before. The brain really is an amazing organ.

On Sunday afternoon, a day when the sky couldn't be a more perfect blue, the phone in our room rang and Reagan squealed into the receiver.

"Where the hell have you been? We haven't seen you in, like, forever!"

After a few moments, Reagan grabbed my hand. "Let's go to the lobby. We have a visitor."

As we walked down the stairway, I saw Grant standing side by side with Vicki. She made eye contact with me then averted her eyes to Reagan.

"Good golly, Miss Molly," Grant said, seeing the both of them bounding toward him. "How are you, ladies?"

Grant hugged the both of us and kissed my left cheek near my lips.

"What, no box trick this time?" I kissed him back. "We're good, Grant. How are you?"

Reagan and I both pulled back to take him in. He was wearing khaki pants with a striped button down shirt tucked in. A braided belt encircled his fit waist and a thin tie hung down to touch the top of the buckle.

"I am excellent," he said, turning to give us a better look.

"What is up with this?" Reagan said, gesturing to his clothes. "Who are you trying to impress?"

"Everyone," Grant said. "I am now ... " he paused for dramatic effect. "a model for Sears."

"No!" Reagan screamed, slapping her legs and laughing uncontrollably.

"How did you get that gig?" I asked, also laughing.

"Baby, it's all about who you know."

"Yeah, and all about who you ..." Reagan started.

"Anyway," Grant continued, pinching her arm. "I'm glad Foster called me. She was not wrong in saying that it would do you good to see me, Reagan. You've totally started glowing since you came down those stairs."

"You called him?" Reagan asked, looking at me.

"I did. I thought another girls night would do you good."

"Are we all going out?" she asked, glancing at Vicki.

"Oh, no," Vicki said. "I've got some stuff to do on campus. I just bummed a ride off of Grant."

"And I have to spend some quality time in my practice room," I said, trying very hard not to look in Vicki's direction.

"It's just us, sweetcheeks," said Grant and took Reagan's hand. "I've got the whole afternoon and evening planned."

As they moved toward the door, Reagan looked back at me and, for a moment, a flicker of alarm played on her features.

"Foster ... " she began but Grant slapped her rear end and told a dirty joke and they were gone.

Vicki stood in front of me for a moment, silent, then looked up. "7:00."

"7:00," I said.

As Vicki walked out the front door, she looked over her shoulder and, in another uncharacteristic move, winked at me. Then she was gone.

____________

As soon as the lobby doors closed, I could practically hear a deep heavy clock begin to tick in my ears. I skipped stairs back up to our floor and when I entered our room I went directly to Reagan's desk.

Opening her Lisa Frank address book, I flipped to his name. There were three numbers to choose from. With an Eeny, meeney, miny, moe, I chose the first one and dialed.

After two rings, he answered. I didn't question why he was in his office on a Sunday.

"Dr. McGammon here."

Doctor, I gagged, but kept my voice steady.

"Dr. McGammon. Jacob. Hello."

"Yes? Can I help you?"

Here we go, I thought, and with one tug the curtains opened.

"I think you might be able to," I said, my voice sounding unfamiliar.

"Foster?"

I laughed. "Yes. It's Foster."

For a moment, the professionalism remained. "This is a pleasant surprise, Miss Farraday. What can I help you with?"

"I would like to meet and talk to you."

The pause from his end was more pronounced. "Would you, now?"

"I want to talk to you about ... that night. Something happened to me the night of the wreck and I don't know who else to talk to. I think that maybe you're the only one who understands. Call it a hunch."

"Mm-hmm," he mumbled. "Does this have anything to do with that night in the ravine last summer?"

My heart momentarily stopped. Although I knew it was coming, this wasn't a game I was familiar with playing.

"Yes. Partially. But it's more. Much more." I paused, collecting myself, hoping he didn't notice. "I also want to thank you for the pink flowers you sent to the hospital. I want to thank you, personally."

The time that passed felt like hours.

"Dr. McGammon?" I swallowed and forced more syrup from the tap. "Jacob?"

"Yes. We can meet, Foster. When?"

"What time is it now?"

"It's 4:30."

"Would 7:30 work?"

"Yes. Where?"

"Well," I said, shoving my left hand in my pocket to control my shakes, "I was thinking about Highbridge Park. It's pretty deserted."

"Highbridge," he said.

"Yes. Do you know it?"

I didn't hear him, but I knew he was smiling. "I know it."

"Okay," I said. "I guess I'll see you then."

"I will be there. I'll be driving my ..."

"Your car," I interrupted. "Yes. I know your car."

This time he audibly laughed. "Of course you do. Until then, Foster Farraday."

"I'll be waiting," I said, then, "I'll be wearing pink."

"Yes," he whispered. "Yes, you will."

As I put the phone back into the cradle, I expected a wave of fear to hit. But it never did. Perhaps I was already at the apex of my fear. Nevertheless, I grabbed my purse and walked confidently out the door.

____________

As I pulled into Highbridge Park, evening was beginning to leave an orange glow on everything. A family of four leaving the park passed my car under the rusted entrance arch and waved. Out of habit, I smiled and waved back, then immediately felt ashamed.

I parked my rental car near a round gazebo and, leaving the key in the ignition, stepped out onto the gravel. My pink heels faltered a bit, but I quickly regained my balance and straightened the rest of my clothes, a carefully chosen costume I had just purchased: tight faded jeans and a light pink sweater that hung slightly off of my shoulders. I was not wearing a bra.

Looking around, I saw the tall metal railroad bridge to my right, peeking high above the treetops. It stretched 275 feet above the water below.

As I reached the gazebo, a sign hanging on one of the wooden supports almost broke my stride. It read: "Share a Table Make a Friend." Other words and letters in the wood, scratched by hand, announced various love connections, such as "Erin & Hal 8-19-13", and religious proclamations: "Rob Horn Praise the Lord! Ancient of Days ..."

Sitting down at a splintered picnic table facing the overlook, I glanced around once more. Although I didn't see anyone else, I knew I wasn't alone.

But what if I am, I thought. What if they don't show? What am I going to do?

In a burst of fear, I jumped to my feet and frantically looked around. From across the park, behind the bathrooms, a light flashed. It took me a moment to realize that it was a flashlight. It blinked on and off, on and off, until I raised a hand in its direction.

No, not alone, I thought, and sat back on the bench.

In the silence of the park, I let my eyes rest on two hawks circling above the river. They were backdropped by smokestacks from a nearby factory heaving purple haze into the air. The moment felt so peaceful and I almost forgot why I was there. That's when I heard him.

The wheels of his car crackled on the gravel as he passed under the park's archway and I turned, maintaining calmness as I was told to. Taking a deep breath, I stood as he parked.

That car, I thought, internally screaming at myself to not lose my cool. Maybe this was bad idea. Why did I agree to this?

But as he opened the door and stepped out, the image of Reagan's bruises flashed behind my eyes and I stood firmly, eyes locked on him.

"Good evening, Foster Farraday."

"Dr. McGammon," I said. "Jacob."

His eyes scanned me from head to toe and I felt sickeningly triumphant.

"Well that's a different look for you," he said, walking under the roof of the gazebo.

"Actually, it's not. I guess you just haven't seen me off campus that much."

"I guess not." McGammon moved in but stood at a fair distance, putting his hands in his pockets.

"And you are ..." I said, looking him up and down. "... underdressed."

He wore blue jeans and a Mountain Dew t-shirt that clung to his chest, a fact that I hated myself for noticing. Slightly used tennis shoes completed the look. It was the first time I had ever seen him dressed down.

"I wasn't aware this was a date," he smiled, the side of his lip curling up, "or that we had a dress code."

"It's not and there's not. I just needed to talk to you."

Unmoving, he kept his eyes on mine. "So you said. Shall we sit?"

I moved back to the bench and slowly sat, watching him.

This is like a game of chess, I thought.

To my surprise, McGammon sat a few feet away but turned to face me, straddling the bench. He scanned my face for a moment before speaking.

"Why are we here, Foster?"

I opened my mouth but at first nothing came out.

Don't screw this up, I begged myself. McGammon smiled again.

"Since the night I first saw you—that night in the ravine—I have been terrified of you. But I didn't really know why."

"You thought I killed someone, Foster," he chided. "I suppose that would make anyone uneasy."

"No," I said, hating his joviality. "Even when I knew better, I couldn't stop thinking of you. Then I saw you at the brass ensemble concert and was ... overcome."

"Overcome with ...?"

"I didn't know. But the more time that passed, the more I saw you, I felt this heat growing in me. I didn't understand it. But it was unforgiving."

Suddenly the mood changed. McGammon's smile was gone. "It was not my intention to run you off the road, Foster."

"Then what was it?" My voice cracked and I gulped.

"A game. Simply a game. But more of a test."

"Did I pass?"

The smile returned. "I'm not sure yet."

The sun was beginning to set behind the hills. I could practically feel two pairs of eyes staring at the back of my head from across the park.

Don't let him lead the conversation, Tatum had said, sipping her soda in the diner. Take control.

"Do you prefer Reagan over me?"

McGammon's face faltered a bit and his right eye squinted. "I think Reagan is a sweet girl."

"One you can mold." There was no backing down at this point. "But I'm smarter than she is. I know who you are and yet, here I am."

McGammon ran his hands down the legs of his jeans and took in a breath. "What is it that you want, Foster?"

"I want to be the next girl in the ravine."

To my surprise, McGammon threw his head back and burst out laughing. "Well, that was direct. But, assuming that you now know I didn't kill anyone that night, I think I understand." He stared at his knees for a few moments before looking up. "This is certainly new."

"For me, too."

"Are you setting me up?"

"I ... no ..."

"Because if you are," he continued, scooting closer to me. "I can do more damage than you can imagine."

"I'm not," I said, my limbs frozen.

By the time I finished speaking he was next to me, his breath in my ear. "For your sake, Miss Farraday, I hope not."

I stared ahead, smelling his cologne and feeling him breathe slowly on my left cheek. "So now what?"

"This is between you and me. You don't speak of our ... adventures ... and I will leave Reagan alone."

"What?" I turned to look him directly in the face. His nose was inches away.

"You aren't as clever as you think you are. I am very aware of part of the reason you are doing this."

"What do you ..."

"Stop, Foster," he said, putting a fingertip to my lips. "Naiveté doesn't become you." Finally he leaned back enough so I could breathe normally. "So, yes. Now what?"

"I want to walk the railroad bridge."

"Oh, do you now?" The wolf-like smirk was back.

"I've wanted to do it since high school. I think it would be a fun way to start this adventure."

"Took the words right out of my mouth. You and I," he said, standing up and holding out his hand, "are more alike than you know."

As I placed my hand in his and pulled myself to a standing position, I glanced over my shoulder at the bathroom facilities.

"What is it?" McGammon asked, looking past me to what caught my attention.

"Nothing. I just ... I wanted to make sure we're alone. I have a reputation to maintain and this is all new to me."

"Yes, well," he said, letting go of my hand and walking out of the gazebo, "we all have to maintain our professionalism, don't we?"

#  Chapter Fourteen: Over the Streamlet

I followed McGammon as he walked across the gravel lot toward the archway sign. Darkness was settling in around us, swallowing any comfort I was attempting to hold on to.

He didn't look back. He knew I would be right behind him, following him like a puppy. It took everything I had not to rush forward and kick him in a kidney.

"How old are you?" I called.

"Old enough to know what I'm doing and young enough to enjoy it."

"No, seriously. How ..."

"Does it matter?" he interrupted as he passed under the arch and toward the grassy hill leading up to the railroad tracks.

"No. I guess it doesn't." Then in an attempt to maintain some control, I said, "Looks like you're in your early 50s."

McGammon stopped and turned. "You can't be serious."

Ah, the ego. I should have known that would work. Innocently, I blinked. "Why? Am I that far off?"

"Yes. A bit." As he turned to start walking again, he said. "44."

"Ah. 44. Well to someone my age anything over 35 is old."

He almost hesitated again but instead glanced over his shoulder and continued walking until we reached the base of the grass-covered hill. When I caught up with him I slid off my pink heels and sat them on the ground, making me three inches shorter.

McGammon rested his hand on the top of my head and smiled down at me. "Shall we?"

Reaching to brace myself with a nearby tree branch, I started my ascent up the hill. McGammon stayed behind me, once in a while placing his hand on my hips, although it was clear I didn't need his help.

When we reached the top, I stepped onto the railroad tracks. I was out of breath. He was not. We began walking toward the drop-off.

"How long have you been doing this?" I asked, now following behind him again.

"Doing this?" he asked.

"Screwing around with young girls."

"Years," he said, not reacting to my description.

"How many women?"

"Four, five."

"Are you ever afraid that you will be found out? That you will get caught?"

"No." He continued to move ahead. I could only see his silhouette now in the dim light.

"Were you abused as a child?"

We had reached the edge of the bridge and he turned to face me. "Ah, yes. That's always what the consensus is. He must have been abused as a child in order to do what he does."

In a flash, his hand was around my throat. I popped up on my tiptoes to keep from choking.

"Nobody can ever grasp the idea that maybe, just maybe, I do what I do because I like it. Plain and simple. And my girls? They like it, too."

As he let go, I tumbled backwards, grabbing my neck and gasping.

"Does that answer your question?"

In that instant, I saw Tatum's boot convulsing in the ravine. I imagined the girl in the back of the bar, her head slamming back against the wall, and I saw Reagan's face as she paced next to my hospital bed. Slowly I looked up to meet his gaze.

"Yes sir," I said, the words sliding past my lips. "I understand completely."

"I thought you might." McGammon reached out and took my hand, this time a complete gentleman. "Are you ready?"

He began moving forward before I finished nodding.

The bridge was narrow, high enough to evoke phobias, and rusty enough to prompt nightmares. Although it had been active since the early 1900s and had never fallen, my fear climaxed as cool air blew up from beneath us.

"Fantastic, isn't it?" he said as we moved further out. "There is something about danger ... it can be so exciting."

"Have you done this before?" I asked, although I already knew the answer.

"Once. With another girl."

We had almost reached the halfway mark and I was thankful that I couldn't see how far it was to the river below.

"Was it Tatum?"

McGammon stopped so suddenly that he almost lost his balance. He gripped my hand. "What did you say?"

"I asked you if the girl you walked this bridge with was Tatum."

His grip on my hand tightened so fiercely that my eyes welled with tears. Then he let go and took a step back. The look I had seen on his face the night of the wreck resurfaced. I was thankful he was a few feet away.

"Oh. I see now."

"No. I don't think you do. You're not going to do this to anyone anymore. Not to me, not to Reagan, not to anyone."

McGammon remained calm. "Did Tatum set this up?" He shook his head and smiled. "Of course she did."

"You have no idea what you have put these women through, what you have put me through ..."

"Where is she?" he asked, ignoring me. "If this is Tatum's game, why are you standing on this bridge with me? I will tell you why. She is afraid. She knows exactly what I am capable of."

McGammon's eyes suddenly left my face and jerked over my shoulder. His lips widened into an overly stretched grin and he began laughing. "Well I'll be damned. Good for you, Tatum. Good girl."

I didn't turn but I could hear her behind me.

"I'm not your girl," she called. "I never was. And now it's time for you to be afraid."

The wind had picked up and McGammon had to raise his voice to be heard. "Come, come, Pinky Pie. What exactly are you going to do?"

A shot rang out and for a moment I thought we were falling. I dropped to the tracks, gripping the metal, the sound still ringing in my ears. McGammon yelled and I looked up.

He was crouched down, clutching at his left leg, pain highlighting the lines on his face.

I finally turned to look at Tatum and, from behind her, Vicki appeared. A small pistol hung in her gloved hand and when she reached Tatum, she nodded at her.

"What the hell?" I screamed. "What are you doing? You never said we were going to shoot anyone!"

"Shut up, Foster. Just stay down." Tatum walked closer to us. Vicki followed.

"What the hell are you doing?" McGammon growled.

"I'm keeping you from running," Tatum said.

Vicki walked directly to McGammon, pointing the gun at his head. From her back pocket she pulled out a length of rope. "Tie yourself to the side rail."

"Do it yourself, you fat cow," McGammon spat but as Vicki took another step forward he grabbed the rope from her hand. Suddenly he laughed. "Oh, Tatum. Pinky Pie. Is this our rope?"

"Tie it tight," she said, her voice remaining cool. "And stop calling me that. You don't get to call me that anymore."

McGammon used his free hand and his teeth to tie himself to the side rail of the bridge. When he was finished, Vicki pulled her arm back and threw the gun over the rail. I didn't expect to hear it hit the water below but I listened anyway.

"Here's what going to happen," Tatum continued. "You are going to stay here. We are going back down the hill. Vicki will place a call to the local police and they will come and find you. At that time Foster and I will tell them everything we know." A grin grew on her lips. "You're screwed, Dr. McGammon."

McGammon was still clutching his leg and I could see blood dripping on the wooden beams below him. "And if a train comes?"

"Then God help you," Tatum said.

I stood up, balancing on the tracks in my bare feet. "Tatum, wait. This isn't what we talked about. We were just supposed to scare him, to keep him out here while Vicki called the police."

"That never was my plan," Tatum said, her eyes not leaving McGammon.

"Vicki," I said. "Please. We need to turn him in but we can't ... we can't to this."

Vicki didn't look at me. She was watching McGammon as intently as Tatum.

"I won't be like Lucy," Tatum said. "You are probably wishing I would be. But, believe it or not, you made me stronger, Jacob. It's our turn now."

"Lucy?" I asked, squinting in the dark to see everyone around me. "Who is Lucy?"

"Lucy," Tatum repeated, "Lucy was Jacob's first, at least the first I know of." She turned to me, her features intense. "Foster, he broke her so bad that she ended up killing herself. Isn't that right, Jacob?"

McGammon gritted his teeth against the pain that was continuing to grow in his leg. "What that slut did after we were finished was none of my doing."

"You caused it!" Tatum screamed, her cool now gone. "I looked her up. I spoke to her father. She didn't even leave a suicide note. You fucked her up so badly that she just couldn't stand living another minute of her life." Tatum took a step forward. "Say her name."

"What?" McGammon asked, his energy fading.

"This is for me and for her and for every woman, past and future, that you touched and would have touched. Say her name."

"Dammit, Tatum ..."

"Say. Her. Name!"

Tatum's voice echoed in the hills around us. Somewhere far off in the hills, a dog barked.

McGammon mumbled something.

"Louder!" Tatum screamed.

"Lucy Lane! Lucy fucking Lane!"

As McGammon's voice also echoed through the hills, loose ends in my head quickly began to connect.

"Do you have a family?" I had asked.

"Yes," Dr. Lane had said, smiling. "My wife and my daughter." His smile faltered. "Unfortunately, Lucy, my daughter, passed away a few years ago."

I looked at Tatum. "Wait. Lucy Lane? Is she—was she—Dr. Alden Lane's daughter?"

As I turned back to McGammon, he smiled.

"Ah, so you know the good doctor? How is he, Foster?" he asked, his words beginning to slur.

"No. No. Please tell me no." I turned to Tatum and Vicki. "Did you both know he was counseling me?"

"Foster ..." Tatum began but she was cut off by a deafening sound.

From behind McGammon, a train whistle screamed, echoing through the river valley, then sounded twice more for impact. As a large black engine rounded the bend, the lone headlight swooped across our bodies, now appearing quite small and insignificant in the middle of the bridge.

"No!" McGammon yelled, his voice barely a squeak above the rumbling tracks.

"Foster, run!" Vicki yelled.

Before I turned to run behind Vicki and Tatum, I caught a glimpse of McGammon's face, a look that would be etched in my memory like a Polaroid picture. It wasn't just a look of fear. Pure unadulterated exhilaration flooded in as the brightness of the headlight cast a halo around his whole body, lighting his hair like fire.

I took off, my bare feet, wet from evening dew, clinging to the tracks below as I attempted to run and balance myself at the same time. The train screamed again from behind us as it quickly lessened the gap.

I reached land and immediately jumped to the right, sliding down the steep hill that McGammon and I had climbed together. Dirt lodged under my fingernails as I clung to the ground to slow myself. In a matter of seconds I was crashing to the bottom. The train continued to blare its whistle as it passed by overhead, the wheels making a fading Chuga-Chuga-Chuga sound. It never stopped.

I pressed my back against the hill and sat in the dirt, eyes closed, until the entirety of the locomotive had passed. When all was silent again, a voice spoke.

"Let's go, Foster."

I opened my eyes to see Vicki standing over me. "Where is he?" I croaked.

"I ... I don't know. I guess the train ... I don't know."

"It didn't stop."

"Maybe the conductor didn't see us."

"Where is Tatum?" I took Vicki's hand and stood up.

"She is going to drive my car back. I'll drive your rental car."

"Oh, God," I said, my knees weakening. "What did we just do? Had she planned this from the beginning?"

Vicki held me up. "Let's go, Foster. We need to leave."

Picking up my pink heels at the bottom of the hill, I walked back across the park to my car, not even noticing the gravel cutting into my feet. As I slid into the passenger seat, Vicki closed my door.

The keys were still in the ignition.

____________

The door to our dorm room clicked closed behind me. Reagan was still out with Grant.

As I moved to the bathroom I dropped my heels on the floor and unbuttoned my jeans. One piece at a time, I removed my clothes. My hair was stringy and damp from sweat.

Stepping into the shower stall, I turned the nozzle. The water spurted cold a few times then burst full steam onto my skin. It ran down my body like lava and I pushed my hair back under the water, my eyes open and staring into the steam.

As I picked up the soap and worked it into a lather, I began to sing.

"Beautiful dreamer ..."

#  Chapter Fifteen: Clouds of Sorrow Depart

"Foster, are you finished in there? We're going to be late."

I opened the bathroom door and stepped out into the room. "I'm ready."

Reagan took my hand in hers and squeezed. "Are you sure you want to go? We can go to the movies or something instead."

"I'm sure," I said, squeezing back. "Let's go."

We walked across campus, still holding hands, twin sisters in black. Outside the auditorium stood dozens of students, some smoking, some deep in quiet conversation. As we approached, I caught sight of Stephania.

"How are you feeling, Foster?" she asked as she embraced me. "You are healed from your accident, yes?"

"Yes," I smiled. "Thank you for asking."

"This is horrible," she said, looking around. "So much talent and Poof ! Gone."

As Stephania was Poofing I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning, I came face to face with Aaron. Dark circles pooled under his eyes but the rest of his face was calm and smooth.

"Foster," he said, hesitating.

"Hello, Mr. Hagan." I reached out and took his hand, mending the coarseness between us.

"How are you holding up, Aaron?" Reagan asked.

"Oh, you know," he sighed, running his free hand through his hair. "Okay, I guess. I'm just confused. Why was he there in the first place? Did he jump? He was so talented ..."

"Talented, yes," Stephania echoed.

"... so career-driven. We had just seen him days before. Remember, Reagan? Stephania? At the bar ... "

"I remember," Reagan said, glancing in my direction. I didn't react.

"So horrible," Stephania said again.

"I mean, did he do it on purpose? Was he feeling guilty for ..." Aaron choked and glanced my direction. "... for things he may have done?"

"Maybe it was an accident," Reagan interrupted.

"They found his car at the park, Reagan," Aaron said, turning to face her. "Near the bridge."

"But, no body."

No body. My stomach turned over. Stephania put her hand to her mouth and whimpered.

"Why are you being so cold?" Aaron asked, still facing Reagan.

"I'm not meaning to be. I'm sorry. I just don't know what to say."

Another trumpet student walked by Aaron, patting him on the shoulder. Aaron asked him for a cigarette.

"You don't smoke," I said.

"No. I don't." He lit the end and inhaled.

"I'm going in," Reagan said. "Foster? Come with me?"

I touched Aaron's arm. "Want me to save you a spot?"

Aaron nodded, staring ahead at nothing particular.

"I'll come with you," Stephania said. She took my arm opposite Reagan, whose lips tightened into a thin line.

The auditorium was packed with both staff and students. We secured seats in the middle of the room and soon Aaron joined us. Dr. Carter took the stage.

"Good afternoon," he said, commanding, yet softer than the night McGammon was first introduced. "We are joined here today in sadness to honor a man of ambition and of talent ..."

Several people sniffed.

I sat, ankles tightly pushed together, eyes transfixed on the photo that was displayed on the stage. It was his staff photo. His lips were etched in a reserved smile but his eyes were alive. I took a shaky breath and looked at my knees. Aaron reached over and put his hand on my leg. I didn't look up for the rest of the memorial.

____________

"That was a nice service," a blonde said, passing us. Another, a brunette, nodded and wiped her eyes.

"Well," Aaron said as we reached the courtyard. "That's that."

"Are you leaving?" Stephania asked. "Leaving school?"

"Leaving? No way. I'm staying. They've already hired an interim teacher. I hear he's good. Besides," Aaron said, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. "I have other reasons to stay. That is, if that reason will forgive me for being such a self-focused, uncaring asshole."

Stephania clapped her hands together and broke into a smile that didn't fit the mood of the day. "Favoloso!" she boomed, patting us both on the shoulders. Then seeing someone else she knew across the yard, waved. "I see you later, yes?"

"Yes? No? When is she going to learn to speak English?" Reagan said, watching her bounce away.

"When are YOU going to get over that fighetta?" a voice asked.

"What are you doing here?" Reagan turned, kissing Grant on the cheek. He returned the affection then faced me, pulling me to his chest.

"Hello, gorgeous."

I breathed in his clothes. "Grant ..."

"I knew two of my best ladies would be here," he said, still holding me.

"Grant," Aaron said, reaching to shake his hand. Grant returned the formality.

"How are you holding up, Aaron?"

"As expected, I guess."

"Yes," Grant said, eyeing him. "I'm sure."

"Is Vicki here?" Reagan asked.

"No. She's busy. But she sends her condolences. Foster, she said to feel free to call her later."

As I looked up at him, I could see it. Grant knew everything. He knew of the plan. He knew of the night on the bridge. I saw a brief flicker in his eye. My knees weakened and I swayed.

"Whoa. Hold up, there." Grant grabbed my arm. Aaron reached over to help. "Don't lock those knees. You know better."

"I'm fine." I said, then hugged him tighter. "Too much cologne, I guess."

Grant hissed at me but held me tight, putting his lips on the top of my head. The unspoken understanding between us was strong. No one else noticed.

Everyone stood there, talking about McGammon, the memorial service, and the shock of it all for ten minutes. After letting go of Grant, I moved close to Aaron, my eyes scanning the courtyard. Hundreds lingered under the trees, some crying, some smiling. Most were wearing black. It was an odd scene against the bright spring day.

"... his car was parked right in the open," Aaron was saying. "It wasn't like he was trying to hide being there."

"So I guess the trip to Sweden is off," Grant said.

"Postponed," Aaron continued. "Out of respect."

"How did they know where to start looking for him?"

"Apparently," Aaron said, "someone called the missing persons tip line from a pay phone the next day."

My eyes continued across the crowd. My piano professor, Dr. Alexander, was speaking quietly with a student who was weeping into a tissue.

Then I saw him.

Dr. Lane was standing by himself, a hand resting in the pocket of his corduroy slacks. We found each other at almost the same time.

I pulled away from my group, who were still trying to solve the Jacob McGammon mystery on their own.

"I'll be right back," I said and moved across the courtyard. As I approached, Dr. Lane smiled, the wise lines around his eyes also grinning.

"Good afternoon, Foster," he said, extending his hand.

"Dr. Lane. How are you?" I asked, squeezing his hand. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"I thought I should make an appearance. The death of a faculty member is a pretty traumatic event."

"And you're the doctor."

"Yes," he said, the smile still hinting on his lips. "Although I wouldn't want to be seen as an ambulance chaser. But I like to make myself available."

"Well," I said, feeling safe just being near to him, "I know I'm happy to see you again."

"You look well."

"Thank you. You, too."

We stood there in silence, looking at the others around us. It took everything I had to keep from running into his chest and embracing him.

"Are events like this difficult?" I asked. "Because of your daughter?"

Without looking at me, Dr. Lane slowly nodded. "A day doesn't go by when something isn't difficult. But we learn how to adapt and remember the good times. Such is the way of life."

I wanted to cry. I wanted to let him know that his daughter's death has been repaid. But all I could do is nod with him.

"Well," I finally said, "I guess I'd better get back to my friends."

"Of course. And thank you."

"For what?" I asked, stopping in mid-step.

"For asking about my daughter. For asking about Lucy. I think you two would have gotten along well."

"I'm sure we would have," I said, a tear welling up in the corner of my eye. "Until later, Doctor."

"Yes, until later. My door is open anytime."

As I turned to walk away, I made a last minute decision. Like a little girl I ran into his arms. For a moment he froze but soon his arms rested on my shoulders. As I pulled away, I saw his bottom lip quiver.

"Thank you, Doctor Lane."

I didn't look back at him but I could see him standing there in my mind, his Converse sneakers peeking out from the bottom of his pants, his beard neatly trimmed.

On the spectrum of adult men in this world, he and Jacob McGammon were on opposite ends of the spectrum, one hurting, one healing. I said a silent prayer to give thanks for those like him.

As I approached my friends, I noticed Reagan's wide-eyed gaze. She stood there in a checkered black and white dress with a big pink bow around the waist, laced-up boots on her feet, and her hair incredibly frizzy in the humidity. My heart expanded.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes," I said, throwing my arms around her neck. "Everything is going to be just fine."

# Epilogue: 2016

Authorities examined the bridge and searched the river but McGammon's body was never found. Police recovered the rope on which they found traces of his DNA but weeks later, after several young women came forward with accusations of rape and abuse, any sympathy for his assumed unfortunate death was leveled. The Central University music department even took down the memorial plaque they had placed outside of his former office. To this day he is still a Missing Person.

I graduated from college four years later, Aaron the year before. I opened my own piano studio, still playing gigs and benefits. Aaron went to graduate school and eventually took over the head trumpet position at Central University.

Although Aaron and I spoke briefly about McGammon after his disappearance, and Aaron finally understood what I had seen in the ravine (a disturbed man doing disturbing things to someone), I never told him about Vicki, Tatum, or Highbridge. I felt that it would have been too much. He would never fully understand.

I didn't go back to counseling, but during my years in college I would often visit Dr. Lane. He retired after my senior year. Last thing that I heard, he was growing older and greyer with his wife in a bungalow off the coast of the Gulf of Mexico.

Reagan dropped out her senior year when she got an opportunity to audition for an Off Broadway show in New York. She was cast as part of the company and a year later, when the lead actress broke her leg, moved into the lead role. Aaron, Grant, and I went to see her one weekend. She was perfect.

Grant continued to model, locally and, finally, in Los Angeles where he moved two years after graduation. I didn't have much contact with him after that, though Reagan made sure to keep in touch with him. Five years after he moved out west, word came back that he had contracted HIV. He died a year later. Reagan came home for the funeral, as did Vicki. She was plump and happy, married with twin boys. We all wept, together and privately, for weeks. Reagan never seemed to get over losing our friend. Vicki and I never spoke of the Highbridge incident.

Three months after Grant's death, I was sitting in a hair parlor when I flipped open a magazine to a Guess clothing ad. There was Grant, dressed to the nines, smiling back at me. Standing next to him, tall and gorgeous, head thrown back and laughing, was Stephania. I tore the page out of the magazine, much to the dismay of the salon host, and mailed it to Reagan the next day.

Life went on, soulbreaking at times, amazingly beautiful at others.

After the bridge, I never saw or heard from Tatum again. I tried to look her up, but came up with nothing. It was if she was an apparition that never really existed. I'm sure she wanted it that way.

On September 25, when I was 44 years old, I had cytoreductive surgery to remove the cancer from my ovaries. It was successful. A year later, Aaron and I adopted an 11-year old boy named Lee.

Now as I sit here, reading over the secret story I started two years ago, I feel nothing but grateful.

I survived, just as we all try to do. Sometimes survival is ugly. Sometimes we do things that it takes years to forgive ourselves for. Perhaps we never forgive ourselves. But in the meantime, life goes on.

But along the way, if we can comfort those who are hurting, if we can save others so that they themselves can share that love, then we have been a success.

__________

If you loved "Silent Key," don't miss "Awakening: Book One of The Thin" by Erin Leland Tuttle.

__________

Elcie Lee can't go back to sleep, can't go back to who she was and what she did not know before that night in the old village hotel. Perhaps she called these manifestations through The Thin in a moment of desperation. Or maybe they have been waiting for her to come along. All she knows is that she is in a race to find out who or what they are -- indeed who or what she herself may be. Pursued by sinister beings, both human and otherwise, if Elcie does not uncover the secrets of her own past in time, she will be the next to disappear.

