We Have Till Monday by Cara Dee (moboreader .TXT) 📕

the lid on the piano. “Is that what you and Nicky do when you write?”

Not the best comparison. “Sort of—we let the melody appear in the playing. But there’s a big difference between classical music and what he and I work on. We have a lot less to consider.”

And other instruments could fill the gaps wherever necessary. James wanted to be a solo pianist; he had to cover every range, every emotion he wanted to convey, with his one and only instrument.

“I guess I can try with my sister first,” he said. “I just have to pound my elbows on the keys.”

I rumbled a laugh, to which he grinned proudly.

“It was a good joke, wasn’t it?”

I nodded and left my piano behind. “Very funny.”

He was pleased as punch.

With our session drawing to its close, I reminded him that Nicky would be here next Monday. James had all the notes he needed, and he knew what to work on. My brother would mostly be here as support. Nicky was a good pianist, but he hadn’t been schooled in classical music whatsoever, and his biggest strength was with the guitar. He stuck to teaching beginners and intermediate students where piano and keyboard were concerned.

“I remember,” James said and nodded. “And the Monday after that, there’s no class at all.”

Correct. That was the Monday we’d all be leaving Nashville. Thankfully, only a handful of classes had to be canceled. We’d worked most things out with the other instructors as well as two freelancers Nicky and I knew.

James and I said goodbye for now, and he politely wished me a pleasant vacation before ducking out of the studio.

I flicked off the lights and exited too, because we’d use the other rehearsal room for our practice with the choir.

“Can you set the alarms and lock up?” I asked Nicky. “I’mma grab a quick smoke.”

“Yeah, sure.”

I spent half a minute on hellos and what’s-ups as I passed Maria, Luiz, and the others in the choir who were joining us in Tennessee. Then I made my escape and lit up a cigarette right outside.

It was nice not needing a jacket as soon as I stepped outside the door. Nashville would be even nicer, I reckoned. I’d checked the weather app on my phone, and it would be around seventy there next week.

I took a drag from my smoke and picked up a brown paper bag someone had thrown on the ground, and I tossed it in the nearest trash can. Then I glanced back at the building and felt a river of contentment flowing through me.

For the first time ever, my to-do list wasn’t miles-long. Thanks to a bizarrely generous donation by Nicky’s boyfriend last year, we’d upgraded the security system in and around the school, and we’d gotten started on our new auditorium.

The bars on the windows didn’t help the image of the neighborhood a whole lot, but it let me sleep easier at night knowing that equipment worth hundreds of thousands of dollars was safe.

Taking another drag from my cigarette, I retrieved my phone and checked to see if I had any messages. Moshe had sent me a link for a gay bar he’d visited once in Nashville, so I thanked him and said I’d give it a try.

I opened my Instagram next, and I picked one of the photos I’d taken today and uploaded a new post. Social media had, in the last couple years, become the most common way for new students—or their parents—to find the Initiative, so I tried to post something a few times a week. I hated Facebook though, so Micaela ran our page there.

A quick caption for the class of violin beginners I’d visited today during a break.

Our junior class of violinists rehearsing for the Lion King recital in June.

I posted it with a little smile on my face, looking forward to hearing what the youngest kids had worked so hard on this semester.

It didn’t take long for the likes to appear. Many parents followed my account, which was also why I avoided posting much of the personal variety nowadays. Only a few here and there, and almost all of them were music-related.

I furrowed my brow when I noticed a string of likes popping up from a certain NSFW account.

Every time I updated the notifications, there were new likes. The person was literally going through my album and liking every picture.

A comment appeared from a proud parent to a student.

I’d recognize that sparkly scrunchie anywhere! Can’t wait to attend the recital.

They must’ve referred to one of the girls in the violin class. I avoided taking photos where faces showed, unless I knew it was okay.

Another comment popped up.

How is it legal to be that hot?

What the fuck?

The picture he’d commented on was nothing extraordinary. Someone was messing with me. I was just sitting there tuning a damn guitar. Nicky had taken the photo last summer. We’d been up on my rooftop terrace.

A bit flustered, I merely left the app and pocketed my phone. I had a rehearsal to get to.

I was completely useless that Thursday. Micaela would cover my last two classes, so I went home a little past five to get ready for an evening on the road.

In between packing one last time, showering, and filling the back of my truck with three guitars, two amps, and some other equipment I needed, I spoke to Nonna and Pop on the phone, and by the time I’d ended both calls, Nicky showed up with pizza.

“Oh, you already packed the truck? Whatta shame I missed that.”

I snorted and accepted the pie. “Yeah, you sound remorseful as fuck.”

He chuckled.

We ended up on either side of the kitchen bar, and he asked if I had everything.

What a question.

I certainly hoped I had everything.

“I think so,” I replied, frowning. I’d gone over my list a dozen times. “It feels weird leaving some of the gear behind.”

We were chartering a bus to fit everyone and everything, which Nicky was in charge of