Page 88 of Perfect Pitch

“I wouldn’t mind tossing... oof!” I catch him square in the chest with a Converse sneaker. He perches on the edge of my bed. Serious as a heart attack, he says, “I want to say something before we leave—something I should have said over dinner the other night.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m sorry. Redemption and your mother being here meant a lot to you. I made a mistake not remembering that. I hope you can forgive me.” He sighs. “What I feel for you, it’s new. I’m still balancing what it means with the rest of my life.”

I nod, accepting his apology because I appreciate his honesty. “We’ll talk more on the way to Connecticut, but I want something clear between us right now.”

“And that is?”

“I matter. Don’t forget that.”

I could compose songs about the exquisiteness of agony that causes his cheeks to flush as I shove aside the excuses and get to the heart of the matter. Tossing my shoe aside, he stands until he’s in front of me. “You have my promise, never again.”

My breath shudders out of me as I step around him and sit in the exact spot he was in to tug on a pair of ankle boots. I don’t say another word until I ask, “Should we try to wake Trev?”

He shakes his head. “We’ll leave him a note. And we’ll do one better.”

I cock my head. “What’s that?”

“We’ll bring him back some dessert. No place better on earth to get it than from where we’re going.” He holds out a hand. “Come on. It’s going to take us about ninety minutes to get there.”

I snatch my purse and coat from the hall tree on our way out the door. Mitch helps me slide it on, his hands resting on my shoulders. A thought strikes me, “Is the place we’re anywhere near Greenwich?”

“Not far, why?”

I give him the lowdown that I wanted to drop in on the people who hired me, but I don’t have any clue where their office is versus where we’re going. “In Texas, driving thirty minutes out of the way to get somewhere is nothing. Here?”

Mitch’s smile is hovering—like he’s trying to suppress it somehow. “In Connecticut, thirty minutes could be multiple towns or three miles. It depends on traffic.”

“Well, there goes that idea.”

He gives a non-committal grunt.

After we’re in the elevator, I begin tapping my shoe in time to the Musak. I beam up at him before hitting the high note right along with Tiffany.

His arm drapes over my shoulder. “I thought you were into ’90s music.”

“The ’80s were pretty fabulous too,” I admit.

His fingers tighten on my arm so hard I have to hold back a squeal that definitely would not have been on pitch. Then I give up as he sings along with me. The whole way to the ground floor, we try to outdo one another. We’re breathless from the laughter. I chortle, “You had a good teacher.”

Surprisingly, my words cause his laughter to dry up. “Glad you think so.”

I’m concerned because I’m almost certain a flicker of fear flashes through the light green depths.

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Moving on doesn’t mean you were never changed by the experience.

It means you have the perspective to not go to jail for choking the person who ruined your signed copy of Rush’s Moving Pictures.

You’re maturing. I’m so proud.

—Viego Martinez, Celebrity Blogger

“Tell me more about your mom,” I ask as I merge off the Cross Bronx Expressway as we head northwest to Fairfield County, Connecticut.

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