Page 4 of Treble

The stench seeps through the door and I move into the bedroom to avoid it and to retrieve my phone. After checking online, sure enough it exists, and he just drank two-thirds of a sixteen ounce cup. Coffee is already a diuretic, I can’t imagine what his stomach is going through. I feel like a jerk, but only for amoment—it’s his own fault for drinking it without checking, and he knew that coffee wasn’t for him anyway.

The past few months, I’ve been keeping an eye on Paul; not in a cute stalker way like Victor. It appeared as if he was attempting to steal my seat in the ensemble. It’s good to keep your friends close and enemies closer they always say. I don’t remember the last time I saw him drink coffee; he usually drinks unsweetened iced tea. Definitely keeping the intolerance fact in my pocket for a rainy day.

I make my back toward the bathroom, holding the nape of my shirt over my nose. “What do you need? The internet wasn’t much help.”

“I don’t know, this hasn’t happened to me in years.”

I avoid telling him this is his fault for drinking a latte that was intended for someone else. Instead, I offer, “I’ll run to the store and get an antacid or something.”

I grab my keys and head out, checking my surroundings for Victor. His car is nowhere to be found, and I’m genuinely surprised he gave up so easily. We only have an hour or so before our string rehearsal, so he could’ve gone straight there. In any case, I rush to the store and buy a variety of stomach and allergy medications, hoping something will help Paul.

When I return home, the smell has filled my apartment. I turn on a few essential oil diffusers, but I don’t think anything could combat this, and open all of the windows. “Paul? How are you feeling? I bought a few things.”

He opens the bathroom door a crack and I pass him the bag from the store, then quickly grab a bottle of water from my fridge and bring it to him. I don’t get so much as a thank you as he shutsand locks the door. Though, I can’t blame him. He likely feels worse than my apartment smells right now.

I wait in my bedroom, but he doesn’t emerge. Even after knocking a few times, he doesn’t answer except in groans and grunts. After forty-five minutes, I have to leave for rehearsal and let him know I’ll be back in a few hours to check on him. I pack up my cello, feeling guilty for leaving him, but I’m not going to risk Dana, the mediocre third-string, taking my place today.

When I arrive, I hurry to the rehearsal room, finding Victor and one of the percussionists, Henry, has reserved one of the small, padded rooms off to the side. I move closer and press my ear to the door. They aren’t playing anything I’ve heard; it sounds more like rock or maybe even metal. Victor isn’t using his usual double bass, it’s a guitar.

As they finish, Henry curses and Victor assures him, “It’s going to be great! Try it one more time.”

Henry is incredibly talented. I’ve only ever heard him on timpani, but his stick work on a full drum set is like listening to a professional rock concert. His timing is impeccable, keeping a consistent two-sixty or two-seventy beats per minute. He’s a beast. I can’t help wondering if he’s auditioning for somewhere else like I am. If he’s not, he absolutely should.

When he stops, the door flings open and I stumble a step inside. Victor catches me and chuckles, “Hey, Keri, what are you doing here?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” I glance to Henry. “That was amazing. I couldn’t help myself.”

Henry offers a wide smile and his cheeks turn a light pink as he adjusts his glasses. “Thanks. My agent was approached by—well, I can’t say who, NDAs and all—but a band. Victor has been helping me practice. I heard you’re auditioning for a production company for movies; that’s fucking awesome. I’m so proud of you, you deserve it.”

And now I’m the one blushing.

Henry glances between me and Victor, and it’s then I realize I’m still in Victor’s arms. I step out of his hold but part of me wishes I hadn’t, wanting his strong hands on me again. This is probably the closest we’ve ever been, except when I sat in his car last night. He always keeps his distance—why do I no longer want him to?

“So, where’s Paul?” Victor asks me and his question takes me by surprise.

“Oh, he’s not feeling well,” I reply carefully. “He won’t be coming.”

Henry pulls out his messy manbun and reties it, quirking an eyebrow. “Really? He was fine yesterday. Now isn’t the time to get sick; Dana will swoop in and steal his place.”

“I know. Bad timing,” I groan, hoping he’s back tomorrow so I won’t have to deal with sitting next to her for the foreseeable future.

“We, uh, should get to rehearsal,” Victor offers, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder.

“Right, yes. Well, I hope you get it, Henry. It sounds like an amazing opportunity”

Henry gives us a small wave as we leave, which I return. Once the door is closed and Henry is playing again, Victor asks, “So, where is Paulreally?He was fine when I left.” His questionis accusatory, as if Paul had a sex sprain or something equally obnoxious.

“It’s not my place to say, but”—I glance around to ensure no one can hear and lower my voice—“apparently he’s sensitive to almonds and has a really bad,how do I put this lightly, tummy ache.”

“Tummy ache?” Victor barks a laugh. “Are you serious? What is he, five?”

“Well, it isn’t as ifhecalled it that.”

Victor smirks, and a small dimple pops on his cheek. “Serves him right for stealing my coffee.”

“I’m sorry about that, by the way.” I wince.

“That’s all right.” His lip tilts up and I’m not sure how I haven’t noticed before but he has the most beautiful light brown eyes.

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