Page 31 of His Surrender
“Let it go, Jay.” Ivan averted his eyes to the half-eaten sandwich. “Pozhalsta.”
He’d told me please. That’s when I knew he was serious. Was he still in love with Megan? I assumed he’d be ready to date again since it had been six months since the divorce, but maybe his heart hadn’t mended enough yet.
“You’re right.” I rubbed the back of my neck that had become tense as the minutes ticked by. “I think I do like Remi. At least more than just a onetime thing.”
“Was that so hard to admit?”
I snarled at him, and he chuckled.
“Thanks again for buying Foss a clarinet,” Ivan said, the humor slipping from his face. He looked at me with gratitude. “He’s been practicing nonstop. Auditions are coming up for a solo piece, and he’s thinking about going for it but isn’t sure yet.”
“Want me to come over and help boost his confidence?”
Ivan smiled. “Couldn’t hurt. I tell him he’s great, and he scoffs and says, ‘You’re my dad. Of course you think that.’If it comes from you, he might actually believe it.”
“I’ll head over there now.” I stood and tossed the trash into the bin. “He’s probably lazing around playing video games. No better time to stop by and put him to work.”
“You’re such an ass,” Ivan said with a laugh, rising from the chair. “Let the kid enjoy his Saturday.”
As expected, Foster was in his room playing on the Xbox when I got there. I tapped my knuckles on his bedroom door and walked inside. His whole face lit up when he saw me, and he paused the game before jumping up and giving me a hug. His excitement each time I came over never failed to hit me square in the chest.
“Hey, Foss the Boss. Your dad tells me you’re goin’ to audition for some kind of solo.”
He adjusted his glasses and stepped back, getting shy. “Yeah. I’m not that good.”
“Can I hear?”
Foster took a steadying breath and nodded before going over to the case he’d set against the wall and grabbing the instrument from inside. “Don’t laugh, okay?”
“I’d never laugh at you.” I leaned against the doorframe as he sat on the edge of his bed.
When he started playing, he messed up a lot and got flustered. I knew it was due to his nerves. Once he started over and tried it again from the beginning, though, he was more relaxed and didn’t mess up nearly as much. The kid was a lot better than he gave himself credit for.
“Mr. Barnett said he’d stay after school Monday and help me practice,” Foster said, after setting the bass clarinet back in the case. He treated it with the utmost care.
The mention of Remi made my heart rate spike. Goddammit.
“He’s a pretty good guy, yeah?” I found myself asking.
Foster nodded. “The best teacher I’ve ever had. He actually cares about us, you know? Unlike some teachers who act like they can’t get us out of their classrooms fast enough.” He left the room, and I followed him to the kitchen where he grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge and a bag of chips from the pantry. “Me and the other students in band are going to surprise him on Friday and play ‘Happy Birthday’ for him when class starts.”
“Friday?” I did the math in my head and released a small laugh. “His birthday is on Valentine’s Day?”
“Why?” Foster scrutinized me. “You thinking of taking him to dinner or something?”
I smiled. Dinner hadn’t been on my mind, no, unless you counted the feast I wanted to have of eating Mr. Barnett’s ass. But I kept that to myself.
“Play for me again,” I said, glad to change the subject. “Practice makes perfect.”
***
Friday morning, I dragged my tired ass out of bed and started a pot of coffee before jumping in the shower. I was exhausted, having worked late hours all week long and going into the office early each day. I practically lived there.
The murder trial had started on Tuesday, and opening arguments had gone well. Emery had told the jury about the defendant’skind heartand how she often volunteered at shelters andhelped friends in need.Speaking to the defendant’s character was a huge defense tactic because it showed the jury they were humans with compassion. Not the cold-hearted killers they sometimes actually were.
In my opening statement, I had talked about Terry Wilson, the victim. I’d shown the jury family photos where Mr. Wilson laughed with his wife and two kids. I’d spoken tohischaracter and how he’d been an upstanding member of the community.
“The defense will try to show a darker side to Terry Wilson during this trial, but you have to ask yourself who the real monster is when this is all over,” I had said before showing a photo from the crime scene. It definitely wasn’t for the faint of heart. The amount of blood was immense, pooled on the floor and even splashed up the wall. “And you must ask yourself ifthisis the action resulting from self-defense, as the defense wants you to believe… or if it was a calculated, premediated murder.”
