Page 96 of Love You Like That (Excess All Areas 4)

He isn’t going to be disappointed, Zoe. If he is half the teacher you have said he is, he’s going to be relieved to see you.

Maybe. But… He reached out to me when I left. I didn’t go to see him before I made the decision, and I didn’t speak to him after I left. He tried to contact me, but I never returned his messages. I feel shitty about that.

Alex wondered how to respond, but if she liked Boncaldo’s bluntness, he’d give her what she needed. It also dawned on him that if she liked being pushed sexually by himself, maybe she also needed that pushing from Boncaldo professionally too.

Yeah, that was low to not get back to him when he was looking out for you.

I know.

Lie down and put your phone down. Place one hand on your chest and the other on your stomach. Then breathe. Make sure that both hands rise. Breathe into both your stomach and chest fully. Do it twenty times, then pick up your phone again.

Okay.

While he breathed deeply in his bunk, he closed his eyes.

His phone buzzed in his hand.

That feels better.

Now, just use one hand and stroke your own skin. Get back into your body and out of your head. Stroke your cheek, your neck, your arm. If we are staying at a six, stay away from the good bits.

Taking his own advice, he did the same thing. Leaving behind the thoughts of what he could and should have done for her, he focused on the moment. Two people. Connected. Even though it was by text. She was fully in the moment with him, and he owed it to her to give her every ounce of his awareness.

And honesty.

I’m glad you messaged me to work through your anxiety tonight. Text, video. Whatever you need, yeah?

It took a while for her to respond, and his phone vibrated as he ran his hands over his abs.

I guess the people I wanted to depend on in the past were too vested in trying to fix what they thought was broken to be impartial to what I was going through. Like, if I called Cerys to tell her I was going to see Boncaldo tomorrow, she’d have me making lists of pieces to play, of practising scales. She’d be my hype girl about how great it was going to be. Same with my parents. I don’t need a hype squad.

The feeling of being eased into a box that you didn’t want to be in by those you loved, even it if was a well-meaning box, was one he understood. His mum loved him, but she still told him to calm it down around his father. He’d never asked her what the it was he was meant to calm down, but he assumed it meant his pansexuality, or his eyeliner and nails, or his clothing.

Feeling misunderstood was something he knew well too.

I understand how you feel. But here’s the thing. I don’t give a shit what you do if you love it. I’m going to hype you for showing up, not for how it goes. I’m not going to promise it will be amazing, because even though to my ears it sounded fucking brilliant, to do what you wanted to do in life, it might not be. But I’m going to cheer you on for trying. And I’ll celebrate you if it all works out. And I’ll hold you if it doesn’t. Just be you with me, Zoe. I really like who you are.

Zoe stepped down off the Oxford Street bus and looked up at the steel, glass, and concrete structure of the Royal Northern College of Music. The single red wall and the large black letters, RNCM, were so familiar and yet felt so foreign. When she’d been accepted, it had been a dream come true.

Now, her feelings swirled like a tornado as she walked inside.

Fear mixed with excitement. Imposter syndrome danced on her shoulders. But a kernel of ambition unfurled deep in her stomach.

Students milled around the entrance, but she noticed the cases and instruments they carried. Violins, cellos. Strings and wind she’d never been able to master. The floor vibrated beneath her feet. People. Traffic outside. It all coalesced around her. And yet somehow, she could make sense of it.

Even the overwhelming feeling of the air pressing against her cheeks as people walked by.

Doctor Boncaldo had asked her to join him in the concert hall. When she entered, the unusual octagonal room was empty. One half of the octagon were seats. Seats her parents had watched her from when she’d performed. The other half was the staggered steps of the stage, where she and Cerys had laughed and played, and on the day Zoe had realised she was going to permanently lose her hearing, had cried. More in frustrated anger than true sadness.

She stood in the middle of the octagon, unsure whether she belonged on the stage or in the seats. Frozen with indecision. A painful longing to be one, a stark acceptance that she may be consigned to the other.

Doctor Boncaldo entered the room, a sturdy Italian, with jet black hair and dark eyes. Next to him, a slender man wearing a pair of jeans and a white shirt.

“Atkins,” Boncaldo said, staying on the periphery of the stage.

The man next to her spelled out her name in sign language, even though she recognised her name on his lips. The fact Boncaldo had thought to bring an interpreter made tears sting in the corner of her eyes. “Doctor Boncaldo.”

“I think it’s time you called me Lorenzo. And this is Philip. He’s going to be helping us.”

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