Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
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 since I wouldn’t be here. So he was bringing the five hundred demos we’d ordered and were hoping to sell at the festival. He was also bringing my Hammond organ, an electrical organ we used in several songs. It was a bitch to transport.
While I fetched us some beers, Nicky snatched up my notepad from the counter and went through my list.
“Where’s Gideon tonight?” I asked.
“In his own world,” Nicky huffed through a laugh. “I had to call his name four times before he looked up from the laptop.”
I quirked a brow.
He grinned and waved it off. “He’s at home. Shopping online.”
Ah. It was sweet, though. They’d found their place here in Brooklyn now—in Park Slope, to be accurate—just a couple streets away from mine. And it made sense that Gideon would now go all in with shopping for furniture and whatnot.
Gideon, like James, was autistic. And luckily for my brother-in-law to-be, Nicky wasn’t fussy about interior design or what kind of furniture they should have. In short, he’d probably given Gideon the green light to pick everything, exactly how he wanted it.
As long as Nicky could finally move in with Gideon, he was happy.