We Have Till Dawn - Cara Dee Page 0,14

and band practice with his kid brother. I was willing to bet Shawn had plans in the city with his clubbing buddies. Like he did most weekends.

If he ever showed up for Sunday dinners, he did it hungover.

My phone buzzed on the table, and I checked it after wiping my hands on a napkin.

Huh. A message from Gideon. I’d given him my number but never thought he’d use it.

Hello. This is Gideon. I was wondering if we could meet up more often. Every time I show up at the studio, I try to remind myself that we have time. I repeat to myself, “We have till dawn,” “We have two months,” but I’m still experiencing some anxiety about how quickly time passes. You would be compensated generously.

I couldn’t show Anthony the screen fast enough. I wanted to yell, “Can’t you see?!” But instead, I said, “Don’t tell me this man doesn’t want something genuine. He’s just uncertain about how to achieve it—and he thinks he can be satisfied with an arrangement where he pulls all the strings. He thinks having me as some puppet is enough.”

Anthony scanned the message. “We have till dawn.” He smiled faintly. “That’s sweet.” Then he lifted a shoulder and finished another wing. “Maybe he does want more. I never said he didn’t. My argument is that it’s not your place to give it to him. No pun intended.”

Something in me deflated, and it was because of my brother. This wasn’t him. He thought I had a bleeding heart? Forget about it. The whole reason he’d started his academy was to help and inspire children through music, and he had a soft spot for those who found peace in whatever music had to offer.

He’d gone above and beyond to help out his entire life. He’d picked up the pieces of Pop after our mother died of cancer. I’d been too young to remember, but Anthony had tackled Pop, his own grief, and school at the same time. He’d fought for the underdog, the bullied kids, the outcasts. For crying out loud, he was a Mets fan.

Fuck both him and Gideon. I was gonna help them whether they wanted me to or not.

Sorry sacks of shit.

I lowered my gaze to my phone and typed out a response.

I can be available on Mondays and/or Sundays too, but if you choose Sunday, I’d prefer to meet up at eleven instead of ten.

Sunday dinner at Nonna’s was usually over around eight, but she was incapable of saying goodbye, so we tended to stand in the hallway for half an eternity while she came up with just one more thing to say or do before we left. It always involved handing over leftovers and telling us who in the neighborhood was pregnant or getting divorced.

Gideon replied quickly.

What about tonight? I’d like to see you tonight.

The man didn’t wanna come off as inexperienced, but he had no issues showing vulnerability or being honest with how eager he was.

I can’t tonight. My brother and I are rehearsing some songs with the choir at our local church in Brooklyn.

I threw a couple fries into my mouth as Gideon wrote his response.

My eyebrows flew up when I read it.

I saw the note on your fridge and let it slide because it’s your home for the moment. Same with the drumsticks I saw by the door and your keyboard by the window. But try not to share any information about yourself. I want this arrangement to be as impersonal as possible. I’ll take both Mondays and Sundays, thank you. 11 p.m. for Sunday sounds good. I will handle the compensation through Tina.

Oh, fuck you, dude.

Sorry if my personal life got in the way of your—

My thoughts were derailed when another of his texts popped up.

And please don’t leave any more notes on the table. If I sneak out while you’re asleep, it’s for a reason. You don’t have to tell me goodbye or anything. I will see you tomorrow, then.

Now he was pissing me off. I’d left a single note with my phone number on it, and I’d written, “In case you’re gone before I wake up, my number if you need it.” Since I didn’t bring the iPad out with me.

Maybe I shouldn’t get involved. He seemed to have made up his mind about everything.

Chapter 4

It felt good to be back in the church I’d spent so many boring hours in growing up. It wasn’t every day we got to practice with the choir; I