Chapter 146

The clock on the wall ticked toward one, the low hum of conversation fading as Professor Shields stepped to the front of the room. The lights dimmed, and the projector flickered on, splashing the first slide across the board in soft blue light:

“The Emotional Evolution of Jazz and the Birth of Modern Sound.”

A faint buzz filled the air as students adjusted their notebooks and tablets. Abigail sat near the back, her pencil already tapping against the page, her mind quietly settling into the rhythm of a familiar focus. She’d always liked the way music history felt not just something to memorize, but something to be felt, understood.

Professor Shields began to speak, her tone smooth but grounded in authority. “When we talk about music history, we’re not just talking about sound,” she said, pacing slowly across the room. “We’re talking about stories. About emotion. About what people were too afraid, or too tired, to say out loud so they said it with music.”

She turned toward the projector, clicking to the next slide. Billie Holiday’s face filled the screen, her eyes deep, her mouth poised near the microphone.

“Jazz was rebellion,” Shields continued. “It was grief turned melodic. It was pain made beautiful. And it was honest.”

The class fell quiet. Even the air seemed to shift, thick with the weight of her words.

“Listen to ‘Strange Fruit,'” Shields said, her voice softer now. “You don’t need a degree in theory to feel it. Those chords hang there unresolved, dissonant because life was unresolved. Because the pain didn’t fade with the final note.”

Abigail’s pencil stilled. Her heart gave a slow, aching pull in her chest. She wrote down a few phrases raw emotion, truth, rebellion through sound but mostly, she just listened.

Then Shields turned back to the room. “Why do you think unresolved chords are so powerful?”

The question hung in the air. No one spoke.

Abigail hesitated for only a second before raising her hand.

“Yes, Abigail?”

Her voice was steady when she answered. “Because they don’t give you closure,” she said. “They make you sit in the feeling  in that tension. It’s uncomfortable, but it forces you to connect with it. You can’t ignore it.”

Shields’ gaze softened, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Beautifully said,” she murmured. “Exactly that. Music doesn’t always have to resolve sometimes, it’s meant to haunt you.”

A few students nodded thoughtfully, scribbling notes. Abigail leaned back slightly, tapping her pencil again, her thoughts lingering on Emma on how music always reminded her of her, how every chord felt like emotion translated into sound.

The professor continued, flipping through slides that featured names like Coltrane, Davis, and Nina Simone. “These artists didn’t play for fame. They played to survive,” she said. “Every note carried history centuries of it from spirituals to gospel to jazz, to soul, to the early days of rock and R&B. Every sound was a form of protest, of love, of release.”

She clicked again, and a black-and-white image of Jimi Hendrix appeared wild hair, guitar ablaze mid-performance.

“By the late 1960s,” Shields said, “artists like Hendrix broke boundaries altogether. He didn’t just play guitar he became it. He blurred the line between musician and emotion.”

She paused, looking across the room. “What do you think drives a person to that level of artistic vulnerability?”

This time, a guy in the front row answered first. “Freedom, maybe? Wanting to do something that’s never been done.”

“Good,” Shields said, nodding. “Freedom is part of it. But what else?”

The room stayed quiet again until her eyes found Abigail’s.

“Abigail?”

Caught mid-thought, Abigail blinked but recovered quickly. “I think it’s about truth,” she said slowly. “When you love something music, art, a person you give yourself to it completely. That’s what makes it powerful. It’s not about control; it’s about surrender. You let people see you flaws, scars, everything.”

For a brief moment, silence settled over the room. The kind of silence that didn’t feel empty it felt heard.

Professor Shields tilted her head slightly, studying her. There was a flicker of something softer admiration, maybe before she spoke. “That’s a profound way to put it, Abigail. Thank you.”

Abigail gave a small nod, her heart steady, but she could feel her pulse quickening. She jotted something in her notebook not a note for class, but a line for a song:

To be heard, I had to stop hiding.

The discussion carried on, weaving through the decades from the smoky jazz clubs of the 1920s to the electrified stages of the 1970s. Students debated the cultural weight of music, some shyly offering opinions, others just listening. Abigail found herself speaking up twice more, each time earning a quiet “good point” or approving nod from Shields.

When the clock neared 2:10, Shields dimmed the projector and turned back to the class. “For homework,” she said, “choose one artist from today’s lecture anyone whose work spoke to you. Write a one-page reflection on how their personal experiences shaped their sound. I don’t want an essay; I want emotion.“

She smiled faintly. “Show me that you understand the music not just the notes, but the why.”

Students began to pack up, the scrape of chairs echoing through the room. Abigail carefully closed her notebook, sliding it into her bag before standing. She could feel the calm satisfaction of a good class that quiet aftertaste of learning something that sticks with you.

“Good work today, everyone,” Shields said, her tone softer now. “I’ll see you Thursday.”

Abigail slung her backpack over her shoulder and made her way toward the door, feeling the professor’s gaze follow her for just a heartbeat before turning back to her papers.

Once she stepped into the hallway, the tension lifted. The sounds of footsteps, laughter, and music spilling faintly from a nearby room grounded her again.

She reached into her hoodie pocket, pulled out her phone, and called Emma.

“Hey, baby,” Emma answered, her voice bright and warm. “Class over?”

“Yeah,” Abigail said, smiling as she walked. “It actually went really well. I think I even impressed the professor today.”

Emma laughed softly. “Of course you did. You always do.”

Abigail’s smile widened as she pushed open the glass doors to the quad. “Heading home now. Do you need me to grab anything before I get there?”

“No,” Emma said, her tone softening. “Just you.”

Abigail’s chest filled with warmth. “Then that’s exactly what you’ll get.”

She hung up, sliding her phone back into her pocket, the cool afternoon air brushing against her skin as she walked.

Abigail drove through the winding streets toward home, her music low a soft rhythm of acoustic guitar playing through her speakers. It had been a good day: focused, productive, calm. But she hadn’t forgotten her promise.

Emma’s voice from that morning still echoed in her head. Chocolate-covered strawberries.

She smiled at the memory and turned into the small grocery store on the corner of Maple and Fifth.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of roasted coffee and baked bread. The aisles were quiet, bathed in the golden haze of early evening light. Abigail grabbed a basket and made her way toward the bakery section. Behind the glass case, rows of chocolate-covered strawberries gleamed under the lights dark and milk chocolate, each one drizzled perfectly.

“Can I get a dozen of those, please?” she asked the clerk, her voice bright with anticipation.

While waiting, she wandered toward the flowers and picked out a small bouquet of soft blush roses — Emma’s favorite. She could already picture her smile when she saw them, sleepy and bright all at once.

Basket in hand, Abigail turned down an aisle and froze.

“Abigail?”

Her stomach gave a faint twist as she turned to see Professor Shields standing a few feet away, a basket hooked in her arm filled with pasta, chicken, heavy cream, and herbs. She looked different out of her classroom no sharp blazer or strict bun, just jeans, a navy sweater, and hair loosely tied back.

“Professor,” Abigail said, managing a polite smile. “Hi. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Neither did I,” Shields replied easily. “Funny running into one of my students off campus.”

“Yeah,” Abigail said, laughing lightly but her voice tighter than usual. “Small world.”

They stood there for a moment, that strange space between casual conversation and unspoken tension filling the air.

“Picking up dinner ingredients?” Abigail asked finally, just to fill the silence.

“Cajun chicken Alfredo,” Shields said, her tone soft but measured. “It’s one of my go-to comfort dishes.”

Abigail gave a short nod. “That’s actually one of my favorites too.”

Shields smiled faintly, the corner of her mouth curling upward. “Noted,” she said quietly, her tone low enough that it almost felt like an echo.

Abigail shifted her basket against her hip. The moment felt too close too familiar and she could feel that tiny flicker of discomfort crawl up the back of her neck.

She cleared her throat. “I, uh… I probably shouldn’t be talking to you. Not after, you know… class and everything that’s happened.”

Shields’ smile faltered just a bit, her eyes softening with something unreadable. “I understand,” she said gently. “It’s okay, Abigail. I just wanted to say hi.”

Abigail nodded, not wanting to be rude, but the silence that followed hung between them like heavy air. Thankfully, her phone buzzed in her hand, and when she saw the name on the screen, relief washed through her.

Emma ❤️

She answered immediately. “Hey, baby.”

“Hey,” Emma said, her tone warm but firm. “Where are you? You’ve been gone a while.”

“I just stopped by the store,” Abigail said, her voice softening as she looked down at the strawberries and flowers in her basket. “I’m picking something up for you.”

There was a pause, and then Emma’s voice came again a little more curious. “Who’s there with you? You sound… tense.”

Abigail hesitated for only a moment before admitting quietly, “I, um… ran into Professor Shields. She’s here too.”

On the other end of the line, Emma’s tone shifted, calm but commanding. “Stay on the phone with me, baby. Just check out and come home, okay?”

Abigail smiled faintly despite the awkwardness. “You got it.” She looked up at Shields, who was standing near the end of the aisle, pretending to compare pasta sauces but clearly aware of the conversation.

Abigail gave a small shrug and said, “Gotta go, Professor. My baby wants me home.”

And right on cue, Emma’s voice came through the receiver loud enough for Shields to hear: “That’s right.”

Abigail’s smile widened, a soft chuckle slipping out. “I’ll see you in class, Professor. Have a good evening.”

“You too,” Shields replied, her tone polite but subdued.

Abigail turned and made her way to the register, paying for the strawberries and flowers before heading out into the cooling evening air. The tension melted the moment she stepped outside.