***
I’d booked a practice room for some solo work. As the door shut behind me, I closed my eyes and let the blessed relief of being alone wash over me. People made me nervous—strangers, doubly so and men, triple.
Fenbrook practice rooms are literally that—room enough to practice in and nothing more. The cello case almost grazed the walls as I turned around, un-slung it and cracked open the battered chrysalis to reveal the gleaming beauty of the instrument inside.
I settled the cello between my legs and leaned the neck down onto my shoulder. Immediately, just from the touch of the wood, I felt better.
It should have been easy enough to concentrate on the music. I was practicing my parts of the Brahms Double Concerto, and that was enough to focus anyone’s mind. But within seconds of my bow hitting the strings, my attention started to wander. I was downstairs again, dangling in space, completely reliant on Connor. That was the worst part of it—that he’d had to save me. I hated owing anything to anyone.
Concentrate. I stopped, took a breath and continued. Big, slow notes that vibrated through my body. My wrists needed to be smooth as butter to get the changing angles right, but they felt rigid and taut. I’d tensed up.
I knew I’d be reliving that moment at the door for weeks. Everything embarrassing I’d ever done was stuck in my mind on endless loop. Sometimes people would tell me that I needed to “let things go.” How?
I missed a note and had to stop again. Squeezing my eyes shut for a second, I shook out my wrists and restarted. I was getting close to the fast part….
I didn’t see what his groupies saw in him. I mean, yes, he was good looking in a dark, dangerous sort of a way, but it wasn’t as if he was bulging with muscles. He was more lean and wiry, like a panther. Was it just the rock star thing, even if the closest he’d got to stardom was playing in local bars?
The notes were flying now, my breath coming in quick little gasps. Playing fast is a bit like skiing downhill on the very edge of control. It can be heady and brilliant when it goes well. This wasn’t going well, so it was just terrifying.
He’d smelled good. Sort of clean and outdoorsy, like the air after a storm. That was new to me, the idea that a guy would have a particular scent. I didn’t get up close with many men. Okay, any men. I knew my fantasies were now going to have to include an extra element.
Not fantasies of him, obviously. But whatever nameless, faceless guy I thought of late at night, as my hand slipped between my thighs, I’d now give him a scent. Not even that scent, necessarily.
The bow lanced off at an angle, shrieking in protest. I stared at the ceiling for a moment, letting my hair fall down my back. What was wrong with me? I’d nearly fallen—that was all. I hadn’t even been hurt. Why couldn’t I get it out of my mind?
Because I’m trying to distract myself from the real problem, I decided.
It was my senior year, and my final year recital was looming on the horizon—ten weeks, three days and counting. I’d have to perform the Brahms, together with my duet partner Dan on violin, for a panel comprising three Fenbrook judges. That in itself was scary, but it was a good piece, I had a great partner and I was certain we’d get a good grade. That wasn’t the problem.
Also on the panel would be two talent scouts. One I didn’t care about—some guy from a record label who was really there for the non-classical musicians. But the other would be from the New York Philharmonic. Impressing him was my one shot at scoring a trial and maybe, just maybe, saving a dream that was close to slipping out of my grasp forever.
My dream, or my father’s dream. Sometimes it was difficult to tell.
My phone buzzed to tell me to meet Natasha for coffee and I stared at the clock disbelievingly. My practice hour was up, and I’d barely scratched the surface of the music. Great.
***
There are two places that are so much a part of Fenbrook, they might as well be on the official map. One is Flicker, a movie-themed bar just down the street. The other is Harper’s, a café and deli that’s practically next door. If Harper’s ever closed down, about eighty percent of Fenbrook students would die of starvation.
Both places rely heavily on students for their staff and it’s not unusual to look around and find that literally everyone in the room, on both sides of the counter, is an actor, a dancer or a musician.
When I walked in that day, the barista was a guy who I’d seen in a poster for some off-Broadway satire about the financial crash and the woman wiping down the tables was an oboe player I sometimes had classes with. And sitting all by herself at a table in the center of the café was Natasha, a junior year dancer.