by C J Burright
Blue eyes wide, eyebrows high, Gia nodded slowly.
If she could shock Gia into speechlessness, maybe she could shock Garret enough to give her another shot. “So I can’t contact him, can’t get into his concert, but there’s no way I’m waiting. Are there such things as classical concert ticket scalpers?”
“Brilliant idea.” Gia settled back in the couch, getting long-term comfy. “Pack your bags, water your plants, forward your mail…whatever you need to do. I’ve got this. By tomorrow, you’ll be soaring to Ireland.”
Adara gave Gia her best smile as a new hole in her soul ached, missing the puzzle piece that was Garret. There wasn’t anything more she could do tonight, but tomorrow or the next day she’d find out what path her future would take. With Garret—her stomach knotted—or without.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Adara didn’t relax until the sky had darkened beyond the plane window and the interior lights had blinked off one by one. She quietly pulled her iPod and phone out of her purse. The gruff grandpa next to her had closed his eyes, and from his snore, no amount of escaped blubbering would disturb him.
She stuck the buds in her ears, muffling her neighbor and scrolled through playlists to the one Gia had made for her. Suck It Up, Girl. She grinned, even as her heart skipped an uneven beat with the push of Play. The songs on that list could be anything from Irish jigs to Beethoven, but that was the point. She had to let the memories come.
Haunting guitar filled her head, U2’s Bad, a hard hit right off. Drawing a sharp breath, she fumbled with her phone, needing a distraction as the music pressed in. Research. She’d finally determine the meaning of neshama. She’d bet the rest of her savings account it was synonymous with victim. The price of scalped Garret Ambrose tickets had been scandalous.
The definition shone on her screen. Neshama—Hebrew. The Jewish notion of the soul. May mean spirit or soul.
All those times Garret had called her neshama…his soul.
Tears blurred her vision, and it had nothing to do with Bono crooning in her ear to break away. She folded her fingers around the phone and shifted toward the window. A full moon gleamed on a blanket of stars, close enough to touch. Maybe Garret looked at the same sky and remembered their first not-date, the star-struck heavens he’d arranged for her.
And maybe he wished he could take back the minutes he’d wasted.
Turning back to her phone, she researched some names of her own and let the music play on. All in, no fear, no going back.
* * * *
Adara joined the swarm trickling into the auditorium. The hours she’d crashed at her hotel hadn’t helped her fuzzy, jetlagged brain. The entire night felt surreal, from the ridiculously red dress she’d squeezed into to the buzzing crowd and lights. But she was in the right place. Garret’s name scrolled across the building, a blaze of glowing letters.
Her phone hummed in her fancy clutch, and she ducked into a nook, using a potted plant as a shield from the press of the music-loving masses. Who knew classical fans could be so pushy?
The phone vibrated again, and she popped open her clutch. Two texts from Gia. She shut the phone off without reading them. Whatever was happening at home, she didn’t want to know. She didn’t need any distractions tonight.
Adara merged back into the crawling mob. Bouncers-turned-doormen guarded all points of entry with sharp suits and sharper eyes. By the time she’d made it to the correct door, her ticket was crinkled and damp in her hand. She handed it to the third floor, entry five doorman with an apologetic smile.
With zero expression, he smoothed the ticket, examined it thoroughly, and took one step back with a sweep to his side. “This row, madam. Your seat is in the middle.”
Her heart sank. Back row nose-bleed section, and she had to climb over a dozen people either way to get to her spot. The stage was a mile down and across a sea of bobbing people. She’d paid a fortune for a horrible seat. Worse, the only way she’d ever get Garret’s attention was to play Spiderman and swing down from a rope. And the handful of watchdog security guards circling the stage looked like they could run. With her red dress seriously hampering her sneaking and sprinting skills, she wouldn’t make it halfway to the stage before being tackled.
“Madam, do you need assistance?” The doorman narrowed his eyes at her, suspicious, blocking the line until she proved her only destination was her assigned seat.
She clearly wasn’t stalker material.
“Thanks. I’ve got it.” She held onto her apology smile the entire struggle to her seat, only crushing a couple of toes along the way and earning one muttered curse. The curse was in a different language, so it didn’t count. With a relieved sigh, she plopped down between a grandma in pearls smelling of liquid money and a girl who’d fit into a punk rock band. She got sneers in varying degrees from both. Awesome.
She slumped in her seat. None of this was going as she’d imagined. Even in her worst-case scenario packages, Garret had at least acknowledged her before walking away. Here, stuck miles from the stage, there was no chance he’d see her, let alone hear her. She had to acknowledge a kernel of respect for Bella. Getting close to Garret took some serious resourcefulness.
The lights dimmed and the stage went black. The crowd hooted. Adara stiffened, clenching her purse like a lifeline.
As fast as the spotlights died, they flared to life and there he was. Garret with his violin, a handful of other musicians with instruments scattered around the stage. At least, she was relatively certain it was Garret. At this distance, she might be wrong. The golden hair looked right, but he appeared questionably dressed in all black.
Without an introduction speech, he set his bow to strings, and Vivaldi echoed through the hall, wild and untamed. All her identity doubts vanished. He was fast and furious, definitely Garret, every note impeccable and in synch with the other musicians. Years as a devoted band geek had served him well.
At the abrupt end of the song, he bowed curtly to roaring applause. His smile flashed white, and he looked up, as if he could actually see her in the sky-high section. Even if he knew she was here, where she sat, there was no way he could spot her, not with the spotlight blinding him and the distance between them, yet her heart drilled an allegro tempo—too quick, too hard.
He jumped right into Por Una Cabeza. The old woman next to Adara clasped her hands beneath her chin, a little girl lost in a favorite memory as the violin sang sweet and slow. The piano joined in, and as the pace increased, the violin strings squeaked, a missed note.
She almost gasped. The only time she’d witnessed Garret mess up was during karaoke Ambrosified, when she’d surprised him with her head banging.
Instead of continuing on as any normal musician would do, he lowered the violin to his side, dropped his head and looked down at the stage. The piano, guitar, cello and drum dwindled out, and the sudden silence ached in a beat of its own. No one in the stunned crowd said a word.
Adara couldn’t have used the silence to get his attention, even if she’d wanted to. She sat with the rest of the audience, frozen. She had zero doubt he was reliving the third-grade concert disaster, and it destroyed her.
Finally, Garret pivoted and faced the crowd. “My apologies,” he said into the microphone. One brave fan whooped an encouragement, and his usual smile flashed, then faded. “I took time off from touring because my passion for music faltered. Some element went missing, and I felt a break from the concert circuit to smaller, more intimate venues would reignite that passion.”
“You can have my passion, Garret!” some woman in the crowd offered.
Adara stiffened. Good idea. Maybe she should try yelling too.
But he ignored that one, so maybe not. “My respite worked. I found my passion again, my muse, and yet here I am again, unchanged.” He huffed in the microphone, a humorless laugh. “No, not unchanged. I’m changed, and yet I’m performing all the songs I’m comfortable with, like they’re a favorite sweatpants and slippers. I’m not comfortable. I�
�m…” He scratched his cheek with his bow. “I’m unsettled.”
A few catcalls and hoots went up from the crowd, and he waited until a restless silence resumed. “I’m unsettled, and the songs I had planned for tonight aren’t true to my heart.” He pivoted toward the other musicians on stage, as if communicating some sort of silent minstrel language only they understood. They all shifted subtly, adjusting, readying. Garret faced the crowd again. “So I hope you’ll forgive me for stepping off the expected path, but I have to let this out.”
The fans came to life, undeterred by the strange intercession, or maybe even more incensed because of it. Applause thundered to the domed roof, punctuated with whistles, yells and Garret’s name, but the second he settled the violin back in place, the noise dwindled.
Adara couldn’t relax. She’d come prepared to hear the classics, not whatever he now planned. As usual, Garret kicked through boundaries when she least expected it, breaking rules and spinning her in circles. She blew out a breath and forced her shoulders back into the seat. Nothing would ever be as usual with Garret. If she could handle whatever he threw out tonight, she could deal with anything.
The guitar and cymbals started up together, and Adara unleashed a full, true smile. Enter Sandman. How could she not love him? As the heavy cello bass thrummed through her veins, she cut the chain on her emotions, slipped into her memories and went into head-bang mode. The older lady beside her sniffed, but the punk rock girl on the other side joined in with a whooping fist pump. The violin started the melody, and she couldn’t stop singing along. When the chorus came, the rocker chick belted it out with her. By the second verse, most of the nosebleed section sang too. More than half the auditorium chanted the last chorus.
It was freedom, and she was high on it—or maybe it was the lack of oxygen due to the location of her seat. Either way, she let it flow through her blood, hot and raw.
Garret played more than a few songs from their not-date Name That Tune contest in the planetarium. I Knew I Loved You finally uncorked her tears. He moved through some songs he’d performed at the community college concert while keeping her on the edge of collapse. She didn’t know if he chose these songs to purge him of her or to torture himself. She didn’t dare believe he played them to canonize their time together. It could as easily be a memorial.
When he kicked seamlessly into Think of Me, she sucked in a breath. Mrs. Pearls and Cashmere reached over and squeezed her hand gently. She gave the woman a watery, grateful smile. No matter the differences, music connected people, something Garret had tried to remind her. With every note he’d torn her apart and remade her…and he didn’t even know.
Garret lowered his violin and paused at the microphone. “The next song is new. Mine. I wrote it in one day.” He shrugged at a few whistles. “Well, mostly in one day. It was inspired when I needed inspiration most, by someone who, ironically, refuses to be inspired.”
Adara’s heart flatlined. This was it, the song he’d harassed her daily to hear.
He closed his eyes, but the dreamy smile he usually wore was absent, and she didn’t need to be close to recognize that same lost, forlorn expression he’d worn at the school recital, as if his world had collapsed around him. The melody needled through her, poignant as only a violin could be, ripping the last of her seams out stitch by stitch. It was their relationship in song, a push and pull dance of opposites. Him, vibrant, open, and alive melding with her, haunted, small, lonely. For a few sweet beats, the two opposing threads blended, only to separate again. Yet even while reflecting her chronic grief, his hope and happiness never surrendered.
She released her grip on her ribs, letting her arms fall by her sides, freely unraveling. He’d found beauty in her misery, and even though it spiked his joy with pain, he shared it with the world. Not letting it in, letting it affect her, melt her down and reshape her would be tragic.
Trembling, her tears flowed in silent streams, dripped from her chin, rolled down her neck to dampen her dress. She didn’t look away from the stage, from Garret, didn’t try to escape the pain bulldozing through her and crushing the last of her broken pieces. She no longer belonged to the solitude and silence.
Whether or not he chose her, she belonged to Garret.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Still in her auditorium seat, Adara relaxed in the cushions, drained. The stage was dark and empty, and beyond a few stragglers, the other concert goers were all but gone. Her tears had dried but her eyes still burned, undoubtedly a psycho red. Surviving felt like rebirth.
And Garret still didn’t know.
Her scheme had failed gloriously, and she had no idea what to do next. But Gia would. She pulled her cell phone from the sparkling clutch in her lap. After gripping it so hard for so long, it remained in one piece, quality made. She’d never scoff at Gia’s purse selection skills again. Her phone blinked with the message she’d ignored earlier.
In case of emergency, G’s secret phone number.
Her heart, only recently rebooted, stumbled. Garret’s super-secret, emergency only, barely-checked-it number. If Gia had it, that meant she’d gotten it from Bob or London. Her face heated. Had Bob or London told Garret her plans?
Too beaten for another meltdown tonight, she slumped in her seat. Garret probably didn’t have his phone with him now, while he did whatever violinists did after a show. Joey had been simple. He’d be dancing with Gia, pumped up from his performance. Garret was more complicated. He could be sitting on a rooftop somewhere watching the stars just as easily as yucking it up with strangers in some obnoxious karaoke bar. It was part of what she loved about him. Figuring out what he might to do next was impossible—and unhelpful to her current predicament.
She hesitated, his number taunting her on the screen. If he knew she was here and wanted to talk, he would’ve texted her by now. But whether or not he wanted to see her again, he needed to know that if not for him, she never would’ve come back to life.
Unsure whether to go with serious or blasé or apologetic, she settled on a combo.
Your rendition of Enter Sandman sent me into head-banging mode. Pretty sure everyone near me thought I was a crazed fan who couldn’t contain herself. Oh, wait. I am. Fully converted. Lovely concert.
Sighing, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes, gathering the strength to move. The phone buzzed in her hand and she almost jumped.
You’re here? In Dublin?
Gah. The worst thing about text messaging was the impossibility of gauging emotions with the words. Is he happy? Horrified? Maybe he thought she’d totally lost it and quit her job to stalk him across the country. Which she had, but whatever… There could be so many meanings to that message.
Yep. Recovering in the concert hall.
She held on to her phone, expecting another quick response.
It didn’t come.
She couldn’t blame him. She’d been horrible. Selfish. Blinded by fear. And now that she was here, ready to take him on, he didn’t want to retry. Her revelation had come too little, too late. She released a long breath and gazed up at the lights. Going back to the shadows wasn’t happening and neither was surrender. If nothing else, she’d try a round of Garret harassment. He’d taught her by example. Gia could score another bank-account-killing ticket, a seat hopefully closer to the stage. She’d show him she was willing to invest in them. Him. Life. She swallowed hard, her hands shaking. Even if he rejected her.
Adara heaved to her feet and her phone buzzed.
Leaving so soon?
Her heart flipped all the way to her stomach. She scanned the stage and empty seats on the ground floor, but other than an older couple probably waiting for traffic to clear before leaving, no one else lingered. Only darkness filled the upper level exits on either side. She pivoted to doorway number five and froze.
Garret leaned against the wall, watching her. Close up, he absolutely embodied the pirate she always teased him about. He still wore the black boots, jeans and untucked shirt beneath
an ebony blazer. His blond hair was loose, a smooth, shining frame around his face. He’d let his stubble grow back, and apparently, some rogue violinists wore makeup before performing. Kohl darkened his eyes in an almost sinister vibe, and the fact his usual smile wasn’t showing didn’t help her confidence.
“Hey.” Her throat was so dry that the word came out like a croak.
As she faced him fully, his gaze slid down her dress in an appreciative sweep and his throat worked. Gia was right. He noticed. His eyes burned with obsidian fire. But he remained at the door, his expression serious. “Why are you here, Adara?”
She swallowed. Adara. Not darling. Not neshama. “Several reasons, actually. But mostly for you.”
His eyebrows twitched, but he merely watched her. She hated the distance between them, the caution in his every line.
“You were right.” She didn’t miss his mouth quirk. “I was afraid, so I shut out everything, which not only hurt myself, but the people I care about most, the people who cared enough about me to put up with my crap and not give up on me. I was selfish. A coward.”
She wanted to move closer to him, but didn’t dare, unable to gauge his emotions. His silence was horrible, so she did his duty and filled it.
“I hurt you, and I wish I could change that. I wish I could rewind.” She tried for a shaky smile. “I promised Tatum I’d apologize to you.”
He folded his arms, adding to his intimidating vibe. “You came all this way to apologize?”
“Not completely.” She clutched her purse, needing something solid to hang onto. “There were rumors that the hottest violinist ever was playing in Ireland, so I thought it might be worth checking out. By the way, securing a ticket took a bidding war, an act of God and half my savings account.”
One side of his mouth twitched up, a half-smile, there and gone. A glimmer of hope. “You could’ve asked me. I have connections.”
