“I won’t even be offended if you don’t make it to a performance. And I mean that. I know how sick you are.”
“Thanks. I really want to try to make it, though. I’ll take the seat closest to the door.”
Amelia smiled. “There you go.”
Jill’s warm expression faded. “We miss you at church.”
She smirked. “You see plenty of me here, don’t you?”
“C’mon, Ames, I’m being serious. The folks in the small group, the music-team people—whenever I make it there I get asked a thousand times where you are.”
Amelia shrugged. “Sundays are the only days I get to sleep in, and the only day that I don’t have rehearsal or work. I have to take a day to just veg.”
“I know, but still. You need Christian community.”
I do? were the first words in Amelia’s head, but she kept them inside for fear of confirming Jill’s suspicions about her lame spirituality. Honestly, she didn’t see why Christian community was any better than any other community. It wasn’t like they sat around talking about the Bible all the time. The only difference between the people at church and the people in the theater troupe was that the church people didn’t swear as much. Oh, and the theater people didn’t pray aloud before meals. Big deal.
“I have Christian community—I live with you guys.”
Jill rolled her eyes. “That’s not the same.”
“Why not? It’s better than nothing, anyway. Seriously, Jill, I do get what you’re saying, but I think you’re concerned over nothing. I know we both have plenty of memories of the artsy people we hung out with back in college. I know as a whole that group wasn’t the most wholesome. But this is a job; it’s adult and professional. We’re working, we’re busting our rears trying to make it in this business—no one has time to waste like we did in school. So really, you don’t have to worry about me being pulled over to the dark side or something.”
Jill studied her for a moment with tired eyes, then nodded. “I hear you. I hope you don’t think I’m hounding you or anything.”
Amelia smiled. “Of course not. You’re my friend, you care, I get it.”
Jill nodded. “Cool. I’m going to talk to Dane about coming to the show.”
“Great! I’ll save you the worst seat in the house. It’s the closest to the bathroom.”
Jill chuckled and wandered away, leaving Amelia to wonder why it was so all-important to Christians to surround themselves with even more Christians. To Amelia, people were people; she didn’t care what they believed in. And sometimes it felt easier being around non-Christians—she didn’t have to worry about saying or doing something that would make them question her beliefs. Her own doubts where more than enough to contend with.
By Saturday night, Amelia’s nerves were barely holding it together. She’d never felt this anxious before a performance, not even her Juilliard audition. She went to the theater early to rehearse, hoping it would calm her, but instead it drove her to full-on dread. Her fingers tripped over themselves, missed keys, fumbled during quick fingering changes. By the time Ross and Gabe arrived, Amelia was nearly in tears.
“Hey, it’s going to be fine,” Ross said, massaging the knots from her shoulders. “You need to get away from the piano, not spend more time at it. Go take a walk or something; you have plenty of time.”
She turned and gave Ross a nervous smile, then heaved a deep sigh, hoping to smother the butterflies, but it didn’t work.
She let him rub her shoulders a bit more, appreciating the gesture and praying it made a difference while trying to ignore the way his touch warmed her blood. When he left to help Gabe hunt down a missing prop, she stood, shaking the feeling of intoxication from her head, and took a walk around the block, wishing the LA air was cleaner so that every deep breath didn’t taste like exhaust. I’ll bet the air in Wheatridge is purer than Mother Mary, she thought, remembering how Marcus continually waxed eloquent about the small town. But then the thought of Marcus brought tears to her eyes. He’d been at every performance she’d had since they’d met. It broke her heart that he wouldn’t be there tonight.
She hadn’t let herself think about it much, but his presence had always been such a clear communication of how much he loved her and appreciated her talent that not having him there, even though she knew the reason, felt like a deliberate rejection. She’d have to get used to it if she wanted to tour—he couldn’t follow her around the country like a groupie. But she’d never realized how many ways she’d miss him when she let him go alone to Nebraska.
I can’t think about this now. She wiped tears from her eyes and rolled her head and shoulders, trying to work out the tension. A glance at her phone told her she had less than fifteen minutes before the curtain went up. She stuffed her hands into her pockets along with her phone and walked back to the theater to take her place. As she’d told Jill, this was professional. No angst allowed.
Ross spotted her as she entered the backstage area. “Feeling better?”
She nodded and lied, “Yeah, much. Thanks.”
He smiled and gave her a hug. “Break a leg.”
“You, too.”
She left her jacket in the dressing room and went to the orchestra pit to warm up with the others. The house lights were halfway up, and she could see pockets of people scattered around the red velvet seats. It wasn’t a sold-out show by any means, but they’d had better sales than they’d expected for their first show, so everyone was hopeful that the launch might receive more attention than they’d planned. Amelia tried to be encouraged by the people she saw coming in through the doors and down the aisles to their seats, but instead they fueled her nerves’ dance of fear. She shook out her hands and rolled her shoulders. C’mon, relax already.
When the lights dimmed, Ross stepped up to the conductor’s stand and a shot of adrenaline jolted Amelia’s butterflies to a standstill. Baton raised, he gave each member of the band a quick look, ending with Amelia, to whom he also gave a wink, then cued them into “Magic to Do,” the show’s opening number. Once the production was actually under way, Amelia felt her body settle in to the familiar rhythm of performing: Play a song, take a break, play a song, take a break. In between numbers in the first act, Ross leaned over her keyboard and whispered, “Feeling better?”
“I am, thanks.”
“Good.” He gave her another wink, and Amelia couldn’t help smiling at his encouragement. She was lucky to work with someone so understanding.
Things went well until the second act. Ross cued them in for “Love Song,” and Amelia heard the romantic lyrics in a way she hadn’t before. Her thoughts instantly went to Marcus, to missing him and to the fact that he wasn’t there for opening night. Her fingers fumbled.
She caught her place quickly, but the damage was done. The arrangement Ross had created was dominated by the piano, so there was no chance that her mistake went unnoticed. Her face couldn’t let go of the wince she’d pulled when her fingers had hit the sour notes; her shoulders came up around her ears as her muscles tensed against the glares she expected from the other musicians. She kept her eyes on her music, barely watching Ross for fear of catching the disappointment on his face. When the song ended, she covered her face with her hands, mortified.
An arm came around her shoulder. She thought it was the guitarist who sat beside her, but then Ross’s voice was in her ear. “Don’t beat yourself up. It’s not the end of the world.”
Amelia peeked over her shoulder and gave a small smile. “You sure about that?”
“You have nothing to worry about, believe me.” He squeezed her shoulder, then went back to the conductor’s stand. Amelia pulled up her posture and tried to regain her confidence, but she wavered. A sense of fear began to grip her. What if she’d been deluded about her abilities all along? What if she couldn’t cut it professionally? The scope of this show was nothing compared to the gigs she’d envisioned herself playing once her career was in full-swing, but if she couldn’t handle this, how w
ould she ever handle concert halls and orchestras?
Her mother’s face surfaced in her mind. Amelia worried that the image of her mother had become some kind of prophetic specter. Maybe there’s no use fighting it. It really is in the genes.
She shook off the unnerving thought and fought her way through the rest of the show. When the house lights came up, embarrassment kept her eyes down on her instrument as she packed it away while the other musicians congratulated each other and debated where to go celebrate.
“Hey, Amelia.” Ross’s voice snapped her from her thoughts. “You coming out with us? We’re trying to figure out where to go.”
“I don’t think I’m up for going out tonight. Thanks, though.”
Ross frowned, his arms crossing over his chest. “Amelia, I know what this is really about. Why are you taking it so hard? You need to ease up on yourself.”
Ross was overly forgiving, a touchy-feely “we’re all okay” kind of guy. There was no sense in trying to explain to him how wrong he was about her. She waved away his words and shoved her binder in her bag.
“I’m not giving you a choice,” Ross persisted. “Consider it part of the job. You don’t attend the opening-night party, you don’t get paid.”
“Oh, come on—”
“No, I’m serious. Zip that bag and come with us.” The twinkle in his eyes told her he was joking, but he was probably right that she should go. The thought of wallowing in her misery alone in her bedroom made her want to cry right there.
“Okay …” She offered her best playful smile. “I’m in.”
“Good girl.” He held out a hand. “Let me take your bag. You’ve got enough weight on your shoulders.” She let him take it, then let him lead her by the hand out of the orchestra pit to the dressing room where everyone had stashed coats and bags. Hugs and accolades were traded with the actors, then the musicians left for a bar down the street.
“I’m buying you a drink when we get there,” Ross said as they walked behind the others.
“I don’t normally drink.”
“Well, I’m not going to try to push you into it, but it might help you unwind a bit and sleep well tonight. You sure could use it.”
The night air was cold, but the only place the band could find a table big enough for all the members was in the beer garden out back. They dragged a second heater over to their table and Ross bought the first round for everyone, which included a spiked coffee for Amelia. “It’s decaf,” he said with a grin as he handed her the drink and took the seat next to her. “I knew you’d be cold, though, so I figured the coffee would be a good bet.”
Amelia took an exaggerated sniff of the brew. “Mmm. It’s perfect, thanks.”
He moved his chair closer and leaned in when he spoke. “Look. I know you’re putting on your best face, but I can tell you’re still freaked out by the performance tonight. Why? You’re so talented. There’s no need to be so tortured over such a little thing.”
Amelia took a long sip of her coffee, which was cooling quickly in the chilly February air. She could taste the alcohol, which made her throat tingle as it went down. “I’m not—I’m not tortured. I’m just … a perfectionist.”
“Hmm. I think it’s more than that.”
Amelia raised a brow. “Do you now? What are you, an armchair psychologist?”
“No. Just perceptive. You’re staking a lot on this job. You have big plans, big dreams—and you’re right to have them, because you have the talent to achieve them, if I may sound for a second like an after-school special.” They shared a laugh, then he continued. “You feel like you’re on the clock to make this happen because of this ridiculous three-month deadline you have, as though three months would be enough to determine whether or not a career was going to take off. And you’re terrified that if you screw it up, even just one little mistake, it’ll be all over.”
Amelia wrapped her hands around her mug. “Perceptive is an understatement, Ross.” He smiled, but was clearly waiting for her to respond. She swallowed some of her coffee in a few slow, small sips, then began to explain. “But it’s not just that. It’s—see, my mom was a Broadway singer, and she screwed it all up. She threw away everything she had, and her life was miserable because of it.” Thoughts she’d never articulated were tumbling from her mouth faster than she could censor them. “I don’t want to be like her. I don’t want my life to be a giant ball of regret. The thought of wasting my life playing nothing but hymns every Sunday, or teaching piano lessons, or barefoot and pregnant—”
Amelia shut her mouth, shocked at the things she was saying to someone she barely knew. “I—it’s not that—I mean I don’t—” She didn’t want to give Ross the impression that Marcus was trying to subjugate her, but couldn’t figure out how to say what she really meant. “Never mind.” She downed the rest of her coffee. “This was good for me, Ross; thanks for ‘forcing’ me to come out. But I really should go.” She felt bad for not reciprocating the conversation with Ross, but she was just so tired.
Without looking to see his reaction, she grabbed her keyboard case and hefted it over her shoulder as she clumsily threaded her way between tables to get to the bar. She was halfway to the front door when she felt the case lifted from her arm by a silent Ross. She let him take it, unwilling to argue in public, and muttered “Thank you” when they reached the sidewalk.
“Don’t go.”
Amelia shook her head. “You’re sweet to show concern, but I don’t have my head on straight tonight. The longer I stay the more likely it is I’m going to say something even more stupid. I know nothing is as bad as I’m making it out to be—I just can’t get my emotions to understand that.”
“I understand. Honestly.” Ross pulled her into a hug, and Amelia, hungry for a caring touch, melted into him. Over a month without physical affection had taken a toll she hadn’t fully realized until now. And when Ross slowly pulled back and kissed her, she kissed him back without thinking—until her head cleared and she realized what she was doing.
She broke the kiss, heart pounding in her ears, eyes wide with shock. Ross held up his hands in defense. “I’m sorry, Amelia, I got carried away. Forgive me—”
She didn’t give him time to finish. She grabbed the case from where it leaned against the bar’s facade and took off down the sidewalk, not caring it was the wrong direction. Tears threatened as she dodged people to jump onto a bus that stood at the corner. She pulled her bus pass from her purse with shaking hands, then found a seat and fell into it, her keyboard across her lap. The bus pulled away from the curb and passed the bar; Ross still stood on the sidewalk, and his eyes caught hers. She saw the regret on his face, but it was nothing compared to the shame she felt inside.
Her own mother’s affair had basically destroyed her marriage. Less than a month later her father had filed for divorce, and days later her mother had left, leaving her car at a beach two hours from home and disappearing without a trace. Her life ended the same way she’d lived it: leaving destruction in her wake and her family limping along behind her. And now Amelia was following in her footsteps.
It was almost one in the morning by the time she got home. The hour she’d spent on the buses had given her plenty of time to think, and every thought had served to remind her that she was doomed. Forget being stronger. Forget being smarter. All her work, all her focus had been for naught. Underneath it all she was a loser, a tramp, a stupid girl who couldn’t grab success with both hands if it stood still in front of her.
Wait. Calm down. She was overreacting, she knew it. She and Marcus were both so lonely, and at an impasse in their relationship. It hadn’t been a premeditated action. And she had put a stop to it. So maybe I’m not a lost cause.
But what would she do now? She couldn’t face Ross. And she certainly didn’t deserve to take up space in the troupe when she was just going to drag them down—but then again, she couldn’t quit and leave them in the lurch. And if she did quit, she’d have to go to Nebraska. She wouldn’t be abl
e to justify staying in LA, not without a gig. But how could she ever look Marcus in the eyes again, knowing she’d kissed someone else?
Her thoughts felt out of control, like someone else was thinking them. She could sense herself blowing things out of proportion, but had no idea how to rein it all back in. Ashamed as she was to even talk to him, she dialed Marcus, hoping he’d be able to calm her down.
But when he answered she realized she’d made a huge mistake. His groggy “Hello?” told her she’d woken him. She suddenly remembered the time difference—and the fact that he was supposed to preach in the morning.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, voice quavering. “I forgot the time. Go back to sleep.”
“Wait, Amelia—are you okay? Is everything all right?”
She took a deep breath, fighting the lump in her throat. “Yes, everything’s fine. Just—got in late from the show and wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize, it’s all right. How did it go?”
“Fine. It was fine. Went great. We can talk tomorrow, though, okay? Go to sleep, break a leg in the morning.”
“Yeah, okay. You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, fine, totally fine.”
“All right, babe. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
The line disconnected and Amelia clenched her jaw and fists. Angry, nauseated, and shaky, Amelia crawled into bed and burrowed beneath the covers and prayed for the mercy of sleep.
CHAPTER 6
Marcus shut his phone and set it on the nightstand, but he couldn’t fall back asleep. Adrenaline had shot through his chest when the ring had awoken him, and even though Amelia had insisted she was fine, he could tell she wasn’t. Between the chemical alertness and the concern for his wife, there was no point in even staying in bed. Trying not to dwell on the time, Marcus got up and headed for the kitchen.
It felt weird to be up and about in the middle of the night. Sleep didn’t usually evade him, and back in LA their apartment had been so small that he’d never wanted to risk waking Amelia by getting up on the rare nights he experienced insomnia. Here someone could be up and watching TV and you’d never hear it in the bedroom. We’d be so comfortable here together, he thought as he ate the bowl of cereal he’d poured himself. And if she were here, I’d know why she was on the verge of crying.
Composing Amelia Page 12
