Love at First Note

by Jenny Proctor

  He sank onto the bed like someone had drained the energy from him. It was horrible to realize that person was me. “I’m just saying it isn’t always black or white. And it isn’t as easy as you make it sound. You knew what you wanted from the very start, but most of us aren’t that fortunate. Success isn’t just about talent or wants or passion. It’s such a carefully crafted balance of opportunity and luck, and I’m not sure I’m ready to toss what I’ve built just on principle. If I can fight to keep things good, then I have to fight.”

  “But what exactly are you fighting for? Fame? YouTube views? The right to have a record label tell you they don’t like your music? That shouldn’t be what your music is about. Why does that stuff even matter?”

  “That stuff is my career.”

  “I know. And I don’t mean to diminish that. But is it really the career you want?”

  He froze, his glare cutting into me like a thousand tiny knives. “Asks the girl who’s hiding behind her mother’s illness so she doesn’t have to tour Europe?”

  The shock of his words pushed me backward to the door, the silence between us deafening. I took a deep breath, willing the tears to just stay in my stupid eyeballs already. “You don’t . . . I can’t . . . I need to go.”

  His shoulders dropped, and he stood. “Emma, wait. I didn’t mean—”

  I held up my hands to stop him. “No. You know what? It’s better this way. I just spent all morning trying to erase myself from the Internet so people will just leave me alone. I’ve had to apologize to my colleagues, make explanations to my parents and my friends, and it’s all because of you. I don’t need that kind of extra stress in my life.” I shook my head and took another step back. “It’s not worth it.”

  I left his apartment, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat, and crossed the entryway to my door. I tripped on the threshold, stumbling in before I slammed the door behind me. I slid down, still leaning against the door, until I sat on the wide planks of the wood floor, my knees pulled close to my chest. My hand caught on a loose sliver of wood between the old boards, and I flinched, a large splinter digging into the pad of my thumb. A single drop of blood beaded up on the surface of my skin. I whimpered. I stuck my thumb in my mouth and sucked away the blood, then picked at the splinter, trying to pull it loose. It was hard to see through my tears, which only made me want to cry harder.

  Stupid splinter.

  Stupid Elliott.

  Stupid Najim Berkley.

  Stupid me.

  Lilly lowered herself onto the floor beside me. “Hey.”

  I sniffed and held up my finger. “I have a splinter.”

  She smoothed my hair away from my face. “What happened?”

  “It’s over,” I said. “I’ve ruined everything.”

  Chapter 22

  Breakups are hard enough. Breaking up with a famous person just after a picture of you kissing floods the Internet? Yeah. Definitely harder.

  The following week was a symphony week: Monday through Thursday rehearsals, with performances on Saturday and Sunday. I was glad to be busy but was not glad to have the extra scrutiny and questioning regarding the entire kissing-Elliott/Cleveland debacle.

  Most people were pretty cool about it. A few of my fellow violinists looked like they’d love for me to pack up and take the job in Cleveland. A few others couldn’t spare a second thought on my career but were all about dishing about my kiss with the famous Elliott Hart. Which I really didn’t want to do. Especially not with people I’d never had a nonmusical conversation with.

  At the end of rehearsal Thursday night, I hung back, taking my time packing up, waiting for everyone to clear out so I could leave in peace. When I reached the back of the auditorium, Grayson startled me when he stepped out of the shadows.

  “Good grief, Grayson!” My hand flew to my heart. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “What’re you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on a honeymoon?”

  “We leave next week. Jane had a work thing come up, so we had to push it back.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.”

  “I wish I’d known,” he said. “If I had, I’d have signed on to play this concert. It’s great music.”

  He walked with me through the lobby of the concert hall and out onto the sidewalk. “Where are you parked? Can I walk you to your car?”

  “Sure. I’m across the bridge. Did you just come to hear the rehearsal?”

  He shook his head. “I came to check on you.”

  I stopped and turned to face him. He looked sincere, genuine concern radiating from his dark eyes. It was almost enough to make me cry. I took a deep breath. “So I guess you heard what happened.”

  He nodded. “I saw the picture on Twitter. Then Greg filled me in on the Cleveland ad.”

  “You saw the picture on Twitter. I still can’t wrap my head around what that sentence means.”

  “Emma, I feel responsible. I had no idea Agnes was going to spring Greg on you like that. I thought he just wanted to say hello, to catch up. He made it sound like you were good friends.”

  “We are friends, and that was fine. I didn’t actually mind seeing him. He was maybe a little pushy, but I can forgive him that. He’s just trying to do his job.” I started walking again. “I don’t love that any of this happened, but Greg wasn’t the problem. I don’t hold that against you at all.”

  “No, Emma,” Grayson said. “It’s more than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He frowned. “Najim Berkley is a friend. I invited him to the wedding.”

  I spun to face him. “Okay, I am going to hold that against you. Why would he do such a thing? Spy on us after we’d left? Is that what he aspires to be? A sneaky paparazzi?”

  “It’s awful, I know. And if it makes you feel any better, I reamed him out over it. I made him promise he wouldn’t try to contact you and that he’d stay away from Elliott too now that he knows he’s in Asheville.”

  “He’s not in Asheville anymore.”

  “No?”

  “He’s back in L.A.”

  “Oh. Well, just the same, Najim won’t be bothering you again. I can promise you that.”

  “How much did he make off that photo? I’m sure he sold it. That’s what paparazzi do, right?”

  Grayson hesitated. “I don’t know exactly. But I know it was more than what he’s making writing for Asheville News and Culture.”

  I shook my head in frustration. “I’m so glad someone was able to profit from my shame and humiliation.”

  “Now, wait,” Grayson said. “I get that it’s a little embarrassing. And the whole thing with Cleveland complicated it all even further. But what are you ashamed of? You and Elliott are adults who happened to be caught on camera enjoying what looked to be a pretty consensual kiss.” His question was sincere, not judgmental, so I gave it real consideration, ignoring the semi-awkwardness of talking about kissing someone with my newly married ex-boyfriend.

  “But it’s not just that it was caught on camera. I’ve had to explain to ten different members of the symphony board why my career path suddenly became worthy of national attention, and the only reason I can give is that I decided to make out with Hollywood’s most eligible pianist. It was a private moment, and now everyone is talking about it. That’s humiliating.”

  “What’s funny is not everyone would feel that way. Some people would eat up the extra attention or bask in the knowledge that they’d made out with someone so many people are interested in.”

  I cringed. “Ugh. I can’t imagine.”

  He chuckled. “That you can’t imagine is what makes you such a paradox.”

  “Why am I a paradox?” I was growing weary of the conversation and really wanted to just go home, but he also had me curious.

  “You’re a performer, Emma. Most stars are only stars because they want to be in the limelight. And when you’re on stage performing, you shine brighter than a
nybody. You demand the attention of every single ear and eye in the room. And yet, once you drop your bow, it’s over. You don’t want the attention at all, which is incredibly rare in this business.”

  “But it’s not me that demands the attention when I play. It’s the music. I’m just . . . the vessel.”

  “That’s why you’re so good. But I also wonder . . .”

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “When I think about you in that context—as a performer—it makes sense that you wouldn’t want to go to Europe. You’ve never liked extra attention.”

  “How did you know I didn’t want to go to Europe?”

  “Greg told me you turned him down. He’s hopeful you might reconsider.”

  I huffed. “Being concertmaster is hard enough.” I heard myself say the words before I really understood what they meant. I’d always loved the anonymity of the symphony, that it wasn’t about me and my instrument but about all of us working together to make a whole that was so much greater than each of our individual parts. But Grayson had just defined my feelings about performing in ways I’d never been able to quantify. And he was right.

  I’d trained myself to be the best, and with that came certain responsibilities. I played the solos. I sat as concertmaster. But that was never what it was about for me. Which meant Elliott was also right. I was hiding. Because who would believe a musician who didn’t want to be the face of a European tour? Not wanting that kind of opportunity didn’t jibe with what I’d been working and striving and studying and practicing for for years. I couldn’t admit to anyone it wasn’t what I wanted. I hadn’t even been able to admit it to myself. Mom had been a great cover story.

  Grayson leaned down to catch my eye. “Hey, you okay?”

  I managed a smile. “Yeah, just . . . I don’t know that I’ve ever realized that about myself.”

  I clicked my car unlocked, and Grayson opened the back door, reaching for my violin to put it inside. “I’m glad I could help out.”

  “Thanks for checking on me,” I said. “It was nice of you. And I appreciate you calling off Najim.”

  He reached out and gave me a hug. “Things will be all right, Emma. Just hang in there. Tell Elliott I said hello.”

  I didn’t tell him I couldn’t tell Elliott hello.

  I couldn’t tell Elliott anything.

  * * *

  As the days passed, life without Elliott became dull and achy and just plain miserable. I thought about him all the time, replaying the last moments we’d had together over and over again. I became the worst kind of Internet stalker, trolling gossip sites for any mention of Elliott like a mouse looking for crumbs. I was annoyingly aware of the irony, turning to gossip sites for the exact information I resented everyone else for wanting. I even stooped so low I called our landlord to see if he knew anything about Elliott’s intentions. Even just a glimmer of hope that he might return to Asheville would have been enough to keep me going.

  “He paid six months in advance,” Julio had said. “As long as he’s paid, who really cares if he’s living in the house? He’s paid up through February. That’s all I know.”

  I kept feeling the sting of the accusations Elliott had thrown in my face and the shame of the ones I’d thrown at him. The worst part was recognizing just how right he’d actually been. I’d already admitted his shrewdness in defining my motivation about Europe, but the more I considered his thoughts on Ava, the more I realized he was right in that regard too. It wasn’t fair for me to push Elliott to pursue his dreams but not give Ava the same courtesy. I’d always claimed I wanted her to be happy, but I’d been pretty adamant about defining that happiness for her. She and I were due for a hard conversation. I just wasn’t sure I had the emotional stamina to go through with it. At least not yet.

  * * *

  “Momma?” I pushed the back door open with my hip and hauled two large grocery bags into Mom’s kitchen.

  “In here,” she called from the living room.

  “I brought groceries,” I called. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  After putting everything away, I joined Mom in the living room, where she was resting on the couch, a book open on her lap. I sat beside her and pulled my feet up, leaning into her side. She wrapped her arm around my shoulders.

  “Any news?” It had been almost two weeks since Elliott had left.

  I shrugged. “Nothing new. I still miss him.”

  “Your grandma is worried about you. Are you avoiding her calls?”

  “No. I don’t know. Maybe? I just don’t know what to say about it anymore. I’ve found a kind of numbness where I’m managing to exist at least semifunctionally. But talking about it makes the numbness go away. It’s too hard.”

  “I wish talking could make my numbness go away.”

  “Oh, geez, Mom. I’m sorry. That was totally lame.”

  She chuckled and reached over to pat my hand. “It’s fine. I was trying to be funny.”

  “How are you feeling?” I asked. “Any different?”

  She waved away my question. “Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you right now.”

  I scoffed. “Uh-uh.”

  “Don’t uh-uh me. I don’t think this is complicated. You’re miserable without him.”

  She was right, and I’d made peace with some of the things he’d said to me when we’d argued. But I was still scared, worried that my final words—those ugly, awful final words—actually held a tiny sliver of truth. The media inquiries and unwanted calls and texts had slacked off after a couple of days, and by the end of my concert week, everyone with the symphony had pretty much decided they believed I wasn’t going anywhere. But the comments and speculation about who I was and what I meant to Elliott were still rampant on the Internet. Entire message boards were dedicated to discussing the long-term potential of our relationship. The amount of information they’d managed to unearth about my life was frightening, everything from my high school graduation photo to news articles about my scholarships to CIM and my time at Juilliard to my time playing with the Cleveland Orchestra. It was crazy.

  I didn’t need to be reading any of it. It jaded my thoughts about Elliott and interfered with my ability to listen to my own heart. But I was having a hard time looking away.

  “Emma.” Mom squeezed my hand. “Don’t throw this away. He makes you happy. That’s all that matters.”

  It wasn’t like Mom to give such specific advice. She was queen of “I have faith in you,” a firm believer in giving her children the tools they needed to make good decisions, and then a master at stepping back and letting us make our own choices. To actually tell me what she thought I ought to do? It was a little unprecedented. And kind of annoying.

  I sat up. “I need to get back to Asheville. I have lessons in forty-five minutes.” It was pretty rotten as far as dismissals go, but I was trusting Mom’s ability to forgive and love me anyway.

  She patted my hand again. “Okay. Thanks for the groceries. Do you want to come over on Sunday?”

  “Yeah, probably. What’s Dad grilling?”

  “The chicken you just bought,” Mom said. “Come early. It might be a good time to talk to your sister.” She gave me a knowing look.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “You should ask her to play for you. She’s been working on some fun stuff. Last night it was Michael Jackson.”

  “For real? On her violin?”

  Mom murmured her agreement. “It was quite good. Thriller, I think.”

  So it wasn’t so much that Ava didn’t want to play. She just didn’t want to play like me. “Too bad Thriller won’t get her into CIM.”

  Mom shrugged. “She’ll make her own way. We’ve had some long talks the past couple of weeks. She isn’t exactly sure what she wants to do, but she’s pretty certain what she doesn’t want to do. We have to support her in that. We—as in me, your father, and you.”

  I heaved a sigh. “I know. I’ll talk to her.”

  Mom raised her
eyebrows. “That’s it? You know?”

  “Don’t act so surprised. I’m not too prideful to admit when I’m wrong.”

  “Are you too prideful to admit you’re in love with Elliott?”

  My jaw dropped. “What’s gotten into you today? Call me out a little more, why don’t you?”

  “Okay, I will. I think you’re making a mistake. I know Elliott’s fame is overwhelming, but you’ll get used to it. You’ll find a new normal together and adjust.”

  “You make it sound too easy. And it isn’t just about his fame. It . . . We said some stuff. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “So fix it. Life is too short to waste on misspoken words and wounded feelings.”

  I kissed her on the cheek and stood. “I really gotta go. See you Sunday.”

  * * *

  I barely made it through lessons. I was irritable, still a little bugged from my conversation with Mom. That I managed to make it through without making any of my students cry felt like a small victory.

  After lessons I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a gallon of milk. In the checkout line, a woman approached me, a timid smile on her face. “You’re her, right? Elliott’s girlfriend? I recognize you from the picture.”

  I gave her a tight smile but didn’t say anything in return.

  “Do you think I could get a picture with you? Just really quick before you go?”

  Seriously? A picture with me just because I’d been Elliott’s girlfriend? “You know?” I finally responded. “It’s been a long day. I’d really rather not.”

  The woman’s expression changed, like she finally realized what she’d been asking. “Oh. Okay. Sorry for bothering you.” And then she turned and walked away.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about her as I made my way home. It wasn’t even a fifteen-second conversation, and yet somehow I felt like everything had changed. Because I realized the woman in the grocery store wasn’t in control of me. She could ask to take my picture, ask about my personal life and my relationship with Elliott, but I didn’t have to respond. I didn’t have to let her in.

  Elliott had tried to tell me I couldn’t play their game. I couldn’t let them get to me, but that was precisely what I’d been doing. Every time I opened a browser and looked for new comments or new blog posts or new articles about our relationship, I was feeding the monster that was eating me alive.