“Shut up and take these so I can get my keys.”
She put the truffles on the floor of the entryway and took the cups of hot chocolate. “Where’s Lilly? Can we just kick on the door so she’ll let us in?”
I kept digging, but my keys were inexplicably absent from my purse. “She’s out with Trav. Seriously, Ava. I cannot find my keys. They have to be here. I just used them to drive us home.”
“Did you leave them in the car?”
It had been a bit of an orchestration getting us both out of the car with all our chocolate, plus Ava’s overnight bag. It was possible my keys had gotten lost in the shuffle. “Wait here. I’ll go check.”
Two minutes later, I returned to the entryway completely disheartened.
“No keys?” Ava asked when she saw my face.
“No, they’re there. Right on the center console. But seeing as how the car is locked, they aren’t much use.”
“Oh no! Do you have a spare key?”
“Sure I do. Inside my apartment.”
“So we’re locked out of everywhere. Can you call Lilly?”
I pulled out my phone. “I’ll send her a text. Dang it, I feel like an idiot.”
“It could be worse,” Ava said. “Your front door could have been locked. Then we’d be locked out and freezing. At least the entryway is warm.”
Lilly responded to my text almost immediately. Ended up seeing a late movie. Done in an hour. Can you wait?
I sighed. “Lilly can be here in an hour.” I keyed out a response. Yeah, we can wait. Thanks.
Knock on Elliott’s door. He’s there. Saw him arriving on our way out. His couch is better than the floor.
So Elliott was back. I knew I’d see him at rehearsal the next morning, and I’d been mentally preparing for that. But right now? With my little sister along? I stood staring at his door long enough that Ava figured out what was running through my brain.
“Is he home?”
I glanced out the front door. “I don’t see his car, but Lilly says she saw him come in.”
Ava took two steps across the entryway and knocked on his door before I could even utter a protest. “Our arms are full of food,” she said. “What guy says no to free food?”
Seconds later, Elliott opened his door. He looked from Ava to me, then back to Ava again. “Hi.”
“Hi.” There was something else I was supposed to say, but, surprise, my brain totally stopped talking to my mouth the second Elliott said hello.
“So we’re locked out,” Ava said, giving me a pointed look. “Can we hang at your place till Lilly gets home to let us in?”
Elliott looked my way, his eyebrows raised in question.
“Sorry. I locked my keys in my car, and Lilly won’t be home for another hour.”
“We have food, if that helps.” Ava held up her bag of chocolate. “We just bought out The Chocolate Lounge.”
Elliott looked weary, his face passive as he ran his hand across his jaw, but he finally smiled, his hesitance gone in a blink. “I’ve only heard about The Chocolate Lounge. I guess it’s time I finally try it.” He pushed the door open behind him. “Come on in.”
We spread our assortment of desserts over the counter in Elliott’s kitchen. Elliott’s kitchen. Where he was standing. His hair a little unkempt. Bits of stubble lining his chin and cheeks. It was almost too much for me to handle.
“This was just going to be for the two of you?” he asked, eyeing all the options.
“It was too hard to choose,” I said. “Plus, we’re celebrating happy sister time.” I looked toward Ava as she stood in the living room studying Elliott’s bookshelf.
“Things are good?” Elliott asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. Better than they have been in a long time.”
“I’m really glad.”
We were being too polite, ignoring the tension humming between us, pretending like our last conversation hadn’t been groundbreakingly awful. But with Ava in the room, it was impossible to say anything different.
“Are you kidding me?” Ava called. “This is signed by the author?” She held up a copy of Brandon Sanderson’s Words of Radiance. “This is seriously one of my favorite books.”
“Yeah? Mine too,” Elliott said. “I met him at a charity event last year.”
“This is the coolest thing ever.” Ava opened the book and studied the title page, Sanderson’s swirl of a signature gracing the bottom half.
Elliott crossed the room and stood beside her. “You know what? Why don’t you keep it? He didn’t personalize it, so you should have it.”
Ava looked like she was going to melt out of her shoes. “For real?”
“I’ve got his e-mail. I’ll ask him to send me another one.”
She looked at me and held up the book, her eyes and smile equally wide. “Do you see this?” She pointed at the book. “Do you see how amazing this is?”
I laughed as she stretched out on Elliott’s couch and opened the book. “Okay, don’t worry about me,” she called. “I’ll be right here basking in the brilliance of Brandon’s words.”
Elliott walked back to me, genuine happiness in his eyes. He was happy for Ava and me. He didn’t even have to care, but he did anyway, and it was unraveling my emotions faster than I could reel them in. When he stopped in front of me and ran his fingers through his hair, I had to turn away. I cleared my throat and crossed to the other side of the kitchen.
“I haven’t seen her this happy in a long time,” I managed to say.
“I’m glad you guys were able to work things out.”
I leaned against the counter. “It was easy, really. I just had to ease up and let her know I loved her no matter what. She should have known that all along, which is the hardest thing for me to realize. If I’d just talked to her and listened to how she really felt . . .” I shrugged. “Live and learn, I guess.”
He pushed his hands into his pockets.
“Thanks for nudging me in the right direction,” I said.
He moved across the kitchen so we were standing side by side. “It was nothing. I’m thinking maybe it’s advice I should have taken myself.”
His words sent my nerves into a full-on frenzy. My stomach felt a little like it was trying to crawl out through my throat, and my hands started to tremble. Stupid hands. I clenched them into fists and crossed my arms, hiding my fists in my armpits. I swallowed, hoping I understood what he meant. “Yeah?”
Ava popped her head in the kitchen. “Sorry. Just getting another macaron.”
I forced myself to breathe. “It’s okay,” I told her. “You can get whatever you want.”
She picked up a cookie and took a bite, moaning with pleasure. “Seriously. How have I never tried these before? They’re French, right? Promise when you’re in Paris you’ll send me some.”
I closed my eyes and winced.
“Paris?” Elliott asked.
“Emma’s touring Europe this spring. She hasn’t told you yet? I keep begging Mom and Dad to let me fly over to see one of her performances, but they seem to think high school is more important. It’s so lame.”
Elliott looked my way. “So you took the job with Cleveland.” He didn’t sound mad exactly, just surprised.
I nodded. “Rehearsals start in February. I have to be there by the tenth.”
“Wow. I mean, is that . . . I guess it’s great. What about your mom?”
“Grandma moved in just after Christmas. I know I had my reasons for not going, but I guess stuff has changed. Plus, I’ve done a lot of really hard thinking since we . . . since you left, and, well . . . yeah. I’m going to Europe.”
My explanation felt hollow. Words were screaming through my brain—explanations, assurances, promises I was ready and willing to make—but it didn’t feel right to say any of them, not when as far as I knew, Elliott’s feelings were no longer the same as mine.
“Are you excited about the performance tomorrow?” Ava asked Elliott. This time I was actually glad for the
distraction.
“Yeah. I really love playing Prokofiev.” He turned to me. “How have rehearsals been?”
I shrugged. “I think we’re ready. We’re maybe not as good as we should be—not good enough for you. But I think we’re as good as we can be. We’re doing Dvorak’s Seventh before the Prokofiev. It’s my favorite.”
Silence stretched between us until it was almost unbearable. The awkwardness was killing me.
Ava grabbed another macaron, shoving the entire thing in her mouth in one bite.
I looked around Elliott’s apartment, to the sheet music scattered across his piano, the shoes by his bedroom door, the books lining his shelves. And then I realized—I turned to face him. “You haven’t started packing.”
“Oh. No, I, uh, I decided to stick around a while.”
It was the worst kind of feeling to know he was going to be in Asheville after all and I wasn’t.
The next forty-five minutes were brutal. Awkward small talk, bone-burning tension pulsing between Elliott and me. Ava seemed completely oblivious, which was probably better. She was the one who kept us talking, asking questions about people Elliott had met, places he’d been.
Lilly finally knocked on the door just before twelve thirty. “I’m home,” she called through the door. “You’re officially rescued.”
I started gathering the leftovers from The Chocolate Lounge and stacking the containers on the edge of the counter.
Ava grabbed the desserts. “Here, I’ll take these. I’m sure Lilly will want something.” She turned to leave the apartment. “You coming, Em? I’m gonna steal your favorite pillow if you don’t hurry.”
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said to Elliott.
“Yeah,” he said. For the briefest of moments, he looked disappointed, but then it was gone, hidden behind a more neutral mask of indifference. “Tomorrow.”
Inside my apartment, I dropped my purse on the couch and pulled out my violin. I didn’t even care that it was almost one in the morning. I might not have the words to explain to Elliott how I felt, but I did have the music. I stood close to the wall, where I knew he would hear me, and played the song he’d sent me at Christmas like it was the last song I would ever play. I knew every note, every dynamic like he’d written the music right into my heart. He didn’t have any regrets? I was determined to make sure he knew I did have regrets. And I wasn’t going down without a fight.
Chapter 29
Elliott looked up, his eyes meeting mine again. When guest soloists perform with a symphony, they only rehearse once, normally the day of the performance, so Saturday morning was the orchestra’s first opportunity to meet him. He was gracious and charming and patient as people introduced themselves and asked for pictures and autographs. But the eye contact—he was definitely seeking me out, giving me the tiniest hint of a smile every time he caught my eye.
It was thrilling, but I was too much of a music nerd to claim it was even remotely significant compared to the exhilaration of accompanying him. I’d never experienced anything like it. After rehearsal, the energy on stage was palpable, everyone buzzing from the music. We sounded good. And that was a great feeling.
Brian arrived at the end of rehearsal, whisking Elliott away for a series of interviews with various media outlets and then a preconcert meeting with Richard Schweitzer. Elliott and I didn’t have the chance to speak even once. Instead I returned home alone to take a nap and get dressed for the concert.
I chose my best concert black, a fitted dress with a wide boat neck, three-quarter-length sleeves, and a skirt that flared at the knee just enough to give me the comfort I needed on stage. I swept my long hair into a chignon at the base of my neck, a few loose pieces framing my face, and spent extra time on my makeup.
Lilly met me in the kitchen, nodding her head in approval. “You make black look better than anyone I know,” she said. “You’re going to be great tonight.”
I hoped.
At seven fifty-four, I stood backstage and played through a few measures of the Dvorak that would open our performance, blending in with the other musicians warming up and tuning their instruments on stage. It wasn’t pretty, exactly, but I loved the cacophony right before a performance when everyone was getting ready. It was the sound of anticipation, a reminder that all our instruments with their varying sounds, from the deep thrum of the tuba to the trill of the clarinet to the resonant hum of the cellos, would soon blend into one great whole.
“The perks of being concertmaster, huh? You get your own grand entrance.” I turned to find Elliott standing behind me. I’d never seen him in a tuxedo and was momentarily distracted by the sight. The man knew how to wear a suit.
“I hate it. I’m always afraid I’m going to trip.”
“I’m sure you’re going to be great.”
“I hope so. Are you nervous?”
“More than I ever have been before.”
“You shouldn’t be. You know you’ve got this. How was your meeting with Schweitzer?”
Elliott smiled and gave me a slight shrug. “He’s interested. We listened to a few demos, and he liked what he heard. If this goes well tonight, I think there’s a good chance of me signing.”
If the evening goes well? If Elliott played even half as well as he’d played at rehearsal, the audience was in for the concert of a dang lifetime. “That’s amazing. I’m really happy for you.”
He held my gaze, intensity building behind the smoky blue of his eyes. “I need to tell you something.”
I gripped the neck of my violin a little tighter. “Okay.”
“First of all, thank you for this.” He motioned to the stage and the auditorium around us.
“Why are you thanking me? You’re the one saving the concert.”
“No, it’s the other way around. You’ve given me a gift by asking me to play tonight. I had forgotten what this felt like, and it’s made me doubt what I’m capable of. I should have listened to you before I went to L.A. I was running scared, afraid to be true to myself because of what I might lose. I’d stopped trusting my intuition. But not anymore. Playing like this feels right.”
“You deserve this, Elliott. I’m just glad I get to be up here with you.”
He took a step closer. “The other thing I wanted to say is I’m sorry.”
I closed my eyes, afraid to meet his gaze. I couldn’t afford tears this close to going on stage.
“I never should have walked away from you after you told me how you felt.”
The noise on the stage finally quieted, serving as my cue to join the orchestra.
Stupid, stupid orchestra!
“It was stupid. I’d just worked so hard to convince myself a relationship with me meant hurt for you; it took me a few days to really process what you said.”
I gave him a pleading look. I hated to leave, but the only thing holding up the start of the concert was me. “I need to go on stage,” I whispered.
Elliott nodded. “Just one more thing. The song I sent you for Christmas. I never told you what it’s called.”
Dr. Williamson materialized beside us and cleared his throat, giving us a pointed look. “I believe you’ve missed your cue, Ms. Hill.”
“It’s French,” Elliott continued. “Le Coup de Foudre.”
“Now, Emma. Time’s up,” Dr. Williamson urged.
Elliott gave me a resigned smile. “Go,” he said softly. “I’ll translate later.”
Chapter 30
At first I worried I might not be able to get into the right head space to make it through the first half of the concert without dwelling on all things Elliott. But it took only the first few notes of Dvorak’s Symphony no. 7 before everything else faded into the background.
When the music was just right, something I was particularly passionate about, my brain went to this in-between space where I no longer felt the solid presence of the chair beneath me or the worn wood of the stage under my feet. I didn’t see the audience or feel the heat of the bright lights ov
erhead or notice the deep red of the heavy curtains gathered on either side of the stage. I didn’t even really see anything. I only felt the music, the vibrations running through me like a heartbeat. Dvorak’s Seventh? It was that kind of music.
But I did think of Elliott just moments before he joined the orchestra on stage. As I watched my stand partner move the Dvorak aside and pull forward the Prokofiev, I thought about the words Dvorak used to describe his Seventh Symphony. He said it was written without one superfluous note. In a way, it was how Elliott’s performance needed to be—intentional, purposeful, perfect. Every single note he played had to ring like it was the most important note the audience would ever hear.
When Elliott emerged onstage, thunderous applause reverberated off the cavernous ceiling of the performance hall. He crossed to where I stood and shook my hand, soloist to concertmaster. He caught my eye for only a tiny speck of a moment, but it was enough for me to recognize the glint of confidence in his expression. I got this, his face said. I got it.
And he did.
Oh, how he did.
His performance was a study of opposites. One minute his notes were soulful and joyful, the next something frenzied and brusque. Whatever the piece demanded, Elliott complied, the music moving through his hands, up his arms, and into his shoulders until it was bursting from every inch of him, shining on his face like a testimony of Prokofiev’s greatness.
Twenty-eight minutes later, when Elliott played the final notes of the concerto, there was a moment of perfect silence where it felt like the entire audience took a collective breath, then applause burst forth louder and more enthusiastically than anything I’d ever heard in the performance hall before. Dr. Williamson turned and bowed, then motioned for the orchestra to stand. We took our bow, and then finally Elliott stood, bowing to the audience as the applause grew even louder.
He played a Tchaikovsky Nocturne for an encore. I was impressed by his choice, both because of his crazy-good talent and because choosing Tchaikovsky demonstrated good performance sense. The nocturne was a perfect contrast to the intentional chaos of the Prokofiev. Elliott was so, so much more than what his YouTube repertoire had ever given him credit for.
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