Page 12 of Not Another Love Song

I remember you.

It was worth more to her than the one-hundred-dollar bill.

Whenever Ava spoke to her at Pops rehearsals, Gwen felt a shadow of that initial conversation pass through her—the same thrill to be talking to someone who maybe could understand everything about her.

“Good morning,” Gwen echoed, stopping on the street and waiting for Ava to walk to the door. “Did you have a nice weekend off?”

“No, of course not.” Ava laughed. “I was in Houston for a workshop. Beautiful city, but I didn’t get to see any of it.” She took the door from Gwen and gestured for her to enter first. “Have you ever been?”

“No, but, uh, I haven’t been anywhere.” Gwen fell into step next to her. Ava was almost half a foot shorter than she was, but she wore heels to every occasion, graceful as any runway model.

“That’s a shame. You’re so young. Almost twenty-three, right?”

Gwen’s eyes snapped to her. “I—yes, in June.”

“Have you really been with us four years?” Ava asked, holding the door to their room open for her. “Your audition feels like yesterday.”

Heat rose in her cheeks as she remembered the day she’d pulled on the dress she wore to her grandfather’s funeral the year before and taken the train into Manhattan to audition for the opening in the violin section. Ava had been behind the table with Nathan Andrews, the conductor of the Pops (and Ava’s husband). When Ava had leaned forward on the table and asked, “Aren’t you Mabel’s girl?” Gwen had almost fainted on the spot.

The memory of it still made her head spin. Gwen was about to split off and head toward the back of the violin section when Ava caught her elbow.

“Do you have a second after rehearsal today? I’d like to discuss something with you.”

Her blood ran cold. Ava was friendly and caring, but they didn’t have private discussions. Ever. A voice in her head screamed, You are fucked, but she shook it off and nodded with a smile.

Ava squeezed her arm and turned to greet the woman who played second chair.

Before she could worry too much about it, Gwen turned toward the orchestra and felt that sensation of calm and harmony course through her blood—the same feeling she got before every rehearsal or performance. When the Pops had tuned together during her very first rehearsal, she’d felt something click into place in her chest. It was some piece that had gone missing the day her mother sat her down and explained what breast cancer was.

That calm. That wholeness. She felt flickers of it with Mabel, sharing a good meal or talking about symphonies. It sparked to life when she’d met Jacob, before she’d learned she would have to share him—that he would never truly belong to her like she could belong to him. And she’d just started to truly understand her grandfather’s humor before a different cancer swept him away too.

But listening to the Pops tune…actually tuning with them, contributing, being a part of something bigger—it was as close to belonging as Gwen had felt in thirteen years.

She moved toward her chair in the fourth row, squeezing past Henry, the violinist who sat on the inside and reminded her so much of her grandfather. Only about half the seats were filled, most of the players still milling around and chatting.

Her eyes cast over to Xander Thorne’s seat to the right of the conductor’s stand—empty. She hadn’t expected otherwise. He never arrived early, and rarely on time. Nathan had started stalling at the top of rehearsal just to make it less awkward when he walked through the door.

Her friend Mei flagged her over, and Gwen set down her things before crossing to the trombone section.

Mei hugged her and asked, “How was that wedding?” But before Gwen could say a word, she jumped back in with, “Oh, my god, I subbed in on Wicked—you should have heard this girl’s voice crack. It was insane. I don’t even know how to describe it, Gwen—”

“Wicked ? The Saturday matinee?” one of the trumpet players called over. “I was there!”

“You were subbing for Wicked ?” Mei spun to him. “I didn’t see you.”

“I was in the audience—”

“Of course you were, Jeremy. You know, some of us have to work—”

Gwen loved Mei. She was a double espresso in the body of a wiry Chinese girl. Her trombone was bigger than she was, but not nearly as loud. Gwen’s eyes flicked to the door again before focusing back.

“Talk to me when you’re done paying off your yacht, Jeremy,” Mei hissed.

“It’s a houseboat. I told you—”

“I’m not listening, Jeremy!” She spun back to Gwen. “You didn’t tell me about the wedding. Did you get to eat the food? I love it when they let you eat the food. What kind of cake was it?”

“We were only there for the ceremony—”

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