Page 60 of Not Another Love Song

She took advantage of the open bar for the first hour. She was dragged into pictures and conversations and miniature interviews by friends and strangers alike. She said hello to Mark from the New York Times again and made sure he felt welcomed. An older gentleman cornered her for almost fifteen minutes, talking about how he was sure there was an instrument off in the tuning, and how impressed he was that she found it.

Someone tapped her shoulder, and she took a deep breath, preparing herself for another mundane conversation with a stranger. She turned, looked down, and found Mabel standing there in her only nice dress, a proud smile on her face.

Gwen abruptly burst into tears.

She pulled her into her arms for a hug—a Mabel Hug—and ran a hand over her back. “Crying in public is very unbecoming, Miss Jackson,” she teased.

Gwen gave a wet laugh and whispered, “What are you doing here? Were you at the concert?”

She pushed a curl over Gwen’s ear. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Gwen hiccupped. She knew there were donors and subscribers all around them, staring at her strangely as she sobbed, but she didn’t care.

“You shouldn’t have paid for the after-party!” Gwen whispered.

“Jacob gave me the ticket,” Mabel said. “You played beautifully tonight, Gwen. You were such a professional.”

Just as she was thanking her, a hand dropped on her shoulder.

“Gwen, dear, I want to introduce you to—” Ava stopped short when she saw who she was talking to. “Mabel,” she whispered breathlessly.

The hand holding Gwen’s went still, and Mabel turned a stony expression on her. “Ava.”

“What are you…” Ava cleared her throat. Gwen watched as the two women regarded each other. “You should have told me you were coming tonight.” A bright smile. “You could have sat in the box with me.”

“I prefer the balcony.” Mabel’s voice was clipped. “I’m sure you remember.”

Ava blinked and shook her head, taking a breath. “Excuse me, I’m sorry. I need to borrow Gwen, but…stay. We can have a drink.”

“No, I need to get going.” Mabel shifted her bag on her shoulder. “Gwen, you were magnificent. Don’t be a stranger.”

And then she was gone—pushing through the crowd until she disappeared.

Ava brushed down her dress and cleared her throat. “Um, let me introduce you…” She trailed off, and Gwen followed her as she crossed through the room toward someone important, but Gwen caught the way Ava watched the front doors open and close.

After twenty more minutes of introductions and pictures, she spotted Xander across the room, shaking hands and sipping scotch—caught up in a similar dance of donors. He grinned at something an older woman said, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Suddenly, Xander’s gaze snapped up to hers. She looked away, like she hadn’t just been staring, and let her eyes wander over the rest of the room. When she glanced back to him, he was still watching her, reaching for another glass of scotch.

Gwen felt that same pull again. Like the string between them was pulled too tight, too sharp. She slipped away from Ava and found Mei. They drank the cheapest alcohol the bartender would give them (open bar now closed), and Gwen managed to evade every question Mei threw at her about why Xander Thorne couldn’t take his eyes off her.

She cast her eyes over the people near him, wondering if he’d brought anyone as a date, and caught him watching her again. Gwen turned her back to him quickly, downed her cheap vodka, and declined Mei’s invitation to head to another bar with a few others. After a sweep of the room to find Nathan or Ava had failed, she said her goodbyes.

Exiting into the humid wind, she pulled out her phone to see if Uber would be cheaper than a taxi.

“It’s after one a.m,” said a voice from the door behind her. She turned to find Xander Thorne, leaning on the door frame, scotch glass in hand. “Taking a cab?”

She stared at him. “I’m calling an Uber.”

“Good.” He sipped. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint Jacob.” He hit the consonants in a strange cacophony, a mocking tone. His eyes were glazed.

She swallowed and returned to her phone to confirm the ride. She heard a glass rattle and saw him placing his empty scotch glass on the steps, straightening to come down the steps and join her at the curb.

“Why did you change the ending?” she asked, sticking to safe topics. Music. She stared at an electronic billboard across the street advertising ten-dollar “I Heart NY” shirts.

“Felt right,” he said, swaying next to her. She looked up at him. “’S what it feels like. Every time.”

His eyes were on her lips. He swallowed, looking away, down at the curb.

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