Page 64 of Not Another Love Song

A few days before the concert, just as they came back from a ten-minute break, Nathan turned to Xander and asked, “Have you decided on your solo for the October concert?”

Xander narrowed his eyes at him, pressing his lips together. She had a feeling that this was not the first time Nathan had asked him this question, but now he had asked in front of everyone for an answer.

“I’ll be playing from the same series.”

His eyes slid over to her.

The same series. Maybe he’d written Fugue No. 2. Gwen blinked at him and looked down. Something felt off. Disappointment twisted in her, knowing that a new piece existed, but she hadn’t heard it yet. But that was ridiculous. She didn’t have ownership of this series. She hadn’t even written it.

For the concert, Ava had helped her pick out a black velvet dress that dropped to the tops of her knees.

“This is too short, isn’t it?” Gwen had asked as she exited the changing room.

“You’re too young and beautiful to be dressing like a violinist, Gwen.” Ava tapped away at her phone, and Gwen laughed.

She’d talked her into finding a bold red lipstick to match. So, after choosing one of the best shades at Duane Reade, Gwen rushed to Carnegie Hall to change and get ready.

The feeling of being introduced to a huge crowd was the same as before. She moved onto the stage, waving and smiling, and took a bow. The concert went according to plan. Xander even kept his eyes to himself for the most part.

Right before the end of act one, Nathan picked up the microphone, ready to introduce Xander Thorne’s cello solo. He’d decided to play Fugue No. 1 again. He’d announced on Friday that he’d made edits and rearrangements, which had thrown Gwen off for the rest of the day.

She took a deep breath, preparing herself for the melody— preparing herself for the ending again. She looked up at him. He’d been so much lighter. So much more at peace these last few weeks. She wondered if he would resolve the chord this time. If the edits he’d made would contrast with the energy of the last time.

He stared at her.

Gwen drank him in for a moment, letting him look. He should have been turning his chair forward, and resetting for his solo, but he seemed quite focused on her. She turned her attention back to Nathan, introducing Fugue No. 1. Nathan was just wrapping up his praises for the talent of his secret stepson when Mary—second chair and responsible for turning the pages for both herself and Gwen—tapped her knee.

“Gwen, is this right?”

Gwen looked down at the binder. Mary flipped the page again, and instead of the medley that closed out act one, an untitled sheet of music was tucked into the three-ring binder. Mary turned the page to show Gwen that the Disney songs were behind it.

Gwen turned back to the strange page as the audience applauded for Xander Thorne’s solo. She ran her eyes across the staves, reading the notes and the progressions as he picked up his bow.

She looked up at him. He was still facing her, watching her. Not turned out to the audience. Intent on her. The bow slid across the cello strings, the familiar aggravated arpeggios beginning to burn.

This was…Was this…?

The sheet music was for violin. Sixteen bars of rest before the first violin notes were played. The same length as the arpeggio section. Long legato notes that synced and harmonized and counterpointed perfectly to the second section in Fugue No. 1, Unaccompanied.

But…accompanied. By her.

She blinked up at him, heart racing at the possibility of sight-reading something in front of all of Carnegie Hall. His eyes burned into her skin as he skipped and danced through the first section.

There’s something exciting about sight-reading. Don’t you agree?

This was insane. This was absolutely—

The end of the arpeggios. Two bars to decide. She scanned the page, finding accidentals and triplets and staccatos. But she knew this song. She knew it in her blood. And he wanted her to play it with him.

Her eyes met his again. And there was a pleading there. And despite how insane this was, how…how rude, really, Gwen knew this was it. This was the culmination. She looked down at the page with one bar to spare. And where the stave was usually named “soloist” or “violin” or “voice,” he’d typed one word:

Squeaky.

She lifted her bow, and as he slithered out of the arpeggios and into the calm, she carried him through.

She felt Mary gasp. Felt Nathan look at her. Felt all of Carnegie Hall murmur.

But she ignored them all.

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