Page 9 of Not Another Love Song

“Dr. Richards remembers you,” Mabel said with a sly smile Gwen could hear through the phone. “She said she would be pleased to see you audition again for the fall. I mentioned the tuition issue—without making you sound pathetic, of course— and she said, ‘Well, we’ll just have to see what we can do about that.’”

Gwen stared at her bedroom wall. She was supposed to jump for joy, but all she could say was, “Oh, wow.”

“Yes, wow,” Mabel said. “Have you given more thought to it? You haven’t signed your contract for next season yet, have you?”

“No, that’s next month. I’ll think on it, I promise. It’s just… it would be a big life change.”

A huge life change. Gwen wasn’t eighteen anymore. She’d been playing with the Pops for four years, building her own career from scratch. Going to school for violin wasn’t really at the top of her priority list.

But that night, as she watched the daily drama of vampires and werewolves, savoring each bite of her mushroom chicken, she wondered if Juilliard was the missing step on her ladder. Would she have been the next Sarah Chang, a violin soloist with so many of the world’s greatest orchestras? Gwen had joined the Pops straight out of high school, but how much closer would she be to professional solos if only she’d been able to attend Juilliard at eighteen?

The next morning, Gwen was on the D train at seven a.m. with a vanilla latte in one hand and a violin in the other. As a member of the Pops, she got a discount for rehearsal rooms at Carnegie Hall. She usually rehearsed there so she didn’t pester her neighbors at all hours with her first sight-read of pieces. If she did have to play violin in the apartment, like when she had last-minute sub gigs, she usually baked Bribery Brownies ahead of time, distributing them to the apartments above, below, and to the left.

In the beginning when she’d joined the Pops as an alternate, Gwen rented rooms every day of the week to practice. She always felt like she was playing catch-up, like she didn’t belong. That feeling never really went away, even as she moved up the chairs, closer and closer to the front. She played fourth row on the aisle now.

She liked Carnegie Hall on Sunday mornings. There were fewer people, and it was easier to reserve a good room. Her next Pops rehearsal wasn’t until Wednesday, but she had a lot of work to do on her own to prepare for their concert that weekend.

Slipping in through the side entrance, she headed upstairs to the admin office where she could book a room. The halls were empty, but there were a few rooms with doors closed, muffled music already humming through the walls.

Gwen felt just like she had as a kid, wandering the aisles at the music shop in Queens that Mabel owned, listening to private lessons in the practice rooms. She used to press her ear to the door to hear the violin music, haunting melodies and lively allegros. Entire universes unfolding—if only she could pass through the door.

She walked down the hall to the office and paid cash for studio five for the next ninety minutes. It was one of the largest rooms, usually reserved for full orchestras during the busier hours, but Gwen had lucked out by being here early. She headed to the other side of the building, and when she approached her room, she heard a cello purring from under the door. Bach’s Cello Suites. The fluidity, the precision…She didn’t even have to look through the small window in the door to know who it was.

Xander Thorne was sitting in a chair in the center of the room, his cello between his thighs and his fingers moving swiftly over the instrument’s neck. His eyes were closed and his usual scowl was in place, displeased.

As Gwen watched him play, she realized he was at Carnegie Hall before eight a.m., the day after a wedding where he had clearly partied into the late hours of the night, according to her Instagram stalking. She admired his discipline. But she also realized that he was in her room…and she’d probably need to interrupt.

Suddenly, the bow lowered, and the sound cut off in a strangle. He took a deep breath and began again from Suite No. 1. His torso seemed to pulse with every measure, like he and the cello were fused, breathing together. She stared, trying to understand it—trying to figure out how to incorporate that kind of passion into her own playing. She’d been criticized for being too wooden and unimaginative, and Xander Thorne was anything but.

She was just about to tear herself from the window and maybe ask the office if there was another room when he stopped again, his jaw tight. Without pause, he started from the top once more.

Gwen frowned. She hadn’t heard anything in the previous play that warranted the look of disgust on his face.

He’d barely gotten six measures in before he stood abruptly and moved to the opposite wall with his instrument. He stared out the exterior window and ran a hand through his hair.

A perfectionist herself, Gwen could understand the frustration, but not the cause of it. Bach’s Cello Suites were nothing to beat oneself up about, especially not the way he played them. He rolled his shoulders back, cracked his neck, and brought the bow to the strings lazily. While staring out over Seventh Avenue, he played a soft, familiar melody—“Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”

Gwen felt like she’d been punched in the gut. Of all the pieces he could have played—today, the day after the wedding. Especially after she’d played it so poorly.

Like he was correcting her, in his own way.

Embarrassment flooded her cheeks. Any thought she had about requesting a different room evaporated. This room was hers. And he was in her way.

Wrenching the door open, she watched with satisfaction as he jumped at the sound, letting his bow fall. She strode inside and kept her face impassive as she said, “I have studio five for the next hour and a half. So you’ll have to practice ‘Jesu’ somewhere else.”

The dig didn’t even land on him. His eyes were on her, almost shocked, and he didn’t move a muscle.

Gwen set her violin down and began unbuttoning the jacket she’d needed in the early April morning chill. She ignored his presence, making herself at home in her room. That she’d reserved and paid for.

“When did you start at the Pops?” His voice echoed to her across the perfectly designed acoustics.

“Four years ago,” she said briskly, turning her gaze to him with a challenging brow. “We met last August. Right outside this rehearsal room, actually.”

He didn’t look embarrassed. Just concentrated. He made no move to put his cello away and get out.

She ground her molars and grabbed a music stand from the corner. Moving to the chair he’d set for himself in the center of the room, she turned it in a new direction, and placed the music stand in front of it.

She would just ignore him until he finally packed up and left. Which should be any time now. Any time…

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