Page 9 of Broken Chords

“Do you plan on staying here too? After you graduate, I mean?”

He shakes his head, breaking eye contact as he finally reaches for his own chip. Is this a difficult subject for him?

“No. I won’t be staying here, most likely. If I make it as an orchestral musician, I’ll end up wherever I win a spot in the cello section. If I can manage to become a soloist, then I’ll end up traveling even more. I suppose I could keep Spokane as my home base, but …” He trails off and shakes his head, taking a bite of his salsa-laden chip. “No. I won’t be here forever.”

I sit, letting the silence stretch between us after his quiet statement. Imagining what that must be like. His whole life, his whole family, has always been here. But he’ll be leaving by choice. Does his family support him?

I open my mouth to ask that question, when he surprises me by volunteering, “I actually was supposed to be gone already. I was going to audition for the major conservatories on the east coast—Boston, Manhattan, Peabody. Then my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer my junior year. She’s in remission now, but things were dicey for a while. Surgeries. Treatments. I couldn’t …” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I couldn’t leave in the middle of all that. So I auditioned for Marycliff, knowing it was a good program. Maybe not what I would’ve gotten elsewhere, but I needed to be here to help out.”

His dark eyes, when they meet mine, are pained. And without thinking, I reach a hand across the table, placing it on his left forearm that’s still braced on the table. He looks down, surprise registering on his face as I give his arm a squeeze and a little pat before withdrawing.

“I’m sorry about your mom. That sounds rough.”

He nods, moving his arm so his hand is pointed in my direction, but his palm remains down. It’s not an invitation, but almost. “It was. Like I said, she’s doing a lot better.”

“I’m glad.”

The heavy conversation is interrupted by Martina returning with our food. If she notices the emotional atmosphere, she gives no indication as she places our plates in front of us. “Watch out, they’re hot!” she chirps before leaving again.

By some unspoken agreement, our conversation when it restarts stays on more neutral territory—classes, practicing, professors we’ve both had. He tells me stories about living with Zeke and Jason, making me laugh at their antics.

When we head back to his car after our meal, he once again guides me through the restaurant with his hand on my lower back. And this time, I relax into his touch, enjoying the warmth of his hand through the fabric of my shirt.

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