Page 10 of Absolutely Not in Love
I’ll never get tired of the sound of an orchestra warming up, the cacophony of so many instruments tossing random notes into the air. It sounds like anticipation—like potential.
I breathe out a happy sigh as the rest of my thoughts and worries fall away, and I revel in the peace that fills me every time I play.
Moments later, the lights dim, and a hush falls over the room, the musicians quieting their instruments and the crowd silencing their chatter. The orchestra stands as our conductor makes her way onto the stage, and the audience fills the room with applause.
And then we play.
We’re doing three pieces tonight, including Dvorák’s “New World Symphony,” which has always been one of my favorites.
I lose myself in the music just like I always do. Iamgrateful for the audience, but I don’t think about them when I’m playing. It’s just me, the music, the dips and swells of emotion. People argue classical music is boring, but if they truly listened, they’d hear the stories, the heartache, the celebration.
In the moment of silence right at the end of a piece, when I’ve just lifted my bow off the strings and the vibrations are still echoing through my body, that’s when I feel the most wholly like myself.
Applause fills the auditorium as the conductor bows, and the same satisfaction that comes after every performance pushes through me. But tonight, there’s an unexpected hollowness around the edges of my emotion that leaves me feeling slightly off-kilter. Maybe it’s the expression on Joyce’s face when her husband waves from his seat in the second row. Or the way the first chair violist moves to the back of the violin section to help his wife, who has a broken foot, get off the stage.
Idolove playing in the symphony. And for the past few years, it’s been enough. But it suddenly occurs to me that it might be nice if there were someone here to enjoy it with me—someone who was herefor me.
Joyce touches my shoulder. “Great concert, Gracie. It’s always a pleasure playing next to you.”
I smile. “Same. Goodnight, Joyce.”
She makes her way off stage, but I linger a little longer. I offer my students extra credit for coming to one of my concerts, and I tell them to come up and wave at me so I can see they’re here. I never want to disappear too quickly just in case.
I look out into the auditorium, smiling when I see one of my students, Annabelle, standing with her mom, halfway down the aisle closest to me. She waves and smiles, and I wave back. She’s a cellist like me, an eighth grader, and one of my students who probably has the potential to play professionally one day.
As Annabelle moves toward me down the aisle, someone else catches my eye. But it isn’t another student.
It’sFelix,wearing the suit I saw him in earlier and looking good enough to eat.
My heart pounds in my ears, and my breath catches in my throat.
So that’s why he was all dressed up.
Our eyes meet, and he lifts his head in acknowledgment.
A flush creeps up my neck.
What is he even doing here? Surely he didn’t just come forme.But he’s alone. Who goes to symphony concerts alone?
I don’t have time to think about it because Annabelle has finally reached me, her smile wide and her arms open for a hug. I take the stairs at the edge of the stage and greet her, doing my best to give her my full attention as she chatters on about the concert, but I can’t ignore the handsome giant still hovering at the back of the auditorium.
He’s still there, which means he hasto be waiting for me. It’s the only thing that makes sense. But why?
Hehasbeen making more of an effort to talk to me lately. That whole thing with the mail last week was totally weird, and I’ve run into him in the hallway or on the stairs much more frequently the past few days—so frequently, I’ve half-wondered if he’s making it happen on purpose.
Also frequently enough that I’ve started to look forward to it, which is the last thing I should be feeling.
I cannot, under any circumstances, develop a crush on my hockey-playing neighbor.
“Are you first chair, Miss Mitchell?” Annabelle asks, looking up at me with wide eyes.
“I’m not. But you know what? The woman who is first chair was my cello teacher back when I was your age. Can you believe that?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see an older gentleman approach Felix.
Felix shakes his hand, then ducks his head and nods. He briefly glances my way before taking the man’s symphony program, pulling a pen out of his pocket, and signing the back of it.
A hockey fan at a symphony concert. Now I’ve seen everything.
