Yin Yang Love Song

Chapter 22 Vin

Chapter 22

VIN

T he next day, I drive Chryssy around to show her the town after a morning of us responding to emails and phone calls. The rest of it is spent practicing while Chryssy teaches my mom how to make almond pear jelly.

Leo and I stay out of each other’s way, only crossing paths when we’re both in the kitchen at the same time for snacks.

An hour before we’re set to leave, a summer storm rolls in fast, as though Vivaldi himself composed the weather patterns of Franklin. Sideways rain beats against the windows, the doors, the roof. It’s practically the third movement come to life.

But today, Mom’s motto is that of the postal service. A little lightning in the sky isn’t coming between her and the lightning bugs.

The fireflies are still on.

Thankfully, by the time we begin our drive out to the Smokies, the weather clears just enough.

It takes just under four hours for us to make the drive east. Highways cross sprawling green fields and, soon enough, tree-covered mountains. With the top down, Chryssy and I can barely squeeze into the back with my cello lying across both our laps. We look ridiculous, but Mom insists on taking the Firefly to the fireflies.

The threat of more rain puts everyone on edge, but we make it, arriving to an almost-full parking lot. Apparently, no storm will deter anyone from cashing in on their lottery winnings.

“This was a terrible idea,” I say to Dad, who’s helping maneuver my instrument out of the backseat. “It’s damp, and this cello cannot get wet.”

The fading light overhead exaggerates the lines in Dad’s face. The deep crow’s-feet, his prominent forehead wrinkles, his hair grayer than it is brown. It’s not lost on me how much older my parents look, and when the time between visits increases, there are new details to add to my memory of them.

“The tree canopy will catch any rain, but to be extra safe, your cello can have my raincoat,” Chryssy says beside me. “It’s going to sound incredible out here.”

Maybe. Even though we play in outdoor landmarks around the world, those environments are more controlled. Out here in the woods, the dropping temperature and humidity will impact the pitch. The lower ranges may be harder to hear. I won’t have acoustic feedback. Nothing good can come from this.

“The storm’s over and done with. This is all your mom wants. She doesn’t care what you play,” Dad says, lowering his voice. “She played the anniversary card to get the rangers to allow you to do this. When else will people get to listen to a world-famous musician play while watching synchronized fireflies? It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. And one of them is a Chaobreaker!” He grins proudly.

Just one? Those odds don’t sound good.

Clearly Mom’s not the only one excited about this, so I let it go. We’re here. I’ll play one song, and then we can forget it ever happened. Forget that it doesn’t feel right that I’m playing solo publicly for the first time since Leo and I teamed up. We should be playing together.

We follow my parents across the parking lot. Chryssy and I fall back behind families and couples making their way to a wooded area.

My mind flashes to yesterday and the upstairs bedroom. The glasses. My dad’s robe slung across the back of a chair. His slippers at the side of the bed. No trace of Mom anywhere.

“Vin?” Chryssy says softly.

“Sorry,” I say, squeezing my fist. I flex to evaluate the pain, which hasn’t been as intense since I’ve started daily acupuncture sessions with Rose.

We walk deeper into the woods, following the still-damp, tree-lined trail. Petrichor and wet earth scent the air, as excited chatter surrounds us. I want to be fully in this moment with Chryssy, but Leo’s words scratch at the edge of my mind. He may not have committed to saying the actual words, but enough context is there for me to feel uncertainty in our future.

“I think Leo’s done,” I blurt out. “Or changing. I don’t know.”

Chryssy breaks her gaze away from the sepia-tinted crescent moon and looks directly at me. “Done with… the inn?”

“He’s reached his limit with performing. With our life.” I huff out a laugh severely lacking in humor. “He’s tired. And he asked me if I was tired.”

Leo’s pulling away, I can feel it. He’s going through a lot. Maybe this is part of the process. Doubt everything before coming back to what’s important. He’ll come around. We’re always drawn back to the music. To playing together.

Chryssy’s eyes lock onto me, 100 percent of her attention dedicated to this moment. “And are you?”

If eyes are windows into the soul and all that crap, I need to pull the shades down. I tear my eyes from hers and follow a tree’s straight line up to the sky, where a few stars are already visible. I do the same to the tree next to it, and the one next to that. We’re so small and inconsequential next to these plants that live for hundreds of years. Trees purify our air, protect against floods, are homes to wildlife, and no doubt more than I can even think of. Are trees tired?

A patch of white on a trunk catches my eye. “Of course when we’re not looking, we find more than we’d know what to do with,” I say, nodding toward the lion’s mane.

Chryssy coughs out an unexpected laugh. “Should we take some back just in case?” she jokes. “I might have room in my suitcase.”

I grin and take a moment before answering her. “I don’t have time to be tired,” I finally reply.

“But are you?” she asks again.

I stop trying to dodge her straightforward questions. I nod twice. “I’m so tired. I hate to even say that out loud.”

“You’re allowed to be tired, Vin.”

“Fine. Then I’ll take a nap.” I watch Chryssy’s reaction. She’s steady, listening, waiting. “What we have doesn’t happen for most people. My parents sacrificed everything for us. Their money, time, focus, it all went to us. To help us succeed. We had good reasons for pushing.”

“Your reasons then might not be your reasons now.”

“We can’t just give it up,” I press. “Not when we’re doing better than we ever have. This is what we’ve worked for.”

She considers this. “At what cost? Is it worth not seeing family that often? Not traveling for yourself? A tense relationship with your brother?” she asks, the expression on her face matching her empathetic tone. “Is it worth pushing yourself to the edge of burnout?”

“I’m not burned out,” I say quickly. “I love what I do, and I know music can be healing, but it’s not like I’m out there personally saving lives. For the most part, it’s fun.”

“I’m sure there are fun parts to it, definitely. But your job is still high-pressure. You can love what you do and still be exhausted from it,” Chryssy says. “I’m not saying you’re there yet, and being burned out is in no way any indication that you shouldn’t be doing what you’re doing.”

If anyone was burned out, it was my parents, who worked multiple jobs to pay for our instruments and lessons and travel fees. And that was on top of the mortgage and loans and bills and getting food on the table. I get to live out my dreams. I have no right to be burned out.

“And Vin,” Chryssy says, cutting my thoughts off, “you may not think you’re burned out, but your body might. Insomnia is a common symptom of burnout. Your body isn’t a machine that can operate nonstop. Machines break down, you know. Even instruments need tuning and restringing. Your body is an ecosystem that needs taking care of.” She draws a long breath in. “It sounds like the boundaries between your work and personal life have become blurred a little. I know this well.”

“From med school?”

Chryssy nods. “‘Rest’ was not a word in my vocabulary. I prided myself on wearing the busy badge. But it was more than just the overworked type of burnout. It was also existential. When I spent more time at the inn, it was then that I realized my values no longer aligned with what I was working toward in my career.” She links her arm with mine. “My life didn’t have meaning anymore. I needed a fundamental shift. It was hard to let those original dreams and my accomplishments go, but I’m better off for it. I felt like I had something to prove, too.”

“What, you think I have something to prove?” I ask.

She throws it back to me. “Don’t you?”

I grunt. “Maybe. Yes. Of course there’s something to prove. We want to be the best at what we do. And I may have been born naturally good, but there’s always room to improve. I guess I didn’t realize how quickly we’d reach our goals, and how often those goalposts would keep moving. How much we’d need to keep up. I have to be better than the next concert, the next album, the next performance, just to stay relevant. To stay on top. Just to stay in the game.”

Chryssy exhales. “That’s a tiring game to play. And who says you have to keep getting better?”

“I was born with this innate talent,” I say. “It’s all I’ve done, all I’ve worked toward, for my entire life. I have to make it work. What else can I do?”

“So you feel stuck. Like you have to do this forever?” she asks.

There’s that word again. Stuck. Stagnant.

“I guess yeah, I feel a bit stuck,” I admit. “In my reputation, with the music genre, with the direction of our career. If we keep going down this path, I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to get off before it’s too late. Or at least take a right turn every now and then and experience new things. What else am I even good at? I’ve never had a chance to find out.” I frown.

“Maybe you need a chance to figure that out,” she says. “You’ve been a little busy. I wonder if you need a fermata.”

My head swivels in her direction. “Did you just say fermata ?”

She smiles. “A musical notation symbol that represents a pause or a rest. Exactly how long is up to you.”

“On a rest, or on a note ,” I add. “Why do you know that?”

She gives me a look. “My point was to emphasize the rest piece. And I may have been listening to more of your music.”

This draws a surprised laugh out of me. “And why are you doing that?”

“It wouldn’t at all be to feel a little bit closer to you,” she says, her face and tone serious enough for me to believe it. “I want to understand more about your world. You’ve been learning a lot about mine. You need a fermata. A pause.”

“There are no pauses in life, Chryssy,” I say.

Chryssy narrows her eyes at me. “Fine. In our world, they’re called breaks. It’s more than that, though. If you think about what Leo’s saying, it sounds like your lifestyle itself is unsustainable. Are there things that can change to help support a more balanced life?”

“I get what you’re saying, but I just don’t see how it’s possible. It takes a lot of work to stay at this level, to keep getting better,” I say.

Chryssy waits a few seconds before responding. “Vin, without water, flowers can’t grow. Water is your rest. You might be off the stage for a bit, figuring out what you want from your career. From your life,” she says. “Figuring out what balance means to you. It isn’t fifty-fifty, and there’s no one right way to do it. Maybe it means that sometimes you’ll have busy periods, but you need to also make sure you have time off from being so go-go-go.”

“I guess.”

She stops me and faces my direction. “You’ve been in the spotlight your entire life, practically. You’ve thrived under some harsh conditions. But there’s a part of you that you still get to discover. When you do, I think it’s going to be beautiful. And maybe it’s only me who sees it, and not a sold-out crowd.” She wraps her hand around mine. “Flowers bloom even when no one is watching.”

I nod. I hear her, I do. But I’m not entirely sure what to say, or where I would even start. Our type of life is not built for balance. Chryssy’s eyes dart down to her phone when it buzzes in her palm. She taps into an email and immediately types out a response.

“And you’re telling me to be balanced,” I say. “You just responded to an email in the woods. How are you getting service out here?”

“Another store is interested in stocking In Full Bloom,” she says, sliding her phone into her rain jacket’s pocket.

For all the rest Chryssy’s been telling me to get, along the way she, too, forgot to take her own advice. Between helping me, Leo, her aunties, and managing In Full Bloom, she’s as overworked as it sounds like she was in med school.

“I appreciate what you’re saying. It’s just… at first I didn’t want to let my parents down, but now there’s so many more people we’d be disappointing if we’re not good enough,” I admit. “Our fans have high expectations for us. I have high expectations for us.”

“You can still play incredibly without being perfect,” she says. “Be good at what you do and have high standards for yourself, but what if you also did it for the experience of it? Because you love it, and that’s it? What if people’s approval of you and their high expectations didn’t matter? You can’t control what awards you’re given or where you land on the charts. You can’t even control what people think about you, whether they believe you’re a heartbreaker or not.”

“Isn’t that what we were trying to do by pretending to be together?” I ask. “Control the narrative?”

“We can only control it so much. Us breaking up,” she starts, the corners of her lips turning down, “that might not have immediately changed how some people saw you.” She taps her chin with her pointer finger. “Between your childhood and skirting burnout and wanting to be perfect, I think I’ve identified where your heart might be a little broken.”

I frown. “You think I’m heartbroken?”

“I believe everyone is, just a little,” she says, sidestepping a puddle. “Let me preface with this: Being heartbroken doesn’t mean you’re broken. I’m pretty sure your unaddressed heartbreak has to do with time. You didn’t get to build many relationships as a kid, and your busy schedule prevents deep bonds now, too. I think that lost time—and the idea of more time sacrificed with those you love—hurts.”

I don’t feel broken, but I think Chryssy could hold me together if I let her. I want to let her.

We tuck into a dry opening under thick foliage and venture a little deeper into the woods. “Life has always felt like a race. Like I’m running out of time,” I tell her.

“When you play in a few minutes, what if you didn’t concentrate on playing perfectly or worry about what everyone will think afterward? What if you played for the pure enjoyment of it?” she asks.

“I don’t know. This is my job,” I reactively say. “I take it seriously.”

“Actually, this isn’t,” she says, gesturing around us. “Tonight is not your job. In fact, tonight’s about your parents. I think it’d be the perfect time to let loose a little. Who knows what you’ll discover about yourself.”

“I generally try to keep the self-discovery sessions to when I’m not in the middle of a performance,” I say, though it’s further from the truth than I intend. Music has always helped me see things clearly. Playing a song is when I do my best thinking. Why would that be any different, even in the middle of this muggy forest?

We make it to the designated spot, where Dad sets up camping chairs for each of us, giving Chryssy and me some distance from him and Mom.

“Would you try something? For me?” Chryssy asks as she reaches for my bicep to steady herself on the uneven ground.

“For you?” I repeat. If only Chryssy knew how much I would do for her. “I’ll do anything you want.”

A small smile appears. One that I put there. I will do whatever it is I need to in order to keep her smiling.

“In the middle of the song, I want you to switch to a new one. After, let’s see how you feel,” she proposes while I set up my cello.

My heartbeat quickens. “I haven’t practiced the third movement that way.” I exhale. “It’s not a good idea, but if that’s what you want, then… okay.”

I assess the families and couples and individuals making themselves at home for the next couple of hours. It’s a more intimate venue, and all I see right now are people I can’t let down. People I can’t mess up in front of. I don’t make mistakes. It’s not what people expect of me or deserve from me. I’m not trying to hurt my reputation more. I need to be excellent.

“You see that guy right there?” Chryssy asks, nodding toward an older gentleman sitting in a fold-out chair reading a book. “That’s Frank. He has a beagle named Biscuit and has been to every continent, including Antarctica. He’s seen the wonders of the world, and all he wants in life is to have a good time. Think you can give him that?”

I dig my heel into the earth to create an indent for my cello’s endpin. “I think I can,” I say, smiling. “Thank you.”

“Just stating the facts,” Chryssy says, nudging me.

We’re out in nature about to watch beetles light up. The weather shifted our plans for the day. There aren’t good acoustics, no microphone for everyone to hear me play, and at any moment it might rain again. Leo’s tired. I’m tired. I don’t know how to define what Chryssy and I are, what we’re even doing at this point by trying to understand the curse. And yet here I am, with my cello, about to play for unsuspecting strangers and a man named Frank in the Smoky Mountains.

Against the darkness that came quicker than I anticipated, a thin sliver of the moon peeks through the trees. I stretch, tune, warm up, and wait for the ranger’s signal, which is set to happen after her introductory speech. I’ll set the mood and build anticipation just before the fireflies are expected to light up.

There’s chatter all around us; the human voices are a stark contrast against the quiet of the forest. Despite my initial worry of the third movement being too energetic for this calm setting, it’s surprisingly perfect. This environment is anything but serene. We’re the lucky hundred and forty who won the car lottery and have weathered the storm to be here. The mood is electric with the energy rivaling that of a concert about to begin. The fireflies are the rock stars on the verge of changing everyone’s lives. And me? I’m the warm-up band to the real show.

I take a slow, deep breath and position my bow over the strings. When the ranger points to me, I’m off.

Vivaldi’s Summer, third movement, starts off quick. After five seconds, I hold the strings down, nailing the sudden silent moment after the fast-paced beginning. Two seconds later, I pick up where I left off, keeping the notes crisp, sharp.

Mentally, I’m tentative, not sure how to approach playing alone. My hands, though, are confident, knowing, and they guide me through the motions.

As I hit each note at the right time and on the right pitch, my confidence grows. My fingers fly across the strings, moving up and down my cello’s neck.

There’s no time for hesitation.

I don’t have sheet music. I don’t need it. I feel this one in my bones, have each note etched into my memory.

I feel alive and connected to myself in an entirely new way playing the classical music that formed me. Playing the music that made me first fall in love with the cello.

And then, in an early transition, I’m two seconds too fast. When I tilt my chin up and glimpse a look at people’s faces, no one’s even noticed that I’ve rushed the middle. Frank’s tapping his foot, his book closed on his lap. Everyone’s caught up in the music and moment.

I can feel my shoulders loosen, mirroring the sloped branches weighed down with raindrops on the trees surrounding us.

My fingers don’t stop, my bow is a blur, but time becomes thicker, slower. I’m breathless, the unrelenting pace of the song demanding my energy, focus, precision. I think of the heartache, the heartbreak, the precarious future with Leo. Being at the top of our game, on top of the charts. The fame, the fortune, living the dream. The imminence of a storm, the darkness, the rain.

And then I think of Chryssy, of sunshine, of hope. I think of that fine, delicate line right on the edge of broken and healed. The fine, delicate line between fake and real.

Halfway through, as I make the notes climb, somewhere between the thin layers of my short-term memory, I remember Chryssy’s request to switch songs.

What song, what song, what song?

I shuffle through my mental repertoire of music I’ve played live that would merge well with the vivacity of this one.

Then it comes to me.

It happens so fast I don’t have time to overthink it. At the high note halfway through the song, I start the descent and slow everything down gradually, so it sounds natural.

I draw my eyes up to Chryssy’s, not focusing on anyone else’s reactions or faces around us. I just need to see hers.

The notes don’t form enough of an identifiable song yet, but Chryssy immediately knows. Her eyes go wide and glossy, her lips slightly parted. She doesn’t look away from me once.

Something inside me twists like a tuning peg tightening a string. My love life has always been an out-of-tune, offbeat song. One that I couldn’t hear in its entirety or even imagine the subsequent notes for. But when Chryssy entered the picture, she filled in the empty lines with music. Brought me closer to hearing something worth listening to.

Vivaldi’s composition melds into a Billy Joel classic. I don’t slow down all the way to the typical pace of the song but back off my momentum just enough to try to make the two pieces sound cohesive. It’s kind of working.

I’ve never played “Vienna” before, but I’m able to play it by ear, recalling the tune in my head from when Chryssy shared it with me. She was trying to get me to listen to the lyrics, but what I heard was the tune. The way it made me feel. That’s what I try to recall now.

Turns out, fragmented lyrics wedged their way into my memory. And maybe it’s true. What is the hurry about? Cool it off, I recall, before burning out. It’s a song about slowing down, not rushing, truly living. It’s about appreciating what matters.

I become distracted, as Chryssy’s words circle my brain, while my hands continue to play. The soft spot in my chest aches, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s the way she talked to me without judgment, how she doesn’t need me to be perfect like I think everyone else does.

Right now, I play for her, but there’s a realization settling inside me that I want to play for her always.

The notes dance around us, and together we’re in the center of the storm, in the eye of a hurricane, in the middle of a forest, surrounded suddenly by the sparkling of fireflies. Dots of gold flash and vanish almost immediately. They’re noiseless, but I can hear their song, their pulse, their beat. I was very wrong: This is romantic as hell.

The way Chryssy beams in the glow of the fireflies, I can tell she thinks so, too. She doesn’t seem to mind. I take a deep breath to slow the twist, fearing that whatever is changing inside of me will break.

At first, the lightning bugs twinkle on and off and out of rhythm with each other. I move between the two songs, merging the classical sensibilities with the rock rawness. In all my years of playing, I’ve stuck to the script, stayed between the five-line staff.

But being here, out of my comfort zone in so many ways, weaving musical genres together and creating new meaning from existing meaning is so liberating. It’s by no means perfect; the songs have opposing energies, but somehow it still works. In a way, they balance each other out. Like Yin and Yang.

I end my performance with a few more notes of Vivaldi’s Summer, bringing the two songs back together. I slide my bow across the strings, the final, low note slicing through the night air.

But for me, the song isn’t over yet. Let loose, Chryssy had said.

I lean my cello against the chair, grab Chryssy by the waist, and lift her into a kiss. The string running through my core tightens before snapping loose.

All I hear is the sound of my heartbeat thumping and the soft moan as Chryssy presses her lips harder into mine.

Everything goes quiet, and for once, I don’t mind the silence.

Around us, the fireflies blink slowly into one steady heartbeat of a glow.

Together, they begin to flash in sync.