Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
GREG
I stared at the sign outside Lincoln Center promoting a New York Philharmonic concert. The featured performer, pianist Katelyn Grey, had been my fellow classmate at Rutgers Mason Gross School of the Arts. Until I’d dropped out and never returned.
I straightened my shoulders and pushed those thoughts aside.
I wasn’t dead, and I could still play the piano.
I was here now. I glanced at the sign on the building across the street that read The Juilliard School.
In half an hour, I would be participating in a piano master class given by Jeremy Fitzgerald, world-renowned concert pianist and Juilliard graduate.
I had been playing at a piano bar in Belmar, New Jersey, when I met Jeremy two years ago.
He’d come in with Sean O’Neil, an old friend of mine from high school.
That night had transformed my life. Despite my doubts about myself, Jeremy had seen something in me and had asked me to play in a fundraiser he was hosting a week later.
The fundraiser had been a huge success and had led to my getting piano lessons from Jeremy Fitzgerald.
Some days, I still couldn’t wrap my head around it.
My lessons with Jeremy were slowly but surely helping me regain my confidence.
This day would be a test of that confidence.
As Jeremy’s student, I would be his example during the master class.
I would be playing a piece of music, in this case Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, and he would relay to those who were watching in the audience things I’d done well and things I could improve.
He would also give instructions on how to convey mood through music. It would be intense. I was terrified.
I turned away from the Lincoln Center sign and crossed the street to get to Juilliard. The guard at the security desk had a visitor pass waiting for me. He pointed to a set of glass doors at the far end of the large lobby area. “You’re in Paul Recital Hall. Through those doors.”
Jeremy was already in the recital hall, sitting at one of the two grand pianos on the stage. He was playing the first movement of Moonlight Sonata with his eyes closed and a tender smile curving his lips. I must have made some kind of noise because he stopped playing to look my way.
“Hey, Greg. Come on up.” Jeremy smiled again. “I was just remembering the night I met Sean for the first time.”
I made my way down the aisle to the stairs on the side of the stage. “You met him while you were playing Moonlight Sonata?”
He nodded. “Yes. I’d gone to his hotel to prepare for Evan and Raphael’s wedding.
I was playing the piano in the dining room with only the moonlight shining through the windows.
He heard me playing and came in to listen.
” There was a mischievous light in his eyes when he added, “The rest, as they say, is history.”
Given his sly smile, I figured the rest of that night took place in a bedroom. Then I put the pieces together. “You’d only just met when you saw me playing at Reilly’s?”
He nodded. “We’d only known each other for about a week.”
I shook my head. “I thought you’d been together for a while at least. It seemed that way, anyway.”
“It felt that way for us too.” He shrugged. “And seven months later, I asked him to marry me.”
“That’s a nice happily ever after,” I murmured wistfully. I knew that kind of ending wasn’t in the cards for me. I moved away from those gloomy thoughts and plastered on a smile. “Walk me through this one more time?”
“Of course,” he replied. He got up from the piano bench, indicating I should take his place. “Play me the opening.”
Two hours later, Jeremy and I bowed to the applause of the students who’d been watching the master class in the audience and online. For some reason, I felt lighter than I had in a long time. Jeremy squeezed my shoulder. “Excellent work today, Greg. You should be proud.”
“Thank you,” I replied, still trying to wrap my head around how loose I felt.
Before the class began, Jeremy had walked me through some of the same grounding exercises he used for himself.
Finally able to relax, I’d felt a oneness with my instrument for the first time in years.
I hadn’t recognized how keyed up I’d gotten every time I sat in front of a piano until Jeremy pointed it out to me.
Even when I was playing in a bar and the music was easy, I was always tense, always watching for mistakes.
Jeremy and I answered a few more questions from students and then finally headed back into the cold March air. Out on the sidewalk, I pulled my wool coat closer around me to ward off the chill.
Jeremy touched my arm to get my attention. “I’m meeting Sean at The Smith for a late lunch. Would you care to join us?”
As flattered as I was by the invitation, I didn’t think I could handle watching Jeremy and his husband cuddle up to each other at the moment.
Luckily, I had an excuse. I shook my head.
“Thank you, but I can’t. I’m starting a new job at a piano bar in the Village, and I need to practice and maybe get a nap before I go in. ”
He nodded. “All right. But I’ll see you next week at the school, yes?”
“I’ll be there.” We walked together to the intersection where he turned right to get to the restaurant and I went straight across Broadway to the subway station to catch the uptown number one. I got off at 125th Street and walked quickly to my small apartment.
I’d just hung up my coat when my cell vibrated with a call. I groaned when I saw the name on the screen. I took a deep breath to steel myself and swiped to answer the call.
“Hello, Mom.”
“It’s about time you answered,” she snapped. “I’ve been calling you all afternoon.”
I checked my screen and, sure enough, there were three missed calls from her. All during the time I was in the master class. Thank goodness my phone had been in my coat pocket while I was on stage. “I was busy, Mom. What do you need?”
“Can’t a mother just call her son to say hello?” she asked, trying to sound pathetic.
“Sure, Mom,” I replied, pretending to take her at her word. “Hello. I had a busy week. How about you?”
“I’ve had a terrible week,” she whined. “They cut my hours at the diner.” And here it was in three, two, one… “I need some money to make the rent.”
I clenched my jaw. “Mom, I can’t keep giving you money every month. I have my own rent to make.”
“Listen to you, all high and mighty, living in New York City,” She snarled. “You wouldn’t have so much trouble paying rent if you lived in Jersey with us peasants.”
I normally had no trouble making my rent. I worked as a freelance website designer and graphic artist in addition to whatever piano gigs I could get. I was tired of enabling her drug habit. It was likely the reason the diner had cut her hours. I let out a sigh. “How much do you need?”
“Five hundred,” she replied immediately.
“Fine. Give me your landlord’s email address, and I’ll find out how to send it to them directly.” I knew I was asking for a barrage of verbal abuse, but I’d really hit my limit.
“You ungrateful little shit,” she screeched. “After everything I’ve done for you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I’d been through years of therapy to get over everything she’d done for me. “Take or leave it, Mom.”
“Fine,” she growled. She gave me a phone number instead of an email address, which was fine. I could call them and get the information I needed.
After I hung up, I slumped onto my couch, staring out the window at the city below. Why did I keep answering her calls? It was a question I could never answer when my therapist asked. At least I’d gotten to the point where I’d stopped sending her money directly.
I set my phone to silent and went to my piano. Playing always made me feel better. Hopefully, tonight’s gig would go well.