14. Tess
Tess
M y fingers dance across the strings, muscle memory taking over as Brahms flows through the air. I'm lost in the music when I look up and see him—Charlie Astor—sitting in the front row, his blue eyes fixed on me, a bouquet of pink peonies resting on his lap.
My bow stutters across the strings, a momentary falter, as my heart slams against my ribs like a drum. Why is he here? After how I treated him at Jack and Sky’s wedding, I figured he'd written me off completely. I force my focus back to the score.
The conductor's baton arcs through the air, pulling us through the third movement. We've rehearsed this piece for weeks, but I’m having a hard time focusing.
Soft pink peonies. My absolute favorite. How could he possibly know that? Jane. It has to be Jane.
A memory flashes, sharp and uncomfortable: last weekend, the wedding in San Francisco. The gorgeous hotel with its sweeping view of the bay. Charlie in a tailored suit that made his shoulders look even broader, approaching me with two champagne flutes and that smile…damn, that smile.
I was such a bitch to him after that horrid woman Claire said those nasty things to me. Instead of talking about it, I just mentally checked out of our weekend together.
The confusion and hurt that had flashed across his face—God, I can still see it now as my fingers find the next passage of music.
I’d kept retreating, leaving him standing there, confusion replacing the warmth in those blue eyes. I'd avoided him as much as I could, trying to make him pay for what Claire said to me.
My bow glides across the strings, drawing out a long, melancholy note that seems to mirror the ache in my chest. What is wrong with me? I should have just talked to him.
The day after the wedding, I had settled down and wasn’t so avoidant. But I never explained what was going through my mind.
Our concertmaster stands for his solo, giving me a moment to breathe, to reset. I close my eyes briefly, feeling the weight of my cello against my body, trying to ground myself in the music rather than the chaos of my thoughts. But my eyes betray me, opening again to look at Charlie.
He's leaning forward slightly, his focus absolute. I didn’t realize he liked classical music this much. There's so much I don't know about him, despite how long I've known him peripherally through Jane.
That's what scares me. Jane and Claire's voices both ring in my head, telling me essentially the same thing. "He’s not boyfriend material…He’ll never settle down… He’s a playboy…"
Their words had confirmed every fear I already had.
How could someone like Charlie—confident, charming, impossibly successful—be genuinely interested in me?
I'm just a cellist who spends more time with horses than people, who'd rather practice than party, who second-guesses most decisions.
We're opposites in every way that matters.
And yet.
And yet he's here, sitting in the audience, with peonies in his lap and his eyes never leaving me.
The movement concludes, and during the brief pause, our eyes lock again. My breath catches. There's something in his gaze—determination, maybe—that makes my stomach flip. I should be thinking about the music, preparing for the challenging passages ahead, but all I can think is: I've been an idiot.
I've been rude and immature and defensive, pushing away a man who's showing every sign of genuinely caring. But the fear still whispers: what if he hurts you? What if you fall for him and he walks away?
After what seems like hours, the final piece begins, building toward a crescendo that seems to mirror my emotions. By the time we reach the finale, I'm playing with a fervor that surprises me, channeling every ounce of regret into the music.
As the last note resonates through the hall, there's a moment of perfect silence before the applause begins. When I look up again, searching for those blue eyes, Charlie is already on his feet, applauding with the rest of the audience.
A smile tugs at my lips despite everything. He came. He's here. And now I need to figure out what the hell I'm going to say to him.
I'm still in my concert blacks, my hair pulled back in its performance-tight bun, when I get home and place my cello carefully in its stand. The house feels very quiet after all the music.
I looked for Charlie after the performance was over but I was delayed coming out and he must have gotten impatient and left.
I keep replaying the moment our eyes met across the concert hall, wondering if Charlie will call. Wondering if I even want him to.
I slip off my heels and pad to the kitchen in bare feet, pouring a glass of wine with unsteady hands.
When a knock comes at my door ten minutes later, I nearly drop the glass.
It can't be him, can it? I set the wine down and cross to the door, running a hand over my hair in a useless attempt to smooth the flyaways that have escaped my bun.
When I peer through the peephole, my stomach drops. Charlie, all six-foot-five of him, stands on my porch with the bouquet of peonies clutched in one hand. He's changed out of what he wore to the performance—now he's in jeans and a simple gray t-shirt that somehow makes him look even more handsome.
I open the door quickly.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi." Charlie shifts his weight, those blue eyes impossibly earnest. "I hope it's okay that I stopped by."
"Of course. Do you want to come in?" I ask, my pulse racing. Of course he wants to come in, Tess. Why else would he be here?
He nods, and I step back, suddenly hyper-aware of my small house. It's neat but lived-in, shelves overflowing with music books and novels, framed concert programs on the walls alongside photos of horses I've owned through the years. Charlie walks into my foyer, making the space feel even smaller.
"These are for you," he says, holding out the peonies. "I remembered Jane mentioning they were your favorite."
I take them, our fingers brushing briefly, sending a tingle up my arm. "Thank you. They're beautiful."
“I waited for you for a while after the show but you didn’t come out. And I needed to run home and feed Hans.”
“Oh, sorry about that. We had some notes to run through before I was able to leave.”
“No worries,” he responds, giving me a crooked smile. “I figured that’s what happened.”
An awkward silence stretches between us as I fill a vase with water, arranging the flowers with an unnecessary amount of detail. When I turn back, Charlie is standing in the middle of my living room looking both out of place and somehow right where he belongs.
"Tess," he starts, then stops, running a hand through his dirty blonde hair. "About the wedding?—"
"I'm sorry," I blurt out. "I was rude. You didn't deserve that."
He looks surprised. "I was going to ask what happened. One minute we everything was going great, and the next you couldn't get away fast enough."
I place the vase on my coffee table, buying time. The truth feels too vulnerable, but I owe him this much at least. "Claire said some things. About you."
Understanding dawns on his face. "Let me guess—the playboy cautionary tale?"
I nod, sinking onto my couch. "She said you have a habit of making women feel special until you lose interest."
Charlie sighs heavily and sits beside me, leaving enough space that we're not touching, but close enough that I can smell his intoxicating cologne. "Can I be honest with you?"
"Please." It comes out smaller than I intended.
"I used to be that guy," he says, looking at his hands rather than at me. "The one who dated casually and moved on quickly. I'm not proud of it, but I'm not going to deny it either. Plus, you already know all this through Jane."
His candor catches me off guard. I'd expected deflection, maybe even charm—not this straightforward admission. "And now?"
"Now..." He looks up, meeting my eyes. "Now I'm thirty-eight, and I'm tired of surface-level connections. I run a company that keeps me busy eighteen hours a day, I have way too many social commitments and I..." He hesitates. "I can't stop thinking about a cellist who keeps me at arm's length."
My breath catches. "Charlie?—"
"I know I have a reputation," he continues.
"I earned it. But people change, Tess. At least, I have." He reaches for my hand, stopping just short of taking it. "The night after our first wedding—it wasn't just another night for me. I’m sorry we didn’t talk about it afterwards. I wanted to but—I just didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what you were thinking…
I look at his outstretched hand, thinking about that night. Wanting to have that again with him, but…
"How do I know this isn't just..." I gesture vaguely.
"Just what?" His voice is gentle.
"A challenge. The thrill of the chase."
Something flashes in his eyes—hurt, maybe. "Is that what you think I’m looking for?"
I shrug, uncomfortable with my own honesty. "I don't know what to think. We've known each other for years, but not really. You've always been Jane's charming older brother who dates models and socialites. I honestly never thought we’d be having this conversation."
"Maybe that's exactly why I can't stop thinking about you," he says. "You're real, Tess. Do you know how rare that is in my world?"
I want to believe him. God, I want to. But Jane and Claire's warning mingles with my own insecurities, creating a feeling of doubt. "I'm not good at casual," I admit. "I'm not built that way."
"I'm not asking for casual," Charlie says, finally taking my hand. His is warm, engulfing mine. "I'm asking for a chance. A real one."
His touch makes it hard to think straight. I study his face, looking for any sign of insincerity, but all I see is openness—vulnerability even—in those blue eyes.
"I thought this past weekend we could start over. Until?—"
"Until I shut you down," I finish, wincing at the memory. "I'm sorry. I got spooked."
He nods in understanding.