Chapter Nine
Gwen’s life slowed down after the Anniversary Concert. She was looking forward to a quiet summer, filled with days sunbathing in Central Park with Jacob and the new boyfriend, Nicky. When Gwen asked what happened to Declan, Jacob gave her a short answer about things moving too fast before swiftly changing the subject. But she kept seeing Declan’s name flash on his phone, unanswered. In June, Gwen hinted that she wouldn’t mind if Declan were invited to her birthday dinner, but Jacob just shrugged and hit the next episode button on the Netflix queue.
To prep for the new season, she had weekly meetings with Ava and Nathan and spent studious mornings locked away with her sheet music. Each day felt like a clock ticking until their first rehearsal in September.
Summer for Xander Thorne, though…From what Gwen could tell, it was anything but slow.
Thorne and Roses had an East Coast tour, spanning twenty cities and playing anywhere from music halls to dance clubs. At each stop they catered to their audience, playing their classical music at the Boston Symphony Hall and their eccentric covers at a club in Orlando.
They had an excellent publicist, or whoever was responsible for booking them and keeping the social media accounts active. Pictures and videos of them in rehearsal, at the beach, in the club. Chelsea was on tour with them again, much to Gwen’s dismay. Usually there were pictures posted to Instagram of her and Xander sitting close in clubs or hot tubs, but so far, nothing.
Not that Gwen cared. At all.
Whatever.
She had put the moment they’d shared at the Plaza far from her mind. There was something she was remembering incorrectly. There had to be. She wasn’t “anything but ordinary” and especially not to him. She’d probably missed something. Maybe he hadn’t been about to kiss her.
“Gwen, why are you gaslighting yourself?” Mei had asked her over drinks. “Leave that to the patriarchy. Xander Thorne was about to devour you in the bathroom at the Plaza hotel and you can’t change my mind.”
She let Mei in on her theory that Xander was trying to sabotage her and throw her off her game. Mei refused to hear it, so Gwen changed the subject to Mei and Jeremy, who had begun hate-fucking each other to mixed results.
But despite everything, Gwen still spent too much time obsessing over Xander on Instagram.
She sighed, put her phone down, and concentrated again on the piece she was bowing for their first day of rehearsal. The music needed to be turned in to the arranger and distributed by tomorrow evening, so she had asked Mabel to check her markings this morning.
And later that day, Ava would look it over at lunch.
Gwen felt like a child of divorce, bouncing between parents and hoping one didn’t ask about the other. She had no intention of telling Mabel that Ava was going to be reviewing her notations too. Maybe it was overkill, but she wanted Mabel’s stamp of approval just as much as the Pops’, and Mabel would never let Gwen turn in anything that would embarrass her.
She finished her notes, said goodbye to a sleepy Jacob, and headed out early.
A popular orchestra magazine (she hadn’t known those existed) had contacted her about a featured interview for their October edition. Her interview was that coming Wednesday, just before their first rehearsal. In preparation, she swung by a bookstore to grab the August edition to flip through, trying to figure out what exactly they would ask her about.
Of course, who else would be featured in the August edition but Xander Thorne. When the salesgirl slid the magazine over to her, Gwen froze at seeing his uncovered arms bowing his red electric cello on the cover.
“He’s hot, huh?” The salesgirl winked at her.
Gwen jolted, taking a deep breath. “He’s…a bit of an asshole, actually.”
“Oh yeah?” The girl shrugged. “Still hot, though.”
Gwen opened her wallet, and when it seemed the salesgirl was still waiting for a response she added, “Yes, he’s hot.”
She went to a coffee shop and flipped open to the article. More pictures of Xander Thorne and his Stradivarius, Xander Thorne and the Roses, Xander Thorne in the recording studio. No mention of Alex Fitzgerald. Or violins. For a magazine targeted at classical musicians and instrumentalists, it seemed like quite the purposeful omission.
The YouTube video of Alex Fitzgerald playing Vitali’s Chaconne had been removed two days after Gwen had played it at the Anniversary Concert, as had the entire YouTube account. The Reddit threads she’d scoured to find out how many other people knew the truth about Alex had mysteriously disappeared. All evidence of Alex Fitzgerald: erased.
Even in the article, the interviewer asked him what other instruments he played, and violin wasn’t one of his answers.
Gwen took the E train over to Queens and arrived at the shop right as Mabel was opening at ten.
“On time, as usual,” Mabel called out from behind the register.
“I can’t help it.” She whipped around the counter and plopped down a Tupperware with two blueberry muffins.
Mabel frowned at her. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m on a diet!”
“One muffin won’t hurt! I made them yesterday.”
Popping the lid, Mabel groaned. “Blueberry? Damn it, Gwen.” She sighed and grabbed a few spare napkins from behind the counter. “Well, what are you eating?”
Gwen laughed. “You can have them both if you really want.”
Mabel shoved one toward Gwen and started peeling the paper off her own. “Okay, show me what you got.”
She opened her binder and let Mabel see her work. Gwen saw her lips tighten at the title—a new arrangement of “Wake Me Up When September Ends” by Green Day. Mabel still carried a lot of disdain for the music Nathan used at the Pops. Chewing and humming along with the notes, Mabel ran her eyes over the markings, flipping pages and breathing sharply where the up-bows landed. Gwen stood silently, pulling apart her muffin but refusing to eat until Mabel had finished.
“Good,” Mabel said after reviewing the last page.
“Good? Nothing you would change?”
“Well, there’s this up after the page turn. I think it’s fine as you’ve done it, but I know some section leaders would have moved it a measure later.”
“Should I move it?”
Mabel looked up at her and leaned on her hip. “Didn’t I say it was fine?”
“But is fine good enough?”
Mabel shrugged. “Make a decision. Stand by it. That’s all I can say.” She bit into the muffin and groaned.
Gwen showed her what she was thinking for next week’s pieces. Mabel nodded as she chewed, agreeing with every decision, warming Gwen’s chest with confidence.
When the muffin wrappers were thrown away, and the first customers began wandering in, Gwen cleared her throat and broached the subject she had been dying to talk about for months.
“So, I heard recently that you were Alex Fitzgerald’s violin tutor.” The words left her in a rush, and she felt her heartbeat in her fingertips as she waited for the response.
Mabel’s brows shot upward. She turned to the register and busied her hands as she asked, “Where on earth did you hear that name?”
“I stumbled on it.” She didn’t want to bring up Ava if she didn’t have to. “Do you…You do know who he is now, right?”
Mabel didn’t meet her eye. “Why do you think I never let you play that stupid band’s music at the store?”
Gwen blinked. When she had been running deliveries for the shop at sixteen, she’d brought Thorne and Roses to Mabel’s attention. Mabel shot her down every time she asked if they could play their tracks at the shop, even when it was empty.
She tried to recover herself. “Did you have a falling out with him?”
Mabel chuckled. “You could say that. He ‘outgrew’ me. His words, not mine. Tea?”
Weaving around Gwen, Mabel left the counter for the small back room where she kept an electric kettle.
Gwen stumbled to follow. “Why did he say that?”
“Well, it was partially true, wasn’t it? Have you seen him on the violin?”
Nodding, Gwen followed her into the back.
“Marvelous musician. Too hard on himself all the time, but you can’t help that. He was always set on ‘being’ someone,” Mabel continued. “He was a real brat as a teenager, but I didn’t take any of his shit. Even after he stopped coming for lessons, he swung by asking for more and more music for Nathan’s little videos.”
Her heart hammered “Videos?”
“Nathan made him record three a week.” Mabel clucked her tongue as she flipped the kettle switch. “Thirty minutes long sometimes. Always new material. Always the most pristine performances you’ve ever heard, but I knew that a video recorded on a Friday had taken Alex forty-eight hours of practicing— without sleep. Because he’d just come in on Wednesday asking for that brand-new music.”
As Mabel took down mugs and blew out a tight, frustrated breath, Gwen’s mind whirled. The YouTube account where she’d seen Alex Fitzgerald’s Vitali Chaconne—it was Nathan’s. All eighty videos.
“Why three times a week? What was he working so hard for?”
Mabel pressed her lips together. “I believe Nathan’s words were, ‘you’re not four years old anymore. Now anyone can do what you can.’ It was a way to advance him to the next level, which was all Alex wanted back then. I told him Juilliard would advance him just fine without working his fingers to the bone playing night and day for these recordings. I helped him apply; I talked to the people I knew there. Nathan had said he could join the Pops right at eighteen, but…”
Gwen swallowed. “But you didn’t want him at the Pops. Just like me.”
Mabel shrugged one shoulder. “Not exactly like you, but yes. I was so angry with him when he squandered his chance at Juilliard.”
Gwen tried to imagine someone close enough to be family putting that kind of pressure on her. And then she remembered what Ava had said about pulling him back in middle school, sending him away during the summers to live in Jersey to give him a break. “Did Ava know about Alex’s videos? About Nathan pushing him?”
It was the wrong thing to say. Mabel’s head snapped in her direction, a slight step back, as if protecting herself.
“You clearly don’t know Ava Fitzgerald well if you think she would have one original thought that wasn’t Nathan’s. Of course she knew.”
Gwen was scratching at old wounds. She walked it back. “You said Nathan liked to take credit for things that weren’t his. Did you mean Alex?”
“Among other things. Many other things.” Mabel dropped a teabag in each mug. “Just watch yourself, love. I know you’re excited about this new opportunity. But don’t let anyone tell you what you’re capable of. Even if it sounds like a compliment.”
Gwen thought over the information Mabel had given her on the train back into Manhattan. It was fascinating to her that teenage Alex had been determined to be someone when she was pretty sure he had been “someone” already.
She arrived for lunch at a restaurant inside one of the hotels on Sixth and found Nathan there with Ava. Taking a deep breath, she centered herself and tried to remember that Mabel knew a different Nathan than she did. This Nathan had been nothing but supportive and had been paramount to her career.
“Gwen,” he greeted her, standing and pulling her chair out. “Sorry for crashing.” He looked grim.
“That’s all right.” She sat, and Ava poured her a cup of tea from the pot. “Is everything okay?”
Nathan folded his hands under his chin. “There are a few things we need to discuss.”
Gwen sipped her tea, letting it burn her tongue.
“One of our grants didn’t come through,” Ava said. Her lips twitched into a frown, and she looked out over the rest of the tables. “My first year on the board and we’re already being run into the ground.”
Gwen’s fingers trembled.
“No, don’t—” Nathan shook his head. “It’s not as bad as all that,” he said to Gwen.
“Just about,” Ava said into her teacup.
“It just means we need to do a bit of reworking to the season. More ticket sales, maybe another specialty concert if Carnegie will find space for us.” He turned his eyes to Gwen. “And we might have to make some changes.”
Gwen thought of the sheet music in her bag, the hours of work she had put into marking it up. She thought of the interview this coming Wednesday. She’d had first chair at her fingertips, and she’d lost it.
Be careful with them. They can take it all away from you.
“That’s…no, I understand.” She nodded at the white tablecloth, wondering who she could call at the magazine to let them know. She’d have to tell Jacob that they couldn’t afford to move out of the Heights just yet. She had been really looking forward to a bedroom door.
“Oh, sweetheart, no,” Ava said, grabbing her hand. “You’re not going anywhere. You’ve brought the Pops more good press than anything in the last ten years.”
She felt the tightness in her chest unwind.
“No, Gwen. The one thing we’re sure of is you.” Nathan smiled at her. “But there are several things…still in flux.”
She nodded and asked, “How important was this grant?”
“Let us worry about that,” Ava said. “You just focus on the rehearsals and that interview. Wednesday, isn’t it?” Gwen nodded, trying to stir milk into her tea with shaking fingers. “We’re going to need as much publicity as we can get. I’m in contact with my friend at the Times. We’re hoping they can squeeze you in somewhere.”
Gwen managed to burn her tongue again. “The New York Times? Seriously?”
“Just a small blurb, maybe the week of the September concert.” Ava tore at a piece of bread, slathering it with half the butter offered. If Gwen wasn’t aware how stressed she was before, that was the indication.
Nathan excused himself with a kiss to Ava’s cheek, then headed back to his office. Ava looked over her bow markings on “Wake Me Up When September Ends,” and Gwen had to bite her tongue when she mentioned the exact same up-bow that Mabel had.
“It’s up to you, but I think I would move this later. Here”— she pointed to the exact measure Mabel had—“it would be easier to support the allegro. Give the violins time to prepare.”
Gwen nodded and ultimately erased her marking, changing it to later in the music.
She spent the rest of the day walking, trying to piece together the idea of the Pops losing so much of their funding. She wandered through the Upper East Side, taking in the neighborhood she had always wanted to live in. She and Jacob would sometimes put on their fanciest clothes, call each other Vivienne and Princeton the Fourth, and walk through the Upper East Side, talking in loud voices about all the celebrities they’d dated. One time, Jacob got a dog-sitting gig and they took their adopted Bichon-poodle mix through the neighborhood, changing their narrative to a couple who needed to socialize young Waffles more with the neighbor’s pug.
There was a taqueria on Park that had some of the best tacos in the city, located on the Upper East Side but with prices of the Lower East Side. A perfect place for people who didn’t want to break the bank while pretending to…have a bank. She’d only had soup and free bread at lunch, so she was starving again an hour later. She popped in to grab a few tacos to take over to Central Park, planning to watch the Broadway League play their softball games before heading back uptown.
“Two al pastor, please,” she chirped to the cashier, pulling out her debit card.
The older lady shook her head. “Sorry, sweetheart, we switched to cash only last month.”
Gwen blinked at her. “Oh. Really?” Had it really been more than a month since she and Jacob had been back here?
“There’s an ATM next door.”
Gwen wavered. A four-dollar ATM fee for nine-dollar tacos. If only it were next month. She’d get her first paycheck as first chair in a few weeks. Not that she could really count on a paycheck at this point.
“Okay, I’ll, um…”
A crisp twenty-dollar bill appeared on the counter. And Gwen followed it up to the long, callused fingers that produced it and the forearm that stretched out from behind her. She craned her neck to find a gray T-shirt pulled tight over a familiar set of shoulders.
She stood, helpless, as Xander Thorne paid for her tacos and collected the change from the smirking owner. Her tongue was dry as she watched him toss a dollar bill into the tip jar before pocketing the rest.
Thank you.
Thank you was the correct thing to say, wasn’t it? Or I’ ll get you next time—
No, no. No next time.
“Why are you here?”
That. That was what she chose to say.
He lifted a dark brow at her and said, “I wanted tacos?”
“You’re supposed to be”—in Tampa tonight, Atlanta tomorrow—“on tour or something, right?”
He handed her the ticket with her order number on it when the older woman waved it at her for the third time. It crinkled in her fingers.
“We got an offer for a gig in the city, so we canceled some concerts.”
He looked down at her. Standing too close. She could feel the warmth of his arm. When a customer tried to move up to the counter, Gwen jumped.
“Thank you for…You didn’t have to. I’ll pay you back.…” She took the opportunity to move over to the pickup counter. He followed, and she noticed his own order ticket in his hand.
“Do you live around here?” he asked, his eyes tracking her.
She almost laughed. “Uh, no. No, I live uptown.” She doubted he’d ever been north of 72nd Street. “I just”—like to walk around here like I have money—like to people-watch the rich—like to call myself Vivienne and wear floppy hats—“wanted tacos,” she ended up saying, echoing him.
He nodded at her, his eyes saying more than his mouth— don’t stare at his mouth—almost like he heard the things she didn’t say. His fingers played with the corner of his receipt. She had a strange urge to tell him that she’d just had breakfast with his violin tutor and lunch with his mother, but had a feeling that wouldn’t go over very well.
“What are you working on?” he asked, eyes cast down on his scrap of paper that read 492.
Gwen swallowed. “What are you working on?” was one of those expressions artists used with each other. Something that implied no end goal, just a desire to create and improve. She’d heard people use it before, but she’d never been directly asked what she was working on.
“Nothing. I mean, the Pops starts back up on Wednesday, so there’s that…”
She glanced at the cook, willing him to work faster.
“Do you feel ready?” he asked, eyes flipping up to her. “Have all your markings done?” A small smile curved his lips, and now she was staring at his mouth—full lips that she suddenly imagined on her jaw. She wondered what would have happened the night of the Anniversary Concert if Mei hadn’t been in that stall…
“Yep.” She grinned and patted her tote bag. “Just finished.”
His eyes locked on her bag, and for some stupid reason, she dragged the binder out and flipped it open. Like he wouldn’t believe her, so she felt the need to show him.
His head tilted at the first pages, trying to read it upside-down. He looked up at her, asking silently. Gwen turned the binder around and extended her work toward him, like a third grader with an apple.
His fingers slipped through the music, dragging over the staves and pausing on the rests. She felt his breath syncing with the bow markings, inhaling on the ups, exhaling the downs. He turned a page and paused, blinking down at the place she had erased the up and replaced it a measure later. The ghost of that decision was still on the pages in lead smudges.
“What made you second-guess yourself?” he mumbled, flipping back to the previous page and tracking the full progression again.
This couldn’t be happening. Three people—all incredible musicians, all interconnected with Gwen as the axis—all of them fixating on the same point in the music. She echoed Ava’s reasoning back to him.
“It supports the next phrase better. It’s much easier for the full group to play the allegro.”
His eyes glanced at her before returning to the page. “My mother has already looked at this.”
Her breath caught. “Yeah, we met this afternoon.” Gwen shifted her bag on her shoulder. “She mentioned that most violinists appreciate a breath before an allegro—”
He chuckled, eyes still on the page. “Most violinists, maybe. But the Manhattan Pops is supposed to employ violinists of a certain quality, right?” He scoffed. “Can’t get twenty-two well-trained musicians to all swing their bows at the same time?”
She bit back a grin, feeling a spark of satisfaction in her veins. Alex Fitzgerald would have agreed with her markings. But she also wondered what reason he had to help her. Maybe he wasn’t helping her. She felt suddenly antsy to get the binder back before he had the opportunity to sabotage her. She gestured for it, and he gave it back.
She fumbled it into her tote bag. It was silent for a moment too long, until they spoke over each other.
“When is the gig—?”
“What are you—? Sorry.”
“Sorry.” She winced and watched him push his hair back, taking a deep breath. “When is the gig?” she repeated.
He stared at her for a moment before replying, “Saturday, but we’re here early for rehearsals.”
She nodded. “That sounds big. Very exciting.” She shifted her bag on her shoulder. “What’s…where is it?”
“492 and 493!” She jumped as the cook tossed their bags on the pickup counter. Xander grabbed both of them.
She reached for hers, about to thank him again and run. Something fluttered in her stomach at the idea that they could hold civilized conversations more often.
“How long are you in town for?” The instant the words were out of her mouth she flushed such a violent shade of magenta, she could almost feel steam rising off her.
She bravely met his gaze and sank into his eyes as they watched her, flicking over her collarbones and lips and that place on her jaw she’d just imagined him kissing.
“We head back to Florida on Sunday.” He was still staring at her like there was a riddle to solve and he was running out of time to solve it.
Nodding, Gwen smiled up at him. “Well, thank you for the tacos.” She took one step toward the exit, and then her body turned back without her permission. “What are you doing right now? Do you want to hang out? Or jam for a bit?”
She felt like a violin string, vibrating. His eyes slid over her, and in the silence, she considered walking into the ocean and never returning.
“That’s…Sorry, that was weird. I don’t even have my violin—”
“I have a violin,” he said quickly, seeming like he wanted to step toward her, but stopped himself. “Electric, though.” His gaze was bright. Eager.
Swallowing, she said, “I’ve never played an electric.”
His lips pressed together, and she listened as he took a measured breath. “Would you like to?”