Cello Suite No. 4
Before their divorce, his father used to joke that Alex had his mother’s eyes, chin, and fingertips. His father was a guitarist for a one-hit rock band in the eighties, and was always trying to find his footing among the Fitzgerald musicians in the house, but he always loved to hear Alex play. He kept a violin tuned at his house in Jersey, and when Alex was no longer playing violin, he bought a cello.
The first morning that Alex found Nathan Andrews in his mother’s kitchen in only his pajamas, Nathan had tried to cut the tension by asking fifteen-year-old Alex to play for him. He had the audacity to give him notes. Barefoot and critiquing him, while Alex’s mother showered.
By the end of his first year at Juilliard, Alex was over it. The intense stress, the life-or-death stakes, the professors who hadn’t worked in ten years but still preached like they knew the business. One of his friends—or “partners”—pointed out that he would never feel the need to prove himself there because he could always just go be Alex Fitzgerald. He started looking into how quickly one could graduate, and when that didn’t give good results, he started booking engagements on his own.
His mother cautioned against it. He had to go over her head to the board of directors at the Pops to ask if they had any need of a soloist in any of their upcoming concerts. Nathan shot it down. They both FaceTimed him and explained that his education should take priority for these four years. When he replied, “What if I’m not learning anything?” his mother’s lips pursed and Nathan sighed. “The only way you’re not learning anything is if you think you are qualified to be the dean of the program. Do you think you are qualified to be the dean of the program?” Nathan said.
The next day, Alex sought out the dean of Juilliard’s classical music program, made an appointment for the following week, and prepared to submit his resignation from the school if the dean didn’t think he could teach him anything.
The day before the meeting, he and his duet partner played Schumann’s Violin Sonata No. 2 in a rented music hall, all paid for out of pocket. Calvin Lorenz, one of the music history professors, was in attendance. He pulled Alex into his office on Monday morning, just an hour before his meeting with the dean. He stared at Alex over thin-framed glasses, tapping the tips of his fingers together in silence.
“You don’t want to be here, do you?” he’d asked.
Alex shook his head.
Lorenz thought for a long moment, then said, “Who chose the violin for you?”
“My mother.”
“Ah. The famous Ava Fitzgerald.” His eyes twinkled at Alex, but he thought he might have heard a lick of derision there, something Alex had never heard directed at his perfect mother in his life. “And you? When did you choose the violin?”
Alex blinked at him. “I never did.”
Lorenz nodded. “And you’re satisfied with that answer?”
Alex never showed up to his meeting with the dean of Juilliard. Ava took it as a win, since she’d been contacted immediately by her friend the dean when the meeting was scheduled. But she couldn’t have guessed that she wouldn’t hear from her son for another six years.
Lorenz asked Alex to pick a new instrument. Alex picked cello, and Lorenz’s lips twitched, like he’d won something.
Alex stayed at Juilliard for two more weeks until he dropped out. Lorenz set him up in an apartment in the Village with a boy named Dom who was half a head shorter than him, whose first loves were sugar, video games, and weed, and who was also the first violinist Alex had met in his life who didn’t care if he was getting better at violin, just that he could play.
Dom also didn’t know who Alex Fitzgerald was. Which was good, because Alex was going by Xander now.
Lorenz introduced Dom and Xander to three other guys, placed sheet music in front of them, and told them they had two days until they recorded.
It was the most alive Alex had felt since he was eleven years old and Josh Bell had shaken his hand and said, “Very nice, Alex. Very nice.”
And everything was good. Really good. They were making money. They were making music. And Alex maybe had friends. They were partners still, in a way, but they were friends too. Friends who invited him places. Friends who introduced him to their girlfriends. Friends who asked him his opinions, but who also felt like they could disagree with him.
Things were good until they weren’t. And again, Alex started looking for escape routes. He heard that the Pops were going to be restructuring soon and called his mother for the first time in six years, and asked for a meeting with her and Nathan.
Nathan looked the same, but his mother looked older, with streaks of silver through her dark hair. He said, “I’d like to be considered for first chair when Mom retires.”
His mother brought her fingers to her lips, and Nathan tilted his head, sitting back in his chair with arms crossed. “Really,” he said. Not a question.
But Alex knew Nathan. He knew that Nathan was doing calculations, even if he was trying to look unimpressed. They came to terms. Alex would take over first cello for a few years to make sure he was “a good fit.”
When they shook hands, Alex told him he would need to be Xander Thorne from now on. No slip-ups. He pretended not to notice his mother’s small inhale. Nathan squeezed his hand, and said, “Understood. But Xander Thorne will not be taking over as concertmaster of this orchestra. Alex Fitzgerald will.”
Lorenz wasn’t happy. But Alex signed the contract right then and there in Nathan’s office, forcing Lorenz to reschedule half of the Roses engagements for the following year. It felt good.
So Alex tried. For eight months, he played nice with others. He let Nathan introduce him to the orchestra like he’d found him lying in the street one morning. He let his mother correct him in front of his section. He knew he wasn’t the best team player. He knew that they expected him to be “Alex” for them. On time, professional, and giving a shit. He knew they didn’t like “Xander.” They didn’t have any power over “Xander.” Except the promise of first chair.
And then one morning, while his head was still spinning with the hum of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” Nathan told him they would not be offering him concertmaster. Ever.
Alex saw red. He thought of the weeks of his childhood that Nathan had commandeered, expecting him to play through Paganini’s 24 Caprices on tape instead of going to prom. He thought of the engagements Nathan had canceled on his behalf the summer after junior year, so Nathan could take him to shadow the Stockholm symphony. The year of his life he’d just lost, playing first cello in a Pops orchestra. Not even a symphony. A Pops orchestra. Not even worth putting on a resumé.
Alex stood from his chair, pacing, before finally exploding. “You’ve been doing this to me my whole life!”
He looked to his mother for help, and found her staring out the window, fingers over her lips again.
“Alex. We have not been pleased with your attitude or leadership abilities this past year,” Nathan said. “We don’t want to lead you on through another season.”
“Lead me on?” Alex laughed. “Lead me where? Where have you been leading me these past ten years, Nathan? Certainly not to the top. You’ve always kept me from the top.”
Nathan crossed his arms, and Alex could swear he saw a smirk in the corner of his mouth. “And what was supposed to happen here, Alex? You were going to take over first chair? For how long? How long until you got bored and looked for a new path? How did you expect to be satisfied with first chair when you’ve never stuck with something for more than a few years?”
“You know it’s different,” Alex hissed. “You know this is something I’ve wanted forever. Since Uncle Walt—”
“I don’t see how you expected this to go. You’d be giving up Xander Thorne. You’d be giving up your rock career. You know you can’t have both.”
“That’s what I wanted.” He felt the sting behind his eyes, and ran his hands through his hair to hide it, tugging hard. “You know that’s—she knows that’s what I wanted.” He flung an arm in his mother’s direction, but couldn’t look at her. “First chair. Eventually conductor.”
Nathan laughed. “Conductor? Conductor?”
“Joshua Bell is doing it.”
“Oh, and you think you’re Joshua Bell?”
“You used to tell me I was!” Alex shouted. “All the time, you said I was better than Joshua Bell—”
“I’m not sure I ever would have said you were better,” Nathan said softly. Condescendingly.
He had. Often. And he knew he had. Worse, his mother knew he had.
Alex left that room hoping to never see Nathan Andrews again in his life, hoping he’d never need to stare at his smug face again as he gave him a note. Hoping he’d one day see his mother again if she could ever wake up.
And again, he started the task of being happy. He had bandmates. He had an East Coast tour. He had friends who weren’t just partners. He could be happy with the Roses. With Lorenz.
But Gwen Jackson challenged the meaning of happy.
And less than a week after she’d been in his studio, in his arms, on his fingertips, he did the thing he promised he’d never do again. He walked into Nathan Andrews’s office, smiled, and asked for a second chance. It was the most humiliating moment of his life. He’d never felt as powerless as he had in that moment.
But as the first day back at rehearsal approached—the first day he could walk in holding Gwen’s hand, the first time he could stare at her openly from his seat in the cellos, knowing that she was his and he was hers…
He would do it all over again. Every step of it.