Chapter Forty
IT TURNS OUT to be a very long day.
“Great work,” she says, beaming. “Now it’s my turn.”
“Thank god,” I mutter, which makes her laugh.
As the orchestra begins the process of packing up, Oliver makes his way to the mixing suite, his eyes bright and his face a little pink from the rush of it all.
There’s a quick conversation with James, Oliver, Rebecca, and me in which we congratulate one another before James outlines next steps.
He’ll have the tracks available to Rebecca within a week. It really is out of my hands now.
“So!” Rebecca says as she claps her hands. “It’s a bit of a tradition for everyone to go out for drinks after. Qiang mentioned the Kerryman around the corner. You wanna go?”
I’m bent over my tote, gathering up my stuff, so I wait to hear Oliver’s response. I’ll go wherever he does.
“I’m in,” he says.
So I add, “Me, too.”
James hits a button on his panel and leans in to a microphone. “Drinks at the Kerryman. Everyone is invited.”
There’s a rumble of recognition from the orchestra members packing up in the studio.
“I can head over there and get some tables?” I offer.
“Sure, that’d be great,” Rebecca replies. “It’s a big place, so it shouldn’t be too hard. I’m gonna wrap up here and then I’ll be over.”
I try to catch Oliver’s eye, but he’s got his phone to his ear as he steps out. Deep breaths. I’ll catch him at the bar.
The Kerryman is, quite literally, around the corner, less than two minutes from the studio.
It’s a classic Irish pub with lots of wood and deep-green accents.
U2 is playing from a speaker somewhere. This late on a weeknight, it’s sparse in terms of customers, with only a few guys in beanies parked at the long bar, eyes trained on the hockey game on the TVs.
Orchestra members trickle in. I greet them all, acting as a sort of de facto hostess until Rebecca arrives and takes over, while the bartender looks on at us, confused. It’s clear she was not expecting to see dozens of people with bulky cases take over the space.
I order a beer and sip it slowly. I try to partake in the conversations bouncing all around, but I’ve got one eye trained on the front door.
Every time it opens and a cold gust of winter wind bursts in the room, my heart skips a beat.
This happens no less than ten times before I start to get worried.
If Oliver doesn’t show up tonight…
Someone asks me about the Debra Cain movie; I smile and answer the best I can. Inside, I’m dying. Today was my last shot with him. He’s already proven that he’s strong enough to ignore my texts. He may have blocked me altogether. I don’t even know where he lives.
Another cold breeze blows through the room and I swear I feel him before I see him. All those tendrils of warmth shoot through me when I tear my eyes from the group in front of me to the door. Of course it’s him this time, looking just as handsome as earlier, sleek and fine in a black wool jacket.
“Sorry, one second,” I mutter as I peel myself away from the bar.
He’s heading in my general direction—not to me, but to where people are gathering to order drinks—and I manage to catch him in the middle of the room. His eyes widen when he sees me beeline straight for him. He freezes.
“Hey. Um. I…” My breath catches as he looks down at me. Everything I want to say clogs my throat. I’m acutely aware that there are at least sixty people in this bar now. This could not be less private.
But that’s the point, right? Oliver needs to be chosen, needs to believe that he’s loved for who he is on his own.
I fucked this all up when Damian put me on the spot.
I may never know if I made the right call that night, but I can at least show Oliver what he means to me—by putting my heart on the line in front of all these people.
I clear my throat, straighten my spine, and look right at him. “Sorry, I’m a little tongue-tied. I have been all day, actually. I just—I knew that I missed you, but seeing you today made me realize how much I miss you.”
His lips part. A chair drags across the wood floors. People are starting to look at us, but I keep going.
“I fucked up that night of the dinner and I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry I said what I did. If I could go back in time, I would have done so many things differently, but…
that’s not an option, so all I can do is tell you this and hope you hear me.
” I take a deep, shaky breath. “I love you, Oliver. I chose you that morning by the water, and I still choose you now. Even if”—my voice cracks—“you don’t feel the same way, I needed you to know. ”
My little speech is greeted with silence from him. It’s just me, U2, and the eyes of about twenty people who are pretending not to watch this unfold but definitely are. His face scrunches up as he closes his eyes.
“It’s okay,” I say softly, bravely, because I half expected this, even if I hoped for something different. “You can reject me. Walk away, if that’s what you want.”
I give him a watery smile when he finally looks at me.
“I was so pissed that night,” he admits quietly. “I know you said you wanted to keep it professional, but after everything, I couldn’t believe you’d—well, yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair as he shakes his head. “But then I went down to Florida for the holidays and talked to Bea.”
“Oh?” I ask, my heart twisting, writhing with hope.
“You were in an impossible situation,” he says.
“One I’ve never been in and probably never will be.
Would I have done things any differently if I were in your shoes?
Honestly, I don’t know. By the time I talked to Bea about it, I’d already figured that out on my own.
But you should have seen the way she looked at me when I told her what happened.
Like I was the idiot for shutting you out. ”
I struggle to swallow. “You weren’t—aren’t—an idiot.”
His eyes drop down to the floor. “I was. This is how I’ve been all my life.
The whole rejection thing—you know.” He glances around at the crowd, clearly uncomfortable rehashing those particulars in front of people who may know his family.
“I thought I was doing the smart thing putting myself first that night, but once the anger faded, I realized I was doing what I always did. Closing myself off. I put those walls up so high in college that you had no idea how much I liked and respected you.”
“I really didn’t. That night of the graduation party, when you said you thought you were better than me—I believed it,” I choke out. “I believed you.”
His eyes cut to me, focused and intense. “I didn’t mean that. I said that because…”
“Because I insulted you first,” I finish for him. “I got so much wrong back then. I’m sorry. I thought you hated me.”
“Never,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “Not then, and not now.”
“Oh.” I reach for him, my hand landing on his upper arm, fingers curling into the soft wool of his coat to keep them from trembling.
“I never hated you, either. There were times when I was jealous, and maybe times when I resented you, but that’s what happens at a place like Juilliard.
We were made to compete with each other. By design. I know that now.”
“We don’t have to compete anymore,” he says, lips curling into the barest hint of a smile. “I never wanted that—I always respected you. That’s why I mentioned you for this gig.”
“And it changed my life. Thank you.”
There’s a moment where I think this might be it. This is as far as he’ll go when it comes to clearing the air and accepting my apology. My “I love you” hangs in the air above us like an anvil, ready to drop.
But then he pulls me into him, his eyes full of questions, like he’s not sure if I’m okay with this even though I just publicly apologized and confessed my love to him. There’s a shimmering feeling in my veins as I look up at him and smile—my way to tell him, Yes, this is what I want.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I love you so much, and I’m sorry it took me this long to get here.”
I’ve heard enough. My arms loop around his neck. I pull him down to kiss me, my eyes fluttering closed.
It’s not like it is in my TV shows, when two people have their big romantic moment in a crowd of onlookers. There’s no big applause, no whoops and cheers. I do hear one guy go “Nice!” and the distinct voice of Rebecca saying, “Holy shit.”
But I don’t care. All that matters is my body melting into his, the smell of him winding through me, the feel of his lips stretching into a smile against my own. His hands are on my hips as he clutches me against him. I hold on to him as tightly as I can—for as long as he’ll let me.
FROM: Dr. David Kendrick
TO: Celia García
DATE: Thursday, March 4 at 9:02 AM
SUBJECT: RE: Internship idea
Hi Celia,
What a pleasure to hear from you. Yes of course I remember you. I’m so glad to hear you are well.
I’m still at Juilliard as you can see. I will probably die here.
I would be happy to talk with you about this internship idea of yours.
Agree that it’s very difficult to navigate the industry when you graduate.
Job placements in the arts are never easy but don’t tell my current students that.
We always need more people who are willing to help students navigate life after graduation.
Would you like to meet for coffee? I’m at the Lincoln Center campus most days but could meet you wherever. My cell is 212-402-9221 if easier.
Best,
David
Dean of the Music Division