Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Flynn
The Minnesota Orchestra Hall is a massive glass building with a grand atrium and multiple gathering spaces outside of the main performance hall. We find our seats on the floor at the front.
“Yes. There is a guest solo cellist performing tonight, so they knew I’d want to be as close as possible to see her.” June sits in her chair and crosses her legs, thumbing through the program.
I continue to gawk at the impressive space while shrugging off my jacket and loosening my tie before sitting beside her. “What’s up with the cubes everywhere?”
June glances up from the program, eyes pointed to the ceiling. “They’re for acoustic purposes. They disperse sound throughout the concert hall. This place is exceptional. The design and sound are remarkable.”
I look at her and wonder who she is. After she played the cello in Callie’s bedroom, I felt like she was an entirely different person who I didn’t know.
Not in a bad way. It made me realize I’ve fallen in love with a woman who I don’t know that well.
But I want to. Then in our conversation at dinner she left me in the dust, feeling stupid for not understanding any of her references.
And now, listening to her speak so intelligently about this place, it’s hard not to feel stupid, like I’m way out of my league, and it’s only a matter of time before she realizes there’s very little depth to me.
When the concert begins, I watch June while everyone else watches the orchestra.
Sometimes she reaches for my hand and squeezes it, and when the lights shift between performances, I see tears in her eyes.
Am I supposed to cry too? Music has never brought me to tears. I’ve never even cried watching a movie.
As the guest cellist plays, June scoots to the edge of her seat, and shortly after the song begins, June’s hands mimic the performer’s, eyes closed.
The song ends, and everyone claps. But June stands.
The performer, with short, blond hair curled behind her ears, focuses on June, and she grins in a way that looks like recognition. Maybe she’s June’s friend.
“Have you met her?” I whisper in June’s ear after the applause and June sits in her seat.
She shakes her head as she stands again, along with everyone else.
“It’s over?” I ask.
“Intermission,” she says.
We stretch our legs by walking the length of the common areas. There’s a wall with pictures of performers. June slows to look at them. We turn around at the same time when the cellist who performed taps June on the shoulder.
“Zoya! I thought it was you,” she says, a little out of breath.
“I just had to find you to introduce myself. I’m Liza Stephens.
I watched you perform at the Royal Albert Hall in London.
You were only sixteen. I was thirteen, and I dreamed of playing like you.
” She shakes her head. “I still dream of playing like you. I’ve wondered where you’ve been.
Sorry, now I’m just rambling out of control.
I won’t keep you. But I just wanted to say what a tremendous honor and surprise it was to perform in front of you. ” She finally takes a breath.
I have no breaths. My head is spinning too much to think about breathing. What’s going on?
June swallows hard and glances at me for less than a second, barely lifting her gaze enough to make actual eye contact. “That’s very kind of you to say, Liza. Your performance was so moving.”
“Thank you.” Liza presses her hand over her chest like she might faint from June’s words.
Seriously. What the fuck is going on?
“Well”—Liza shoots me a quick smile before offering her hand to June—“I won’t keep you. But it’s been a huge pleasure meeting you in person.”
June shakes her hand and gives her a wavering smile.
Liza walks away, then stops and points to a picture, glancing back at June. “It must feel surreal having your picture on the wall. I bet they’d love for you to sign it.”
When she continues toward the stairs, I follow her footsteps to the picture.
“Flynn.” June grabs my wrist, but I pull away.
We passed this picture five minutes earlier, and she didn’t even pause at it.
That’s her—the young woman on the stage, front and center, sitting in a chair with a cello between her legs, one hand on the neck, her other hand holding the bow above her head like she’s just finished a dramatic performance.
But her long hair is partially covering her face, eyes closed.
I don’t know if I would have ever recognized her in this photo.
But now that I really focus, it’s undeniable.
The gold plaque on the frame says, “A World Away.”
“What am I looking at here, June?” I ask, my jaw working back and forth. “Or … Zoya? Is that your name?” I turn my head just enough to squint at her.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about after the concert.” Her face wrinkles as she wrings her hands together. “I played the cello professionally.”
“No shit.”
She frowns at my sarcasm. “I had a band called A World Away. It was an extraordinary life—a privileged life.”
I look away. She will not make me feel guilty for the things I’ve said about people who live a privileged life.
“My parents adopted me from an orphanage in India when I was three. Much like Rupert Rawlings, my father married into a wealthy family. My mother’s stepfather owned ZIP Tunes, one of the most successful record labels in the world, which my parents run now.
My grandmother, Juniper Carlisle, was an international supermodel who had her own cable fashion DIY show.
She went by ‘Juni,’ so I go by June instead of Zoya because too many people know Zoya Malone.
And I gave up that life when I came here. ”
Rubbing my temples, I shake my head. “Why?”
“The reason I was taken on my twenty-first birthday was because of my family, which made me worth a sizable ransom in the kidnapper’s eyes.
And despite round-the-clock security and countless hours of therapy, I couldn’t relax.
Walking through a crowd of people screaming my name, holding out their hands for an autograph or just to touch me felt like nothing more than people wanting to take me.
I couldn’t hold my cello or bow without shaking.
I rushed through concerts just so I could get home and hide in bed under the covers.
The one thing that brought me joy became the thing that paralyzed me with fear.
I just … fell out of love.” She quickly wipes the corners of her eyes and sniffs.
Security? Crowds of screaming people? My head won’t stop spinning. This was my night to tell her about my past, not her night to tell me … this. Whatever this is.
All I know is I never wanted this; I just wanted her.
Everyone around us heads back into the auditorium.
“It’s starting,” I murmur, but I can’t look at her anymore. “Let’s go.”
“Flynn …” She grabs my hand, interlacing our fingers, as I head toward the auditorium, but I don’t move a muscle. No curling my fingers. She’s holding on, but I’m letting go.
For the second half of the show, she wipes tears from her cheeks with her gaze on the stage.
After the last performance, we worm our way through the crowd.
As much as I need space, I wait for her, making sure she’s in front of me as a crowd of people flows through the skyway toward the parking ramp.
She turns toward me before I can open the car door for her.
“This is ridiculous. I didn’t lie to you.
This is who I am, a girl who enjoys taking people on bike tours.
I like my roommate and my two-bedroom apartment and taking naps.
” She points toward the skyway. “That’s not my life any longer, even if someone recognizes me.
It doesn’t define me any more than the balance in my bank account.
So you can’t punish me for being scared to tell you.
And you can’t punish me for the people who adopted me. ”
“Just get in,” I say, feeling too defeated to have this conversation. I’m not punishing her. I’m just …
I don’t fucking know.
“No. I’m not getting in until you say something. Until you tell me what you’re thinking and feeling.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“June—Zoya, whatever the hell your name is, just …” I close my eyes for a second. “Get in.”
She shakes her head.
“Christ, just get in.” I grab her arm, and she jerks away, stumbling backwards onto the ground. “June!” I reach for her, but not before a man in all black shoves me and helps her up.
“Hey! Get the fuck away from her,” I say, lunging toward him.
He rams me into the car beside the Chevelle.
“Stop!” June pulls on his shirt as he keeps his arm against my throat.
He looks familiar—the ride-share driver.
“I’ve got it,” June says in a calmer voice.
He releases me, and I fix my jacket.
“Who the fuck are you?” I tug on my stupid tie as he backs up, leaning against the same black SUV—the only one—she’s ever ridden in. And I’m just now making the connection that’s not a coincidence.
June opens the door and gets into the Chevelle.
I stare at him as he waits by his SUV with a stony expression.
“Just get in,” June says, fastening her seat belt.
I close her door, eyeing him the whole way around the car.
“He’s my bodyguard,” she says, head bowed, hands fiddling with her handbag’s zipper.
“Of course he is,” I whisper, starting the car.
We don’t speak on the way back to her apartment, but I’m hyperaware of the headlights in the rearview mirror the whole time.
“Is it your pride?” she asks when I park along the street in front of the gallery.
I don’t respond, turning off the engine and sitting idle, staring out the window at the passing cars and people milling around the neighborhood, a line outside of the bar on the corner. Normal people. I thought she was normal too.
“You’ve decided you hate people with money, so now you can’t be with me?”
“I don’t hate people with money,” I whisper.
“Then what’s the big deal?” I feel her gaze on me, but I can’t look at her. It hurts too much.
“I bought you a car … and you said nothing.” I grunt. “I’m sure you and your parents had a good laugh about that.”
“Flynn …”
“One scoop of ice cream on our first date. That’s what I could afford.
And I waited in misery for a whole week until I had enough money to take you to dinner.
” I tug on my coat. “I didn’t buy this fucking suit because I wanted to save the money to pay for your parking each month, or maybe help pay for gas in your car.
I brought you flowers I picked myself because they were free, and I tied them with a goddamn shoelace.
” I shake my head. “I’m sure you’ve been showered with dozens and dozens of expensive flowers, jewelry, fancy chocolates, you name it.
” I close my eyes. “I’m such a fucking fool. ”
“Flynn,” she whispers, then sniffles, resting her hand on my leg. “None of that matters to me.”
“Well, it matters to me! Yeah. It’s my pride.
Is that what you want to hear? Is that a flaw?
” I force myself to look at her tear-stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes.
“I have nothing.” I jab a finger into my chest. “Except my pride, and now that’s gone.
I didn’t walk away from a glamorous life.
Do you know what a luxury that is? Oh, fame and fortune were too stressful, maybe I’ll pretend to be a common person.
I’ll pretend to understand what it’s like to live paycheck to paycheck and slum in a two-bedroom apartment where I have my own bedroom and shop at Whole Foods. ”
She swallows hard and wipes her tears. “You’re an asshole,” she whispers.
“Because you only see what you want to see. You did it with the Rawlings, and now you’re doing it with me.
And I’m—” her voice breaks. “I’m sorry that you don’t feel worthy of nice things, of opportunities …
of love.” She opens the door. “That’s your loss. ”
“My loss?”
She climbs out and heads across the street between cars.
I follow her. “My loss? Are you fucking kidding me?” I run after her.
The screech of a horn cuts through the air, I look to my right, blinded by headlights, but I keep running.
“Watch out, you stupid kid!” some guy yells out his window.
June fishes her keys out of her handbag.
“You want to know what’s my loss?” I shrug off my jacket and unbutton my shirt.
“Pick a scar, June. Pick. A. Fucking. Scar. Let’s talk about the loss of my innocence.
Every broken bone. Third-degree burns. Belts to my backside.
A fractured nose. Hair yanked out in chunks.
Days locked in a closet.” I choke on my next words.
The man who made me touch him. I say in my head.
They may never leave. I may never tell anyone.
“You don’t know shit about my loss,” I whisper.
She frantically wipes her face through her sobs and trails of black mascara down her cheeks.
Slowly buttoning my shirt, I shrug. “I don’t hate what you or the Rawlings have,” I say in defeat. “I just don’t want it. I never want to forget where I’ve been, and how many people are still there. Not for a night out in fancy clothes. Not for anything.”