35. Sadie
Chapter 35
Sadie
C oncertmaster. I am the Concertmaster.
Even if only temporarily. Even if only conditionally.
I’m in the seat I’ve always coveted since I first played in an orchestra.
The realization doesn’t sink in the way I thought.
Not when my hand slides in the conductor’s. Not when I tune the orchestra. Not when I sit in the first chair position. The one that was Jaxon’s over the last six years.
It’s strange and I feel oddly out of place. When I play the solos, it’s my own voice, but there’s another voice in the back of my mind that says something is wrong.
There’s no electricity sparking in my veins.
There’s no thrill rippling down my spine.
There’s no heat rushing through me .
With Jaxon not in the orchestra, he’s become more candid in showing his affection for me at rehearsals. The old Sadie pops up in my head and tells me not to risk the gossip. People might talk even if we’re not playing together.
But the new Sadie—the one who gets sunflowers and home-cooked meals and makes love against a piano—doesn’t care one bit.
She tells me to slip my hand in his as we walk through the halls. To fall into his hug and let him kiss me on the forehead during breaks. To smile brightly at him at the end of each solo where he mouths the words I’m proud of you, like a balm to my wounds. He soothes my insecurities, and even with the sadness behind his smile, he still shows up for me. But I know him and see right through him too. He wishes he could be here, but his body won’t allow it. His doctors told him to stop. And seeing the pain after each rehearsal—the sweat over his skin, the trembling of his hands, the ragged breaths going through him—I knew he had to stop too.
My feet hit the stage in a dress rehearsal a week later and each step beats an empty rhythm. Because the seat beside me isn’t who I’d expected. It might as well be empty because it’s not him. And I realize the thing I covet now the most is the thrill of being beside him . The excitement of playing with him. The language of love through my instrument in sync with his.
Without Jaxon in my periphery, I feel empty on the stage. All the spotlight is on me, but there’s no warmth.
My heart aches for how we’ve resorted to speaking silently across the room with longing looks instead of whispers beside each other. He’ll stand against the wall while I sit in his chair and, at times, I’ll feel like an imposter here. But he’ll cup my face and tell me I deserve it and won’t let go until I smile at him. It makes me realize the sharp pain in my chest is from missing him. Missing his violin playing in my ear. Missing finding him effortlessly in my periphery. Missing our gentle nudges and soft smiles. Sharing a stand, sharing music, sharing cues.
When I wrap him in my arms at night, there’s a distance between us. A silent space of unsaid thoughts. I know it isn’t because of me, not when he clings to me like I’m his lifeline. Strong arms wrapped over my body. Warm breaths whispering how proud of me he is. Palms cupping my cheek to kiss me reverently, like any minute I might suddenly disappear.
When he settles between my thighs later that evening, the words slip from between my lips.
“It’s lonely up there without you,” I whisper to him, sheets tangled in our legs as he traps my hair behind my ear.
He hides his sad smile against my skin but says softly, “I’m always here.”
His whispers of love carry me through the heartache, and when we roll together, he carries me over the peak. I sing his name like a prayer and he murmurs into my skin, “Always for you.”
I never thought I’d feel this way—that his arms could feel like a home I never thought I needed. Who knew that in only a few months I’d fall so hard for him? That the girl who once thought she’d have to tolerate him now feels like she can’t breathe without him near.
I’m afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t find a new purpose or passion. If he remains lost and lonely, living through me, because an injury took away his soul. Accompanying me at rehearsal to hear the music pains him as much as it keeps him going. His smile has a crack in it from across the stage, looking longingly at me in the position he was once in. The wound cuts deep and I find myself playing the melancholy solos with the most feeling because when he’s hurt, I hurt too.
“I’m always here,” he sighs again, and I let myself sink into his embrace and be happy. Be good enough for him. Even if only for now. But all I can think of as we drift to sleep is would forever be too much?