Chapter 7
SEVEN
The practice room in the music building was my sanctuary, and right now I needed sanctuary more than oxygen.
I adjusted my violin under my chin and closed my eyes, letting the familiar weight of the instrument ground me.
The bow felt like an extension of my arm as I drew it across the strings, coaxing a melody from memory—it was unwritten and entirely my own.
The notes wove through the quiet space, soft and searching, like the sound of my soul trying to settle.
I should’ve been working on the piece I’d been preparing for my Montana Philharmonic fellowship audition—the same audition that could change everything for me. But I felt untethered and restless. This wasn’t a new feeling, but it was one I hadn’t felt in a couple of years.
Everything was building up around me like stacking blocks, and all it would take was one placed slightly off-center to bring the whole stack crashing down.
And after yesterday’s psychology class disaster, I suspected that block already had a name on it—Drew Dumontier.
It shouldn’t have surprised me that a Dumontier would be my downfall. All because of a stupid feud that started long before we were ever born.
For nine weeks, I was going to be academically tied to Drew, and I had no idea what kind of retaliation he was planning after my poster prank masterpiece.
The uncertainty was almost worse than whatever he’d actually do.
Besides, hadn’t I brought this on myself?
Why couldn’t I ever be the bigger person and walk away from his stupid revenge antics?
What was it about him that always managed to rile me up and cause me to react?
I lost myself in the music, letting the melody wash over my frustration about being paired with Drew and my deeper annoyance with myself.
Here in this room, nothing else mattered but the music.
Not family disappointment, not cocky hockey players, not even the fact that I was now forced to work with my sworn enemy until the end of the semester.
Eventually, I switched to my Philharmonic audition piece—Bach’s Chaconne from the Partita in D minor.
The piece was a monster. It demanded everything from me—flawless technique, nuanced phrasing, and a kind of soul-baring vulnerability I usually kept buried.
But that’s exactly why I’d chosen it. Mr. Peterson had raised an eyebrow when I told him, suggesting I pick something “more accessible.” But I wasn’t interested in safe.
I chose this piece because it scared me—and because I knew the only way to grow as a musician was to step directly into what terrified me and play through it.
Music was the one area of my life where I felt truly confident. Some days, it felt like the only thing I was actually good at.
My phone buzzed against the music stand, interrupting my practice. Mom’s name flashed on the screen, and my stomach immediately tightened. Mom never called unless something was wrong, or unless she had something to say about my life choices that I wouldn’t want to hear.
I set down my violin and answered on the fourth ring. “Hi, Mom.”
“Harper, honey. How are you doing? How are classes going?”
Her voice had that forced cheerfulness that meant she was working up to something. I leaned back against the piano bench, already bracing myself.
“Classes are fine. Just finished practicing.” I wasn’t about to mention the Drew situation. That would open a can of worms I definitely couldn’t handle right now.
The only thing my family hated more than my choice of major was the Dumontier family.
“That’s good, sweetheart. Still spending a lot of time with that violin?” Her tone wasn’t dismissive, but it wasn’t encouraging either. It was like she was asking about a hobby she wished I’d outgrown by now.
“I’m preparing for an important audition,” I said, trying to keep the defensiveness out of my voice. “The Montana Philharmonic summer fellowship. It’s a really big opportunity.”
“Oh.” A pause. “That sounds…nice. And your other classes? The ones that are actually useful?”
For a minute, I just stared at the wall, hating the tears that blurred my eyes because I should’ve been used to this by now.
It had been two years since our first blowout argument over my choice in career.
They’d made it clear from the beginning they didn’t think music therapy was a real degree.
They acted as if everything I was passionate about was just some elaborate way to avoid real responsibility, and eventually I’d wake up one day and realize how stupid I’d been not majoring in something like business or accounting.
“All my classes are useful, Mom.”
“Of course they are, sweetie. I just worry that you’re putting all your eggs in one basket, you know? Music is a wonderful hobby, but—”
“It’s not a hobby,” I cut her off, my hand tightening on the phone. I never should’ve answered her call. “It’s my career. Music therapy is a legitimate field, and I’m good at it.”
The silence that followed felt heavy with everything we’d been fighting about since I decided to attend CFU over the University of Montana.
Since I chose my own path instead of following three generations of family tradition.
In the Tinsley family, it was basically sacrilege to be a CFU Lumberjack instead of a UM Grizzly.
“Harper, you know we just want what’s best for you,” Mom said finally. “Your father and I…we worry that you’re limiting your options. If you’d gone to UM like we discussed—”
“I got more scholarship money here,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time. “And CFU has one of the best music therapy programs in the region. This is where I belong.”
“But sweetheart, you could have studied something more practical at UM. Business, or education, or—”
I couldn’t keep having this same dead-end argument with her anymore.
“How’s Dad?” I interrupted, desperate to change the subject before this turned into another full-scale argument about my life choices.
The pause on the other end of the line stretched long enough that my chest started to tighten.
“Mom?”
“He’s…well, you know your father. Working too hard, not taking care of himself the way he should.” Another pause. “Harper, I was actually calling because your Aunt Hilary mentioned she might drive over from Helena next weekend, and your cousin Sydney said she could come home from UM—”
“Mom.” I cut her off before she could launch into the full guilt trip trying to get me to come home. I rarely visited Meadowbrook since I started school at Clark Fork University, even though it was only about a forty-five-minute drive away. “How is Dad? Really?”
I knew an evasive technique when I heard it.
The silence that followed made my hands go cold. I’d always been a daddy’s girl, and his disappointment in me had nearly crushed my soul to dust, but I kept hoping eventually he’d see how happy I was and let it go.
“He’s been tired lately,” she said finally. “Working too much, not sleeping well. You know how he gets when he’s stressed about a big project.”
My throat felt tight. “Is he okay though?”
“Oh, he’s fine, just run down. Too much work, not enough rest.” She forced a laugh that didn’t sound convincing. “You know how stubborn he is about taking care of himself.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Dad had always been a workaholic, running the family construction business like it was his personal mission to build half of Western Montana.
“You know…if you come home this weekend, you could see him for yourself.”
And there it was. The guilt trip. Which made me wonder if he was actually run down or if she just wanted it to appear that way so I’d come home.
But I knew the truth; she only wanted me there because Hilary and her daughter were coming to visit.
It was all about appearances, not because she actually missed me.
“I have to go,” I said quietly.
“Harper, wait. I didn’t call to fight with you. I just…I worry about you being so far from family.”
CFU was forty-five minutes from my hometown. Hardly “far from family.” But I knew what she really meant—I was far from their expectations, far from the life they’d planned for me, far from being the daughter they’d wanted.
“I’m fine, Mom. Really. And I’m not far. You know you guys can call me if you need anything.”
“Okay.” Her voice was small. “I love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you too.”
I hung up and stared at my phone for a long moment, my earlier frustration about Drew put on the back burner. If only he knew how much I sometimes hated being a Tinsley.
No. I shook my head and picked up my violin again. I couldn’t go down that rabbit hole. Not today.
This was exactly why music was my sanctuary. When everything else in my life felt uncertain or complicated, I could lose myself in the precision and beauty of a well-played piece.
And unlike my family, music never made me feel like I had to apologize for who I was.
I positioned my violin and started the Chaconne again, but this time I let my emotions bleed into the piece completely.
All the worry about my Dad’s continued disappointment and silent treatment, the frustration with Mom, the stress about being trapped with Drew for nine weeks, and the fear that maybe I really wasn’t good enough—it all poured out through my bow and onto the strings.
The music soared and dipped, reflecting every complicated feeling I was carrying. This was what I loved about violin—it could handle whatever I threw at it. Joy, anger, heartbreak, hope—the instrument could contain it all and transform it into something beautiful.
This was why I’d chosen music therapy as my major.
This was why I believed so deeply in the healing power of music.
Because I’d experienced it firsthand, every single day of my life.
In a world where I constantly felt like I wasn’t enough—not practical enough for my parents, not tough enough to handle Drew’s pranks, not confident enough in anything else—music was the one place where I knew exactly who I was.
The audition was coming up soon, which meant I needed to make every practice session count.
I could do this. I would do this.
I wasn’t going to let anything—or anyone—derail my dreams.