Chapter 51
FIFTY-ONE
My black evening gown felt heavier than usual as I stood in the wings of the concert hall where we were hosting the fellowship gala performance.
It felt like it was made of lead instead of silk, and the weight on my chest that had been present since I walked away from Drew was getting heavier by the moment.
Three months ago, performing at the Montana Philharmonic Fellowship gala would have been the highlight of my year. Tonight, it felt like going through the motions of someone else’s life.
“Harper.” Maestro Brennan appeared beside me, his formal tails making him look even more imposing than usual. “Ready for your solo?”
I nodded. Of course I was ready. It was all I’d worked on for weeks now.
Hitting every note perfectly while feeling absolutely nothing.
It felt like I was going through two heartbreaks at once—the loss of Drew and the loss of music as my solace.
Instead, music had become an empty shell, just like I felt. Beautiful and put together on the surface, but hollow underneath.
“Good.” He studied my face with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. “Remember, this audience wants to see passion, not just perfection.”
If I could feel anything, I’d probably feel chastised based on the look he gave me, but perfection would have to do.
I didn’t have any passion in me at the moment.
The lights dimmed, and Maestro Brennan strode onto the stage to polite applause. I watched from the wings as he approached the podium, his presence commanding immediate attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our annual fellowship gala. Tonight, we celebrate not just musical excellence, but the creative spirit shaping Montana’s musical future.”
The audience settled into expectant silence.
“Our first piece this evening features one of our most promising fellowship recipients, Miss Harper Tinsley, performing Brahms’s Violin Sonata No. 1 in G Major.”
That was my cue.
I walked onto the stage, the bright lights washing out everything beyond the first few rows. The piano accompanist gave me an encouraging nod.
She must’ve thought I was nervous, but I didn’t feel anything.
I raised my violin, positioned my bow, and began.
The opening notes flowed from my instrument with mechanical precision. Every phrase was shaped correctly, every dynamic marking observed, and every shift executed flawlessly.
But it lacked soul, not because of the piece itself but because of the performer.
The melody that should have soared instead felt like it was trudging through mud.
The final notes died away to enthusiastic applause. I took my bow, smiled the smile I’d practiced in the mirror, and made my way to my seat with the orchestra. We had two more pieces on the program tonight.
I settled into my chair in the first violin section, arranging my music stand and checking that I had the right sheet music for our next piece, although at this point I could play all the pieces with my eyes closed. The other musicians were doing the same.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special surprise this evening—an extra piece that was not included in the program.” Maestro Brennan’s voice carried easily through the hall.
I looked up from my music, confused. Extra piece? What extra piece?
For a moment, panic made my heart flutter as everyone got into position. And then the next words out of Brennan’s mouth froze me to my chair.
“Miss Tinsley has also composed an original work that we’d like to share with you tonight.”
The blood drained from my face. What the hell was he talking about?
I glanced at the music on the stand of the violinist sitting next to me. My breath caught as I stared in disbelief while Maestro Brennan kept talking.
“The piece is titled ‘A String Between Us,’ and it will be performed by our full orchestra.”
That was a piece I’d been working on early in my relationship with Drew. How the hell did Maestro Brennan even know about it? I’d never told anyone here about any of the other pieces I’d composed. A few people knew about the one I’d used during my audition, but that was it.
Now a million questions ran through my mind.
Who gave him the composition?
When did they have time to practice this?
And maybe most importantly, why wasn’t I informed?
The other musicians raised their instruments while I remained frozen in my seat. This couldn’t be happening. The composition wasn’t even close to polished enough for performance. It was personal, raw, full of emotions I didn’t want to—couldn’t—think about.
Maestro Brennan raised his baton, and the hall fell silent again.
The opening notes washed over me and emotion clogged my throat. I recognized every phrase, every harmonic progression, but never in a million years had I ever thought I’d hear it played by a full orchestra.
It was beautiful.
And massively overwhelming.
Tears filled my eyes until the stage was a blur.
The melody I’d written while thinking about Drew’s sleepy morning voice was tender and intimate and so incredibly painful to remember.
I think I’d been falling in love with him even then.
Every phrase held a memory that sliced my chest open.
It was raw.
Revealing.
Real.
I sucked in a sharp breath as the music hit its crescendo.
I remembered with vivid clarity the day I’d written this part. It was after the morning when we’d all fallen asleep on the couch together—Drew, Rory, and me. The full orchestra wove together the complex layers that spoke of home, belonging, and love that was so undeniable it could only be real.
Tears spilled down my cheeks. This was my music, my most private thoughts transformed into something I’d never imagined possible. Every note was a memory I’d been trying to forget.
Except, I realized now with the kind of clarity that only comes in hindsight, that I’d forgotten the wrong parts. I’d forgotten the small, tiny, everyday moments that had made it all feel so real.
No, not feel real.
It was real.
It was real.
It felt like my whole world had been flipped over like someone was shaking a snow globe—again. The last note hung in the air for a long moment before fading into silence.
Then the applause erupted. Not the polite appreciation from my Brahms performance, but something else entirely. People were on their feet, faces bright with genuine emotion. Someone in the front row was wiping their eyes.
I sat frozen in my chair, completely overwhelmed. My music had done that. My desperately personal composition had moved an entire room to their feet.
“Miss Tinsley.” Maestro Brennan gestured for me to stand, a proud smile on his face. “Take your bow. This is your moment.”
I rose on shaky legs, the applause washing over me like a tidal wave. But even as I smiled and nodded to the audience, my mind was racing with the revelations that hearing my own music had evoked.
I played through our final two pieces on autopilot, and after the applause finally died down, I made my way offstage on unsteady legs. Backstage, other performers were congratulating me, and fellowship donors were trying to shake my hand, but I needed answers.
I found Maestro Brennan in the hallway behind the stage, loosening his white bow tie.
“Maestro,” I said, still breathless, “how did you get that piece?”
He studied me with his intense gaze that always made me want to fidget. “A young man came to see me last week. Brought me several of your compositions, including that one. Said you were too stubborn to show them yourself, but that the world needed to hear your music.”
My heart stopped. “What young man?”
“He said his name was Drew. He was quite persuasive about the quality of your work, though I must admit I was skeptical at first. But he was right. You are very talented, Ms. Tinsley, and I wholeheartedly believe the audience needed to hear your music tonight. The Montana Phil has committed to reaching a younger audience, and I couldn’t think of a better way to do that than to perform a piece composed by someone in that same demographic.
To show our sponsors the bright future for Montana musicians. ”
My nose stung as those pesky tears burned behind my eyes.
“Thank you,” I whispered before walking back to the dressing room on shaky legs.
Drew had gone to Brennan.
He had brought my music and somehow convinced one of the most respected conductors in the region to include my composition at the most important concert of the year.
All this time, I’d been so focused on whether our entire relationship had been built on a lie.
I’d questioned every moment, every touch, every whispered confession, wondering what was real and what was performance.
But Drew’s actions had been telling me everything I needed to know, and I’d been too hurt and stubborn to listen.
My feet picked up the pace as my brain caught up to my body. I had to go to him.
I had to fix this.
I raced toward the green room where I’d left my things. I needed to pack up my violin, grab my purse, and get to Drew’s house. I needed to tell him I was sorry, and I hoped like hell I wasn’t too late.
I quickly changed into the leggings and T-shirt I’d brought and then grabbed my violin case and headed for the exit, my mind racing. What would I say? How could I even begin to apologize for the pain I’d put us both through over the last two weeks?
The cool evening air hit my face as I pushed through the concert hall’s back exit into the parking lot. I fumbled around in my purse looking for my car keys, already planning the drive to Drew’s house and the speech I needed to make.
I looked up at my car and stopped dead.
Drew was leaning against the driver’s side door, hands in his pockets, watching me with an expression of hope and terror mixed in equal measure.
He was wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt, like he’d dressed up for the concert, and his hair was slightly mussed as if he’d been running his hands through it.
I loved his hair like that.
And God, I’d missed him.
“Hey, Tins,” he said softly, his voice carrying across the nearly empty parking lot.
“Drew.” His name came out as barely a whisper.
He straightened up but didn’t move away from my car. For a moment, we just stared at each other.
“You went to Maestro Brennan.”
“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it even more disheveled.
Then he leveled me with his gaze, and there was no way to describe his look as anything other than fierce determination.
“I wanted you to hear how talented you are from someone who actually knows music.” He took a step closer.
“You’re so incredibly gifted, Harper. You could literally do anything in the music world and yet you choose to focus on how you can use music to help people.
But for once, I wanted you to realize that your music can help people.
” He’d been taking small steps closer as he spoke, until the toes of his shoes nearly touched mine and I had to tilt my head to look up at him.
God, he was so handsome.
And that was absolutely not the thing I should be thinking when he was saying the sweetest things I’d ever heard.
He raised his hand and cupped my cheek. “I love you, Harper. I’ll literally do anything to prove it to you. If you need me to get on my knees and crawl to you to prove it, I will.”
I pressed my hand to his lips, afraid if I didn’t stop him, he’d keep going, but he wasn’t in the wrong here.
This was on me.
I let out a shaky breath and the truth. “I’m so sorry.”
He dropped his forehead to mine. “I’m the one who should be saying I’m sorry.”
“No, you aren’t. I didn’t listen to you. I didn’t trust what we had because you scare the shit out of me, Andy.”
His lips lifted at the corners. “Really? You’re pulling out Andy when you’re claiming to be sorry. That’s low, Freckles.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. And God, did it feel good.
It felt good to feel.
“I fucking love you,” I whispered against his lips as he closed the minuscule distance between us.
“Good, because you’re stuck with me for the rest of your life. I’m never letting you go. I can’t stand being apart from you.”
Before I could tell him I felt the same, his lips sealed over mine and stole my breath, my thoughts, and the final shreds of the heartache I’d carried during our separation.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and held on tight.
His kiss felt like it brought me back to life.
It felt like home.
And it was the realest thing I’d ever known.