11. Cadence
CADENCE
Isip more mint tea, pretending not to notice how the paper cup trembles before I set it down.
Lola does. “Relax,” she says, leaning closer to the mirror before slicking on a fresh layer of lipstick. “You could play this program in a coma.”
I wish I were in a coma right now. Then I’d be oblivious to my heart’s frantic attempts to beat right out of my chest.
There’s a reason I chose Chicago’s symphony when I decided to pursue a career in music. In the sea of chairs, I’m one of many musicians. Part of a whole. One member of a much larger team.
I’m not cut out for standing under a spotlight. Not after being encouraged to stay in the shadows my entire life.
Yet I stupidly strove for more. I decided to audition for first chair, I was selected, and now I’m about to play my first performance as the second-most-important person onstage.
As the leader of the string section, I’m the one responsible for section tuning, bowing techniques, and playing all the violin solos tonight.
I’m not ready. I’m not sure why anyone thought I was prepared to take this responsibility on.
I reach for my tea again, nearly knocking the cup over in my haste to swallow more. The hot liquid scalds my tongue, and I attempt to focus on that stinging pain instead of the nerves wriggling around in my stomach. It’s a temporary distraction, but it’s all I have right now.
“And here’s one of our rehearsal spaces. As you can see, it’s currently being used as a dressing room for some of our musicians.”
I prop my chin in one hand, adjusting in the seat so my hair falls across my face, as soon as I hear Shannon’s voice.
She’s the publicist for the symphony, and she and I have different ideas of how my new role should be advertised offstage.
Shannon wants me to be the literal face of the summer marketing campaign—on “L” platforms and bus ads—so I’ve been dodging her as of late.
I already conceded to being featured on the front of the programs being handed out to everyone in attendance.
That’s about as much spotlight as I can stomach.
“How nice,” a woman says in a tone that suggests she doesn’t think the space is nice at all.
“My Audrey studied interior design,” a deep male voice boasts. “Whenever you’re ready to update.”
Lola glances at me, eavesdropping too, and smirks.
I know what she’s thinking without asking—most rich people are assholes.
This couple must be past or prospective donors Shannon is trying to flatter with a private tour.
We don’t need their money to renovate in here—yes, there are boxes piled in the corners, and it could use a thorough cleaning—but the soaring ceilings and custom molding are historical.
“We’ll keep that in mind,” Shannon says diplomatically.
“I’m going to the restroom,” I tell Lola.
Shannon won’t badger me in front of important guests.
Lola nods, glancing at the tea. “Slow down on that. First chair can’t sneak offstage to pee.”
I grab the cup as I stand, knowing she’s right. The mint isn’t doing much to relax me anyway.
I keep my gaze on the ground as I head for the doorway, avoiding eye contact with everyone.
There are older, more experienced musicians who also auditioned for first chair, and I’m nervous I’m about to prove to them all that I don’t belong in this new position. Most of them must already believe that.
My name is called from the left, in Shannon’s lilting tone.
“Our newly elected first chair,” she says as my head reluctantly turns that way.
At least greeting strangers is better than being on a billboard.
Shannon’s standing beside a group of three, not a couple. There’s an older man, a young woman, and …
Lev.
My fingers slacken as my entire body goes numb with shock. I blink wildly—the one motion I seem to have any control over—convinced I’m hallucinating.
“Carina! Are you okay?”
Lola’s rushed to my side, now beneath me, dropping paper towels on the floor to clean up the mess. I already changed into a black dress. Distantly, I’m glad the fabric won’t show any tea stains and that mint is a pleasant scent.
“I’m fine,” I answer faintly. “Th-thanks.”
They’re walking this way, and Lev still hasn’t disappeared. He’s approaching, too, listening to whatever Shannon is saying while an elegant woman clings to his arm. He’s wearing a tuxedo that fits him perfectly.
“Are you all right, Carina?” Shannon asks, pausing a few feet away.
The concern in her voice sounds genuine, and I feel a little guilty for avoiding her.
“Yes. Thanks. I just—tripped.” My eyes don’t waver from Shannon’s face, even though the urge to look at him so sharp that it stabs my ribs with the force of a blade.
“I was just giving Mr. Lincoln a tour backstage. He made a very generous donation to the symphony. There would be a different program tonight if not for him.”
It is him. I’m not going insane at least, but that’s little consolation.
Lev is here. In Chicago, at my job, and he didn’t tell me about either. He never replied to my thank you text, which I took to mean was him redrawing a line I’d chosen to cross. Fine. But coming here without warning? With another woman? In public?
It stings like a slap to the face. Literally. My eyes burn with the effort of keeping tears at bay.
I knew he could be callous. But he’s never been cruel. Not to me at least. I’m not an idiot; I suspect what he spends the rest of his time in Chicago doing. Or I thought I did. Dating aspiring interior designers appears to be on the agenda too.
“Are you related to Abe?” Lola makes the same reference I did the first time I heard his alias, and it sparks some anger.
That was ten fucking years ago. There’s over a decade of history accumulated between us, and he didn’t have the decency to let me know he was coming to where I work.
“No.”
The single syllable is harsh. We all flinch in response to the cold delivery, including the overweight, white-haired man who must be the blonde’s father.
There’s a mingling of apprehension and awe in his expression as he looks at Lev, which I take to mean he knows about his less charitable endeavors.
“Well”—Shannon’s voice is extra cheery, a clear attempt to cut through the awkwardness that lingers after Lev’s curt response—“I have one more room to show you before we return to your box.”
They’re staying for the performance, I realize. Which means Lev is staying for the performance.
He’ll see me play. He’s never seen me play.
“Good luck, ladies,” Shannon says to me and Lola with a smile before heading for the door.
Lev and the blonde—Audrey, I suddenly recall—immediately follow. Lev strides authoritatively. She wobbles in her stilettos, using him as a crutch. The man with them gives us a crisp nod, then departs too.
I remain motionless.
“Damn,” Lola drawls, watching them leave.
I glance at her. “What?”
“Levi Lincoln?” She whistles. “Hot. And scary. Figured he’d be the old guy.”
“He was a little intimidating, I guess.”
Lola stares at me like I told her I was planning to mop up Lake Michigan later. “A little? That was the most menacing man I’ve ever seen, Carina.”
Lola isn’t scared of anything. I don’t know what it says about me—that the only time I’ve been scared of Lev was before I saw his face in that pool.
So, I bend down, pick up the damp paper towels and empty cup, then finally continue toward the restroom.
It’s not until I’m washing my hands that it occurs to me that I’m no longer nervous to walk onstage. I’m not sure if I should be grateful or angry about that.