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I look up. “And make me look desperate?”
“So youaredesperate.” Her grin could match the Joker’s.
I stand up, grab her by the shoulders, and push her out. “Go away.”
She slams her feet together like a soldier and salutes. “Will fight in your corner, sis.”
I can’t resist laughing as I close the door and sag against it.
A knock startles me and I pull the knob, ready to give Ari a piece of my mind. Instead, I find a small woman smiling at me. “It’s time, miss.”
I return the smile even as a dozen knots form in my belly. “I’ll be right there.”
With a heavy heart, I walk to the vanity and check my makeup, then touch up my hair. A vibration makes my phone dance on the table before it lights up.
I pause, my heart dropping to my stomach when I find a text from none other than my husband.
Tin Man
Breathe. You’ve been playing the cello since you were five years old. With nearly two decades of experience, you ought to conquer the instrument, not the other way around.
Me
Someone hold me. Is the mighty Mr. King offering words of encouragement right now?
I’m offering facts. And I’m the only one who can hold you. There will be no someone who’ll offer the service.
You’re awful.
So you’ve been telling me. Back to the topic, imagine no one is there. It’s just you and your cello.
I’ll try.
Show them what you’re made of, Mrs. King.
*GIF of three men saluting while drowning in a boat*
I slide my phone onto the vanity and leave with a smile on my face. For some reason, the knots ease little by little, and even though they don’t disappear, I can breathe properly.
Thankfully, this is neither a competition nor a recital. With a sharp inhale, I walk to the podium that’s decorated with white and red roses and approach the white leather chair against which my cello lies.
The hustle and bustle of the attendees remains alive. They don’t all go silent because I’m the main attraction—and possibleridicule—of the night. Everyone is mingling about the tall tables, sipping drinks and chatting.
Still, the sheer number of people present sends a tinge of nervousness through me.
I bow anyway and smile at Ari and Sam, who are standing by one of the front tables. My sister offers me two thumbs-up and Sam smiles at me, which I know took effort because it looks as creepy as a serial killer’s.
Every swallow is exceptionally dry as I slide onto the chair and grab the neck of the cello with clammy fingers. I fine-tune the pegs, although I’ve done it a thousand times already.
My hand stiffens and I pause, knowing full well that if I start playing, I’ll break a string. The need to run away beats beneath my skin like a one-eyed monster.
Maybe I should spare myself the humiliation again?—
I lift my head to check the crowd and pause, hugging the cello tighter when I see the two men standing beside Sam and Ari. Leo and, surprisingly, Eli.
He looks sharp in his black suit, studded cuffs, and that unreadable handsome face that should be studied by neuroscientists—and artists.
Despite his usual indifferent expression, his presence charges me with hollowing relief.
