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He raises a glass of champagne in my direction and I offer a tight smile. Not because I don’t want to smile, but because my muscles aren’t entirely cooperating.
I close my eyes for a brief second and breathe deeply, then when I open them, I hit the first energetic note of Kodály’s Sonata for Solo Cello. I could’ve gone with something more modern that doesn’t require much focus on technique, but I’ve been a classical cello junkie for relatively all my life.
If I don’t challenge myself, who will?
I focus on my breathing as the passion of the allegro fills the space. The second note follows. Then the third…
Soon, I let the cello play itself, the melancholic music spreading through me like a healing balm.
For a moment, all the noise and people disappear. It’s just me and my cello. Like it’s always been my entire life.
But in the middle of the black darkness, a maddening enigma of a man with frosty gray eyes stands—tall, unmoving, intimidating.
And, for some reason, his presence sends a chill of apprehension through me.
I’m not playing for any of these people, judges, or critics.
For the first time, I’m playing for me.
However, I want him to see me at my brightest. I want him to look and regret everything he’s done to me.
I want him to realize that he’s lost me. And while he’s exponentially allergic to feelings, I hope it stings a little.
Or a lot.
Or enough to allow me to stitch my infested wounds.
I hit the final note of the sonata’s first and only part I’m playing tonight with an ardent breath.
Scattered applause fills the hall before it transforms into louder and louder noise. I slowly peel my eyes open to people applauding and shouting “Bravo,” led by Ari.
Only, now, Eli isn’t with her.
My inner monologue from seconds ago plummets to the floor as a stronger emotion hits me. Rejection.
I stand on unsteady feet and bow a few times, mainly to hide the trembling of my lips.
As I straighten to leave the stage, my heel stutters on the floor and my lips part.
Eli walks toward me, carrying a massive bouquet of beautifully arranged pink flowers.
I blink twice, trying to shove myself back to reality, but all I see is my husband eating the distance with his long legs and then offering me the flowers.
“You’ve done well.” His cool, rough voice carries in the air like a lullaby.
“Who are you and what have you done to my cruel, unfeeling husband?”
A small smile touches his lips. “Enjoy this version while you can.”
“You mean before your evil twin enters the chat?”
“Something like that.” He places the flowers in my hands and I’m acutely aware of the camera flashes. “I’ve never doubted you.”
“That makes one of us.” I can feel my cheeks flushing a shade of pink darker than the flowers, despite my every attempt to remain unaffected. “I’m ready to go home and have some soup, then make Sam’s ears bleed by talking nonstop.”
“Nonsense. We should celebrate.”
My lips fall open for the second time in a minute before I recover. “I won no competition. This doesn’t call for a celebration.”
