Christianna
We have an early concert today, an afternoon set at the zoo. It’s summer, hot enough that the resin on my bow feels soft before I even play. Sweat gathers at the base of my neck as we tune. Kids wander too close to the stage. Parents shush them without much conviction. This is about visibility. Building excitement for the grand opening and making sure we are cohesive.
I play well. I know I do. My fingers settle into the familiar patterns and stay there.
Rasmussen, the second chair gives me a side eye that sends a shiver down my spine. His eyes are cold and desperate. I look away, hoping no praying this is my imagination. We've had little interaction so far.
On the third piece, he comes in late. Hopefully no one noticed. I glance at Maestro and see the lines deepen at the edge of his mouth.
It happens again later. A shift that lands heavier than expected, the timing slightly off. I compensate without thinking, easing the bow pressure, pulling the section back into shape.
No one else reacts. The audience certainly doesn’t.
But by the end of the set, my shoulders ache more than they should. Like I’ve been holding something up the entire time.
We pack up to polite applause.
I shoot Meg a text.
Want to grab dinner tonight?
Her reply comes immediately.
Sounds perfect. I could use a girls’ night. Is Mexican okay? Craving Kamehameha nachos and a Caliente marg.
I grin.
Drooling already. Is six okay? Whoever gets there first orders a pitcher and we split the nachos?
Done.
I smile as I lock my phone. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed this until I had it back.
I pack up, and catch our conductor pulling Rasmussen aside. I’m grateful not to be in his shoes right now. James Earl has made a name for himself at a young age for being a perfectionist.
Chapter twenty-four
Christianna
It’s hot and sticky, and that margarita is going to hit so good.
I wind through the tables until I spot the top of Meg’s blonde head. Same idea, messy buns losing the war with the humidity.
I pass behind her and give her a quick one-armed hug.
“Sorry, parking was a nightmare,” I murmur as I slide into the seat across from her and take my first perfect sip of the spicy margarita.
Cold glass. Ice clinking. Jalapeño heat blooming slow and steady. I sigh and shoot her a rueful smile.
“I thought I had time to run home and shower. I underestimated traffic and everyone deciding to leave early on a Friday.”
She grins. “I walked. Which was its own special hell. Whoever said you get used to the humidity is an idiot.”
“Wow. Legs of steel. Isn’t this, like, eight miles from your place?”
“I’m staying at the International House. They rented the whole top floor. We’re in different penthouses.”
“Fancy, fancy.”
