“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 peopleknew 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, notfeelreal.
Itwasreal.
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.
