“I am now, thanks to my amazing assistant.” I beamed at Drew, who looked like he was contemplating homicide. “He’s beensoincredibly helpful.”
Before he could say anything, Mr. Peterson, the chair of the music department, spoke from the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our next violin soloist of the evening, Harper Tinsley.”
I took a deep breath and walked out into the soft stage lights, leaving Drew backstage with all my accessories like the world’s most reluctant roadie. The applause was warm and encouraging, and I could see my friends beaming from the third row.
My revenge on Drew no longer mattered as I soaked in the energy from the audience.
“Good evening,” I said into the microphone set up at the front of the stage. “Thank you all for being here tonight. I’ll be performing the Sarabande, the third movement of Bach’s Partita No. 2 in D minor for solo violin. This piece holds special meaning for me as a music therapy student, because it captures the emotional complexity music can carry—from joy to sorrow, hope to despair, and everything in between.”
I positioned my violin and raised my bow, catching Drew’s eye one more time. For just a second, his expression shifted from irritation to something that looked almost like curiosity.
Then I began to play.
The opening notes of the Sarabande flowed through the hall, and everything else fell away. There was no Drew, no revenge plots, no family drama, nothing. When I played, the world made sense in a way it never did otherwise.
The Sarabande was a dance of profound introspection, each phrase lingering like a breath held too long, then let go with aching resolution. I let myself sink into Bach’s masterful architecture, where every note served a purpose in the greater emotional landscape. My fingers found each position with precision, but more than that, I felt the gravity behind every sustained note, my body swaying with the movement of the music as I fully immersed myself in my performance.
I was no longer aware of the audience, my attentionsolely focused on the haunting music that I felt vibrating through every inch of my body. I lost myself in the way Bach built tension before releasing it into something achingly beautiful, the slow, deliberate rhythm that made every note feel important, the way he made a single violin have the impact of an entire orchestra.
When I reached the final phrase, I let the last note ring out in the silence before slowly lowering my violin. For a moment, the hall was completely quiet, and then the applause erupted.
I smiled, my nerves finally catching up with me. It was always like this—I’d be composed until I finished the performance and then be a jittery mess afterward, wrung out from pouring my soul into the music and the vulnerability it took to stand on that stage. I took a small bow, my heart still racing from the performance high, and then walked off the stage with my head lifted, even though my hands were trembling. There were two other soloists before our quartet performance, so I had a few minutes to pull myself back together.
My eyes landed on Drew, and my stomach braced for him to say something mean, but before he could open his mouth, Brody was pulling me into a hug once I was out of sight of the audience and fully backstage.
“Babes! That was fucking incredible. You damn near brought me to tears.”
My trembling settled as my chest warmed. “Thanks, Brody.”
And it was in that moment when I’d started to let my guard down that Drew spoke.
“Nice performance, Tinsley.”
“Thank you,” I said, still warm from Brody’s praise.
“Really touching, actually,” Drew continued, and therewas something in his tone that made my stomach tighten. “I’m sure your parents are so proud. Oh wait—they didn’t bother showing up, did they?”
The words knocked the air right out of me, and Brody stiffened at my side. Not many people knew the truth about my family and their lack of support for my music, but Brody did.
Drew’s expression shifted slightly, like maybe he’d realized he’d gone too far, but it was too late.
“Must be nice to have such supportive family,” he added, but his voice had lost some of its edge.
I stared at him for a long moment, feeling something cold and sharp settle in my chest. He had no idea what he’d just said, no idea that my parents thought my music was a “hobby” I needed to grow out of, no idea that they’d been pressuring me to switch to a “practical” major for years.
To him, this was just another day feuding with me.
And I was so sick of it. I wanted to crush him until he was a pile of dust on the ground—or a social pariah since that seemed to be the only thing he cared about.
But like hell would I give him the satisfaction of knowing how perfectly he’d just struck me down.
“Your services are no longer needed. You’re free to go.” I kept my voice businesslike and neutral even though I felt like I’d just turned into an ice queen in the span of three seconds.
He clenched his jaw and then nodded once and walked out without another word.
But I knew this wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
