Or worse—what if it didn’t?
And she was supposed to what?Fly back and forth whenever she could manage it while she waited for one of them to finally say it?
Because out of everything they talked about—Junie, whatever club chaos he’d been dealing with that day, her life in New York, her mess of rehearsals and performances—that was the one thing they never touched on.
What this was.
What they were.
And how it was all supposed to work.
It was like neither of them wanted to be the one to bring it up, so they just kept not saying it.
Jordan took a bite like she hadn’t eaten in a week, then pointed the sandwich at Cassie mid-chew.“You know, I’m starting to feel like your fucking therapist at this point.”
Ignoring her, Cassie tore off a piece of muffin.
Jordan kept going around another bite.“Like, you tell me you had Hozier-level sex with this guy, that his dick is big enough to hang your laundry out to dry—”
“Jesus Christ, Jo—”
“—that he’s changed, matured, whatever.”Jordan waved her free hand around.“And you’re still stalling.”
Cassie didn’t even hesitate; she chucked the rest of her muffin at her.Jordan caught it one-handed, laughing before tossing it back and sending crumbs spraying across the table.“Hey—save the violence for the stage tonight.”
“Need I remind you,” Cassie replied, brushing crumbs off her sleeve, “as your former roommate, that you are not exactly the pillar of sound decision-making either?”
Jordan only grinned around a mouthful, completely unbothered.
“And therapist, my ass,” Cassie continued.“First of all, if I had a therapist, it would absolutely not be you.”
“Rude.”
“Because you’d interrupt me halfway through to tell a better story.”
Jordan nodded solemnly.“Mhm.And it would be a better story.”
“Because I would’ve already been on that plane and back again.”
As the hired Escalade pulled up outside the stage entrance, Midtown was slick with rain and clogged with traffic, headlights smearing across the wet pavement beneath a dim sky.
Cassie climbed out first, shielding her violin case with her coat while Jordan wrestled her cello from the back hatch.
“Why,” Jordan demanded, glaring at the case, “did I choose the one instrument built like a dead body?”
“Because you enjoy suffering.”
“No, I enjoy attention.The suffering is incidental.”
Backstage buzzed with movement, crew members pushing rolling sound equipment through the halls while tuning notes drifted from open rehearsal rooms.Musicians crowded the narrow corridors in various stages of readiness; winter coats draped over black concert clothes as people filtered in and out of dressing rooms.
In the cramped warmth of the dressing room, she unpacked her violin—the one Nash had bought her—and tightened her bow, checking tuning by ear.Around her, conversations rose and fell—someone hunting down missing sheet music, somebody else arguing over a program change.
As curtain time drew closer, she changed into a black silk gown and slicked back her bob, pinning it in place.Beyond the dressing room walls, the muffled sounds of the arriving audience began to swell.
By the time the house lights finally dimmed, performance had already pulled her under.From first chair, the concert passed in flashes—from the sweep of bows rising together to Natalia’s sharp movements at the podium.Applause rose and fell between movements while musicians shifted quietly, pages turning beneath the stage lights.Somewhere near the middle of the program, Cassie caught Jordan trying not to laugh after one particularly brutal tempo change from Natalia, both of them immediately looking away before either could so much as crack a smile.
As stagehands began preparing for the final act, a noticeable tension had settled over the audience, anticipation humming through Carnegie.
