I laugh and keep moving. My violin is warm in my hands, polished and tuned. My fingers rest along the neck, and everything inside me settles.
Six months ago, I couldn’t look at this instrument without feeling the weight of who I used to be. Now it feels like a promise I can make to myself.
I don’t get the bad kind of nervous anymore. Not the bathroom floor kind. I get the clean, electric kind that lives inyour hands and makes everything sharper. It’s the kind that means you care.
We take our seats minutes before the lights dim and the curtains pull back.
When the spotlight hits me, my breath catches for a second. It’s blinding, and I can’t see the audience, but I know my family is out there.
I don’t let myself look for him. I’m not ready for the disappointment of the empty space where he would’ve been sitting. I’m not ready for the ache that comes with wanting something that isn’t mine yet.
So I lift my chin and focus on the conductor.
The first movement is warm and controlled. The second is sharper and faster, with the strings swelling in ways that pull the audience forward in their seats. Then it’s my turn.
The conductor nods at me.
I step forward.
The auditorium goes impossibly still as I lift my violin, place my bow, and breathe once.
Then… I play.
∞∞∞
The flowers are the first thing I see in my dressing room. There are several bunches of different sizes propped against the mirror and the table.
I catch myself in the mirror and stay there for a second.
The woman in the glass looks like herself. She’s flushed from playing, with bright eyes and a steady jaw. She looks like the version of me that only surfaces when the music has been good.
I think back to the moment the final note faded. The silence in the hall had been perfect for one heartbeat, and then it shattered. A standing ovation erupted. A smile forms on my mouth at that memory. I let it linger for a long moment before turning to the flowers.
Mom’s ones are wildflowers. She always sends wildflowers.
Madison and Beckett sent roses, which if you know my sister, is a little disturbing. Rowan sent a bunch of white peonies and Noah sent sunflowers.
Those different flower choices pretty much sum up my siblings.
Cal and the band sent a small bunch of wildly mismatched blooms.
The card says:Violin girl. The Anchor forever.
There’s one more that catches my eye.
It’s tucked at the back of the table, half-hidden by a massive display of lilies. It isn’t a standard florist arrangement. There’s no cellophane and no stiff, pre-printed card. It’s a large, generous bunch of sea lavender and white coastal blooms.
The stems are thick and sturdy, held together by a simple piece of twine.
I reach for them. My fingers brush the sea lavender, and I feel a sudden, sharp pull in my chest. These aren’t just flowers. They’re a memory. They’re the salt air in Mira Cove and the way the light looked on the water when we sat on the hood of the Camaro. They’re a piece of the road I left behind, brought here to this dressing room.
My hands are trembling when I reach for the card.
It’s a small envelope. My name is on the front in handwriting I know.
Dammit, I’m already wiping a tear before it falls.
When I open it, my breath catches.
