My heart beats too fast and I take a deep breath to try to stay calm. I’ve been in the bathroom too long and I know my mother is going to ask me what’s wrong when I come out. Our food has probably arrived by now. But I don’t want to eat.

I met her for dinner, despite the fact that all I wanted to do was curl up by myself in my hotel room and mindlessly channel flip until I fall asleep. Not five minutes after we were seated at an outdoor table, I got the call. The symphony director wants me back for the second round of auditions.

You’d think my mother would have been ecstatic. Instead, she gave me a cool smile and said, “Well, now you’ll have to keep yourself together for a few more days. Do you think you can handle it, or are you going to buckle under the pressure?”

I got up and excused myself to the bathroom.

The audition is tomorrow. My flight back to Seattle is early tomorrow morning. If I don’t go back, I’ll miss Charlotte’s performance at school. If I do go back, I’ll have no chance at this job. There are other people vying for the same spot. They’ll just eliminate me and move on to the next person.

I stare at myself in the mirror. What am I doing here?

Is this really what I want? Playing with a symphony—especially one as high-profile as this—will mean facing the pressure to perform constantly. My audition went well, and it felt good to play such a beautiful instrument. But that was fleeting; a few moments of musical beauty. It was nice, but was it worth it? Would playing like that be worth all the anxiety and stress?

And why did my mother come? She didn’t have to be here. My parents never cared about my music when I was growing up. They looked at it like an odd quirk, a fascination that I’d outgrow. They indulged me enough to pay for lessons, but I think they always expected me to come to my senses and become interested in something else. Something worthy.

It wasn’t until my sister died that my mother paid attention to what I was doing in music. Suddenly I had talent that needed to be nurtured. She made me keep a practice log and show it to her each week. She fired the piano teacher I’d been learning from for years in favor of one who had connections at several universities. Going to college for a music degree had been what I’d wanted, but my parents pushed me to choose a college with a good reputation.

All that attention, all that focus, had always been on Melanie. With her gone, it fell squarely onto me.

My mother has always seen me as weak, and for the most part, I believed her. But as I stand here in the bathroom, wondering what I’m doing with my life, a thought hits me. Something I’ve never thought about before, and I can’t believe it took me this long to realize it. I’m not weak.

Granted, I might not be the toughest girl around, but I think about all the pressure my parents have put on me over the last five or six years. Pressure that came out of nowhere, sitting on me like a lead weight. It came at a time when I was still reeling from the loss of my big sister, still struggling to simply survive every day at school. My life wasn’t a cake walk before Mel died, and afterward it became almost unbearable. At home, I went from being nearly invisible to having a spotlight shined on my every flaw.

But I survived.

Did I stand up for myself to my mother? Did I insist my parents treat me like an adult? No. I didn’t. I still haven’t. But I also didn’t let their expectations crush me. I didn’t let them change me.

And I’m not going to let them change me now.

The truth of what I need to do is so simple, it almost makes me laugh. Relief floods through me. I dig in my purse to get my phone. I need to call Caleb. I need to tell him.

I need to tell him I’m coming home.

Where’s my phone? I shuffle things around, but I don’t see it. I must have left it on the table when I got up.

Well, I’ll just have to talk to my mother first, and call him afterward. A few more minutes isn’t going to change anything.

I take a deep breath and straighten, pulling my shoulders back. This isn’t going to be easy, but I’m not letting my mother bully me into staying in Pittsburgh.

Mom is on the phone when I come out. I hear her say something—it sounds like I think we’re done here—as I walk through the doors to the outdoor patio where we were seated. She puts down her phone, but slides it across the table to my spot.

Wait, that wasn’t her phone. It was mine.

She meets my eyes as I walk toward the table, her chin lifted. She looks defiant. Like she’s daring me to ask who she was talking to.

Something snaps inside of me and I stop next to my chair, staring at her. It isn’t the feel of something breaking apart—the sharp crack of destruction. It’s like two pieces clicking into place—two sides that always had an unnatural gap between them finally fitting together.

Margo Frasier, if you think I’m going to lie down and die again, you have another thing coming.

I lower myself into the chair, my eyes on my mother. I’ll ask her about the phone in a minute, but first I need to get this out before I lose my nerve. I’m strangely calm and when I speak, my voice is clear. “I’m not going to the audition tomorrow.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not. I’m flying out in the morning. I’m going home.”

“That man’s house is not your home.” Her precisely manicured hand clutches her water and she takes a sip. “You’re staying here until the audition process is over, and then you’re coming home to Michigan with me. If you land the job here, your father and I will help you get settled somewhere in the area. If not, you can continue to audition while you’re living with us.”

“No,” I say.

“Linnea, I’m not sure where this little display of rebellion is coming from, but I’ve had enough of it.”

“I’m not rebelling,” I say. “And I’m not a child, so stop treating me like one. I’m making a choice. I’m flying to Seattle in the morning. I have to be at Charlotte’s school tomorrow night.”

“The only thing you have to do is stay focused so you can nail your call-back,” she says.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” I say. “I’m not going. I’m declining the position.”

“And what do you think you’re going to do with yourself?” she asks. “With that expensive degree your father and I paid for?”

“I’m going to do exactly what I want to be doing,” I say, and I’m amazed there’s no tremor in my voice. “I’m going to teach piano and take care of Charlotte. And if that expensive degree was such a hardship, I’ll be glad to work toward paying you back.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” she says.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but I’ve made my decision.”

“If you think you can go back to Seattle and play house with that man, you are sorely mistaken,” she says.

The venom in her voice makes my heart jump, but I’m determined to stand my ground. “I’m not playing anything. This isn’t about Caleb. Don’t get me wrong, I’m in love with him.” I take no small degree of satisfaction at seeing her eyes widen. “I don’t know if he’s in love with me. Maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t. But that doesn’t change anything for me. I’m still going back.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I absolutely am,” I say. “I promised Charlotte I would be there. I will not break my promise to her.”

“You need to stop pretending you’re that little girl’s mother,” she says.

Anger bubbles up from deep inside, searing hot. “I’m well aware that I’m not her mother. I don’t need to be in order to love her. And there’s nothing more important than that.”

“Your career—”

“My career is my business,” I say, cutting her off for once. “I know I’m supposed to want to play with a symphony. But I don’t. That’s what you want. I’m going to teach music, because that’s what I love to do. And I’m good at it. If having a daughter who is a nanny and a piano teacher means you can’t brag about my accomplishments to your friends, that isn’t my problem.”

“This has nothing to do with my friends. We raised you to be better. To be more. To aim as high as you can and shoot for your dreams.” She sighs. “Your sister…”

I wait, knowing how she was going to finish that sentence, waiting to see if she’ll come out and say it. “What about my sister? Why don’t you just say it? You wish I was more like Melanie.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“You don’t have to,” I say. “Ever since she died, you’ve been trying to turn me into another version of her.”

“Linnea, that isn’t fair.”

“You’re right, it isn’t,” I say. “It isn’t fair to me. I know you don’t understand me. You never did. I’m not like you and Dad, and I’m not like Melanie. I don’t want attention and prestige. I want a quieter life, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Linnea, what has come over you?” she asks.

“I’m done, Mom,” I say. “I’m done trying to be the daughter you wish you had. I’m done trying to fit your ideal. I’ll never live up to it. If you can’t be proud of me the way I am, I guess I’ll have to live without your approval.”

“Linnea—”

“Why were you on my phone?” I ask, not letting her finish.

She doesn’t answer.

I pick up my phone and check my calls. My stomach drops. It’s exactly what I was afraid I was going to see. “You talked to Caleb, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I told him the truth,” she says.

“Mother,” I say, anger leaking into my voice. In the back of my mind, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with her. But after so many years of succumbing to fear, I’m done. “What did you say to him?”

“I told him you have another audition,” she says. “And that you won’t be going back to Seattle, regardless of the outcome.”

“How dare you!”

“Linnea, lower your voice.”

“I will not,” I say. “I can’t believe you would do this to me. It’s bad enough that you treated me like I didn’t exist for most of my life. Never made a single attempt to get to know me or show any interest in who I was. Then you lost your favorite child, so you had to try to turn me into someone else so you could love me. And now you’re trying to ruin my relationship with the man I’m in love with?”

“He was married to your sister,” she says. “How can you possibly think he’s in love with you?”

“The world did not actually revolve around Melanie,” I say. “It’s been years, and there’s nothing wrong with Caleb loving someone else. Honestly, I don’t know if he’s in love with me. But if he is, it doesn’t change anything about what he had with her. That’s not how this works. And it’s none of your business anyway.”

Standing, I grab my purse and phone.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to my hotel,” I say. “My flight is early and I have some calls to make.”

“Linnea, you are not giving up this opportunity,” she says. “You might never get another one.”

“That’s fine. I don’t want it. I’m going home.” I start to walk away, then glance back at her over my shoulder. “By the way, I have a tattoo. And Caleb watched me get it.”

Without another word, I walk away.

My hotel is across the street. Before I’m through the lobby doors, I hit call, trying to reach Caleb. It rings as I make my way toward the elevators. Keeps ringing. Voicemail. Damn it.

“Caleb, it’s me. Don’t listen to anything my mother said. I’m leaving in the morning. Just… don’t listen to my mom. Please. I…” I falter. I want to tell him I love him, but it might not matter. If he doesn’t love me back, there’s not much I can do about it. “Please call me back.”

Maybe it’s overkill, but I hang up and send him a text, typing while I get in the elevator.

Me: I’m coming home. Please call me.

Back in my room, my hands start to shake and it feels like I can’t catch my breath. All the anxiety I wasn’t feeling when I was talking to my mother hits me at once. It makes me panicky, like the air is too thick to make it into my lungs. I pace around the room, just trying to breathe. Trying to stay calm.

I get a series of texts from my mother that I don’t read. She calls, but I don’t pick up. Every time my phone makes a noise, I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. I want it to be Caleb—desperately hope it will be him—but he doesn’t call. Doesn’t text. I don’t hear a word from him.

Finally, I start to calm down. My heart isn’t beating so furiously and my hands don’t tremble when I type a message on my phone. I send an exceedingly polite email to the symphony director, thanking her for the opportunity and letting her know I have to decline.

I consider texting Mia and Kendra—and Alex and Weston, for that matter—asking them to tell Caleb to call me if they see him. But I know Caleb’s schedule this week, and he’s at the hospital overnight. He’s so hard to reach when he’s at work, especially because he’s so often in surgery when he works nights.

Telling myself that’s why I couldn’t reach him—he’s probably in surgery—I pack my things and call the concierge to arrange my ride to the airport. I have to get up at three in the morning in order to get to the airport on time, and there’s no way I’m missing my flight.

* * *

Tuesday shapes up to be the worst day of my entire life. Or it will be if it keeps going the way it has so far.

I’m so anxious to get home I don’t sleep at all. When my alarm goes off at three in the morning—midnight in Seattle—I’m out of bed in seconds. I’m already packed, so I change my clothes, stuff the last of my things in my bag, and head down to meet my ride.

The hotel shuttle gets me to the airport more than two hours before my departure time. I get through security quickly and wait at the gate to board.

And wait.

And wait.

Boarding time comes and goes, and there’s an announcement over the loudspeaker that’s hard to make out. Something about mechanical problems. They’re waiting for another plane.

I spend the next hour trying not to panic.

There’s no way I’m going to make my connecting flight in Newark. I talk to one of the gate agents and she assures me they’ll be able to get me on another one. But she won’t book my seat until they know when our flight out of Pittsburgh is departing.

So I wait some more.

My original flight had me landing by twelve-thirty, Seattle time. Parent night at Charlotte’s school isn’t until six. That would have given me more than enough time to get back. But as I sit in the airport and watch the time tick by, my chances of making it keep decreasing.

I have to get home. I can’t miss Charlotte’s performance.

Finally, the gate agent pages me. They have me on a different flight, with a layover in Denver. My first flight leaves in ten minutes, but she says she already called the other gate and told them I’m coming.

I race down the corridor, pulling my suitcase behind me. The last few passengers are boarding when I rush up and hand over my printed-out ticket. The woman scans it and waves me through.

The flight is the opposite of the one I took to get across the country. I feel every second of it. I set my phone to Pacific time so I’ll know how much time I have to get home. Between the delay and the longer layover, I’m going to be cutting it close.

My connecting flight is delayed even more. I feel like I’m never going to get home. I keep looking at my phone, as if somehow I’m going to find an extra hour. Or that Caleb will call me back. Neither happens.

When I land in Seattle, I’m exhausted, relieved, and in such a hurry I can’t get through the airport fast enough. Thankfully I didn’t check a bag, so I rush through the maze of corridors, past gates and restaurants and overpriced souvenir stores. I make it out to the curb and get in line for a cab.

I look at the time when I get in the backseat and give the cab driver the address. I have eighteen minutes before parent night begins. We’re probably thirty minutes away, more if traffic is bad. This cab is going to cost me a fortune, but I don’t care. All I can think about is getting to Charlotte’s school.

“You in a hurry?” the cab driver asks.

“Yes,” I say, my voice filled with urgency. “Please get me there as fast as you can. My little girl is waiting for me.”