Chapter Ten
Gabby
“You’ll do better next time, Gabby.”
I turn from putting my violin away in my locker at the sound of Damian’s voice. He’s one of the cello players, a freshman this year too. Standing next to the bank of instrument lockers behind me, he straightens his black-rimmed glasses. His shoulder-length, black hair is pulled back into a little ponytail. He played in today’s String Seminar too. Of course he didn’t freeze partway through after flubbing a passage and missing an entrance.
Nope.
That was just me.
Forcing a little smile, I hold back the frustrated and embarrassed tears that linger below the surface. “Thanks. Yeah. I hope so.”
“Everyone has off days. We all know you play better than that.” He shifts the backpack on his shoulders. “You spend tons of time in the practice rooms. We hear you. You just got a little performance anxiety today. It’s understandable. Today was your first time playing for the department. Anyone would be nervous.”
I snort, shouldering my bag and moving toward the door. Damian falls in step beside me. “It didn’t seem to affect you.”
He shrugs. “I had a good day. Sometimes that happens too.”
“Yeah, well, I wish it would’ve happened to me today.”
“Next time. You still have to play at least once more this semester. You’ll do better next time. You’ll see.”
“Thanks, Damian. I appreciate the pep talk.”
He smiles, the bronze skin crinkling around his dark brown eyes, and lets me walk through the door to the hallway first. “No problem. See you tomorrow in class.”
“See ya.”
He heads off to the door on the other end of the building, and I watch him go, his long legs, clad in skinny jeans and Converse, eating up the ground. He’s tall and lanky and cute. And a nice guy. I’m pretty sure Lauren’s already decided she has a crush on him.
Lauren left already, skipping off after giving me a hug and telling me that my playing wasn’t as bad as I thought. When I gave her a look expressing what I thought of her lie, she giggled and said, “Okay, fine. But the good parts sounded awesome.”
I guess that was the best I could hope for. My performance started off okay. My accompanist, Cheryl, gave the shortened introduction, and I got through the exposition of the concerto. But something happened as I moved into the development. My fingers missed notes, and it felt like I wasn’t in charge of my own muscles. They wouldn’t cooperate, wouldn’t coordinate and hit the notes that I’d worked so hard on in the practice room. And then I missed an entrance, getting out of sync with the piano, turning the Mozart G major violin concerto from a beautiful, lyrical piece of music into a cringeworthy collection of sounds.
Damian’s attempt to make me feel better, while appreciated, doesn’t lessen my embarrassment. And a few tears escape the tight hold I’ve kept on them since I finished playing, managing to indicate my accompanist and bow as though everything had gone fine. Because no matter how much you suck, you always have to pretend like everything’s fine on stage and afterward.
But now I’m alone—everyone scampered off as soon as Strings Seminar ended—and I can let my feelings out. I’ve taken a long time putting my things away on purpose, trying to avoid the majority of the other string players, not wanting to wait for Jonathan in full view of everyone.
The wind picks up when I walk out the main doors, freezing the tears on my face and cutting through my sweater. The cold wind and the leaden sky only make me feel worse. As if I didn’t feel bad enough, the weather is conspiring against me too. I wrap my arms around myself, hoping Jonathan gets here soon.
Everyone acts like it isn’t that cold yet, but I’m freezing. It’s only the last week of September, and the lows are already as cold as it ever gets in Denton in the winter. How am I going to survive November? Or January?
“Gabby.”
Jonathan’s voice fills me with warmth and pulls me out of my depressed thoughts on my performance and the weather.
I’ve been trying to make sure I get enough time for homework and practicing since Jonathan and I started dating a couple of weeks ago. And while I’ve managed to get all my homework done, I haven’t been practicing as much as I know I should. It’s easy to rationalize cutting short my practice sessions, knowing that he’s waiting for me to finish so we can go have dinner or take a walk around campus or watch a movie at his place.
I want to spend every free moment with him, but now I’m paying the price in terrible performances.
Without a word, I turn to him and bury my face in his chest. I need comfort right now more than anything.
His arms wrap around me. “Gabby, what’s wrong? Are you crying?” He pulls me back enough so he can look at my face. “What happened?”
I want to bury my face in his chest again but resist the urge. The concern in his voice is too real. I’m not going to torture him by making him guess why I’m crying.
Sniffing, I wipe away the worst of my tears and look away at the clouds gathering over the city visible from the hill that Marycliff sits on. “I played today in Strings Seminar. It didn’t go well.”
A quick glance his way shows his eyebrows coming down and his forehead wrinkling. “You didn’t perform well. That’s why you’re crying?”
I nod, wiping at my cheeks with my sleeve again. I’m not bawling or anything, but a steady stream of tears is leaking out, and I can’t seem to stop them now that they’ve been unleashed.
“What happened?” The question is soft, understanding, inviting confidence.
I glance at him again, then look down. “It was just an off day. I flubbed a few parts, missed notes, and then I got off from my accompanist. I never really managed to salvage it. I mean, we got back on eventually. But the rest of my playing was stilted and awful. Full of intonation problems. It was embarrassing and horrible.”
“Did anyone say anything about it?”
“My roommate said the first part was great, and one of the cellists told me that everyone has off days.”
“What about your teacher?”
“She told me I did fine and not to be too hard on myself.”
He pauses for long enough that I meet his eyes again. “That doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe you should take her advice.”
My mouth twists, and I shake my head. “I knew you wouldn’t really get it. What all that means is that I did exactly as bad as I think. I bombed today. I’m allowed to be upset about it.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”
The disbelief in his voice, and the condescension that it indicates, has my rage flooding through me, drying up my tears at last. Now I’m just pissed. “How would you know? You weren’t there. You didn’t hear me play. And don’t try to tell me you know what it’s like to mess up on stage. Even when you used to perform, if you played a wrong note, no one cared. Because you can just use autotune and smile pretty, and no one gives a flying fuck if you sound like shit.”
His arms drop from around me, and I can see his face shutter. His mask falling in place. I should stop. I know I should stop. But the words keep right on coming.
“And now? Now you just sit around and write songs on your guitar that you won't play for anyone. Ever. You tell me all about the high of the stage, but you don’t do anything about it.” I poke myself in the chest, hard. “I’m trying to. So leave me alone about it. And you know the real reason I sucked so bad? Because I've been spending too much time with you. Hanging out with you. Helping you with your songs. Instead of practicing.”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets, his jaw flexing, the wind tousling his hair. “Are you done?”
Blinking hard, I nod once and wrap my arms around myself.
His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. And another. I wince on the inside, preparing myself for him to end things between us. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. But I know it’s too little, too late.
“First of all, let’s set one thing straight. We never used autotune. My mother made us rehearse until we were perfect. Every. Time. I know exactly what it takes to perfect a song, get in sync with the other people playing, and make it look effortless. Maybe more than you do.”
I suck in a breath, but he doesn’t let me speak. He keeps going, eyes glittering and fierce.
“And if you haven’t been practicing? That’s on you, Gabby. Don’t blame me for your choices. I’ve told you more than once that I can wait for you to finish what you need to do. Yes, I want to spend all the time with you that I can. But I know you have homework and that you need to practice. I know what you do is important. I’m not trying to take that away from you.”
Covering my face with my hands, more tears leak out, and this time I don’t try to stop them. I can’t believe I said all that. “I’m so sorry. I—“
His fingers circle my wrists and pull my hands away, but I keep my eyes closed.
“Gabby. Look at me.”
I consider refusing, but give in when he says, “Please,” his voice a low rumble. He’s standing so close now that I can feel the heat coming off him, such a contrast to the wind at my back making me shiver.
When I bring my eyes to his face, the hard look is gone, though he’s still solemn.
“I never took you for a snob, though.”
Shaking my head, all I can say is, “I’m sorry.”
He sighs, wrapping his arms around me again, tucking my head under his chin. When I shiver again, he moves around beside me, his arm still around me guiding me to his car. “Come on. Let’s go. You’re cold, and you’ve had a rough day. Let’s go grab some dinner and watch a movie or something. Relax.”