Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
“Besides, I wanted to surprise him with the T-Rex costume.”
That made even more sense. An inflatable T-Rex holding flowers. That was so Rome and Liam.
“Go!” I laughed, waving him away from me.
Liam slid to his feet and pointed at me even as he tugged on his winter coat and grabbed the bottle of wine I’d gifted him. “Promise to call me if you need anything at all.”
“Deal. Now go. Surprise the crap out of Rome!”
I watched as Liam jogged out of the coffeehouse. It felt like my happiness followed him, draining out of me bit by bit so that I was alone with my empty mug. Nowhere to be and no one to be with until it was time to perform. Yet again.
11
PIERCE SUTTON
As I escorted my parents to our seats in Music Hall, I found that the butterflies in my stomach had doubled in both number and size. My palms grew sweaty as I clutched the slender program in my fist. It wasn’t so much that I worried about the quality of Simon’s performance. He was going to be perfect. Simon was always perfect when he played. I was more worried about the pressure he might put on himself. This wasn’t one of his competitions where he was being graded and critiqued. My parents enjoyed the symphony, but they wouldn’t dare style themselves as experts in classical music.
As soon as we found our seats, I glanced at the program to see what was being played. A frown tugged at the corners of my mouth, and a new anxiety twisted in my stomach.
“What’s wrong?” my mother inquired in a whisper.
My head jerked up and discovered that she was watching me from my right.
“Oh. Nothing. Everything is fine.”
“Pfft. I saw that look. What’s wrong?” she pressed.
“Well, I was thinking Simon must not have had much say in what’s being performed this evening. Mozart is one of the selections.”
“He doesn’t like Mozart?”
My frown gave way to a half smile, and my thumb brushed across his name as tonight’s soloist and artist-in-residence. “No, he’s not a fan. He thinks Mozart is pompous and pretentious. His popularity is overblown because of his age. He’s a bigger fan of Tchaikovsky and Mendelssohn.” They were also on the program for the evening.
Mother and Father chatted about this and that for a few minutes while I lost myself in the same excited anticipation I felt every time I saw Simon perform. After all these years, it had yet to become a mundane event for me. But then, I didn’t think it ever would. Watching someone of Simon’s caliber and natural talent was a gift. Each time I saw him, part of me wondered if it would be my last. It was only a matter of time before he fluttered off to play sold-out concerts around the globe. He belonged to the musical world, not just one person.
As the house lights dimmed, my heart leaped into my throat. The musicians filed out, and I searched for Simon’s familiar, handsome face, even though I knew he would be the last to step onto the stage.
As he appeared, the twisting tension in my chest eased, and I could draw in a deep breath. He looked so different onstage. His messy blond hair was slicked back and stiffly styled, as if every bit of wildness in him was reined in, creating a single outlet for his boundless energy—the music.
And when he started playing, all thoughts of whether he liked the piece were forgotten. No one could ever tell his preferences. Everything he played was done with such precision and eloquence. A wave of emotions and beauty transported the listener, carrying them away from the world.
But I’d watched Simon play more than anyone else. I knew his quirks by now. I could see the furrow in his brow as someone dared to step on his note a half beat too soon. It happened twice, and I was sure he was barely holding in the urge to beat them with his bow. The problem for Simon was that he demanded absolute perfection from himself. Anything less was a disgrace and an insult to the intentions of the composer. By the same token, if he deigned to play with a full orchestra, he demanded the same level of perfection. That was not something easily achieved with ninety other people. It was why he preferred playing in competitions or as a soloist with an accompanying piano, or even in a cavalcade of artists who each played solos. In short, Simon didn’t play well with others, though he tried hard to.
My mom’s hand landed on my arm when Simon was halfway through Violin Concerto in E Minor by Mendelssohn. She squeezed, and I looked over at her to see her smiling so broadly. Her eyes were closed, and her right hand rested on her heart.