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)
“Amazing, isn’t he?” I whispered in her ear.
“Sublime.” She opened her eyes and gazed at Simon. “But so alone.”
I opened my mouth to state that he was supposed to stand apart from the rest of the orchestra because he was their special guest and soloist, but the words stopped in my throat. That wasn’t what she meant. Staring at him, I could see what she meant. It was a thought that had crossed my mind more than once as I watched Simon play. He was so alone, so isolated.
Too often it was believed someone like Simon needed to be apart from the crowd. His talent made him too special, too precious to be with the rest of the rabble. But it also meant that he was alone, his existence emptier and colder than the rest of ours.
It wasn’t something I’d experienced myself. I’d grown up with a younger brother I was close to. Not to mention, more friends that I knew what to do with. It was rare for me to ever feel alone, and even less likely for me to feel lonely.
But Simon…
He’d still been young when he lost Sawyer, and even then, while Sawyer might have doted on his brother, there had been an inevitable distance between them. Simon and Sawyer had been nothing alike. They hadn’t enjoyed the same hobbies or interests. I also couldn’t remember Simon ever talking about the friends he’d had as a kid.
And yet, if he was lonely and in pain, no one could see it. He presented an untouchable, unapproachable facade to the world. Nothing bothered him. Everything was beneath him. Even my endless rejections. Supposedly.
My mom squeezed my arm again. “You need to make sure that you take good care of him.”
Yes, someone needed to take very good care of him.
The evening’s performance of the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra seemed to be finished in a flash. All too soon we were waiting for a page to fetch us and lead us to the stage where Simon was waiting with the conductor. The other performers had already filed out and were likely halfway to their cars, ready to be home and relaxing in comfortable clothes.
My heart clenched to see the clear exhaustion and pain digging lines in Simon’s face in an unguarded moment as he spoke with the conductor. However, the second he saw us coming down the aisle, it all disappeared. He hurried to assist my mother up the wide wooden stairs leading to the stage.
“Oh, how amazing! And those lights! So bright! I can’t imagine how you do this all the time,” she exclaimed as she walked across the stage with him.
“Funnily enough, it is something you grow accustomed to.” Simon flashed her a broad grin. “Did you enjoy the performance?”
“Loved it. Simply loved it. Your playing stole my heart away.”
“Wonderful job, Simon,” my father praised.
Some lingering lines of tension disappeared from the corners of Simon’s eyes as if he relaxed that last bit.
“Allow me to introduce you to the orchestra’s conductor, Maestro John Padgett. He is the one who pulled together tonight’s excellent selection of music. He did cave to my pleading, though, and included the short Tchaikovsky piece.”
That did not surprise me in the least.
Pleasantries were exchanged, compliments given, and hands shaken. I tried to pay attention to the conductor as he was talking, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Simon. He appeared off. Twitchy. Anxious. His eyes were too bright and his smile too wide and stiff. Nervous energy poured off him in angry waves.
I lasted only a couple of minutes before I couldn’t take another second of it. Stepping closer to Simon, I wrapped an arm around his slender shoulders and pulled him against my taller frame. His entire body was as rigid and stiff as a steel rod.
“Shall we pop out for drinks? Or maybe a late dinner?” Simon asked as the maestro excused himself. “I know a cute restaurant that has excellent tapas if you would like something lighter.”
I tightened my hold on Simon, squeezing him into me. “Mother and Father are tired. They need to return to the hotel.” Reaching down with my free hand, I captured his left hand. I pressed a light kiss to the fingertips that had been compressing the violin strings into the board. “You’re also exhausted. Let me take you home.”
“But—” Simon’s argument cut off as I kissed his fingers again. The tension in his frame seemed to ooze away, and he leaned into me.
“Yes, dear,” my mother agreed. “Oliver and I aren’t as young as we used to be. I’m ready for my evening tea and sleep.” She leaned in close and brushed a kiss to his cheek. “You need to rest as well. I know you’re still young, but if you push yourself too hard, you’re going to make yourself sick.”