by Vic Tyler
My voice was hoarse, my throat parched, my eyes threatening to moisten. It was the most I’d ever talked. It was the first time I talked about all this.
My lungs ached. God, I needed a cigarette, but I left them behind in New York. It never felt right being out here and smoking.
Maria threaded her hand in my hair, and my breathing calmed. Strangely, my chest felt lighter, like the burden of my past was set free.
“I don’t know what to say,” Maria whispered, her voice terribly pained.
“You don’t have to say anything.” Being here with me was more than enough.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“Thanks for listening. Made a great campfire story.”
Maria chuckled.
“I want to give you something,” she said, pulling away. I pulled her back in.
“I don’t want anything.”
“It’s nothing expensive. It’s not even that cool,” she scoffed. “But I want you to have it.”
I let go, and she grabbed her backpack, pulling something small out of it. She held up a ukulele that looked tiny against her. It had a light maple body with a teardrop soundhole and a lily on the neck, well worn and played often.
“That’s definitely not something you’d pick up at a tourist shop,” I said, raising a brow.
“It was my dad’s.” Her eyes had a soft fondness as she looked at it.
“No.” There was no fucking way I was going to take it.
“Have it,” Maria insisted, shoving it in my hands. “I don’t play it, and I think you’d like it.”
“It’s your dad’s.”
“It’s not his last possession or anything,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But he loved this ukulele, and I want to be able to share that with you.”
“I don’t even know how to play.” I was starting to feel panicky. I never even touched an instrument with any intention to play it.
“I’ll teach you,” she laughed. “Free music lessons. That’s actually my real present.”
“Can you even play that thing? I thought you played the cello.”
“Only a couple of songs,” she beamed proudly.
“Play something for me,” I said. “I’m not going to learn anything if my teacher sucks.”
Maria slowly took it back and looked up thoughtfully. She brought it up, cradling it familiarly in her arms.
The ukulele had a small but rich sound, deeper than I thought it would be. And then Maria started singing, her voice soft but clear.
“I walked across an empty land. I knew the pathway like the back of my hand,” she sang. “I felt the earth beneath my feet, sat by the river, and it made me complete —”
My hand was on my camera before I thought about it. Goddammit, this one didn’t record. Not that it’d properly do this scene justice. Maria glanced up and smiled but didn’t stop.
“Oh, simple thing, where have you gone? I'm getting old, and I need something to rely on. So tell me when you're gonna let me in. I'm getting tired, and I need somewhere to begin —”
Where had she been all my life? The thought slammed violently into me, nearly leaving me breathless with the dawning realization. The whole image in front of me suddenly felt foreign despite not having changed, like I was sucked back into a womb and spit back out to re–experience the same thing.
I never thought I’d meet someone who accepted me so wholeheartedly and continued to give, someone who inspired me, someone I wanted to give the world to.
“And if you have a minute, why don't we go talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything. So why don't we go somewhere only we know?”
The crackling fire gave an orange hue to Maria’s brown eyes, framed by her dark long lashes. The light flickered gently across her face, as though they too were caressing her. Her high and round cheekbones made her look timelessly youthful.
She was the most beautiful person I’d ever met. Physically, she was attractive, but her sweetness and her curiosity and eagerness had made its mark on her face over the years — the way her face embraced her curving lips and hugged her eyes when she smiled.
I couldn’t deny it anymore. All the stubborn resolve I had disappeared. I was willingly resigning myself to it. I love her. The words sounded foreign even in my mind. Goddammit. I love her.
But a darkness loomed behind it all, casting doubt and fear. Did she even feel the same way? Could I make her happy? What did she see in me? What made me think I deserved her?
But we were on the same wavelength. It was undeniable.
Maria set aside the ukulele as I put down my camera. We collided somewhere in the middle, locked in a frantic kiss. These lips were the last ones I ever wanted on mine. These curves, this small body that fit perfectly into mine. I thought I memorized it, but it felt new and thrilling every time I touched it. She excited every part of me. We could be skin to skin, and I still didn’t feel like I could get enough of her.
“I hope you can remember this birthday as a good one,” she whispered.
“You can try again tomorrow when it’s actually my birthday,” I whispered back.
She smiled into our kiss, and I melted into her smile.
chapter seven
Unsteady – X Ambassadors
Coming back to work from the amazing weekend Benji and I had was a bummer, but my spirits were so high I doubted anything could bring me down. We spent the entire weekend hiking, swimming, fishing, and sexing.
Especially after he told me about his past, Benji was so serene and carefree, like a burden was lifted off of his shoulders. The thought crossed my mind that maybe his rigidity in the city was because of his discomfort there. He was so excited about pointing out the different birds nesting in the trees or explaining the various plants and mushrooms we came across. He looked like he was at home in the mountains, and I could understand why he chose to spend that special weekend the way he did.
The experience was new and sometimes uncomfortable overall, but I loved the space and freedom. The tall brown trunks with their green ceiling and lush terrain were a welcome change in scenery from the gray geometric jungle that I grew up in. I was already looking into other places I could go camping.
My mind was full of the memories from the past few days, and Benji and I got a good start into the week, full of energy and pep, so dealing with the new administrative changes hardly bothered me.
We even got a new photographer, Sam, to pick up and ration out some of the work load. Benji was mostly busy with the paperwork and other transitional duties, so he entrusted the task of showing Sam around to me.
Sam came in a few days during the week to gradually ease into his new job and familiarize himself with the studio. He was young and enthusiastic, chatty and easy to talk to. Apparently, Benji showed Grant some of Sam’s work from a small photography magazine he subscribed to, and they offered him the opportunity. I was surprised to hear they had been looking for new employees, but if Benji and Grant gave their approval, I had no doubt Sam was talented.
A couple of days later, Benji called me into his office.
“Good job on wrapping up the Vogue assignment,” Benji said smiling.
Ah, this wasn’t pressing news. Did that mean I could get down on my knees now and give him a congratulatory blowjob? I was itching to hear his ragged pants and moans, especially that unrestrained guttural sound he couldn’t contain when he was cumming.
“There’s going to be a wrap–up party with everyone who worked on it next weekend. Ad agency people, Vogue reps, models, stylists. Grant and Cheddar will be there too. We’ve been invited, and I have to make an appearance but you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“I’ll go,” I said, slowly making my way towards him. “We can bail early if it’s boring.”
Benji nodded. “By the way, there was an email the other day asking for us to schedule an on–location shoot for portraits and shots. You didn’t put it on the agenda, but I took care of it already.”
I frowned. “How did I miss that?”
Benji shrugged. “I’m going later if you want to come with.” He glanced at the appointment on the screen. “For the New York Philharmonic at David Geffen Hall at nine a.m..”
My heart plunged through my stomach. All my other thoughts dissipated in the presence of my disbelief and horror.
“What?”
Benji raised a brow. I tried to restrain the surprise that showed on my face.
“Something wrong?”
“No,” I said, dazed. “Nothing wrong.”
Benji frowned, looking at me if he wasn’t sure whether he should continue talking.
“If you don’t want to go, it’s fine,” he said after a few seconds. “It’ll be a few portraits for the New York Philharmonic players and some snapshots of their open rehearsal. I was going to ask Sam, but he isn’t coming in today. It shouldn’t take long.”
“No,” I said hurriedly. “Really, nothing’s wrong. I’ll get ready.”
I turned around quickly and then stumbled out the door, scrambling over to my work laptop, panic rising in my chest. How did I miss that email?
I found the conversation thread in the Trash and remembered I filtered all the relevant keywords related to the New York Philharmonic to redirect to Trash. I never expected that they would ask Benji for their photographs.
It had been two years since I was last at David Geffen Hall. Before, just the thought of going to Lincoln Center made me want to vomit. Even now, my stomach lurched queasily, but Benji was going to be there. That made me feel a little more at ease.
I didn’t know if I wanted to see any of my old acquaintances — the people I used to sit next to, the people I shared the stage with, the people I was supposed to make music with. But then I remembered the past weekend and how Benji opened up about the demons of his past. Maybe it was time for me to face mine.
It’s weird how there aren’t a lot of things that change over two years.
A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I gazed at the tall, pillared buildings. For years, I had walked across the patterned courtyard, past the fountain, dragging my large black cello case behind me. Four years at Juilliard and then expecting to spend my future next door door with the New York Philharmonic.
It was exactly like rewinding two years back to when I had been so excited to join the orchestra, except now the excitement was replaced with dread and nausea. Benji was walking ahead of me, and I counted the tiles, pushing the bubbling regret in my chest back down.
We set up the camera equipment on stage at David Geffen Hall with relative ease, and I was relieved to find new faces greet us initially. Most of the orchestral members who came up to get their portraits taken, even the ones I recognized, were flustered by the few minutes they were in front of Benji.
And I couldn’t blame them. When he was in work mode, his eyes became intensely focused, and he was confident and passionate. He was beautiful to watch and mesmerizing to listen to. I still loved watching him, even though I was used to it. I could only imagine what it felt like to have Adonis appear suddenly to take their photos.
Once all the portraits were done, the entire orchestra filled the stage, preparing to open their rehearsal. There was the initial bustle and chatter as people found their seats, and I faced away, my back to them, as I huddled with Benji and the lighting technician as he talked about how he wanted the lights arranged. The hushed chatters and giggles tickled the background as people looked over and pointed towards Benji.
“Michele?” an incredulous voice sounded from the stage.
Ah, there it was. My hands twitched, suddenly cold and clammy. I turned around slowly, giving a meek smile and a small wave. A few squeals and clatters came from across the orchestra as some people set their instruments down and clambered down the stage steps to run over to me. I recognized them as fellow Juilliard alumni or people I befriended when I joined the orchestra.
“Oh, my god, I can’t believe it is you!”
“What are you doing here? Are you going to play with us again?”
“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”
Benji raised his eyebrow at me. Seeing the excited smiles on familiar, welcoming faces warmed my heart with swelling adoration as I explained that I was working with Benji and didn’t even know I was coming until the morning.
“If it isn’t Michele Lennox,” a voice boomed from the wings of the stage.
My heart thumped in a gradually rising tempo. Hearing that voice stiffened my back. I turned around to see Jorge Espinoza beaming and walking towards me. He was a tall, slightly round man with a handsome, tanned face and more salt than pepper in his hair than I last remembered. The music director, once a mentor, an old family friend. The one person I hoped I wouldn’t see.
“Mr. Espinoza,” I said, giving a wry smile and nodding my spinning head.
“Never thought I’d see you back here, Michele,” he said, wrapping me in a big hug.
I would’ve laughed when I saw Benji’s alarmed face, but it just didn’t seem funny right now.
“How long has it been?”
“A couple years,” I said, awkwardly patting his back. “Nice to see you in good health.”
“You too. I thought you’d be in a hospital somewhere since you weren’t playing anymore,” his loud laugh echoed in the big hall. He turned to Benji. “Did you know who exactly you had working under you? A celebrity! Hah! The cello genius Michele Lennox — the child of Peter Lennox and Michele Deveraux. A child prodigy polished and refined.”
Mr. Espinoza solemnly shook his head. “Youngest cello player in the Philharmonic, straight out of Juilliard. Who could’ve imagined that you’d quit? No one thought it was even possible. It’s a downright shame what you’re depriving from the music world.”
My stomach twisted like it was being wrung in the hands of a distressed old lady. The acquaintances who greeted me earlier shifted uncomfortably, edging their way back to the stage.
“Excuse me,” Benji’s voice had a dangerous, threatening edge. “If you could collect your members so we can continue the rehearsal. We’d like to keep to the schedule.”
“Right, right,” Mr. Espinoza said brightly. “Well, pick up the cello and come back, Michele. That’s what your parents would’ve wanted.”
Mr. Espinoza tapped his chest solemnly. The dismal expression suddenly aged and weathered his face. He sighed, clapping his hand onto my shoulder and squeezing. Then he strode away, barking at the members who still weren’t in their seats.
“Are you alright?” Benji asked softly so only I could hear him. I nodded, feeling my eyes well with hot tears. He placed his hand on the shoulder Mr. Espinoza touched and gave his own small squeeze, rubbing his thumb against the bare skin above my collar.
Benji worked quickly, finishing after the beginning of the third movement of their first song. We packed up quickly and met with one of the managers to give a quick farewell and to let them know when to expect the prints.
Benji grabbed my hand, and we left the building, the sound of Shostakovich’s 5th symphony fanfaring our departure.
We didn’t speak, even after we entered the cab that Benji hailed down. My head was swimming with turbulent emotions and thoughts when it was suddenly broken by a soft caress on my hand.
Benj looked at me, his eyes worriedly searching mine, and his large palm cupped my face. I leaned into it, closing my eyes and focusing on feeling his warm thumb brush my cheek.
“I ran away.” My voice sounded small and broken.
“You don’t have to explain anything,” Benji said, pulling me into his chest.
“The cello was all I knew. I grew up with the cello in one hand, my bow in the other.”
Day in, day out. Lessons, practice, performances, classes, orchestra, school, college, career. I never thought about whether it was what I really wanted. It was just as part of me as any of my limbs.
“Then I started to question whether my entire life was going to
be like that. All the great things expected of me. Drawn out for me. Planned to the tee. No one in their right mind would turn it down.”
My ragged breathing slowed as I inhaled Benji’s cedar, oaky smell deep into my lungs. I felt Benji’s heartbeat thumping against mine as they both slowly started beating in sync, his hand stroking my hair.
“But there was one time I tried. I called my parents and argued with them. It was all moving too fast. I wasn’t ready to play for the Philharmonic. They didn’t get it. They tried convincing me to stay,” my voice started breaking. A hot tear streaked down my cheek.
“They were driving out to see me when someone ran them off the road. They died because I was being impulsive and emotional. Because I was being selfish. The last thing I told them was to leave me alone, that I didn’t want them interfering in my life anymore.”
The tears flooded down. I clutched onto Benji tightly as though he was the only thing grounding me to reality.
“After all that, I couldn’t quit the Philharmonic. How could I? It was the last thing I had left of my parents,” I gasped. “And then Mr. Espinoza at the funeral — he told me it was a shame that my parents would never be able to see me on the stage they put me on. When I asked him what he meant, he said that they made sure I was able to get to where I was — Juilliard, the New York Philharmonic, every competition, every performance. They weren’t mine.”
The car started closing in on me, the air too thick to breathe in.
“It made me nauseous to think that everything I had accomplished wasn’t because I achieved it. That it was served to me on a silver platter. That I didn’t deserve any of it. And then I couldn’t play anymore. I couldn’t even touch the cello without throwing up. I quit everything. I ran away.”