Vibrato

by Tamara Mataya

  In sync, our postures get even more rigid, and we turn to Blaine with eager to please smiles, braced for the worst as only musicians talking to their directors can be.

  I have to admit, with his dark hair tousled, and the champagne giving his stern eyes an uncharacteristic sparkle, he’s looking particularly dashing tonight. His black jacket showcases his wide shoulders, and the vest reveals his trim waist. He smiles a genuine smile, transforming him from ‘cute with potential’ to ‘incredibly handsome.’

  “Hello, Rachel.”

  “Hello, Blaine.” Of course he’d stop by when I was with Paul—someone he told me not to give ‘the wrong idea,’ by hanging out with too much.

  Blaine turns to Paul with a friendly smile. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. How are things going for this season?”

  Blaine nods, smile fading. “Really well. If everything stays consistent, I believe we’re going to exceed expectations by a considerable amount.”

  “That’s great,” I say, mustering enthusiasm. Truly, I’m happy to hear that, it’s my future too, after all.

  “Paul, will you excuse us for a moment?” Blaine takes my arm before Paul responds, and leads us to the door of a little patio, decorated with tea light candles and Calla lilies.

  How much trouble am I in this time? I straighten, defiance filling my spine, making it rigid. If he tries to tell me again who I can and cannot see, he’s going to get a rather large piece of my mind. Paul and I are grown adults, if we want to hang out and be friends, whose business is it?

  Blaine runs his hand through his hair. “I’d like to thank you for your poise and decorum this evening. You’ve been remarkable, pleasant and engaging. I couldn’t have asked for more.”

  Slapping me would have been less of a surprise. “Oh?”

  “More than a few patrons have asked about you specifically. It looks like we’re going to get another chair.”

  “Do they know...?”

  He shakes his head. “But I can’t see that changing when they find out. I was right about you, Rachel. You’ve got what it takes to be a vital part of this symphony. It really means a lot to me. You know that, right?” He caresses my shoulder, removing his hand before I can compare his touch to Dylan’s, disconcerted by the whole thing.

  Blaine’s a tough man to work for, but he’s fair and treats us well. The better we perform, the better he treats us—so I’ve heard. I’m still new to the position. I nod. “Thank you for telling me.” I lift my glass to my lips before remembering his caution, and lower it again.

  He leans forward. “Go ahead. We’re celebrating, after all.”

  Relaxing, I take a small sip. “Lots going on tonight. I’m glad the symphony’s going to get more funding.”

  “I imagine this is overwhelming for you. Did I ever tell you about my first one of these events?”

  Another sip. “No, you didn’t.”

  His eyes twinkle and he leans closer, lowering his voice. “I thought I was going to vomit on the mayor’s shoes.”

  I cough, champagne going down the wrong tube as I laugh. For the first time tonight, I’m enjoying myself despite these heels. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I was dying inside. So much to prove to so many people. I drank too much and didn’t eat enough. My head was spinning the whole night. But I got through it.” His expression grows serious. “You will too. You were made for this.”

  I force a smile. “Let’s hope so.”

  “I realize this will be...difficult for you. But you should know I’ve got your back, no matter what, Rachel.”

  For the first time with him, I feel truly relaxed. Maybe it’s the champagne, maybe I’ve proven myself enough for him to trust me. But it’s nice and helps soothe the feeling that I’m not in the right place. “Thank you.”

  He sighs. “Well. Guess we should go mingle.”

  Affection and sympathy roll through me at the glimmer of weariness that flashes in his eyes before he puts on a smile. My director’s human, after all. “Yes. We’ll talk later.”

  He nods. “Definitely.”

  He heads in one direction, I in the other. I’m glad he apologized. Blaine’s broody but it’s passion, he doesn’t mean anything by his brusqueness. He’s driven to build a name for himself by building all of us up, benefitting all of us. He truly cares about every aspect of the symphony and makes it his business to be knowledgeable about each role from the ground up. He’s brilliant in a different way than Dylan. Blaine has to harness our creative spirits and hold us all together. Dylan only has to worry about his own muse. They have different kinds of power, charisma.

  Blaine directs the storm.

  Dylan is the storm.

  He tasted like spearmint when he kissed me goodbye. I sneaked back to the hotel to see him off, unable to resist when he asked for that much. Even though it’s an impossibility, I wish he’d asked for more.

  I was supposed to bring his t-shirt back to him, the one he’d let me borrow. Of course, I accidentally-on-purpose forgot it at home. In my bedroom. Where I’ve used it as a nightshirt to sleep in every night we’ve been apart.

  Something to remember him by. Something personal that he loved and had worn close to his skin. Maybe that’s weird, but it comforts me. Makes me feel like he isn’t so far away. This time when he asked for my contact information, I gave it to him. His body had fit against mine so perfectly, and he promised to call, to write.

  But I haven’t heard a word from him since. Maybe he was adding me to the list of women he has on call when he’s in cities on tour. Maybe I meant something to him.

  Maybe...

  Ugh, stop thinking about him!

  “Can I have everyone’s attention, please?” Blaine’s voice rings out through the PA system, and we all turn to the small stage he’s on. I head a little closer along with a few others.

  Blaine regards the crowd with a stare that makes it feel like he’s looking at everyone. “The past few years have been tough on the arts. Funding’s been cut, grants have shrunk, and attendance has been down. But not for us. Our symphony has continued to grow and flourish, and it’s thanks in no small part to all of you in this room. Give yourselves a round of applause.”

  We dutifully clap.

  A small buzz by the door catches my attention.

  Dylan St. John has just strolled in wearing a black suit that fits his body like it was made for him.

  Am I hallucinating? I’d rub my eyes if I could tear my gaze away.

  My limbs feel heavy and a ringing in my ears interferes with Blaine’s words.

  Oblivious to my attention, Dylan stalks around the room like an incredibly well-dressed predator, looking for something—someone.

  Looking for me.

  He hasn’t called, but he came here tonight to be with me, knowing how much I hate these things.

  Realization roars over me, making my knees weak.

  God help me, I think I’m falling...

  He grabs a glass from a waiter and keeps stalking the perimeter, gaze never stopping its search.

  Not in a hopeless crush kind of way, but I genuinely am falling in love this man. The life we’d have would be wild and incredible and so fucking full it wouldn’t matter if it all fell apart, because most people never get to experience a life with that much joy and passion in it. It would be worth it for that alone.

  Blaine’s words become clear again.

  Oh, no. Not this.

  Not now, in front of Dylan.

  My nails dig into my palms. Please, no.

  Blaine pauses dramatically, making sure he has everyone’s attention before speaking again. “This season is especially important to me because I'll be starting the next stage of my life.”

  I’d give anything to run, to steal the microphone from Blaine’s hand and throw it away, to grab Dylan’s hand and tear him from the room right now, but even that would be too late.

  It’s always been too late.

  Blaine’s announcing h
is future as the one I want with Dylan evaporates.

  As though he feels my emotions from across the room, Dylan turns and stops, his teal gaze locking on mine. I love you, Dylan. He starts walking toward me with a huge grin. I can’t move.

  He came here for me, to be with me. He wore a stuffy tux for me—and looks like a goddamned fantasy in it.

  And we can’t be together. Bitter tears sting my eyes, but I can’t blink them away. I can’t tear my gaze from Dylan’s.

  If I could breathe, I might scream.

  But nothing I could say will change anything, or fix this mess. I made my bed months ago.

  Time to lie in it.

  My heart wrenches in my chest like fate has stabbed me and is merrily twisting the knife. I can’t feel my hands, but somehow I manage to hold onto my glass.

  Blaine’s next words ring out into the room. “I'd like to take this opportunity to introduce the woman who's accompanying me on this new journey. Our new journey. My fiancé, Rachel Simmons.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The bile scorching the back of my throat tastes like expensive champagne.

  My stomach roils as the disbelief in Dylan’s eyes transforms into devastation and then disgust. This wasn’t how I wanted him to find out about my engagement, not that I’d ever planned on telling him. He was supposed to be a neat little fling, a wild ride that ended in Chicago, but I couldn’t stay away. Greedily, I had to have more and more. Even now I want to rush into his arms and forget about the rest of the world.

  But he’s looking at me like I’m a stranger, and agony twists like a knife hilt-deep in my chest. I can take anything except him hating me. I have to explain to him, make him know that what happened between us was real.

  The patrons around me turn my way, following Blaine’s eyes to his fiancée—me—and I tear my gaze from the rock star twenty feet away to avoid suspicion. I’m trapped by hundreds of eyes and their expectations of me. This is supposed to be the happiest moment of my life.

  Don’t cry.

  My heart wants me to run to Dylan, take his hand and escape from the pretentiousness sparkling all around us like a thousand diamonds, but this isn’t about what I want.

  Boston has never been about what I want. It’s about what’s best for me. Until Dylan strolled into my life, I never hated my decision to accept Blaine’s proposal. But some decisions we can’t take back without everything around us falling like a delicate house of cards. It’s not only my life affected by my next move, so I plaster on a smile and stride to Blaine’s side, doing what’s expected instead of what my heart is screaming at me to do.

  Every hand clapping congratulations might as well be slapping me in the face. I feel every percussive beat against my skin like an accusation.

  Liar.

  Liar.

  Liar.

  Lying by omission is still a lie, and Dylan thought I was single the whole time we were together.

  Blaine puts his arm around my waist and kisses my temple, grinning at the crowd while inside I turn to stone and pretend I’m thrilled to finally be able to share this happy news with my peers.

  The few faces of other members of the symphony nearby look surprised but happy. Maybe not happy so much as relieved. I know what I’d be thinking—maybe Blaine’ll relax now that he’s been appointed as Director. Maybe now he’s getting laid regularly he’ll be less intense.

  They’re thinking about all the times Maestro was hard on me in front of everyone, putting me on the spot. He was getting me to publicly prove I deserved my position—that it wasn’t undeserved preferential treatment.

  If I hadn’t delivered, they’d think I screwed my way to the top or that Blaine gave a coveted spot to someone unworthy. Luckily, I delivered. Maybe I did get preferential treatment, but I have the skills to back it up and they know it.

  They know it because he made me prove it.

  Some are also surprised, probably because straight-laced Rachel would never do anything outside acceptable expectations. I’m a good girl, they all think this is real.

  They’re easy to read, but what’s Dylan thinking?

  The spot where he stood is empty when I dare another glance his way. Panic tugs my body a step forward before I get a hold of myself, and search the room with my gaze.

  Porter Lofthouse, Chairman of the Arts board, steps forward and shakes my hand then Blaine’s before holding his hand up for silence. He’s Old Boy’s Club from way back—and one of the reasons I’m in this situation. Blaine’s been trying to worm his way into Porter’s good graces for months.

  When the crowd settles, Porter clears his throat. “And the board has an announcement we’d like to make as well. Blaine Sanderson is young, some would say too young to carry the responsibilities required of him. But he has ambition—there’s no denying that. His talent cannot be denied and I for one am delighted by this development in his personal life.”

  Blaine dips his head modestly, but his eyes are gleaming triumphantly.

  Porter continues. “We’ve been without a Director for a while—until now.” He turns to Blaine. “Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my honor and privilege to announce that Blaine Sanderson is the newest director of our beloved Symphony.” He raises his glass. “To Blaine!”

  “To Blaine.” I mouth the words, unable to force a sound from the lump blocking my throat, hoping no one notices how brittle my smile is. Blaine’s finally getting what he wants, now all he has to do is maintain it.

  There, in the center of the room, Dylan snags two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and downs the first in one gulp while continuing to the door with the second. Panic makes every heartbeat a giant throb in my body, I swear I can see the pulse in my eyes. Somehow, I manage a tepid smile for Blaine—who is predictably ignoring me to schmooze with Porter. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  Blaine nods dismissively, Porter ignores me completely, and I send a silent prayer of thanks to God that neither of them notice my distress.

  I can’t get away fast enough, rushing through the handshakes of congratulations in the sea of people blocking my way to the door with well-wishes and smiles.

  I’m almost there when Paul blocks my way, we need to talk written all over his face.

  “Hi, Paul,” I manage weakly.

  He jumps right in to the meat of the matter. “When you said there was someone else, I had no idea it was Blaine.”

  “I wasn’t at liberty to say.” I don’t have time for this, I have to get to Dylan. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  Paul’s face reddens, and he places a hand on my forearm, halting my escape.

  From the look in his eyes, Paul’s going over every conversation we ever had, remembering every time he said something less than complimentary about Maestro. “Were you spying for him the whole time?”

  That low blow gets my attention. Does everyone think that? “What? No, it was nothing like that, Paul.”

  “I know it wasn’t what I thought it was. You’re not who I thought you were.” His lips press into a thin line. He doesn’t want to think I was a spy, but any trust we had has gone out the window. He shakes his head and walks away.

  Great. If my one potential friend in the symphony isn’t even going to hear me out, the others are going to think the worst of me, after all. Whatever. I already lost everything when Dylan walked out, what’s one more loss—and an acquaintance at that—in comparison?

  Twelve people stop me to offer their congratulations and meaningless words. I do my best to smile at and murmur my thanks for. More random syllables spewing from my mouth while I keep heading to the door to find Dylan.

  My left hand grips my clutch with a painful strength and I don’t know what happened to my glass of champagne between the speech and the lobby door, but my right hand’s empty when I step outside.

  The cool night air gives some relief from the perfume and panic clogging my nose inside the party, but Dylan’s nowhere to be seen. I still don’t know what he drove, but the few cars a
llowed to park near the door on the street are empty. My aching feet carry me half a block up when I see a cab, but it’s only one of the clarinet players leaving with her partner.

  Dylan’s gone. He wanted to get away from me as quickly as possible and he did it.

  I stagger toward the wall, bracing my hand on it to stop myself from falling to my knees. If I fall, I won’t be able to get up. My skin burns with regret, feverish in my desire to turn back the clock and do things differently even though this is something I can’t take back.

  He looked at me with such...revulsion. I get it, I completely understand why he looked at me differently, but if he’d let me explain I know it would be okay. It wouldn’t change things, but if he knew I never meant to hurt him, maybe he wouldn’t hate me.

  I pull my phone from my clutch and dial his number, thankful I put it into my phone.

  No answer. Does he know it’s me?

  Ugh, of course he does. That’s probably why he isn’t answering.

  I try again and send a text, fingers trembling over the letters. Please pick up, please call me back.

  What if he never takes my call, never sees me again? What if this is it and he’s gone, thinking the worst of me forever? I dry heave so hard my eyes leave wet trails down my cheeks. It’s a thought I literally can’t stomach. If I can just talk to Dylan one more time.

  Please, God.

  Blotting my face, I head back inside. I’ve done my part tonight and can’t be here anymore. I’m saying goodbye to Blaine and going home where I can send Dylan an email or get through on the phone and explain everything, even if it’s only in a message.

  And then I’ll fall apart in private.

  The glass doors whoosh shut behind me and there he is ten feet to my left, slouched in a leather chair in the lobby, eyes like a storm about to hit the shore.

  Despite the anger and hurt brewing there, I walk steadily toward him and gently perch on the chair to his right. I hate that even now I’m choosing the chair more hidden from sight of the ballroom, tucked behind a large plant and a lamp because now it’s even more important to maintain the perfect image.