Blaine Sanderson as 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. 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 my 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’ve served my function, the first of a lifetime.
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.
“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, he’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. “What? No, it was nothing like that, Paul.”
“Well, 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. Then again, I already lost everything when Dylan walked out. What’s one more loss—and an acquaintance at that—in comparison?
Twelve more people stop me to offer their congratulations and meaningless words. I do my best to smile at and murmur my thanks. More random syllables spew from my mouth while I keep heading to the door to find Dylan.
My left hand grips my clutch with a painful strength. 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 parked near the door are empty. My aching feet carry me half a block 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 had.
I stagger toward the wall, bracing my hand on it to stop myself from falling to my knees. If I fall, I know 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 completely understand why he looked at me differently, but if he’d let me just apologize… 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, insanely 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 asking him to please pick up, to please call me back.
What if he never takes my call? Never sees me again? What if this is it
“To Blaine.” I mouth the words, unable to force a sound from the lump blocking my throat. 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 my 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’ve served my function, the first of a lifetime.
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.
“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, he’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. “What? No, it was nothing like that, Paul.”
“Well, 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. Then again, I already lost everything when Dylan walked out. What’s one more loss—and an acquaintance at that—in comparison?
Twelve more people stop me to offer their congratulations and meaningless words. I do my best to smile at and murmur my thanks. More random syllables spew from my mouth while I keep heading to the door to find Dylan.
My left hand grips my clutch with a painful strength. 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 parked near the door are empty. My aching feet carry me half a block 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 had.
I stagger toward the wall, bracing my hand on it to stop myself from falling to my knees. If I fall, I know 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 completely understand why he looked at me differently, but if he’d let me just apologize… 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, insanely 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 asking him to please pick up, to please call me back.
What if he never takes my call? Never sees me again? What if this is it
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