not bear.
She didn’t know why she was so restless. It certainly wasn’t because she was comparing Gunter to Dylan. There was, in fact, no comparison. Gunter didn’t even register on the scale. It was as though he was not a man sitting so politely next to her, but a statue.
When he brushed against her, her heart did not race. When he spoke, her pulse did not flutter. Nothing he did or said caused any emotion to rise at all.
But Dylan— Hell, just thinking about him made her achy.
Would he call? She hoped he would.
Belatedly, she realized she could have asked for his cell number. She should have asked for his cell number. She was a modern woman, after all. In charge of her own destiny. If she’d asked for his number, she could be talking to him right now.
Perhaps he was in the phone book…
Oh, what nonsense. He was a celebrity. Or something like a celebrity, at least. He wouldn’t be in the phone book. Besides, where would she even find one anymore? Her old-school parents probably had one somewhere. She could Google him, but doubted she could reach him directly, given the controversial nature of his on-air persona and all—
“Darling. Have you heard a thing I’ve said?”
Her mother’s tone, unusually sharp, snapped her out of her reverie.
“I beg your pardon?” Cassie realized she was still holding her empty sherry glass. She set it on a coaster.
“I was telling Gunter about the offer we received from the Berliner Philharmoniker.”
Cassie blinked. “We received an offer from the Berliner Philharmoniker?” No one had mentioned it to her.
“You leave in two weeks. You’ll return from Chicago and leave straightaway. Six weeks touring the capitals of Europe.”
Six weeks? Six weeks away from— She didn’t let herself finish the sentence. But she knew it ended with Dylan. Still, if he didn’t call, it would hardly matter if she was here or not.
Then again, the disquiet in her breast had very little to do with him. It was the buzzing sound. The one she heard whenever she felt like the bug trapped in a jar, desperately trying to escape. The sound rose and grew in her head, even as the panic welled in her soul.
She was tired. Sick unto death of having her world ordered, controlled, managed by others.
“I don’t want to go to Berlin.” The words surprised her. She hadn’t intended to say them aloud.
Apparently, they surprised the others as well. Mother gaped at her. Father gaped at her. Merrilee and Dane gaped at her. Gunter merely tipped his head to the side and observed her with vague curiosity. But then Gunter didn’t know Cassie had never—in the whole of her life—said no.
“I beg your pardon, darling. I don’t think I heard you correctly.” Mother’s lips pursed as though she’d eaten a lemon.
“I don’t want to go to Berlin.”
Father raised a finger to Winters, who obligingly refilled Mother’s cut crystal glass. She tossed it back and held it out for more. When she’d recovered herself, she pinned a prim smile on her face and said, in a glacial tone, “How absurd. Who wouldn’t want to go to Berlin? To play on all the great stages of Europe? It’s your dream, darling.”
A cold chill walked down Cassie’s spine. The kind of chill one gets when one realizes one has, in fact, been living someone else’s dream. Someone else’s life.
Oh, she loved the cello. She always would. She loved music and she adored the symphony. But there was more to life than an endless string of concerts. Constant tours. Incessant hours of practice.
There was passion lurking outside the pit, and she longed to live it. Breathe it in. Wallow in it.
Even if it hurt.
Even if it wasn’t perfect and sometimes ended on a discordant note.
There was beauty in chaos. Music in the mystery of life. Excitement in the possibility of taking a dare.
Of being herself.
For once. Daring to be herself.
“I’ll go to Chicago, but then I am taking a break,” she said with unwavering certitude.
The
She didn’t know why she was so restless. It certainly wasn’t because she was comparing Gunter to Dylan. There was, in fact, no comparison. Gunter didn’t even register on the scale. It was as though he was not a man sitting so politely next to her, but a statue.
When he brushed against her, her heart did not race. When he spoke, her pulse did not flutter. Nothing he did or said caused any emotion to rise at all.
But Dylan— Hell, just thinking about him made her achy.
Would he call? She hoped he would.
Belatedly, she realized she could have asked for his cell number. She should have asked for his cell number. She was a modern woman, after all. In charge of her own destiny. If she’d asked for his number, she could be talking to him right now.
Perhaps he was in the phone book…
Oh, what nonsense. He was a celebrity. Or something like a celebrity, at least. He wouldn’t be in the phone book. Besides, where would she even find one anymore? Her old-school parents probably had one somewhere. She could Google him, but doubted she could reach him directly, given the controversial nature of his on-air persona and all—
“Darling. Have you heard a thing I’ve said?”
Her mother’s tone, unusually sharp, snapped her out of her reverie.
“I beg your pardon?” Cassie realized she was still holding her empty sherry glass. She set it on a coaster.
“I was telling Gunter about the offer we received from the Berliner Philharmoniker.”
Cassie blinked. “We received an offer from the Berliner Philharmoniker?” No one had mentioned it to her.
“You leave in two weeks. You’ll return from Chicago and leave straightaway. Six weeks touring the capitals of Europe.”
Six weeks? Six weeks away from— She didn’t let herself finish the sentence. But she knew it ended with Dylan. Still, if he didn’t call, it would hardly matter if she was here or not.
Then again, the disquiet in her breast had very little to do with him. It was the buzzing sound. The one she heard whenever she felt like the bug trapped in a jar, desperately trying to escape. The sound rose and grew in her head, even as the panic welled in her soul.
She was tired. Sick unto death of having her world ordered, controlled, managed by others.
“I don’t want to go to Berlin.” The words surprised her. She hadn’t intended to say them aloud.
Apparently, they surprised the others as well. Mother gaped at her. Father gaped at her. Merrilee and Dane gaped at her. Gunter merely tipped his head to the side and observed her with vague curiosity. But then Gunter didn’t know Cassie had never—in the whole of her life—said no.
“I beg your pardon, darling. I don’t think I heard you correctly.” Mother’s lips pursed as though she’d eaten a lemon.
“I don’t want to go to Berlin.”
Father raised a finger to Winters, who obligingly refilled Mother’s cut crystal glass. She tossed it back and held it out for more. When she’d recovered herself, she pinned a prim smile on her face and said, in a glacial tone, “How absurd. Who wouldn’t want to go to Berlin? To play on all the great stages of Europe? It’s your dream, darling.”
A cold chill walked down Cassie’s spine. The kind of chill one gets when one realizes one has, in fact, been living someone else’s dream. Someone else’s life.
Oh, she loved the cello. She always would. She loved music and she adored the symphony. But there was more to life than an endless string of concerts. Constant tours. Incessant hours of practice.
There was passion lurking outside the pit, and she longed to live it. Breathe it in. Wallow in it.
Even if it hurt.
Even if it wasn’t perfect and sometimes ended on a discordant note.
There was beauty in chaos. Music in the mystery of life. Excitement in the possibility of taking a dare.
Of being herself.
For once. Daring to be herself.
“I’ll go to Chicago, but then I am taking a break,” she said with unwavering certitude.
The
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