Page 10 of Tripped Up

Lawrence, the musical director, is a sprightly man in his early seventies with a full head of frizzy white hair that practically screams eccentric musician. He was one of my professors at Stanford and my first mentor. When he moved to Austin a few years ago, he tried to recruit me, but I was happy in my position. Now that I need a fresh start, he was my first call.

The symphony salary isn’t enough to pay all my bills, but once I supplement it with a few private music lessons, I should be comfortable enough. I just have to go out and meet people.

My least favorite thing to do.

Lawrence introduces me to Hilary, who gives me a quick tour of the facility and a rundown of the season.

Today’s rehearsal is for the first fall performance. It’ll take a lot of work to get up to speed on their repertoire, but I’m confident I can handle it. This is what I’ve been studying and training my whole life to do.

Anastasia O’Connor is the first chair violinist. She’ll be my primary competition for solos; I was the first chair back in Boston, and I won’t let myself stay stagnant in the number two chair for very long. We met briefly during my audition, and as I walk into the rehearsal studio, she gives me a tight-lipped smile.

“You made it,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s talking about the job here or my arrival today. “There’s a kerfuffle in the brass section.”

“Oh?” I always like to be informed. It’s not gossip if it impacts the job… or so I rationalize.

“I’m not exactly sure what’s going on,” she admits. “Something about a tuba player being asked to leave.”

“I’ll keep my ears open.”

She nods, passing over today’s music. The sheets are hole-punched already, so I can stick it into my three-ring notebook. I’m familiar with the first piece we’re doing, but not the second or the third.

“Are you settled in?”

“Mostly. There’s so much to unpack. You’d think moving would get easier the more I do it.” I shake my head with a resigned sigh. I have so much to do.

Staying out with Wyatt and his teammates was definitely the wrong call. They kept refilling my drink until I had too much to drive. Wyatt drove me home, and when I woke up this morning, ready to call an Uber back to the pub, my car was magically in my parking space in the apartment’s garage. One of his teammates probably took care of it. They seem like decent guys—for being hockey players, which isn’t saying much.

Lawrence begins rehearsal with a quick pep talk before launching into the day’s itinerary. I catch a few people sending me confused looks, no doubt wondering who I am. With an eighty-member orchestra, there are a lot of musicians who come and go. They rarely come in as second chair, though.

As we wrap up, I notice Anastasia is quick to put her violin away.

“Do you want to grab coffee?” I ask, tempering my hopeful tone. I don’t want to scare her off. We may compete for performance time, but we still have to work together.

She makes a face, and I can’t decide if she’s annoyed or disappointed. She’s hard to read, but I’m determined to win her over. “Can’t today. Got some things to do.”

“Oh. Okay. Not a problem.”

Guess I’ll go back to my apartment and keep unpacking.

“I can do dinner after my errands, though,” she says. Internally, I do a little dance. She’s not brushing me off. Maybe she will be my friend and more than a colleague, after all. “Does that work?”

“Perfect.” Am I coming on too eager?

She tells me the name and address, then gives me a tight smile. “See you later.”

I’m on my way out the door when Hilary from the office staff catches me.

“Hey, Elsy,” she calls, and I backtrack a few steps. “I forgot to tell you about the gala.”

“Oh?”

Most symphonies will host two or three galas a year. They’re formal affairs with an elaborate dinner, silent auctions, dancing, and speeches. There are limited performances with small ensembles throughout the evening rather than the full orchestra, so we get to mingle with patrons and politely ask them to empty their wallets, all while wearing fancy gowns and tuxedos.

“Should I mark you down for a plus-one?” Hilary asks.

My stomach twists. I used to go to these types of things alone, so Stephen and I could sneak off to a quiet alcove whenever we could make the time for a few frantic moments. All those storage-closet hookups made our forbidden romance all the more exciting, but when we actually had a moment alone together with our clothes on, all the excitement fizzled away.

I won’t be making that mistake twice.