June glances up from the program, eyes pointed to the ceiling. “They’re for acoustic purposes. They disperse sound throughout the concert hall. This place is exceptional. The design and sound are remarkable.”
I look at her and wonder who she is. After she played the cello in Callie’s bedroom, I felt like she was an entirely different person who I didn’t know. Not in a bad way. It made me realize I’ve fallen in love with a woman who I don’t know that well. ButI want to. Then in our conversation at dinner she left me in the dust, feeling stupid for not understanding any of her references.
And now, listening to her speak so intelligently about this place, it’s hard not to feel stupid, like I’m way out of my league, and it’s only a matter of time before she realizes there’s very little depth to me.
When the concert begins, I watch June while everyone else watches the orchestra. Sometimes she reaches for my hand and squeezes it, and when the lights shift between performances, I see tears in her eyes. Am I supposed to cry too? Music has never brought me to tears. I’ve never even cried watching a movie.
As the guest cellist plays, June scoots to the edge of her seat, and shortly after the song begins, June’s hands mimic the performer’s, eyes closed. The song ends, and everyone claps. But June stands. The performer, with short, blond hair curled behind her ears, focuses on June, and she grins in a way that looks like recognition. Maybe she’s June’s friend.
“Have you met her?” I whisper in June’s ear after the applause and June sits in her seat.
She shakes her head as she stands again, along with everyone else.
“It’s over?” I ask.
“Intermission,” she says.
We stretch our legs by walking the length of the common areas. There’s a wall with pictures of performers. June slows to look at them. We turn around at the same time when the cellist who performed taps June on the shoulder.
“Zoya! I thought it was you,” she says, a little out of breath. “I just had to find you to introduce myself. I’m Liza Stephens. I watched you perform at the Royal Albert Hall in London. You were only sixteen. I was thirteen, and I dreamed of playing like you.” She shakes her head. “Istilldream of playing like you. I’ve wondered where you’ve been. Sorry, now I’m just ramblingout of control. I won’t keep you. But I just wanted to say what a tremendous honor and surprise it was to perform in front of you.” She finally takes a breath.
I have no breaths. My head is spinning too much to think about breathing. What’s going on?
June swallows hard and glances at me for less than a second, barely lifting her gaze enough to make actual eye contact. “That’s very kind of you to say, Liza. Your performance was so moving.”
“Thank you.” Liza presses her hand over her chest like she might faint from June’s words.
Seriously. What the fuck is going on?
“Well”—Liza shoots me a quick smile before offering her hand to June—“I won’t keep you. But it’s been a huge pleasure meeting you in person.”
June shakes her hand and gives her a wavering smile.
Liza walks away, then stops and points to a picture, glancing back at June. “It must feel surreal having your picture on the wall. I bet they’d love for you to sign it.”
When she continues toward the stairs, I follow her footsteps to the picture.
“Flynn.” June grabs my wrist, but I pull away.
We passed this picture five minutes earlier, and she didn’t even pause at it. That’s her—the young woman on the stage, front and center, sitting in a chair with a cello between her legs, one hand on the neck, her other hand holding the bow above her head like she’s just finished a dramatic performance. But her long hair is partially covering her face, eyes closed. I don’t know if I would have ever recognized her in this photo. But now that I really focus, it’s undeniable.
The gold plaque on the frame says, “A World Away.”
“What am I looking at here, June?” I ask, my jaw working back and forth. “Or … Zoya? Is that your name?” I turn my head just enough to squint at her.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about after the concert.” Her face wrinkles as she wrings her hands together. “I played the cello professionally.”
“No shit.”
She frowns at my sarcasm. “I had a band called A World Away. It was an extraordinary life—a privileged life.”
I look away. She will not make me feel guilty for the things I’ve said about people who live aprivilegedlife.
“My parents adopted me from an orphanage in India when I was three. Much like Rupert Rawlings, my father married into a wealthy family. My mother’s stepfather owned ZIP Tunes, one of the most successful record labels in the world, which my parents run now. My grandmother, Juniper Carlisle, was an international supermodel who had her own cable fashion DIY show. She went by ‘Juni,’ so I go by June instead of Zoya because too many people know Zoya Malone. And I gave up that life when I came here.”
Rubbing my temples, I shake my head. “Why?”
“The reason I was taken on my twenty-first birthday was because of my family, which made me worth a sizable ransom in the kidnapper’s eyes. And despite round-the-clock security and countless hours of therapy, I couldn’t relax. Walking through a crowd of people screaming my name, holding out their hands for an autograph or just to touch me felt like nothing more than people wanting to take me. I couldn’t hold my cello or bow without shaking. I rushed through concerts just so I could get home and hide in bed under the covers. The one thing that brought me joy became the thing that paralyzed me with fear. I just … fell out of love.” She quickly wipes the corners of her eyes and sniffs.
