“Do what, exactly?”
“This. All of this. I’m not to this level.” She gestured to the cello. When she finally brought her face up, her eyes were glossy and her pale skin grew splotchy. Her attention was focused behind my head, not looking directly at me. “I don’t understand why you asked me to do this.”
“Don’t cry,” I snapped. “We’ve only just started.”
“I’m not crying.” She shot back, her bottom lip jutting out and quivering. “If it seems like that it’s only because I’m angry and my stupid face makes me look like I’m crying.” She sniffed.
I didn’t like that she called her face stupid. I didn’t like that she was acting like this. “Where did this come from?”
“I’m humiliated. I’m not at this level.” She took a deep breath in. “Did you bring me down here just to show me all of my shortcomings? To remind me that I’m a second rate professional?”
“I would never do that.” Inexplicably, my heart started slamming against my chest, rattling me like a gong. I could handle ego and temper tantrums, but I couldn’t handle Kim’s self-doubt. I didn’t recognize this person. I stood, aware that my hands had fisted at my sides.
“Just explain it to me then. This isn’t an attempt to fish for compliments. I genuinely do not understand why I’m here.”
My heart was now racing at climactic tempo, slightly erratic and running away. I couldn’t hold her gaze.
“I don’t pretend that I’m not talented. But Maestro, you have to see that I’m not the best for this.”
“This is why you practice,” I growled the words.
She gripped her bow brandishing it like a knife. “Why not Carla or Barry? Why not audition people for this? There are thousands more talented than me.”
“You’re right,” I agreed.
Her nostrils flared even as the rest of her face started to crumple in dismay. How did I communicate this to her? With every second she questioned me, my panic grew.
She took a deep breath and held my gaze. “I can see that you’re frustrated with me,” she said. “But getting angry isn’t helping me understand. I hate that I sound so unsure of myself. There was a time—” She shook her head. “But you have to give me something more to understand.”
She was humiliated. I was too, but she didn’t see that. She only saw the anger. I needed her. My heart hammered. I had to give her something. I couldn’t risk her saying no. Rejection from her of all people might break me.
“It’s not always about talent. It’s about potential.” I began tentatively, trying to explain some without giving too much away. “You’re dedicated. You’re punctual. You’re available.” These were all facts that were true, but they weren’t selling her. The trepidation was still there in her quivering lip. I lifted her chin, touching her again before realizing it. “Some people have a spark in them. I’ve heard you practicing at night when you think nobody can hear you. You have that talent, but more importantly, you have passion.”
Her eyes widened.
I went on, “There is something locked inside of you that is desperate to be free. When I heard you play …” I swallowed down the fear in my dry throat. “You inspired me—my music. That’s why I need your help.”
Her mouth closed as she processed. My heart raced as though I’d confessed all my sins. Her head just shook like she wasn’t sure of any of it.
I swallowed. Go big or go home … alone. “I can’t do it without you. I need you. I’ve tried and failed on my own. I’m stuck. This is my last chance.” The confession sent me into a tailspin. If she walked away now, after I admitted all this to her, where would that leave me? I regretted saying so much. I should have just forced her to do it.
But then her features smoothed and she nodded. It was just like the night of the solo, when she understood that she was doing it to help and not to take. “You need me to help you. This is for your success. I understand that now.”
Chapter 12
Feel the composer’s meaning.
KIM
Devlin needed my help. The choice was mine. After he’d admitted to watching me play, I’d left the room under the guise of needing a break and come back to the guest room to think. I was too floored to process. Well, let the processing commence. If I was alone and at home, I’d change into my softest sweatpants, make a cup of tea, and binge-watch crappy TV. But no. There were no distractions to aid in avoiding the thoughts and fears that caused a downward spiral of self-doubt and panic.
I was curled in a ball on the window seat watching the heavy rain fall outside. It had been an exceptionally cold and rainy start to spring. The dreary weather only added to my melancholic state. All that was missing was Adele to sing along to, and my self-indulgent pity party would be complete.
I inspired him. Those words were on a loop in my head.
It would be easier if he demanded from me. If he told me I had to do it and pointed out everything on the line. I wanted the Devil of the Symphony as he presented himself; demanding and sure of everything. He seemed convinced that I was the key to his success, and more alarming than that, vulnerable to my rejection.
I longed for the safety of home and my strict schedule.
