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The woman—Vanessa—offered me an apologetic smile. “Your resume is impressive, and on a personal note, I do understand when things get…complicated and you have to leave a place of work.”
I nodded, though I also knew perfectly well mine wasn’t an average resume. It wasn’t some office transfer because I’d fucked the boss or something. I’d gotten on the wrong side of one of the world’s most well-known modern composers. A man with money, power, and connection.
She and I both knew the risk she was taking even having me in her office.
“It’s not something I like to talk about,” I told her after a beat. She had that look in her eye like she was fishing for gossip. I knew if I gave it to her, she’d politely thank me for coming in, then share with her colleagues more rumors about Nicolai. But if I said nothing at all, the suspicion would cloud her judgment. “I parted on good terms with the symphony, but not with…”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “You’re not the first person to come through our doors with that story.”
And hell, I wasn’t expecting that. I blinked at her, then sat back in my chair. “I see.”
There was a mixture of pity and sympathy in her eyes. “I don’t have a lot of hours I can offer you right now, Mr. Adamos, but you’ll find that our clients don’t really care where you came from. They only care that you can do your job. We have a mixture of students that are attending our school on scholarships and students who come from a more financially flexible background.”
I heard what she wasn’t saying directly: poor, filthy rich, and probably a bunch in between.
“I have a decent history of tutoring. In between touring, that’s what I’d do to make ends meet in London.”
Vanessa tapped her pen on the edge of the desk, the sound grating on my already frayed nerves, but I stayed stock still and pretended I couldn’t hear it. After a beat, she nodded and leaned forward. “I can offer you twenty hours a week—four one-hour sessions Tuesday through Saturday. You won’t ever have weekends off, and most of your sessions will be in the late afternoon and evening since we have to work around student schedules.”
“That’s fine. I don’t really have a personal life,” I told her.
Her eyes softened. “Be that as it may, when that changes, we don’t have much flexibility.”
It was bold of her to assume I’d ever want to date again, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. It didn’t matter. I was reeling from the fact that I could get twenty hours a week and two full days off. It meant I’d be able to start saving and get out of that shithole and hopefully find a way back to what I loved most.
It meant I could have hours in the morning to work on my own music, to rediscover what I had loved doing before Nicolai broke me down bit by bit until I was convinced the only skill I had was reading notes on a page.
Before him, my professors assured me I was worth something. Before him, I believed I had the ability to create.
After him, I was lucky to drag myself out of bed in the morning.
God, how had I let myself fall that far?
“Thank you,” I told her, pushing to stand.
She nodded, giving me a once-over before extending her hand. “You have somewhere to stay, I’m assuming?”
It churned my stomach to think of that hovel as something I should be grateful for, but I felt a measure of relief being able to nod and say, “Yes, I do. I have family in the city.”
She gave another quick nod before rising, and I followed suit as quickly as I could manage, taking her offered hand. My cello was balanced precariously against the edge of her desk, so I swooped up the strap and slipped it over my head so it rested along my back.
I had played for her—just a few quick pieces I knew she’d recognize—but it hurt to start, and it hurt to stop. I hadn’t touched it outside of the case since Nicolai ended things, and hearing the sounds echoing through the hollow wood made my chest ache.
I wanted to be home.
Hell, I wanted to know where home was.
Vanessa walked me to the lobby, then passed me her card and told me to check my email for my schedule. “We should have something set up for you by this weekend. Don’t be offended if you cycle through kids until you make a good match, though. It happens to all of us.”
I took that for the gentle warning it was and shook her hand a final time before making my way down the street. My sister had given me a MetroCard loaded with enough cash that I wouldn’t have to worry for a bit, and with any luck, most of my students wouldn’t be coming to me.
I could only imagine what their parents might say if they saw where I lived.
All the same, I knew I had to make the place look somewhat presentable before something like that fell at my feet, so I checked my sorry bank account on my phone, then made my way down the stairs and waited for the train to appear.
I didn’t mind the subway. Just like in London, things like class and income brackets seemed to dissolve once the doors shut. We were all in it together. The man next to me could be the next Channing Tatum, or he could be the next Charles Manson. There was no real way to tell.
There was an unspoken agreement that you kept to yourself, didn’t make eye-contact, and minded your business.
