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Roman’s voice rasps through the speaker. “Sash, it’s me. You said not to call, but this is serious. I need you to call me back. I have something I need to tell you. Please.”
The line goes dead. I can’t help but fixate on his tone. He sounded nervous.
Desperate.
He needs money for his next fix.
Money I don’t have and wouldn’t give him even if I did.
I set my phone back in my purse, throw it onto the outdated yellow chair in the corner, a thrift store find that’s not wearing well, and head into my room.
To my one happiness in life. My cello.
A gift from Roman.
The brother you’re turning your back on.
“Ugh,” I yell, breaking the silence.
Only Roman can manage to invoke such emotion from me, despite our estrangement.
Though we haven’t talked in years, I can’t help but worry about him.
We were close once. Very close.
I shake off thoughts of Roman and return to my cello. I should practice now that I’m home from work, but my fingers feel like they need surgical removal from my hands, which feel like they need surgical removal from my arms, and so forth. At this point, a total body transplant is the only solution to recover from the fatigue.
These past few days, sleep hasn’t come easy, and work has been extra difficult because of it.
Who are you kidding? You’re waiting for Roman to show up at your door, strung out and looking for money.
I moved to this apartment in my rush to hide from Roman. It’s the first place I’ve ever lived that he doesn’t have the address of. I don’t feel even an ounce bad about it. My sanity—and my wallet—thank me for cutting off his frequent visits, which always accompanied demands for cash. My job doesn’t pay enough for me to support myselfandan addict. Yeah, he’s my older brother, but most times, I feel like his enabling mother.
I couldn’t do it anymore. Had to break the cycle that I’d allowed to persist.
Maybe that’s what worries me. That he’ll find me. That the cycle will start all over again.
It wouldn’t be too hard for him to track me down. He has connections that I don’t even want to know about. I know enough.
I’m finally saving money, and if I keep it up and qualify for a generous financial aid package, I should be able to apply to Juilliard next year. It’s hard when I make crappy tips and a base salary that’s even more pathetic, but I’ll get it done.
You know it’s bad when the world’s biggest pessimist turns to optimism.
It’s true, though. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. It’s just close enough that I can almost reach it. Sitting pretty in my bank is practically enough money for tuition, rent, and living expenses. Yeah, it took forever to earn. And yeah, I had to distance myself from Roman. But I did it. I freakin’ did it.
There’s only one remaining problem…I still have to audition.
Stage fright is a bitch. It’s also quite a problem to have when your dream is to be a concert cellist.
The bane of my existence, in fact.
I can barely play in my own apartment. I certainly can’t play in front of other people.
Like every hurdle life has thrown at me, I’ll figure it out. I have to.
Enough stalling.
I take a seat, adjusting until I’m comfortable. Okay, stalling until I muster the courage. Once in place, I close my eyes and bring the bow up, allowing myself to fade into the music. Only a few chords ring through the air before I hear my cello’s rumbly voice and still. I hold my movements.
