When it comes time to play Winter, my jitters are completely gone. This stage, these lights, these strings—this is my home, where I belong, where I can express myself in ways I could never hope to with words.
The first movement starts with the low strings, and I tighten my hand about my bow as their deep tones resonate across the stage and through the auditorium. The violas join in, followed by the second violins, and then the first violins.
My solo is moments away. Mr. Edrington’s gaze falls on me, his expression stern, salt-and-pepper hair tousled from his expressive conducting. He takes a breath, and the other strings fall silent as I fly into the solo.
Fingers dancing across the strings, I close my eyes and let the music carry me. The notes ring through the auditorium, crisp and sharp and clear, and elation rises inside my chest. The strings engage in a back-and-forth, falling silent for my solos, then coming back in, the pace shifting from slow to fast and back again.
I don’t even have to think as I play; music is my first language, and understanding its tongue has always come easy to me. It’s human conversation I struggle with, the jokes that go over my head and the small talk that makes me feel like shriveling up in agony. But here, with my violin singing out its notes and my fingers moving effortlessly across the strings, I feel understood, accepted, part of something bigger.
I draw out the final note with a thick, beautiful vibrato. My eyes meet Mr. Edrington’s, and as the piece fades into silence, a grin stretches across his usually stoic face. He gestures for me to stand and take a bow, and as I do, applause erupts. My smile is big and beaming as I take one more bow, and tears prick my eyes.
I did it.
“Great job, Nora.”
“You were on fire tonight!”
“Beautiful solo.”
The compliments fly at me from left and right, both from familiar faces and from members of the ensemble that I’ve barely spoken to before. I’m given handshakes and hugs, and Mr. Edrington puts a bouquet of roses into my arms when he finds me in the greenroom.
“Phenomenal. Flawless.” He leans in to kiss me on the cheek, and I have to blink the mist out of my eyes. “Brava, Ms. Miller.”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice small in the overwhelmingly loud space.
The other musicians are celebrating, laughing, and packing their instruments away. Bow ties hang loose from necks, and heels have been abandoned for bare feet. The greenroom is raucous and lively, and before I can say anything else to our director, Charlotte sweeps in and pulls him away.
“Well done, Nora,” she says over her shoulder as she goes, and I give her a small smile.
“Drinks at the Rog?” one of the cellists says, and a chorus of approval goes up around him.
Though my fellow musicians smile and offer parting compliments as they leave, they don’t extend an invitation. But I’m not surprised. I’ve declined so many offers for after-show drinks that they don’t bother inviting me anymore.
It’s not that I don’t want to know them; it’s that I get anxious in big groups. Playing a Vivaldi solo is one thing, but exchanging lighthearted banter with my peers is something completely different and way more terrifying.
So, instead of going out for drinks with the others, I take the bouquet and head home alone.
It’s a cool January evening, and I drive through Los Angeles with the window down. Winters here are nothing like winters at home. Having grown in up Denver, I’m used to ice and snow and white Christmases; moving here was a shock to my system. But it’s been three years, and LA is starting to feel friendlier, if not yet like home.
My condo is just outside the city. My parents and I split the down payment when I first moved here; Dad said I didn’t need to throw my money away in rent. I smile as I think about him. I was home for Christmas and New Year’s, and it’s a bit lonely now, being back in the city, where everything moves so fast that it makes me feel slow.
I pull up to my condo and park my 2013 Honda Civic in the one-car garage. Then I lug my violin case, bouquet, and garment bag up the stairs and into the house. As soon as the door closes, peace settles over me. I left my rock salt lamp on before I left, so it now casts a warm orange glow across my small living room and kitchen.
A tinkling bell sounds from the bedroom, and a moment later, Margot comes strutting into the kitchen, her sleek black coat gleaming in the low light. I set everything on the floor, then scoop her into my arms and bury my face in her soft fur.
“I missed you,” I say. In response, she rubs her cheek against mine and purrs into my ear. “How about dinner?”
After feeding Margot and calling my parents to tell them about my performance (Dad was so proud he actually got choked up on the call), I pull leftover lettuce wraps out of the fridge and settle down on my couch.
I’ve been hooked on playing Legend of Volthorn, a new open-world RPG that came out just in time for Christmas, and it’s pretty much all I do when I’m not rehearsing, performing, or sleeping.
A sense of calm washes over me as I grab the controller and power up the PS5. Margot hops up beside me and sniffs one of my lettuce wraps before turning her nose up at it and going to lie down on the fluffy orange pillow at the other end of the couch.
“Suit yourself,” I say, then take a bite while pulling Tribe up on my phone. Pictures of my peers out for drinks, laughing and smiling and hugging, appear in my feed, and my brow creases as I scroll through them.
They all look so happy, so comfortable, so carefree. I’m not sure that could ever be me. I’m too anxious, too quiet, too . . . me.
Locking my phone, I toss it onto the coffee table, then prop my feet up, take another bite of lettuce wrap, and settle in for a full night of gaming.
chapter 2
“WHAT?” I GAWK DOWN AT the seven-dollar box of salad greens in my hand. “Seven dollars?” I grumble, scowling at the organic baby spinach as if it’s wronged me. With a sigh, I put it back on the refrigerated shelf and reach for the fresh romaine instead; it’s better not to pay for the plastic anyway.
I’m just slipping the romaine into my canvas shopping bag when my phone rings. My hands are wet from the lettuce, and I wipe them hurriedly on my jeans before digging into my purse and yanking my phone out. It’s from the concert hall, which is weird, because they never call me.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Nora Miller? This is Meredith, from the front office. How are you?”
“Oh, um, fine.” I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder and continue pushing my tiny cart through the fresh produce section. I still need beets, carrots, and—
“We got an interesting call for you this morning,” Meredith says, sounding almost giddy.
