The Only Song (Only You)

4. Sadie

Chapter 4

Sadie

“ P lease tell me more, Miss Sadie!” My sweet nine-year-old student, Mallory, beams up at me, all white teeth and dimples on her rosy-cheeked face. We’re at my private studio in the middle of her violin lesson, but practicing scales and learning vibrato is the least of her concerns. All she cares about is how the Troubadour Orchestra audition went—and I haven’t had the heart to tell her I didn’t get in.

The rejection email came early this morning. It stung as hard as all the others did six years ago. I’m sorry to inform you … it began, and I skimmed over the rest of the cold, formal, and empty words. By the end of it, my eyes were glassy, and I dropped my phone out of my hand like I had just touched a burning hot plate.

Rejections suck. The biting disappointment. The cruel ache it leaves in my chest. The endless wonder of how, why, and what I could have done better. It makes failure creep through me like sharp ice growing the chip on my shoulder and my walls-up defenses.

To make things worse, I can’t stop seeing him in my mind. Dark chocolate eyes. Golden tan skin. Broad shoulders in that midnight black suit that matches his hair. His deep voice that agitated me only because it made me realize, six years later, I missed it.

Jaxon Tanner’s lived rent-free in my mind since that audition day, and I can’t stand it.

I bet he feels proud to not have to worry about me in the mix.

And it hurts because my audition was flawless. But still, it wasn’t enough.

I wasn’t enough.

That’s the worst thing about failed auditions. You never know what went wrong. You just get told a big, fat no.

A part of me thinks I should be relieved. Getting a seat would have meant being stuck with him for the next few months. Even if we’d been seated far from each other—him in the front stand as lead chair and me probably somewhere in the back—there was no avoiding people in the orchestra. It was a tight community.

I took the chance of being stuck with him again for a step closer to my dream. For a chance to inspire my students. For the hope in me that knew deep down—I wanted to get in.

I wanted it for the little girl in me who once believed in being a Concertmaster, who trained hard for a fighting chance. And when I look at Mallory’s sapphire eyes peering up at me with that hope and innocence, I want it for her, too.

I clear my throat and give her a soft smile. “How about we focus on this new piece, yeah?”

Mallory nods sadly. A flash of disappointment crosses her eyes, and it shoots a pang into my chest.

One day I’ll have good news. Today’s not that day.

We continue on with her lesson. Every once in a while, I join her on my own violin so she can tune her notes with mine. Her brows pinch with concentration and after a few hard attempts, I place my fingers on hers to adjust the spacings on her strings and teach her the proper key.

“Your fingers pinch here.” I press two fingers close together on her D string. “Then these are spaced out. Got it?”

“Got it.” She nods brightly. Her next attempt is less off-key. I smile proudly, but it fades when one of the notes sparks something in my brain and I’m transported back six years ago with him .

Nervous fingertips. Hot skin. Shallow breaths. All in anticipation of my recital performance.

There were only two of us left and I needed a reprieve, so I hid away in the nearest stairwell.

But I was restless. My hands were too jittery with nerves. My mind was still swirling. The best way I thought of to cope was to practice—not my performance— but playing a tune always helped to get my mind off things and stairwells were my favorite place for this.

The cool silence. The deep echo. The emptiness. Its acoustics were always unmatched, and I relished in the way a melody could bounce off its walls and curl through my mind.

Vibration. Rhythm. Emotion. All wrapped up in slurs the length of my steady breaths. My thoughts transformed into a tune, and I let it unravel my mind. Focused on the metal string beneath my fingertips. The bounce in my bow. The rise and fall of notes across different octaves all strung together in song.

The piece I was playing was completely made up, which is why I was startled when it was echoed back to me.

My body stiffened. I could detect the timbre of his violin with my eyes closed. And when I spun around, the sight of him confirmed it. Anger coiled in the pit of my stomach—both at him for interrupting my practice and for looking so fucking good in a suit.

“You’re in my space, Tanner,” I scowled at him.

His brow arched. “Didn’t realize you owned the stairwell, Sass.”

I rolled my eyes. Four years in college and he never dropped that nickname for me.

“Stop calling me that. Are you stalking me?”

“No.” He smirked. “I just followed the tune and… found you.”

Goosebumps rose over my skin, but I narrowed my eyes in response. “What do you want?”

“Why do you always think I want something?”

“Because that’s what you do, Tanner. You take things from people.”

His jaw dropped and I wasn’t sure if the twist in my stomach was surprise or guilt at the taken aback look on his face. “What have I taken from you?”

He knows what. And the way he’s trying to act like he doesn’t only infuriates me more. “I don’t have time for this.”

I pushed past him and headed toward the stage. To the hundreds of people in the audience that all came to listen to him . Even though there’s a whole group of us in the recital, it doesn’t feel equal. It feels as if Jaxon is the main event and we are just the pre-show.

It’s demeaning.

And living in the shadow of his light will forever be the bane of my existence. It makes me want to spit in his face for always being so fucking perfect.

“Miss Sadie?” Mallory asks. I blink and look at her. She’s paused in her playing and is staring at me with a tilted head. “Is that your phone?”

Shit. I dive into my bag, but the moment my fingers wrap over my phone, the ringing stops. The caller ID shows an unknown number, which means I can’t ring it back. But a small notification drops from the top that reads, New Voicemail .

I tap to preview it and when the first words of the transcript show, I almost drop my phone.

“Sadie! Hi! It’s Elisa from Troubadour Orchestra. One of our violinists had to pull out last-minute, so a position has opened, and you —”

My heart leaps into my throat.

Oh, my god. Is this what I think it is?

Anxious to hear the rest of the voicemail, I check for the time and am relieved that it’s the end of Mallory’s lesson. I turn to her with more hope in my eyes than when we began. “I’ll see you same time next week?”

She nods and packs up her violin, then waves goodbye at the door with a chirpy, “Bye, Miss Sadie!”

I smile, waving back but really waiting for the door to shut so I can press play on the voicemail. The moment it does, my thumb hovers over it, analyzing every element. Thirty-two seconds long. Unknown Number. Transcript available.

I tap the play button and squeeze my eyes shut.

“Sadie! Hi! It’s Elisa from the Troubadour Orchestra. One of our violinists had to pull out last-minute, so a position has opened, and you were the first on our list to reach out to. So, congratulations! The first rehearsal is tonight at seven P.M., in Montgomery Music Hall. I’ll send you an email with all the details and we can square everything else away then. If you can’t make it, just email me back so I can let your stand partner and the conductor know. Looking forward to seeing you.”

My arm drops. I did it. I made it in. I am definitely ignoring that they mentioned the seat only opened up because someone pulled out.

I made it.

The email comes through a minute later, with all the same information plus a seating chart.

Instantly, I glance at the time. I have a little under forty minutes to get there and fuck, I’m cutting it close. Why does this keep happening to me?

Within seconds, my handbag is in the crook of my elbow, my violin strapped over my shoulder, my car keys in hand as I sprint to my car.

I will make it to this first rehearsal. I will.

I speed through the streets recklessly and with barely a minute to spare, I’ve unpacked my things in the atrium and am headed towards the rehearsal studio.

It’s only as I take in the fully seated orchestra that I realize I never checked the seating chart in the email. Everyone’s claimed their seat and my assumption was that I’d be seated in the back. My assumption is wrong. Very wrong.

Because there’s only one seat open. All the way up in the front. In the first stand of the first violins. Right by the conductor.

But it’s not the seat, or the section, or the conductor that has me sweating. It’s the tall figure in the Concertmaster chair, fitted in a black suit that brightly contrasts the light wood of his violin.

There’s only one person that violin belongs to.

And it’s the last person I ever expected to be seated with.

“Please take your seat,” the conductor calls. “We’re ready to begin.”

He points to the empty chair in front of him and I try to not outwardly groan when I slowly make my way to the front stand. Goosebumps erupt on my skin. My hands sweat even more. And as I slide into the hard plastic chair, I recognize that familiar scent of cedar wood and mint.

One look is all it takes to confirm it.

My stand partner is Jaxon fucking Tanner.