The Only Song (Only You)

18. Sadie

Chapter 18

Sadie

I pace circles back and forth, my heels clicking loudly in the dimly lit backstage room.

I shouldn’t feel this anxious and yet, I am. I barely slept last night. Partly because I still felt shivers over Smith. But also because the bed felt so cold without Jaxon.

I shake my head. It’s a realization that makes me shiver because I can’t be thinking of him like that. It was me who set the rule as part of our deal. I promised to keep things professional. And that’s what we need to be. Professionals.

I stop before a mirror lined with giant bulbs made for stage actors to do their make-up. My make-up is already done and while I tried my best to conceal the purple eye bags, it doesn’t take a genius to look me in the eye and see it.The fear. Anxiety. Insecurity .

It’s been six years since I performed onstage.And in about T-Minus 30, I’m about to break that streak.

But until then, all I can do is pace.

A quick glance around confirms my first thought. Smith isn’t here. Thank god. It makes me wonder if Jaxon really did request him to be replaced. It would be a huge relief to not have to see Smith’s beady eyes on me tonight, that lascivious grin that makes my skin crawl, or to relive the feel of his fingers on my thigh.

I quickly shake away the harrowing thoughts. Partly because I don’t want to replay it in my mind, but also because there’s no way Jaxon would go that far just for me.

A fresh wave of nerves circles through my chest, my thoughts shifting from the dark memory to the clock ticking on the wall. I feel nothing short of an anxious ball ready to combust.

My mind races. What if I get all the bowings wrong? What if I overshoot a position and play out of tune? What if I turn the page at the wrong time? Or worse, turn two pages and we don’t even know what we’re playing? What if I miss a conductor cue and play during a rest?

God, what if I choke?

I’m beside myself. How could I even want a solo if I can’t calm these kinds of nerves? Playing in an orchestra is meant to be less pressure than playing solo, but we still have the weight of a thousand or so eyes on us watching, waiting, reveling. My fingers tremble as panic seeps through me. It feels like a thousand bricks on my chest, crushing my lungs. A deep sense of imposter syndrome settling in hard.

The black walls of the backstage room feel tighter, the murmurs feel louder, and it’s a hundred degrees warmer.

I can’t be in here.

I grab my violin and dart to the nearest stairwell. Pulling on the heavy metal door is enough to squeeze out some of my anxiety, but not enough, not until the whoosh of air floats over my face when it closes.

Now, I can breathe. Ironically, in a much smaller space than in the backstage room, but it’s just me here which feels infinitely better.

The space in the stairwell is small, but it’s cooler, or perhaps empty enough to feel less claustrophobic than being in a shared room of bored musicians, plucking strings, tuning reeds, or using chairs as a drum kit.

I suck in a deep breath. Each deep inhale quietens my thoughts, soothing my nerves, but once the heat fizzles out, a chill settles in.

My breath stretches in the silence.

I don’t know how to speak my emotions, but I know how to play it out. So, I tuck the base of my violin up to my chin and let myself sink in. A slow, melancholy melody floats off my strings to fill the empty space. Long, held legato notes ringing from the base of the stairwell to the roof, vibrating and ricocheting off the walls around me in a vacuum. Disappointingly, it has little effect. I was going for light and airy, now I just feel even more sad and empty.

Fuck.

I groan, flashes of Smith replay in my mind mixed with The Creep from that night six years ago. It torments me until I snag on a flicker of warmth in my desolation. It’s small, but it’s there. The smell of cedar wood and mint. Soft cotton on my cheek. Firm hands between my shoulder blades. The low timbre of his voice.

It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.

I pivot. My fingers skate over my violin strings until they fall in place at the base of the scroll, and I start again. This tune is different, one that I know by heart and played with heart. My audition solo. The one I played for Jaxon. The Lark Ascending .

It surprises me the feeling of weightlessness it provides. Yet that’s what a lark symbolizes, isn’t it? Bright, carefree, and light. Isn’t that what Jaxon said? Each trill an echo of the bird’s song and flight. My fingers float over the strings expertly and soon enough, I’m so lost in the rise and fall of each musical phrase I don’t hear the door open. I don’t see the tall figure come through until the door clicks shut and I’m not alone anymore.

I hear a trill in the background, a response to the bird call in my piece, and I spin around and find Jaxon leaning back on the door a few feet away from me, violin tucked under his chin.

My breath catches at the sight of him. We share a room, but I feel like we so rarely see each other. He left me a blueberry muffin as usual, but it’s the first time I’ve seen him all day and my body instantly ignites.

Jaxon might wear suits all the time, but he saves his best ones for performances. I didn’t even think he could look better than he already had and yet here he is, dressed in all black from head to toe, the light glinting off the silk of his lapel and tie, his suit so fitted to his form it’s unfair that he looks so damn handsome.

“Thought I heard my lark,” Jaxon says, and the flash of his smile makes my stomach dip. “Hey, Sass.”

I’m stunned speechless, which seems to amuse him as he pushes off the wall to stand beside me. He leans an arm on the railing while tilting his crooked smile in my direction. His blonde violin tucked under his arm, a stark contrast to the black armor of his suit, and his bow hooked on a finger.

I feel wildly underdressed at the sight of him, dressed in a basic black dress, not even remotely as gorgeous as Sloane’s one I borrowed. The only “fun” thing about it is that the skirt flares to cover my lap and it has pockets. A girl loves a dress with pockets.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice sounding small in the aura of him.

“If I tell you, are you going to kick me out? ”

This pulls a smile out of me and I don’t miss how easily he does this. “Depends. Are you going to tell me I’m fired?”

“If you ever leave, I leave with you.” He doesn’t miss a beat with his response. His tone is serious too, but that can’t be right.

I swallow and turn to face him, leaning a hip into the railing. “What are you doing here, Tanner?”

“Looking for you.” He leans forward and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. When his eyes meet mine, something feels different, a shift of sorts that has fireworks popping inside me with the heat of his gaze. It almost feels like he might care. About me. “I couldn’t find you backstage.”

“Too many people,” I mutter.

“Yeah, it’s packed.”

“If you came to ask for the music, I already put it on our stand so I wouldn’t forget.”

“No. That’s not what I’m here for.”

His eyes pierce through me. I have to look away and stare at the wall opposite us instead. “So, why are you here?”

He hesitates as if only now questioning being here. His voice sounds distant in the weight of his question. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He doesn’t need to clarify what it means. It’s probably written all over my face still from last night. I shake my head, keeping my gaze from his. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him nod curtly. That’s all the confirmation he needs.

He faces the wall the same as I have: as if we’re at some museum inspecting art, not in a stairwell staring at swirls on a gray cement wall.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him smirk. “You know, the last time we were in a stairwell, you had some words for me.”

Shit. I didn’t think he’d remember. “Really?”

“Something about… taking things from people?”

I cringe. “Yeah. I remember.”

“It was probably warranted. I mean, I was a bit of a dick back then. But then, when are you not pissed at me?”

His comment cracks another smile from me. The second one tonight. I’m shaking my head, laughing silently and he looks at me proudly like he knows and that’s all he wanted. A kindling sparks in my chest until it reaches my cheeks and I thank the dim lighting around us that he doesn’t see. Surprisingly, his admission has me wanting to share my own, so I let honesty flow in the quiet of this stairwell. This sacred place we’ve made ours.

“I was… jealous, I guess. My parents came to watch your recital, not mine. They were more excited for you than their own daughter. A hundred extra tickets were sold for people who came to watch you and I guess, I just felt like I didn’t really matter, you know? Like I was the opening act before the main concert, the one that’s just added on for free promotion. My spotlight always felt taken away by you.”

“It was never supposed to be like that,” he murmurs, his brow furrowing.

“Hate to break it to you, Tanner, but… it was like that.”

His jaw clenches and I wonder if I admitted too much. “I’m not jealous of you anymore, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Jaxon shifts uncomfortably. A crushed look flashes across his face before it’s quickly masked.

“Sorry. I’m not trying to be mean.”

“You’re not. I’m just… surprised that you think that you didn’t matter.”

I laugh at the comment. “Did I ever matter to you?”

He looks at me then sternly, dark inky eyes behind thick black frames. My breath catches in my throat. “You always mattered to me.”

My heart clenches. “Are you just admitting that because I ugly-cried in your shirt the other day?”

He shakes his head, smiling. “I wasn’t lying when I said you’re the only one who could give me a run for my money.”

“The highest compliment I’ve received from you,” I joke.

“And as your partner, there’s two things you should know.” He leans forward and electricity zings up my spine at how close he is. “One. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.”

“You can’t promise that?—”

“Two.” He leans closer. “When you want, if you want, know that you can tell me anything. Deal?”

I scan his eyes for a trick, but there’s none. He’s earnest—truly, genuinely earnest. Like his trust isn’t a trick.

“Deal,” I whisper.

The air between us is tight, and the stairwell feels as if it’s burning up until I realize it’s me. I’m the one burning with a newfound desire, the lick of a flame now sparked for him.

Heat settles between my thighs as I bite at my bottom lip to busy or distract myself from whatever has my breaths shallow or from the fact I’m now backed up against the wall, Jaxon’s arm leaning above me and his face inches from mine. If it weren’t for the fact we’re both holding our violins, I think his hands would be somewhere else. Somewhere on me.

And surprisingly, I want them on me.

His eyes drag down my face and neck, over my collarbone and down until an alarm blares in the silence.

As if it were a spell, we both jolt back to reality.Jaxon jumps back from me, and the space between us suddenly feels too much.

“We have five minutes,” he rasps.

“Ah.” That’s all I can muster. All words are lost to me.

His eyes flick down to my lips one last time before he turns and opens the door, holding it open for me.

“You ready, Sass?”

I nod, and his smile only stokes my desire.