Confessions from the Quilting Circle, Maisey Yates [animal farm read TXT] 📗

position before she was forty. And now she felt like there was no guarantee she would ever get it. Ever.

To be passed over for someone who wasn’t even part of the Boston Symphony...

It didn’t matter that she’d seen it before. It didn’t matter that these things happened. They didn’t happen to her.

Because everything went her way. She did the work. And she was... She was special.

That sounded so stupid when she thought it, but it had to be true. Because how else could everything she’d done be worth it? She’d paid the price for her destiny. And the asking price was steep, but she’d done it.

It didn’t make any sense. That she could lose this. This position that was absolutely hers for the taking.

“You’re still a very valued member of the orchestra. And of course your position in first chair is secure.”

“And I appreciate it.”

“I wanted to take the time to call you myself. Before it was announced anywhere.”

“Thank you.” She took a deep breath, and stared at that leaf like it was the thing that had betrayed her. “I have to go. I have a... There’s a handyman here fixing things. And he needs direction.”

She hung up, and felt like there was a vortex beneath her feet. She couldn’t breathe.

Her hands were shaking, and she opened the door, standing there for a moment, knowing that she couldn’t face Josh. Josh of all people, who was here during this crushing low. She grabbed her purse from the hook and dug her cigarettes and lighter out of it, then shut the door, lighting one and collapsing onto the porch step, each breath of tainted air promising to bring some kind of emotional relief that it ultimately couldn’t deliver. Not when she was so close to a breakdown.

She heard the door open behind her, and looked even more determinedly off to her left, drawing a deep, smoke-filled breath before letting it out slowly, willing the nicotine to do its thing, and if not the nicotine, then the routine beauty of the habit itself.

“You still do that?”

She didn’t look at him. Instead, she took another defiant pull on the cigarette.

“I thought that was just something to do in high school to seem edgy.”

“I don’t do it to seem edgy,” she said, archly. “I do it because I like it.”

“Hey, do you. But you know they make patches for that.”

“Do they make patches for annoying exes?”

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just intrusions from home.” She was not in the mood to have the discussion. And he didn’t...he didn’t deserve this. It was way too good.

Man, first he got to deliver his shower monologue to her, and now he was actually present while she was losing the thing that she broke up with him for.

This isn’t why you broke up with him. It was more than that. And the reason is still solid.

Also, she hadn’t lost anything. She hadn’t. It was just the possibility of something.

But it was her goal. It had been for so long. And it felt...

It didn’t matter what it felt like.

It wasn’t fair. That much was true.

“Right. You have a... A husband? A boyfriend?” Her scalp prickled. She was genuinely shocked that he had asked the question. The one that she had been avoiding asking him. And annoyed. Because now was not the time.

“No,” she said. “By choice, thank you.”

“I wouldn’t have thought anything else.”

She wasn’t going to ask him now. Because she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything. She ignored the strange, messy sensation in her chest that told her she might be lying.

“I have to go practice.” She stabbed her cigarette out on the porch step and stood. “Just finish up in here. I’m going to be upstairs.”

“Will the pounding disturb you?” The way that he asked that... She could tell he didn’t actually care.

“No,” she said. It probably would. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he had the power to annoy her. Just like she wouldn’t let him know that she was crumbling inside.

Because she just didn’t let people see her crumble. Much less him. Never him.

She walked past him, into the house, up the stairs, and into the peacock blue bedroom that she had been sleeping in. She closed the door firmly behind her.

Her violin was resting in its case, on the mantel. She swallowed hard and picked it up, unzipping the case and taking out the bow, tightening it before taking out her rosin and making sure it was coated with just the right amount.

She lifted the instrument up with her left hand and braced it underneath her chin, holding it there with no hands while she finished fussing with the bow. And then she played.

Long slow notes at first, then fast and electric. She played until she couldn’t breathe. Played with her eyes screwed shut, so she could ignore the tears falling down her face. And she wrapped it all up in music.

The music filled up the room, and she waited for it to fill her up too. But it didn’t.

And when she finished, she let her arms fall to her sides, holding the instrument tightly in her hand. And she didn’t... She didn’t know what this meant.

If Ilina Voychek was just as special as she was, or more, then what did that mean? What did any of it mean?

This was like falling into an abyss. This not knowing.

Not having any idea what was in her future anymore.

How could she even find solace in music when this was all wrapped up in music?

There’s no reason music is all you should be able to do.

She remembered her grandmother’s voice. And she frowned. She placed her violin carefully back in its case, along with its bow, and began to pace the length of the room. She could still hear Josh moving around downstairs. Which meant she was going to be on bedroom exile for a little while longer yet. She had no desire to see him again. Not when her eyes were red and her face