Long Ball(43)

1





I’m not all about the bass, but this song is pretty catchy.

Alexandria—Alex—sets my glass of white zin in front of me before sliding onto her bar stool and clinking her glass against mine.

I take a sip of the crisp, cool wine. Passable for a bar’s stock. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

I listen to the chorus playing overhead. “What song is this?”

“Oh, Rachel.” Her blonde curls bounce with her vigorous headshake. “You need to toss the Tchaikovsky and take in the Trainor.”

I smile. Last girl’s night two weeks ago she told me to ‘set down the Stravinsky and snatch up the Sia.’ Alex is all about alliteration. “I’m not against pop. Just, when I’m not playing the classics at school, I’m practicing them at home.” There’s not room for any more sound than that.

“You unwind with silence, not the radio. I know.”

I grin. “I’m beginning to think we’ve had this conversation before.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Once or twice, usually when I’m trying to recommend a band.”

Now I feel bad about brushing off her recommendations because I was too busy or uninterested. “How about you make me a playlist and I promise to listen to every song all the way through at least once.”

Instead of smiling, sadness clouds her pert features. “I’m going to miss your highbrow music tastes. Promise to call and talk snobby to me at least once a week. Or better yet, skype.”

“I will.” I drown the lump of emotion in my throat with more wine.

Alex suggested the bar, a small, subterranean place with rave reviews but not much exposure—we didn’t have to fight for a table to ourselves. White-painted brick walls, tasteful beige and black décor, and recessed lighting provide ample ambiance, but the crowd’s thankfully thin for a Thursday. Tonight’s the last day we could meet before I get on the plane Monday morning to start my new life, the final girl’s night with Alex for who knows how long, and I want to make it count. “I won’t be too far away,” I remind us both. “It’s Massachusetts not Mongolia.”

“True. And if nothing else, I managed to wrench that huge instrument from between your legs one last time.”

“Alex!” I hiss, looking around at the nearby tables. Fortunately, our few neighbors are more focused on their intoxication than our conversation.

A guy sitting at a booth by himself catches my eye, but not because I think he might have heard. He’s too far away. His head is down so all I see is shaggy dark hair and a tight t-shirt showing off the tattoos all over his massive biceps.

He’s not my type, but I still look at him. Can’t stop looking at him. He’s much stronger than the men I spend time with—the delicate-handed artists who don’t lift anything heavier than their bow. This guy could easily lift me. Could hoist me over his shoulder, if he wanted.

I’m not sure why I find that so exciting.

“You deserve a little embarrassment for abandoning me for Bean Town.”

I force my gaze back to Alex who has pushed her lips into a cherry red pout

I toy with the stem of my glass. “For work, not a vacation.” I glance back at Tattooed Guy hoping to see his face, but the waiter is delivering drinks to the table nearby, blocking my view.

Alex sighs. “That makes it worse because you won’t be coming back in a week. The windy city is going to blow without you.”

“Something tells me you’ll survive just fine,” I joke, but the words have a morose edge. Most of the things I’ve done off campus—and outside my apartment—are directly because of her nagging me to get out more. I thought there’d be more time after graduation to bond and explore the city, but here I am getting ready to leave it. I don’t regret my dedication to my craft, and landing a spot with the Boston Symphony is a dream come true. But I can’t hep feeling like there’s something missing in m y life. Something I should have done that I didn’t. If there’d been more time…

The waiter finishes his delivery, but now my view is blocked by a tall guy with a backwards cap who leans over the side of Tattooed Guy’s booth to give him a high five.

“This is all your Dad’s fault.” Alex’s voice is bitter.

“Hmm?” I look away from the bad boy and drain half my glass as Alex repeats her statement. “He just wants what’s best for me.” It’s true, but only half the story. The whole story is that he’s mortified about my career choice. And he’ll stay mortified unless I can prove to him that I’m a good enough cello player to make a name for myself.

I draw swirls in the condensation of my glass with a fingertip, my stomach knotting as I’m reminded of my father’s constant criticism.

“I should have taken out student loans instead of letting him pay my tuition—maybe that would have earned his respect.”

“Probably not.”

“Your Dad’s so shitty.”

I take an extra big gulp of zin. “Now you see why it’s a good thing I got this job in the Boston Symphony.” I prop my head on my fist and sigh.I bet Tattooed Guy doesn’t have to answer to an overbearing parent. I bet he doesn’t answer to anyone. I bet he’s the one in control of the people around him.