Love at First Note (13 page)

“That’s a lot of vowels.”

“Yeah, and you pronounce every single one. What about you? Do you speak any languages?”

I shook my head. “Just English. And music. I get to count that one, right?”

“I totally do,” Elliott said. “If you could learn any language, what would it be?”

“I don’t know. I took a few years of Spanish in high school, but I think I’d learn French. I know people say Italian is the most beautiful, but I like French better. Or maybe I just like France better and that’s affecting my opinion about the language.”

“You’ve been to France?”

I nodded. “Lilly and I spent three weeks there the summer after Lilly graduated. Her mother is French, so she has tons of family over
there. We stayed with her great-aunt
a few hours north of Paris.”

“Does Lilly speak French?”

“Probably not as well as you do, but she does all right. She knew
enough to get us around Paris and communicate with her aunt,
who doesn’t speak a word of English.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“No?” That surprised me.

“I’ve been to Russia, Germany, Japan, Scotland, Denmark, Austria . . . but never France. I changed planes in Paris once. That’s it.”

I paused long enough to listen to the robotic voice of the GPS tell me we were approaching our exit. “You speak languages for all those other countries too?”

He laughed. “A little bit of German. Definitely not enough to claim fluency
. And Russian. I spent six months studying in St. Petersburg when I was sixteen and picked it up then.”

I shook my head and smiled. “You just picked it up? No big deal, right? Like picking up a gallon of milk or a loaf of bread or a language that uses an entirely different alphabet.”

Elliott looked down. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to brag. Languages are kind of a hobby.”

“No! You weren’t bragging. I didn’t take it that way at all. I’ve read that musicians are supposed to be better at languages, so collectively it’s good you speak five. It helps balance out that I only speak one.”

“I could help you learn French if you want. I bet you’d pick it up quick.”

I stopped at the end of the exit ramp and glanced at Elliott’s phone. “Did I miss which way I’m supposed to turn?”

“Right,” Elliott said. “Then you’ll take the first left just up ahead.”

I followed his instructions, slowing down in front of the large sign that marked the brewery’s entrance. I
turned onto the wide, newly paved road that led past the brewery and to a large field where the festival was taking place.

Things were winding down, but I was still surprised by how many people were hanging around. Finding Trav suddenly felt a lot harder. I parked in an empty spot next to a long row of porta-johns and pulled out my phone. I tried to call Trav and then Buster, but neither of them answered.

“Now what?” I said to myself as much as to Elliott.

“I guess we go find him,” Elliott said.

I walked close beside Elliott. I wasn’t scared, really, but I felt a little out of my element. When we passed through a particularly raucous group of partiers, I took hold of his elbow, pulling myself even closer.

He reached over with his other hand, covering my fingers with
his, and gave me a reassuring squeeze. “You okay?”

I felt the heat of his touch all the way down to my toes. Lilly had asked about sparks? Yeah. There were definitely sparks. “I’m good. Just glad you came with me.”

“We’ll be fine. Just try not to
make eye contact with anyone,” he said.

We circled the festival grounds twice before we found Trav
slumped over the end of a picnic table, his head resting on his arm, a beer in his other hand.

“Emma!” Trav sat up, beer sloshing over the side of his cup,
and smiled. “You came! You want a beer? I’m gonna get you a beer.”

“Where’s Buster?”

Trav’s face fell. “He’s gone, man. He left with some chick. Can you believe that? He just up and left me, just like Lilly did. But not you, Emma. You’re my one true friend in this world.”

Elliott put a hand on Trav’s shoulder. “Come on.
Time to go home.”

“Elliott? You’re here too? Aw, man, ya’ll are awesome. You want a beer? I’m gonna get you a beer.”

“I don’t want a beer, Trav. We’re gonna leave now, all right?”

“Come on. I’ll buy. A beer for my friend Elliott Hart.” Trav raised his voice. “Yeah, you heard me. The famous Elliott Hart. He’s here with me.”

Elliott’s jaw tightened. “Trav. Shut up. It’s time to go.”
He positioned himself on one side of Trav, looping his arm over his shoulders, and motioned for me to do the same. Trav grumbled a little but didn’t hesitate as we started walking back to the car, an ungainly trio.

“Lilly’s real mad, isn’t she, Em?”

“Yeah, she’s mad. You weren’t very nice to her.”

“She’s gonna forgive me though, right? She won’t stay mad. Lilly loves Trav.”

Elliott rolled his eyes. “You start taking that for granted
, and you may be begging her to keep you around.”

“Beg? Naw, man. I won’t beg for nothin’!”

We were within sight of the car when I took a wrong step and stumbled, falling to my knees. I scrambled back up and found myself face-to-face with a very large, very foul-smelling man wearing a sleeveless T-shirt that bore a
single word:
STUD.

“Hey, sweetheart. You looking for me?”

“Sorry. I just need to catch my friends.” I moved to the left to get around him, but he lunged sideways, blocking my way. I turned the other direction, and he did the same thing. “What’s the matter?” he said, his tone mocking. “Can’t get past?” He snaked his arm around my waist and pulled me against him. “I think that means you ought to stay right here with me.” The heat of his body seeped through my clothes and pressed into my skin. I leaned away, trying to find a pocket of air that wasn’t soured by the sticky, sweet
smell of alcohol on his breath. It was enough to turn my stomach.

I pushed against his chest. “Let me go.”

He only held me tighter, laughing and trying to sway to the music.

A cry of help froze in my throat when I saw Elliott approaching, fury in his eyes. He grabbed the guy by the shoulders and yanked him backward, spinning him around so they stood facing each other. Elliott was a good three inches shorter and wasn’t nearly as broad through the chest, but he had the element of surprise on his side. Also, he was sober.

He swung a punch, his fist colliding with the guy’s jaw, and knocked him back several steps, where the guy
tripped over a chair and landed on the ground with a graceless thud.

Elliott grabbed my hand. “Time to run.”

We covered the short distance to the car at lightning speed. “Your keys, Emma.” He moved around to the driver’s side door.

“What?”

“Your keys. We need to get out of here.”

“Oh.” I pulled them out of my bag and tossed them to him.

It was good he was taking charge. I was still so stunned by
my encounter with the massive, sweaty drunk man
I hardly knew
what end was up. “Trav, get in the car,” Elliott said.

Despite his inebriation, at Elliott’s command, Trav managed to get himself into the backseat with relative ease and speed. As soon as we were all in, Elliott took off, tearing through the parking lot so fast spinning gravel sprayed up from either side of the car. I’d never been so happy to be reckless.

I was still in shock. Had that guy really just grabbed me? What would have happened had Elliott not been there?

Trav hummed in the backseat, his fingers absently tapping against the window as he stared at the trees flying past.

“Are you okay?” Elliott finally asked, his voice gentle.

“Yeah.” At least I thought so. Everything had happened so fast. I was relieved and grateful Elliott had intervened, but it was hard
to get rid of the fear that still sat in my belly, an immovable dead
weight pressing into me, through me, reaching every nerve ending in my body. I’d had very little control over a situation I’d been in
just ten minutes before. When I looked down at my hands, they
shook. I balled them into fists, not wanting Elliott to see.

“I think you gave that guy a fat lip,” Trav slurred from the back. “He was a big dude too.”

“He deserved it,” Elliott said under his breath. He looked my way one more time. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I nodded. “Thank you for helping.” My voice was a
squeaky whisper. Elliott’s brows scrunched together, and he frowned but said nothing more.

When we finally pulled into the driveway on Maple Crescent, Trav
snored loudly in the backseat.

“Are we going to take him home?” I asked.

Elliott shook his head. “He can sleep it off at my place.”

“I’ll help you get him inside.”

It took fifteen minutes of juggling limp arms and legs and a lolling head, but we finally managed to get Trav onto Elliott’s couch.
I pulled his shoes off and shoved a pillow under his head, then
draped a blanket across his shoulders.

Elliott stared at the near-stranger sleeping in his living room. “That’s more than he deserves.”

“Yeah, but it’s what Lilly would do.”

Elliott leaned against the wall opposite the couch and yawned. “You think they’ll work it out?”

“I don’t know. This isn’t typical Trav behavior. I’ve never seen him this drunk. But . . . Lilly’s pretty tired of the whole scene. If he’s not willing to give up beer festivals for a woman like Lilly, she should probably get out now.”

Elliott
flexed the fingers on his right hand and winced.

“Elliott—” I moved to where he stood and reached for his hand, holding it gently. His knuckles were slightly swollen, one of them split and bleeding. “Oh my word. You can’t punch people with these hands!”

“What would you have had me do? Leave you there with that guy?”

“No, but your hands are so much more important than everyone
else’s! Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“Emma, it’s fine. Nothing’s broken. I’ll be okay in a couple of days.”

“Please—just let me do this.” I turned and hurried across the
hallway, retrieving a washcloth and a first-aid kit out of my apartment.
Back at Elliott’s, I pulled him into his kitchen, where I washed and treated his split knuckles. I worked in silence, trying to hide my shaking. Stupid hands.
It had to be nerves from being so close to
Elliott. The drunk man was gone. I was home. Or almost home. But the replay of what might have happened ran through my head like a never-ending movie reel. Strong hands. Rank breath. How I pushed
and gained nothing. I took a deep, steadying breath.

“Are you okay?” Elliott asked. “You’re trembling.”

I looked at my hands and tried to smile. “I’m probably going to have ‘what could have happened’ nightmares for weeks. But I think I’m okay. It’ll pass.”

Something flashed through his eyes, a glint of steel reminiscent of the fury I’d noticed seconds before he’d strong-armed the guy off me and punched him to the ground. “I’m sorry, Emma. Some guys are stupid. And when the stupid ones get drunk, it’s worse.”

“I’ll be okay,” I said again, rubbing my hands together. “I’m just glad y
ou were there to help.”

He pulled me into an embrace, resting his chin on the top of my head. I wrapped my arms around his waist and pressed my cheek against his chest.

He held me a moment longer before his grip loosened and I pushed back, afraid he might see how much I enjoyed feeling the weight of his arms around me or the tickle of his breath through my hair.

“I should get some sleep,” I said softly. “We both should.”

He nodded. “No nightmares tonight, all right?”

I smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

“It doesn’t matter what his
motives were. He hugged you. He pulled you against his body and wrapped his arms around you. Guys don’t do that if there isn’t some flicker of interest.” Lilly lay on the worn braided rug that covered our living room floor, her legs propped up on the couch. “Are you going to let me eat any of that popcorn, or should I assume you only popped it for yourself?”

I passed her the bowl. It was Monday night, a rare free night in for us both
, and we’d decided unanimously that navel oranges, popcorn, cheese, and crackers made a perfectly acceptable dinner menu. “But big brothers hug their little sisters all the time. What if he was just feeling protective and angry and somehow obligated to make up for the stupidity of his gender?”

“It wasn’t a half-shoulder squeeze. It was a ‘Hey, baby
, wrap your arms around me’
hug.
Just own it. The guy’s into you.”

“Okay, true-confession time.”

“After all these years, you really feel like you have to qualify the conversation?”

“Shut up. I’m just saying now I’m getting ready to say some
thing serious so you need to listen and not make fun of me.” I tossed
another piece of popcorn into my mouth and grabbed a slice of
orange off the plate.

“No making fun. Got it.”

“How do I decide if I like Elliott because he’s someone I would like no matter what or if I like him
because he’s famous and talented and gorgeous?” I picked at the orange peel.

“Emma. You’re too smart to fall for someone’s celebrity status. If you guys do wind up together, it won’t take you long to decide whether or not he’s a guy worth your attention, YouTube views notwithstanding.” She grabbed a cracker, smeared it with Boursin cheese, and handed it my way.

“But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enthralled with his music career,” I said, taking the cracker. “I mean, I was a total idiot when I first met him because I couldn’t believe it was actually him. I
was
starstruck, no matter how foolish it makes me feel to admit it.”

“But is it his fame, really, that you’re enthralled with? Or his talent?” She made another cracker for herself. “Do you care about the media attention or the online presence or the record label?
That’s exactly why you stopped touring yourself, right? Because you didn’t like all the hype?”

Fair point. After Juilliard, invitations to be a guest soloist poured in from symphonies all over the country. For six months, I traveled, returning to New York in between performances. It’s what I’d always wanted, and yet it wasn’t at all what I’d expected. There was so much about it that didn’t have anything to do with the music: parties and photos and socializing and schmoozing; it sucked me dry. Returning to Ohio for a full-time position in the Cleveland Orchestra had been a welcome relief from all that pressure. At least there I was among friends.

But Elliott’s fame was a totally different animal. I’d only dealt with hype that existed inside the small and somewhat exclusive symphony world.
Everyone
knew who Elliott was. “I’m just worried I’m using all the hype and excitement of who
he is to propel my feelings forward faster than I would if the circumstances were different.”

Lilly tossed a piece of popcorn at me, hitting me squarely in the middle of my forehead.

“Hey! What was that for?”

“’Cause you’re being stupid. Trust me, Em. You’re not that kind of girl.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“If Elliott was a struggling musician, teaching lessons out of his living room and playing
the piano at a local jazz club, would you still be interested?”

“Absolutely, yes.”

“What if he wasn’t a musician at all?”

That one took me longer to answer. I loved that music was so important to him, and, yeah, I loved that he was so talented. But I also loved the way he entertained a classroom full of three-year-
olds and spoke five languages and saved me from STUD
guy without a single hesitation. Those things didn’t have anything to do with his musical abilities. “I
love
that he’s a musician because it’s something we have in common. But yes, even if he weren’t, I think I’d still like him. I’d still be interested.”

“Are you physically attracted to him?”

“Is the sky blue?”

Lilly pushed herself into a sitting position. “Okay, you pass. I declare you officially not shallow and give you permission to pursue
Elliott simply because you want his body.”

“I don’t want his body.”

Lilly cocked her eyebrow, reaching over to steal the last slice of orange.

“Okay, fine. But it’s not the only reason I like him.” I grabbed the popcorn bowl, sliding it out of her reach before she swiped the last handful. “For real? You’re terrible at sharing,” I told her.

She rolled her eyes. “It might not be the only reason you like him, but it is the most fun. Don’t stress over it. You like him; he likes you. It doesn’t have anything to do with his career or his fame.”

I wanted to believe Lil was right, but an hour later when she came bursting into my room seconds before I fell asleep, I wasn’t so sure. “Emma, are you asleep?” She crawled onto my bed.

“Yes, completely. Please go away.”

“You need to see this.” She handed me her phone.

In my almost-asleep fogginess, it took me a second to figure out what I was looking at. It was a picture on an online photo-sharing app. I had to read the caption three times before I actually processed what was in the photo. “Elliott Hart fist fighting at a beer festival? If this dude isn’t him, he should get a job as his look-alike. Cast your vote below: Is this Elliott Hart?” I read out loud. The photo was blurry and only caught the side of his face; even that was in shadow from the hat he’d put on before we’d left. It looked like him, for sure, but had I not been at the festival myself, I wouldn’t have been able to vote with any certainty.

“How many people have seen this?” I asked Lilly.

“Eleven thousand have voted so far. That’s not too many, right? Not in Elliott-land.”

“I don’t know. It’s probably only a matter of time before it gets more attention.” Elliott had a lot of fans who weren’t Mormon, but he was pretty public about his faith and his standards. “If any of the gossip websites come across this picture, they’ll have a field day with the speculation.”

“You should comment and explain what he was doing there,” Lilly said. “I think his fans should know he wasn’t actually drinking and fighting. Defending your honor is a way better story.”

She was right. Someone should speak up and defend Elliott’s
character. But it felt too meddlesome for me to do it without talking
to him first. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Just comment on the picture. Tell his side of the story.”

“Not until I talk to him,” I said. “For all I know, he’s seen the picture and his press people are working on a statement. I can’t pretend like I know how to handle this stuff.”

“It just really stinks,” Lilly said. “You should read some of these comments. People are obnoxious, talking about the white knight finally falling in the mud. It’s lame.”

“I don’t want to read them. It’ll just make me mad.”

I lay there after Lilly left my room, tossing and turning, unable
to get to sleep. It was hard not to feel guilty. Elliott had been at the
festival only because he’d been helping me. Plus, how crazy was it
that all those people cared enough about the
minutia of Elliott’s
life to study a picture and vote on his supposed identity?
Thousands
of people. If they were that interested in one stupid night at one stupid festival, how interested would they be if Elliott started dating someone? Casting myself in that role, imagining that level of scrutiny turned on me? It was enough to make me queasy. But there was no way around it. There was no way I could even dream of a relationship with Elliott that wouldn’t include the unwelcome third wheel of his stardom.

* * *

I spent the next morning with my mom, returning to Asheville
with an hour to spare before the start of my afternoon lessons. I
left my purse in my apartment, then crossed the entryway to knock on Elliott’s door.

He smiled wide when he saw me, and my heart did a little flip-floppy thing.

“Hi,” I said. “You got a minute?”

“Sure, come on in.” He moved aside, then
followed me into his living room. “What’s up?”

“Have you seen this?” I handed him my phone.

He studied the photograph for a moment before dropping onto his couch with a sigh. He slid the phone across the coffee table in my direction. “How many people have seen it?”

“It’s gone from ten thousand to twenty-seven thousand votes since last night. I did a quick search, though, if that matters. So far the traffic is
limited to this one photo-sharing site.”

He shook his head and echoed my words from the night before. “It’s only a matter of time. Thirty, maybe forty thousand hits and
it’ll generate enough buzz for some gossip rag to pick it up.”

“What are you going to do?” I sat on the couch beside him.

“Nothing. There’s nothing that can be done. It’ll run its course, people will talk about it for a few days like it matters, then they’ll move on.”

“But do you worry about people thinking you were at a beer festival?
Won’t it bug your fans to think you were fighting? And drinking? Elliott, I’m willing to comment and explain what really happened. If it would help, I’ll totally do it.”

“I appreciate you offering, but you can’t play their game. If you comment, you’ll confirm I was actually there. Right now 42 percent do
n’t even think it’s me in that photo. Explaining will only bring more questions. Who’s the girl he’s defending? What caused the altercation? Are they dating? How long have they known each other? What’s he doing in North Carolina? It’s like feeding seagulls on the beach. You give in once, and they never leave you alone.”

“It just feels wrong
for people not to know the truth.”

“People don’t care about the truth, at least not the people who
are posting that picture. They care about what sells, what sounds the
most scandalous, what generates the most traffic.”

“But truth is still truth. Don’t you have to care, even if they don’t?”

“I care about the people who matter—my family, my close
friends—what they think is important. But I can’t care about what
everyone else thinks. I’d be eaten alive if I did.”

“I guess that’s what it means to have thick skin.”

“Yeah. It still stinks. This’ll tick off my agent more than anything—hanging out at beer festivals isn’t exactly on his list of approved album-generating activities—
but you do learn to filter out the nonsense. You have to treat it like background noise.”

I propped my elbow up on the back of the couch, resting my head on my hand. “Is it worth it? All that background noise?”

He was quiet a beat too long, leaving an uncomfortable silence hanging in the air between us. “It’s worth it,” he finally said. “Playing is the only thing I’ve ever been good at. And I love the energy of performing. If I have to deal with some unwanted attention to get the kind that feeds my career,
then that’s life, you know? You take the good with the bad.”

“I get that,” I said. “It’s the same thing in the symphony world. There are parts of it I hate, but I could never give it up.”

“But you did give some of it up, didn’t you?” Elliott asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I Googled you, Emma. You’re not some small-town violinist. New York, Cleveland—you’re kind of a big-shot, aren’t you?” He nudged my knee.

I dropped my eyes and shook my head, ignoring the thrill that came from knowing he’d searched for me online. “I don’t miss New York, but Cleveland . . .” I shrugged. “Sometimes I still wonder if I did the right thing.
”

“Yeah? Would you ever consider going back?”

“I don’t know. My mom has MS—she’s had it for years—but it’s gotten worse lately. She’s in pain most of the time and can’t always get around on her own. She’d die if she knew she was the reason I left, but I can’t say it wasn’t a big part of my decision. I feel like I need to be close enough to help.”

“I really admire that,” Elliott said. “Why does she think you moved?”

I winced. “I might have maybe told her a little white lie.”

Elliott gasped in mock surprise. “You lied to your mother? I’m shocked!”

“It wasn’t really a lie. I just . . . exaggerated a little.”

“I sense a story coming on.”

I groaned and pulled a throw pillow up to hide my face. “It’s not a good story.”

“Oh, I think it
is
a good story.”

I pushed out a resigned sigh. “Fine. There was this conductor in Cleveland: an associate conductor who took an interest in my career and was nice and attentive and charming, and then one
night he came onto me, I lost my head for fourteen seconds, kissed him, then decided it was all a mistake and backpedaled as fast as I possibly could.”