Page 2 of A Wistful Symphony

“Yes, that’s correct.” I shift in my seat, bewildered at where he got that information. I can’t help scratching the corner of my thumb. “He and my mother divorced when I was a teenager and we’re not close. It didn’t feel right to build my career on his name, so I go by my mother’s.”

“You want to carve your own path. I respect that.” He nods approvingly. “Though some might call it foolish in such a competitive field.”

“I’ll take my chances.” I grin, albeit briefly.

“Alright then. I must return to the studio, so let’s get to the point, shall we?”

Finally . “Of course.”

“Are you aware of the job description?”

“Yes. Ms Thorne briefed me, but please, tell me again.”

“It will be an adaptation of Sense and Sensibility , a two-episode miniseries of one and a half to two hours each, approximately three and a half hours total. Have you ever done anything like that?”

“I’ve composed for cinema before, mostly independent. And since I’m classically trained with a focus on the Romantic period, the style is right in my area of expertise.”

“Less than expected, but we can work with that.” He closes the binder and tucks away his fancy business-man pen. “We’ll send you the footage so you can compose a theme song for our approval. If the director likes it, we sign contracts and the score is yours. How does a week deadline sound?”

“More than enough,” Ms Thorne cuts in before I can answer.

I back her up. “Sounds reasonable.”

“We have a deal then.” Harrow gets up and shakes my boss’s hand once again. “BBC is taking a leap with your label, Ms Thorne. I hope all the recommendations we’ve heard about Bluebell Studios are true.”

“They most certainly are.” She smiles at him, though it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“And I’m most intrigued about you, Mr Lowell. Looking forward to seeing your work next week.”

“Looking forward to getting down to business, Mr Harrow.” He shakes my hand more deliberately than the first time and my whole arm prickles, feeling the slight trace of sweat on his palm. He releases me, saying his goodbyes, and I shove my hand beneath my arm to fake a nonchalant posture.

“Wait for him to leave,” Ms Thorne mouths.

I focus on my breath, wondering why that man walks so fucking slow, and as the door finally closes, I reach for the bottle of hand sanitiser in my pocket, rubbing it frantically over both palms.

“That went well enough,” she says, paying little attention to my sanitary urges. “You have five days to send me the theme. I want to revise it over the weekend. Think you can manage?”

“Please, when did I ever miss a deadline?” I scoff with a roll of my eyes.

“True. And that’s why I’m giving you this opportunity.” She comes closer, pressing a manicured index finger on my chest. “If you screw this up, I swear I’ll fire you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

“You better.” She crosses her arms in a menacing posture we both know is just for show. “And remember, the Caldwell presentation is in thirty minutes.”

I was so psyched for the BBC meeting I almost forgot the commercial jingle. My jittery hands scream that I definitely won’t make it through this shitty account while caffeine deprived.

“Do you mind if I sprint to the cafe before the meeting?”

“God, Lowell, you’re an addict. You know that?”

“Better caffeine than cocaine.”

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”

I open my mouth and close it again, an awkward hum tumbling out. “Please, I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Fine. Go. Now.”

“Thank you! You’re a—”

“Saint, I know. Though I hardly believe the Vatican would canonise me for enabling a young man’s caffeine addiction.”

“Then think of it as enhancing your employee’s performance.” I shrug, rushing for the door.

“Keep telling yourself that,” she shouts at my back.

Plain office coffee won’t do anymore, and my brain demands a brew from my favourite place, a quarter mile from the office building. Despite central London’s density of cafes, most of them think an Americano and filter coffee are the same thing, which for me is as close to blasphemy as it gets.

It’s a tight gap. Thirty minutes to get there and back, plus the time spent in the queue, ordering and actually drinking it. But I figure if I time it correctly, everything will be fine. Three ten-minute alarms on my watch should do the trick.

The streets of Soho are always simmering with people. Busy Londoners on their daily commute, loud oblivious tourists, and the drunken leftovers from the night before. Deflecting every slowpoke in my way, I arrive at the storefront a couple of minutes before the first beep. So far, so good.

Despite Steam & Grind Cafe being popular amongst the queer community (for obvious reasons), the queue is blessedly short.

Too early for the brunch aficionados, I suppose.

The barista knows my order by heart, which makes the affair swift enough for me to be outside sipping a medium-roast Arabica brew with plenty of time on my hands.

It feels better, but not right. Perhaps I’ve gone so long not fulfilling this compulsion that the damn anxiety refuses to go away. Or maybe my brain just decided to be a cunt today. All I know is I need another cup.

I turn to go back to the cafe and hear it. A sound that almost stops my heart.

“I’ll wait for you here.”

I would recognise that voice— your voice—anywhere, no matter how long it’d been or how hurt I’d been. Ten years. We were only kids back then.

I’m certain it’s you before my eyes catch sight of your handsome face, before my nostrils pick up your warm and delicate scent, before the tips of my fingers desire to touch you again.

No, I can’t go down that road.

Unfortunately, the road we’re on leads back to the cafe that I need to get to if I’m to have any chance of clearing my thoughts for the meeting. I could pretend I didn’t see you and rush to the queue ….

“Andrew?” Or I could call to you and act like I don’t need to remember how your name tastes on my tongue. It tastes wonderful, which is everything I don’t need right now. How could I ever have forgotten this?

My churning stomach gives me the answer.

Our last days drilled a hole in my heart I could never mend.

It hurt being left behind, hearing nothing from you for years.

Now, the fear that you won’t even recognise me weighs heavier, eating my insides with insatiable hunger.

What would I do with that, Andrew? Walk away and never think of you again?

I’ve tried that already, and it’s worked wonders over the last few years.

Except when I order a pint at the pub close to home, and it sparks memories of our accidental first date.

When I open Instagram and know you don’t have an account because you’ve always hated social media.

When I try to pick a dessert at a restaurant and end up having lemon pie.

Those memories are always here, safely stored in the farthest corners of my heart, reminding me of you whenever I poke too close to them.

It doesn’t hurt as much. Not like it will if you don’t look at me now.

But you do.

Your lips part a few times. I feel the urge to say you aren’t allowed to be at a loss for words, but I’m sure the encounter surprised us both.

“Eric,” you say at last. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I answer. A paragon of eloquence. “What are you doing here?” Not ‘how have you been?’ Apparently, my manners are lost with my will to move off the freaking pavement, out of your burning and confusing gaze, to somewhere safe. Anywhere but here.

“Just getting coffee.” Your smile is unsure, but after a second, it rests fully on your lips. Your shoulders, however, remain tense. “Not for me.”

Yes, I still remember how much you hated coffee, and it serves as a comfort to know at least that hasn’t changed.

Unlike your appearance. Your dark-blond hair is longer and mussed, the hazel eyes I so adored are now covered with a pair of reading glasses, and you wear skinny jeans, a white tee and a brown parka, contrary to your old bourgeois looks.

“I meant London,” I retort, though what I want to say is, ‘I meant here, at my favourite cafe, in my city, in my life. Again.’

“Oh.” A sheepish grin plays on your lips as you scratch the nape of your neck. “Sorry. I’ve been living here for a while.” You pause, and a frown creases your countenance. “Your hair is shorter.”

“Yeah, the McCartney 60s hairstyle was out even back then.”

“It suited you.” You don’t bother hiding the curl at the corner of your mouth.

“Highly doubtful.” I chuckle. Am I mad, or was that a compliment? “So, where—”

A tall Black man steps out of the store and into your personal space. You don’t flinch, even when his hand hovers over your shoulder before settling. Watching the scene makes my guts burn.

“Sorry, forgot your order,” the bloke says. You remove his hand delicately, and he doesn’t put it back again. I sigh in relief, though neither of you seem to notice the weird exchange. Maybe you’ve lived it too many times already. Maybe he knows you better than I do.

I need to be honest with myself. If I didn’t know you then, I wouldn’t know you now. You never let me.

But then he looks at me, and my cheeks heat at being caught staring.

“Danny, this is Eric,” you say.

“Not that Eric from your hometown, right?”

“One and only.”

I swear the rueful smile you shoot me means a lot more than it should.

“Bugger me.” Danny stares with a fond—that’s the weirdest part of it—grin of his own, as if he’s known me for a long time. “I’m Daniel Boyd. Andy and I work together at the orphanage.”

“Orphanage?” My eyes seek yours again, just in time to catch you bouncing on your toes. I’ve never noticed that’s how you act when you feel uncomfortable. Perhaps this is new as well.

“Yeah,” Danny goes on. “Andrew teaches music to the kids.” His grin is a full smile by now, and he keeps blabbering as though I want to hear any of it.

I’m on a tight schedule, for fuck’s sake.

I’m only stretching it because it’s you, and I refuse to waste my precious coffee time with your inconvenient friend. If that’s what he is.

“Among other things. The kids love him, with that sweet face. I’m sure you know.” His tone isn’t harmful or arrogant, just … matter of fact. “Which reminds me—” His eyes seek you, and you answer almost immediately.

“Peppermint tea.”

“Got it. Be right back.” Danny smiles, extremely unconcerned, and disappears inside the cafe again. I glance at my watch and sigh in relief. Still a few minutes to spare.

“Need to be somewhere?” you ask.

“It’s fine, just work.” I wave an unceremonious hand. “So, you teach kids now?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing.” You dismiss it with a shrug, except I notice the glimmer in your eyes. “And you? Here?” Your index finger motions towards the street, towards it all. You mean London, obviously, but I can’t decipher your grin. I never could. “Is it everything you hoped for?”

My cheeks burn once again, and I give a bashful shrug. I love London. It’s everything I dreamed of. The nagging feeling it hadn’t been what you wanted back then makes me bite my tongue.

“Is this where you disappeared all those years ago?” I ask, but what I really want to know is, Why here? Is your life okay? Are you happy?

Your expression clams up as your eyes meet mine for a split second. You never looked me in the eye, even when we were close.

“Not exactly. A lot happened. I came here a few years ago.” Your cryptic tone makes it clear you won’t give me any details.

“Oh, wh—” My timer sounds, and I hasten to turn off the annoying beep. “Shoot. I have a meeting soon and still need to grab a coffee.”

You frown at the empty cup in my hand. “Didn’t you just have one?”

“Stupid brain. Don’t ask.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.” You chuckle. “Isn’t it bad for your health, though? All that caffeine.”

“Ah! You see,” I raise one finger. “Doctors say you can consume up to 400 milligrams of caffeine per day, which means I can have three of these without major trouble. Don’t worry. I have everything under control.”

“If you say so. It was nice seeing you, Eric.” Your smile is weak, and you can’t hold it for long. It looks like goodbye.

I don’t want to leave things at that. After ten years of questions, doubts, and heartache, the least I deserve is some kind of closure. One last talk, so we can move on with our lives for good.

So I can, I mean. You seem to have done it quite well without me.

“Wait, let me just—” I take a business card from my wallet. Old-fashioned, I know, but you might not have your phone with you, or not own one at all if you’re anything like before. “Here. So you can reach out later and talk some more. If you want to, of course.”

The card is simple, professional. Sombre navy blue with formal fonts. Yet you turn it between your fingers with a knowing smirk, as if you take from its surface much more than the plain information it holds.

“What is it?” I ask, brows furrowed.

“Eric Lowell. Pianist and composer,” you read in a solemn tone. Your face, however, has no trace of mockery. If anything, you look proud. “You did it. You write your own music.”

“Yeah.” I lower my gaze and run hesitant fingers through my hair. I couldn’t hide my smile even if I wanted to.

“I’ll text you one of these days.” You roll the card once more in your fingers before pocketing it. “If you’re not too busy, Mr Hotshot.”

“Sure.” I laugh, though I’m not entirely sure you mean it. “It was nice running into you, Andrew.”

“Likewise.” You offer me a parting smile and a wave.

I hurry inside the cafe, not willing to turn my gaze away until you disappear from view.

The queue remains short, though not short enough for that bloke Danny to miss me on his way out with your orders. I try to keep my face forward and avoid eye contact, but still he comes, all smiles and muscles, like he can smell the dread on my skin.

“Hey, mate, nice meeting you. Maybe we could go someday for a pint, you, me, and Andy. You know, talk about your old days, get to know each other. That sort of thing.”

“Sure, why not?” I force a brittle smile, trying my best not to let my loathing show.

Alright, I’m not trying that hard.

“Awesome.” He bashes a palm on my back so hard I almost bump the lady in front of me.

I wait for him to be far enough before adding in a murmur, “When hell freezes over, you twat.”

A few minutes later, I get out, slowly relaxing to the aroma wafting out of the paper cup. The funny thing is, I used to love coffee. Now it feels like a chore. I sip it on the street, coveting a glimpse of your hair, your jacket, anything. But as expected, you and Danny are long gone.

I check my watch and almost spit out my coffee. “Crap, I’m late,” I mutter, and sprint back to the studio.