Page 30 of Crescendo

Lydia

Sometimes I hated music.

To be fair, I never started it. It always came around when music hated me first.

That practice room session with Hannah had been a gift and a curse, and not just because now I had to worry about Hannah blabbing about me and Ella to everybody.

I’d seen something there—some elusive something in the sound, in what genre was , and I’d come so close to grasping it that my fingertips had brushed it.

And then it slipped away, and I’d spent the past few days desperately trying to find it again, feeling around in the void, reaching for it, finding nothing.

Nothing was an accurate summary of the days since I dragged Ella to the Philharmonic against her will and only succeeded in making her avoid me.

It had been obvious she’d been miserable the whole time in the performance, but she’d refused to leave, hadn’t budged, brushed me off with a whispered it’s fine when I tried to touch her reassuringly and gesture if she wanted to leave.

I hadn’t heard a single note of the symphony, my mind so occupied worrying about Ella—right up close to the stage in the front seats, where she got the most up-close-and-personal experience possible with the thing that tortured her. All in all—as far as dates went, really not the best.

Melinda had been telling me I was pushing too hard, that I needed to let up and not try to fix her.

Never had that been more evident than when we got back from the Philharmonic and Ella practically ran into her room with no more than a quiet sorry my way and cried without speaking to me the rest of the night.

Clara had picked up on Ella not being with it while we were out for drinks, and she’d sent me a text checking in on Ella, and for some reason, I told the truth about how she’d hated it and it had sent her into this spiral and I didn’t know what to do.

My tone was just a little too worried for just a concerned friend, probably, but I didn’t confirm or deny anything, and she didn’t ask—just told me Ella was probably going through some things and that I should give her space.

So I tried to give her space. Invited her out for breakfast the next morning with a bunch of friends knowing she’d probably say no—letting her know she was included and free to be a part of things while leaving a convenient out for her to be alone—and she’d strained a smile and told me she’d stay home and practice a little bit more before class.

She didn’t come to me for help with her notes between classes like she did last week, and I didn’t see her in practical lessons.

I didn’t push things by trying to talk to her, just stayed in practice rooms throwing myself fully into the work, both on my composition homework and on trying to figure out what was missing from Natália’s piece.

And I figured out jack shit. Trying to chase the ghost of what I’d been reaching for when I was jamming with Hannah only left me grasping at shadows, and I ended up staring blankly at a piano long into the evening more than once.

Didn’t help that everybody was so focused on their lessons and on the composition assignment that our various groups didn’t do anything together, and I felt like Ella disappeared from the city.

Part of me felt frustrated, hurt, like I was being ghosted, but—we weren’t really dating.

We’d explicitly said it was casual. Treating it like casual was a good way to make sure it stayed casual.

But as I sat in the practice room late into another evening with nothing to show for it, I had to admit that I wanted nothing more, at that moment, to go back to the apartment, pull Ella away from whatever she was doing to place one kiss on each freckle on her face, and ask her to come to dinner with me.

“Focus, Lydia,” I muttered, shaking off the thoughts and playing a chord progression.

An eight-bar progression with an augmented G chord and two different suspended chords, or a basic four-bar progression without ornamentation—all of it just sounded like piano.

I kept going until I found myself banging my hands idly on the keys instead when the door cracked open and I looked to where Olivia leaned in the doorframe, giving me a concerned smile.

“Lydia,” she said lightly. “Should I maybe stage an intervention?”

I shut the piano lid, turning to her. “I need something. Probably not an intervention. I’d say teach me how to play music, but I guess that’s what I’m in the program for, isn’t it?”

She stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. Bright orange Converse today. Not even regular orange Converse—no accent colors, just solid orange, even matching orange laces, dressed up as a Florida Oranges advert. “Creatively stuck?” she said, and I snorted.

“Oh, just a little. Just so much I had to flee across the Atlantic only to find my problems continue to run with me everywhere I go. No matter how hard I push, everything just seems to push back. Can you just put a bullet through my brain?”

She smiled warmly. “I’m afraid not. What if you tried not pushing so hard?”

“Giving up and lying down and waiting for death to overtake me like a noxious black cloud? Trust me when I say I’ve considered it.”

“More force isn’t often the solution to creative blocks. Demanding yourself produce art doesn’t often lead to good art. Good art, inasmuch as anyone has ever found any way to get to it, usually comes out of the artist enjoying herself.”

I wrinkled my nose, turning back to the piano. “Well, I can see why I haven’t been making any good art lately, then.”

She put a hand on my shoulder. “Week two is where everyone hits this. But it doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re facing the part you really need to face.”

I sighed, shoulders slumping. “Why do you always wear such ugly shoes?”

“It’s more fun than wearing nice shoes. You should try doing something ugly, too.”

I made a face, looking down at her shoes. “If I do, it won’t be wearing high-vis construction gear on my feet.”

She laughed. “You’re so charming that it’s quaint when you turn into a spiteful little jerk. Be easy on yourself, Lydia Howard Fox. Even you’re just a child who’s grown up into a big, confusing world.”

If she was calling me childish, then I supposed I couldn’t argue with her, what with her finding me banging my hands on the piano wailing about how school was hard.

But I knew full well what she was talking about, I just didn’t want to admit it —her telling me that I wasn’t childish, and she meant it as an insult.

British people did not communicate anything clearly. Would it kill them to just say what was on their minds?

It was still hanging over me like a little black cloud as I headed out and meandered back to the chippy where Ella and I got dinner that first night, and I sat at a table in the far corner with a plate loaded up with cheese and carbohydrates and called Melinda, who picked up with a huff.

“Dude, if you don’t stop calling me in the middle of the workday without warning.”

“It’s noon there. You’re always procrastinating at noon and probably looking at social media instead.”

She was deafeningly, damningly quiet for a few seconds before she said, “So, what’s up? Everything still good in London?”

“I’m a failure, Ella’s avoiding me, and Natália’s counting on me to help with the song and I’m a disappointment to her because I don’t know how to make music. But at least the pie is good.”

“Okay, first off, Natália worships the ground you walk on. She’d never be disappointed.

Second—” I heard her lean away from the phone.

“Yes, I’m talking about you!” she called in the background, and I raised an eyebrow, tapping my fingers on the edge of the tray, looking out the window at the more understated architecture on the little side street we had here.

“Natália’s over at your place again?”

“Uh-huh… yes, I heard you. Yeah, you’re definitely right. You always are.” Melinda came back to the phone, her voice coming through clearer. “The music room at her place scares her right now, so she’s been hanging out here. You know how it is.”

“All too well.”

“She made us brigadeiros, so I can’t really complain. Anyway, secondly —what’d you do with Ella that made things tough?”

“What’d I do? Why are you assuming it’s my fault?”

“Because you’ve got that tone in your voice that says you pushed something too far just like I said you would and you regret it and you’re kicking yourself for it.”

I was deafeningly, damningly quiet for a few seconds before I said, “I went with her to the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra with those best seats in the house I told you about.”

“Okay, I’m not gonna lie, that doesn’t sound like the world’s biggest fuckup.”

“Apparently whatever happened to her has… some kind of connection to the orchestra.” I described the situation in sweeping strokes—kicking myself for having seen how reluctant Ella was about going and still pressuring her into it, and how she shut down at the event and didn’t accept any of my invitations to leave.

How she’d been avoiding me ever since, taking advantage of all my attempts to give her space.

When I finally finished rambling, Melinda sighed. “That sucks, dude. I’m sorry your date crashed and burned so hard. I can imagine it feels like total shit.”

“It’s not even supposed to,” I sighed, a sharp note like being—irritated. With my feelings, I suppose. I guess I was. “It’s casual.”

“It’s not your fault, though.”

I scowled at the phone. “You’re the one who was telling me to lay off and not try to fix her problems, give her space.”

“You gave her plenty of chances to exit, left every other recourse for her. At some point you just have to accept that sometimes the ones we care about will hurt themselves, and all we can do is stand close by and let them know we’re here once they’re ready for it.”