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STEFANOS

M y heart’s pounding in my ears, hands sweating on the neck of my violin.

Hoping no one sees, I wipe my hands down the side of my pants.

What if I can’t hold the bow steady? What if the bow comes flying out of my hand and hits someone in the audience right in the eye?

What if I sit down and my chair makes a farting noise and everyone laughs?

And what if… no, I can’t let myself think about that possibility.

When it’s time to go out into the main library to join the orchestra for the performance, my fingers and lips are tingling and my hands threatening to turn into anxious claws.

Blood rushes through my ears along with the sound of the audience applauding our entrance.

It takes a few beats for my eyes to adjust to the light as I glance out into the crowd to see if I can find my parents, or Dorian, but I don’t see anyone I recognize.

Baba told me they probably wouldn’t be able to make it tonight, and part of me is relieved they didn’t. But Dorian should be here somewhere. He promised, so he’ll be here. Right?

My shoes squeak on the hardwood floor as I find my place in the string section. My hands shaking as I try to adjust the sheet music in front of me. For a second, it all goes blurry.

Violins start the piece, so I can’t fuck it up. Even if it does feel like there is a very real possibility I might die any second of a heart attack, I cannot fuck up in front of all these people.

Professor Lisette counts us in and I take up my position with the bow.

There’s a mad last-ditch attempt from my body to flee.

A split second’s vision of me dropping my instrument and running for the doors.

But something keeps me rooted in place, and it’s like someone else is taking control of my body as my bow makes contact with the strings and a sound comes out.

I’ve researched stage fright. Read biographies by famous musicians. And they all say the second you start to play the music, it goes away. But that’s a lie. It doesn’t go away. It persists, like a bee buzzing in your ear canal. A prickly heat spreading all the way up your skin.

There are times during the performance that I disappear into the music. But I only have to glance into the audience at the people in their fancy clothes to be pulled right back to where I am.

I try to focus on my instrument. The glide of the smooth wood under my fingers.

The familiar sensation of its body pressed against my neck.

I watch Professor Lisette conducting from the head of the orchestra.

Tap into Alice’s trumpet every time it makes an appearance, and allow these things to ground me enough to make it to the end.

By the time the performance is over, I’m drenched in sweat.

I wait during the applause, because I have to.

But as soon as I’m past the curtains, out of sight, I rush to put my violin in its case, nausea rocking my guts.

Dimly, I’m aware of the others congratulating each other or moaning over minor mistakes, but I don’t pause to talk to anyone before speed-walking to the bathroom.

I heave over the toilet bowl, hating this. But at least it’s over now.

Alice is waiting for me outside the men’s bathroom, and despite pretending she hasn’t noticed I look like I just took a shower in my clothes, I see the worry on her face.

“Have you seen Dorian?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Do you want to come back to my place? We’ll eat copious amounts of raw cookie dough and watch 90s rom-coms.”

The thought of eating raw cookie dough almost has me running back into the bathroom.

But I’m tempted by the movie part. Before I met Dorian, that was mine and Alice’s Friday and Saturday, (and sometimes Sunday), nights.

Cookie dough, Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia (obviously) and a 90s movie.

Not 80s, not 00s, but the sweet-spot of rom-coms, the 1990s.

Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in the infancy of the internet age.

Drew Barrymore in… well, anything. Cameron Diaz, Jennifer Anniston, Julia Roberts…

But I have a boyfriend now. Single movie nights with my best friend have to take a back seat.

“I can’t,” I say, straightening my jacket. “I’ve gotta look for Dorian, I’m sure he’ll be here somewhere. Raincheck?”

“Sure.” She smiles, but I can tell she’s disappointed.

After saying goodbye, I rush back to the faux-auditorium.

The audience has mostly dispersed, making it clear that Dorian isn’t here.

Still, I keep up the hope that he’s gotten lost amidst the rows of books until I’ve scoured the entire ground floor of the library and come up short.

Maybe he forgot? Maybe he went home to take a nap so he was fresh and didn’t wake up?

I try calling him, but his phone keeps going straight to voicemail. I don’t bother leaving a message, because I know he never listens to them.

Instead, I decide to go home, sure I’ll find him there. But when I get back to the apartment, he isn’t there either. Did he get stuck in traffic? Surely he would have taken the subway? Worried now, I start texting our friends, starting with Eve.

I keep the message breezy.

Hey, you with Dorian?

But even when I’m trying to be casual, I can’t shake the worry that I’m coming off needy and pathetic.

When no one replies right away, I take a shower, peeling away the sweaty clothes that have started to dry and smell.

It’s not a big deal, I tell myself as I scrub my hair.

Under the spray, my impulse to imagine every worst-case-scenario fades a bit and I have to admit – it’s way more likely that my boyfriend got caught up in something else and lost track of time.

Which is annoying, but fine. It was just a stupid recital.

Not important. When you’re in a relationship, the mature thing to do is focus on the other person’s good qualities.

Like being a real person who exists outside of the internet and who I can have real-life-sex with.

Sure, he’s not always reliable. But I’ve never met a man aside from my father who I could honestly say is 100% reliable.

I’ve stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around my waist, when I see that Eve has replied to my message.

We’re at The Ivy, where are you?

I frown. Was I supposed to meet them at The Ivy?

I throw something on and take the train back towards campus.

The Ivy is one of many student bars surrounding the classical red brick buildings.

It’s one of the dingiest, and cheapest, so I was surprised the first time Dorian took me there, because it was very obvious he had money.

And not, ‘put it on my credit card so I look rich’ money either, but ‘wears a Rolex like it’s a Timex’ money.

After a while, I realized Dorian’s friends enjoy getting drunk at The Ivy for the ‘experience.’ The way wealthy Victorians enjoyed touring the East End during its worst years of deprivation.

I try again not to think about what that says about him.

The bar is crowded and noisy when I step inside.

My armpits already starting to tingle again with the promise of fresh sweat.

A vision of Alice with her feet up in soft sleep leggings and a heavy metal band t-shirt eating cookie dough and watching You’ve Got Mail pops into my head and I bat it away.

Dorian is in a corner booth with Eve and a few of his other friends.

They’re one of those friend groups who have known each other for years and have wildly confusing in-jokes and nicknames that don’t make any sense.

Dorian is ‘Jeggers.’ Eve is ‘Clip.’ I’ve never been able to get much sense out of them when asking why.

Eve stands the second she sees me weaving my way through the crowd thronging the bar.

“Darling!” She says in that British accent people go crazy over. “You’re here finally.”

She hugs me, the bangles lining her arms jingling.

“Everyone, move up for Stef,” she says, kicking shins with her high-heeled boots and slapping people’s arms. I’m squished between her and Dorian, who waits until I’m practically sitting on top of him to say hello.

I smile and nod at everyone before leaning in close to Dorian’s ear and ask, “where were you?”

“To be honest babe,” he pouts. “I didn’t think you wanted me there.”

I work to keep my voice level, still smiling as I feel his friends’ eyes on us. “Why would I invite you if I didn’t want you there?”

He shrugs. His dark, curly hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and there’s a blush of exertion on his ruddy cheeks.

“You still haven’t introduced me to your parents, and you said they might be there. I didn’t want to make it awkward.”

“You know I can’t introduce you to them, not yet.”

His gaze automatically flies to the place where my crucifix sits under my shirt.

I took it off before getting into the shower, though I used to wear it everywhere.

It’s real gold and it won’t tarnish. But when Dorian started making comments, it stopped feeling like the most normal thing in the world to wear it.

“Look, I got you a drink, why don’t we just forget about this and have a nice night?”

He gestures to the vodka and coke with melting ice cubes sitting on the table in front of me. How long has he been here? Did he ever have any intention of coming to my performance? Or was an afternoon at a bar his intention all along?

“How did you know I’d come and find you here?”

He gives me one of those smiles. The kind of smile that probably got him off the hook with countless nannies and middle-school teachers, something no one’s told him doesn’t work on grown men. “Don’t you always find me?”

Dorian’s louder and sloppier than everybody else, telling me that, as usual, he’s a few drinks ahead. And when he gets up to go to the bathroom again, Eve scoots over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Listen Achilles, I think you should take him home. Before he gets himself into trouble”