Ethan Wong, an ex-prodigy violinist, thinks it's not meant to be.
After his latest mental breakdown at his last violin competition, where he placed tenth out of ten contestants, he's not sure why his music professor appointed him the soloist for th...
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This wasn't the kind of reunion I had envisioned—not that I thought I'd ever dream of seeing Ethan Wong again. He had it made very clear that he wanted nothing to do with me anymore, and there was little I could do but accept it.
That was the thing about Ethan; when he set his mind to something, nothing could change his mind—like playing violin despite how toxic the pressure to perform had induced his first panic attack in junior year. Or, take breaking up and ghosting me for years, for example.
Had it not been for this one-in-a-billion coincidence of us in the same hotel, I was certain Ethan would've spent the rest of his life avoiding me.
So, maybe I was a bit selfish in the lobby. It was like waving a juicy steak in front of an unleashed dog; there was no way I wouldn't take the chance to talk to Ethan. Seeing him after all these years was almost enough to quell the heartache he had left behind. But it wasn't enough. Not when there were so many unknowns and unturned stones.
Only, it finally dawned on me as I pressed the elevator button that this was probably one of the most ill-planned ideas I've had in a long time—and my teammates could attest that I did some pretty stupid ideas. Offering to spend not one but three nights in a hotel room in an unfamiliar city was definitely not on the list of amazing ideas Cameron Langley has concocted. It was more likely than not that Ethan would treat this weekend like any other piece of music, with professionalism and poise, mastering it, then leaving it to the wayside for another piece he'd have to focus on.
But, as he told me all the time, I was a damned hopeless romantic. And with whatever brief moment in Ethan's presence I'd have this weekend, the hope of rekindling or having any chance for open dialogue was a risk I was willing to take.
I couldn't deny the excitement and sheer joy at hearing him agree moments ago. While completely unexpected, those words, "I'll stay there," sounded like music to my ears. By the looks of his professor, who introduced himself as Ethan went to retrieve his duffel bag and violin case, he hadn't anticipated Ethan to agree either.
He didn't say anything as the doors closed on us, pressing the fifth button in front of him as we waited. The elevator was unbearably slow, and Ethan's silence only made it worse.
Ethan knew I hated awkward silence; I couldn't stand it.
To neither of our surprise, I said, "Our alternate pitcher had a family emergency. That's why I've got an extra bed, in case you were wondering."
Even if Ethan were to say anything, the doors opened to the fifth floor. He swiftly stepped out, his white violin case swaying left and right as he glanced at the room signs. I stayed a few paces behind him, watching as he found the room down the hall. His hand rested on the handle before his shoulders slumped, and he glanced back at me with a frown.
"I've got the keys, remember?" I waved it between us. He scowled with narrowed eyes, a glare I found endearing more than intimidating, before snatching a key card from my hand. He opened the door and surprisingly held the door open for me. He promptly took his shoes off, and I followed; Ethan had always scolded me for it, insisting that wearing shoes indoors was unsanitary. Taking my shoes off became a habit I had adopted back in my dorm that my roommate loathed, but Ethan's reasoning made sense. Why track in all the dirt and grime into a home?
