Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“Economic equality?”
I shrug, cutting my steak. “I guess. Yeah.”
“I’m not sure that’s ever been fully achieved in any society. A Marxist approach. No private ownership or class divisions. It sounds good in theory. Are you really wanting to discuss the flaws in it, including human behavior and economic incentives? The risk of totalitarianism? Seems like heavy dinner conversation.”
“Well, I don’t know what you mean by a Marxist approach or that total … whatever thing. I’ve just known many people who have worked their asses off only to eke by. And people like Rupert and Callie sit around all day and do nothing to contribute to society, but they have so much money. It feels wrong.”
“I’m sure they’re charitable.” June sips her wine.
I grunt. “That’s my point. If you live in that house, then you aren’t being charitable enough.”
“So who should live in that house or other big houses? Who should drive the fancy cars and wear the designer clothes?”
“No one. Their house could house several families. Designer clothes are only expensive because they can be. If rich people stopped overpaying for things just because they can, then all companies would have to charge a fair price for their products.”
She slides her hand across the table and takes mine, squeezing it. “I love the world you dream of.”
“So this doesn’t matter to you?” Again, I look around the restaurant.
She laces her fingers with mine. “No.”
“Then let’s get out of here. Go to the orchestra because it’s your porn. And then let’s ditch these stupid clothes.”
She smiles. It’s soft at first, then it swells as she nods.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Flynn
The Minnesota Orchestra Hall is a massive glass building with a grand atrium and multiple gathering spaces outside of the main performance hall. We find our seats on the floor at the front.
“Your parents got us front-row seats?” I ask, craning my neck in all directions. This place is massive, with 3D cubes on the front wall and ceiling. Balcony seats line the back and side walls.
“Yes. There is a guest solo cellist performing tonight, so they knew I’d want to be as close as possible to see her.” June sits in her chair and crosses her legs, thumbing through the program.
I continue to gawk at the impressive space while shrugging off my jacket and loosening my tie before sitting beside her. “What’s up with the cubes everywhere?”
June glances up from the program, eyes pointed to the ceiling. “They’re for acoustic purposes. They disperse sound throughout the concert hall. This place is exceptional. The design and sound are remarkable.”
I look at her and wonder who she is. After she played the cello in Callie’s bedroom, I felt like she was an entirely different person who I didn’t know. Not in a bad way. It made me realize I’ve fallen in love with a woman who I don’t know that well. But I want to. Then in our conversation at dinner she left me in the dust, feeling stupid for not understanding any of her references.
And now, listening to her speak so intelligently about this place, it’s hard not to feel stupid, like I’m way out of my league, and it’s only a matter of time before she realizes there’s very little depth to me.
When the concert begins, I watch June while everyone else watches the orchestra. Sometimes she reaches for my hand and squeezes it, and when the lights shift between performances, I see tears in her eyes. Am I supposed to cry too? Music has never brought me to tears. I’ve never even cried watching a movie.
As the guest cellist plays, June scoots to the edge of her seat, and shortly after the song begins, June’s hands mimic the performer’s, eyes closed. The song ends, and everyone claps. But June stands. The performer, with short, blond hair curled behind her ears, focuses on June, and she grins in a way that looks like recognition. Maybe she’s June’s friend.
“Have you met her?” I whisper in June’s ear after the applause and June sits in her seat.
She shakes her head as she stands again, along with everyone else.
“It’s over?” I ask.
“Intermission,” she says.
We stretch our legs by walking the length of the common areas. There’s a wall with pictures of performers. June slows to look at them. We turn around at the same time when the cellist who performed taps June on the shoulder.
“Zoya! I thought it was you,” she says, a little out of breath. “I just had to find you to introduce myself. I’m Liza Stephens. I watched you perform at the Royal Albert Hall in London. You were only sixteen. I was thirteen, and I dreamed of playing like you.” She shakes her head. “I still dream of playing like you. I’ve wondered where you’ve been. Sorry, now I’m just rambling out of control. I won’t keep you. But I just wanted to say what a tremendous honor and surprise it was to perform in front of you.” She finally takes a breath.