I'd seen that colorful hair before.

I knew that face and that smile.

Cello Girl?

"Thank you, Colette, and welcome to the Oregon Symphony. We're thrilled to have you," said Maestro Clark, again making that favorite gesture of his: hands clasped together in front of his chest. As we gave our newest cellist a hearty round of applause, her cheeks flushed a shade of pink that nearly matched the highlights in her hair. With those glorious dimples on full display, she acknowledged us with a wave—a practiced, beauty pageant sort of wave, as though she were Miss Hong Kong herself.

Which, come to think of it, she didn't say she wasn't.

No longer was she merely a pretty face I'd taken for a college student, one to be archived in my mind along with countless others who'd caught my attention over the years. She had an honest-to-goodness name. Colette. It flowed off the tongue, mellifluous and effervescent and light as air. We were going to be coworkers, Colette and I. Collaborators. Cogs in the same string section, united in delivering to our audience the percussive hammer blows of Bartok, the primordial tremolos of Bruckner, the swooning love songs of Rachmaninov...

A hand on my shoulder burst my reverie as though it were a soap bubble floating on a summer breeze. "Scouting potential girlfriend material?" Laura inquired, her eyebrows raised, the corner of her lip upturned in a puckish grin. "'Cause you've barely taken your eyes off her. You sure as heck never look at me that way."

"Very funny," I replied with an eye roll. "I've told you before, I'm not looking for anything. Life is good right now. I love my job. I have a great group of friends. I'm healthy. And I'm happy."

"But don't get complacent about it, hon. There's always room for improvement."

"I guess so. But really? I'm feeling better about things than I ever have. Why would I throw a wrench in that for some woman who's going to bail on me anyway?"

"Now you hush up!" Laura playfully wagged a finger in my direction. "You're going to make the right girl really happy someday." She turned to face me, her air now sincere. "I know you will. It'll happen when you least expect it. But it's going to happen. And she's going to be one lucky lady."

Agree to disagree, Laura. My inner social coach wouldn't let me forget my etiquette, though. That's a compliment. Accept it gracefully. "Thanks, Laura."

Laura rested a hand on my shoulder again. "I mean it. From the bottom of my heart."

She then turned to take her rosin block from our music stand, rubbing it along the hairs of her bow. "You might've missed it while you were checking out Little Miss Cello over there, but we're starting with the Gershwin, from the top."

As we spent the next few hours working through An American in Paris, the Bruch First Violin Concerto, and Tchaik Five, my attention wandered toward the cello section—to my immediate left—far more often than it usually did. There's something innately sensual about watching someone play the cello; I think it's the way the cellist cradles the instrument between the legs, embracing it with the whole body, practically making love to it with the fingers and bow. And when the cellist is someone like Colette? Let's just say it's enough to make me have thoughts I should not be having.

The end of rehearsal came as a welcome respite; I had to get out of there to clear my head, to cool down my hormones. And to remind myself what happened the last time I allowed myself to fall under a woman's spell. And the time before that. I had to nip this burgeoning infatuation in the proverbial bud, lest history repeat itself. Again.

Laura and I had just made our way backstage when an unmistakable voice rang out above the din of ninety-odd musicians packing up. "Cue the fanfare! Randall Lipsky has decided to finally grace us with his presence. Somebody fetch my fainting couch!"

I'd last seen Gary Sullivan a few weeks ago, before he'd left to play at a chamber music festival in Vermont, though from his reaction you'd think it had been far longer. But that's who Gary is. Yes, he's loud. He's opinionated. He wears too much cologne for my liking. But he'll also talk to you—and listen to you—like you're the only other person in the room. He's my go-to guy whether I need a pep talk, some tough love, or a shoulder to cry on.

The symphony is fortunate to have him as principal viola, and I'm fortunate to have him as a mentor and one of my closest friends; Gary and his amazing husband Marquice basically adopted me when I arrived in Portland last year. I've heard Laura say that Gary has more personality in one pinky finger than some people have in their entire selves, and if you could scientifically quantify personality, she'd probably be right.

Gary pulled me into a sturdy hug, where I stayed just long enough to take in his leather-orange-spice fragrance without getting a headache. "And to think I almost missed out on that because someone was late to rehearsal," he said, a twinkle in the sapphire-blue eyes that offset his striking hair: gray as Portland in November, even though he was only forty-six, with enough product to hold up a small forest. "The other reason I dropped by—that same someone hasn't responded to an R.S.V.P. that I sent him, oh, a week ago now. So what gives?"

Every year, Gary and Marquice host a dinner party to welcome the symphony's newest musicians. It may not sound like much, but like anything else those two put on, it's quite the affair. They set out an impressive spread of restaurant-worthy food, alcoholic beverages are consumed liberally, and the icebreaker games get really interesting. Which, of course, should be loads of fun—unless you were me at last year's party, in which case you spent three hours wound tighter than a cheap watch, ducking conversations while awaiting an opportunity to slip out the side entrance unnoticed.

"Oh, right. That," I said, trying to mask my lack of enthusiasm. Social gatherings aren't exactly my favorite pastime, and I bristled at the thought of rearranging my schedule on short notice. "I thought I'd stay home. Since, well... it's for the new people, and this is my second year. Besides, my mom flies back on Sunday morning, and I shouldn't leave her alone on her last night here, right?"

Gary folded his arms across his chest and gave me an unimpressed scowl. "Let me get this straight. You're going to spend a Saturday night with your mother, getting her earth-shattering insights on everything from salt shakers to duvet covers to your life." He cleared his throat and affected a cloying New York accent. "'Randall, as your mother, I think it's time you grew out of this musician phase. You need to move back home, get a real job, settle down, and meet a nice Jewish girl.' You're choosing that over eating and drinking and living it up with some of the most awesome people on the planet. Really?"

I said nothing, but I'll admit Gary had me there. Aside from my therapist and my older sister, he'd heard more Sharon Lipsky stories than anyone in my orbit—enough that he could do a spot-on impersonation even though he'd never met her. He shrugged at me, his eyebrows raised and his palms facing outward in feigned indifference. "Oh, well, have it your way. It's your loss." He turned toward Laura. "His loss. Am I right, Laura?"

"Well, I know I'm not going to miss it," said Laura. "And neither, I'd guess, is a certain peach of a new cellist." She cast a mischievous side-glance my way.

To my relief, Laura's attempt at suggestiveness sailed right over Gary's head, a rare occurrence. "You mean Colette?" he said, a hint of excitement in his tone. "Oh, she'll be there." His expression softened, as if he were recalling a particularly pleasant dream. "I got to meet her at her final audition last spring and, my God, I just love her. Like, she's totally sweet and humble—and cute as a freaking button, I mean hello—but at the same time, she's so... I don't know. Confident. Fierce. Like, she knew she'd nailed that audition like a badass and she was getting the gig. I'm telling you, that girl has her shit together."

Gary turned his attention back to me, his face again serious. "So anyway... how about it? Our place, tomorrow, about six o'clock?"

"I don't know," I said, turning my gaze to the floor. "I don't think my mom would—"

Gary held up his right hand, sighing deeply and shaking his head. 'Tough love' moment incoming in 3... 2... 1... "Randall, Randall, Randall. I hate to break it to you, but you're a big boy now. As in an actual grown man. You don't have to ask Mommy's permission." He paused in thought for a moment, pressing his forefinger to his chin.

"I can't believe I'm about to say this, but... you could bring her along."

I raised my eyebrows. "Bring my mom? To the party?"

"No. Beyoncé, to your next dentist appointment," Gary retorted, rolling his eyes. "Yes, bring Mom to the party! I feel like I already know the woman. I need to see if she's as horrifying in person as she is in your stories."

I stifled a laugh, but I still hesitated. "Maybe?"

Gary cracked a slight smile. "Hmm... what if, say, Marquice was making his rum cake?"

Sweets happen to be one of my great weaknesses, a fact of which Gary was all too aware; he'd seen the damage I could do to a plate of Laura's brownies. Marquice grew up in the Bahamas, so he knows his rum—and, with all due respect to the aforementioned brownies, that cake might be the most mind-blowing thing I've ever tasted. Seriously, it's so rich and decadent it's probably illegal in at least ten states.

Gary had almost won me over with reasoning, but as silly as it seems, the promise of rum cake sealed the deal. Yes, my sweet tooth is that weak. "All right, you win," I said after letting out a long sigh. "I'll talk to Mom about it. I'm taking her to PDX early on Sunday, so I don't know how late we'll stay. But we'll be there."

"See, I knew if all else failed, I could get you with rum cake!" Gary said with a lusty laugh. "Tomorrow is going to be fabulous! So glad I talked you into coming—it wouldn't be the same without you." We exchanged a quick hug goodbye, and I headed for the backstage exit while he and Laura continued to chat.

I took one last sweeping look across the backstage area. For an ephemeral fraction of a second, my gaze caught the pair of big, beautiful brown eyes I'd subconsciously been both seeking and hoping to avoid: Colette's. The beginning of a smile formed on her delectable lips—was that intended for me? Did she recognize me from our little run-in on the bus? But before I could react, another cellist stepped into her line of sight and started talking to her. The moment was over as soon as it had begun.

Don't do it, I had to remind myself. You've worked too hard and come too far to fling it aside for some schoolboy crush. Even if she weren't way out of my pay grade—hell, out of my universe—what was the point? Relationships didn't last. Not in my world. And when they ended, they left wreckage I couldn't afford to clean up.

I shook my head—Colette was just a distraction, nothing more, right? I needed to find my ride home—our utility trumpet player who also happened to be my roommate. Of course, I use the term 'roommate' loosely; the name Jaipal Srinivas may be on the lease, but he lives pretty much full-time with his girlfriend, Varsha. Well, except when they use our kitchen to whip up one of their elaborate feasts—the one in Varsha's studio apartment doesn't even have a stove. It's a pretty sweet deal for me. Jay still pays his share of the rent, I have the place to myself most of the time, and I get an authentic South Indian meal every Friday evening.

I finally spotted Jay by the exit door; he acknowledged me with a cool and casual l nod, befitting his aloof, easygoing manner. On the way to his car, we exchanged our usual pleasantries before retreating into an easy silence; without Varsha around, our conversations tended toward mundane questions and single-word answers. But that's fine with me, and fine with him; ultimately we're a couple of introverts who are comfortable with that fact.

On the ride back, I couldn't help but think about tomorrow's dinner party. My first unplanned event in... how long? It was a small step, sure, but for me, even agreeing to this kind of thing without days of mental preparation constituted serious progress. I made a mental note to tell Kristen at our next session.

Then my inner social coach chimed in: It'll be a lot of fun. You'll have a great time. You'll know more people there than you did last year, and for the new ones, remember your Friend File. You've got this!

And that 'peach of a cellist' would be there. One Colette Zhang, who in the matter of a few short hours had taken up rent-free residence inside my brain.

And she wasn't moving out anytime soon.

********

The video at the top is of the fantastic American cellist Alisa Weilerstein playing the Prelude to J.S. Bach's Third Cello Suite. I think her style, especially her movements and expressiveness as she performs, epitomizes what Randall means when he says "There's something innately sensual about watching someone play the cello." 😊