He’d spent two years avoiding saxophones, afraid that touching one would break his heart all over again. But playing tonight hadn’t broken him. It had put pieces back together that he hadn’t even realized were missing. A young server named Tommy approached cautiously during a brief gap in the crowd. He was nineteen, working his way through community college, always tired, but always friendly. “That was amazing, Mateo,” he said quietly. “I had no idea. You never said anything.”
“I know,” Mateo replied. “I guess I was trying not to think about it.” “But why? If I could play like that, I’d want everyone to know.” Mateo considered the question. Why had he hidden it? Part of it was self-protection: talking about his music career felt like prodding a wound that hadn’t healed. Part of it was pride: he didn’t want pity from his coworkers. Part of it was fear: as long as he didn’t try to play professionally, he couldn’t fail at it again.
“Sometimes it’s easier to not want things,” he said finally. “When you stop hoping, you stop being disappointed.” Tommy looked at him with eyes older than his nineteen years. He said, “I get that, but tonight you hoped again, didn’t you? And look what happened.” Before Mateo could respond, the crowd surged forward again with more people wanting to speak with him. But Tommy’s words stayed with him. He had hoped again tonight.
Not consciously, not deliberately, but somewhere in that moment when he’d lifted the horn, he’d allowed himself to hope that he was still who he used to be, that his gift hadn’t disappeared, that he still had something valuable to offer the world. And the world had answered back with a resounding yes.
The event coordinator, a stressed woman named Patricia who’d been on the verge of a nervous breakdown when the saxophonist left, now wore an expression of almost religious gratitude. The crisis had been averted, and more than that, transformed into something memorable that the guests would talk about for years. Richard Westbrook had already told her that Mateo’s performance had made the evening, that it had given his charity gala the kind of unique moment that money couldn’t buy.
Patricia approached Mateo when there was a brief lull. “Thank you,” she said simply. “You saved us tonight. If there’s anything I can ever do for you, please let me know.” Mateo nodded, accepting the thanks, but his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about the old alto saxophone in his tiny apartment, the one that had been his mother’s, the one he hadn’t touched in two years. He was thinking about the pieces he used to love playing, the composers who’d spoken to his soul. He was thinking about the conservatory, about the degree he’d been so close to finishing.
Mateo woke up the next morning to the sound of his phone buzzing incessantly on his nightstand. He’d gotten home around two in the morning, exhausted and emotionally drained from the events at the gala. His embouchure still ached slightly from playing—a good ache, the kind he’d forgotten existed. He’d fallen asleep almost immediately, his uniform still draped over the chair where he’d tossed it.