Gavin and Roxanne ✔️

ONE

"Cymbal! Cymbal! Five bars after number 28. Where's my suspended cymbal?"

Shit. That's me. Second time this week I've missed that entrance. At least it's only happened in rehearsal — so far.

David Clark's right arm drops to his side, baton in hand, and our run-through of Debussy's La Mer comes to an unceremonious halt. Several of my Oregon Symphony colleagues cock their heads back toward the percussion section; I flash an embarrassed half-grin in response. It's the best I can do under the circumstances.

"All right, I think we need a break," says Maestro Clark, his usually regal voice adopting a resigned tone. "Everybody take ten, and we'll start back up with the second movement, from the top."

Most of the other musicians set down their instruments and file off the stage to chat or get a quick drink. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, bending at the waist and placing my hands on my knees. In this position I exhale slowly, attentively, like an expectant mother weathering a contraction.

Sleep has been difficult to come by lately. I'm in bed by midnight most nights — but 'in bed' doesn't necessarily mean 'asleep'. My body's ready to shut down and get some rest, but my mind refuses to go along with the plan. Memories from the past seven years flit in and out of my consciousness, with single words and gestures from seemingly mundane conversations coming into razor-sharp focus.

One A.M.

Was it a time I said this word or that, a time I looked at her in a certain way, a time I cracked a joke when I should have shown concern?

Two A.M.

Did I do too much? Say too much? Did I come across as needy? Clingy? Desperate? Did she think I was holding her back?

Three A.M.

Where is she now? Is she losing sleep like I am? Or has she barely even given a second thought to me — to us?

So many questions. Most of which I'll never be able to answer.

Eventually my brain finishes tormenting me, waving a miniature white flag to admit even it needs some rest now and then. Because I can't resist the urge to punish myself one more time, I look to my left. Nothing's changed. She's still not there. She's not coming back, and neither is Duke. Because in the span of one awful week, I lost the two things in my life that meant more to me than anything else.

We'll start with the 'she' who's not there. Her name is Tierney Rose Reed, and she's the unequivocal love of my life. Up until three weeks ago, I was the love of her life, too — or at least I was under that impression. She's the only woman I've ever been in love with, and the only one I ever wanted to be in love with. Lush, billowing crimson hair halfway down her back. Deep pools for eyes in a shade of emerald green that would make a tropical rainforest jealous. Delectable Irish country lass meets SoCal beach bunny. Intelligent. Kind. Talented. Hilarious. Passionate. Tierney had it all, and for seven glorious years, so did I.

We met as undergrads at UCLA and hit it off right away; after a couple of dates, we knew we had something special. We took turns supporting each other through grad school, and Tierney started her career as a mental health counselor. Yet when I won my Oregon Symphony audition three years ago, no one was more thrilled for me than Tierney, and she gladly left a job she loved to move up the west coast with me.

She worked hard to reestablish her career up here in Portland, and mine started to take off at the same time. Sure, we had our rough moments like any couple, but life was good, and our future together was taking shape. So when she asked me to go for a walk with her on that cool, drizzly evening a few weeks back, I couldn't possibly conceive how dramatically different my life would be by the time we returned.