Unfinished Sympathy

by Amélie S. Duncan

  I nodded and decided not to tell them about the party. I didn’t want to hear any more of Quinn’s negative theory on what the implications might mean. But undoubtedly, Paul Crane’s arrival at Emono Games could well be our beginning… and our end.

  Quinn, Kyle, and I grouped over to the train. Once there, we separated for the weekend. They headed over to their place on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, while I left for my place on the lower. A two-bedroom apartment in a renovated high-rise with neutral carpet, stainless steel appliances, and marbleized countertops. Most of the furnishings belonged to my roommate Destiny, who spent little time here since she worked as a flight attendant. Her style was minimalist though upscale, meaning we had restoration hardware couches and seats, a flat screen television, and locally known artists’ paintings in frames—but very few accents. That is, until I’d bought two used bookcases from a last-minute apartment sale in the building. My furniture was still in the basement at my mom’s house. The belongings that didn’t take up too much space, at least. I didn’t blame her for making me throw away a lot of my stuff. There was no room. Like there wasn’t room for me to stay at my mom’s house.

  That hadn’t been the truth.

  I ignored the wave of sadness washing over me and walked into the apartment, putting away the catered food from work and throwing my interview clothes in the laundry hamper. Then I did what I had wanted to do since Paul Crane had come to Emono Games. I turned on my computer to listen to his music. I could’ve checked Spotify, but I wanted to watch him too, so I chose YouTube.

  With a quick search, a bunch of listings came up. Some included the songs of top stars he’d collaborated with. He played many instruments but exceled at the piano. And I knew just the song I wanted to watch him play: Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 2. There was nothing hotter, and Paul Crane didn’t disappoint.

  The video listed was one of his concerts in Los Angeles, in an open outdoor arena that showed capacity. A full orchestra was poised and ready behind the raised platform where he was seated before a sleek grand piano.

  The light of day and of the stage shone down upon him in his tuxedo, dark curls damp in the sun’s heat. His head was slightly bowed and his eyes half-lidded as he played. Paul’s hands moved with exquisite fluidity and elegance as he steered the music, and I followed.

  My eyes were fixed on the screen, not daring to blink should I miss the slightest nuance in his presentation. I floated when he glided over the piano keys. His fingers danced as light as a brush of feathers on skin. Then the piece climbed. My veins filled with adrenaline when he pounded the keys in forte. The camera closed in on his face. His eyes dark, his face taut. The slight opening of his full lips. I flushed. So sensual. It mesmerized me. He was wildly arousing. Undoubtedly, I would say watching and listening to Paul play Rachmaninov 2 was better than sex—at least the times I’d tried sex.

  With this musical inspiration, I found my own. In my imagination, my chin was in position. My hands held the bow. I played my violin along with him.

  When the video ended, I glanced around, even though I was alone, and laughed as I dared click on the button for a repeat. I was hot and breathless just watching him play. Perhaps Kyle was right. I needed to get laid.

  It wouldn’t be Paul Crane to do it with… I was hardly his type.

  But just who was Paul Crane’s type? A quick Google search left me more puzzled than anything else. The women they pictured him dating were diverse in appearance and age, but after reading their background, I found their common trait: success. Besides being gorgeous and stylish, they had résumés to die for. One was the CEO of a startup company, another a child rights advocate. He dated women that not only had their shit together, they worked to change the world. Although his most recent conquest was a deviation: Siena, whom I’d deemed a nauseatingly far-too-positive songstress long ago.

  I had no reason to compare myself to them. Paul had been kind, but he hadn’t acted like he was interested in me on a personal level. And even if he were, he might work with Emono Games, and the conflict of interest could jeopardize my job, which was the very last thing I needed.

  Still, despite the impossibility of Paul and I, I spent more time with his music, going from song to song. I would think I’d found my favorite, but then another one started, and I soon realized it would be hard to choose. He was extraordinary.

  I forced myself to move away from the videos to begin my usual routine of showering away the day. I headed to the bathroom, but not before I turned up the volume of Paul’s music. Under the spray of water, desperate to relieve the pressure, I slid a hand between my thighs and stroked my clit as I listened. But then I remembered I might have to work with him, and having a sexual fantasy would not make me any more comfortable, if anything it would make it doubly more difficult. I turned the knob to a cooler setting.

  The music was loud, but I couldn’t mistake the chime of my phone. I let it go into voicemail. However, when I climbed out, it rang again.

  I pursed my lips. Who could it be? Destiny was still flying, and Quinn and Kyle hadn’t transitioned to outside-of-work friends. The only person left that might call was Ryan. He must have heard from Logan and was ready to chew me out for ratting about his plan to place me in Quality Assurance. He’d rarely ever waited to contact me about whatever upset him.

  Snatching my towel from where it hung, I dropped my robe but carried them both along with me as I rushed over to answer the call.

  My voice came out as a vicious bark. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Aubrey.”

  My mouth dropped open. This was not Ryan.

  I rushed and turned down the music on the computer. “Hello? Who’s calling?”

  Please be a wrong number.

  “It’s Paul Crane. I called to, first, apologize for what I said to you earlier. I don’t like underhanded tricks against colleagues. I never tolerate it in my company. You were under fire, and you didn’t lose your cool like I would have. I admire that.”

  I smiled, even though he couldn’t see me. “Thank you.”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?” he asked, his rich voice carrying through the line.

  “No. I was naked, I just got out of the shower. Oh, my God. Did I say naked to you? Why did I tell you that?” I babbled.

  “Naked is how showering is usually done.” His amusement was clear in his attempt not to laugh outright. “Is that Rachmaninov 2?”

  “YouTube,” I mumbled rushing over to press the pause button. My skin burned. “I listen to classical music sometimes…. it just came on.”

  “I’m sure it did or doth the lady protest too much,” he teased.

  “All right, I looked for your music online,” I admitted. “I was curious, since you came to work today. It was your performance in Los Angeles.”

  “I remember the performance. You’re a Rachmaninov 2 lover. Now, that’s intriguing.” The delight in his voice made my heart race. My lips spread into a wide, lazy grin. I leaned on the wall and immediately startled at the cold surface. That was when I realized I hadn’t wrapped my body with the towel very well. I dropped it and put my blue terry robe on with one hand while I enthused, “Your performance is by far the best.”

  “Thank you,” he replied easily. “Aren’t you wondering how I have your number, or why I called?”

  “I assumed your call has something to do with the party,” I told him. “You can tell me the rest.”

  “No, my call isn’t about the party. Gary gave me your audio team’s information, should I have questions.”

  My brows rose. “And you called me? I’m sure Logan and Ryan probably have more information about working with the team.”

  “I believe Ryan and Logan gave me everything they had to give in the presentation.” There was a hesitation on his end of the line. The silence reminded me of his behavior in the conference room and made me listen carefully to what he might say next. “What would help me decide is the feeling. The inspiration. Since the meeting, I’ve
been thinking of you. I believe you and your violin can help me.”

  I hadn’t expected this and paused as long as he had. “You think my playing the violin would really help you?” I asked, my voice rising in bafflement.

  “I know it would.” The confident man from the meeting returned. For a moment, I thought he’d tell me what was on his mind, but just as quickly his tone switched to a professional speaking to a subordinate. “I have an early meeting and the gym, but I’ll be free afterward. Come over to my place tomorrow morning with your violin.”

  His voice was friendly, but it was clear he expected me to do as he requested. Perhaps this approach was the way he spoke to everyone, and while I fought to tamper down some of my excitement, it hit me.

  “I don’t have my violin. It’s at my parents’…” I hesitated only another moment. “I mean my mom’s house; my father is deceased. What I’m trying to say is I didn’t mislead you earlier today. I don’t play anymore.”

  “I’m sorry about your father.” He followed those words up with an adequate amount of silence to pay respect to my father’s memory. I searched the room for something to hold my attention. It was still too soon after my father’s death to mention it without some form of emotion creeping in.

  “When was the last time you played?” Paul asked more gently, pulling my attention back to him.

  A pang rose in my chest at the memory. “A year and a half ago.”

  “How about before that?” he asked.

  “Hours every day for eighteen years,” I honestly answered.

  “That’s what I thought,” he replied. The pleasure in his voice was hard to miss. “Same here, playing now twenty-five years. You don’t need your violin. I have one you can use and keep, if you’d like.”

  “No, that’s all right,” I said quickly. His offer was generous, but I barely knew him.

  “I can understand your discomfort, but my stepmother, Lily, has an organization that provides instruments to gifted musicians around the world. I’m honestly impatient to hear you play again… It’s all I want to hear right now.”

  My heart skipped a beat at his flattery, but I was curious. “What if I don’t come tomorrow?”

  “Then I pass on Emono Games,” he said, with obvious irony. “There are other game companies, you know.”

  I laughed, and he joined me. He had a playfulness I found most attractive.

  “What you’re proposing sounds like blackmail.”

  “That’s one way to look at it,” he said without shame. “Are you turning down my offer?”

  “No,” I said, though I had tensed. “Did you ask at Emono if I can come over to your house?”

  “No,” Paul admitted. “I asked no one for permission. You’d be doing it as a favor, but it may help me decide if I want to work with Emono. To be honest, I’d rather you not to share with anyone you’re coming over. I know that’s a lot, and I’m asking as a personal favor, but I promise you it’s about music, and I’ll treat your performance respectfully.”

  He was suave and persuasive, and tried to make his offer professional, but there was a nagging thought at the back of my mind that we were doing something wrong.

  My bosses would be furious if they’d discovered I’d visited the home of a producer they wanted to collaborate with on. If they found out I saw him before his decision, and he passed on working with them, the least of my worries would be them ending my contract. Still, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that might guarantee my involvement in the soundtrack and advance my career. Could I pass it up?

  “Didn’t you used to play in Morse Hall at Juilliard?” he wondered, breaking into my thoughts.

  He’d seen me there? “Yes. I used the room as often as I could.”

  “See? You’re speaking to a fan,” he added.

  “What if I already have plans tomorrow?” I delayed playfully, as I’d pretty much decided I’d go but didn’t want him to think I had no social life.

  “Are you available, Ms. Irving?” he asked. His voice was deep and sexy, and convincing enough to make me say what I’d wanted to tell him all along.

  “Yes, Mr. Crane, and yes, I’ll come over tomorrow.” I’ll just be careful.

  “Great,” he said with pleasure. “I must go now, but I’ll text you the address. Or should I send someone to pick you up?”

  “No, thanks,” I replied gleefully. “I can reach you by train. See you tomorrow. Thank you.”

  The second I pressed the button to end the call, I let out a cheer. I would play for Paul Crane, a dream for any musician. He genuinely wanted to hear me play and had even called himself a fan!

  Surely, he was teasing, but I was elated at the idea of playing for him—although nervous, since I was well out of practice. Maybe I could get my violin back if he wants to meet more than once? I shouldn’t take an instrument when I already have one. Besides, my parents had worked hard to buy mine. Despite everything that had happened, my daddy, like my mom, had believed in me.

  Mom.

  I was moving on impulse now, grabbing my phone and dialing my mom’s number to share the news. Eagerly, I let it ring and ring until a voice came on the line.

  “Aubrey, why are you calling?” Harsh and cold, it was the voice of my sister, Faith.

  “I called to speak with Mom,” I said just as frostily. “Please hand her the phone.”

  “Why? So she can listen to you whine and cry about your problems?” she asked critically. “I’m not letting you talk to her. You’ll just upset her, like you always do.”

  Her words stuck a pin in the joy that had ballooned inside me moments ago. I clutched the phone more tightly to cover my trembling. A mantra I had been practicing since the last time I’d tried to contact my mother months ago came into my head. I can speak to my mom. “I won’t upset her. I want to hear her voice, please—”

  “No, she’s resting and I’m not waking her up now that she’s settled down,” my sister said loudly over my plea.

  I took a deep breath. “If Mom’s agitated, call her doctor. Is she taking her medication?”

  “Are you taking yours?” she countered.

  “I don’t need medication and haven’t for a long time,” I said, feeling my voice rising.

  “If you’re going to be difficult, I’m hanging up,” she replied. “You just sent less money for her care than two weeks ago. You didn’t lose your job again, did you? I swear if I had half your opportunities, I’d be rich.”

  “No. The rent has increased. It said so in the card I sent with the money.”

  She snorted derisively. “What use is a card when we have bills? You know Mom can’t work.”

  “It wouldn’t be so bad if you’d help out. Have you had any luck with finding a job yourself?”

  “What? You think I should leave Mom at home by herself?”

  “I sent you the information about hiring a nurse,” I pointed out. “The health plan covers a day or evening nurse.”

  “I’m not leaving Mom with a stranger who’ll barely look after her, even if they are a nurse, or whatever.”

  “That doesn’t happen—and if it did, you could report it,” I replied. She always had an excuse.

  “Where’s your head? Lost in the clouds again, I see. Now whatever you have cooked up, forget it. Give a care about someone else besides yourself. You know our parents struggled, and you did whatever you wanted to do. You’re selfish and useless.”

  Her words stung. Guilt crushed me and stopped the retorts I so desperately wanted to give.

  “I’m hanging up,” I snapped, but I wasn’t quick enough.

  “Yeah, the truth hurts. Keep on running away from it,” she managed to say before I hung up.

  Paul’s offer was real, but she wouldn’t listen or care. I threw the phone on the couch before rushing over to the bathroom to place my hands on the edges of the sink. The pain exploded in my head as my sister’s taunts caught fire. They played on repeat. Over and over. Louder and louder. Ravaging. Scorching. I
t was too much. But it was the truth. I had failed. I was hopeless.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and took a few short breaths.

  I’m not that Aubrey anymore, I repeated in my head. I won’t do that again.

  Hurriedly, I went back to the shower, took off my robe, and turned up the water temperature so high it scalded me. It was the only way I could switch my brain off. It was the only way I could stop the pain.

  Once I stepped under the hot spray, I let it run until it turned as cold as ice. Only then did I dry off and think of Paul Crane. He had sent his address in a text, but I knew I couldn’t now. I heaved a sigh and sent back a reply.

  10:07 P.M. Sorry, but something came up. I can’t go tomorrow. See you at the party.

  Aubrey

  I woke up on the couch at four a.m. with a tension headache. Had I really turned down a chance to work with Paul Crane? After my call with Faith, I hadn’t been in the mood to judge the situation objectively. If I had, I wouldn’t have canceled. In fact, I’d not only let a rare opportunity slip from my hand, I’d willingly released it.

  I brooded on the couch, debating what to do. Then I gave in and called Destiny. She never slept, even after working on a ten-hour international flight.

  She answered at the first ring and I gave her a quick rundown of everything that happened, right up to sending the cancellation text.

  “Aubrey, your sister is a straight up witch, but you already know that,” Destiny said, and I didn’t disagree. Then she said, “But forget about her for a bit. Let’s talk about Paul Crane. That man wants you. And, let’s be blunt, he wants to have sex with you.”

  I scoffed and lay back on the couch with a smile stretching across my face.

  “Where did ‘he wants sex’ come from after everything I told you?” I asked her. “You’re insane. You think every man is after sex.”

  “They are, but hear me out,” she said, speaking over my balk. “He held you on the train—”