Perfect Melody

by Ava Danielle

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publisher.

  Copyright © 2017 by Ava Danielle

  Cover design: Jeanie’s Jewels

  Editor: Sarah Banks

  Formatting: Ava Danielle

  Promotion: Country Reads Promotions

  Dedicated to every music lover out there!

  “With the right music, you either forget everything or you remember everything.”

  A girl should be like a butterfly.

  Pretty to see.

  But hard to catch.

  It’s a quote my father used to say. I shouldn’t just be someone’s girlfriend; I should be someone they had to fight really hard to get. It’s a quote I had often taken for granted during high school. I always assumed I would have to date and never be single during high school. It would be the memories years later when thinking back to high school. Cheerleader dating Jock. Though, I was never a cheerleader. I was the girl in Music class. Any music class they offered, I took. But I didn’t want to be in band. I wanted to be the girl that just followed her passion of playing the violin. That was enough for me. But I needed the boyfriend. The boy that would be there in between classes. The couple kissing against the lockers kinda girl I wanted to be. So, against my father’s quote, I just enjoyed the high school experience with boys. I wasn’t a slut. I never had sex with them. But I enjoyed their company.

  However, now I’m in my mid-twenties. Living on my own. Deeply believing in my father’s quote. I no longer date. I hadn’t in years. I’ve focused solely on my career to make it as a violinist. It’s my passion. My free spirited best friend Isabelle, my blonde sidekick, because every brunette needs a blonde best friend, says I’m too focused on my violin. I should marry it. Don’t think the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.

  Every night, after a days’ worth of practicing, I post a new video on YouTube. It’s only a hobby of mine knowing damn well you can’t make ends meet off the Internet. It did turn out to be one of my best decisions – starting a YouTube account – because I was discovered.

  Attending Juilliard was always my dream. My father helped me with this dream. “Money can go far, but it’s your talent that will determine the outcome.” My father is always full of wisdom. He is the most positive man I’ve ever met. He’s my role model actually. He was a single father, but you couldn’t tell because he powered through it with so much determination. He worked. Daily. But I never came short. I would join him after school and during summer breaks. He was a music director, composed lots of music for movies. He’s even featured me in movies playing the violin once I’ve gotten good enough. At the age of fifteen, I never thought I was good enough, but my father proved me wrong when he introduced me into the world of movies and showed me the ropes. I didn’t mind hearing myself featured in a movie filled with moronic drama. “There’s a tune for every emotion.” (His words) He certainly believed in my talent.

  Softly I draw the bow across the strings, a smooth, slow, and gentle sound. Quietly I ease into the song, humming along as I play one note after the other. It’s my own creation, my own sound that can’t be copied. It’s this tale in my head I follow – a girl running the fields on top of the green mountain. She’s smiling – the music becomes harder and faster – she sees him running towards her, she’s trying to catch up to him – the music fades back to quiet – he’s turning around and walks away, leaving her behind – and the sound slowly fades away. It’s the same story I see over and over again when I play this tune, each time in a different way.

  Maybe it’s the story I see of my parents, envisioning my own mother. The mother I’ve never gotten the chance to meet. She passed away giving birth to me. It was hard on my father, but he talked about her daily, still does. She was the love of his life, the love maybe someday I could have. He knew, once he laid eyes on her, she was going to be the one, and he would fight for her if he had to. She was the one he wanted to be with and only she. That’s the kind of love people only dream of. My father lived it. But had to let it go when I was born. He promises I’m just like her. Fearless. Hopeful. A dreamer. I, just like my mother, have shown I make my dreams reality.

  Living ina small apartment in New York city might not be ideal with the high rent prices and only living off my father’s paycheck and the small amount of money I make waitressing. It’s not much, but it’s a contribution, after all I don’t intend on living off my father’s money forever. I guess it’s in my favor I’m an only child. Why did he never remarry? Have more children? My mother was his everything, he never could and would replace her, she was the one for him, losing her meant he’d never love again. To a certain extent, I understand, but I couldn’t imagine living life without sharing my bed with someone. He must’ve been lonely?

  Work was, as usual, exhausting. The number of tourists that fill New York City is crazy. So many languages flood the restaurant I waitress at. I have a hard time understanding some customers as I take their order, but I think I’ve mastered the freakishly fraudulent smile. Somehow, they still manage to get exactly what they’ve ordered, so I must be fluent in various languages.

  Arriving at my tiny New York apartment I’ve managed to make home with my own unique style, I hang my purse on the coat hanger by the door, made entirely out of pallets. Every DIY video of existence has been executed in one way in my apartment. Every piece of furniture is custom made by me. I have this uncanny relationship with the hammer. My father makes fun of me because every weekend, when I’m not working, I’m at his house, in the garage, building something new for my apartment.

  “Alexa, turn on music,” I speak into the room as I raid my refrigerator for some Chinese leftovers and listen to my favorite jazz station which usually inspires me. My daily routine is after I get home from my shift at work, to drive my neighbor’s crazy with the sound of the violin. We have a new tenant across the hall from my apartment and he’s not a big fan of it, that’s for sure. I’ve complained about this man since the day he moved in because he’ll bang like a maniac on my door, I answer, he calls me all sorts of names in the book, and then cranks his heavy metal music trying to prove a point I don’t get. He’s lived there about two months now and that’s two months too long for me. I’ve been in this building for two years and no one has ever complained, on the contrary, most of them say they turn their televisions off just to listen to me play. This new guy must be a special kind of stupid for being so rude.

  While eating my fancy left over sweet and sour chicken with fried rice, I take out all the hair clips I had pinned into my curly dark brown hair, just to keep it from being a nuisance at the restaurant. Thirteen hairclips get tossed onto my table as I sit and overlook the city lights of my beautiful New York. The twinkle of the lights always gets me and then I try to look past the lights. Who lives there? What are they doing? What is their lifestyle like? Millions of questions distract me more than any television show could. As I’m dreaming away my phone rings.

  Excited I answer.

  But the caller didn’t sound good.

  “Hey, Melody, it’s Rosa, I need you to come over as soon as possible,” a frantic call from my father’s housekeeper has me running towards the door before she e
ven finishes her next sentence, “I don’t know if he’s breathing,” she cries.

  “Call 911 Rosa,” I demand as I slam the door to my apartment behind me and jump into the next available taxi heading straight out of the city.

  It’s over.

  My three-year relationship is over in the blink of an eye. Maybe not in a blink, because I did just walk in and catch her in bed with another man, unexpectedly. But was it really so unexpected? She’s been different for the past few weeks, an indication I should’ve checked into it sooner.

  I came home earlier from work than I usually do. She wasn’t expecting me and clearly neither was he. The guy jumped out of bed quicker than she did when he noticed me in the doorframe of my own apartment.

  He ran.

  She didn’t.

  She had made herself extremely comfortable in my bed. Refused to move actually. And I still stood staring right at her. The guy, never cared for what his name was when he introduced himself, pulled his jeans over his junk, “no time for underwear?” I thought to myself. He was out there before she could say anything, still staring at me with those “oh shit” eyes.

  Actually, I assumed women run and feel embarrassed or even apologetic. But not her. She was frozen, it’s as if she can’t believe this actually just happened.

  “It’s not what I think?” I say the words for her.

  She says nothing.

  “I didn’t think you would be home until later?”

  She says nothing yet again.

  Anger boiled so much inside of me now, by her mere silence, not the fact she fucked some other guy in my bed. “Get out,” I throw her clothes at her, the button of her white blouse actually catching the corner of her eye.

  “Elliot,” she whispers.

  “I don’t want to hear it, Samantha,” I hand her the favorite blue stilettos I had spent big money on because she wanted them so badly at the time but just couldn’t afford it with her nursing paycheck.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers as she slowly maneuvers her body into her clothes.

  “Actually, you know what, I’m curious, how long this has been going on?” my eyes burning into hers, as to where I used to check out her cleavage, I no longer care.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yeah, it does matter to me, so how long, Sam?” she hates it when I call her that.

  “Only a few days,” she’s starting to get angry.

  “Oh, that’s just great. Only a few days but good enough to fuck him in my bed,” I start to yell.

  “Our bed,” she protests.

  “You’ve got some nerve, get the fuck out,” my middle finger pointing towards the door when actually it’s pointing at her.

  “I’m going,” she slowly, too slowly, leaves the bedroom.

  “Faster, I can’t stand looking at you anymore,” I head straight towards my kitchen to get a beer.

  Maybe it’s for the best? This is my chance. The chance to finally up and leave as I’d always planned. Apparently, this relationship hadn’t been as strong as I’d hoped or assumed. It’s over just like that. The sad thing is, I actually loved this girl and was severely close to proposing to her. She was going to be my forever and then I find her in bed with Billy Bob Joe. I don’t know what his name is nor do I care.

  I came to Rochester, NY to study at Eastman School of Music. I was trying to make it out in the world as a piano player, but who isn’t these days? I’m good. I’m exceptional the teachers say, but I find myself not good enough. I met Samantha at the school my freshman year. We clicked right away. Actually, it’s like you see in the movies.

  Girl looks at Guy.

  Guy looks at Girl.

  Instant connection.

  We dated, we found ourselves spending more time together than with our friends. It was so serious, junior year we decided to move into an apartment. The apartment was in my name because her dad didn’t approve of our relationship. She kept it a secret and had him continue paying for the dorm room she was never staying at, but most of her belongings she kept there. I had planned on asking her to marry me after we graduate, when it was time to fully live our lives, but we see where that just ended.

  I pull the white satin sheets off the bed, the ugly white satin sheets she so loved. Now we know why. She loved the slippery silky feeling between her legs. Said it turned her on. I’m sure it wasn’t the only thing that turned her on.

  Realizing I might be angrier than I had given myself credit for, I sit at the edge of the bed contemplating my next move. I could go to Europe. Start a career there. I could travel with my keyboard until I can afford a piano and just become a street artist. My teacher though swears, “You better never become one of those street talents. You have so much potential Elliot, do something with that.” She would beg me to promise I would do something useful with my talent, to become something of myself. And yet I sit and ponder what that something is.

  As I open the door to the linen closet, I see the stack of paperwork that has accumulated since the day we moved in, I come across the audition form for the New York Philharmonic. I gaze over the words on this sheet of paper with a slew of questions running through my mind. Should I? Is it too late?

  You will never change your life

  Until you change your daily routine.

  The words my mother would preach to me nearly daily, what seemed daily. She’s my rock, the one person I run to with problems. Speaking of which, maybe she can help my continuous battle of auditioning in New York or not.

  “Mom,” I say after I’ve dialed her number and she picked up after the first ring.

  “Honey, nice to hear from you,” she lives all the way in the city and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me coming to visit. It’s a six-hour drive from Rochester and since it’s summer it would make for a fun drive.

  “I’m coming to visit,” I smile into the receiver as I’m excited to escape for a little while.

  “Oh sweetheart, that’s great, I’ll get the guestroom ready for you, are you headed out now?”

  “I’ll leave early in the morning, I should be there around lunch time,” I pull the suitcase from the top shelf of my closet.

  “Are you bringing Samantha?” For a moment there, I had actually forgotten about her.

  “No Mom, it’s just me,” I hear the sadness in her voice as she goes to say she looks forward to seeing me and we hang up before the conversation gets too awkward.

  Mom and I never were the speaking on the phone type. We can sit for hours on the back porch and talk, but when it comes to phone conversations, they fall flat. Maybe we both yearn for the eye contact while having a conversation.

  As I’m packing my suitcase my cell phone dings.

  SAMANTHA: Maybe we should talk?

  Ha! That girl is funny. I continue to pack my bag with all essentials.

  SAMANTHA: You don’t need to ignore me. We can be adults about this.

  But I do just that. Ignore her, wishing I hadn’t just spent the last few years of my life on her. For now, she’s just a distant memory.

  ELLIOT: Come by tomorrow to get your things; leave the key on the kitchen table. Have a nice life.

  SAMANTHA: Will you be home to talk?

  ELLIOT: Follow above directions.

  I’m cold to her and my bruised ego might retaliate at the moment, but guys have feelings too and don’t like to be cheated on any more than a woman does.

  SAMANTHA: Jerk!

  Excitement flows through me as I realize I just made it to the station in time for the subway to show up. It’s late, so I don’t expect anyone but a few drunks and insomniacs to be riding. As I walk towards a seat I step into some yellow liquid I had overlooked. “Shit.” I try to wipe my feet sliding them along the subway, scraping them, but the curiosity of what it may be has me disgusted. Honestly, some days I love the subway, it’s quick and easy, but other days when there’s this rat piss smell in the air and I step into some unknown liquid, I regret not owning a car. Who really wants to drive i
n NYC though?

  As I finally make it out of the city to my father’s house, I tip the taxi driver that did his superlative to get me to the house from the station after I rattled on the story and worry of my father. Running into the house, I nearly trip over the suitcase placed by the front door.

  “Dad?” I panic as I frantically search everywhere and find no one, “Rosa?” I scream but no response. Opening the garage door, I notice the car hasn’t moved. Perhaps the ambulance came? Worry rushes through me as I try to find the phone when I notice through the kitchen window the neighbor on her front porch, wondering if maybe she knows what could’ve happened.

  “Hey,” I introduce myself, “Melody,” I lean in to shake her hand, “I was wondering if you might know if an ambulance came by or see anyone leave? I received a call from my father’s house cleaner he wasn’t feeling good,” she stops me mid-sentence.

  “Yeah, they showed up after she had already taken him to the hospital. She couldn’t wait,” the blonde woman who looks to be in her fifty’s, maybe even my father’s age, smiles at me and wishes me luck and hopes everything is well as I run back to my house to call an Uber. Just as I was doing so, Rosa comes back into the house.

  “Melody, you’re here,” she greets me with a hug.

  “How’s my father?” I’m curious.

  “He’s fine, he’s in the hospital for observation. Would you like to me to take you?” she is ready to walk out the door before I could even say yes.

  Rosa has been my father’s housecleaner since I was a little girl. She would be there when I returned from school, during the summer, every day Monday through Friday for the past fifteen years. She was the one I ran to with female issues. I talked to her about boys. She was my mother figure since I had no mother. She’s taught me a lot when my father wasn’t around to teach me.