by Jordyn White
“Didn’t you say he looked shocked to see you?” Isabella asks, returning to the topic at hand.
I nod, reliving that moment when Erik met my eyes. He looked as mortified to see me as I’d felt about seeing him. I still feel the echoes of what it was like to pass him in the aisle, my body tuned into him like a beacon.
Then I remember what happened next, how I fumbled over my own fingers like I’d never played the piano before in my life. Sure, I pulled it around in the end, but I wasn’t happy with my performance, and clearly Professor Reinecht wasn’t either.
Erik, on the other hand, played like a god.
“Ugh. I can’t believe he’s in the competition. I’m so screwed.”
“Oh, come on,” Isabella says, reassuringly, leaning forward in her chair. “You’re always nervous about this stuff.”
“And you never have any reason to be,” Chloe adds, kicking her feet slightly behind her.
I know what they’re talking about. If I’m forced to be honest with myself, I know I don’t have as much faith in my abilities as maybe I should. Sometimes I still can’t believe how far I’ve come as a musician. It doesn’t seem like a girl like me should have the kind of success I’ve had. That self-doubt is a recurring theme I can’t seem to shake. This would not be the first time my girls have had to give me encouragement before a competition or performance.
But this is different. This is Erik.
“You don’t understand,” I say soberly. “His music is like something from another planet. I can’t beat that. I know I can’t.”
Sam huffs next to me. “Well, not if you think like that you won’t. No one’s unbeatable. Especially when they’re playing against you, girl.”
Isabella and Chloe both nod in agreement. I don’t argue. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.
“Thanks for your support,” I say glumly.
“Give it your best,” Isabella says.
I nod. I will. It probably won’t matter in the end, but I will.
“I still want to know what he’s doing here,” Sam says sternly. She sounds like she’s ready to hunt Erik down and hogtie him somewhere as punishment for hurting her friend. Knowing Sam, she’s probably thinking something along those lines. It’ll only get worse when Jack’s in the mix. They’ve been known for taking matters into their own hands before. After all, they were the ones to come up with the prank that earned us our name, the Firework Girls.
Of course, that was our freshman year in college. We’ve all grown up a lot since then. Sam and Jack are getting too old for those kinds of shenanigans.
I glance at the mischievous look on Sam’s face.
At least, I think they are.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk to him?” Chloe asks. “Even if only to find out what happened?”
“I know what happened,” I say firmly. “He abandoned me. I don’t give a shit why he did it.”
By the time I’m in my one-on-one session with Professor Reinecht the next day, I’m feeling a little better. After talking to my girls (and later Jack, when he showed up for a late-night raid on Sam’s pantry), I feel like I have a kind of armor around me. I’m not here alone. I have my friends. And like Jack said, Hartman belongs to me more than it does to Erik. “Let him avoid you,” Jack had said.
That part is easier said than done, it turns out. I have been glancing around for Erik everywhere I go, especially in the music building. But I haven’t seen him. I’ve had at least one session of all my classes this semester, so I know we don’t share any, thank God. But lately I haven’t gone to the Gizmo—the college’s on-campus cafe I tend to haunt—and I took a different walking route this morning. I usually walk along the outskirts of campus, but didn’t want to risk seeing him.
In session, I can tell Professor Reinecht is a little miffed about my screw up on stage yesterday. “What happened with your audition, Ashley? That was pathetic.”
“Sorry,” I say, my cheeks flushing a bit. “It was something personal. I won’t let it happen again.”
He grunts and taps the sheet music for my competition piece, indicating the conversation is over and he wants me to play. I’m getting off easy. He’s a notoriously tough task-master. Some students complain about it, but given how brutal the music world is, he’d be doing no one any favors by treating us with kid gloves. I like that he’s blunt, because then when he praises me I know I’m really doing something right.
As I begin to play, he paces next to the piano with gusto, another habit students find annoying. Several measures in, he gives a sharp, “Ah!”
I stop obediently.
“Listen.” He taps his ear. He plays the left-hand only of two bars. “This. Not this.” He plays it again, and I can hear the difference. “Understand?”
I nod. Professor Reinecht is a man of few words. He’s told me before he likes that I can hear his instruction without him having to waste a bunch of words on it. He’s unlike any professor at Hartman, that’s for sure, but he’s my favorite. He retired from his own successful career after playing in celebrated halls all over the world and he’s brilliant. He was one of the reasons I wanted to continue my graduate degree at Hartman.
“Again.” He resumes his pacing.
I start over. When I get through the measure he just corrected he keeps pacing instead of stopping me, a good sign. We continue on this way until we’ve gone all the way through the number together.
He stops by the piano. “How are your practice sessions?”
I give him a rundown of my current routine and he nods with approval. “Double your time on this.” He taps the sheet music in front of me.
“Okay.”
“See you next week.”
I get up and gather the music together. “Do you think I’ll do all right in the competition?” I try not to sound nervous.
He nods, and I feel heartened. I expect him to say something encouraging. I can count on him for that almost as much as I can count on my Firework Girls. But what he says is this: “It’ll be a tough run this year.”
Feeling somewhat deflated, I pack my bag. I don’t want to ask why he thinks it’ll be a tough run.
I’d rather not hear him say it aloud.
After a few more days go by without running into Erik, I start to relax a bit. Whatever his schedule is, it doesn’t seem to overlap with mine. The fact that he’s at Hartman at all almost starts to fade into the background. The only time I really think about it is when I’m practicing for the competition, which I’ve been doing with gusto.
I added the Gizmo back into my routine yesterday, but today is the day I regret it. As I pick up my caramel macchiato from the barista, I turn to find Erik right behind me. I stop cold. He’s looking right at me, and God, he’s so close. Not invading-my-personal-space close, but yet again my body seems so in tune with his physical location, I feel like a moth being pulled to the flame.
I hold my ground though. He burned me once. That was more than enough.
“Hi Ashley,” he says quietly. “I’ve been looking for you.”
I frown at him. “Really? I’ve been avoiding you.”
He nods, contrite. Or he appears that way anyway. Who the hell knows what he’s really thinking? “Do you think we could talk?”
Oh now he wants to talk? Fuck that. I walk around him and head for the door. “Leave me alone.”
I leave the Gizmo and cross the patio to the campus grounds. He doesn’t follow me.
I’m disappointed that he doesn’t follow me.
I hate us both for that.
I don’t see him again until the competition that Friday. When they sent out the schedules, I knew I was bound to see him. They’ve grouped the pianists together and he plays immediately after I do. Of course.
There’s a lot of milling around the backstage of Kopp Hall. This competition doesn’t quite call for the formal gowns of many of the performances I’ve done, but nice dress is still required. I’m wearing a sapphire gown with a form-fitting bodice and
calf-length flowing skirt. As I do for any public performance, I’ve taken the time to style my hair so it’s flowing to my waist in gentle curls.
We first see one another from a distance. Or rather, this is the moment I first see him. Judging by the way he’s taking me in, I gather he noticed me a few moments before. He has a stunned, appreciative look on his face. I’m flattered in spite of myself, but that only makes me more frustrated. That fact that he looks so scrumptious in his suit coat and red tie is not helping matters.
His eyes meet mine. I look away. I head for the little table in the wings and check in with the assistant sitting there. She takes my name and gives me a number to hold up for the judges when I go on stage.
With this little bit of business done, I busy myself checking the program. A fellow second-year grad student is on stage, someone I’ve noticed has really improved since he’s been in the program. There are still four more players to get through before it’s my turn, and I can feel Erik right over there.
I glance at him. Our eyes meet for the briefest second before he looks away, like he’s been caught.
God, this is torture. My heart is racing, partly because I’m feeling trapped with nowhere to go and partly because he’s so damned handsome. Why is my body responding to him still? After all this time and after everything?
I’m an idiot.
I find a place to wait, as far away from him as I can reasonably get, and try to focus on why I’m here. Determinedly ignoring the pounding of my heart, I close my eyes and start to go through my pre-performance routine: deep breaths, mentally running through the piece, finger stretches.
I glance at him again. He’s sitting in a chair, legs outstretched, arms crossed, head slightly down. He looks sad, and like he’s a million miles away.
I soften slightly. An old impulse in me wants to go over and comfort him. But I don’t. We aren’t who we were all those years ago. And if he feels badly, he deserves it.
The performer before me finally takes his place at the piano.
As he begins his piece, I move closer so I can wait just off stage. Since I don’t have the end of my braid to play with, I keep running my thumb over the corner of my number placard.
As the performer before me finishes up and bows to the judges, I hear the footfalls of someone approaching from behind. By the way my skin is on alert, I know it has to be him. He settles to my right, waiting.
I look over at him. He’s looking at me too.
Why? I want to ask him. Why did you leave me like that?
Our eyes hold for a moment. The prior pianist leaves the stage, passing by us. My name is called. “Good luck,” Erik says softly.
I don’t answer. I don’t know if he’s trying to trip me up or not, but I’m not going to have a repeat of last time. I hold up my number for the judges, sit at the bench, and do my best to forget everything while playing Beethoven’s sonata.
At the conclusion I stand, hold my number again, and wait.
The judges call out my score—the highest pianist yet, I note—and dismiss me from the stage. My body hums as I draw closer to him. He’s waiting in the wings. I don’t look at him and I don’t wish him luck. I head straight back to the little table and turn in my number.
Then my old friend, the Pied Piper, begins to play.
I hover at the table, listening.
Slowly, I’m drawn closer to the stage, against my will. He is magic. His music ambrosia. I want to consume it.
I won’t get the judges’ comments until tomorrow, but if I were to describe my own performance, I would use words that have often been used to describe me in the past: “Flawless. Technically strong. A beautiful delivery.”
With a resigned sort of detachment, I know what I did and can call it as it was, without all the self-doubt that tends to hover over me like a black cloud. The fact that I did well doesn’t really matter though. Because if I were a judge describing Erik’s piece, I would say: “Stunning. Bold. Confident.”
He’s beyond technically proficient, and I already know I’ve been beat. If the judges don’t score him higher than me, they’re morons.
The next pianist on the program comes up next to me. “Pretty fucking good for a first year grad student,” she says, envy dripping off her every word.
“A first year grad?” I turn to her. Erik should be in his second year, like me. “Are you sure?”
She nods and we both listen as Erik receives his score.
A full twenty points above my own.
Chapter 12
Even though I’m in our favorite bar on Eighth street with Sam and Jack, I’m in a dark place. I don’t think it’s just because of the competition today either, but I’m not prepared to fully admit that to myself.
Jack has one lanky arm thrown around my shoulder, in an attempt to comfort me. Like Sam, Jack’s hair has a mind of its own, but it works for him. He’s got that shaggy Benedict Cumberbatch look going on that the girls love.
“He doesn’t belong here,” I say. “I don’t even know what he’s doing at rinky dink Hartman. He has his degree from fucking Juilliard.”
“Hartman isn’t rinky dink,” Sam says, calmly. “You’ve said yourself they have one of the best music programs in the country.”
“Everybody’s rinky dink compared to Juilliard.”
“You’re just being ridiculous and bitter.” Leave it to Sam to call it like she sees it. She’s probably right.
“Hey, hey,” Jack says somewhat jovially and squeezing my shoulders. He’s clearly trying to lighten my mood. I have to admit, it’s past time. I’ve sulked plenty. “It’s okay if Ashley wants to be ridiculous and bitter. That’s why we’re where the booze is.”
I crack half a smile. “We’re here so you can pick up on girls.”
He gives me a mock, insulted look and puts his hand to his chest. “I’m offended!” Sam and I exchange looks and she rolls her eyes amusedly.
“Uh-huh,” she says.
“I didn’t come here to pick up on girls.”
I look at him, waiting for it.
“These girls are here to pick up on me.”
“There it is,” Sam says smiling and I can’t help but smile too. Jack grins at me, satisfied.
I take a deep breath, trying to get myself under control. It’s been a long time since I haven’t placed first in a competition. Maybe I’m just not used to it and feeling a little raw. Maybe I’ll feel better tomorrow.
God, I hope so.
Giving a resolute sigh, I lean against Jack and look at Sam. She smiles at me knowingly and I shrug. “What am I going to do?”
“You’re going to drink another beer.” She raises my nearly empty bottle to get the attention of the waiter.
I take the bottle from her and drink down the rest. Sam’s right. For the moment anyway, that’s about all I can do.
The following Tuesday I head to the Gizmo for the first time since I saw Erik there before. It’s my favorite place for coffee, and I’m tired of avoiding it. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m going to see Erik plenty of times between now and the end of the year. It probably won’t be the last time he kicks my ass in a competition either. I may as well try to get used to it.
I go three whole times before running into him again. Just as I was starting to get relaxed about being here, I see him waiting at the end of the line at the counter, right as I’m coming in. I briefly consider leaving, but instead I sigh resolutely and come up behind him. I’m a big girl. I can handle this.
I do give myself twice the normal amount of space between us though.
He noticed me when I was coming through the door. At first it seemed like he wasn’t going to try to talk to me either, but after we shuffle forward in line one place, he slowly turns. “Hey,” he says quietly.
I pause. I guess I can be civil. “Hi.”
“How’s it going?”
I frown at him. How’s it going?
He sighs at himself. “Sorry.”
I shrug. Wha
tever. “It’s fine.”
We shuffle forward again.
“Listen...” he says hesitantly, “Could I... buy you a coffee or something?”
I consider saying something smartass about how I can afford my own coffee, but I know that’s not what he means. He wants to talk. Really talk. I don’t know if I want to.
I don’t know if I can.
But there’s that part of me that wants to know, what in the hell happened all those years ago?
We scoot forward. There’s only one person in front of him now. It’s a young undergrad, from the looks of it. She’s hemming and hawing over the gluten-free baked goods in the display case.
“Please?” Erik asks.
I’m considering giving in, but I’m not ready to commit. Instead I ask a different question that’s been on my mind. “Is it true you’re only a first year grad student?”
He looks a bit taken aback. He almost seems pained. This lasts only for a split second. He nods. “I took a year off.”
“Why?”
His hesitation—and pain—is more obvious now. We’re suddenly pulled into the kind of intimate moment we used to share. My heart softens in spite of myself. Before I have a chance to resist it, he says, “My parents were in a car accident about a month after I graduated from Juilliard. It killed my dad instantly.” My hand flies to my mouth. “My mom’s okay now, mostly, but she was messed up pretty badly. She was in the hospital for six weeks and intensive rehab for several months. She’s still in rehab, but just once a week now.”
“God,” I say stupidly, having to resist the urge to put my hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
He nods slightly in acknowledgement of this. “Is your tomato soup gluten free?” the girl at the counter asks. Erik and I look at each other awkwardly for a moment. “How are you doing?” I finally ask.
He sighs. “I’d really be better if you’d let me get you a coffee.”
We sit at a table in the back corner and sip our coffees in uncomfortable silence. I’m not sure how to begin the conversation. Maybe Erik isn’t either.
