by J. L. White
“It was nothing,” I say firmly. “What are you doing here?” I didn’t mean for that to come out as harshly as it did.
He looks a little taken aback. “Well, I...” he gives me that sheepish smile again. “I know I can’t say I was just walking by, but that didn’t stop me from coming anyway.”
I’m softening again, now that we’re safely past the subject of my own made-up songs. I cross my arms, but give him a smile.
“And you came because?”
He smiles and shrugs. “It’s been a long time since we played together.”
I glance back at the piano. “Uh, yeah. It’s been a bit.”
“Do you remember Chopin’s Sonata in B Minor?” he asks.
I give him a look. Of course I do. That one was our favorite.
He gives me a questioning smile.
I sigh and roll my eyes. “All right then. You first.”
He grins wider and heads to the bench. I can’t help but smile at him. I’ve missed playing with him, too. I drift to the piano and rest my hand on its smooth surface.
His hands hover above the keys, but he doesn’t play. He glances up at me.
He pats the spot on the bench next to him.
I hesitate, then sit down.
He takes a satisfied breath and begins to play. That’s all it takes. We’re caught up in the music again, but that’s not all. Or at least, it isn’t for me. As we take turns playing, and even start to play a duet together, I’m caught up in all those old feelings of love I had for him. They’ve returned so strongly, I’m not sure they belong entirely to the past.
I feel a little swept out to sea. Erik is next to me and his music is all around me and my defenses are falling. He could walk right into my heart again, if he wanted to.
We finish our duet but don’t say a word.
We don’t look at one another.
We only keep our eyes on the keys and our hands in our laps. I’m breathing a little too hard. He is, too.
“Ashley,” he says softly, “I’m really glad you’re here at Hartman.”
I nod, keeping my eyes on the black and white keys in front of me. “I’m glad you’re here, too,” I say. And I am.
I feel him looking at me. I slowly bring my eyes to his face. Everything else falls away. It’s only Erik. And me. And everything between us.
He’s holding my eyes and I can’t look away. But I’m afraid because I think he’s going to kiss me, and what then?
Still I keep my eyes on him. He leans slightly toward me. I should lean away or look away, but I don’t. My heart leans to him, and I follow. As we slowly close the gap between us, I see in his eyes the same torment of longing and fear that I feel.
Our lips touch and I close my eyes. Something in me comes unlocked. I almost feel the click.
As we press tentatively against each other, a lump swells in my throat. I couldn’t swallow it down if I wanted to. A small sob escapes my lips. He takes my face in his and kisses me more firmly, but so gently.
I kiss him back, but then we’re embracing instead and I’m crying openly.
“God, sweetheart,” he says, and I hear the tears in his own voice. “I’m so sorry.”
I nod and pull back to look at him, the tears running freely down my cheeks. His eyes are glistening too and he looks so pained I want to comfort him. I put my hand on his cheek and he looks at me earnestly.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says.
“I know,” I say.
“God, it was so awful,” he says, his voice cracking. “I missed you so much. I swear I loved you. I’m so sorry I put you through that.”
I kiss him again, and again, and we cling to each other. It feels like we’re finally, finally mourning together the losses we both shared. Heart aching, I settle lower into his arms, my head on his shoulder as we rock together in silence.
As our tears slow, still clinging to each other, we start talking about the one topic we’ve avoided more than anything else. I tell him what it was like for me, holding nothing back. I tell him about going to his house to find it closed up. I tell him how humiliating the doctor visits were and how I couldn’t bring myself to tell any of my friends what was going on.
When I tell him about the miscarriage and the D&C at the hospital, my tears start up again, and he holds me tighter and strokes my hair. Then I confess the worst thing.
“I didn’t want to get rid of the baby,” I say tearfully, “but I didn’t want a baby either. It was... such a relief. You know?”
I feel him nod against me.
“I—” he begins, his voice tight. “That’s kind of how I feel right now. I mean, I know you lost the baby either way, but my dad only said you weren’t pregnant anymore so I thought you had an abortion. I’m so relieved that’s not what happened.”
I pull back and look up at him.
“I mean, I’m not glad you went through a miscarriage, but—”
“You thought I got an abortion?” I ask softly.
“I thought my dad made you.”
I shake my head and he exhales in relief. He still looks pained though. “I know what happened is still bad—”
“No,” I say. “I know what you mean.”
We look at one another, taking deep breaths. He holds my face in his hands, kisses my forehead, and looks at me earnestly. “I’m so sorry. Do you think you could ever forgive me?”
“I have,” I say, shrugging. “I already have.”
“God, really?”
I nod.
He closes his eyes and exhales, pulling me into another embrace. We hang on to each other firmly. I exhale deeply. Crying with Erik has given me a deeper feeling of healing than I’ve ever had about this. And it’s made me feel like the things that have been between us aren’t there anymore.
He pulls back and holds my face in his hands again, caressing my cheeks. We look at each other openly, tenderly. Holding my gaze, he slowly leans in and puts his lips on mine.
I close my eyes and kiss him back. I’m falling so far. God, I feel like he’s falling right there with me.
His arms tighten around me, and our mouths slowly open to each other. When I feel his tongue on mine, my heart starts to race. I kiss him deeply, slowly.
God, I remember this. I remember him. I remember the feel of his hands on my hips. All of it. Suddenly that five years feels like nothing.
Our kiss grows more intense. My blood is starting to sprint. I snake my hands into his hair and his hands press against my lower back. Now everything in me is racing ahead. My whole body is tuned in to him, wanting him, carrying me away so fast.
I pull back. “Wait.” I can’t. It’s too fast.
He stops, but stays close. He gives me an appraising look. He fears my rejection. I see it.
Heart pounding, I pat his chest lightly. I quietly disentangle myself from his embrace. “I think I’d better go,” I say.
He stays on the bench, watching me.
I pack my bag and throw it over my shoulder. I don’t leave right away though. I stand there looking at him for a moment.
“Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?” he asks. He says it with a bit of trembling under his voice. The question he just asked must feel as heavy to him as it does to me.
I glance down at the floor, thinking, then back up to that face I’ve loved for years and years.
I grip the straps of my bag. We’re on the edge of something. I feel it.
“Okay,” I say, pushing us over.
I realize he’s been holding his breath, because he lets it out slowly. “Pick you up at six?”
I nod and pull a small notebook and pen out of my bag.
I think about giving him my number, but I’m not ready to reintroduce the phone into our lives. I don’t really know what’s going to happen next. I don’t want to be faced with even the possibility of unanswered texts again.
I write down my address and set it on the piano, giving him the slightest smile.
Then I really
do leave, a little bit hopeful and more than a little terrified.
There’s no going back now.
Chapter 15
I’m still getting ready when there’s a knock on my door. I check the little faux-antique clock on my vanity. It’s only five-thirty. Wasn’t he supposed to come at six?
My hair is down and dried after my shower (no small task, that) but I haven’t styled it yet. At least I’ve put on my lip gloss and I’m dressed. I’m wearing a silk scoop-neck peasant top and slim, black pants with a low waist. I smooth my hands over the material at my hips and answer the door to find not Erik, but Sam and Jack.
No wonder the time was off.
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask, opening the door to let them in. They both know about the date.
“Moral support,” Sam says, but Jack has a look on his face that gives me pause.
“And we wanted to meet him,” Jack says.
“God, no,” I say in a pleading voice. “Please don’t do this tonight.”
“What?” he asks innocently.
“The whole big brother thing.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jack says.
I sigh. He’s full of crap.
“Want help braiding your hair?” he asks. A diversion.
“I’m wearing it down.”
He and Sam look at each other with raised eyebrows.
“Oh, cut it out,” I say, heading for my bedroom. “I just want to look nice.”
They follow me back, but don’t say anything. I stand in front of my vanity and grab the big curling iron I’ve been warming up. Jack plops on the edge of my bed and Sam starts to separate a lock of hair for curling. “Make yourself useful,” I say to Jack, handing over a brush. He gets up and takes it obediently. Most the time I curl my hair myself, but they’ve helped me get ready before enough performances that they know the routine.
They’re certainly speeding things up, which almost makes up for the fact that they’re here when I’m pretty sure I’d rather they not be.
“You have to hide in the bedroom when he gets here,” I say, wrapping the ends of my hair around the curler.
“Come on, really?” Sam says, rolling her eyes and getting the next section ready.
“I’m serious,” I say. “This is hard enough.”
Sam exchanges a serious look with me in the mirror. “You don’t have to do this,” she says.
I release my hair from the curler and give the curls support while they cool. “Yes, I do,” I say. I look at Jack firmly, “So no funny business.”
“All right,” he agrees, but he doesn’t look happy about it.
“You were the ones who told me it was okay to forgive him.”
Jack shrugs. “Well, yeah. But you also said it was over between you.”
I exhale in frustration, taking the next section from Sam and starting to load it onto the iron. “Is it really so crazy if it’s not?”
He frowns at the back of my head and starts to brush a section, even though he’s already done it once. “No,” he answers. “I just... don’t want you getting hurt.”
“I know,” I say, softening. “But...”
I focus on the curling iron in the mirror, not saying anything. Sam and Jack continue their work in silence, waiting. I let my hair out of the iron and hastily hold it to cool for a few seconds. Ignoring the strand Sam’s holding out for me, I put the iron on the table and turn to face them.
“Look, I appreciate your concern,” I tell them. “I really do. I love you for it. And if I do get hurt, I know who’ll have my back.”
“And who will be stuffing Erik into a piano,” Jack says.
“But this is not helping me right now,” I tell him firmly. “Please,” I say to them both, softer now. “I just need to do this alone, okay?”
Sam sighs and gives me a hug. “All right. I had a feeling this would be too much.”
Resigned to it, Jack pulls me against his chest and plants a kiss on the top of my head. “I’m sure you’ll have a good time,” he says. I don’t think he’s sure at all, but I appreciate the gesture anyway.
After they leave, I finish the curls, pondering things. I understand why they’re afraid. I’m afraid too, and of the exact same thing. But I can’t ignore the way it felt to be with Erik yesterday in that moment when there were no more barriers between us. My heart felt snug inside of his.
And it felt right.
That right feeling began again the moment he picked me up—looking so smart in a button-down shirt and loose slacks—and has carried on all the way through dinner. We’re at The Iron House, a tiny upscale steakhouse on the north side of town, sitting close in the circular booth. We’re facing slightly toward one another so we can look into each other’s eyes as we talk. His arm is around my shoulders and I’m holding his other hand with both of my own. Our hands rest lightly on my thigh.
The waitress cleared our plates and took care of the check long ago, but still we linger. We’ve talked about so much, I couldn’t go back and list it all if I tried. Right now he’s finally touched on the topic of his dad.
“It’s hard to resolve how I feel about him, you know?” he says quietly. “How do you try to settle something with someone who’s gone? Sometimes I’m just so mad at him, but other times I actually miss him. Even though he was really hard to deal with sometimes, he wasn’t all bad. I did love him.”
I nod in acknowledgement, not wanting to interrupt.
“At the same time, I can’t seem to let go of my anger,” he continues. “At least with my mom, I’ve been able to kind of talk through things, though we didn’t really talk about what happened with you until after the accident.”
Then he starts to tell me what it was like to take care of his mom right after it happened. She was lucky to survive, and it was a rough haul there for a while. From what he says, she’ll never be all the way back to normal. I stroke his arm again as he talks. It sounds like it was a pretty tough time for both of them.
When he mentions she’s living here in Rosebrook, I ask in surprise, “She moved here?”
He nods, absently playing with my hair. “It was the only way I would agree to go back to school so soon. I wanted to be able to check on her, or help her out if she needed it. She insists she doesn’t need help anymore, but she didn’t really fight me on it. She was just glad I was even willing to come back to music. She was afraid I’d left it for good.”
“Why would you do that? Because of the accident?”
He sighs and cocks his head. He glances out across the restaurant before coming back to me. “Juilliard was... not what I thought it would be.”
I raise my eyebrows slightly.
“Or at least,” he continues, “the music world was a little more harsh than I thought it would be. It’s just so competitive, you know? And so few of us can actually make a career of it. The more I learned about the odds and what I was up against, the more I started to realize the path I was on was something that had been decided for me. There was never any question. No one ever asked me what I wanted. It was just assumed. I was good at it, so of course that’s what I’d do. And there I was, years later, neck deep in the bowels of Juilliard wondering if that’s what I even wanted.”
I can only blink at him. I can’t imagine someone with Erik’s passion questioning any of this.
“Then the accident happened. I was already accepted into the graduate program at Juilliard and still had another couple months on the lease of my apartment—my parents were in San Antonio by this time,” he explains with a wave of his hand. “Another promotion for my dad. Anyway, I flew home after the accident. Mom thought I was going to go back after the funeral, and maybe at first I thought I was too. But when I left New York, I realized I kind of wanted to be away for a while. Figure out what I wanted, now that my dad wasn’t there to tell me what I wanted. And there was just so much going on with my mom, you know? She was such a mess. Physically and emotionally.”
He pinches
his brows together and looks down at our entwined hands. He rubs one thumb over the back of my hand. “I know this might sound a little cold, but sometimes I think my dad dying was better for my mom.” He looks back up to me. “She’d kill me if she heard me saying that, and would probably deny it. But she’s a lot softer now. Without him.”
“Maybe that was just from being so injured,” I say, “instead of from being without your dad.”
He shrugs, furrowing his brow and getting the slightly angry look that seems reserved for his dad. “Maybe. But he was so... domineering and controlling. He always had to have his way. No matter what. No matter who it hurt.”
He takes a deep breath and I start stroking his arm again.
“Anyway, even with all the distraction of what was going on with my mom, being away from music became painful. Like, physically painful. I eventually realized I really did want a career in music, more than almost anything.” His eyes have that burning desire I recognize in myself. “No one was pushing me anymore, but I wanted it. I wanted it more than I ever wanted it. Without it, something in me felt...”
He pauses, looking for the right word.
“Empty?” I suggest. We share a look of understanding. Two kindred souls who know what it’s like to have something like music living inside you.
He nods. “Yes.”
“I’m glad you didn’t leave music behind,” I say, finally. “What a waste that would’ve been.”
He gives me a gentle smile. “I’m glad I came back too, but not for that reason.” We smile at each other softly. “At least,” he says, “not only for that reason.”
“Because you missed your music, didn’t you?”
“I missed you more,” he says, leaning in to give me a gentle kiss. “I was empty without music,” he whispers, “but I’ve been more empty without you.”
We stay until the restaurant closes, but I’m not ready to leave him yet. I don’t think he’s ready either, because he invites me to his place to see his piano. It’s actually the same one we used to play on together, so I’ve already seen it.
