by J. L. White
“Nothing,” he says flatly.
I frown and cross my arms at him.
He blinks at me, as if he’s had some sort of revelation. Then he frowns himself. “Seriously Ashley? You’re still doing this shit?”
“What are you getting irritated for?” I ask, feeling pretty irritated myself. “I didn’t play that for you so you could give me crap about it.”
I get up from the piano and head for the kitchen, not even knowing what I need in there. I hear him getting up to follow me.
“Why are you hiding your talent?” he says, and I cringe. “I don’t get it.”
“Hey, I’m hardly hiding my talent. I’ve won my fair share of competitions too, you know.”
“I’m sorry, but playing like that in secret like you’re some teenaged boy jacking off in the shower”—I spin on him—“is absolutely hiding your talent.”
“You know, I don’t really need advice about it from someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” he says.
My heart’s pounding like a cornered animal. Why can’t he leave me alone about this? “Yes. Someone like you. You have no fucking idea what it’s like to try to compete with people like you, who’ve had the benefit of professional training your entire freaking lives. I think I’m doing just fine keeping up, if you want to know the truth, so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop giving me shit about what I do or don’t play. I’ve got enough things getting in my way.”
He cocks his head at me, like he’s seeing me for the first time. His anger drops away immediately, but the intensity of his expression hasn’t changed at all. I cross my arms in front of my chest protectively. “Let me tell you something, Ashley. Lack of money and opportunities aren’t what’s getting in your way. The only thing getting in your way is your own head. Because when you can get past whatever your hang up is well enough to let loose, you’re a fucking goddess on that thing, doing shit no one at Hartman or anywhere could ever teach you. So stop blaming me and everyone else for your problems and play that damned piano like I know you can.”
My arms are still crossed and I’m still frowning at him, but I’m blinking back stunned tears and I can’t unhear what he’s just said.
His expression softens and he comes up to me, putting both hands on my shoulders. I still can’t move. He’s stirred up a storm in me and I can’t push it down. I’m trying, but I can’t make it go away.
“Don’t be afraid to show people what’s inside you,” he says. He gives my shoulders a squeeze, puts a soft kiss on my forehead, and quietly leaves me to deal with the aftermath of his words in private.
After dinner, I head back to my place for a change of clothes. Erik hasn’t pushed me any more about the matter—other than to say he thinks I should change my piece for the regionals—and we’ve managed to rather soberly recover.
But as I gather my things together for another couple nights at his place, the silence of the apartment is shattered by my song lilting around in my head.
Am I handing this competition to him? But having the gall to play my own piece feels far too risky. In seven days we’re heading to regionals in Seattle, where I won’t be up against just him, but the best in every music conservatory in the west. Only three pianists will advance to the finals in New York. If I want to be one of them, I can’t afford to screw around.
His words come back to me: “Don’t be afraid to show people what’s inside of you.”
I know he’s at least partially right. I always pour my heart into my playing, but when I play raw and powerful like that, I expose myself in a completely different way.
When I think about playing that way on stage, I don’t think I could feel any more vulnerable than if I were up there playing completely naked.
But I’m afraid of more than that, I know I am.
What is it? What am I afraid of?
I don’t know for sure, but suddenly the thought occurs to me that I’m afraid to be too good. It’s a rather terrifying thought, so I must have hit on something. I don’t understand why that should frighten me, but it does. Part of me thinks, that kind of success can’t be me. Things like that don’t happen to people like me.
I can’t be as good as he says.
But there’s this other part of me that can hear the music just as well as Erik can.
I think of his stunned expression when he heard me play, and that’s how I feel sometimes, too. Stunned. I’m not completely sure where such music comes from, even though it’s coming from me.
Maybe that’s part of what scares me, too. Maybe if I set it free, really get it out there and take a chance on it, it will disappear and I won’t know how to get it back.
I sigh and sink to the edge of my bed.
I know Erik’s right. I do hide like I’m ashamed of it. But I’m not sure I have the courage to do anything else.
On impulse, I pick up my phone and dial Sam’s number.
“Hey stranger,” she answers jovially.
But I’m not in the mood to play. As I fill her in on what happened, and my thoughts about it, she listens quietly. When I’m done, she says simply, “Go for it.”
My heart pounds at these words from her. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know if I can. Or if I should.”
I hear a sharp exhalation from the other end of the line. “Have you talked to Isabella or Chloe about this?”
“Uh, no. I just called you.”
“Why me?”
I blink. What kind of question is that? “Because you’re my friend.”
“Of course I am, but so are they. Out of the three of us, why did you call me?”
This gives me pause. I could say it’s because she’s here and they’re not and I talk to her about lots of things first. The realization of the truth, though, is starting to settle in my stomach. I’m not ready to let it solidify yet. I’m still trying to hold it back. “Um... because you’re the only one I knew would be up?”
“Bullshit. It’s fucking nine o’clock,” Sam says.
Yeah, I know, I think. I’m grasping.
“I mean, because you’re the only one who’s heard me play like that. I thought maybe you could... I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you why. You called me because in spite of being kind of a chicken, you want to go for it and you know that’s exactly what I’ll tell you do to.” And there it is. “So do it already.”
I grip the phone. I feel like I’ve been tossed around in the storm Erik stirred up inside me, and just like that Sam pulled me into the eye of it, where everything is eerily calm and certain. And deadly one foot in any direction.
She’s right, though. I do want to go for it. I want to go for it so much I’m starting to suspect I’m actually going to do it. I’m so terrified I can hardly breathe.
“So are you going to play your song or not?” Sam demands.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Sam doesn’t chastise me for such a weak pronouncement of intent. She doesn’t tell me to yell it out like I mean it, like we’re in some made-for-TV movie or something.
She just says, “Atta girl. Give ’em hell, Ash.”
Chapter 18
It turns out, it was past the deadline to change songs for the regionals. When I told Erik that, almost like an excuse, he nodded resignedly and hasn’t said another word about it.
When I sit down at the piano on stage at the regionals, I hesitate, as if there’s some question about which song the judges are expecting to hear.
That storm Erik stirred up. It won’t calm down.
It’s so nonsensical, I can’t help but wonder if I’m about to self-destruct.
I’ve been sitting here too long. I can tell by the heavy silence settling over the audience. I can hear the shuffling of feet. Someone coughs softly and every person in the house can hear it. I look up and see Erik in the wings. He couldn’t possibly know what I’m thinking, but then again, maybe he does. He looks at me firmly and raises one brow, like he’s egging me on.
Fu
ck.
I look back at the keys and raise my hands. All I have to do is make myself play the first note and then I’m committed. Then the rest will come.
I pause, then with more boldness than I’ve ever possessed in my life, I play the first note of the composition I played for Erik. It’s a composition I haven’t even been brash enough to name yet.
But named or not, it’s making its debut right here in Benaroya Hall. As I play the first measure, my blood is pounding through my body. My fingers are a bit unsteady, and I miss a note. Though no one knows the composition, it’s an off note and I know it had to ring false in the ears of the judges, even if the audience didn’t pick up on it.
Push through it, I can hear Professor Reinecht saying in my mind.
So I do. I get through another measure without a mistake. And another. I can’t believe I’m really doing this. It’s like I just kicked myself out of the competition on purpose.
I’m too terrified to look at the audience. I’m too terrified to look at Erik. But another two measures and I hit a place where I could fall into the rabbit hole of my own music, if I wanted to.
Fuck it.
It’s a split second decision, but in that instant I’m truly all in. If I’m going to play my song, I’m going to fucking play it.
Like it or not, these people are going to hear me.
Just like that, it’s only me and the piano and my music and I surrender to it. As the music rises to a crescendo, I’m rising slightly off the bench, letting the rapture of it come through on my face, and I’m the master of those goddamned keys. I command them to bring forth the music that burns through my soul and they obey.
I play the last measures, my fingers flying across the keys, and when I play the final note I straighten and look at that magnificent piano. That’s right, baby.
The next half second takes a lifetime.
I’m back in the hall. The storm is gone. It’s only me left raw and naked on stage and—I’m certain—absolutely fucked.
It’s as if time itself has stopped. I’m stuck forever in that half-second pause between the end of a piece and the audience’s reaction.
Or maybe it’s not really a half-second pause at all. Maybe it was such a crass display of self-indulgent ego, they can’t even bring themselves to clap.
My eyes land on a woman in a flowered, satin top. Her mouth is partway open and she looks like she’s been mowed over by something. Then, like it’s all happening in slow motion, I watch as her hands float up and her face breaks into a smile.
The applause that explodes in the auditorium crashes over me like a tsunami.
I startle and time catches up again. Everyone’s clapping and cheering and... getting to their feet.
They’re getting to their feet!
I’m getting to my feet as well, but it’s not really me doing it. It’s my training taking over. I give the audience a gracious smile and a bow and the cheering swells even more. I walk off the stage, but I’m going in the wrong direction. I’m supposed to exit stage right, but I go stage left. My legs are trembling and I’m not sure I can make it.
What did I just do? What the hell did I just do? Did I really, really just do that? WHY would I do that in the middle of a competition? This was my chance to play in Lincoln Center. What the hell was I thinking?
I leave the stage and stop in the wings, not knowing where to go or what to do next. The few people on this side of the stage are either ignoring me or blinking at my dumbfounded expression. I don’t know how long I’m standing here, but soon Erik’s heading for me from backstage rear—he must have gone through from the other side—and beaming at me. He takes me into his arms and spins me around. I’m too stunned to protest.
He’s laughing in my ear, all warm and rumbly. That’s what brings me back from whatever out-of-body place I’ve been, and I cling to him fiercely.
He sets me down but I continue to hang on, afraid my legs are about to give out. He takes my face in his hands. “Magnificent. God, that was so fucking magnificent.”
Then just like that he’s kissing me with such gusto I can’t believe he’s doing it right in front of everybody.
I pull away, still hanging on to him. “I can’t believe I did that. What if I just disqualified myself?”
He shakes his head and holds me firmly by the shoulders. “Honey, the worst they’ll do is dock you some points.”
“That’s almost as bad. Every point counts.”
But he just smiles at me. “Oh Ashley. Promise you’ll still love me when you’re famous, okay?”
“I’m supposed to be over there,” I say stupidly, pointing to the wings on the other side of the stage. “I was supposed to play Debussy. It’s in the program, Erik. Oh god, what have I done?”
He puts his arm around me leads me to a chair and sits me down. “Here.” He pulls one of those mini water bottle they’ve been giving us out of his front pocket. “Drink this.”
“Is there vodka in it?”
He laughs. “Come on, honey.”
I take off the cap, my hands shaking slightly, and take a small sip.
He kneels in front of me, his hands on my thighs, and holds my eyes. “Deep breath,” he says, steadily.
I take a deep breath, not taking my eyes off him. My heart rate is starting to come down some. My panic is starting to recede.
He nods in approval. “Again.”
I take another deep breath.
“Did you hear the way the audience responded to you,” he says, not as a question.
A fluttering starts in my chest. It was good. I’m starting to realize, what I just did was good.
“They were on their feet for you,” he says, smiling.
They were. They were on their feet. The fluttering in my chest swells until it feels like I have giant butterflies inside me, threatening to carry me up to the sky.
A slow smile starts to bloom on my face.
His eyes glitter at me. “Don’t you dare regret this.”
Still tentatively smiling, I say, “I played the hell out of that piano, didn’t I?”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Yes, you sure did. How did it feel?”
“Amazing. Incredible. Even better than when I play it for myself.” I couldn’t say why. For most of it I forgot all those people were out there.
Not to mention the judges.
My smile fades a bit. If I’m not, in fact, disqualified, the judges will surely dock me points for switching songs. I can’t imagine the rest of my score will be high enough to make up for it. Forget coming in first, or even third. At this point I’ll be lucky not to come in dead last.
But...
My smile creeps back on my face. “I played my song for them,” I say slowly. “I really did it. And they liked it.”
He’s smiling and nods at me.
Even if I just knocked myself out of the competition, I don’t regret it. There will be other competitions, but this. This is a moment I already know has changed me forever.
There’s still a part of me that’s terrified, but this new part of me is braver than I ever thought I could be.
And I think she’s here to stay.
Chapter 19
The next weekend we’re at the Rivers Paradise Resort in Swan Pointe for our long-awaited couples trip, and it can’t have come too soon. Ever since I placed first at the regionals, just barely knocking Erik into second place, things have felt a little weird. No one was as shocked as I was when I won, but as the week has worn on, I’ve wondered if Erik’s the one who’s reeling. I don’t think he’s used to losing, least of all to me. Sometimes I think he’s bothered, but the next second I wonder if I’m just imagining things. I can use a break from it all, and hope this trip will be the perfect antidote.
Isabella and her husband, Shane, flew in from Boston for the weekend. Even though Chloe and Grayson live in Swan Pointe, they seem to be off travelling more than they’re home. They got back from a trip to the US Virgin Islands just in time to d
rive from their house, up the hill to the resort, and to meet us all in the grand lobby. Jack broke up with his girlfriend after a record nine days and didn’t bother finding anyone else to bring along. That wasn’t terribly surprising, but it was surprising when Sam decided to fly solo too.
“After the way things went the last time I brought some guy on a getaway with me,” she’d said wryly, “I’d rather just keep my eyes open for possibilities once we’re there.”
When we were first planning the trip, I think Chloe and Grayson suggested all of us going down the resort’s zip line just to mess with Sam—“No fucking way,” she’d said—but after the insane-sounding roller coaster zip line they did in Florida a few months ago, I have to wonder if regular zip lines aren’t up to snuff for them anymore anyway. Just watching the video of it they put on their YouTube channel made me queasy.
Isabella and Shane don’t seem to care what we do, so long as they’re with each other. It’s heartening to see how happy they are together.
Tomorrow is our big group activity—we’re going whale watching—but today it’s been lounging poolside most the day, then seaweed wraps and massages at the resort’s luxury spa. After that little activity, I was torn between wanting to lure Erik up to our room for the perfect happy ending and being too relaxed to blink.
We had dinner at the resort’s five-star restaurant and have since wandered our way into the lounge for after-dinner drinks.
The second we walked in and spotted the sleek grand piano on the far side of the room, Erik and I exchanged longing glances. We’ve been holding off though, not wanting to abandon the group completely. We’ve found an arrangement of soft couches and chairs to settle into. I’m in a long, flowing skirt, high-heeled boots, and form-fitting top. Erik’s looking especially hot in black slacks, a soft gray shirt, and a casual dinner jacket. I could eat him up right now if I weren’t so full from dinner.
