“Yes,” he nodded. “For a few weeks.” Weeks. God bless you, Hans Koll.
“I’ll certainly see you around, then,” she added.
“Count on it,” he assured her.
“And I’m assuming it will be pointless to ask you to let me pay my share of the check?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Well, thank you for dinner, then. Take care of my girl.” She stood up, winking at me.
Traitor.
I narrowed my eyes at her, but the ballsy woman held my gaze as if is she was completely unaffected by my silent anger. I would make her pay. She left hurriedly, and when we were alone, I asked him to split the check, but he said no to me as well.
“I invited you,” he protested. “You’re my guest.”
“Well, I can’t go out with you anymore if you won’t let me pay my share.”
It didn’t matter he was famous and had money. We weren’t a couple. I couldn’t accept this.
“Does this mean you’re willing to go out again?” he asked.
“I guess so,” I admitted as I fought to keep a serious expression. I lost though. I couldn’t stop the smile spreading across my face.
“Okay, then. I’ll let you pick up the check next time,” he said with a smile.
As we walked back, the dreaded question came up.
“You never told me how you ended up here.”
He was glancing at me in a way that told me this time I wasn’t going to be able to avoid the subject.
I made a face and didn’t answer, holding his gaze. I realized he wasn’t going to let it go, this time. I looked down and sighed heavily. I didn’t know where to start, and I knew that no matter what, my story was going to sound stupid and childish.
“Oh my gosh, this is so embarrassing!” I cried. “You’re going to think I’m so stupid!”
“Why would I think that? And what do you care what I think anyway?” he asked, jokingly.
“What do you mean? Of course I care what you think…I admire you. You’re a great musician. You kill it on the guitar, you sound awesome on the piano,” I turned to look at him in the face. “You have this amazing voice that is so powerful and uplifting…you are just so good at everything you do, I’m afraid that when I tell you the real reason why I ended up here—the same reason why I don’t play the piano anymore— you’ll think I’m nothing but a stupid, spoiled girl.”
I might have shared too much. Lou looked at the same time pleased and confused by my compliments. I couldn’t stop myself; the words just kind of came out on their own. I spotted a bench by the canal and took a seat. This was going to take a while. He followed suit, sitting down next to me.
“The reason I haven’t been forthcoming about it is because it’s really stupid. Rich girl problems type of stuff,” I sighed.
“Rich girl problems?” He asked curiously, raising an eyebrow.
“Spoiled rich girl problems,” I rectified.
“Come on, now you have to spill.”
I sighed again. As soon as I told him the truth, he’d realize how childish I was. Then I’d probably never see him again.
“I came to Amsterdam because I was tired of my parents micromanaging my life,” I blurted out, avoiding his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t remember if I ever told you, but I’m an only child. My parents are both musicians. Classically trained musicians. They both played in orchestras,” I said, pausing, but he was quiet, and the look on his face told me to go on.
“Ever since I was born I was…their little project. They decided from an early age that I was going to be a pianist. You would think in this day and age people wouldn’t plan out their child’s whole future. And most parents are smart enough not to do that. Not mine, apparently.” I looked down and fumbled with my hands.
“My grandparents were also classically trained musicians. I guess you could say it runs in the family. Both my parents and grandparents are really talented. They thought it would only be natural for me to follow in their footsteps.”
“Did you ever want to?” he asked, earnestly.
“I guess, at some point, I did,” I replied, thinking about how I really had felt about playing piano when I was little. “Early on, when I was young. But I was a child. Of course I wanted to please my parents. And I was pretty good at it. So they probably thought they had this little child prodigy on their hands.”
“But you weren’t a prodigy?”
“It’s hard to tell when you are young. I was…pretty good. At that time in my life, I was unafraid and probably more confident than I am now. At eight, nine, I had won several competitions. By the time I turned twelve, either the competition got tougher, or I wasn’t really as talented as they initially thought.”
“So…what did they decide to do when they saw you were struggling?”
“Well, it’s not like they’d suddenly give up,” I laughed, remembering the time when things started changing between my parents and I. “That’s when the fun really started. They told me I had to step up my game. I was growing up and I wasn’t treated like a precocious child anymore. That meant more hours of rehearsal per day. That’s when I started resenting them.”
“You didn’t want to play anymore?” He asked.
“I wasn’t sure at that point if I wanted to stop playing piano. I just knew I didn’t want my life to revolve around it. I wanted to have a regular life. I wanted to be a teenager, but I wasn’t allowed such a luxury. Every time I tried to rebel, it would just end up being worse. It was always the same story— the ‘we invested so much into this to quit now’ type of speech. By the time I turned fourteen, I didn’t give a damn. Between school and practice, I barely got to do anything fun. I had no friends. The problem was, I had no one who understood that, no family member on my side. The only person that would ever cut me some slack was my grandma Rose, but she had died when I was ten, so I never had anyone taking my side. The constant struggle with my parents never got better. As the years passed, it only got worse. And, little by little, I lost any passion I had left for playing.”
“But you still kept playing?” He asked.
I nodded.
“I kept telling myself I would eventually get away from the hold they had on me. I realize now how stupid that sounds and how weak I was. I was still good enough to be admitted into the Conservatory. The thing was, part of me still wanted to play, badly. But I knew I wasn’t cut for classical music. The competition was just so cutthroat, and every other student seemed so much more talented than I was.”
I debated if I should say more or not. I went for it.
“When I was about seventeen, I started writing my own songs,” I admitted, bashfully, remembering I was talking to a seasoned musician. “All I could think about was the melodies that kept forming in my head, the words I tried to fit with melodies. I did that for a while, but when I started studying at the Conservatory, I abandoned any writing or composition. I was just so drained. I dismissed songwriting as a silly thing to do and decided I should focus on studying. Maybe I wasn’t going to follow in my parents’ footsteps, but I realized I wouldn’t have minded becoming a teacher.”
“That didn’t happen either,” he muttered.
“I told my parents teaching was what I wanted to focus on after graduation, but they were not okay with it. They still insisted they wanted me to become a pianist! As if it’d be so easy! It’s one of the most fucking difficult careers you could choose!”
I wrapped myself tighter in my poncho and got up from the bench.
“We had one last fight, where they told me they wouldn’t support me financially anymore and pretty much cut me off point blank. Graduation was approaching, and I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t made any concrete plans. They kept trying to make me change my mind and those last few days we did nothing but fight,” I told him, my voice strained, feeling the tension of those days all over again.
“Suddenly, leaving seemed like the only good option. I had
to break the vicious cycle. At the time, I didn’t know what else to do. I had some savings from playing occasionally and Amsterdam was what I could afford. I figured I could fly here and then start traveling. Then I bumped into Ally, and you know what happened next.”
“How did your parents react? Have you talked to them? Did they try to understand where you were coming from?” he asked.
“I haven’t actually spoken to them in months. I leave a voicemail once in a while—if they don’t pick up the phone. I send them postcards. I’m sure they’re not happy about it, but they know I’m all right. It’s not like I’m missing or anything. I keep in touch with my ex-roommate.”
“Have they tried writing to you? Did they send you any emails or any messages through Facebook?”
“Well, I blocked their email address and deactivated my page. I didn’t want to get into a heated email exchange with them. I knew that if I allowed them to reach out to me, it would have been the same kind of argument we had a million times, only in written form. I had to get away for a while,” I exhaled.
He looked at me for a moment, taking in every word I had just spoken, trying to understand me. I wondered if he did. His eyes dropped to my lips. I didn’t like how that made me feel tingly all over. I hated and loved how vulnerable he made me feel.
“So now you can do whatever you want,” he stated, matter-of-fact.
“Ha!” I smiled. “I can do whatever I want.” I repeated the words slowly, looking into his eyes. It seemed unreal to be talking this leisurely about the future. My future. Which I had no idea what would entail.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
Kiss you. See how you taste.
I shrugged.
“I don’t know. I guess that’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“I bet you’re so good on the piano though. It’s a pity. Do you think you’ll ever want to play again?” he asked cautiously.
“I don’t know,” I replied, hesitant, “maybe…one day. I want to want to play, you know?”
He brought his hands behind his head and rested his back against the bench.
“Yeah, I know what you mean, I guess. It’s hard for me to imagine a day when I wouldn’t want to play an instrument anymore. It’s too much fun. I don’t think I’d ever want to stop.”
“I guess maybe that’s the thing, you know? It wasn’t fun anymore, and now I feel almost like I’m still at a stage where I resent it. The piano is just the catalyst and the symbol of all my frustrations. I want to say I’ll get to a point where I want to play again, but I’m not sure when that will be.”
“I hope it’ll be soon,” he winked, “I really hope I can hear you play before I leave.” He kept staring at me, and the intensity of his eyes and his words made me blush. I was so glad it was dark.
“When are you going to leave?”
“In a few weeks, maybe, I’ll go to Florence. You know, my buddy Josh and I…we were supposed to come to Europe together, but his wife had their baby girl prematurely…”
“Is the baby okay?” I asked, cutting him off.
“Yeah.” A smile stretched on his face and reached his eyes. “Yeah, she’s perfect. They just had to have her in the ICU for a few days.”
“Why were you and Josh going to travel to Europe if he was having a kid?”
“Well, I was supposed to work on the new album, and I was having a hard time…concentrating…in Tennessee. Josh and I were supposed to go to Florence. He knows a guy who has this whole studio thing setup in his apartment. The owner of the studio is living in L.A. right now, so he offered to let us use his place. Our plan was to come here first, because Josh always wanted to visit—if you know what I mean—and then we would have gone to Florence to start working. Josh’s wife wasn’t supposed to have the baby for another couple of months, so we thought we had enough time…”
“You couldn’t work on the album in Nashville? Why was it so hard to…oh.”
I was such an idiot. He had mentioned he was trying to get away, and he had just said he was having a hard time concentrating—probably because of his divorce!
“Yeah, Nashville is usually one of the most laid-back places, but news of the divorce had just made the rounds, even though Ashley and I had been separated for a while. On top of that, she had just started dating a colleague of hers, a dancer, and the gossip sites were all over it.”
“I’m sorry. It sucks…I thought…”
“You thought what?” he asked.
I frowned, wondering if I should even say anything, but he seemed to be waiting on me.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not that famous. I can’t imagine why they would care so much about your divorce.”
“I know, right?” he laughed, looking at ease and carefree. “That’s what I wondered too. I guess nowadays anything goes. Maybe any gossip is good gossip for them? But you’re right, I’m not that famous, so I’m not used to seeing my face all over magazines at the supermarket. I didn’t handle it too well.” He paused for a second and looked at me again. “I guess, just like you, I had to get away.”
“Well, you’re in the right place,” I patted him on the back. “Look at this! Amsterdam is wonderful!” I said cheerfully, standing up and stretching out my arms as if I were the star of a musical.
“You’re right. I’m enjoying it.” For some reason a part of me believed he wasn’t just talking about the city.
We walked back to my place, making small talk.
“So…how long were you and Ashley…separated before you decided to divorce?”
“Well, let’s see…I believe we had been separated for six, maybe seven months…we wanted to give each other time to…figure out if it was the right decision to make. We had to realize that things were never going to be as they once were. In the end, we made the right choice. It sucks, but I really do think it was the best option.”
I nodded and looked at his face, trying to be empathetic. Marriage, divorce. They were such foreign concepts to me. It felt like a phase of adulthood I was light years away from. A phase of adulthood I might not ever get to experience. If I had learned anything in my almost twenty-four years, it was that nothing in life was a given.
“So, you’ve never been in love?" he asked with a smirk.
“Nope,” I replied shaking my head.
“Are you a virgin?”
What? I breathed out a laugh, incredulous. Where did that come from? Oh, I wasn’t going to let him down easy for that.
“Do I look like a virgin?” I asked, provoking him.
“No! Yes! Yes and no. I mean…I don’t know why I asked…I don’t know what I was thinking,” he admitted, scratching the back of his head.
“You asked because you want to know, that’s why,” I teased him. It was a foolish question, and completely unnecessary, but now I wanted to have a bit of fun with him.
“You’ve said you’ve never been in love before.”
“One doesn’t exclude the other, Lou.”
“I know, I know! I don’t know why…I thought…never mind,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his head. “I’m really sorry.”
“I didn’t want to stay a virgin. What was I supposed to do? Wait for Prince Charming? I don’t think so.”
“No, no. Of course not.”
We stayed silent for a moment, the tension still palpable.
“So, wait a second,” I said. “Just the other day, you thought I had a five-year-old kid, and now you’re asking if I’m a virgin. So, we have the mother and the virgin stereotype. Is the whore stereotype next?” I asked flatly. I was just trying to tease him, but I also wanted him to be really sorry for asking a dumb question.
“Fuck! No!” he exclaimed covering his eyes with his hand, “that’s not what I meant,” he added flustered.
He stopped walking and got in front of me so suddenly, I ended up bumping into him. He grabbed me by my shoulders, and he leaned down so his face was just a couple of inches away. I turned to look
at the hold he had on me. Why did the gentle pressure of his hands on my arms feel so good? Why did I seem to completely lose control of my senses when I was around him?
“Ella.”
He called me back to reality. I looked up. His face was so close. I could lean in, and our noses would touch each other. I could lean in and maybe kiss him, although he didn’t quite deserve it; that didn’t mean I didn’t want to. I wanted to kiss him.
“I’m really sorry. I asked a really dumb question. I guess I’m just curious about you. I want…I would like to get to know you better,” he apologized.
Get to know me better? What did he mean by that? And how was I supposed to answer? I said the first thing that popped in my mind.
“I skipped the part about love—it seemed silly and low.” It was the lyric from a song, but I couldn’t remember which one.
“What?” he asked frowning. He eyed me suspiciously, his hands holding me just a little bit tighter. I frowned, looking into his eyes, trying to remember the title of the song.
“Low. It’s an R.E.M. song from Out of Time.”
“Who are you?” he asked, stifling a laugh.
I rolled my eyes playfully, and a smile snuck in there.
“A girl who’s trying to discover other genres of music besides classical. Johan is a big R.E.M. fan. I went through his entire music collection,” I shrugged, looking into his beautiful eyes. He really did look sorry.
He smiled and released me, taking a step backwards. I mourned the loss of his closeness. I thought we’d start walking again. Instead, he ran a finger under my chin, tipped it, and kissed me.
CHAPTER 5
I had never kissed with my eyes open. This was going to be my first time. It took me a couple of seconds to be completely aware of what was happening and realize that I wasn’t imagining his lips pressed on mine. I closed my eyes then, and my lips parted, searching for his tongue. I had wanted this kiss for days, and my tongue wrapped around his a little too fast, too eager.
His hands cradled my face so softly, so gently. My arms circled his neck, and I ran my fingers through his hair. His lips were silky soft, and there was a faint taste of cinnamon on his tongue from the apple tart we just had. His tongue caressed mine over and over until I was breathless. A moan escaped my mouth as he released me and he attacked me again, nibbling at my bottom lip. When he kissed me again and started sucking on my tongue, I was a goner. Heat spread under my skin, coursing through my body, all the way to my fingertips.
This Love Page 5
