The Extravagant Collection, page 51
His questions are valid, but so are my answers. “I don’t want to put her in the position of being with someone who’s this damaged,” I say, sounding as stubborn as I feel.
“I know you believe that.”
“I believe it because it’s true,” I say, trying to convince myself, but inside, a nagging voice keeps asking, Is it?
I’ve always believed that, and that belief has steered me, has served as a rudder for years. But maybe it no longer does.
Cole leans forward, steepling his fingers. “Do you mean it when you say you love her?”
“Yes,” I bite out.
“Then, man, just let her in,” he says, imploring this time. “It’s worth it. You’re not the same person you were when you went to college. You’re not the same man you were when you needed the walls, the games, and when you sought out pleasure just for the sake of pleasure. You’ve changed over time. I’ve seen you with her. You’ve been enchanted with her for a long time.”
I shrug an acknowledgment. This last week has been the culmination of years of longing, of wanting, and of falling. It’s never been merely physical with Scarlett. My emotions are not born from a desire to take her to bed, though that desire is potent. I have been entranced by her mind, her mouth, her words, her heart, her brain, and her brilliance.
Cole continues on, as determined as ever. “You didn’t even give her a say in this. In what she’s willing to risk. And now you’re simply going to let her slip away because you’re afraid of hurting her?”
“Yes.” At least he understands why I’m doing this.
His eyes lock with mine, intensity in his gaze. “But it’s not her you’re afraid of hurting.”
I jerk back. Furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”
He points at me, accusatory. “It’s you. You’re afraid of getting hurt. You’re terrified of letting someone in. You’re scared of what will happen if your heart isn’t the black hole you’ve turned it into.”
My jaw clenches. I grit my teeth. I want to hiss, to seethe and spit and say, You’re wrong, you’re dead wrong.
But he’s not wrong at all.
He’s completely right.
I’m a fucking coward. I didn’t let her go for her. I let her go for me. Because I don’t know how I’d handle it if she broke a heart that’s already been shattered twice.
I look my best friend in the eye, and I find it in me to tell the truth. “You’re right. I don’t know if I could handle it. I don’t know if I could survive it if I let her love me and then she were to leave me. I don’t know that I’m strong enough to go through that one more time,” I say, admitting the truth.
A faint smile crosses his lips. “Thank you.”
I scoff. “Why are you thanking me?”
“You finally spoke the truth.”
“And what am I supposed to do with this awful truth?”
He sets his elbows on the table, leaning in close. “I don’t know. But my hope is that you’ll take the chance. You’ve taken a million chances in business. You’ve risked money a thousand times over. You gamble with that constantly. And I hope that you can find it in you to gamble with your heart. Because it’s worth it. It’s completely worth it.”
I want to fire back, Easy for you to say.
But it hasn’t been easy for him. He’s done the hard work. He’s loved, he’s lost, he’s grieved, he’s moved on. He’s fallen in love again, and he’s made damn sure he didn’t lose her.
I’ve already lost Scarlett, though, because I let her go.
We say good night and part ways. I don’t wander back to the hotel. Instead, I go to the Palais Garnier. The sign outside advertises an evening of Beethoven sonatas, a special two-week only series of performances. Kismet, perhaps? It’s rare for the opera house to showcase only music, rather than ballet or opera.
I walk in, go to the ticket counter, and buy a ticket.
A young woman at the counter – perhaps a teenager, maybe fifteen or sixteen – arches a curious brow. “Hello. Do you know intermission has already passed?”
“I do.”
“You’ve missed most of the performance of Violin Sonata No. 9.” She sounds terribly concerned.
“That’s okay. I know the piece by heart.”
Her dark eyes brighten. “Me too. I can play it. All of it. But I am learning to play it even better in school,” she says, a little shyly. Her accent is faintly Nigerian.
“You are?”
She nods, proudly. “I moved here with my family. So I can study the violin in Paris. I want to play here someday.”
“At the Palais Garnier?”
“Yes, and Philharmonie de Paris. And Sala São Paulo in Brazil. And Symphony Hall in Boston. And The Sibelius Hall in Finland. And Concertgebouw in Amsterdam.” The words tumble out with the breathless excitement of youth.
Of possibilities.
A pang squeezes my heart as I picture the days and opportunities ahead of her. The chances she’ll have. The ones I hope she won’t squander.
“Don’t stop playing. Don’t stop learning,” I tell her, with an intensity that both surprises and doesn’t surprise me at all.
“I won’t,” she says, like it’s a solemn promise.
“Being able to play Beethoven is a gift. A precious gift. Treat it as such,” I say, then I laugh, a little embarrassed. “But who am I to give advice to a stranger, to a prodigy? I’m only a music lover. All I am saying is I hope all your dreams come true.”
“Me too.” She takes a beat, then taps her chest. “I’m Ayo.”
“Daniel.”
She tips her forehead to the entrance. “You won’t want to miss anymore.”
“You’re right. The ending is so lovely.”
“It is. I haven’t grown tired of it, and I’ve heard it every night for the last two weeks. It breaks my heart every time, and puts it back together.”
My throat tightens. “Music can do that. And I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of it either,” I say, then I head inside, turn off my phone, take my seat, and listen.
I used to feel so at home here, like the Phantom. I’d imagine I was the damaged, scarred man haunting the lake beneath the Paris Opera House.
Obsessed with music—obsessed with beautiful music.
I am still obsessed. Perhaps I always will be.
Maybe that obsession can bring answers though.
I close my eyes, listen to the notes, and try desperately to find the answers I need.
30
SCARLETT
Nadia raises her glass. “A toast.”
I quirk a brow. “Why exactly are we toasting?”
“To loving again,” she says, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
I laugh, shaking my head in amusement. “Did you not hear me? He said he didn’t want to try. He’s not willing.”
Lifting her glass of white wine, Nadia nods sagely as she kicks her heel back and forth from her spot at the sidewalk café. “But I’m not talking about him. I’m proud of you for loving again, so I’m toasting to you.”
“Fair enough,” I say, raising my glass and clinking it against hers. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Always.”
We finish, I pay the bill, and we wander along the cobblestone street in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. She hooks her elbow through mine. “You tried again. That’s a big deal. You were hurt. You were devastated. And you found it in you to give love another shot,” she says, ever the encouraging friend.
“But did I?” I ask, a little pensive as we stroll along the boulevard among Parisians and tourists out for the evening.
“You told him you loved him. That sure sounds like you did.”
“But did I fight for him? Did I do enough?” I stop at the corner, looking up at the streetlamp, then at the green sign on the building marking Rue Bonaparte. “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.”
She nods, like she’s considering the question. “So you think you should have done more. Like what?”
As I turn around, soaking in the city, the answer is right in front of me. The answer is all around me. The answer is—I am here.
I am in this place that I love, living this life that I love.
I did move on. I did mourn. And I did heal from the pain, the shame, the self-loathing.
Daniel is not Jonathan. This is not the same. The man I’m crazy about is alive, and he’s here, and I can say my piece. I don’t need to retreat when I have words to say and a heart that’s still full.
I have a chance to live differently.
I grab Nadia’s arm, excitement roaring through me. “I don’t need to say more for him. I need to say it for me. Not to win him back. Not to change him. Because that’s up to him. But I want to say something more because I can. I want to tell him my heart, my truth. Because that’s what he did for me. He showed me that I could love again,” I say, my chest filling with happiness, with possibility. With hope. Whether for a future with Daniel, or just a future where I don’t hurt.
Because I don’t hurt anymore.
He showed me love. He treated me like a queen. He adored me. Whether he can do that for a long time or a short time, our week was worth it. I loved every second with him, and I want to say everything to him that’s true and powerful.
I didn’t get to say all of the true things to Jonathan, because he died too soon.
But Daniel is alive. Whether we can ever be together or not, I can still express how he made me feel in that week of time.
“I can speak the truth now. And I want to,” I say.
Nadia smiles, bright and proud. “Then do it.”
I grab my phone from my purse, slide the screen open, and I’m about to call him when a message pings from my parents.
I open it. It’s a photo of an ice-cream cone.
Dad: We went to a new vegan ice-cream shop in the Village. I got a double chocolate. Impressed?
Mom: Salted caramel for moi. Mine was better. Your father knows it and tried to barter for my cone.
Dad: Not true. I simply suggested trading off.
Mom: Translation: you had ice cream regret. Admit I picked a better flavor.
Dad: I will admit nothing of the sort. But I’ll admit this – Scarlett, when you’re in New York next, we will definitely go to Sweet Nothings.
I reply quickly.
Scarlett: Oh yes, we will. Also, you had me at vegan.
Dad: I knew we could get your attention with that word!
Mom: Does that mean you’ll come visit us soon?
Scarlett: I promise.
My chest expands, it glows, and I see things even more clearly.
I have this. I have this frequent connection, this regular contact, the thing Daniel misses the most.
It’s such a simple, wonderful thing.
No wonder he’s scared. No wonder he’s terrified. He lost something more than precious.
I know what it’s like to have it.
I can do something for him and something for me. To let him know how deeply he touched me and how much I’d be willing to try for him.
But it’s past midnight. And midnight is for regrets, so I don’t call him. Instead, I send a message asking him to meet me in the morning.
31
DANIEL
In the opera house, I listen to the end of the piece, remembering my parents in the audience the last time I played this, and their words to me after.
No matter who you play for, you have a gift and you used it well, my father said.
I loved it now as much as I did the first time you played it when you were seven, standing in the living room, struggling with some of the notes, my mother said.
That’s a memory I haven’t allowed to come to the forefront of my mind for a long, long time.
It’s a memory I’ve pushed back, but now it reminds me that I am more than a once well-used gift.
I’m not empty without it now that it’s gone.
I had it, I lost it, but music isn’t all or nothing, played on either the stages of the world or not at all.
It can be just as fulfilling to stumble over the notes for your parents.
It can be just as uplifting to hear others make music.
It can be just as necessary to your soul to play in an empty room.
For years and years, I’ve played only for myself. I’ve only picked up the bow and the violin in a quiet corner of a hotel room.
All that time I thought I was hiding inside my cold black heart. But it turns out all along I was actually healing myself.
The music I played alone somehow, in some way, over time, over the years, worked its magic.
Maybe, just maybe, it healed me enough. Enough to see that all is not lost.
Enough to see that there is more to life than carpe diem, than daily moments of pleasure, of money, of material goods.
That music mattered as much when I played it in the living room as when I played it before strangers wearing black tie.
And that music, too, can express the very soul of a person.
When I return to my hotel room that night, I pick up the violin, open the window, and play for the city. I serenade Paris, and I imagine that somehow my music is floating over the river and across to the other bank, serenading a woman.
But it’s not enough to imagine it.
I have to tell her.
When I am done, I don’t feel regret. I don’t feel anger. I only feel hope.
I turn on my phone and send her a text as soon as it powers on, though it’s two in the morning. I ask if she can meet me tomorrow morning.
Once it’s sent, my phone downloads my new messages and I find one from her.
Not an answer, but from earlier.
In the morning, I wake up to a text with a location. A bench along the River Seine, across from the Notre Dame.
I shower, get dressed, and take the thing I’ll need most.
32
DANIEL
Paris and music go hand in hand.
In the scheme of things, I’m not doing something that stands out. I’m part of the fabric of the city. I blend into the scene, another street musician busking by the Seine.
But I am more than that. I’m a man on a mission to push himself. To do something terrifying because maybe something terrifying can lead to something wonderful.
I arrive early, nerves gripping my throat, fear seizing my chest. They are my regular bedfellows, along with something new.
Hope.
I stand by the bench and wait, my pulse spiking, my heart beating in my throat, my violin case sitting at my feet. My skin prickles, and my hands begin to sweat. I brush them over my jeans. I had no stage fright as a young musician. I had zero as a teenager.
I have too much now.
But this is, in many ways, the toughest stage in the world for me.
When I see Scarlett across the street, her chestnut hair, bright eyes, and gorgeous lips, a thousand hummingbirds flap their wings in my chest.
I take out the violin, set it under my chin, rest it on my shoulder, and raise the bow.
She hasn’t spotted me yet. She’s scanning the riverbanks, looking for me. Or maybe she’s listening to the river.
This time, I’m making sure the river has something to say.
When she’s about twenty feet away, I begin making music for another person for the first time in fifteen years.
It’s sweet and complicated, complex and tender. It’s the one that reminds me of her.
The Brahms.
Her pace slows when she hears it.
Her eyes widen. Her lips curve into a grin, and she locks eyes with me.
Everything in her face transforms.
That hardness, that toughness she wore last night, all vanishes, fading to dust.
As her eyes gleam, I soldier on, nerves be damned.
For years I was ashamed to play for others, ashamed of what I’d done to my hand, how I’d squandered my talent, how I’d ruined music, ruined myself.
But as I play, I choose to let those beliefs go.
To take the gift for what it is—a gift. And to receive it.
She closes the distance, stopping a few feet in front of me, beaming like the sun. As I play and I play and I play.
Then, when I’ve reached the end, I stop, lower the bow and the instrument, and say, “It reminds me of you.”
“So you told me.”
The stage fright I felt moments ago?
That’s nothing compared to the fear that races through me now, that threatens to pull me under, to make me want to run away.
But the music has given me strength. The music has always given me strength, only I didn’t realize it till last night.
Or maybe I finally found my own strength through her. I use it to speak my heart’s desire.
“I thought maybe if you were talking to the river, it might talk back to you. It might feel sad and sweet, melancholy but happy. That maybe the river would talk to you through music,” I say, my heart skittering.
“Perhaps it is. But I would need a translator. Someone who understands music intimately. Could you be that person?” she asks, hope in her tone, a hope that matches mine.
I smile, my nerves dissipating some. “I can. I know what all the notes mean.”
“Tell me. Tell me what the river is saying.”
I put the violin down, setting it carefully in its case, then closing it.
I meet her eyes. She’s waiting for me. It’s my turn. I’m the one who shut the door on us yesterday. I’m the one who has to kick it wide open again. “I was wrong. Dead wrong.”
She nods carefully. “About what?”
That’s so very Scarlett. Open, earnest, but making sure that I deserve her. My God, I hope I can deserve her. “I thought I was protecting us by making a decision to end the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me,” I say, opening my whole heart to her.
