21. Nikolai
21
NIKOLAI
N othing feels as good beneath my fingertips as the smooth, silky ivory keys of a piano. I can also play the guitar and am decent enough at drums, but I’ve never loved an instrument like I do piano. That’s how most of my songwriting starts; just me and the piano.
The pedals are cool beneath my bare feet as I tip my head back, eyes closed, and let my fingers get carried away with the melody I’ve been working on the past twenty minutes. A soft orange glow covers my closed eyelids from the setting sun outside the window in the studio’s room.
This is my favorite spot to start songs before I take them into one of the recording booths and their windowless abyss. The lack of outside interaction there feeds the creative energy as you don’t know what time it is and feel the need to abide by societal norms like proper meal times and bedtimes.
The sweeping views of LA greet me when I open my eyes again, and I take it all in, never wanting to grow used to the gratefulness that this is my life. That I’m even alive to live it.
My fingers play the final notes, but I hold the pedal down, letting them slowly drift into the air before a familiar voice breaks me out of my stupor. “I knew that playing sounded familiar.”
I turn my head toward the door where Walker’s leaning against the frame, his large stature filling it and making the room feel smaller. He smiles warmly and that sense of home he brings to everyone around washes over me.
Standing, we both cross the room in a few steps and greet each other with a hug. He claps my back in his usual, rough way like he doesn’t know his own strength or the difference between my body and the drums he plays. “Long time, no see,” I say.
We break apart, and he puts his hands in his pockets. “Life’s been busy.”
“And here we were all worried that we’d have too much time on our hands after the break up,” I tease, but it brings an air of melancholy to the room.
“Yeah,” he chuckles half-heartedly, but then clears his throat. “Was that a new song you were just playing?”
I push my hair behind my ears as I nod. “Just playing around. I’ve been working on this new album and I think I’ve got four songs almost done for it.”
He beams proudly. “That’s great, man. I can’t wait to listen to it. I’m proud of you for doing your own thing.”
That’s one thing I never had to worry about when I decided to start a solo career – my best friends having any sort of animosity toward it. The three of them were all incredibly supportive and even Walker himself has kept up working in the industry since we broke up.
“Thanks. I appreciate it. You here working on your own stuff?”
“Nah, Scar’s working down the hall in Studio Three, so I brought her lunch.”
“And none for me?”
“If I’d have known you here, I would’ve.”
I smile. “Next time.” Then, I ask, “Are you in a rush or do you have a minute? I don’t know how long you were listening, but I’d like to play what I have for you and get your thoughts.”
Walker immediately strides over the piano and leans against the window. “Nowhere else I’d rather be right now. Let’s hear it.”
I play the song for him, or more so that elements of what will eventually become a song. The first time, he sits silently, listening closely and closing his eyes to get the feel for it. On my second run-through, he pauses me now and then with a gentle tap on my shoulder to ask about the intention of a note change or filling in a lyric where I bookmark spots with a simple hum.
As time goes on and we bounce ideas back and forth, the energy in the room charges with excitement and creativity. He eventually sits on the piano bench next to me, head bent forward with his left ear angled toward the piano. His smile matches my own and with his help, I take the pieces that I had when I walked in here earlier this morning and find myself with a fleshed-out demo.
“God, I’ve missed doing this with you,” I say, slightly breathless as I sing out the final notes and stop the recording I had started on the last run-through on my phone.
“Just like old times,” Walker says dreamily even as his eyes turn sad.
“Old times,” I repeat, nostalgia coating my tongue. “Thanks, man. This song wouldn’t have come together like this if you weren’t here with me.”
He claps me on the back. “Sure it would’ve. Just might’ve taken you a while longer.”
“That’s for damn sure.”
“And now you can give me writing credits,” he teases, and I push him off the bench. Or try to, but he’s a whole lot of man and even though I’m fairly strong, I don’t think I actually move him.
He stands, laughing, and stretches. At the sight, my own muscles ache in my lower back and I wonder how much time has passed.
“Damn, ate up the whole afternoon,” Walker says. “I’ll be blaming you when Scar asks me why I didn’t get the chores done that I was supposed to.”
I snort. “Go for it.”
“How’s Janie doing, by the way?” I freeze at his innocent question and then force myself to relax as he continues, “Thanks again for letting her stay with you. I appreciate you putting her up.”
My head was so caught up in the creative headspace I fall into when I’m in the studio that I didn’t think about Walker and Jane and what happened the other night between us and the further wedge that will inevitably drive between me and my best friend. When we were teenagers, it made sense to us to keep things a secret. A safer bet for everyone involved.
But now nine years later, I realize that was a mistake. Because the betrayal of Jane breaking her pact with Walker is far less than us hiding everything that has happened between us all these years and lying by omission to his face.
My stomach drops as I do my best to appear casual. “It’s no problem at all. She seems to be doing great.”
“I had offered her to stay with me and Scar, but I don’t think she wanted to live with a couple. But it’s not like we don’t have the room for her.”
“Probably didn’t want to hear her brother and his girlfriend going at it all night,” I joke, but it’s strained.
He huffs, then playfully shoves my shoulder. “Probably nothing worse than what she’s hearing at your place, am I right?”
I laugh and play along, but he couldn’t be farther from the truth. It feels like someone took a fork and stabbed my intestines and is slowly twirling them around. Flashes of the alley race through my mind and I shut them down, the guilt burning like acid.
It was easy to ignore it all before. Pretend like nothing ever happened because for years, Jane and I were apart and there wasn’t anything really to hide once we broke up. But now that we’re back in each other’s lives like this…I don’t know how much longer I can lie to him.
But it’s not just my decision, so I shove down the gnawing guilt and chat with my best friend like nothing is amiss until we both take a look at the clock and decide to head home.
As I pull up the driveway, my house glows from within and it makes me smile, knowing that means Jane is home. The air is filled with the scent of her favorite vanilla birch candles as soon as I swing open the door.
Noise from the TV spills out from the living room into the kitchen as I stop by the fridge to grab a drink. Once I pop the tab on a can of Coke and take a long glug, I make my way into the living room. “Honey, I’m home,” I call out, and Jane doesn’t even bother turning her head to look at me. But her shoulders shake slightly and I take satisfaction in making her laugh, even if she tries to hide it from me.
She’s sitting cross-legged on the couch with a pile of paperwork on one side and her laptop on the other. But she’s paying neither of them any mind as her focus is glued to the TV. I stroll up behind her and ask, “What are you watching?”
She doesn’t bother turning around. “The Olympics.”
I lean over the back of the couch. “Since when do you watch anything to do with sports?”
“Since the people participating in them look like that,” she says, pointing at the screen.
Now I’m secure enough to admit that the guy Jane is currently drooling over catches my attention as well. Water clings to his heaving, chiseled chest as he towers over the interviewer who’s asking him about his race. His brown hair is dripping wet and sending streaks down his face and neck.
When he flicks his eyes to the camera, Jane practically melts into the couch.
I suddenly hate the guy.
“C’mon,” I say in a sad attempt to steal her attention. “I’m prettier than him.”
Silence.
“Right?”
Jane cranes her neck and raises a brow. “Are you looking for validation, pretty boy?”
“From you? Always.”
She snorts and turns her focus back to the swimmer. “More like from everyone.”
“But yours is my favorite.”
She ignores me and turns up the volume. I round the couch and plop next to her which causes some of the papers to slide off the couch. I rush to pick them up, but Jane doesn’t seem bothered by the mess I made of them.
Hmm .
In fact, she barely even spares a glance at me again, eyes bouncing back and forth between the TV and her laptop. Maybe she’s running up on a deadline for Arun.
But the longer I sit here, it becomes clear that she’s barely making any progress on whatever it is she’s typing. She chews on her lip, staring at her screen but her eyes seem unfocused.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She dips her chin once.
“Was that your answer?”
Again, a single dip of her chin.
I straighten. “Are you ignoring me now?” She seemed fine when I walked in.
She sighs heavily and finally meets my gaze. “I just have a lot of work to do.”
“Are you sure? Or are you using that as an excuse so you don’t have to talk to me about the other night?”
Her spine stiffens. “There’s nothing to discuss.”
“You sure about that?” We haven’t seen much of each other the past two days and I know she’s been doing it on purpose. She’s left both mornings before I even woke up and then by the time I get back from the studio in the evenings, she’s been in bed already.
And this isn’t a conversation I wanted to have with her over text.
But if she’s sitting out here tonight when she could be working from her room, there must be a small part of her that wants to have this conversation. To get this out in the open.
She just needs prodding; something I’ve learned recently as vulnerability doesn’t come as easily for her as it used to. My heart clenches at the knowledge that it’s likely because of me.
“Look,” she says, setting her laptop aside. “It happened. We were both drinking and the music and the dancing…it all got the best of us. We don’t need to make it a big deal.”
I blink at her. “But it is a big deal.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“Well I want it to,” I say, trying to keep my tone from rising. “I meant what I said, Jane. I want you back.”
She jumps to her feet as if the couch burst into flames. She’s running from this. From me. From us.
Just like I once did.
But I won’t let her. “Hold on,” I say, standing and blocking her path.
When she looks at me, exhaustion fills her eyes. Exhaustion from fighting this, from feeling like this. I know it because it’s weighing me down, too.
I cup her face and when she leans into my touch, it settles a small part of me. But it doesn’t last long as her lips part in a shaky breath. “I loved you.”
Past tense.
My lungs seize. “I know.”
“And you didn’t say it back.”
I hang my head. “I know.”
“How many other girls did you say it to after me?” Her voice cracks.
“None that mattered.”
“Did I ever matter?”
I sigh and run my hands through my hair as I take a step back. “You know you did, Jane. You still do. You’re the only one who ever did.”
Her face crumples as a tear escapes. “Then why did you break my heart into a million little pieces? You don’t do that to people that matter.”
My voice is weak as I say, “I’m sorry.” I know sorry is an empty word and a sad excuse of a bandage for what I did, but I’m ready to show that it’s not an empty promise.
“I’ve heard that from you before.” She looks at her feet and wipes her cheeks. “But it doesn’t change things. I can’t trust you, Nikolai. I can’t trust you with my heart again.”
The words are daggers to my own heart, slicing and stabbing and bleeding me dry in front of her. But I understand. I did this to us. I put us here.
“I don’t know if I’d trust me with your heart either,” I admit quietly.
“Do you really believe that?” She looks devastated at my words, but not for herself. No, Jane has always put everyone else's feelings above her own, including mine. And right now, she’s not only hurting for herself anymore. She’s hurting for me, too. That I could possibly think so little of myself when it comes to her and being worthy of a second chance.
But I’m selfish. And even though I know I don’t deserve it, I want it. I want to be better for her. I want to show her that I know how to love her now. I want to be able to trust myself with her heart, and I need to prove to the both of us that I’m capable of it.