Chapter 29 Daniel
DANIEL
My defenses go up.
“Why do you presume I did something wrong?” I toss the question out at Cole as we remain at the table after Scarlett leaves.
He stares sharply at me. It’s a look that says, You can’t be seriously asking me that question. “I wonder.” His response drips with sarcasm.
Perhaps I deserve it. “What do you want me to say, Cole?”
He tips his forehead in the direction of her retreating silhouette. “What did you do to hurt her? To cause her to walk away like that?”
I did everything I shouldn’t have done. I let her in. “I told her the truth about my family,” I say as coolly as I possibly can.
“And?”
“And that’s all. Because the truth is, I’m not right for her. I’m all wrong,” I say. But those words feel less believable than they did a week ago, a year ago.
How is that possible?
Cole shakes his head, frustration in his dark eyes. “You’re such an asshole.”
I bark out a laugh, though the moment isn’t particularly amusing. “Why don’t you tell me what you really think?”
He stabs the table with his finger. “You told her about your family, right?”
“Yes. I said that I did.”
“And then what?”
I lift my glass of bourbon and knock some back, feeling the burn. Perhaps needing the burn as I force my mind to return to how she reacted, how gentle and tender she was. How open and vulnerable. How much she seemed to care.
She didn’t run. She didn’t hide. She simply understood.
Perhaps that’s why those words about being all wrong feel less believable than they did a week ago. Perhaps I’m not as damaged as I thought. Maybe being with her started to heal me.
But the trouble is, I know what happens to full hearts. To healed hearts. They’re as vulnerable, perhaps even more so, to slaughter.
“I told her what happened. And I told her I was falling in love with her,” I explain clinically to my friend.
He arches a very knowing brow. “Hmm. Called that one.”
I shake my head. “Try not to look too much like the cat who lapped up all the cream.”
He laughs. “But I am. Except I’m not. Because you want to be with her.”
“Yes, it all sounds well and good in this fantasy world. And do you know what?” I ask, straightening my shoulders, keeping my tone firm. “I’m in love with her. That part is simple. But other parts are not. It would be a massive mistake to continue.”
“Why?” he asks, relentless in his questioning, like a barrister in the courtroom.
“You know why,” I say, as lawyerly as he has been.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “No. I actually don’t.
I don’t know why at all. Because we’ve all been through shit.
We’ve all been through hard things. Granted, I can never pretend to know what your pain has been like.
I will never pretend that I understand your grief intrinsically.
” He inhales deeply, uncrossing his arms. “But I do understand grief. I’ve dealt with it myself.
I know it’s horrible and awful, and it makes you want to close off from the world.
But you’re not closed off. You’re a human being.
And you went and fell in love. So why do you want to throw it all away? ”
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 S?o 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.