Chapter 47 Tate
TATE
I stare at the stack of blue boxes that I’ve placed on top of my drawers. I need to return them. There must be hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry inside them. I know Sullivan wanted me to have them, but it feels wrong keeping them.
I open the one containing the daisy chain and stare at it, before carrying it over to my suitcase and placing it inside.
It’s the only one I’ll keep. That, and the coffee he made me at Molly’s party yesterday are the things that have made me question whether I should listen to him and try to start over with him again.
I laid awake half of the night considering whether I should go to his place in the middle of the night and tell him I wanted to try again.
Every cell in my body wants to be back with him and Molly.
But maybe it’s too late, and I’m scared of getting hurt again.
I grab some T-shirts and place them inside my case, leaving out the old Linkin Park one that belonged to Brandon.
That one’s well overdue its journey into the trash can.
The last Ashley heard through some friends of Huck’s—because the guy seems to know everyone—Brandon’s back living in his parents guest room and hunting for a job.
Whatever he ends up getting, I doubt he’ll work in music again, something I think Sullivan will ensure, seeing as he also seems to know people everywhere.
So at least I don’t need to worry about bumping into him where I’m going.
An urgent thudding on our front door has me abandoning my packing and rushing out of my room, exchanging a puzzled look with my father.
“He’s stealing it!” Larry yells through the door.
Dad opens it and Larry clutches onto the doorframe, his face red as he puffs out, “The guy’s taking it!”
“What guy?” my father asks.
“A fancy suit. Probably a city inspector for noise or something. He’s taking Tate’s piano,” Larry wheezes like he’s run all the way from the basement.
“The piano?” I gasp.
“Yes. He and another guy are carrying it out like they own the thing. Parked their fancy car up, blocking the street.”
I rush to the window, my heart in my throat as I scan the sidewalk below. I don’t see anyone. But I see the car Larry’s referring to.
My stomach twists into a knot and I push up the window and stick my head out.
“Oh my God, what the hell?” I gasp.
Cars honk angrily as they’re held up, waiting for two men to wheel the old piano from the basement across the street to the other side. They stop directly in line with our window, and one turns his head, looking straight up at me.
My breath catches.
Sullivan.
“Stealing it!” Larry continues.
“Technically, it’s his. He owns the building,” I say, my voice sounding strange.
He’s wearing a blue suit today. But he’s taken the jacket off and has rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows to maneuver the piano. The muscles in his broad chest look puffed up, even from this distance, as he pushes a hand back through his dark hair.
He sits at the piano and lifts the cover from the keys.
For a moment, the street falls silent. No cars drive past, and the few pedestrians all slow their steps, looking at him in curiosity. Our neighborhood never usually sees cars like Sullivan’s. And they certainly don’t see designer suited men sitting at pianos first thing in the morning.
“This one’s for you, Tate!” he calls up to our window.
I stare at him as he starts to play. Every note rings out perfectly, like they’re imprinted on his soul.
I clasp a hand over my mouth as the notes of Unstoppable fill the street.
He turns and watches me, locking us in an intense gaze.
It’s all too much, and I drag in a shuddery breath, a sob bubbling in my throat.
“Don’t cry, Baby,” he calls out, pressing on the keys harder. “I didn’t want to make you cry.”
A crowd gathers as residents of our building step outside to watch the spectacle and hang out of their windows to see.
“I’ll keep playing all day until you understand,” he shouts.
“Understand what?” I shout back.
“That I love you! You hear me? I fucking love you!”
He yells the words so I can hear, but he doesn’t need to. They’re in his eyes, pinned on mine, in the notes of the song, played to me.
He loves me.
“I’m coming down,” I choke out.
I fly past my father and Larry and to the elevator. It arrives within seconds like it doesn’t want me to wait any longer than necessary either.
Some of our neighbors are hanging out on the steps up to our building’s door as I exit.
Everyone’s eyes are on Sullivan as he continues into his second performance of Unstoppable.
This time the keys are pressed a little more gently.
But the music still carries all the weight of his emotion with it as he meets my eyes across the street and holds them as I cross to him.
I come to a stop beside the piano, my eyes roaming over it. In the natural daylight, it looks even older and battered than in the basement. But out here it seems to play better. Sound different.
“I had it tuned yesterday while you were at Molly’s party,” Sullivan says, studying my face.
“You told me it wasn’t you,” I say.
The sheer passion in his eyes is spellbinding as he plays effortlessly, like he always does. Like the music is a part of him, the notes ingrained into his very essence.
Part of me fell in love with a man through his music that night in Grand Central Station. Something that had never happened before, despite all the other times I had heard The Masked Maestro play.
“And that’s true. I’m not him, Tate.”
I wait for him to play the closing notes of the song, and the air stills around us as the final one echoes out.
“But I was that night. I wasn’t meant to be there. Something held the real Maestro up and I stepped in. He said some people need to hear his music, and he couldn’t let them down. And I think I needed to play that night too. I was… I’d had a bad day, remembering.”
“You had?” I whisper, hating the flash of grief that crosses his face.
“But I couldn’t tell you it was me. It wasn’t my secret to tell.”
“You told me you didn’t know how to play that song.”
His eyes pinch. “I lied.”
“You played all of the others from that night when I asked you to, but not that one.”
Sullivan rolls his lips, whatever he’s about to tell me obviously being hard for him to admit.
“Sinclair made a montage video for the funeral of my brother doing all the stuff he loved. All the risky stuff.” He shakes his head, a sad smile on his face.
“It’s the song she put with it. For whatever reason, that night I wanted to play it.
I don’t even understand why. And when you asked about it I didn’t know what to do.
I was scared that if I started talking about Slade then I’d tell you about Molly. And as much as I wanted to trust you—”
“It’s okay,” I say gently.
He looks at me and gently places his hands onto my hips, guiding me to step between his legs and the piano. The heat of them against me has my breath hitching.
“Sinclair read out a quote at their funeral. It said some people make you feel happiness. Some teach you lessons. And others give you memories to carry with you for a lifetime. I didn’t know it at the time, but Slade was also going to give me Molly.
He gave me a reason to keep going, Tate.
And as stupid as this might sound, I still feel him.
Not just in here”—he takes my hand and places it over his chest where his heart is thudding in a deep, steady rhythm—“but in a way like he isn’t really gone. ”
“He’ll always be with you,” I breathe.
His eyes mist. “I told myself I hated love because it could leave you. And even if it didn’t, then it came with conditions. That no one would ever love Molly like I do. Like she’s theirs.”
“She is yours,” I choke, my voice shaking as Sullivan lifts my hand to his lips and presses a featherlight kiss to the tips of my fingers. “And anyone who can’t see what an amazing little girl she is doesn’t deserve to be in her life.”
“I know.” His eyes soften. “You told me more than once. And you also told me you loved my daughter and no matter what I did, I couldn’t change that.
And… Tate? I never want to even think about trying.
The way you love Molly is the one thing I couldn’t ignore.
I told myself I could cope without your smiles and your songs drifting around our home as you cooked.
I told myself that I could live without ever waking up next to you again.
Never being the one you looked at the way you did.
I told myself a lot of things. But no matter what, all the time we’ve spent apart I’ve kept coming back to the same conclusion. ”
“Which is?” I sniff.
“Which is that I can’t live without a woman who loves both of us, but who I’m pretty sure will side with Molly over everything as she grows into the incredible young woman that I know she will.”
I laugh softly as he continues.
“But the day will come when Molly moves out and has her own life. And fuck, Tate, I don’t want you not to be there beside me when she comes home to visit and brings boyfriends that I’m going to want to strangle.”
“I could keep you in line.” I smile as the first of my tears escapes down my cheek.
“Yeah, Baby, you could,” he whispers.
My heart squeezes. Baby.
“I love you, Tate. I have loved you for longer than I’ve been able to admit to myself. But I’m not hiding anymore. I want you. Molly wants you. My family want you. All I’ve heard about is you since the party yesterday. They wanted to know where you’d gone.”
“I’m sorry.” I reach up and wipe my cheeks. “I needed some time.”
“Do you still need it?” Blue eyes scan mine, back and forth with growing urgency.
I hesitate and his face falls.
“Tell me our song isn’t over. Please, Tate.”
“Sullivan…”
He stares at me as I take a deep breath, hoping I can get the words out. Because once I do, everything will change.
Again.
“I’ve been offered a job in California,” I confess. “I met some people from another record label when I was on tour there, and they want to work with me. I’ll be songwriting. It’s my dream job.”
“California?” he echoes.
I nod, my throat burning.
“What are you going to tell them?” he asks in a hoarse whisper.
Tears rush down my cheeks and I shake my head.
“I already gave them my answer.”
“What was it?”
He stares at me and the devastation on his face is more than I can bear, so I turn away.
That’s when I see it. A lone paper rose sitting on top of the piano. This one isn’t white. It’s blue. Just like his eyes. Just like Molly’s.
I don’t need to pick it up to know that the petals are made from the same musical score that he’s just played for me. Unstoppable.
The final flower to complete my bouquet of all the songs he knows how to play by heart.
The most poignant one of them all, because it bares the deepest part of his soul to me.
His face blurs behind my tears as I turn to him.
“Yes,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “I told them yes.”