Chapter 41
Chapter forty-one
Yosh
The doors hiss open, cold winter air hitting me right in the face.
Tom zig-zags through the crowd like it’s just another Thursday, while I fight against the crush of people and the noise coming in from every side. I push myself to keep up.
Voices, footsteps, rolling suitcases, they all crash together in my head.
I tug my coat tighter. It doesn't really do anything against the suffocating crowd or the freezing wind. Tom’s hand finds my back, guiding me through the mass of people. One look from those sapphire eyes and I know he’s got me. He gets it. Airports don’t mix well with my nervous system.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just a lot of people.”
He gives me that little Tom McKenna smirk as he takes my luggage to free my hands.
“Welcome to Amsterdam, love.”
Outside, we look for a taxi. I breathe warmth into my palms while Tom talks with a driver.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak anything other than English, apart from the hint of Scots that slips through when he’s with Calvin. Now he’s rattling off Dutch, fluent and fast, but also like he's seconds away from starting a fight.
“This is different,” I say.
He glances back. “What is?”
“Your Dutch. It sounds harsh. Like you’re about to start a fight.”
He chuckles, holding the taxi door for me. “Relax. If I were picking a fight, you’d know.”
The driver takes our suitcases. I slide into the backseat, grateful for the warmth. Tom joins me and gives the driver his address.
Prinsengracht, says the screen. I have no idea how to pronounce that.
The ride begins calmly, driving under a viaduct while a massive airplane taxis overhead.
Fields stretch along the highway. Amsterdam’s skyline rises up against the horizon. Within a solid ten minutes we’re surrounded by towers of glass.
One massive building steals my attention. Glass and stone rise up in raw shapes like uncut crystals. It looks apocalyptic.
This city feels like rubbing salt into my old wounds, New York, Times Square, all that circus. Amsterdam isn’t the same, but it stirs something familiar.
The look of it changes as we move closer to the center.
That’s where the canals begin, one after another. Endless rows of canal houses pressed together.
They look old and majestic. I recognize the architecture from Avalon, though Saint Luna’s center is painted in pinks, yellows, and turquoise.
Here the houses are more somber: brown or red brick, gabled roofs, arched doorways, and dainty ornaments above the tall old windows. Cozy in a different, less tropical way.
Also, the amount of bikes in this city is unreal. They’re everywhere, stacked and tangled like weeds gone wild— whole dumping grounds of them. I swear I’ve never seen so many in my life.
“Is that even safe?” I ask, pointing at a row of houses leaning forward like the Tower of Pisa.
Tom nods. “Safe enough. I’ve never seen one of them collapse. They used to build them on timber pilings, the soft ground made them sink a little. And you know, a lot of these houses are centuries old. Back then, the wider your building, the more tax you paid. Narrow was cheaper.”
“Interesting. You live in one of these?”
“Yeah, it’s just a few blocks from here. You’ll see.”
The taxi stops in front of one of the bigger canal houses. Tall windows, a heavy wooden door with black iron framing. It looks more like the gate of a fortress than an entrance.
Through a gap in the curtain on the ground floor, I catch a glimpse of an elderly woman with a mug of coffee and the morning paper spread open in front of her. Eight o’clock; breakfast time in Amsterdam. The sight is so ordinary, so cozy, it makes me smile.
Tom swipes his card and we leave the taxi.
I tilt my head back, taking in the building on the corner. It’s one of the larger canal houses, definitely split into multiple apartments.
“This is your building?”
“Yeah,” he says, already holding the door for me. “My apartment’s on the second floor.”
We step inside and my eyes go over the column of nameplates. McKenna appears three times.
The lobby is a little echoey because everything is open and the ceiling is high. It feels a bit like a gothic church, antique and a little fancy. Nothing sober about it. Roaring twenties I’d say, or at least pre-war.
The elevator is one of those old open cages I’ve only ever seen in movies.
“Jugendstil,” Tom says. He must've read my expression.
“Your family lives here too?”
“Not all of them. Just Joan and Finn.”
The elevator doors slide open. Tom presses the button for the second floor.
“Cheryl and Eli live a block away. Jay, Janice, Effy, Alex and Luca live at Heatherfell, it’s about a forty-five minute drive from Amsterdam. Luca lives part-time in Germany, he plays professional football. Soccer, you know. We call it football here.”
“Must be hard for Effy and Luca, keeping a long-distance relationship going.”
“They make it work. Besides, Effy and Alex spend a lot of time with Luca in Munich. The three of them are always together.”
The elevator doors slide open, and Tom leads me down the hallway.
He’s full of energy, even after the broken night flight we just had. I can tell he’s happy to be home.
He smiles.“I remember walking this corridor two months ago. I was in a state. Had no clue what the hell I was doing with my life. And now I’m back, bringing my boyfriend!”
I steal a kiss on his cheek. “Your boyfriend’s glad you did.”
We reach the door at the end of the hall. Tom fishes out his keys, a grin tugging at his mouth as he slides one into the lock.
The door swings open and—Christ. It’s like stepping straight into Tom’s head. It’s…a lot.
The apartment is big.
High ceilings, tall windows, it’s very spacious.
Still, the first thing I feel is how heavy it all looks.
It’s the baroque furniture in dark mahogany and mauve-pink velvet.
The chairs, dining table, and cabinets, could’ve come straight out of Versailles.
There’s a black Chesterfield sofa near the window, and against the wall an antique liquor globe filled with bottles of whiskey
But the thing I can’t ignore is the huge piano in the middle of the apartment. I picture Tom sitting there with his eyes closed, lost in the music.
Dark nights. Lonely nights. Just him and a bottle from the globe. The thought of it suddenly feels very intimate.
My eyes go over the artworks on the wall.
Naked bodies of women and, to my surprise, men too.
They're bathing in a giant martini glass, lounging on a chaise longue, dressed with nothing but pearls, diamonds and rubies.
The whole place feels like an adult club from the roaring twenties.
Smoky, flamboyant, and a little dramatic.
The house looks like its owner.
“Sapphire.”
“Yes, love?”
“Why does your place look like a brothel?”
His head snaps my way, then his eyes drift around the room. Something careful and filthy curls at the corner of his mouth.
“You think so? Never looked at it that way, but I suppose a fresh set of eyes will—”
His face suddenly freezes.
Heels click on the wooden boards. I turn. A young blonde, about Joan’s age, heads straight for Tom in black satin lingerie.
She blows me a kiss, then grabs Tom and kisses him hard.
My hand flies to my mouth, watching it unfold like a scene from a bad movie.
She fires off something in Dutch. Tom answers quickly, trying to create some distance between them.
She snaps, talking fast with her hands flying everywhere.
Tom throws his hands in the air. From the tone of his voice I can tell he’s trying to talk his way out of it.
His eyes flick to me, begging me to throw a life line.
I let out a shaky chuckle. I honestly don’t know whether to laugh or lose it.
Jealous? Absolutely. Especially when she presses her nearly naked body into his and mouths at his neck.
Enough.
That’s my spot, lady.
I cough loudly enough to get her attention. “Listen, sweetheart, maybe you should get dressed and leave Tom alone.”
She looks at me over her shoulder, still cupping Tom’s face in her hands.
“And who the fuck are you?”
Heat floods my face. I look away. This can’t be real.
“Tom, who the fuck is she?”
“Easy, kitties. No need to hiss. Please, this is just a misundersta—”
The girl slaps him in the face. I choke on my breath.
What the fuck. Did I fly almost six thousand miles to Europe just to find out Tom has a girlfriend? Kitties!? He called both of us kitties!?
“Sorry, sorry, that was a joke.”
The girl storms off into the other room. Tom goes after her, and so do I.
It’s the bedroom and…words fail me.
Mirrored ceiling. Jacuzzi in the middle. A dance pole next to a Victorian canopy bed.
Tell me again how this isn’t giving brothel vibes?
“Okay, Yosh, this is Kimmy. Kimmy, this is Yosh.”
Kimmy doesn’t bother to answer. She opens a closet and pulls out one of Tom’s hoodies.
Tom turns to me. “I have no idea what she’s doing here. I asked her to water the plants, but she just told me she’s between apartments and thought she could stay here for a couple of weeks while I was in Avalon.”
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“No, no. Just casual.”
That earns Tom a second slap in the face.
“Is this why you haven’t answered my texts? Is he your boyfriend? Are you suddenly gay, or what?”
“Yeah, he’s my boyfriend and…yeah, whatever.”
Whatever? That’s one hell of a way to explain your sexual orientation.
He’s dodging, the same way he dodged with me. I brought it up once, and he ended it fast, saying he doesn’t like to label himself. So I let it go because I respected that. Maybe he’s still figuring himself out. Or maybe he really doesn’t feel the need, which is fine.
But this whatever, and especially the way he said it, lands like a slap in the face. Which is ironic, given the amount of slaps flying around in the last five minutes.
Okay, deep breath. Bad choice of words, that’s all.
Kimmy sizes me up from head to toe. It's clear to see she wants me dead.
Tom grabs my arm and steers me back into the living room so his fling can change and collect her things. At least, that’s what I assume. That’s the plan, right?
“Tom, the fuck!?” I hiss the words the second we’re back in the living room of Chez Brothel.
“Please, love, don’t be mad.”
“You never ended things with her?”
He shrugs. “There was nothing to end. She’s one of Joan’s friends. I slept with her a couple of times, asked her for the plants. That’s it.”
My eyes fly to the single dick-shaped cactus on the windowsill.
“And you couldn’t ask Joan?”
“On tour in the Balkans.”
“Your nephew Finn? He lives down the hallway you said.”
“Organizes fetish parties in my bedroom. No spare key for him.”
My fingers pinch the bridge of my nose. What a mess.
“Okay, I get it. You still need to tie up some loose ends.”
He sighs in relief, planting a grateful kiss to my mouth.
“Thanks, love. And again, I’m really sorry. Can you stay open-minded for the next couple of days, just in case?”
Those sapphire eyes work their spell on me, over and over. Damn it, he knows it too. I curse myself as my head nods yes.
“Define ‘open-minded’ for me.”
“I don’t know. Expect the unexpected. Somehow I always end up in weird shit and piss people off. I really don’t want that with you.”
The tension gathers in his shoulders. For a moment, I see the same insecure Tom I met that first day at Arcadia.
He needs my support. He needs to know things are different. More importantly, he’s different. That’s what breaks the cycle.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going to be mad about things that happened before you came to Avalon. You’re here to start fresh, right?”
The nod he gives is small, the attempt at a smile even smaller.
“And I know exactly who you are. You’re my wild, beautiful vortex who leaves a trail of destruction and blurts things out without thinking.”
I jab my finger into his chest. “But don’t you ever lump me in with your last fling again, especially not with ‘kitty.’”
He chuckles, leaning back on the black Chesterfield. I would love to make that couch ours right now, if only the squatter wasn’t still around.
“I’m going to check if Kimmy has a place to stay, if I need to give her a hand with that.”
I nod, feeling very open-minded as I say, “It’s the right thing to do.”
Tom leaves the room. I walk to the piano and let my finger trace a line through the dust.
How long has it been? Two months? No one’s touched it since.
I lift the fallboard and stare at the black-and-white keys. My finger finds the E. Then D sharp. Back to E, back to D sharp. I’d done everything I could to bury it, but it’s hardwired into me. It’s not going anywhere.
I sit down and start again. Same keys, same pace. Over and over.
I continue. My right hand glides over the keys. Für Elise. There was a time I could play the whole piece blind, both hands. I had to. Failing was never an option.
A floorboard creaks.
“Holy—”
I flinch, fingers freezing on the keys. Tom’s hand lands on my shoulder.
“Go on,” he murmurs.
I start over. Tom lowers himself onto the bench, his left hand joining mine on the keyboard. When I falter, he fills in. When the melody is simple, he lets me lead. His fingers touch mine as he takes over my keys.
It feels as intimate as sex. It’s the way he pours love into the music, into me.
Tom plays blind, eyes staying fixed on my hands. He wants to see how I play, how we create music together.
Suddenly it starts. Black mist crawls up my spine, climbing into my head, sliding down my arm.
My hand locks above the keys, trembling. I rip it back and shoot to my feet.
Instinct brings me to the other side of the room where I plant my palms on the windowsill.
Breathe. Keep breathing. I squeeze my eyes shut. With every exhale I force the memories out. Not being fast enough. Not being good enough.
I open my eyes. Amsterdam doesn’t care. Boats in the canals, people crossing the bridge, railings glittering with frost in the sunlight. And bikes. So many fucking bikes.
“Hey, you okay?” Tom slides his arms around my waist, settling behind me. His weight feels solid and warm. He rests the side of his face between my shoulder blades, breathing with me until I slow down. We do this for each other now.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No. Just… forget it. Forget all of it.”
The front door slams. Fuck. I’d forgotten Kimmy was still here.
“Alright.” His arms tighten before letting go. “I won’t bring it up again. But you can’t ask me to forget that, love.”
He closes the fallboard and goes to the kitchen. Kettle on. Tea out. Silence.
I try to label, sort, stabilize, but nothing about this fits the plan I walked in with. The piano’s made it worse.
This was a mistake.