chapter TWENTY #2
In the other room, Asher hands out sheet music and has the students play a song I have never heard before. I hear the familiar voice of Mike, who teaches guitar.
What in the world is Mike doing in the cello class?
I look over at the notebook, a peach flower peaking out of the pages.
Sincerity.
The song of a guitar strum causes me to peek into the room.
Mike is sitting at the front, on a stool, strumming the chords to a simple melody.
Asher is seated beside him, the cello in place.
I watch for a second as Asher starts to play.
If I had more self-control in this situation, I’d keep myself from opening the notebook.
I don’t, so I open it and see the song is called “Save Me From Myself.”
I listen to the entire lesson. When it’s over, I know he’s standing alone in the room, waiting for a response. I slam the door, anyway.
Is he really bringing an organ in here?
I peer into the room, watching Asher and one of the maintenance crew push the one and only organ we have in the building into our classroom.
It’s old, it’s made of wood, it’s on casters, and it has to weigh a thousand pounds.
I don’t know that for a fact, but I did see it come in on delivery day and it did not look pretty.
The delivery process, I mean. The organ is gorgeous.
Fifteen minutes later that organ ignites and I open my book to see Asher is pulling out the big guns: ColdPlay.
And today’s flower? Deep burgundy: Unconscious beauty.
Looking, ever so discreetly into the room, I see someone else playing the organ, and Asher is in front of him on the cello.
The words are a diatribe of my life just months ago. I lost it all. Could it be worse? No. Losing Luke was the most horrific tragedy I ever encountered and ever want to endure in my life. I wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone.
I know the song like I know my Social Security number. It’s quite possibly my favorite. It’s why I have to catch my breath just before I hear the notes that play to the words:
I risk looking back into the classroom again. Asher is behind the cello, playing that beautiful instrument with passion and vigor, his eyes fixated on my doorframe. When he sees me, his head lifts in surprise.
Standing by the door, I watch for a few moments as Asher continues to play, his body in entrancing movement, eyes on me and filled with passion. He wants me to save him. He wants to fix me. The problem is, I can’t save him and he shouldn’t be the one to fix me. I am fixing myself.
I lower my head and look at the floor as my hand finds the knob and I slowly close the door.
The lessons and note-taking back and forth between Asher and me have been going on for two weeks. The song messages go from sweet and caring to soulful and mind-numbing to downright angry.
The angry ones are from me.
Yeah, I even threw a little Alanis “You Oughta Know” in there. It’s the scorned woman’s mantra.
He reciprocated with a little Maroon 5 and on a particular Tuesday when he was feeling particularly brave, Sir Mix-A-Lot’s, “Baby Got Back.” That made me laugh.
It may seem romantic to some, but it’s killing me.
I’m a wreck.
Every day, I enter my office to the sight of the notebook and a new flower.
I hate how I look forward to seeing it there and am anxious to see what the pages have written in them.
I hate how I fear it won’t be there and what I’d feel if he gave up.
I haven’t slept in two weeks, fighting the feelings I have. He is tearing at my heartstrings.
He is also slowly creeping into my life in ways he probably doesn’t even realize.
Like how the other day I accidentally opened the door while he was walking in, causing him to spill his coffee on his tie.
Instead of being mad, he just let out this adorable grin and said, “You’d never believe how many of these I ruin on a daily basis.
” I laughed a little before realizing I’m supposed to be mad at him.
Or how he saw me having trouble opening a package because I needed to use both hands so he walked into my office, opened the package for me and then left, without a word.
I should have thanked him, but of course, I didn’t.
Last week, he brought in this giant tub of York Peppermint patties and left them in the classroom. I sneak one only when I know he’s not in the building.
And then there’s how I always see him watching me assist Lisa’s class.
Not for the entire session, but at least once a class I feel those golden eyes on me, and I pretend I am not affected at all by him watching me teach.
When I do chance a look up, it’s always the same.
A mixture of intrigue and appreciation. I hate that look.
Today, there is silence in the room next to mine. It’s odd because Asher should be having a class about now. I peek into the room and see it is, in fact, empty. On the white board there’s a note stating the lecture was moved to the first floor performance space.
I turn around and look back toward my office. The notebook with today’s rose is nestled sweetly inside. It’s a yellow rose with red tips. I walk back to the desk, grab the book and walk it out of the room.
My feet move down the hallway, taking me down the stairwell, two at a time, curious about what awaits me downstairs. My hair flips as I round the stair landing and go down another flight. I hear music pouring through the walls.
I’m not the only one interested in what is happening in the room.
Almost everyone who works in the building or who attends a class tonight is making their way down as well.
They must hear the music coming through the doors or word has spread throughout the building that something special is going on.
I pull the heavy door open and walk through it. My pace quickens and then slows as I approach the performance room. I make my way through the people, slipping inside. And I see something I’ve never seen before.
An orchestra. A real life orchestra is in our building. The room was built to host concerts by the students, the capacity maxing out at two hundred and fifty. The orchestra on the stage is easily made up of fifty people, many performing from the rows as there’s not enough space on the stage.
The first violin section is in the walkway to the left of the stage, the cellos are on the right.
The second violins and the violas are on the floor in the front.
In the back of the stage are the harp, horns, percussion, trumpets, and basses set from left to right.
In front of them are the clarinets, flutes, bassoons, and oboes.
The people playing the soft chords aren’t students. They’re adults. Classically trained adults. This is when it hits me. He brought the New York Philharmonic with him.
They’re playing a soft hum of a tune, a prelude if you will. I’m able to make my way to the front of the room, taking in the sight before me.
In the center of the stage is a black grand piano similar to the one I played on the yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean. The one I was playing when the most beautiful man walked in and caught me in my most vulnerable state.
And that beautiful man is on the stage, seated at the piano in the middle of a real life orchestra about to play a song . . . for me.
His fingers start to play the notes and the string section around him picks up as well, causing my soul to soar before they all quiet down to a low hum as Asher continues to play.
I open the notebook and look down at the words he has written.
All around me, people are mesmerized not just by the orchestra and the song they are playing, but by the man in the center. The man in the center who is staring at no one else but me. Honey wheat eyes and staring down at me, his fingers playing the chords from memory.
My stomach drops and my breaths become deep to still my nerves.
With every glide across the ivory keys and pump of the pedal, I feel my resolve for Asher wavering.
I wanted him to give and for two weeks he has been giving me words and meaning.
And today he is giving me that honey-wheat soulful gaze I once fell in love with—and it is destroying me. I stare down at the words on the pages.
This is a song about someone leaving. It can’t be to me, because I never left him. To the contrary. He left me. This song isn’t about me.
It’s about him.
Scanning the page, I run my fingers over the words, over the smoothness of the page. There is no song title. There is no author. It’s a song I’ve never heard of before, yet I feel like I know it by heart.
He said I should be taking notes and I am. But what if I’m taking the wrong notes? Songs can be interpreted in so many ways. What if I’m reading this all wrong?
When the song is over, the crowd erupts in applause. People shout admiration for Asher’s playing and some of the students ask him to play something else. He obliges and asks them if they have any requests.
I take this as my cue to leave and let him wow his audience. I suppose that really was what this was all about. A lesson for the students.
I turn around and make my way through the crowd that has subsided. I walk through the lobby and am on my way back up the stairs when the stairwell door opens and Asher calls my name.
“Emma.”
I stop and turn around, looking at the man who went from ruining me to asking me to save him to making me want to fall in love with him.
I know I should say something about the performance, but I don’t know what to say.
Instead I clutch the notebook to my side and stare at him, giving him the control because right now, I don’t know what I should do.
“I never got a chance to ask you. What happened to the shoes?”
I stare at him for a second before realizing he’s talking about the bouquet of Top-Siders he bought me. I consider lying, more for the fact I don’t want to appear crazy, then decide against it. “I burned them.”
Asher tilts his head, his face contorted as he tries to decide if I’m lying.
I answer him matter-of-factly. “Leah and I had a bonfire when we got back to Ohio. We doused them in limoncello and lit them up.”
His lips curl up on both sides as he shakes his head. “Well, that seems like a perfectly good waste of limoncello.”
I laugh at his response and let my shoulders release the tension I was carrying so tightly. I’m a wreck. He ruined me. But by God he owns me.