7. Odette
7
ODETTE
It’s almost dark outside when I wake up hours later, groggy and disoriented. The house is too quiet, the only sound I can discern is the soft ticking of something downstairs. I reach for my phone, blinking groggily against the sudden bright light. It reads December twenty-second, 6:57 P.M.
I slept for twenty-four hours straight. Go figure.
As if on cue, my stomach growls loudly, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since the jet yesterday afternoon.
Pushing the covers aside, I climb out of bed and make my way downstairs. The kitchen is just as festive as I remember, and I’m relieved to find it well-stocked. The fridge is packed with enough groceries to last a month, and the walk-in pantry is just as generous, lined with an assortment of non-perishables foods and a wine fridge.
I settle on making a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. As I stir the soup, my phone buzzes on the counter. Chloe’s name flashes across the screen. I smile, wiping my hands on a dish towel before picking up.
“Hey,” I answer, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder as I flip the sandwich.
“Hi, you!” Despite the time difference, her voice is bright and annoyingly cheerful. “How’s Vermont?”
“No idea. I’ve been asleep for the past twenty-four hours.”
“Good for you! And that explains why the rental company called me to e-sign for your rental. It’s in the driveway, and the keys are in the mailbox.”
“Thanks!”
“I take it you like the place?”
“Not sure if like is the word I’d use to describe it,” I say dryly.
“How come?”
“Well, it’s… festive.” I glance around the kitchen, noting the garlands hanging from the cabinets and the wreath over the window. “It looks like Christmas threw up in here.”
Chloe bursts out laughing. “Yeah, that sounds like Duncan alright. He’s obsessed with all things holidays. Always has been. If it’s as bad as you say it is, then he must’ve used one of those over-the-top holiday decorating companies.”
“Well, mission accomplished. It’s like the North Pole exploded in here, and then some.” A small smile tugs at my lips as I glance around the kitchen, taking in the decorations once again. “For the record, I planned your murder in great detail during my shower, and as I toweled off with one of those fluffy embroidered towels.”
“Even the towels? Damn. Guess I should’ve warned you, huh?”
“A heads-up would’ve been nice,” I joke, shaking my head. “I thought this was supposed to be my escape, not a winter wonderland. Certainly not Christmas on steroids.”
“To be fair, I didn’t expect him to go this overboard either,” she says, still chuckling. “He’s got a bit of a decorating addiction. Granted, he does that with every holiday, but tends to go all out for Christmas. I swear, he had his way, every day would be Christmas. The man lives and breathes for it.”
“You’re not helping your case.”
“I’m not trying to,” she teases. I can picture her biting her lip, a habit I’ve noticed over our years of friendship. “A little holiday spirit never hurt anyone.”
“Debatable,” I counter back, plating the grilled cheese and carrying it over to the kitchen island. “At least the place is nice. It’s quiet, cozy. I’m sure I’ll survive.”
“That’s the spirit! If that doesn’t work, think of it as a Christmas detox. You’ll get so sick of it that by the time you leave, you won’t care about the holidays anymore.”
“That’s one way to look at it.” I take a bite of my sandwich, and it’s buttery and crisp and exactly what I needed. “Anyway, how’s Paris?”
Her voice perks up. “Oh, it’s amazing, as always. Alex is being ridiculously romantic. I think he’s making up for lost time, even though I’ve told him he doesn’t have to.”
“Good for him! Shut up and let the man woo you.”
“Oh, I am! We’ve been sightseeing non-stop, then we had a late dinner by the Seine, and I’m still completely stuffed from that. We’re going to this incredible Christmas market later today. I’ll send you pictures.”
I smile despite myself, at hearing the happiness in her voice. “That sounds perfect, Chloe. I’m glad you’re having fun.”
“We are. You should, too.”
My gaze shifts toward the grand piano in the living room.
“I will.” I nod, even though she can’t see me.
We say our goodbyes, and I set my phone down, feeling a little lighter. I finish eating and clean up, taking a moment to glance out the window. Snowflakes are starting to fall softly outside, dusting the landscape in a fresh layer of white. The house feels quieter now, save for the faint ticking of a clock and the occasional creak of the old wood. It didn’t strike me as odd before, but there are no pictures of anyone on the walls.
My eyes drift toward the grand piano by the massive Christmas tree in the living room. It’s impossible to ignore the beautiful instrument, gleaming black, with a high-gloss finish that reflects the warm glow of the tree lights. Judging by its size and craftsmanship, it’s a top-of-the line Steinway & Sons Model D.
Drawn to it, I dry my hands and walk over to it. I run my fingers over the top of the piano as I inspect it, feeling the cool, polished surface under my hands. Lifting the lid, I press a key softly, letting the single note resonate in the room. Perfectly in tune. Whoever maintains this piano knows exactly what they’re doing. A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. Chloe’s dad might have gone overboard with the decorations, but at least he has good taste in pianos and knows how to take care of them.
I lower the lid over the keys again and sit down on the bench, my hands resting in my lap for a beat. I don’t think too hard about what I’m going to play, the melody comes to me without thought, a classic piece etched into my memory.
Ravel’s “Ma Mère l'Oye.”
I’ve always been obsessed with fairytales, and this piece was one of my favorites from my childhood. My fingers already know the way, instinctively finding their place on the keys. I close my eyes as the music flows through me, the melancholic notes float gently through the air, filling the room like whispers from the past.
This was the last piece Mom and I played together before I left home for good. She was famous, a virtuoso in her prime, but by then, her hands had begun to fail her then, arthritis and a faltering memory stealing her gift. She’d needed my hands to continue her legacy, but I’d known even then that I didn’t want to live under her shadow.
I didn’t want to play like June Ehrenberg. I wanted to play as Celeste Ehrenberg.
June’s ego couldn’t handle that. Her parents’ pride wouldn’t tolerate it. Celeste was a stain on the Ehrenberg family name. The only role she was good enough to play was June’s musical shadow, nothing more. Celeste was the illegitimate daughter no one knew about, the one June needed not for love, but for her hands — hands that could still play when hers could not.
Being June’s dirty little secret was one thing, but to be reduced to a literal extension of her genius? I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to be used as a stand-in for the brilliance she was losing.
That day, I played “Ma Mère l'Oye” like I am now, and it pissed off my grandparents. They’d called me selfish and ungrateful. Mom, on the other hand, was reduced to tears. It might have been the first time she truly saw me for who I am, but the damage was already done. She begged me to reconsider, but I knew nothing would change. The Ehrenbergs had treated me like a charity case my entire life. If anyone came snooping, I was the orphaned child of the help who had no where else to go.
I left as soon as I could and on my own terms. Ray had been a last-ditch effort to see if Mom remembered or meant any of the things she’d said to me on the day I left home for good. She never did remember it, and then she died. My grandparents saw to it that I was cut out of Mom’s will, because they expected me to beg them to reconsider, just so they could use me to keep June Ehrenberg’s legacy alive. Just as Ray expected me to beg him to reconsider our engagement.
Joke’s on them, though. I was never one to play those childish games. After Mom died, I discarded the lot of them right back, cutting ties with them and their world in the only way I knew how. I haven’t looked back since.
Celeste Ehrenberg died the day she left home at eighteen. Or rather, she died so Odette Hawthorne could live. Not even Ray could resurrect her, and not for lack of trying. Money aside, I had zero desire to change who I fundamentally am in order to fit into the mold of what he’d decided he wanted in a wife. Granted, I did find the timing of when and how he came into my life questionable, and suspected my grandparents had something to do with it because he knew I was June’s daughter from the start.
Which means he had to have known I wasn’t giving up my hands to keep June’s legacy alive. I didn’t just leave home for college, I’d walked away from the Ehrenbergs. I’d been in the process of legally changing my name. There was zero chance of me stiffing myself any further to be what he wanted. To this day, I have no regrets.
But the thing about music is, once it’s in you, it never leaves you.
The melody swells as my fingers glide over the keys. A bittersweet ache blooms in my chest, and I feel a lump rise in my throat. For all the pain and heartache I’ve endured, playing has always been my joy. It’s a tie to my past, to the good and the bad, because both truths deserve space. I can’t separate one from the other. It’s all tangled up, this thing that brings me joy and sorrow in equal measure.
In order to protect Aurora’s privacy, I took on the moniker Nebula professionally. Things might have since changed, but it’s a decision I haven’t regretted since.
Nebula is my fuck-it alter ego. She believes in fairytales, but she plays for herself first and foremost. She stays true to her brand, and doesn’t compromise for anyone, ever. Not even for money. That hasn’t changed in twelve years.
And now, as the music flows through me, I let myself feel it all — the ache of those memories, the bittersweetness of it, the sense of loss that’s never quite gone away. My fingers keep playing, but my mind drifts back to that day when I knew, deep down, that I could never be what June wanted. My hands could never be her replacement, her salvation. Celeste needed to be her own person.
I am my own person.
Tears slip down my cheeks without me realizing it. I play on, letting the haunting notes of Ravel’s “Ma Mère l'Oye” speak for all the things I can’t say, blending all the parts that made me — past, present, and future — into something that is both heartbreaking and beautiful.
As the final chord lingers in the air, fading slowly into stillness, I sit there, my hands resting on the keys, my breath shaky. The room is silent, except for the faint crackling of the fire. I keep my eyes closed, trying to calm the wave of emotions that’s swept over me.
Then, slowly, I lift my head and open my eyes… and freeze.