18. Duncan
18
DUNCAN
When the power comes back at the crack of dawn, the hum of life returning to the house jolts me awake. Lights flicker, the fridge hums, and the heater creaks to life. All things we take for granted as background noise, but when you’ve been without power for thirty-six hours, it makes it that much more obvious.
Odette stirs beside me, her palm splayed across my torso, her breath a soft sigh against my chest. Neither of us moves to get up, not yet. The cocoon we’ve created feels too sacred to leave behind just yet.
But eventually, nature calls. Together, we fold up the blankets and push the furniture back to its proper place. The silence between us feels different now, like we took several steps in the right direction. When I glance at her, she offers a faint smile, the warmth it sparks lingers in my chest long after it’s gone.
By late afternoon, Odette disappears upstairs for a bath while I settle into the living room with a book. The first floor feels oddly quiet without her presence, but I welcome the solitude, letting the words on the page distract me.
Just as I’m getting into it, the doorbell rings. It’s the first time that’s happened since I got here. I set the book down and stroll to the door, expecting it to be a delivery or maybe a neighbor checking in. Instead, I come face to face with a little girl, with wide blue eyes and hair a shade darker than Odette’s.
She looks up at me with a mix of curiosity and impatience. “Who are you?” she asks bluntly.
I blink, taken off guard. “Uh, I’m Duncan. Who are you?”
Her little nose wrinkles, as if the question annoys her. “Aurora.” Then, with a tilt of her head, she asks, “Where’s my mom?”
The question hits me like a punch to the chest.
Mom ?
Aurora rolls her eyes. “I can’t believe Odette would stay here, though,” she continues, answering my unspoken question. “She hates Christmas, and the outside of your house looks like Christmas threw up all over it. I bet the inside’s even worse.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded, my brain struggling to reconcile her words with the undeniable physical resemblance between her and Odette. Before I can respond, two figures appear at the bottom of the steps: a man and a woman.
“Sorry about Aurora,” the woman says with an apologetic smile. “She’s, uh…very direct.”
“We’re working on it,” the man adds.
I nod, still too dazed to respond. The woman steps forward and extends a hand. “You must be Chloe’s dad.”
That snaps me out of my stupor. “Uh, yeah. I am.”
“Good,” she says with a warm smile. “I’m Peyton, and this is Azriel. This little firecracker is our daughter.”
Daughter?
Then why did she say Odette is her mom?
“I’m not little,” Aurora protests.
“Would you prefer baby?” Peyton says. “Or brat? Because you’re acting like one, and being rude to this nice man in his own home.”
“Chloe said Odette was here,” Azriel says to me.
“She is. Upstairs.” I step aside to let them in. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
They thank me and move toward the living room, but Aurora doesn’t follow. Her eyes are locked on the grand piano in the corner of the room, her face lighting up with recognition.
“That’s a Steinway & Sons Model D. It’s beautiful.” She turns to me. “Can I play it?”
Her parents glance at me with identical apologetic grins. “Aurora, don’t?—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt. “If she wants to play, she can.”
Aurora’s face breaks into a grin as she darts to the piano. She circles it, her small hands tracing its polished surface with reverence. I watch, fascinated, as she studies the instrument with an intensity that feels achingly familiar.
Finally, she sits on the bench, her feet barely grazing the floor. She tests a few notes, frowning slightly, then launches into a rendition of Ravel’s “Ma Mère l'Oye.” It’s not quite how Odette played it a few nights ago, but the echoes are there, a unique twist on the same foundation. Her small hands move with surprising precision as they glide over the keys, her expression shifting to one of pure bliss.
I’m transfixed, the room fades away as I watch her play. The music washes over me, stirring something deep within me. Hers is not just skill — it’s an intuitive connection to the music, the kind I’ve only ever seen in the most gifted pianists… like her mother. And her mother’s mother. The melody of “Ma Mère l'Oye” flows through the room, evoking memories of when I first discovered my love for music at her age. But even then, my attempts were nowhere near this polished. She’s a natural, light-years ahead of where I was at this age.
Lost in the music, I don’t notice Odette approach until a shadow shifts in the corner of my vision. I turn to find her standing a few feet behind me. Her face is pale, her eyes locked on Aurora, her body as rigid as if she’s been carved from stone.
“Odette,” I say softly, but she doesn’t respond. Her focus is solely on the little girl at the piano, as if she’s seeing a ghost.
Why, though?
Aurora glances up mid-note, her expression instantly brightens. “Mom!” she cries as she leaps off the bench and races to Odette.
Odette crouches just in time to catch her, pulling Aurora into a tight embrace. The scene tugs at something primal in me, a longing I can’t quite name. The familiarity between them, the ease in which. Aurora wraps her arms around her, feels like a world I’ll never fully understand but desperately want to be part of.
What’s wrong with me?
Ten minutes ago, I had no idea she was a mom. I need to slow down and process that first, not jump head-first into something I don’t fully understand. For all I know, they are a throuple.
“Did you hear that, Mom?” Aurora grins up at Odette, her eyes shining with pride. “I’ve almost got that part worked out, but I’m still stuck on the trill transition in the cadenza section. Can we work on it now? I wish we’d done that for Christmas like we were supposed to, not stupid Paris.”
Odette’s lips twitch into a soft smile, though her gaze flickers uneasily toward me. “I need to talk to your parents for a few minutes first, okay?”
Aurora groans but nods. “Fine, but don’t take too long.” She points a small finger at Odette like a parent scolding a child. “We have work to do.”
Odette chuckles, brushing Aurora’s hair back from her face. “Promise.” She turns to Aurora’s parents. “Let’s talk upstairs. It’s… quieter there.”
Translation: I don’t want Duncan to hear what I have to say.
The three of them retreat up the staircase, leaving me alone with Aurora, who wastes no time turning her sharp gaze on me. She crosses her arms, studying me with a skeptical expression that’s both intimidating and amusing.
“I guess you’ll have to do,” she says finally, her tone matter-of-fact.
“Okay?” I’m still reeling from everything that’s just unfolded.
Aurora sighs dramatically, her eyes rolling in a way that’s far too practiced for her age. “Nobody has a Steinway and doesn’t play it,” she says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “C’mon, we don’t have all day.”
She grabs my hand and tugs me toward the piano. Her small grip is surprisingly strong, and I follow her, half-amused, half-dazed. She sits back down on the bench and pats the space beside her. I comply, still trying to process how I’ve gone from watching her play to being drafted as her practice partner.
Aurora launches into a rapid-fire explanation of everything she’s working on. “Okay, so the arpeggios in the left hand are fine, but the right-hand octaves keep throwing me off when I switch to the secondary theme. And then there’s the pedaling. I can’t figure out how to balance it without muddying the harmonics during the decrescendo…”
I blink at her, my mind scrambling to keep up with the flood of technical terms spilling from her mouth. “Uh, you’re going to have to slow down.”
Aurora makes a face — one that’s eerily similar to the one she gave me on the porch — and huffs. “Are you a beginner or something? Because I don’t have time for that.”
I suppress a laugh, shaking my head. “No, I’m not a beginner. Just not used to taking orders from ten-year-olds.”
She smirks, clearly unfazed. “Well, get used to it. And I’m nine, not ten. Now, let’s start with the cadenza.”
And just like that, Aurora dives back into her world of music, leaving me scrambling to catch up.