Eternal Heat (Firework Girls #3) (12 page)

I don’t see him again until the competition that Friday. When they sent out the schedules, I knew I was bound to see him. They’ve grouped the pianists together and he plays immediately after I do.
Of course.

There’s a lot of milling around the backstage of Kopp Hall. This competition doesn’t quite call for the formal gowns of many of the performances I’ve done, but nice dress is still required. I’m wearing a sapphire gown with a form-fitting bodice and calf-length flowing skirt. As I do for any public performance, I’ve taken the time to style my hair so it’s flowing to my waist in gentle curls.

We first see one another from a distance. Or rather, this is the moment I first see him. Judging by the way he’s taking me in, I gather he noticed me a few moments before. He has a stunned, appreciative look on his face. I’m flattered in spite of myself, but that only makes me more frustrated. That fact that he looks so scrumptious in his suit coat and red tie is not helping matters.

His eyes meet mine, but I look away. I head for the little table in the wings and check in with the assistant sitting there. She takes my name and gives me a number to hold up for the judges when I go on stage.

With this little bit of business done, I busy myself checking the program. A fellow second-year grad student is on stage, someone I’ve noticed has really improved since he’s been in the program. There are still four more players to get through before it’s my turn, and I can feel Erik
right over there.

I glance at him. Our eyes meet for the briefest second before he looks away, like he’s been caught.

God, this is torture. My heart is racing, partly because I’m feeling trapped with nowhere to go and partly because he’s so damned handsome. Why is my body responding to him still? After all this time and after everything?

I’m an idiot.

I find a place to wait, as far away from him as I can reasonably get, and try to focus on why I’m here. Determinedly ignoring the pounding of my heart, I close my eyes and start to go through my pre-performance routine. Deep breaths. Mentally running through the piece. Finger stretches.

I glance at him again. He’s sitting in a chair, legs outstretched, arms crossed, head slightly down. He looks sad, and like he’s a million miles away.

I soften slightly. An old impulse in me wants to go over and comfort him. But I don’t. We aren’t who we were all those years ago. And if he feels badly, doesn’t he deserve it?

The performer before me finally takes his place at the piano.

As he begins his piece, I move closer so I can wait just off stage. Since I don’t have the end of my braid to play with, I keep running my thumb over the corner of my number placard.

As the performer before me finishes up and bows to the judges, I hear the footfalls of someone approaching from behind. By the way my skin is on alert, I know it has to be him. He settles to my right, waiting.

I look over at him. He’s looking at me too.

Why?
I want to ask him.
Why did you leave me like that?

Our eyes hold for a moment. The prior pianist leaves the stage, passing by us, and I hear my name called. “Good luck,” Erik says softly.

I don’t answer. I don’t know if he’s trying to trip me up or not, but I’m not going to have a repeat of last time. I hold up my number for the judges, sit at the bench, and do my best to forget everything while playing Beethoven’s sonata.

At the conclusion I stand, hold my number again, and wait.

The judges call out my score—the highest pianist yet, I note—and dismiss me from the stage. My body hums as I draw closer to him. He’s waiting in the wings. I don’t look at him and I don’t wish him luck. I head straight back to the little table and turn in my number.

Then my old friend, the Pied Piper, begins to play. I hover at the table, listening. Slowly, I’m drawn closer to the stage, against my will. He is magic. His music ambrosia. I want to consume it.

I won’t get the judges’ comments until tomorrow, but if I were to describe my own performance, I would use words that have often been used to describe me in the past: “Flawless. Technically strong. A beautiful delivery.”

With a resigned sort of detachment, I know what I did and can call it as it was, without all the self-doubt that tends to hover over me like a black cloud. The fact that I did well doesn’t really matter though. Because if I were a judge describing Erik’s piece, I would say: “Stunning. Bold. Confident.”

He’s beyond technically proficient, and I already know I’ve been beat. If the judges don’t score him higher than me, they’re all morons.

The next pianist on the program comes up next to me. “Pretty fucking good for a first year grad student,” she says, envy dripping off her every word.

“A first year grad?” I ask, turning to her. Erik should be in his second year, like me. “Are you sure?”

She nods and we both listen as Erik receives his score.

A full twenty points above my own.

Even though I’m in our favorite bar on 8th street with Sam and Jack, I’m in a dark place. I don’t think it’s just because of the competition today either, but I’m not prepared to fully admit that to myself.

Jack has one lanky arm thrown around my shoulder, in an attempt to comfort me. Like Sam, Jack’s hair has a mind of its own, but it works for him. He’s got that shaggy Benedict Cumberbatch look going on that the girls love.

“He doesn’t belong here
,”
I say. “I don’t even know what he’s doing at rinky dink Hartman. He has his degree from fucking
Juilliard
.”

“Hartman isn’t rinky dink,” Sam says, calmly. “You’ve said yourself they have one of the best music programs in the country.”

“Everybody’s rinky dink compared to Juilliard.”

“You’re just being ridiculous and bitter.” Leave it to Sam to call it like she sees it. She’s probably right.

“Hey, hey,” Jack says somewhat jovially and squeezing my shoulders. He’s clearly trying to lighten my mood. I have to admit, it’s past time. I’ve sulked plenty. “It’s okay if Ashley wants to be ridiculous and bitter. That’s why we’re where the booze is.”

I crack half a smile. “We’re here so you can pick up on girls,” I say.

He gives me a mock, insulted look and puts his hand to his chest. “I’m offended!” Sam and I exchange looks and she rolls her eyes amusedly.

“Uh-huh,” she says.

“I didn’t come here to pick up on girls,” he says.

I look at him, waiting for it.

“These girls are here to pick up on
me.”

“There it is,” Sam says smiling and I can’t help but smile too. Jack grins at me, satisfied.

I take a deep breath, trying to get myself under control. It’s been a long time since I haven’t placed first in a competition. Maybe I’m just not used to it and feeling a little raw. Maybe I’ll feel better tomorrow.

God, I hope so.

Giving a resolute sigh, I lean against Jack and look at Sam. She smiles at me knowingly and I shrug. “What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to drink another beer,” she says, raising my nearly empty bottle to get the attention of the waiter.

I take the bottle from her and drink down the rest. Sam’s right. For the moment anyway, that’s about all I can do.

The following Tuesday I head to the Gizmo for the first time since I saw Erik there before. It’s my favorite place for coffee, and I’m tired of avoiding it. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m going to see Erik plenty of times between now and the end of the year. It probably won’t be the last time he kicks my ass in a competition either. I may as well try to get used to it.

I go three whole times before running into him again. Just as I was starting to get relaxed about being here, I see him waiting at the end of the line at the counter, right as I’m coming in. I briefly consider leaving, but instead I sigh resolutely and come up behind him. I’m a big girl. I can handle this.

I do give myself twice the normal amount of space between us though.

He noticed me when I was coming through the door, and at first seemed like he wasn’t going to try to talk to me either, but after we shuffle forward in line one place, he slowly turns and looks at me. “Hey,” he says quietly.

I pause. I guess I can be civil. “Hey.”

“How’s it going?”

I frown at him.
How’s it going?

He sighs at himself. “Sorry.”

I shrug. Whatever. “It’s fine.”

We shuffle forward again.

“Listen...” he says hesitantly, “Could I... buy you a coffee or something?”

I consider saying something smartass about how I can afford my own coffee, but I know that’s not what he means. He wants to talk. Really talk. I don’t know if I want to.

I don’t know if I can.

But there’s that part of me that wants to know, what in the hell happened all those years ago?

We scoot forward. There’s only one person in front of him now. It’s a young undergrad, from the looks of it, and she’s hemming and hawing over the gluten-free baked goods in the display case.

“Please?” Erik asks.

I’m considering giving in, but I’m not ready to commit. Instead I ask a different question that’s been on my mind. “Is it true you’re only a first year grad student?”

He looks a bit taken aback. He almost seems pained. This lasts only for a split second. He nods. “I took a year off.”

“Why?”

His hesitation—and pain—is more obvious now. We’re suddenly pulled into the kind of intimate moment we used to share. My heart softens in spite of myself. Before I have a chance to resist it, he says, “My parents were in a car accident about a month after I graduated from Juilliard. It killed my dad instantly.” My hand flies to my mouth. “My mom’s okay now, mostly, but she was messed up pretty badly. She was in the hospital for six weeks and intensive rehab for several months. She’s still in rehab, but just once a week now.”

“God,” I say stupidly, having to resist the urge to put my hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

He nods slightly in acknowledgement of this. “Is your tomato soup gluten free?” the girl at the counter asks. Erik and I look at each other awkwardly for a moment. “How are you doing?” I finally ask.

He sighs. “I’d really be better if you’d let me get you a coffee.”

We sit at a table in the back corner and sip our coffees in uncomfortable silence. I’m not sure how to begin the conversation. Maybe Erik isn’t either.

Finally, he sets down his cup, leans in slightly on both elbows, and looks me in the eye. “I know it’s a little late for this, but I owe you an apology.”

An unexpected lump forms in my throat but I swallow it down.

“I know it can’t make up for everything that happened. I can’t even imagine what you went through and—” he stops abruptly. He looks down, blinking at the table, apparently suppressing some unexpected emotion of his own.

I try not to let myself be swayed by it. I really do.

He takes a determined sip of his coffee, then looks at me again. I’m captured by his eyes. Maybe I’m a fool, but all I see in him is sincerity and pain and regret.

“I know there’s no fixing it,” he says. “I’m not trying to do that. I just thought you deserved to hear me tell you how terribly,
terribly”
—and here his voice cracks—“sorry I am. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

The lump in my throat has made a reappearance, but I still refuse to cry. “You promised me I wouldn’t go through that alone.”

He nods and closes his eyes briefly. “I know. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“Then why was I?” I say earnestly. I realize I said that louder than intended, but I don’t bother looking around. I lower my voice and lean in, still holding his eyes. “Why didn’t you come to me? Call me? Something.”

He looks down and frowns at his cup. He digs his thumbnail into the cardboard at the base. “I don’t want to give you excuses,” he says at last.

I sit back and sigh. “Well, that’s fine for you, but I’d sure as hell like an explanation.”

His eyes fly up to mine. I’m still frowning at him and he seems to be taking me in, like it had never occurred to him that I might just want
answers.

“Okay,” he says. He takes a deep breath, then says again, “Okay.”

I slowly cross my arms, not as a sign of anger, but just because it feels safer. Right now it’s the only defense I have.

“After I left your house that night,” he says slowly, our eyes watching each other hesitantly, “I went home and told my mom what was going on. She...” He stops and frowns at the cup again. He takes a deep breath, then looks at me resolutely.

“She said the easiest thing would be for you to get an abortion. When I told her that’s not what was going to happen, she panicked and got my dad involved. I told him I loved you and planned to see things through with you. He said he’d talk to your folks and work things out, but I didn’t understand what he meant by that until he got back and told me what he’d done. Once I realized what was really going on, I kind of kicked myself for ever thinking he was on my side. Looking back I think he didn’t show his cards right away for a reason.” Erik shakes his head a bit and shrugs. “My dad was a lawyer, remember.”

“Yeah,” I say dully. “I remember.”

Erik clenches his jaw. “Well, yeah. That’s the thing isn’t it? That’s why he acted so fast. He had to make sure he had everything in motion so I couldn’t fight him on it.”

Erik leans forward more, his face getting earnest. “I did try at first, Ashley. I really did. I fought my dad so hard about it that night, they confiscated my phone so I couldn’t contact you. I didn’t say what my plans were. I was trying to play my cards close to the vest too, but I think my dad, at least, knew they had to get me out of there because if they went to sleep that night, they’d wake up to find me gone in the morning. And you know what?” Erik says, his eyes getting a look of hard determination, “no way was I going to stay with them any longer than I had to. I planned to get the hell out and come to you the second their back was turned.”

He looks down at the table, breathing hard. He’s gripping his cup with both hands now.

So what happened?
I want to know, but it’s all I can do to keep my own emotions under control. If I say a word, the lump in my throat will take over. I can’t let that happen. I won’t cry. I refuse.

I watch him as he takes a steadying breath. The muscles in his face are flexing as he clenches his jaw.

“They called the airline to get last minute flights to New York and the next thing I know, my mom’s packing my bags. My dad and I nearly came to blows because at first I refused to leave the house.” His eyes are fixed rigidly on his cup. “ That’s when my dad made it perfectly clear his talk of prosecuting you was serious business. He was more than willing to destroy you and your family and ruin your life. He
wanted
to. The only reason he didn’t is because—” His voice breaks again, but he takes a hard breath and continues firmly, “because he knew that leverage was the only thing keeping me at bay. And he was right. It did keep me at bay.”

Erik pinches his eyes shut, then looks at me earnestly.

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. I can’t. I can’t cry with him.

“I backed down,” he says softly. “I just... didn’t know how to protect you from him. The longer things went on, and I thought about what you had to be going through... I knew you had to hate me. And who could blame you?”

He takes a steadying breath and leans back in his chair. “My dad said I lost the privilege of graduating from the Academy. He pulled some strings and got me into a private high school in the city. I finished things out there. By the time they gave me a new phone, it didn’t matter anymore. I knew they would do anything they could to keep me away from you. I wasn’t going to risk him throwing you in jail.”

We sit there in silence. He’s frowning and staring at the table like he’s somewhere else.

I can only look at him and try not to cry for both of us. I feel a twinge of guilt for hating a dead man, but it’s how I feel anyway. I wish I could go back in time and know what Erik was going through. But I can’t. And while there’s part of me that feels a sort of... understanding at least, it doesn’t change the fact that our relationship was shattered beyond repair a long time ago.