Do you know intermission has already passed?”
“I do.”
“You’ve missed most of the performance of Violin Sonata No. 9.” She sounds terribly concerned.
“That’s okay. I know the piece by heart.”
Her dark eyes brighten. “Me too. I can play it. All of it. But I am learning to play it even better in school,” she says, a little shyly. Her accent is faintly Nigerian.
“You are?”
She nods, proudly. “I moved here with my family. So I can study the violin in Paris. I want to play here someday.”
“At the Palais Garnier?”
“Yes, and Philharmonie de Paris. And Sala São Paulo in Brazil. And Symphony Hall in Boston. And The Sibelius Hall in Finland. And Concertgebouw in Amsterdam.” The words tumble out with the breathless excitement of youth.
Of possibilities.
A pang squeezes my heart as I picture the days and opportunities ahead of her. The chances she’ll have. The ones I hope she won’t squander.
“Don’t stop playing. Don’t stop learning,” I tell her, with an intensity that both surprises and doesn’t surprise me at all.
“I won’t,” she says, like it’s a solemn promise.
“Being able to play Beethoven is a gift. A precious gift. Treat it as such,” I say, then I laugh, a little embarrassed. “But who am I to give advice to a stranger, to a prodigy? I’m only a music lover. All I am saying is I hope all your dreams come true.”
“Me too.” She takes a beat, then taps her chest. “I’m Ayo.”
“Daniel.”
She tips her forehead to the entrance. “You won’t want to miss anymore.”
“You’re right. The ending is so lovely.”
“It is. I haven’t grown tired of it, and I’ve heard it every night for the last two weeks. It breaks my heart every time, and puts it back together.”
My throat tightens. “Music can do that. And I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of it either,” I say, then I head inside, turn off my phone, take my seat, and listen.
I used to feel so at home here, like the Phantom. I’d imagine I was the damaged, scarred man haunting the lake beneath the Paris Opera House.
Obsessed with music—obsessed with beautiful music.
I am still obsessed. Perhaps I always will be.
Maybe that obsession can bring answers though.
I close my eyes, listen to the notes, and try desperately to find the answers I need.
30
Scarlett
Nadia raises her glass. “A toast.”
I quirk a brow. “Why exactly are we toasting?”
“To loving again,” she says, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
I laugh, shaking my head in amusement. “Did you not hear me? He said he didn’t want to try. He’s not willing.”
Lifting her glass of white wine, Nadia nods sagely as she kicks her heel back and forth from her spot at the sidewalk café. “But I’m not talking about him. I’m proud of you for loving again, so I’m toasting to you.”
“Fair enough,” I say, raising my glass and clinking it against hers. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Always.”
We finish, I pay the bill, and we wander along the cobblestone street in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. She hooks her elbow through mine. “You tried again. That’s a big deal. You were hurt. You were devastated. And you found it in you to give love another shot,” she says, ever the encouraging friend.
“But did I?” I ask, a little pensive as we stroll along the boulevard among Parisians and tourists out for the evening.
“You told him you loved him. That sure sounds like you did.”
“But did I fight for him? Did I do enough?” I stop at the corner, looking up at the streetlamp, then at the green sign on the building marking Rue Bonaparte. “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.”
She nods, like she’s considering the question. “So you think you should have done more. Like what?”
As I turn around, soaking in the city, the answer is right in front of me. The answer is all around me. The answer is—I am here.
I am in this place that I love, living this life that I love.
I did move on. I did mourn. And I did heal from the pain, the shame, the self-loathing.
Daniel is not Jonathan. This is not the same. The man I’m crazy about is alive, and he’s here, and I can say my piece. I don’t need to retreat when I have words to say and a heart that’s still full.
I have a chance to live differently.
I grab Nadia’s arm, excitement roaring through me. “I don’t need to say more for him. I need to say it for me. Not to win him back. Not to change him. Because that’s up to