Love in B Minor

by Elodie Nowodazkij

  And I’m definitely not in my apartment.

  This place is an open loft: too bright, too big, too homey. Books, a mix of encyclopedias and what seem to be thrillers, line the shelves, a grand piano stands in the middle of the living room, and a giant poster of a piano competition decorates one side of the wall, while on the other side, there is a poster of the Badgers football team, and of a soccer team. I squint to read the words. It’s the French national soccer team.

  My walls are bare except for drawings my sister did for me while at the hospital. The lump in my throat that lingers whenever I think of my sister is there, but for once it’s not overpowering. And I can’t cry in some almost-stranger’s bed.

  Even though after last night, he doesn’t feel like a stranger.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, hold my breath and slowly, very slowly turn my head to the left.

  Random guy I met for the first time yesterday? Check.

  Random hot guy who made feel like I’ve known him forever? Double check.

  Random hot guy sleeping on his back with the covers barely covering him making my heart pound? Triple check.

  I have to force myself not to trail my fingers from his large shoulders, down his rock-hard abs. That might wake him up and defeat my attempt to gracefully and quietly slip away. His dark hair is tousled and his stubble probably left marks on my neck and many other places. My face flushes. Even asleep, he’s got that little something that sends the most delicious shivers down my spine.

  And if I keep on staring, he’s going to wake up.

  Can’t happen.

  I force myself to look away,

  The sweet aroma tickles my nose again.

  Memories of last night rush back to me, how I dared a guy I had known for about two hours to bake me cookies. And he did. And man, those cookies were amazing. Soft and chewy and chocolaty. Like the perfect—

  A strong arm curls over my waist and cuts off my thoughts.

  This should feel weird and unfamiliar.

  It doesn't.

  I shouldn't want to cuddle closer, to keep my eyes closed and play pretend.

  I do.

  And for a second, I picture leaning into his strong arms, burying my face in the crook of his neck, letting myself believe that what we had last night meant more than it does. That it could be more than a one-night stand.

  But I learned long ago not to believe in fairy tales.

  I clench my muscles, every fiber of my body resisting the temptation to slide closer to him, and I roll over on my side, slowly and carefully.

  Last night was my first night of real fun in Paris after a crappy start. I’ve never thought that I could be more myself by pretending to be someone else. But last night I found myself laughing again. Even though I wasn’t supposed to end up here. I was supposed to go out, let off some steam, not almost get robbed, not hook up with some random guy.

  He may have been my knight in shining armor and be a Master of Amazing Cookies, but he doesn’t want to get involved with me. Hell, sometimes I don’t want to be involved with me and I’m stuck with me. He has a choice.

  I scoot to the side of the king-size bed, my heart in my throat. The floor creaks under my feet, and I hold my breath but he doesn’t move.

  My clothes are scattered on the floor. I find one piece at a time, but my shirt is nowhere to be seen. Not on the counter where the cookie batter still stands. Not on the piano. Not on the large shelves. My eyes catch a picture of Clément with two other people at Disneyland Paris. He’s got the biggest smile and his arms are wrapped around a tall blond guy and a girl. A beautiful girl with almost translucent skin and reddish hair. Pretty much my opposite. I twist my dark black hair into a messy bun and continue to search for my ruby top—the one that’s supposed to help me fake it until I believe it.

  Fake smile. Fake having fun. Fake everything.

  Except I didn’t have to fake anything with him last night. Not my laugh, not my silences, not…anything.

  I place the frame back in its place.

  Please, tell me he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Please tell me that I’m not the other woman. I’ve seen how my friend Emilia’s mom suffered from being lied to for years. I don’t think I could deal with the guilt. My heart deflates back into its sad state, but there’s nothing I can do about it now, except find my shirt.

  I close my eyes, retracing my steps into the loft.

  He pulls me to him and I kiss him first. My lips are desperate. My skin is on fire. His hands are on my back, on my ass, everywhere. He whispers in my ear, asking me to stay, letting go of me, giving me a way out. A way out I don’t want to take. I step back to take a better look at him. His face falls, and he mutters something about wanting to see me again, and wanting to call me a cab or something. And I bite the inside of my cheek to not smile. I slowly take off my ruby backless top, throwing it to the other side of the counter.

  And that’s where I find it.

  The sun filters through the light curtains.

  He sighs loudly, mutters something, and I stop breathing. I so do not want the awkward good morning and even more awkward “do we kiss or hug or shake hands” type of situation.

  He lays on his other side now and the tattoo on his arm is more visible—it’s a tattoo of two birds flying side by side. He mentioned something yesterday about how it’s important to always remember to live. That those birds were his reminder to always remember to live every second. We sure did yesterday.

  My stomach rumbles more loudly than Igor—my ballet company’s director—when he yells at me to deepen my extension. Not sure if it’s the cookies, or the smell of the pizza he convinced me to eat last night. The box is still on the table.

  Tempting me. Teasing me.

  Like him.

  But I can’t stay. I don’t even leave a note. To him, I’m Laura Smith. The fake name I used once before—my very first week in Paris, when an Irish guy hit on me in a restaurant and I was so sad I thought he could make me feel alive. He didn’t.

  And while with Clément it felt different, there’s no need to pretend we’re more than a one-night stand.

  I put on my coat, force myself to not look at him one more time because my resolve seems to be as crumbly as those cookies, and head out into the biting January cold.

  His apartment is close to the Eiffel Tower. In the early morning, the Iron Lady isn’t surrounded by tourists taking pictures, hurrying to go up the stairs and waiting by the elevators. Much different from last night.

  I sit on a bench.

  I only need a second to breathe. To remind myself why I’m here, what I’m doing.

  My thoughts are scrambled up despite the fact that I kept to my one-cocktail rule. I can’t afford the crazy calories. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of sleep, or the piece of pizza, or sitting in the cold morning in Paris, but I’m thinking maybe cuddling with the guy I spent a wonderful night with would not have been the worst decision of my life.

  I know for a fact it wouldn’t be the worst decision of my life.

  I settle on the bench and inhale deeply, the freezing air slamming into my lungs. I push away any thought that isn’t about this moment. My fingers trace the names engraved on the bench and my stupid happy smile is back. We made out on a bench similar to this one last night.

  Cars honk in the distance and a gust of wind sneaks under the coat I forgot to close. I shake my head both at my past self for being so lost in the moment and my present self for turning into such a daydreamer. I don’t have time for this, I don’t have the energy.

  A group of students must have decided to brave both the wind and the early hour. They stroll toward the Eiffel Tower, pushing each other, laughing, talking in a language I don’t understand. The people selling souvenirs trickle in, setting up. They look tired—they were louder yesterday, faking that they were happy to be there too.

  It’s time to go home and forget this night ever happened.

 
; I shuffle through my bag. Where the heck is my phone? My heart accelerates. Maybe I forgot it at his place. Maybe it’s a sign I need to turn back around and enjoy being Laura for a few more hours. Maybe…

  My fingers find my phone tucked into one of the side pockets.

  Maybe it’s not meant to be. I sigh.

  There are two text messages, and for one split second I almost hope my parents remembered they had another daughter. I wrote them another email yesterday.

  But the first one is from my friend Emilia from the School of Performing Arts in New York. Culinary arts is as cutthroat as ballet. I swear...someone just mixed sugar with salt. Ridiculous. How are you doing? How is Paris? And yes I know you don’t want to hear it, but I miss you!

  I’d love to write back and tell her about Clément, how hard it has been, how much harder the ballet company is than the School. How much more competitive. I’d love to tell her I miss her too, but I hold back. Like I always do.

  Because if I did talk to Em, I’d break down. We've come a long way in the past two years, from sworn enemies to actual friends.

  I distract myself—which is another thing I’ve become a pro at.

  I read Alisha’s new message—she sent it almost an hour ago, which means she’s been up since at least six a.m. Alisha is one of the only two girls at the ballet company I trust not to make me trip and fall to get a better part. Get away from Sexy Sunglasses guy and get your cute butt to my room asap. I heard about an audition last night from Steve. And you need to come with me.

  She knows we can’t dance anywhere else. The contract we signed at the beginning of the year mentioned exclusivity with the company, and she’s usually so good at sticking with the rules.

  I type back, my fingers almost uncooperative because of the cold. I don’t think we should.

  Oh come on, it would be fun. And different. Her reply comes immediately. By the way, how was the rest of your night? So relieved you’re typing back and not holed up in some cave with a serial killer.

  Alive and well. How was your night?

  Her answer takes a bit longer. It was nice.

  That’s it? Steve didn’t sweep you off your feet?

  And then when she doesn’t answer, I frown—worried something might have happened despite her texting me at one that she was leaving the club. Alisha, are you okay?

  I’m fine. Don’t worry. I just don’t think Steve is going to be thrilled to see me at that audition if we do go. I may have left in a hurry.

  I’m heading home. I’ll pass by your place later this afternoon?

  Sounds good.

  Maybe I’ll even take a nap, which I haven’t done in forever, but after last night I’m left with a weird mix of renewed energy and relaxed laziness. Like I’m content and ready to take on the world.

  I keep on staring at the Eiffel Tower.

  My phone beeps again. A text from Audrey, the secretary of the ballet company. Emergency meeting at 10 am in the studio. Don’t be late. It’s mandatory. Igor has an announcement.

  This can’t be good.

  CHAPTER 8 – LUCAS

  I hate the awkward morning-after routine. I hate the small talk. I hate when the girl’s eyes are full of hope I’m going to crush. Even if I didn't mean to, even if I told her I wasn't looking for anything, even if I never make false promises. Seeing the hurt replace the hope is the worse.

  Benji—Benjamin—my bromance, as the tabloids called us, would probably have told me I don’t need to act like a dick all the time. And he would probably have been right, but ever since he’s been gone, nothing has been the same. And the girl I thought I was going to spend my entire life with not only broke my heart, she used me. I got burned badly, and the scars haven’t totally healed.

  So, yes, I slept around. Or to be even more honest, I fucked. A lot. But I never lied. My motto is to be upfront. But I know I’ve hurt people despite that policy, because it seems people still want to believe they can change you, make you into what they think you should be. Whatever that means.

  I can almost hear Benji telling me that’s the universe coming back to bite me in the ass.

  Because today, the other side of my bed is cold.

  Way too cold.

  Laura is the first girl I ever brought here…maybe because she didn’t recognize me, or maybe because I haven’t laughed so much in what seems like years, or maybe because I wanted to keep her to myself a bit longer.

  She’s gone.

  I turn to look around, but the apartment is silent.

  Usually, I’d feel relieved. I’d get up, take a shower, get to work. But instead, I sit up and rake my hand through my hair. The cookies I baked are on the table next to the pizza I ordered.

  The reality hits me right in the gut and I’m tempted to laugh. I baked cookies.

  I can’t fucking believe I baked cookies.

  I also can’t believe how baking cookies ended up being so sexy. Her hands finding mine in the dough, me feeding her, her laughing.

  I yawn and stretch, grab sweatpants lying by the side of the bed. Out of habit, I check to see if she left me anything: a composite of her for an audition, a USB stick with some demo music. Checking if she played me. But there’s nothing.

  Even though the groupies who follow us from city to city are usually more into the rush of sleeping with someone they think is famous, there are some who slip me a USB with a demo of them singing, or a card with their numbers to give to a casting director. I don’t mix my private life with business. I’m also upfront about that. Magazines wonder when I’m going to settle down, but according to Grégoire, my bad boy image definitely helps my career. That and the rumor he keeps on spreading that me and my ex could get back together.

  It would appear that getting your heart broken is a wonderful way to boost sales.

  And man, my ex—Olivia—did break my heart. I still can’t believe I was such an idiot.

  I rub the back of my neck. Last night I wasn’t Lucas Wills; last night I was more myself than ever before. I grab a cookie and it melts in my mouth. Laura was so impressed with my cooking skills. And I was so impressed with her. My eyes scan the room—the empty box of pizza, the newspapers on the counter, the piano. I put away the dishes, not able to shake her from my mind. Google could be my friend. I usually avoid it like the dealers who hang at the A-list parties. Too many risks of seeing bullshit written about me. Too many risks of reading about my ex and her lies about me. Too many risks of hearing a new theory about Benji and why he died.

  It always slices my heart.

  I type maybe a bit too strongly on the keyboard. “Laura Smith.” She said she was here to learn French. There are more than thirty-three million results.

  Frustration finds a comfy spot in my chest, makes itself as comfortable as a reporter who doesn’t want to leave. Frustration I can’t even begin to understand.

  She’s just a girl.

  But a girl with a contagious laugh and a ridiculously adorable snort.

  I grab my cell phone and dial Steve’s number—he was hanging out with one of her friends. Maybe he knows about where she could be, or who she is.

  His hello is barely a grunt.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “You’re calling me.” His voice is gruff—a testimony to the fact the guy could sleep until two if we let him and he still would say it’s too early.

  “You hung out with a girl last night. Tall, blonde…”

  “And you never came back. Grégoire was beyond pissed, dude.”

  “I’m allowed a night off.” Annoyance ripples through me. Grégoire has been our manager since he discovered Benji, Olivia and me at a school function. He decided we would become the next “it” band and added Dimitri to the mix. He did manage to turn us into an overnight sensation. And ever since the band “took a break” (his words, not mine), after Benji’s death, he’s been on my case to make the perfect comeback. I clench my fist on my thigh, trying to calm myself
. “Everything is set up anyways. We do the fucking video, and our concert is already booked. I don’t know what he wants.”

  “Whatever… Don’t kill the messenger.” He grunts louder. “It’s fucking seven in the morning on a Sunday.”

  “The girl, Steve,” I remind him and then smooth my voice, needing to bribe him with something. “I can get coffee delivered to your place if you want.”

  Steve can’t live without his daily dose of Starbucks Latte Macchiato. He says it reminds him of home. Grégoire had this big “Become the next member of Dire Blue” contest and Steve won. Even though I was skeptical at first and know he can never fully replace Benji, he’s become part of the family.

  There’s shuffle on the line. He clears his throat—he probably smoked way too much last night again. “Now, you’re talking. The girl I was trying to woo was tall, blonde, totally hot.” He pauses. “Not your type, I know. I swear the way she kissed was such a turn-on. But she bailed on me. We were having a great time. Her friend was hot too, so I get the appeal. I know you left with her, because she told Alisha she was leaving with the guy with the sunglasses.” He coughs one time. “Shit, I really should stop smoking. Anyways, I can’t believe you lied to her about who you are. They seemed cool and I hate having to lie for you.”

  “You know Grégoire wants that first music video to be your very first public appearance so…everything is orchestrated to the tiniest detail.” I sigh and lean back. “Anyways, the girls. What do you know about them?”

  “Alisha is a dancer. I told her about the auditions tomorrow.”

  “And her friend? Laura? Is she a dancer too?”

  “Laura? I don’t think that was her name.”

  I shake my head to myself. Of course not. “What was her name?” And what else did she lie about? Not that I can judge.

  “I don’t know. To be honest, I was kind of focused on Alisha. Who bailed on me as I said. As soon as I suggested going back to my place, she mumbled something and left me dry.” He snickers. “My balls are probably still blue.”

  “Wait, you went home alone?”