“We’re aware,” Timothy said flatly.
“Then stay the hell out of it,” I said, a scowl stretched across my face. Before they could get a word in edgewise, I’d made it out of the room and down the hall to the front door. I could hear Miranda’s scuffling feet behind me as I went to fetch my coat.
“Juliet,” she called after me, and I turned briefly to look at her. “We’re just worried about you. About Emma.”
I paused, fastening my coat around me. “I love her, Miranda.”
Miranda hadn’t been expecting me to say those words by the expression on her face. We stood in silence as she contemplated. More words I didn’t care to hear. “If you love her, you’d understand why you shouldn’t be doing this.”
“There’s plenty of professors that have relationships with students,” I argued. “You act like it’s something so forbidden, but it happens all the time. It’s certainly happened at the Bard before.”
“You know why it’s dangerous,” Miranda said. I knew she was right. But it wouldn’t stop me from arguing. Even if it was completely foolish. “And you might be too late to fix it at this point.”
“He can make all the threats he wants,” I replied, curtly. “I’m tired of living under his heel.”
“Juliet,” Miranda’s eyes went soft. “No one understands this more than me. If it was any other circumstances, I’d want nothing more than this for you. You deserve it. But Emma has her whole career in front of her. You can’t be selfish.”
I knew she was right. I had known it since this whole affair had started, but it was too late now. There would have to be some other way. “Please stay out of it,” I said, turning to reach for the door. Miranda sighed behind me, but she didn’t say anything else.
Emma was waiting for me when I’d arrived home, playing some melody I didn’t recognize on the Steinway in my living room. I stood in the hallway listening for a few minutes, my eyes closed, leaning against the wall. The melody was quite charming and sweet, but I found myself saddened listening to it. In that moment, it felt as if we were a thousand miles apart.
I’d lost myself so deeply in my thoughts, I didn’t realize Emma had quit playing and had made her way into the hallway. When my eyes opened, she was watching me. “I felt the door open,” Emma explained, likely noticing the surprised look on my face. She looked concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I replied, shaking my head free of the thoughts that plagued it. Emma did not look convinced, but didn’t question me further. Instead, she came to stand beside me, wrapping her arms around my neck. I sighed in her embrace. Lilies. I would never escape them.
HOLIDAYS WERE USUALLY not my favorite time of year. They passed like most other days. I spent a few short hours with my parents for Christmas day dinner. Miranda and Timothy had their party a week before. Otherwise, my time was spent as it normally was, engaged in music or work of some sort. This was the first year I’d felt a bit more festive. Christmas Eve, I found myself with Emma and Kira in the city, pretending we were tourists. We spent the whole day together, eating and shopping and skating at Rockefeller Center. Things I would have never imagined myself doing with anyone else.
In the evening, we returned back to the apartment. Emma had spent the good majority of the week insisting to decorate, especially since Kira would be spending the evening with us. It was the first time she’d spent Christmas with me, so I wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. Emma had taken on the task without a blink of an eye. A large fir sat in the living room, opposite the Steinway. Lights were strung in the windows, stockings on the mantle. There were so many boxes of presents underneath the tree, they hardly fit, stretching across the floor. Emma had insisted we spend a whole day shopping for Kira. On any other occasion, I would have never devoted so much time to an errand, but with Emma I couldn’t help myself.
“It’ll be worth it when you see her face,” Emma promised me as we’d lugged the bags of presents up the elevator to my apartment. She hadn’t been wrong. The moment Kira had entered the apartment and saw the barrage of gifts for her under the tree, she was ecstatic.
Kira had requested hot cocoa for the evening, so I’d set to work while she and Emma played in the living room. Once I’d served drinks, settling for a glass of scotch for myself, I sat at the piano, playing Bach’s Christmas Oratorio, something that Emma had guessed only a minute after my playing. Kira sat in her lap, playing with Emma, watching me from the ground as my fingers trickled along the keys. I concentrated on the feelings of the notes in my fingers, a habit I’d developed since Emma had first shown me. The beautiful melody fell from me. It blended in with the laughter and conversation of two of the people I loved most behind me.
When I turned my attention towards them near the end of the song, I noticed Emma had placed Kira’s small hands against the floor, signing to her. Once I’d paid attention for a moment, I realized Emma was explaining to Kira how she experienced the music I was playing. Kira’s wide eyes seemed curious and eager, so once the song concluded, I shifted into another, this time making sure it was one with big bellowing notes that filled the room. Weihnachtsbaum, or Christmas Tree, by Liszt was a bellowing song that did the trick, the deep chords rumbling through the length of the piano.
Kira giggled as the notes pounded into the hardwood floor of the apartment. I watched her look up to Emma, who was smiling at her and nodding. When the song grew quieter, they both laid themselves against the floor, pressing against it to feel the subtly of the smaller, gentler notes. I watched in awe, never seeing Kira as engaged as she was in that moment. In all my years of knowing her, she’d never experienced music like this before. I couldn’t even have imagined what it would have been like not to have it. It was everything to me. Everything to Emma Harvey. And she was sharing it, in the ways she knew how, and it was changing Kira.
I played for at least an hour. Each song different than the next. Kira spent the entirety of it next to Emma on the floor. They chatted amongst themselves from time to time, but mostly they enjoyed the experience. When I finally paused, they both turned to look at me and I smiled, still in awe of what had just transpired.
Should we open presents? Emma signed, as she sat upright. Kira’s attention turned towards the pile underneath the tree, nodding enthusiastically. I sat down on the white leather sofa while Emma fetched a few packages from under the tree. She handed two to Kira and one to me.
“There’s one for you on the right,” I noted, when she’d looked at me. Emma returned to the tree, fetching it, before she came to sit next to me on the couch. Kira sprawled out on the floor in front of us, ripping into her gifts. The first was a hat, mittens and scarf, which she desperately needed. We’d outfitted her with plenty of clothes to last her through the winter time. The second, however, was something far more interesting to me.
It had been at Emma’s insistence. We’d passed a music store, in our venturing through the New York City streets, in search of gifts. She’d found a perfect book. Introductory level, meant for children Kira’s age. While I hadn’t really thought of the idea, Emma seemed to be convinced that Kira would be able to learn, given enough practice. So we’d picked it up. When Kira unwrapped it, she looked at us, a curious expression on her face.
Would you like me to teach you to play? Emma signed, a smile stretched across her face. It looked as if Kira was unsure of how to respond at first. You don’t have to, Emma reminded her. In an instant, a smile had shot across Kira’s face. She nodded enthusiastically, thumbing through the book in her lap.
The gifts that were meant to be exchanged between Emma and me took pause as the pair went to the piano. I watched, sipping on my drink, as Emma introduced Kira to the piano for the first time. In my years of knowing her, I’d never thought to teach her. They sat together as Emma explained all sorts of details about the piano. Each of them took turns drumming the keys, Kira feeling each of them ring into the room. Every once in a while, she’d giggle at the sensation, playing a note over again to
feel it.
I watched in silence, just admiring them both. Unsure if I was able to believe that these moments were real. That I wasn’t living in some sort of dream I would wake from. Before I let myself wonder for too long, I’d bring myself back to the moment. Admiring each instruction Emma gave, and the way Kira focused so intently.
They played at least an hour more, until Kira grew tired, her eyes barely hanging open. It had been a long day. More exciting than she was used to. Emma carried her carefully into the guest room, while I trailed behind her. Once Kira had been tucked in, I watched Emma sweep her lips over her forehead softly, and run a hand over the top of her head. She whispered a quiet goodnight before she stood and wandered to me in the doorway.
I stared at her in awe. Those brown eyes met mine, and she leaned in to kiss me without a word. The kiss was more persuasive than I cared to admit. In moments, we were lost in one another, buried in cotton sheets. It was late when we’d finally settled together in the bed.
Emma disappeared down the darkened hall for a minute, returning with gifts in hand. I watched as she slid in the bed beside me, handing me mine. She gave me a funny look as she sat hers in her lap. It landed with a soft thud on her thighs.
“Did you buy me bricks?” Emma asked, and I found myself laughing like I wasn’t used to. A laugh that filled the room and drew a hearty smile across my face.
“Open it,” I replied, ignoring my terrible excuse of wrapping. There had been very few times in my life I’d bought gifts, so it was a skill I’d never quite mastered.
Emma studied the packaging for a brief moment. I wondered if she’d make a joke about it, but she didn’t. Instead, she looked pensive. Finally, her long dainty fingers swept under the sides of the package, lifting the paper from it. Once she’d opened the box, three textbooks spilled into her lap.
The expression on Emma’s face was priceless. I would have paid any amount of money in the world for it to have lasted longer than it did. Another belly laugh escaped me when her expression turned into a playful scowl. I laughed so hard that I felt my stomach cramping in response.
“It’s not funny,” Emma said defiantly, rolling her eyes at me. I finally managed to calm myself, but my smile remained. “Are these for the spring?” I nodded and Emma sighed, shaking her head.
“I decided it was the only proper way to get them to you,” I retorted, offering her arm a squeeze. “And since you won’t have Ms. Beckham to rely on this semester...” I found myself trailing off when I saw Emma’s expression waiver at the mention of her name. My arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her close. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly as she was looking at me. I leaned our heads together for a brief moment. When I pulled away, I continued. “It was a joke.”
A smile breeched Emma’s lips then, and she reached out to run her fingers over my cheek. I leaned into her touch. “Thank you,” she said, and I knew by her tone she’d meant it.
We paused for a minute, until Emma dropped her hand to her lap and nodded her head towards the small package sitting beside me. “Your turn,” she said. I studied the package, admiring the intricacy of the wrapping. It had been far superior to my own and far more festive, adorned with a bow and a colorful decorative tag. The entire thing screamed Emma in every way.
“It’s too beautiful to open,” I noted, and Emma gave me a playful shove, realizing I was poking fun at her wrapping abilities. Part of it had been truth, she’d done a good job. Slowly, I unraveled the gift, removing the bow, and thumbing over the paper wrapping. Inside was a small lidded box. When I removed the top, a small silver locket sat inside, nested in white tissue paper. I pulled it from the box, letting it dangle from my hand. It caught the light on its edges, reflecting into the room.
“It was my mom’s,” Emma said, my attention turning towards her. The jewelry still dangled in my hand in the air. “My dad gave it to me when I was younger. I had it engraved.” I watched as Emma’s fingers nudged the small circular piece so it fell open. Inside, two measures of notes. I recognized them immediately. The opening of Tristesse. My eyes scanned over it for a long while, suspended in disbelief of what I was looking at. I wanted to say I couldn’t accept such an extraordinary gift, something that had belonged to Emma’s mother, a woman she’d never known. It was likely one of the only things she had of hers. But when I looked into her eyes, I could tell by the expression on her face I was meant to have it.
“This secret,” Emma said quietly, when I’d come out of my haze. “It won’t always be a secret.” A small smile spread across her face. When she said it, I felt a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. A feeling that hadn’t reared its ugly head in a long while. There were so many complications with this arrangement. So many things that were on the line, that we were testing. Our careers, our livelihood. Most of the time I’d chosen not to think about it.
“It won’t always be a secret,” I repeated, the knot in my stomach unfading.
CHRISTMAS MORNING WAS spent with Kira and Emma, eating homemade cinnamon rolls and enjoying Kira’s frantic unwrapping of the rest of her presents. Early in the afternoon, Emma took Kira the two hours back home, while I spent the following hour getting ready for my annual dinner with my parents. Not unlike most years, I dreaded it. Hated it, even. It was an obligation at this point, just like the other dinners. If I didn’t come, there’d be a spectacle for sure.
I’d wore a dark burgundy cardigan that my mother had gotten me the previous year for Christmas, paired with my usual white turtlenecks and black slacks. Emma had seen my attire before she’d left, surprised I’d even had an outfit outside of the shades of greys and blacks and whites that I often wore.
I fastened my hair back in its usual long braid and spent an unusual amount of time checking myself over in the mirror before I left the apartment for Annandale-on-Hudson. Emma and I had planned to meet at my apartment near the Bard later that evening. I arrived at my parents’ house in Lindon Acres a few minutes before I was expected. I waited at the front door, checking myself over a final time before I brought myself to knock.
The moment my mother answered, I knew something was wrong. There was a look on her face I wasn’t used to seeing. It took me a long moment to discern what exactly it was. She looked panicked and anxious. She had a nervous personality, but it looked nothing like it did now. My mother swallowed deeply, looking me up and down.
“Juliet,” my mother said quietly, her eyes shifting inside of the house momentarily. “Perhaps it isn’t the best time.”
I studied her, confused. There was an unsettling feeling in my stomach by the way she was acting. “Six? I’m right on time,” I noted, briefly checking the wristwatch on my arm. When my attention turned back to my mother’s eyes, I was concerned. “What’s going on, Mother?”
“I’m surprised you had the audacity to step foot in this house.” Before my mother could answer, I heard my father’s deep voice reverberate along the walls from behind her. I looked up, and his green eyes stabbed into mine. The expression on his face was deathly serious, even though his tone was quiet and collected. “Seeing as you have no regard for rules, I suppose it should have been expected.” There was a twitch in my father’s face.
Every fiber of my being was sinking through the floor. I knew exactly what he was going to say. The accusations he was about to make. Even still, I fought him, trying to string out the lie for as long as I could. “Pardon me?”
“Don’t play coy, Juliet. Lying is unbecoming of a woman of your stature.” My father’s hands were wrapped around a glass of scotch. I watched him draw it to his lips, taking a slow drink. He wiped the corners of his goatee with the fingers of his free hand.
“I don’t know what on Earth you are trying to accuse me of—“
“I own you,” my father snapped at me. My mother stood mortified between us, unable to speak. “I built you. Everything you have is my doing. Your education. Your career. Your music. It was all because of me.” A tinge of anger rippled through me. I glare
d at him, unable to fathom words to say. He continued, “and I come to find that you throw it all to waste on some whore of a student—“
My hand flew from my side, landing with a loud smack against his cheek. The sound reverberated across the marble flooring and hardwood walls. My mother gasped beside me. I’d hit him so hard, he stumbled back, barely able to maintain his hold on his glass. Streaks of red blazed across his cheek. The color quickly faded, blending in with the redness of the anger that was overcoming him.
“I’ll only say this once,” my father’s voice was thick with menace. I knew whatever he said was law. There would be no changing his mind. My outburst had secured that fact. “You end this, or I’ll end you.”
I didn’t stay. I couldn’t. My whole body was trembling the entire walk back to the car. As I turned to the door, my mother and I met eyes. There was no mercy. She just looked distraught. Not for the first time, I felt entirely alone. I reached the door of my car and managed to open it with shaking hands, collapsing into the seat.
Unable to do anything else, my face fell into my hands. Fitful sobs escaped me. The threads that were holding me together were unraveling rapidly, spewing out of me in raging emotion. I allowed myself only a few brief minutes to cry. Once I’d regained my composure, I pulled from the driveway, heading the ten minute drive back to the Bard campus and my apartment. When I arrived on the street, there was no Emma to be seen. It was likely she’d gone home for a brief while, assuming I’d still be at my parents.
I managed to find my way up the stairwell and into the apartment. I fetched a dusty Macallan fifteen-year-old bottle of scotch that had been gifted to me by Timothy and Miranda many years prior. I poured a full glass, downing it in a matter of seconds. It burned ferociously as it made its way down my throat. Likely a hundred dollars’ worth of alcohol. I filled another glass, swallowing it roughly. By my third, my head was starting to spin. This time I poured less, taking it with me stumbling into the living room.
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