“How do you know I’m not that kind of woman? What’s changed?”
He rubs the back of his neck slightly, his head tilting to the side. “Everything. Nothing.”
Those eyes have turned to honey and the look of the man I fell for is back, right here in front of me, saying all the words I’ve wanted to hear.
There is one major problem. He still left and never came back. He lied in Italy and he is lying now. His words sound right but they’re all wrong.
They’re empty. Like his heart.
I step back from him, attempting to distance myself from his hold on my body and my heart. “I know why you left me. Even that next morning when I stood on the marina, looking for you, wondering why you left. I knew.” My fists clench tight and I feel the searing pain rising from my hand all the way up my arm. I use that pain as power. I use that pain as a reminder. I use that pain to feel. “You’re a coward and a user. I trusted you. By God, I let you into my heart when I had shut everyone else out. I gave you a piece of me that was so sacred it can’t be given back. You take and take but you never give.”
When the pain of the words matches the pain of my hand, I release the clench and hold my hand up high to my chest, cradling it with care. Asher reaches for me again, his eyes carnal as he takes a step forward and grabs the injured hand with his and puts it up to his heart. “Emma—”
“I’m fine.” I try to pull my hand back but he pulls it toward him. His other hand inches up and rests on the side of my face, his fingers tangle in my hair. My chin rises but my eyes keep their concentration on the zipper of his jacket and the heavy rise and fall of his chest.
“No, you’re not. Neither of us are.” Asher’s thumb grazes my lip and I let out a sigh at the feel of his touch. I recall the taste of his lips and the feel of his hands as they work their way along my body.
My body may want him but my heart is in pieces.
“I need you to leave.”
His body jolts against mine. “What?”
“Leave.”
My cheek feels an instant chill as his hand releases me. The pain in my right hand still burns but when he releases it, it feels like its being crushed by four thousand pounds of metal again.
I hug my body tight and look up at him. His jaw is hollowed and his face is clenched. “Emma, I—I don’t know how to tell you. I’m trying to show you how I feel. I’m not good at this.”
I sniff back a tear and breathe deep into my gut. “You need to leave.”
My eyes clench shut and I hold them still, waiting for him to move. When I open them it is just in time to see him back away, rubbing the back of his neck. He looks around the room one more time before gaining his full composure. Right before my eyes I watch as the Asher Gutierrez I met in Italy becomes the Alexander Asher I know he really is. The man who uses and takes. He didn’t get what he wanted so he is walking out the door.
I walk over to the window and watch him cross the street and climb on his motorcycle. He revs the engine and then just sits there idling, looking at my front door as if waiting for me to come out.
I must be a glutton for punishment because, for a brief moment, I consider going outside and going with him. Absolutely not. I have pride.
He’s forgetting he accused me of dishonesty and trickery. I can’t forget the way he made me feel, standing with my bare feet looking at a sea void of his presence. He left me. He disappeared.
And what did I do?
I followed him to New York.
“When you first took the job in New York I thought it was because he lived there. Like you needed to be near him or something.” Leah’s words echo in my head. I lean down and let out a low scream at the fact she was absolutely right. I didn’t know if he would be here. I didn’t know if I would ever see him again. But I have to stop lying to myself and own up to the fact I wanted to see him. And he’s here, looking devastatingly gorgeous and saying the right words and he wants me to follow him.
“There is a fire between us, Emma, and I know we’re gonna get burned.”
I walk over to the front door and slam it shut.
Gasping.
Gasping.
Breathing is too hard.
I need to count.
Beats.
One, two, three, four . . .
One, two . . .
Gasp.
One . . . Two . . . Three . . . Four.
Breathe.
Breathing.
It’s pitch black and the clock confirms it’s the middle of the night. My shirt is plastered to my back. Sweat is trickling down my chest, starting at my forehead. I wipe my hand across my head, brushing the hairs stuck to my skin away from my face.
I had a dream. We were in the car driving fast. So fast. This time, instead of asking Luke to drive fast, I was begging him to stop. My voice shouting over the radio, pleading with him to save his life.
He wouldn’t listen. His foot like a lead weight pushed down on the accelerator and all of a sudden there was a bolt of lightening. Everything went white and then there was a fire. Raging fire. Burning. We crashed and we were burning. When I stepped back to see if Luke was okay, his face had changed, morphed into someone else.
It was Asher.
I like to be the first one in the building every day. I do a check of every room, make sure the chairs are in place and stands are at the correct height for the first class. I assess the decorations on the walls and make sure they are relevant to the month’s theme. In a small room on the second floor, we keep an inventory of unused instruments. I double-check it every morning making sure nothing has been stolen.
When I have fully assessed the building, I make my way to my office. The building is mostly quiet. Classes don’t start until two and end around seven. That’s when the building is really alive.
Until then, I have to occupy my time, focusing on what needs to be done to enhance the program, move us forward, be the best.
Especially today.
After yesterday’s visit and last night’s dream I’m afraid I am losing my control.
I open the heavy stairwell door; there’s a jazz quartet playing down the hall. Last week, Frank and I started allowing people to rent the classrooms as rehearsal space. It is a great way to bring in extra revenue for the school.
We started making a schedule to start performance classes for mixed instruments on Saturdays in the spring. Next year we’ll host recitals in the performance room on the first floor. Until then, we just have to keep the school afloat and on track so we can grow.
I have applications for bands and performers who would like to utilize our space in the meantime. I have to review those this week. I open the door to Crystal’s classroom and see it is occupied.
“Hey, I didn’t know you’d be here so early. I—” My words stop mid-sentence when I see Crystal is not alone. She is standing in the middle of the room talking to Asher. He’s not wearing the suit and tie he’s been sporting around here for the last month. Today, he has on gray corduroys and a gold V-neck sweater. And those stupid loafers.
Crystal watches me enter and greets me merrily. “Good morning. Mr. Asher is here to discuss taking over more of my classes.”
My head twists in Asher’s direction. “I’m sorry, what?”
Asher places both hands in his pockets and leans back on his heels. “I have some free time, so I’d like to take over the advanced cello sessions.”
“Don’t you work?” My words startle Crystal. She doesn’t know Asher and I have a history and is visibly shocked I would talk to the head of the Asher empire this way.
“Nope,” he states simply, bouncing on his heels.
I turn to face Crystal. “You need this job to supplement your income. You can’t just give up four of your classes.”
She bites down on her forefinger and glances over at Asher like the cat that ate the canary. I volley back and forth between the two of them trying to decide what they’re not telling me.
Asher sees Crystal’s appr
ehension and answers for the two of them. “I’m paying her to take over her classes.”
My mouth falls open. “You can’t do that.”
With two slow strides, Asher walks toward me, saddling up next to me so our sides are touching, shoulder to bicep. He leans down and says directly into my ear, “I can and I will.”
Manipulator. He’s a liar, a coward, a taker, and now I can add manipulator to the long list of adjectives I have for Alexander Asher. I walk into my office and throw my bag on the floor. When I throw my phone on the desk, I notice a brown paper wrapped package with a twine string sitting beside it.
Tilting my head to the side, I look at it, wondering who would have left me a gift. I roll the tote strap off my shoulder and place the bag on my desk chair. Reaching over, I grab the package and pull the twine. When the string is undone, the paper opens quickly. Inside, is a brown, leather bound, journal with a leather tie and lined pages. I lift the book up and open the front to find a handwritten note.
I stare at the signature. He knows I’m listening in on the class. I feel like my territory has been invaded. Now, not only do I have Crystal’s cello mocking me from the corner of my office but I have a six-foot-tall cello-wielding god sharing a room with me.
What should I do?
Just keep on keepin’ on.
Oh, fuck you, McConaughey.
I know Leah said I have to “play on the same playing field” and all that nonsense, but right now I need space from Asher. I sit in on all of Lisa’s violin classes, offering my services. At first, she is surprised and a tiny bit apprehensive, wondering why the sudden change. But then she welcomes the help, especially with the little ones.
In between one of the classes, I head up to my office, planning to grab my bag before Asher arrives to teach his class.
Walking into the room, I notice the notebook he bought me, sitting on my desk. It has been moved, sitting on top of a stack of files. It has also been tampered with. I step closer and notice there is a blue flower tucked into the book. When I pick up the notebook, it falls open; I take up the flower, holding the petals to my nose. It’s a blue rose, manmade and impure.
Knowing Asher, the flower has a specific meaning. I lift my phone out of my pocket and type “Blue rose meaning” into the search engine.
Blue: The unattainable; the impossible.
I roll my eyes and place the flower on the desk. With the notebook still in my hand I look down at the opened page.
There’s a loud thud in the adjoining classroom, and I realize the students are all walking in. I’m about to leave when I hear one of them greet Asher. It’s too late to make my escape and, in all honesty, my interest is piqued, so I take a seat at my office desk and listen in on the lesson.
Asher begins the class, not by playing a song from his iPod, but by playing a song on the cello by himself. It takes me a second to recognize the song. He’s playing “Stay” by Rihanna. I look down at the words on the page in front of me. He proceeded to write out the words to the song.
The lyrics telling the story of a girl who falls for a man, disillusioned by falling that she ignores the signs that are telling her he’s all wrong. She is asking for something real and all he can do is take her away to his fantasy world.
At least that’s the way I interpret them.
When he gave me this notebook, he told me to take notes. Looks like he’s the one taking them for me. When Asher is done playing, he gives his lesson and, like always, it’s fascinating. I am so transfixed by his words, the sixty minutes pass by quickly.
Sitting in my office, I listen as one by one the students pack up and head out the door, thanking Asher for an awesome class. It was their first with him and, thanks to Crystal, not his last. He bids them farewell and says he’ll see them next week.
When they are all out of the room, I listen to see if he has left too when I hear his footsteps walking across the room. I don’t know if he is walking back here or waiting to see if I’ll come out.
Whatever it is he has in mind, I have my own agenda. I lean my foot over and slam the door shut.
Using my very wobbly left hand, I flip to a clean page in the notebook and scribble the words to a song by the Veronicas.
When I’m done writing, my hand has a cramp but I’m satisfied with the message.
Thud, thud, thud.
The telltale sign of wheels rolling can be heard. I lean over and see Asher pushing a piano into the classroom. When I got to work this morning, the notebook was still on my desk, closed, with another rose.
Light pink: Sympathy.
I refused to open the notebook all day. I don’t need to know what ridiculous message he has in store for me.
But, what the hell does he plan to do with the piano?
I sit back, my ears perched high like a canine on the defense. I listen as Asher says he wants to play a little something for the class. My stomach flops down when I hear the chords of “You Ruin Me” by the Veronicas. His deft fingers hit the keys perfectly. The ivory hums with the push and touch of every note of the song I dedicated to him.
My eyes close and the hairs of my spine stand up straight as the haunting melody resonates in the air. It hits my heart and touches my soul. My eyes well up from behind, the water threatening to fall—but I bite it back. My lips tremble, fighting emotion.
He is, literally, playing me like a symphony.
When the song is complete, I take deep cleansing breaths, bringing myself back to the moment. I lean over and grab the notebook. Inside, I see Asher has written back the lyrics to the song I wrote to him, matching me word for word.
The class is still in session when I lean my foot over and slam the door.
I know, I’m a glutton for punishment. I should be somewhere else right now instead of in my office waiting for another class to start.
In the other room, Asher hands out sheet music and has the students play a song I have never heard before. I hear the familiar voice of Mike, who teaches guitar.
What in the world is Mike doing in the cello class?
I look over at the notebook, a peach flower peaking out of the pages.
Sincerity.
The song of a guitar strum causes me to peek into the room. Mike is sitting at the front, on a stool, strumming the chords to a simple melody. Asher is seated beside him, the cello in place. I watch for a second as Asher starts to play. If I had more self-control in this situation, I’d keep myself from opening the notebook.
I don’t, so I open it and see the song is called “Save Me From Myself.”
I listen to the entire lesson. When it’s over, I know he’s standing alone in the room, waiting for a response. I slam the door, anyway.
Is he really bringing an organ in here?
I peer into the room, watching Asher and one of the maintenance crew push the one and only organ we have in the building into our classroom. It’s old, it’s made of wood, it’s on casters, and it has to weigh a thousand pounds. I don’t know that for a fact but I did see it come in on delivery day and it did not look pretty. The delivery process, I mean. The organ is gorgeous.
Fifteen minutes later that organ ignites and I open my book to see Asher is pulling out the big guns: ColdPlay.
And today’s flower? Deep burgundy: Unconscious beauty.
Looking, ever so discreetly into the room, I see someone else playing the organ and Asher is in front of him on the cello.
The words are a diatribe of my life just months ago. I lost it all. Could it be worse? No. Losing Luke was the most horrific tragedy I ever encountered and ever want to endure in my life. I wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone.
I know the song like I know my Social Security number. It’s quite possibly my favorite. It’s why I have to catch my breath just before I hear the notes that play to the words:
I risk looking back into the classroom again. Asher is behind the cello, playing that beautiful instrument with passion and vigor, his eyes fixated on my doorframe. When he sees me, his head
lifts in surprise.
Standing by the door, I watch for a few moments as Asher continues to play, his body in entrancing movement, eyes on me and filled with passion. He wants me to save him. He wants to fix me. The problem is, I can’t save him and he shouldn’t be the one to fix me. I am fixing myself.
I lower my head and look at the floor as my hand finds the knob and I slowly close the door.
The lessons and note-taking back and forth between Asher and me have been going on for two weeks. The song messages go from sweet and caring to soulful and mind-numbing to downright angry.
The angry ones are from me.
Yeah, I even threw a little Alanis “You Oughta Know” in there. It’s the scorned woman’s mantra.
He reciprocated with a little Maroon 5 and on a particular Tuesday when he was feeling particularly brave, Sir Mix-A-Lot’s, “Baby Got Back.” That made me laugh.
It may seem romantic to some but it’s killing me.
I’m a wreck.
Every day, I enter my office to the sight of the notebook and a new flower. I hate how I look forward to seeing it there and am anxious to see what the pages have written in them. I hate how I fear it won’t be there and what I’d feel if he gave up. I haven’t slept in two weeks, fighting the feelings I have. He is tearing at my heartstrings.
He is also slowly creeping into my life in ways he probably doesn’t even realize. Like how the other day I accidentally opened the door while he was walking in, causing him to spill his coffee on his tie. Instead of being mad, he just let out this adorable grin and said, “You’d never believe how many of these I ruin on a daily basis.” I laughed a little before realizing I’m supposed to be mad at him. Or how he saw me having trouble opening a package because I needed to use both hands so he walked into my office, opened the package for me and then left, without a word. I should have thanked him, but of course, I didn’t.
Last week, he brought in this giant tub of York Peppermint patties and left them in the classroom. I sneak one only when I know he’s not in the building.
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