The Hearts Series

by L.H. Cosway

  No, if we were ever going to get married, it would have to be a small affair. Quick and painless. It also wasn’t going to be something I dived right into. Unfortunately, King was a singularly focused individual, which meant I was proposed to at least once a day. Sometimes two or three times. I’d find Post-It notes inside the tea caddy. Voice messages on my phone. Texts with picture attachments of “Marry Me?” written in sand or on foggy car windows. He’d even sent one of him topless, with the words scrawled in marker pen across his chest.

  Kinda sexy? Yes. Bordering on ridiculous? Also, yes.

  I was standing by the cooker, heating up some soup for Oliver, when King came up behind me, sliding his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. I geared myself up for yet another proposal, but it never came. Instead, he told me, “I’m heading out for a couple of hours. Don’t wait up for me.”

  I nodded quietly, he pressed a kiss to my cheek, and off he went. He’d started driving his old Merc, but he’d sold his other cars, which had been stored in the underground garage beneath his apartment, and donated the money to charity. In fact, he’d donated a huge sum of his wealth to foundations for homelessness and alcoholism, keeping just enough to live off. After years of living with nothing, I didn’t think he felt comfortable with wealth anymore. I also didn’t try to stop him. In fact, I supported the action. In my opinion, money only brought happiness up to a certain level. Any riches over and above that just made you as miserable as being poor. Okay, maybe not for everyone, because the Kardashians seemed pretty fucking happy with their lot. Perhaps I should adjust my statement. Vast riches for those with hearts and brains made you just as miserable as being poor.

  Elaine was already spending the evening with us, so as soon as King left, I hurried to the living room, asking if she’d watch Oliver for me while I popped out for a bit. I was behind the wheel of my car and pulling out of the driveway just in time to see King’s Merc turn the corner at the end of our street.

  I followed a few cars behind him all the way into the city, biting my fingernails the entire time. Where the hell was he going? Finally, he parked down a side street in Camden, got out, and walked off. I hurried to park, too, then discreetly followed him. He didn’t suspect a thing, never once looking back, and then he slipped inside the door to a hipster-looking bar.

  Oh, shit.

  A bar? He’d sneaked off to a bar? Maybe I wasn’t such a good judge of character after all. This wasn’t looking good. I stood on the street for at least ten minutes, freaking out and trying to convince myself that this wasn’t what it seemed, while my brain was all, Bitch, how can it not be what it seems?

  FYI, my brain was a skinny gay guy who worked in a hair salon and loved to gossip cynically about other people’s love lives.

  When I managed to calm myself down, I noticed that a long queue had formed outside the bar, but King had managed to walk right past it. Figuring I didn’t have any other option, I got in line. It took forever for me to get inside, because the place was packed out and the bouncers were staggering the queue. The bar was dark and crowded, and I instantly hated it. That was, until I heard the music. It was beautiful, transforming the room from something annoying into something wonderful. It was a unique mix of classical and modern, and it was just one instrument. The piano.

  I felt it all around me, right down to my toes, and instinctively I knew it was his, knew this was the music he’d spend days on end composing alone in his apartment.

  I couldn’t see the stage because it was surrounded by people, but my heart began to pound as my suspicions about King being back on the beer slowly faded into the background. Pushing my way past the bodies, I finally reached a spot where I could see. There on the tiny stage he sat, playing glorious music on a worn-out, beaten-up piano that looked like it had been in the bar for over twenty years. Nevertheless, his audience was captivated, and so was I.

  The way his body moved as he played, the way his hands manipulated the keys so fluidly, set my every nerve ending alight. He’d kept his hair long, just like I’d asked him to, and it hung attractively over his face, making him appear elusive and mysterious. His eyes were closed, too, adding to his enigmatic vibe. He wore only a simple white T-shirt under an open grey shirt and jeans. Basically, he looked nothing like what you’d expect from a classical pianist, but then again, he wasn’t exactly playing straight-up classical. It was an unusual sound, something new and different, which was probably why he’d attracted such a crowd. Somehow I knew that if King wasn’t playing, this bar wouldn’t be half as packed as it was right then. I could tell because the patrons were focused completely on him rather than chatting amongst themselves and socializing.

  He must have been doing this for weeks, telling no one. The thought made me both happy and sad at the same time. But then I remembered our conversation weeks ago in his apartment, where he’d talked about playing for the love of it rather than the praise. I also remembered telling him that his playing didn’t have to be either of those things, that it could simply be a gift to other people. In that moment, I knew he’d taken my words to heart, because every person in the bar was getting a gift right then.

  A worker moved past me, collecting empty glasses, and I pulled her aside, nodding to the stage.

  “Does he play here often?” I asked.

  She glanced at King, then back to me. “Not often. He performs in different places around the city. A couple of weeks ago he showed up at a bar in Soho and asked the manager if he could play. The place was quiet, so the manager said yes. He’s been gaining a following ever since, but he never announces a gig, just shows up randomly, and people spread the word.”

  “Oh,” I said, absorbing her answer, skin tingling at the idea of King just randomly playing piano for people wherever and whenever it took his fancy.

  “What’s his name?” I asked just before she turned to leave.

  “They call him Oliver,” she answered.

  “Just Oliver?”

  “Yeah, just Oliver.”

  And then she was gone and I was looking back at King, everything about him holding me captive. The fact that he kept his eyes closed most of the time and never really looked at anyone in the audience meant he didn’t see me there. Still, I made sure to stand behind a couple of other people just in case. For a second I thought of waiting around until the end, pouncing on him, and declaring I’d discovered his secret. But no, that wasn’t what I wanted. I just wanted him to go on playing, to keep doing what made him and the people he managed to touch with his music happy. I’d never be the one who turned what he loved into something that required praise, something that had once destroyed him.

  So, when he finished his final song of the night, I inhaled a deep breath, savoured the moment, and soaked in the reactions of those around me, the catharsis they felt from the emotions portrayed in his wordless song. Then I turned and left the bar.

  A couple of days later, I found myself waking Oliver up on a Monday morning and getting him ready for his first day of school. I had his uniform all set out: a white shirt, grey tie, navy jumper with the school crest, and grey slacks. I swear he looked so handsome, tiny yet grown at the same time, and I felt like crying.

  I bet all mothers cried on their kid’s first day of school. It was programmed into our DNA. Oliver was full of questions and enthusiasm. He’d been gearing himself up for this for a year. Often we’d drive by the school and he’d see the kids, and I’d tell him that’s where he’d be going soon. I marvelled at how he never acted frightened or apprehensive. No, his eyes lit up at the prospect of something new.

  King was sitting in the kitchen, eating a slice of toast, when I came down with Oliver, all clad in his new uniform.

  “Daddy! Look at me, don’t I look handsome?” he said, and King turned to take him in. Unlike me, he didn’t get-teary eyed. No, his lips twitched in amusement.

  “You’re looking very dapper indeed, little man,” he said, shooting me a smile.

  “What�
�s dapper?” Oliver questioned.

  “Your daddy’s being fancy again. He always tries to be fancy,” I teased. “And it means you look sharp. Sharp and handsome.”

  He seemed pleased with my answer, and King went about getting him some breakfast. Once it was time to go, all three of us left the house to walk him to school. It was only ten minutes away, and it was a sunny morning, so we decided to forgo the car. I held one of Oliver’s hands and King held the other. All the while, our son strolled along between us, chatting away about how he was going to make friends with everyone and how he was going to play hopscotch in the yard during his break.

  I glanced at King at one point to see him smiling down at Oliver, affection and love in eyes as he listened to his every word. Then, too soon almost, we were at the school, and the teacher was waiting outside as the children gathered.

  “There’s Timothy,” Oliver shouted, spotting his friend. “I’m going over.” Before he could run off, I pulled him back and knelt down, looking him in the eye and fixing his tie. There was something about how small it was that made me feel like welling up again. King noticed my ridiculously emotional expression and took over, bending down to give Oliver a hug.

  “You be good today, son. Your mum and I will be back later to collect you.”

  And with that he was gone, running excitedly to his friend, his little blue rucksack on his back. All around me, parents said goodbye to their kids, and there was a lot of crying going on. I saw a girl bawling her eyes out at the prospect of being separated from her mum, and it kind of broke my heart. In a way, I wished Oliver had been more like her, more upset, because that way I’d feel like less of a wuss.

  King and I stood side by side, watching Oliver as he got in line with the other kids. “I hope you don’t think me a soppy fool after this, but when we go home, I might get back into bed and be weird for a while. And by that I mean I might get back into bed and have a good cry.”

  King slid his hand into mine, a quiet show of affection, as he cocked his head to me and smiled. “Don’t you have to be at the office in an hour?”

  “Stop effing with my plans, Mr King,” I snipped, but there was humour in my voice.

  “You know, you haven’t referred to me as Mr King since you were my employee,” he teased. “Want to take the morning off? Maybe go home and get into bed for a different reason? Do some role-playing perhaps?”

  I shoved him in the shoulder and scowled. “Don’t be a cad.”

  He bent and whispered in my ear, “Aw, but you love it so much.” His voice gave me tingles, and I closed my eyes for a second to push the images of our sex life from my mind. This clearly wasn’t the time.

  “Nah, maybe we’ll save it for later. I wanted to head into the city anyway, spend a couple of hours practicing.”

  What he said brought back memories of the other night, and how electric it had felt to see him play for an audience, how he finally seemed to be completely himself. No pain. No loneliness. No addiction. No evil father trying to fuck up his life. No frightened mother, too paranoid to leave the house. He was better, and that’s all I’d ever wanted him to be.

  Suddenly, I had a moment of clarity, a feeling that all was right with the world. And then I was feeling weepy again, but this time it was for a whole other reason. I couldn’t hold back the tears, and my eyes grew watery as they ran down my cheeks. Of course, they were happy tears, but when King saw that I was crying, he sucked in a breath and pulled me to him. Still holding my hand in one of his, he reached up and wiped the wetness from my cheeks.

  “Hey, he’s going to be all right, you know. Look at him — he’s so excited and happy. Half the kids here are throwing tantrums.”

  “It’s not that, it’s just…I love him so much, and I love you so much. It feels too good to be true, to have this much love inside me.”

  His body was flush with mine as he dropped my hand so that he could cup my face, his thumbs brushing back and forth over the rise of my cheeks. His eyes flickered between mine, so loving, so serious. “Oh, darling, we should get married.”

  I sniffled and let out an unexpected burst of laughter. He was never going to stop with this, but strangely, there was something different about it this time. He was just as sincere as he always was, but the change was in me, and I felt like my answer might be different now.

  “Be honest, you only want to marry me for my money. Well, that and my world-class derriere,” I joked, my voice a shaky tremble.

  King smiled a glorious smile, his retort provoking memories from words he’d spoken to me years ago. “No, I want to marry you for your witty banter. Well, that and your world-class brain.”

  His response made me laugh once more as I took a final glance in Oliver’s direction to see the teacher was now leading the kids inside the school. Once he was gone, I turned back to King. “You know what? I’m kind of in the mood to get hitched today. Must be something in the air.”

  I knew he hadn’t expected my answer when his smile grew even wider on his gorgeously handsome face. He pulled my lips to his and kissed me deeply before pulling back and whispering, “Must be.”

  Epilogue

  KING

  She walked into the room and I glanced up casually, my attention on my phone call. I looked away, then looked back. Fucking hell, she had a body on her, and I noticed something exotic in her dark features. Enjoying a brief yet detailed vision of sinking my fingers around her lush hips, I glanced down at her resume to check her name. Hmmm.

  You have beautiful eyes, Alexis Clark.

  * * *

  Memories were a powerful thing. They could at once set you free or take you prisoner, hold your entire life captive.

  I think that in the space between birth and death you can have one life, or you can have many. But in order to have many, you also need the strength to end the one that came before. And there lies the tricky part.

  In the old life you might have been face down in the dirt, but that dirt held a seductive quality that kept you in its grasp.

  There was once a time when I felt trapped in a dark tunnel, and the only light was a false one found at the end of a bottle. The only peace was the numbness that sang through my veins and blocked out the memories of the life I left behind. Edgar Allen Poe once said that he didn’t indulge in stimulants for the pleasure they brought, but to escape from the memories that plagued him. In that sense, we were kindred.

  When I was a young man, I was confident, ready to take on any challenge, free of fear.

  When I was a grown man, I knew the world and I was winning, even though there were worries that tried to drag me down.

  When I was an older man, I was broken; the things I thought I’d done had ruined the things I’d left behind.

  Now I was an even older man, and I knew that my memories didn’t have to own me, and nothing was ever lost forever, especially love. It was simply waiting to be reclaimed, and reclaiming required strength.

  You see, I told you there was a tricky part.

  And that part would never be truly surpassed. Much like a virus that can’t be cured but simply maintained, I would always look at the dirt and see something alluring. It was the strength I drew from within that kept me from succumbing to the allure.

  My strength was in my music. It was in my boy, who grew taller every day. And it was in Alexis, who even when I was nothing had looked at me like I was everything. Thinking of her, I felt a sudden need to see her and rose from my seat, my sister eyeing me suspiciously.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Marina asked.

  “To see Alexis. I’ll only be a minute,” I answered.

  She tugged on my hand and pulled me back down with a surprising amount of strength for a sixty-year-old woman.

  “You can’t see her now. It’s bad luck,” she scolded me.

  Jay, who was sitting on the other side of the room, made a noise like Marina had answered a question wrong on a quiz show. “Nope. Complete load of horse rap,” he said, casually cl
osing his book and leaning forward. “People made that shit up back in the day of arranged marriages. Picture it here: Dude walks in and sees his bride’s a howler, then goes, ‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers, I’m outta here.’ Before you know it, the wedding’s off.” A silence fell, and my sister shot Jay a scowl. “Or you know, vice versa. Lotta butt-ugly dudes out there, too,” he amended.

  Marina pointed to him. “That’s not why I’m scowling. I’m scowling because you’re trying to bring bad luck to my brother’s marriage by urging him to break an age-old tradition.”

  Jay threw his hands in the air. “Hey, I’m just laying out the facts. You’ll find that a bunch of those old superstitions arose out of simple practicality. Marriages were little more than business transactions back then.”

  Marina scowled harder. “When my friend Rose broke a mirror, she was sick with a different ailment at least once a year for seven years. Then on the seventh year, poof, no more ailments. How do you explain that, Mr. Practical?”

  “I explain it with one word: coincidence,” Jay threw back.

  I shook my head. Those two were always arguing over stuff like this. In fact, I thought they enjoyed it. Marina touched my hand. “Don’t listen to him. The ceremony is in less than half an hour. You can wait.”

  Before I could reply, Jay spoke up again. “Oh, and more evidence to prove my point: veils. Why have a veil if not to hide an ugly face? You’re already married by the time the priest tells you to lift it, and then it’s like boom, here’s what you just pledged your entire life to. Good luck with that.”

  Jack, who had been fixing his tie in the mirror, snickered a laugh. I think this must have been the first time I’d ever seen him in a suit. My best man. My best friend.

  Marina continued scowling at Jay until he finally got the message to shut up. She’d become something of a substitute mother to the brothers, and though she often complained about it, I knew she loved being needed.