“What are you getting at?”
Cole sighs. “You know what I mean.”
I laugh, because deflecting is easier. “Is this where we have a man-to-man? And you tell me exactly what I need for my life to finally be satisfying, just as yours is now that you’ve met the love of your life?”
“I would think you, of all people, wouldn’t mock someone for falling in love.”
“I’m not mocking you for falling in love,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder, meaning this from the bottom of my black heart. “I am incredibly happy for you, Cole. You met a woman who gives you everything you’ve ever wanted. Who satisfies you. Who fills the empty spaces in your heart and makes it bigger.”
A smile spreads easily on his face, a knowing sort of grin. “She does that for me. We do that for each other. I never knew it was possible to feel like this.” He sighs, the thoughtful variety. “You could have that too, you know.”
I scoff. “Sweet of you to offer, but I’m pretty sure we’re done with the threesomes.”
He rolls his eyes. “Not what I meant.”
I meet his gaze head-on, wanting him to serve it up. Cole and I have known each other for years. We don’t beat around the bush. “What do you mean, then? Are you truly telling me to go fall arse-over-elbow in love?”
My longtime friend shrugs, giving me a small smile. “Is it the worst idea?”
“It’s the unlikeliest. I’m not looking for that. I don’t want that. And I don’t have any empty spaces in my heart.”
If I did, that would mean there were spaces in my heart that are already filled.
Pretty sure mine is totally empty, drained long ago of any feeling.
“I don’t believe that,” he says in the same cool, confident tone he uses when he negotiates deals.
“Believe it,” I say, strength in my voice too.
“And yet I don’t.” Cole drags a hand through his dark hair, as if lost in thought briefly, before he tosses out, “Are you happy?”
All I can do is laugh.
How can he ask that question? He ought to know.
But I answer him anyway. “I do all of the things that make me happy. I enjoy life. I dine on fine meals; I drink the best wine; I go to concerts, symphonies, operas. I attend galas and fetes. I indulge in women, and I work it all off the next day at the gym. I make tons of money. And I enjoy that. I am meticulously happy. Insanely happy.”
His brows narrow, the doubtful look of a cross examiner. “Meticulously happy? That’s not a thing.”
“Maybe it’s not. But the point is, I am as happy as I possibly can be. I’ve learned to take each day for what it is.”
We near our hotel in the eighth arrondissement, the magnificent archway rising up to greet us, doormen flanking the entrance. “That’s what worries me,” Cole says.
“You think I’m enjoying the pleasures of the flesh too much? I’m not with a woman tonight. And I wasn’t last night either. No need to worry, mate.”
“Amazing, your restraint. But be that as it may, someday you might want more than pleasures of the flesh, pleasures of the wallet, and pleasures of material things.”
“That’s hard to imagine,” I say deadpan, but not entirely.
Because it is hard to imagine when everything else is so damn fleeting. Life, talent, skills, love—they can all slip through your fingers.
The only thing that’s left at the end of the day is money. So I grab onto that, and I hold tight so it won’t slip through.
That’s what I’ve built from the ashes of my life, from the detritus of my choices. From the carnage wreaked in one furious moment when I let emotion get the better of me. When I let rage and unserved revenge lead me to an untenable choice that upended all my dreams.
Now, a decade later, I’m left with a scar on my hand, the memories of what I once did, and a slightly above average skill.
We stop outside the entryway to our property. Cole meets my gaze with an intense look. An I’m about to dispense important advice look. “And so I return to my point. Be careful with Scarlett. I don’t think she’s as far gone as you are, and certainly not as far gone as you let others think you are. How do you think things will go when you travel around to these hotels with her?”
The question is open-ended. It can be addressed in a myriad of ways. I’m tempted to choose the easiest way out. To say, I think it’ll be great. We get along well. You know that. We’re good friends.
Instead, I speak honestly. “I think it’ll be tempting as hell. I want her terribly. She’s the most fascinating person I’ve ever met. She keeps me on my toes. I can’t seem to stop wanting her. But I’ll find the will.”
With a smile, he nods. “You do that.”
We head to the bar, where Sage, his lovely fiancée, is waiting for him with a glass of bourbon. She calls me over, and I say hello.
“Did you gentlemen have a lovely time tonight?” she asks.
I tip my forehead to Cole. “Your fiancé gave me a terribly hard time about my romantic prospects. Apparently, he fancies himself something of a matchmaker,” I remark, making light of the conversation.
“Seems I might have hit a nerve,” Cole says.
Briefly I consider that, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, because I’m not sure why the nerve is pinching. So instead I say, “On that note, I shall leave the two of you alone.”
I say good night to my friend and his lovely bride-to-be, then I leave them.
I take the brass-paneled elevator up to the penthouse floor, which is permanently reserved for me. I head down the hall, turn the corner, and unlock the suite that’s become my home away from home.
Once inside, I’m drawn to the corner of the room by a window overlooking the city. I stop in front of the glass and stare out at the lights, a longing pulling at my chest. Answering it, I pick up my violin case, open it, and remove the precious jewel of an instrument. I position it under my chin, bow in hand.
My heart floods all at once with joy, with the happiness that this instrument has brought me.
But it also bursts painfully into shards full of regret. A regret that intensifies when I slide the bow over the strings and play my favorite adagio from Brahms, staring out the glass at Paris, shrouded in night, full of revelers, thinkers, and lovers.
I imagine I am playing for them.
To the untrained ear, I do a fine job. I could entertain a drawing room. I could play at a tea party. I could amuse friends lounging in the living room on a winter weekend as the snow fell outside the window.
But that’s not what I once did with the violin. Party tricks were not my specialty.
I was capable of moving worlds.
I could make the instrument weep.
I could bring audiences to their knees.
I can still play.
But not like that.
More like a shadow.
My fingers, my muscles, my mind—they can all play the notes, and I hear the flaws in between the notes I play.
I know, too, how to repair them. How to make this instrument play magnificently in the kind of way that earned me a solo chair at the opera house.
Only, I can’t do that anymore.
My hands don’t work in that fashion any longer.
They can no longer make world-renowned music.