They haven’t been able to for more than fifteen years, since I was eighteen years old and consumed with an anger I never expected, courtesy of a decision that blindsided me.
A decision that failed to deliver the justice my family deserved.
At the time, righteous rage jet-propelled me to do the stupidest thing of all—punch a wall.
With my right hand. My prized possession. My greatest gift.
I damaged my ability to do what I loved most: making music.
It was a crime of passion. I was the perpetrator. I was the victim. I was the fool.
Now I’m left with memories of a once-great talent and a long, jagged scar on my hand.
It’s a reminder of how dangerous emotions are. Emotions lead to consequences. To families torn asunder. To talent squandered because of a matchstick choice.
I’m the sole architect of the destruction of my once-upon-a-time career as a violin prodigy, playing on the world’s greatest concert stages before I was even eighteen.
I ended the greatest love affair of my life with an emotional choice—a choice that ended the violin and me.
Now, it’s best to keep my heart sanitized of emotions.
Closing my eyes, I finish the Brahms piece, the slightly above average, merely good enough music that I now make doing its part to numb my heart once again.
I lower the bow, then run my fingers gently along the body of the instrument, treating the violin with the tenderness it deserves.
I tuck it away in its case where it’s safe from harm.
Safe from me.
7
Scarlett
“What does one pack for a weeklong trip with her business partner?”
I pose that question to my friend Nadia a few days after the dinner with Cole and Daniel.
She furrows her brow as we walk through Le Marais following a lunch with some of her advertisers. Nadia is mostly fluent in French, but I was there to help her translate, since she’s in Paris meeting with advertising executives as part of her plans for marketing pro football here in Europe.
“That is the dilemma,” she says with a thoughtful hum as we pass Amelie’s, the delectable scent of raspberry tarts and chocolate croissants tempting me from the bakery. I lift my nose in the direction of the open door, like a dog shamelessly stealing a whiff. “Add in the caveat that one is actively trying to deny an attraction to said business partner,” Nadia continues with a wink.
My jaw drops, and I fling a hand to my chest. “Moi? Never.”
She points at me. “You.”
I shrug in admission. “Fine. Fine. No denials.”
“It’s always good to be honest with oneself and one’s friends. Men? That’s another story,” she says with a laugh as we round the corner, passing a boutique peddling shoe after decadent shoe. Her eyes swing to the display of fuchsia, garnet, and cranberry-red heels. She holds up a finger. “Hold on. We must discuss all the things, but first, I have to ogle these beauties.” She stops to practically undress the footwear with her eyes.
“Would you like to go in there and rub up against that lovely pair of sapphire-blue pumps?” I ask, pointing to a shiny four-inch set in the display. “Perhaps mate with them? Take them home and pet them all night?”
“As a matter of fact, I think I will,” she says, then tips her forehead to the store. “Let’s indulge in shoes as we discuss hot, broody, complicated men.”
“So, just like any other time we’re together?”
Flipping her dark-brown hair off her shoulder, she laughs. “You know me so well. Shoes make my lack of a love life so much better.”
I shoot her a sympathetic look. “I thought you were mostly content with your lack of a love life?”
She shrugs, then sighs heavily. “Mostly. But at other times, I wonder—what does it take to get a date as a twenty-five-year-old who owns a football team? I’m anthrax to men.”
I pat her shoulder. “The dilemmas of the young female billionaire.”
“Exactly. Men are terrified of me, or I’ve been taught not to trust them.”
“I can’t fault the trust issues. Mine are a mile-deep and a canyon-wide.”
“Understandably. But shoes? Shoes I trust,” she says breezily as she grabs hold of the door and tugs it open.
We head into the shop, faint strains of Édith Piaf playing overhead as wafer-thin sales associates with carved cheekbones organize stylish boots, strappy sandals, and sexy heels.
“Yes, exactly,” I say, then toss out a bonjour to the associates.
“Bonjour. Let us know if you need anything,” a man in black jeans and a sequined tank top says to us from his place near a display of completely shameless shoes with peacock feather embellishments.
“We will,” I reply.
Nadia beams at the man and asks in French for the sapphire shoes in her size.
“Bien sur.” The shopkeeper scurries to the back room to grab a pair of the blue shoes for Nadia.
“The height of my fluency is shopping terms,” she says to me.
“You know much more than how to shop. But you do excel at transactional French,” I say, my eyes drawn to a pair of silver flats. They’d be perfect for the trip. Great for walking around. For checking out hotels.
I hold up the silver flats for Nadia to see. “Shall I get these for my trip?”
She eyes them disdainfully, then asks, “Is that your strategy—wearing flats around Daniel so that you don’t look as sexy as you know you look in heels?”
I shoot her a curious look. “Mince words much?”
“Never, so I won’t now. You’re attracted to him. You said as much a few minutes ago. And for some reason, you’re going all proper and businesslike, twinset and pearls, on this trip. But not wearing heels around him isn’t going to stop your attraction.”
“I wear flats every day. I wore them to dinner with him and Cole,” I point out.
But what’s the point?
The flats I wore didn’t make him less attractive.
Is Nadia right? Am I deliberately picking clothes that make me feel businesslike with Daniel? So I can stay in that familiar zone? So I’m not tempted to explore this rush of feelings I have for him? “Flats are easier for navigating Paris,” I tell her, perhaps trying to convince myself as well.
“They are. But a good pair of heels can make you feel the same way as a new lace bra-and-panty set does,” she adds, dropping her voice as she flops into a plush pink chair. “I bet you bought that for your trip.”
I shoot her a withering glare. “How do you do that?”
“See right through you?”
I nod. Of course I bought new underthings, but a woman always needs those. “Yes. That exactly.”
“I know you well,” she says, and she’s right on that count. We met a few years ago, when I was mentoring her in her bachelor’s degree program. Since then, her life’s been a whirlwind—inheriting an NFL franchise from her father, running it with her friend . . . Nadia’s the youngest team owner in the league, but winning the Lombardi Trophy her first year at the helm has helped her earn the respect of her peers.
“You know me better than anyone,” I say, since she’s become a confidante and a shoulder to lean on. Funny, how our roles have switched, but I think that’s how good friendships work—you need each other in different ways at different times.