Page 64 of My One Week Husband
Cole continues on, as determined as ever. “You didn’t even give her a say in this. In what she’s willing to risk. And now you’re simply going to let her slip away because you’re afraid of hurting her?”
“Yes.” At least he understands why I’m doing this.
His eyes lock with mine, intensity in his gaze. “But it’s not her you’re afraid of hurting.”
I jerk back. Furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”
He points at me, accusatory. “It’s you. You’re afraid of getting hurt. You’re terrified of letting someone in. You’re scared of what will happen if your heart isn’t the black hole you’ve turned it into.”
My jaw clenches. I grit my teeth. I want to hiss, to seethe and spit and say, You’re wrong, you’re dead wrong.
But he’s not wrong at all.
He’s completely right.
I’m a fucking coward. I didn’t let her go for her. I let her go for me. Because I don’t know how I’d handle it if she broke a heart that’s already been shattered twice.
I look my best friend in the eye, and I find it in me to tell the truth. “You’re right. I don’t know if I could handle it. I don’t know if I could survive it if I let her love me and then she were to leave me. I don’t know that I’m strong enough to go through that one more time,” I say, admitting the truth.
A faint smile crosses his lips. “Thank you.”
I scoff. “Why are you thanking me?”
“You finally spoke the truth.”
“And what am I supposed to do with this awful truth?”
He sets his elbows on the table, leaning in close. “I don’t know. But my hope is that you’ll take the chance. You’ve taken a million chances in business. You’ve risked money a thousand times over. You gamble with that constantly. And I hope that you can find it in you to gamble with your heart. Because it’s worth it. It’s completely worth it.”
I want to fire back, Easy for you to say.
But it hasn’t been easy for him. He’s done the hard work. He’s loved, he’s lost, he’s grieved, he’s moved on. He’s fallen in love again, and he’s made damn sure he didn’t lose her.
I’ve already lost Scarlett, though, because I let her go.
We say good night and part ways. I don’t wander back to the hotel. Instead, I go to the Palais Garnier. The sign outside advertises an evening of Beethoven sonatas, a special two-week only series of performances. Kismet, perhaps? It’s rare for the opera house to showcase only music, rather than ballet or opera.
I walk in, go to the ticket counter, and buy a ticket.
A young woman at the counter – perhaps a teenager, maybe fifteen or sixteen – arches a curious brow. “Hello. Do you know intermission has already passed?”
“I do.”
“You’ve missed most of the performance of Violin Sonata No. 9.” She sounds terribly concerned.
“That’s okay. I know the piece by heart.”
Her dark eyes brighten. “Me too. I can play it. All of it. But I am learning to play it even better in school,” she says, a little shyly. Her accent is faintly Nigerian.
“You are?”
She nods, proudly. “I moved here with my family. So I can study the violin in Paris. I want to play here someday.”
“At the Palais Garnier?”
“Yes, and Philharmonie de Paris. And Sala São Paulo in Brazil. And Symphony Hall in Boston. And The Sibelius Hall in Finland. And Concertgebouw in Amsterdam.” The words tumble out with the breathless excitement of youth.
Of possibilities.
A pang squeezes my heart as I picture the days and opportunities ahead of her. The chances she’ll have. The ones I hope she won’t squander.
“Don’t stop playing. Don’t stop learning,” I tell her, with an intensity that both surprises and doesn’t surprise me at all.
“I won’t,” she says, like it’s a solemn promise.
“Being able to play Beethoven is a gift. A precious gift. Treat it as such,” I say, then I laugh, a little embarrassed. “But who am I to give advice to a stranger, to a prodigy? I’m only a music lover. All I am saying is I hope all your dreams come true.”
“Me too.” She takes a beat, then taps her chest. “I’m Ayo.”
“Daniel.”
She tips her forehead to the entrance. “You won’t want to miss anymore.”
“You’re right. The ending is so lovely.”
“It is. I haven’t grown tired of it, and I’ve heard it every night for the last two weeks. It breaks my heart every time, and puts it back together.”
My throat tightens. “Music can do that. And I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of it either,” I say, then I head inside, turn off my phone, take my seat, and listen.
I used to feel so at home here, like the Phantom. I’d imagine I was the damaged, scarred man haunting the lake beneath the Paris Opera House.
