Page 66 of My One Week Husband
But it’s past midnight. And midnight is for regrets, so I don’t call him. Instead, I send a message asking him to meet me in the morning.
31
Daniel
In the opera house, I listen to the end of the piece, remembering my parents in the audience the last time I played this, and their words to me after.
No matter who you play for, you have a gift and you used it well, my father said.
I loved it now as much as I did the first time you played it when you were seven, standing in the living room, struggling with some of the notes, my mother said.
That’s a memory I haven’t allowed to come to the forefront of my mind for a long, long time.
It’s a memory I’ve pushed back, but now it reminds me that I am more than a once well-used gift.
I’m not empty without it now that it’s gone.
I had it, I lost it, but music isn’t all or nothing, played on either the stages of the world or not at all.
It can be just as fulfilling to stumble over the notes for your parents.
It can be just as uplifting to hear others make music.
It can be just as necessary to your soul to play in an empty room.
For years and years, I’ve played only for myself. I’ve only picked up the bow and the violin in a quiet corner of a hotel room.
All that time I thought I was hiding inside my cold black heart. But it turns out all along I was actually healing myself.
The music I played alone somehow, in some way, over time, over the years, worked its magic.
Maybe, just maybe, it healed me enough. Enough to see that all is not lost.
Enough to see that there is more to life than carpe diem, than daily moments of pleasure, of money, of material goods.
That music mattered as much when I played it in the living room as when I played it before strangers wearing black tie.
And that music, too, can express the very soul of a person.
When I return to my hotel room that night, I pick up the violin, open the window, and play for the city. I serenade Paris, and I imagine that somehow my music is floating over the river and across to the other bank, serenading a woman.
But it’s not enough to imagine it.
I have to tell her.
When I am done, I don’t feel regret. I don’t feel anger. I only feel hope.
I turn on my phone and send her a text as soon as it powers on, though it’s two in the morning. I ask if she can meet me tomorrow morning.
Once it’s sent, my phone downloads my new messages and I find one from her.
Not an answer, but from earlier.
In the morning, I wake up to a text with a location. A bench along the River Seine, across from the Notre Dame.
I shower, get dressed, and take the thing I’ll need most.
32
Daniel
Paris and music go hand in hand.
In the scheme of things, I’m not doing something that stands out. I’m part of the fabric of the city. I blend into the scene, another street musician busking by the Seine.
But I am more than that. I’m a man on a mission to push himself. To do something terrifying because maybe something terrifying can lead to something wonderful.
I arrive early, nerves gripping my throat, fear seizing my chest. They are my regular bedfellows, along with something new.
Hope.
I stand by the bench and wait, my pulse spiking, my heart beating in my throat, my violin case sitting at my feet. My skin prickles, and my hands begin to sweat. I brush them over my jeans. I had no stage fright as a young musician. I had zero as a teenager.
I have too much now.
But this is, in many ways, the toughest stage in the world for me.
When I see Scarlett across the street, her chestnut hair, bright eyes, and gorgeous lips, a thousand hummingbirds flap their wings in my chest.
I take out the violin, set it under my chin, rest it on my shoulder, and raise the bow.
She hasn’t spotted me yet. She’s scanning the riverbanks, looking for me. Or maybe she’s listening to the river.
This time, I’m making sure the river has something to say.
When she’s about twenty feet away, I begin making music for another person for the first time in fifteen years.
It’s sweet and complicated, complex and tender. It’s the one that reminds me of her.
The Brahms.
Her pace slows when she hears it.
Her eyes widen. Her lips curve into a grin, and she locks eyes with me.
Everything in her face transforms.
That hardness, that toughness she wore last night, all vanishes, fading to dust.
As her eyes gleam, I soldier on, nerves be damned.
For years I was ashamed to play for others, ashamed of what I’d done to my hand, how I’d squandered my talent, how I’d ruined music, ruined myself.
