Don't Wake Me if I'm Dreaming (22 page)

“It went rather well.”

“Come on girl, spill the juice!”

“There’s no juice, but there’s definitely a strong attraction between us.” I loved the sound of the word us.

“Is that his business card?” She reached for it. “International affairs lawyer Oh, honey, you’re with a big boy now.” She walked to her desk with the card and sat in front of her computer typing.

I followed her. “What are you doing? Are you looking him up?”

“Of course.” She typed a search of his name. “Is that he?” She turned the monitor.

“It is he.” I inched closer to look.

“Oh, sweet heavens above. Found my new screen saver.” She stared at the picture.

“He is cute,” I admitted.

“Heavens to Betsy, he’s not cute, he’s all things beautiful rolled into one hunk of love.”

I laughed.

“Is he hot in the sack?” She perked up.

“No clue.”

“I would have been under him like eggs on bacon.” She slouched back down, scrolling through pictures of him.

“That’s… disturbing.” I retrieved the card and programmed Jack’s number into my phone.

“Has he called you?”

“Not exactly. He doesn’t have my number.” I didn’t bother mentioning I was with him a couple hours prior.

“Send him a message.”

“I can’t.”

“Give me that phone.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll send him a text.”

“
Hope you’re having a fabulous day
”

To my surprise, he responded within a minute.

“
I was hoping to hear from you. I’ll call you this afternoon if you’re available.
”

“Martha, guess who said he’ll call me this afternoon.”

“And so their story begins. I’m happy for you, kiddo.”

I smiled texting him back.

“
Sounds good.
”

***

I
could hardly function the rest of the day without checking my phone every five minutes, just in case. And when it finally rang, I just stood in my kitchen, staring at it. I finally answered. “Hello?”

“Well, hello. How are you?”

“Tired, but great. And you?”

“It’s been a busy day, but I can’t complain. Are you busy this evening?”

“Nope. I was just…” I glanced around my messy apartment, “cleaning up my place.” This was awkward.

“Can I take you out around eight for a drink? We can stay local in your area and call it an early night if you’re not too tired.”

“Sure. Yeah, eight works.”

“Perfect. I’ll pick you up then.”

“All right.”

“Talk to you later.”

“Okay.” I hung up and looked at the clock. I headed to the shower with only an hour to clean up myself, and the apartment. The excitement of seeing him so soon had me singing in such a voice that could kill a bird.

Jack pulled up a few minutes before eight. I was going to meet him at his car but saw him get out and panicked.
Oh crap.

I rushed as fast as I could, collecting everything left out of place and hurried to the spare room, dumping it in the closet as he knocked. I rushed to the door, took a deep breath, and exhaled opening it.

“Hi.” I successfully forced myself into a dignified behavior.

“Hi.” His expression looked pleased.

I gave him a hug, noticing I was slightly out of breath from my mad dash.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you. Would you like to come in?” I instantly wished I hadn’t asked that.

“Why not.” He smiled, removing his coat.

“I’ll take that for you.” I hung our coats over a chair. “I didn’t get far with cleaning this afternoon.” I glanced at the pile of papers on my table.

“It looks nice in here. Do I get the grand tour?”

“Uh.” I bit my lip wishing I had a housekeeper. “My room’s a bit of a mess, but sure.”

“Kitchen and living.” I pointed. “Laundry closet and bathroom.” I pointed to the hall. “It’s not much.”

“It’s great. The structure is great. I haven’t seen windows like these in years.” He walked near a window glancing at it. “Is there a warehouse downstairs?”

“It was I think in the fifties or something. The whole upstairs was office space converted into a loft apartment.

He glanced at the small hole in the wall, near the window. I watched nervously as he walked toward it for a better look.

I felt my face drift through a few shades reflecting embarrassment.

“Is that a bullet?” He looked in the hole.

“Uh… it is.”
Oh no, not this story again.

“Is there a story to go with it?”

“There is.”

He glanced at me waiting to hear.

“My bedroom is this way.” I walked over to him, reaching for his hand, leading him to the bedroom door.

He looked around before noticing the mess in my closet. “Packing?” He stared a moment at the heaping pile of clothing on the floor I had intended to donate.

“There was a tornado while we were in New York, and I forgot to close the window… It’s just a donation pile I’m working on.” 

He walked to the nightstand and picked up a picture. “Are they your parents?”

“Uh-huh. It’s an old picture, but it’s the only one I have of them together.”

“You look like your mom. She’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. She was a phenomenal woman.”

He glanced at me apparently noticing I referred to her in past tense. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, it was a long time ago.” I bit my top lip.

“That must be Matt?” He turned the frame a little.

“Yeah. That would be him.”

“Good looking guy.”

“Yeah, I thought so.” My mouth twisted. “I’m not sure why I haven’t put the picture away.” I stared at it a moment in thought, remember how his dimples showed when he smiled.

“He was an important part of your life.” His smile was empathetic.

I returned the smile reaching for his hand, guiding him from the room.

“You said you have a studio room?”

“Yes, a very neglected studio room.”

He glanced at the door. “May I?”

“Uh, you may.”

He opened the door and turned on the light. “You weren’t kidding, this really is a studio.” He walked over to the piano and lifted to fallboard. A single press of a key sent an echo across the room. “I take it by your comment you haven’t played for a while?”

“I did for years. I just haven’t in a while…. My mom was an excellent pianist, this was actually her piano.” I looked down at the floor remembering her playing it. “She was always lost in her music. It was always an eloquent expression of her emotions. If she played Beethoven Emperor—that always said I’d rather not clean the house, and she’d crack my door and play Brahms Lullaby if I couldn’t sleep. Moonlight Sonata if she couldn’t sleep, which seemed more often than not. My favorite was always the Well-Tempered Clavier. It meant it was going to be an excellent day in our home.” It was a nice feeling sharing memories, building on the bases of an intimate moment.

“Did she favor a melody when you were mischievous?”

“Me mischievous? Prelude in C minor. It still gives me the heebie jeebies when I think of it.” I shuttered, remembering. “It was mostly my brother Sam who got in trouble only because he was always taking everything apart to see the structural design.”

“What’s your favorite song to play?”

“Oh gosh, I’m not sure. Fur Elise, or maybe Debussy—I like Clair de Lune, it’s one of my favorites. I prefer slower, soothing, classic music, uh Johann Sebastian Bach, Ludwig, Wolfgang, Fryderyk Chopin, Franz Joseph Haydn…all their work is brilliant.”

“He looked a lot like George Washington with a different nose, Franz Joseph Hayden.”

“You know him? Of course you don’t, you know his music.”

“I have an eclectic collection of vinyl records.”

“Of course you do.”

“You have an extraordinary talent, and your mom sounds like she was a brilliant woman. Can I ask how it happened?”

“Um, she killed herself.” I chewed at the inside of my lip, unsure how he’d respond.

His face fell somber. “How long ago?”

I walked over to the closet door and leaned against it. “I was nine at the time. My dad told me she was sick. He was really protective I guess. She uh—she had troubles sleeping. I’m sorry, it’s sometimes difficult to talk about her.”

He sat down on the piano bench. “Don’t be sorry. For someone who has experienced significant loss, not one but two people dear to you, you hold yourself together impressively well. It’s unfair.”

“Thank you. My strength comes from support, I guess. Aimee, of course, was my rock through it all.”

“She’s a remarkable woman it sounds. You two are lucky to have each other.”

“I am lucky there.” I pushed myself from the door.

“Do I get the privilege of hearing you play?”

“I’m out of practice I’m afraid.”

“I can play chopsticks, or could when was a child. I’m sure anything you play will be comparatively impressive.”

I shook my head no and reached, closing the fallboard. “Another time.” I rested my hand on his shoulder.

Jack rubbed my hand and kissed it. He walked over to a CD player in the corner and knelt, turning it on, listening a moment before standing. “I’ve heard this before, but don’t recall where.”

“It’s one of my favorites to dance to. I haven’t played it in a while.
Una Mattina, Ludovico Einaudi.
”

“It’s beautiful.” He reached for my hand, slowly spinning me under his arm; he pressed me against his chest.

I was taken aback by the gesture, but went with it, noticing the seriousness in his eyes.

He turned my hand inward, and tenderly pressed his lips against it, then held me, leading us into a slow dance. I could feel his breath in my hair. I closed my eyes, resting my face against his neck, ingesting his scent.

There was something about the music, and his touch that I couldn’t describe, but knew it was a feeling I’d waited for my whole life. It was the sense that two people belonged together, not by attraction or mutual interest, but gravity, as if destined for togetherness. Ironic as it was that we had little in common, but when together, everything just worked. Our bodies moved rhythmically without effort and we connected emotionally, and on all levels. The same with melodies, which drove us to dancing, we felt undeniable passion for one another. I knew as he held me, without uncertainty he was my future and knew he felt it too within an unfathomably short time of being together.

Minutes passed with me in his arms. I enjoyed myself so much that I didn’t want him to release me.

“You love to dance,” I cooed.

“I like the connection it gives two people. It’s a rather intimate way of expression.”

“I keep thinking at any moment I’m going to wake and realize you were nothing more than a dream.”

“I hope never to wake you.” He slowly spun me under his arm again. “You see yourself as a woman capped, unwilling to do so much. There is no talent in riding a bike or rock climbing. It’s pure endurance and will. You were gifted with raw talent, the envy of many, yet you deny yourself the enjoyment of it, why?”

My feet held firm against the floor but Jack didn’t release me. I was silent a moment in thought, remembering my mom, she was my biggest supporter and the reason I always enjoyed dancing and playing the piano. 

“Sasha?”

Jack’s voice pulled me back. 

“It reminds me of her. I guess it’s kind of a gateway to an emotional battle I’m not great at winning.”

“I’m sure she was proud of you.” He released me and walked over to my mom’s Merriweather desk in the far corner and picked up the ballet shoes.

“No.” I shook my head.

“Take your pick the piano or slipper? Everyone needs a battle, buddy.” He set the slippers in my hand, returning to sit on the bench. “Allow me to be yours.”

I stared at him a moment biting the inside of my lip contemplating the idea. Reluctantly I reached down, and slid my heels off setting them against the wall.

A chiming sound came from his pocket, but he ignored it.

“You can get that. I need to stretch for a moment.”

“They can wait,” he said, not checking his message as he reached in his pocket to silence his phone.

I sat on the floor and laced up my slippers. Why on earth am I agreeing to this?

“Normally, I would sew them on when performing. It keeps them securely in place.”

“You have to sew the lace together?” He sounded confused.

“Only when I perform. I sew the ribbon to the slipper instead of tying it so I don’t have to worry about it coming untied. Most performers do it as a safety measure.” I tied my lace, and then stood, holding the bar. I draped my leg over it to stretch. “Sorry, I don’t normally do this in a dress.” I modestly tucked the loose fabric under my leg.