Eternal Heat (Firework Girls #3) (14 page)

I steer away from the heavy stuff and tell him a bit about my experience with the program here.

“I’m so impressed with the way you’re playing now,” he interrupts to say.

I know I’ve improved, but sitting across from the man who could probably outplay me in his sleep makes my own accomplishments feel a little different. I change the subject and start telling him about my Firework Girls, and Jack.

“Jack sounds like a Firework Girl himself,” Erik says, smiling.

“He’s sort of the Firework Girl of Honor,” I say.

Erik checks his phone, which has been lying on the table. He told me about fifteen minutes ago he has a class soon. I get the feeling he’s been pushing it, not wanting to leave.

I’m not quite ready for this to be over either, but I still ask, “When does class start?”

“I have one whole minute,” he says, giving me a regretful look.

“You’d better get going,” I say smiling.

“Yeah.”

He sits there another few seconds though, and we just look at each other in silence, our eyes soft with understanding.

“This has been nice,” he says quietly.

I nod, smiling softly.

He stands reluctantly and puts his phone in his pocket. “We’ll have to do it again,” he says. “I still owe you a coffee.”

He doesn’t really, but I only shrug and stand.

“See you around?” he asks.

“Something like that,” I say, smiling.

After that, I take to going to the Gizmo at the same time on purpose. He bought me coffee the first time, but after that I’ve purchased my own. It felt too much like dating otherwise, and even though I’ve wondered if we could ever get to that point again, the thought of it is a little terrifying. For now I’d rather just be friends.

It’s been a few weeks of this, and he’s starting to feel part of my routine again. We continue to talk about safe subjects. Friends, classes, our practicing routines. I tell him I like to head to the practice rooms late at night because fewer people are there and I’m more likely to get my favorite spot.

I don’t mention the other reason I like being there at that time.

As I said, I’m keeping things safe.

One night I’m in my favorite practice room at the far end of the hall. I’ve wrapped up my official practicing routine, the one I tell Professor Reinecht about, and have started with the messing around part. The only time I do this is when it’s late—it’s nearing midnight now—because I don’t want anyone to think I’m not serious about what I’m doing. I don’t know why I don’t want anyone to hear these songs I carry around in my head, I just don’t. I’m only playing around anyway.

Though, this sort of playing is a different kind of magic. It consumes me in a way I’m almost powerless to control. Sometimes, I feel positively eaten by it.

I finish the song and rub the ache out of the back of my neck, rolling my head. A soft rap at the door causes me to jump. There, through the little window, I see Erik peeking in at me.

My heart starts pumping. I almost feel caught. As I slide off the bench and go to open the door, he gives me a sheepish look through the window.

“Sorry to bother you,” he says.

I step back to invite him in. He closes the door behind him. “That’s what I get for telling you my schedule,” I say, teasing him lightly. “Stalker.”

He grins a bit and shrugs.

He’s already told me he has a piano at his condo. Naturally. I know without him saying so that he came to the practice rooms specifically to see me. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I can’t deny I’m glad to see him.

“What were you playing?” he asks. “It was really phenomenal.”

I press my lips together. How much did he hear? He has that look on his face like he wants to start going on about it. It’s the same look Sam had when she caught me playing my own song once, way back in our junior year. I’m not even sure why I think of it like that—like I’ve been caught doing something bad. But when I play like that, it’s so
different
from what everyone else here is doing. That can’t be good. All it’s going to do is show I’m a self-taught poser when what I’m trying to do is be serious about this.

“It was nothing,” I say firmly. “What are you doing here?” I didn’t mean for that to come out as harshly as it did.

He looks a little taken aback. “Well, I...” he gives me that sheepish smile again. “I know I can’t say I was just walking by, but that didn’t stop me from coming anyway.”

I’m softening again, now that we’re safely past the subject of my own made-up songs. I cross my arms, but give him a smile.

“And you came because?”

He smiles and shrugs. “It’s been a long time since we played together.”

I glance back at the piano. “Uh, yeah. It’s been a bit.”

“Do you remember Chopin’s Sonata in B Minor?” he asks.

I give him a look. Of course I do. That one was our favorite.

He gives me a questioning smile.

I sigh and roll my eyes. “All right then. You first.”

He grins wider and heads to the bench. I can’t help but smile at him. I’ve missed playing with him, too. I drift to the piano and rest my hand on its smooth surface.

His hands hover above the keys, but he doesn’t play. He glances up at me.

He pats the spot on the bench next to him.

I hesitate, then sit down.

He takes a satisfied breath and begins to play. That’s all it takes. We’re caught up in the music again, but that’s not all. Or at least, it isn’t for me. As we take turns playing, and even start to play a duet together, I’m caught up in all those old feelings of love I had for him. They’ve returned so strongly, I’m not sure they belong entirely to the past.

I feel a little swept out to sea. Erik is next to me and his music is all around me and my defenses are falling. He could walk right into my heart again, if he wanted to.

We finish our duet but don’t say a word.

We don’t look at one another.

We only keep our eyes on the keys and our hands in our laps. I’m breathing a little too hard. He is, too.

“Ashley,” he says softly, “I’m really glad you’re here at Hartman.”

I nod, keeping my eyes on the black and white keys in front of me. “I’m glad you’re here, too,” I say. And I am.

I feel him looking at me. I slowly bring my eyes to his face. Everything else falls away. It’s only Erik. And me. And everything between us.

He’s holding my eyes and I can’t look away. But I’m afraid because I think he’s going to kiss me, and what then?

Still I keep my eyes on him. He leans slightly toward me. I should lean away or look away, but I don’t. My heart leans to him, and I follow. As we slowly close the gap between us, I see in his eyes the same torment of longing and fear that I feel.

Our lips touch and I close my eyes. Something in me comes unlocked. I almost feel the click.

As we press tentatively against each other, a lump swells in my throat. I couldn’t swallow it down if I wanted to. A small sob escapes my lips. He takes my face in his and kisses me more firmly, but so gently.

I kiss him back, but then we’re embracing instead and I’m crying openly.

“God, sweetheart,” he says, and I hear the tears in his own voice. “I’m so sorry.”

I nod and pull back to look at him, the tears running freely down my cheeks. His eyes are glistening too and he looks so pained I want to comfort him. I put my hand on his cheek and he looks at me earnestly.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says.

“I know,” I say.

“God, it was so awful,” he says, his voice cracking. “I missed you so much. I swear I loved you. I’m so sorry I put you through that.”

I kiss him again, and again, and we cling to each other. It feels like we’re finally, finally mourning together the losses we both shared. Heart aching, I settle lower into his arms, my head on his shoulder as we rock together in silence.

As our tears slow, still clinging to each other, we start talking about the one topic we’ve avoided more than anything else. I tell him what it was like for me, holding nothing back. I tell him about going to his house to find it closed up. I tell him how humiliating the doctor visits were and how I couldn’t bring myself to tell any of my friends what was going on.

When I tell him about the miscarriage and the D&C at the hospital, my tears start up again, and he holds me tighter and strokes my hair. Then I confess the worst thing.

“I didn’t want to get rid of the baby,” I say tearfully, “but I didn’t want a baby either. It was... such a relief. You know?”

I feel him nod against me.

“I—” he begins, his voice tight. “That’s kind of how I feel right now. I mean, I know you lost the baby either way, but my dad only said you weren’t pregnant anymore so I thought you had an abortion. I’m so relieved that’s not what happened.”

I pull back and look up at him.

“I mean, I’m not glad you went through a miscarriage, but—”

“You thought I got an abortion?” I ask softly.

“I thought my dad made you.”

I shake my head and he exhales in relief. He still looks pained though. “I know what happened is still bad—”

“No,” I say. “I know what you mean.”

We look at one another, taking deep breaths. He holds my face in his hands, kisses my forehead, and looks at me earnestly. “I’m so sorry. Do you think you could ever forgive me?”

“I have,” I say, shrugging. “I already have.”

“God, really?”

I nod.

He closes his eyes and exhales, pulling me into another embrace. We hang on to each other firmly. I exhale deeply. Crying with Erik has given me a deeper feeling of healing than I’ve ever had about this. And it’s made me feel like the things that have been between us aren’t there anymore.

He pulls back and holds my face in his hands again, caressing my cheeks. We look at each other openly, tenderly. Holding my gaze, he slowly leans in and puts his lips on mine.

I close my eyes and kiss him back. I’m falling so far. God, I feel like he’s falling right there with me.

His arms tighten around me, and our mouths slowly open to each other. When I feel his tongue on mine, my heart starts to race. I kiss him deeply, slowly.

God, I remember this. I remember him. I remember the feel of his hands on my hips. All of it. Suddenly that five years feels like nothing.

Our kiss grows more intense. My blood is starting to sprint. I snake my hands into his hair and his hands press against my lower back. Now everything in me is racing ahead. My whole body is tuned in to him, wanting him, carrying me away so fast.

I pull back. “Wait.” I can’t. It’s too fast.

He stops, but stays close. He gives me an appraising look. He fears my rejection. I see it.

Heart pounding, I pat his chest lightly. I quietly disentangle myself from his embrace. “I think I’d better go,” I say.

He stays on the bench, watching me.

I pack my bag and throw it over my shoulder. I don’t leave right away though. I stand there looking at him for a moment.

“Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?” he asks. He says it with a bit of trembling under his voice. The question he just asked must feel as heavy to him as it does to me.