Play Me (23 page)

Oh god.

Tears sprang to my eyes
as I realized exactly what I had lost. And I had been so busy
practicing for this competition that I probably missed my chance to
apologize, to win him back. No doubt a guy like that had plenty of
women lined up, waiting to take their chance in his bed. The thought
of Jake with another woman made me feel even sicker. I never thought
of myself as the jealous type, but there it was, the ugly suffocating
feeling of jealousy. Jealousy for something that had only happened in
my mind. What would I do if I ran into him on the stairs with a new
girl at his side? My stomach heaved at the thought of seeing him in
the building and knowing I couldn’t be with him.

I would have to move.
That was the only option. I couldn’t stay there knowing he was
only a floor away, in the bed we had shared, with someone else. Yep.
I would have to move.

Maybe I would get a
studio somewhere else—one that was a little bigger, where I
could still have students, but also a place for them to wait if they
needed. And maybe get a real bed. But what good was a real bed if I
didn’t have someone to share it with. One someone in
particular.

“El.” Nina
shook my shoulder and I looked up at her. “You’re up
next,” she told me.

I dropped my head back
between my knees. For a brief moment I had forgotten about
competition—I was completely caught up in missing Jake. But now
the nervousness returned in full strength. I tried to concentrate on
my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

Nina tapped my on the
shoulder again.

I raised my head
slowly—it was too soon for the other competitor to have
finished, right? I wasn’t ready to go on. I wasn’t ready
at all.

But instead of pulling
me to my feet and shoving me onstage, Nina handed me something. At
first I didn’t realize what it was, the smooth wide cylinder in
my hands. Then everything came into focus and I saw that she had
given me a thermos.

“What’s
this?” I asked.

Nina shrugged. “One
of the tech guys brought it back. Said some guy told him to bring it
to you. There’s a note.”

A piece of paper was
tapped around the side of the thermos. My fingers shaking with
nerves, I peeled it off and unfolded it.

Take a sniff. You’ll
do great.

There was no signature,
but it was Jake’s handwriting. Quickly I unscrewed the top of
the thermos. The familiar, wonderful scent of Campbell’s
chicken noodle soup wafted towards me. A sense of calm came over me.
A sense of safety. And also, love.

He had remembered. Jake
had remembered not just that today was the last day of the
competition, but also how much this silly little thing calmed me
down. And he had brought me canned soup even though he thought it
wasn’t real food. My heart swelled.

Was Jake in the
audience? I stood and walked towards the curtain. Peering out of the
side, I could see the judges and behind them, an entire theatre full
of people—including my parents—all dressed in their
nicest clothes, all waiting to hear me play. And then, behind all of
them, leaning in the doorway of the theatre, was a scruffy looking
guy in a ratty T-shirt. Jake. He was here.

I heard the thunder of
applause as the previous performer stepped off the stage.

The MC stepped to the
center of the stage. “Our next performer is Ella Thomas,
performing Rachmaninov’s Third.”

Applause rippled
through the theatre, but I was frozen, still watching Jake, who had
stood a bit straighter, his attention focused on the stage. I didn’t
have to play for the judges, or for the audience, or even for my
family. I could play for him. Just for him.

“El.” Nina
nudged me. “They’re calling your name.”

I carefully smoothed
down the skirt of my shimmering gown, wiped my palms dry, and walked
out on the stage.

Ella

The theatre was silent
as I made my way to the piano. I knew Jake was out there, watching,
and the knowledge of that kept my legs from shaking. As I took my
seat, I heard the orchestra rustling, instruments raised, waiting for
the conductor to begin.

The moment my fingers
touched the keys, though, they disappeared. Everyone disappeared. It
was just me and the music. And Jake. We were alone in my apartment,
his fingers in my hair.

I knew the song, I knew
the melody, but I had never played like this before. Everything I
had, everything I felt, I poured into the music. Each note was
perfect. Each note was a part of me. The part of me I was finally
ready to share.

As I neared the end of
the piece, the rest of the room, the orchestra, the audience, came
back to me, my ears filling with the beautiful sound of the
symphony—the horns and strings—an entire stage of people
playing alongside me. Playing perfectly. Like it was meant to be.

When I finished, the
last notes hovered in the air, in the silence, for only a moment
before the audience burst out into applause. I felt a rush I had
never felt before—my entire body humming with the excitement
and pride of the moment. I had done it.

Standing, my dress
glittering under the lights, I walked to the front of the stage and
took a bow.

“That was
AMAZING!” Nina cheered as I got off stage. “Holy cow, I
had no idea you could play so well.” She swept me into her arms
and spun me around. “How do you feel?”

I couldn’t keep
the smile off my face.

“I feel great,”
I told her, because I did. I had never felt this good after a
performance. I had never felt
good
at all after a performance.
Usually everything was a complete blur, like a dream I was waking
from but couldn’t remember. This time, I remembered the feel of
every single note. And I knew I had done amazing. Even if I didn’t
win—though I fervently hoped that I would—I knew that I
had conquered something inside myself. I felt like I could take on
the world. Or, at least the classical music world. And it was all
thanks to Jake. Jake and chicken noodle soup.

Even stoic Mark looked
surprised as he came over.

“You did good,”
he said gruffly. “Really good.”

“Thank you,”
I told him, pride swelling inside of me. Even though a part of me
knew his approval wasn’t everything, it still felt great
knowing that I had done well enough to earn his praise. But my
attention quickly shifted elsewhere. Jake. I had to find him and
thank him. Had he stayed? Had he watched the performance? I grabbed
my things and headed towards the exit, Nina on my heels.

“Where are you
going?” She ran to catch up. “What’s the rush?”

“Jake,” I
told her. “Jake is here. He brought the soup.”

“He came?”
Nina practically swooned, and I knew exactly how she felt. My insides
were doing somersaults—but good ones, not nervous, panicky
ones. I wanted to see him. I wanted to apologize. To throw myself in
his arms. To never, ever let go.

“That is
so
romantic,” Nina sighed behind me.

But when I got to the
lobby he was already gone. My parents were waiting for me, though,
their faces glowing with pride, arms full of roses.

“You were
incredible.” My dad gave me a hug, handing over the flowers. “I
never knew you could play like that.”

“I’m so
proud.” My mom’s eyes were wet with tears. “Everything
aligned so perfectly.”

I tried not to look
around for Jake, but I must have done a terrible job, because my
mother squeezed my hand.

“He couldn’t
stay,” she told me, and then nodded at the flowers in my arms.
“Those are from him.”

I buried my nose in the
fragrant blossoms, trying to hide my disappointment. Why had he come
all this way, brought me the soup, and not stayed?

“El.” Nina
thrust her phone in my face. “Look at this.”

I looked at the article
she had pulled up. It had a picture of Jake and the headline
Grassfed’s new chef takes on the public
. I scanned the
piece, reading about a week of brand new menus in what was being
dubbed “A Tasting in the Court of Public Opinion.”

“He’s
finally getting to show what he can do,” I murmured. I looked
at the date. “It starts next week,” I realized, things
finally clicking into place.

“He’s
probably crazy busy,” Nina pointed out. “I’m sure
he would have stayed if he could.”

I knew she was right.
It meant a lot to me that he had even been able to come at all—I
had no doubt that he was working incredibly hard to prepare for his
event. I chewed on the corner of my lip, nervous but hopeful. He had
done something amazing for me. Something that said that he wasn’t
giving up on me. On us. And it was a gesture I had to repay. I wanted
to repay. But how? How could I show him that I wanted him, too?

“Nina,” I
turned to my sister. “We need to go shopping.”

Hours later, loaded
down with shopping bags, I maneuvered into my apartment, exhausted
and exhilarated. I was now equipped with all the necessary trappings
to garnish my gesture for Jake—jewelry, makeup (including red,
red lipstick to go with my red, red dress), my first pair of sexy,
fuck-me shoes, and of course, a brand new set of lingerie. I had been
eying this particular ensemble for months, but hadn’t been able
to think of an excuse to buy it. Extremely expensive and utterly
impractical, even for someone like me who still wore garters and
thigh highs, I had walked away from it a dozen times. But today, it
was exactly what I needed. I could only imagine the look on Jake’s
face when he finally saw it. Just imagining that expression, the way
his gaze went hot and predatory, made me incredibly wet. Taking out
the lingerie, I smoothed it against my body, imagining Jake’s
hands there, against my waist, my breasts, my ass. I shivered, alone
in my apartment, missing the way he kissed me. It had been too long
since I had been with him. Since he had been inside me.

Weeks ago I would have
described myself as someone who wasn’t that good, or even that
interested in sex. Today, I was ravenous for it. My entire body
burned for Jake.

But that—and the
lingerie—would have to come later. I still needed to put
several other aspects of my plan into motion. Reluctantly, I put away
the lingerie and picked up my phone. I scrolled to recent contacts,
finding the number I was looking for.

It only rang a few
times before Dakota picked up.

“It’s
Ella,” I told her. “And I need your help.”

Jake

I had never been so
nervous in my life. Everything was set, the new menus were with the
servers, the kitchen staff had been prepped, all that needed to be
done was, well, make everything. And make it amazing.

“Holy shit,”
I muttered to myself, pacing around my office. The restaurant was
opening in twenty minutes and Marilyn had already come back to tell
me that there was a line around the block. No pressure, right? It was
one thing to create hype, it was another thing to live up to it. And
all this was on my shoulders. My idea, my recipes, my potential
funeral.

I needed a drink. But
even if I hadn’t sworn off alcohol (especially tequila) for a
long while, I never, ever drank on the job. But I had never been this
anxious. Not since my first night in the first restaurant I ever
worked in, almost five years ago. And it had never been this bad. I
remembered how Ella had talked about her panic attacks, and I was
starting to get a pretty good understanding of what that felt like.

Then I thought of
Ella’s performance. Of how she had walked onto that stage, her
head held high, everything about her radiating confidence and poise.
Her dress, glittering in the spotlight, clung to her body, made for
her curves. I had been spellbound, unable to look away. And then she
had started to play. Suddenly I was back in her apartment, my fingers
tangled in her hair, as she poured herself out through the music. The
orchestra behind her playing as if they had been waiting for her.
Yet, despite the music that filled the room, the theatre packed with
people, it was like Ella and I were completely alone.

I felt myself relax. A
calm came over me. If Ella could conquer her fears, get on that stage
and play like that, then I could survive this night. This is what I
always wanted to do. It was time to show San Francisco exactly what I
was capable of.

I took a deep breath,
straightened my apron and went into the kitchen to get orders ready
and to kick ass.

Opening night was going
well. Really well. The energy in the kitchen was fantastic—everyone
was having a good time, probably influenced by the fact that the
servers kept coming back into the kitchen to tell us how much the
customers were raving over the food.

I tried to stay cool. I
couldn’t let myself get cocky—it was still early on the
first night of a long week ahead—but as the evening went on, I
found it harder and harder to keep my big dumb grin to myself.

“There’s an
hour wait.” Marilyn swept into the kitchen. “And the
phones have been ringing off the hook asking for reservations for the
rest of the week. People are tweeting and instagramming right from
their table. Our social media accounts have exploded!” Her face
was flushed in a distinctly non-Marilyn way. Not much flustered her,
bad or good, but she looked pretty damn happy.

She steered herself
over to my station, where I was prepping another plate of macaroni
and cheese—one of the most requested items on the menu, after
the chicken noodle soup, of course.

“When you
suggested going back to the basics, I never thought you meant basics
like this.” She leaned over, taking a long sniff of the cheese
bubbling on the stove. “Mmm.” She let out an appreciative
sigh. “This reminds me of my childhood.”