Page 52 of Claimed By Desire

“Natalya, hold on—“ He steps toward me as I wrench open the door.

“If you follow me, I swear to Christ, I’m going to rip open your closet and throw all your suits on the floor. I’ll stomp on them with my shoes. Don’t even test me.

The I slam the door in his face and get out of there.

I might have overreacted.

It occurs to me, as I walk through the nearby neighborhood, that I could have handled that better.

I could have explained to him that our levels of acceptable mess are obviously different and that I am genuinely actively trying to do better, but he’s going to have to meet me half way in the meantime.

I could have pointed out that by hiding my mess in the guest room, that should constitute an improvement.

I could also have gently brought his attention to the fact that this is all new and very difficult, and we should be giving each other grace.

Clearly, I did none of that. And it’s not like he did either.

There’s too much pent-up frustration inside of me. I don’t even hate Alex for wanting his personal space a certain way—it’s clear he’s never lived with someone and this is a transition for him as much as it is for me—I just wish he could be a little softer about everything.

Only that’s not him.

Hard ass, perfect Alexander doesn’t know how to be gentle.

I slow as I reach the corner of a street a few blocks from the apartment. I stare at the windows of the shop built into a rehabbed house there: guitars, cymbals, an old saxophone, and other instruments hang from displays.

I’m not sure why, but I step inside. A little bell rings as I look around a tiny music shop.

It smells like oil and brass. An old woman sits behind the counter wearing thick owlish glasses and squinting down at aflute. She’s repairing one of the valves very slowly and very carefully.

“Take a look around,” she says without glancing up. “I’ll be with you in a bit if you need help.”

“Uh, sure,” I say and walk inside.

It’s incredible. Dozens of ancient electric guitars hang on the walls. I recognize some of them. Everything’s slightly dusty and used, but I’m guessing that old Fender is worth more than my Parisian rent. There’s a tuba, a French horn, several nice-looking violins, and all the way in the back, an ancient piano.

I nearly start crying as I sit down and put my fingers on the keys.

It’s been over a week since I moved in with Alex, and I haven’t played in all that time. As I move through a scale, not really thinking, just listening, I close my eyes and feel the thick, crusty layers of my stress begin to crumble away.

I transition into the songs. The music I wrote in Paris. The sound of my deep, unyielding loneliness. I let myself go as I play, unwinding, loosening, softening, and forget all about the old woman up front until I finish a song and hear her clapping behind me.

I flinch and look back over my shoulder, flushed and embarrassed. “I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “How long was I playing for? Was I being too loud?”

“Not at all, dear,” she says, smiling broadly. Her big blue eyes look huge behind the glasses. Her hair’s white and poofy, and she’s wearing a matching blue-and-white track suit. I should’ve heard her coming with all the swishing noise it makes. “That wassome of the most beautiful playing I’ve ever heard. Where did you train?”

“Uh, I took lessons when I was younger.”

“But you must have trained somewhere?” She tilts her head, frowning. “And did you write that music?”

“It’s nothing, really.” I get up from the bench. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

I hurry past her, not sure why I’m so mortified. I haven’t played for anyone in a while other than Alex and my family. I guess the guards at my father’s house heard my song too, but they’re paid not to judge.

This woman clearly knows something about music, and I’m just an enthusiastic amateur.

She follows me, her track suit pants swishing as she walks.

“Please, feel free to come back,” she says, sounding earnest. “I don’t mind one bit. You play beautifully.”

---