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“You can be anything you choose, tsvetok. You are too wonderful a person to allow your past to crush you. I won’t fucking let it happen.” He nuzzles my hair, breathing me in. “On my life, I swear this; you won’t be afraid anymore, even if I have to die to make sure of it.”
I’m drifting, but a sound plucks at my dwindling consciousness as I fall asleep. The faint rumble of a storm drawing nearer. Whether it’s my imagination or not, it doesn’t matter because even if it’s only for now, Arman is right.
I’m not afraid.
33
Lilyana
Iwake at dawn to the gentle static sound of the rain. Arman sleeps soundly, his leg heavy over mine, just like he did on that stormy night when I lay beside him. On that occasion, I was fearful, but not anymore. Now, I feel nothing but a drowsy, blissful peace, plus an urgent need to pee.
Arman sighs as I shift my weight, moving from beneath him and heading to the bathroom. My reflection is a shock; my makeup is smudged over my face, my hair a rat’s nest.
I sit on the toilet, and I wince. Ouch. I’m sore down there.
I do my thing, then wash up and brush through my tangles. I smile at myself in the mirror as I brush my teeth.
I just want to be beside my husband. His warm body against mine is all I’ll ever need.
I’m about to climb into bed when I decide I need water. When I go to the kitchen, I see Arman’s keys on the counter, and for the first time, I notice the smallest one on its steel ring—the key to the other room.
It turns easily in the lock, and I push the door open. The piano stands before me, its obsidian surface picking up the pinkish light of the sunrise. I walk inside and sit on the stool, looking around me, and it takes a moment or two for me to register what I’m seeing.
The pictures are all of me: different places and times, some in color, some sepia, some black and white. I can tell from the composition and style that Morgana was behind the lens.
“Good morning, moya zhena.”
Arman stands behind me, shirtless in striped pajama pants, one shoulder braced against the doorframe. I give a rueful smile, and he joins me, nudging me as he moves to sit.
“Budge up,” he says. “If you’re gonna trespass, you could at least offer me a seat when you’re caught.”
“Sorry.” I lean on him. “But I gotta tell you something. After we stayed here that night after our engagement party, I sneaked out while you were asleep, but I forgot my keys. I came back and saw you in here, playing the piano.”
Arman rubs his face with his palm. “Shit. I wish you’d said something. Did you hear me murdering Puccini?”
“I heard a committed musician expressing his love for a challenging piece.” With my right hand, I open the piano and play a short, melodic flurry. “Never apologize for passion. No one should gatekeep based on capability; I believe that with all my heart. I can play piano because I have aptitude, but also because I learned how. There are so many things I can’t do well and could never improve.”
I’m surprised to find my eyes filling with tears. “You can learn piano, Arman, but I’ll never be able to read properly and truly enjoy a story. I can’t handle crowds, pressure, being watched. I’ll never make a performer. So a room like this, with nothing more than a piano and a beautiful view from the window, is perfect.”
Arman kisses the top of my head. “I don’t have to look so far for a view that inspires me.”
“That’s smooth,” I laugh.
He chuckles into my hair. “I’m devastatingly charming for a couple of minutes at a time…maybe five times a year? Enjoy it while it lasts.”
I pick up one of the photos. In it, I’m at a charity gala, looking bored but smiling dutifully. Arman takes it from me and sets it down, pointing at the one beside it. “This is my favorite photo. You’ve no idea how long I’ve spent sitting beside you while I play. You gave me the strength to persevere in so many things.”
I tilt my head at him, and his eyes soften. He puts his hands on the piano but doesn’t hit any keys. “Anyone ever tell you what happened to my mom?” he asks.
I shake my head, frowning, and he continues. “She disappeared when I was a baby. She left me with a neighbor, went to pick up some groceries, and never returned. My father searched for her, but the police wouldn’t list her as missing, and he never found as much as a trace. When I was older, he’d get drunk sometimes and say he had his suspicions, but it never went anywhere. He and I traveled a lot when I was a kid, as though he was afraid to stay in one place too long.”
I take his hand, squeezing it. “I had no idea. You should have told me. I understand how bad you feel; isn’t sharing that kind of pain better?”
“Not with you,” he replies. “Your mother didn’t want to leave. She loved you. Mine walked out one day and never—”
“You can’t be sure of that.” My tone is sharper than I intended. “Anything could have happened.”
“I suppose so.” Arman sighs and weaves his finger through mine. “When we settled in New York, everything seemed fine. He got a job as a chauffeur for a wealthy businessman, and we were in the money. I always thought Dad was paid pretty well for a driver.”
