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He continued to examine a page, not giving me his full attention. He glanced up. “Studying music. What else?” He knitted his eyebrows, forming furrows on his forehead.
“Who says I’m going to be studying music?” I snapped.
“Seems to me it’s the obvious thing to do. You love this room, constantly drawn to it since you’ve been here. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Imagine days spent in a music library, or talking to fellow students about repertoire and technique. You’d love it.” He closed the book, holding it out to me.
“You’re imposing your opinions over me. Your perceptions of this room and your memories of studying music. Let’s be frank, Stefan, you don’t know me that well. One recounting of a fantasy in the middle of the night doesn’t make me an open book. You’ve fucked me to
seventh heaven, but that doesn’t make you an expert on me.” Hot blood filled my face and I clenched my fists, refusing to accept the book back. He returned it to the shelf.
“If this is to do with money—”
“No!” I exclaimed.
“So, you plan to what? Inherit a florist and trim stems until your fingers go raw? I don’t understand why you would throw away an opportunity. You’ve natural talent. Can’t you see that? Why are you being so goddamn stubborn?”
He raised his voice, and I flinched, mortified by his determination.
I gritted my teeth. “I told you. I don’t want to study music. Maybe once, but not now. What if I want to grow old surrounded by roses and chrysanthemums? It’s a job. Unlike you, I like to get paid to stand on my own two feet.” I thrust my face into his and he backed away.
“Whoa—”
“Don’t bloody whoa me!”
“I was going to suggest you move in with me, save on rent, but obviously, you’re overwrought—”
I crashed my fist on a nearby shelf and a book toppled over. “Overwrought! How dare you accuse me of being”—I stumbled for words—“sensitive? You’re not thinking about my motivations, but your own squandered career.”
My words bit him. His eyes narrowed into slits as he assimilated my remarks.
“I am a musician. I do teach and conduct. I am not a failure. I simply don’t understand why you won’t reconsider your own choices.”
“Because they’re mine. Not yours. Or anyone else’s. Stop making assumptions and leave me alone.” I turned my back on him, breathing heavily. Behind me, he cursed and muttered in German, his tone aggravated.
“I have to go and fetch the care worker. When I return, we’ll leave for the airport. Be ready. We can discuss this further in the car on the way.”
He slammed the door shut behind him. A few seconds later, I heard the front door treated in a similar fashion. I raced out of the room, charged upstairs and found my holdall. I stuffed it with my unfolded clothes, ramming them in with fisted hands. I gathered up my toiletries from the en suite, threw those on top of my clothing then zipped the case shut. Then I stomped downstairs, deposited the bag by the front door, ready to go, just as he’d requested.
My mini tantrum didn’t improve my mood. How could an innocuous book have caused a cascade of emotions in such a short time span? I’d gone from thinking of cock-sucking to berating Stefan for interfering with my life. The swell of resentment bubbled up effortlessly from where I’d buried it deep. I knew it originated from a time before I met Stefan, but denial kept me from admitting the reason why I refused to talk about my abandoned career.
I kicked the bag, one last physical display of displeasure, before going into the kitchen for a therapeutic coffee.
I nearly sent Franz flying as I walked straight into him. I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone in the house. I grabbed at him, offering him support. He twisted, shaking his arm free, and gave me an indignant look—one of disgust. Another show of negative emotion, the expression so similar to Stefan’s last—the one before I had turned away from him. It was the final straw. I burst into tears.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Callie. Is that your real name?” asked Franz, passing me a tissue box.
We’d sat at the breakfast bar, opposite each other. He’d waited, letting me cry out my tears. The previous expression on his face had gone in a second. The moment he saw my tear-filled eyes and downturned mouth, he’d pointed toward a stool and told me to sit. He’d fussed about, finding the tissues and bringing me a glass of water. His concern humbled me. Perhaps he’d thought I was the caregiver, arriving early, determined to exert her authority over him. Grabbing his arm to offer support, in retrospect, had been a misinterpreted action on his part. He’d apologized as soon as my tears fell.
I dabbed at my tears and blew my nose. Callie was the name everyone used because I never gave them my full name. Even Stefan remained ignorant. “Callista. Nobody calls me by that name. I’ve been Callie since a little girl. Except… Dad sometimes used it when he was making a point or telling me off.” I didn’t want to remember his raised voice or wagging finger. I required my memories of him to bask in a glow of adoration and perfection.
Franz cleared his throat. “Ach so, Callie.”
He placed his hands on the surface of the table, spreading out his fingers. The shape of his hands so similar to Stefan’s—long fingers with filed nails. He looked directly at me and I started slightly. God, he was his son in that moment. An older version staring back at me. Handsome still, beneath the wrinkles and grayness.
“I came down because I heard arguing.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Sorry. Stefan and I were having a rather heated debate about something.” I fobbed off his curiosity.
