I start over. Tom lowers himself onto the bench, his left hand joining mine on the keyboard. When I falter, he fills in. When the melody is simple, he lets me lead. His fingers touch mine as he takes over my keys.
It feels as intimate as sex. It’s the way he pours love into the music, into me.
Tom plays blind, eyes staying fixed on my hands. He wants to see how I play, how we create music together.
Suddenly it starts. Black mist crawls up my spine, climbing into my head, sliding down my arm.
My hand locks above the keys, trembling. I rip it back and shoot to my feet.
Instinct brings me to the other side of the room where I plant my palms on the windowsill.
Breathe. Keep breathing. I squeeze my eyes shut. With every exhale I force the memories out. Not being fast enough. Not being good enough.
I open my eyes. Amsterdam doesn’t care. Boats in the canals, people crossing the bridge, railings glittering with frost in the sunlight. And bikes. So many fucking bikes.
“Hey, you okay?” Tom slides his arms around my waist, settling behind me. His weight feels solid and warm. He rests the side of his face between my shoulder blades, breathing with me until I slow down. We do this for each other now.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No. Just… forget it. Forget all of it.”
The front door slams. Fuck. I’d forgotten Kimmy was still here.
“Alright.” His arms tighten before letting go. “I won’t bring it up again. But you can’t ask me to forget that, love.”
He closes the fallboard and goes to the kitchen. Kettle on. Tea out. Silence.
I try to label, sort, stabilize, but nothing about this fits the plan I walked in with. The piano’s made it worse.
This was a mistake.
Chapter forty-two
Tom
Two months gone, and I half expected the place to feel different. I even prepared myself for it. For that dramatic moment of stepping out of the airport and seeing the city in a new light.
Newsflash: it hasn’t changed. Amsterdam looks exactly the same.
I don’t even know what I was thinking. Somewhere along the way I convinced myself there’d be some kind of enlightenment. That I’d come back to my old life and view it like an outsider. Detached. Evolved. Mildly superior, maybe.
I even started calling itmy old life.
Which raises an inconvenient question. If that was the old one, what exactly is the new one? And when was the point of no return? Leaving for Avalon? Or maybe it had happened earlier, after the defibrillator?
I’m not sure that’s how it works.
Avalon taught me who I am. Or at least who I am withoutthe silenceand the expectation of everything I’m supposed to be.
Now this city gets to decide something else yet again. Whether I still belong here. Whether I ever did.
Judging by the streets, the people, and the sweet, unmistakable smell coming out of the coffeeshops, it seems I do.
Because it’s still all the fucking same.
What I hadn’t expected was Amsterdam turning into the Arctic. Neither had Yosh when he’d agreed to come with me. The poor guy hasn’t left the island in four years, and now these freezing winds are cutting into him. Earlier he let slip he’s “a child of the island.” That’s his polite way of saying he fucking hates the cold.
So I’d bundled my surfer guy in my snowboard jacket, wrapped him in a wool scarf, shoved my wolf beanie on his head, and gave him a pair of gloves.
