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He shook his head and strummed the guitar absently. "I woke up and my mind wouldn't stop. Sometimes, playing helps."
"You still won't play for me?"
He exhaled heavily.
"No, it's OK," I said, hurt. "I understand. Potatoes and meat…" I sensed that this was too much – askin
g him to play for me.
But then he unplugged the headphones and started to play, the guitar soft. After a brief musical intro, he started to sing, his voice surprisingly good, although soft.
Emotion welled up inside of me as I listened, the image of the old men sitting on a park bench like bookends so sad. I could hear the muted sounds of the city described in the lyrics, see the old men disappearing into overcoats, their collars up, their wisps of white hair blown by the wind.
I had to bite back tears, thinking of him losing his father, keeping all his old furniture and guitars here as a way to hold on. No matter that the relationship might have been strained or imperfect, to lose your father is to lose your rudder. This was Drake's way of preserving his memories – playing his father's music, using his old guitars, keeping this apartment, his father's old furniture.
I thought of his father and mine – how the two shared an uncommon hell over in Vietnam and how it must have cemented a bond between them despite the differences in their politics. How my father thought they would grow old and still be friends.
He finished and looked up at me, his eyes guarded. I went to him as he sat there with the guitar in his arms, his eyes on mine and took his face in my hands. I kissed him, my eyes wet.
"Thank you."
I left him alone with his music and went to the bathroom, unable to stay there with his face like that, so vulnerable, as if his heart was open for me to see right inside of him. He brought the music and photograph out specifically for me to see, but he didn’t show them to me, as if he had second thoughts. He let me find them. I wondered if he would have showed them to me on his own, or if he would have left them alone. I had the sense he would have left them if I hadn’t found them.
They were far too personal.
I held a wet washcloth to my eyes, breathing in deeply to control my emotions.
He wanted to keep me separate from the other parts of his life – his work, his charity, his family, his music. I was just to stay in the kink part. Now, he'd failed at all four. He let me see the photograph, the music from my father, let me hear him sing and play – it muddied the careful order he had established over things.
I wasn't sure I could do this – stay in this one corner of his life.
I heard him in the doorway to the bathroom. "Come back to bed," he said, his voice soft.
"Just give me a minute." I was barely able to speak from the emotion choking my throat.
Then, I felt him behind me, his arms slipping around my shoulders, pulling me against him. He said nothing, just rested his chin on the top of my head for a moment. Finally, he leaned down and kissed my shoulder before turning me around, embracing me.
"Sweet sweet Kate…" He tilted my head up and looked in my eyes, wiping moisture from my cheek. "Why the tears?"
I shook my head, breathing in, trying to control myself, but that song, although so simple, was so filled with meaning.
"It's so beautiful and so sad. They were old friends with so much history. My father…" I swallowed back emotion. "I can't imagine losing my father."
He nodded, his face emotionless. He brushed hair off my cheek. Then he led me back to the bedroom and pulled back the blanket, pointing to the bed. I crawled in and he followed me, spooning against me from behind, his arms around my waist.
"Close your eyes."
I exhaled and tried to relax, but my eyes wouldn't close and instead of sleeping, I watched the motes of dust drifting in the beam of moonlight filtering in through the curtains, thinking of old men sitting on a park bench in Central Park.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
8th Avenue became my refuge from life, my entire existence focused on getting through the next day and night until it was time to meet him again. After that first night, I'd enter the apartment and he would be waiting for me instead of me waiting for him as I once imagined. It just seemed to work out that he was already there waiting for me when I arrived.
I'd open the door and breathe in deeply, his cologne, the scent of leather and old wood coming to symbolize Drake to me, arousing me before I'd even make it through the door. He'd have a shot of Anisovaya waiting for me in Yelena Kuznetsova's crystal glasses and we'd drink a toast to each other before falling into our respective roles. He'd take the glass from my hand and place them both on the sideboard. Then, he'd come to me, wrapping me in his arms, his chin on the top of my head for a moment and that was a sign I had to shift into submissive mode.
It became easier and easier, the word Master less awkward on my lips.
The week that my period was due again, I tried to bow out of seeing him. The last time I had my period, we were separated out of necessity when I broke it off because Dawn found the contract. This time, there was no excuse. He was standing at the doorway on Sunday morning before I left, examining a wall calendar.
