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I had scraps of pride left, and I wanted to hold them close to my chest for a bit.
“Thanks for picking me up.”
She stared, then sighed deeply and crossed the space between us before I could stop her. She wasn’t taller than me anymore, but she still made me feel small as she wrapped her arms tight around my middle and kissed my temple. “Jules.”
My name sounded like sorrow and regret at the edge of her breath, and I guess I deserved that.
“I’ll talk to you soon,” I promised her.
She nodded, going all stiff in the upper lip as she turned away. I tried not to react to the sound of the door closing, but when it did, I gripped the small kitchen counter, bowed my head, and finally let myself cry.
* * *
I didn’t unpackafter Joy left. Instead, I walked into the bedroom, stared at the naked mattress used by God only knew what kind of person, then threw on the linens and blanket Joy had left on the counter and went to sleep.
A small part of me wanted to believe they still smelled like my mother, but I knew it wasn’t true. They’d been packed in a box and stored in Joy’s closet for years. It was still comforting enough that I was able to slip into a restless sleep.
With the jetlag, the sound of my phone alarm was enough to make my eyes water with unshed tears of anger. I just wanted to stay unconscious for a bit and maybe pretend my life wasn’tthisfor a while.
Instead, I threw my legs over the bed and ventured into the bathroom to find a small, square shower that was just barely big enough to fit my shoulders completely inside. There was no door—just a half-circle rail that went from one corner to the other with a curtain I was pretty sure had been white once.
Turning on the water, I winced when it started out brown, but eventually it changed to a sort of bubbly clear, and it didn’t smell too bad—just a hint of sulfur from the pipes. I dug around my little carry-on for the last bit of expensive shampoo and conditioner I’d stolen on my way out of the flat, then stepped under the spray and felt like the world’s biggest fraud as the gentle, floral scent wrapped around me.
I tried not to think of the old claw-foot tub, and the collection of Lush productions that lined the shelf, and the long, lingering soaks I used to take. When Nicolai was in a good mood, he’d slip into the bathroom with a wooden tray that latched onto the porcelain and slide in with wine and chocolate-covered cashews. We’d drink and nibble and graze each other’s dicks until we were hard and edging toward desperate.
We’d soak the bed sheets with rose-scented bath water, and Nicolai would fuck me into the mattress.
Once upon a time, I thought it was romantic.
Now it was tainted with reality. How Nicolai only fucked one way and didn’t care that it hurt, or that I didn’t like it, or that it rarely made me come. I didn’t realize that him getting off on how much I didn’t enjoy it was a problem. Not until I was drunk one night with a few friends from the symphony who listened to me quietly complaining and told me that was a thing with him.
That others—his discarded exes—had said the same thing. I was just repeating an old song that would keep going until he finally settled down. Or died, whichever came first.
My chest felt like it was going to explode, so I quickly rinsed off, then realized I had no towels. My lip quivered, but I managed to keep my emotions in check as I used my undershirt to swipe the water drops away. The bathroom was freezing, just like the rest of the apartment, and as I slid into my trousers and button-up, I realized the heater hadn’t kicked on once.
Trying to squeeze the water from my hair, I found the radiator, but turning the knob did nothing apart from squeaking loudly and causing it to thump before it died. I wasn’t surprised. I was just tired as I added it to the list of shit to deal with once I finished this interview and lit a thousand candles for a thousand prayers that I could find my feet again.
If worse came to worst, I’d end up at McDonald’s, but as humiliating as it was to do that, it was better than walking around the streets of London as Nicolai’s former…whatever. Kept man?
I hated thinking about it, so I shoved it away as I moved into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There were two packed meals in plastic containers and another two in the freezer next to a bottle of open vodka that I was willing to bet was already there when Joy started moving things in. There was also a can of coffee grounds, though it was the American shit I’d avoided all these years, but it was better than nothing.
In the few kitchen items Joy had left me was a French press, so I filled a pot with water once it ran clean, then set it on the burner and watched it light. I moved closer just for the heat, then lost myself in watching the bubbles slowly form, then eventually turn into a rolling boil.
A splash of scalding water tumbling over the side of the pot ripped me from my daze, and I searched for a spoon—finding two in an otherwise empty drawer—and added generous scoops before pouring the water over and setting it to steep.
I used the time to finish getting ready. A quick blow-dry so my hair wouldn’t be a total mess, a little product to set it straight. I found clean socks and my shoes, then my scarf, which had ended up on the floor at the end of the bed.
My face was drawn and a little pasty, but I could blame it on the flight if anyone asked.
Heading back to the kitchen, I poured myself coffee in the single mug Joy had left and ignored the way it was bitter, lingering in the back of my throat. I didn’t feel alive, and I didn’t feel better. I felt like a damn island, and there was absolutely no one coming to my rescue.
I eyed my cello as I set the mug in the sink, then strapped it to my back, grabbed my wallet, keys, and phone, and headed for the door. I had a single address with the entire weight of my future resting on this interview, and if I blew it, I wasn’t sure I’d actually survive.
Chapter3
“Mr.…”
I sighed softly. “Adamos.” It confused me how my name tripped people up. Having Greek heritage, it could have been a lot more complicated than it was.
