My angels of music. Thank you yet again for your patience and such sweet reviews! To answer one, no I'm not a music teacher but I have taken many music classes/lessons and have many teacher friends ;)
Also, be sure to allow FFN to send you emails for updates on this story, I guess they automatically turned email updates off? Weird choice. Anyways. Here is the latest installment. Enjoy!
October
Christine
I open the door of Erik's apartment to the smell of herbs, lemon, and chicken. I want to collapse right there on the threshold.
"You are a god," I sigh dramatically and unload my backpack, laptop bag, and tote bag by the couch before collapsing onto it just as theatrically.
"Don't give me a big head," Erik chuckles and looks over his shoulder at me from the stove. "You haven't tried it yet."
"If it tastes half as good as it smells, you're in the clear." I sneak a peek of his ass from over the back of the couch. There's something about a man cooking for you…
The new semester for my Masters program is in full swing and suddenly I'm the booked up Christine from the summer. I've been getting home from school later and later preparing for the first concert of the semester. Then I hole up at Erik's apartment to do my assigned reading or write papers. And Erik has been dabbling in the kitchen, trying out new recipes and learning new cooking techniques so I don't eat out constantly.
"Another slow day?" I ask. Erik started at the Opera, but their next performances aren't until Christmas, so rehearsals won't start for another month. In the meantime, he's been shadowing Leonard during the day-to-day tasks. It's near torture for him. But he gets to leave early and I think cooking has been an outlet for him as well, not just for my benefit.
"I was obliged to learn the project management systems and org charts today. Incredibly fascinating and remarkably important work for the pianist to grasp." His voice is so drenched in sarcasm, I have to know what his expression looks like. I glance over the top of the couch again and he turns toward me with a plastic smile on the visible side of his face and pained eyes.
I giggle, "How else will you know Leonard Hodges is your boss?"
Erik tosses a dish towel at me. "Don't remind me." He leans over me on the couch briefly, hair falling into his eyes. I take a lock and tuck it behind his ear. He holds my hand to his bare cheek and kisses my wrist. The way his eyes soften gives me a head rush and I'm glad I'm already lying down.
"Dinner is nearly ready."
Erik returns to the stove and I get up to choose the vinyl soundtrack for our evening. Fleetwood Mac strums along as I set the table.
"How are the concert preparations coming along?"
"Good, we're on track," I sigh and take a seat at the table. "I can't believe it's only a week away! James is coming in all next week for an extra hand and cleaning up choreography."
"And the students' memorization?"
I smile to myself. I love that he asks these types of questions. He genuinely cares about these middle school kids' music education and performances. "They're so close to having it down. I think the choreography and actions are helping with their memorization. It can be tricky for some kids—they get distracted by it and lose focus on singing. I think they'll get it just in time."
Erik serves our plates—lemon rosemary chicken and crisp green beans. I'm starving and it feels like I don't come up for air until my plate is half empty.
"Are you coming?" I finally ask.
"Pardon?"
"To the fall concert. Are you coming?" I don't look up to meet his eyes, suddenly nervous to ask him. I'm afraid he'll say no.
Erik sets down his fork and looks at me. "Christine. You have been talking about this for weeks, if not months. This means a lot to you and now to me as well. Of course I will be there! There's a high probability I will be watching from the back or in the wings or in the rafters, but I will be there."
I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling so hard.
I spend the rest of the evening writing a paper and reading some of my assigned texts. Erik keys a simple melody on the piano a few times, like he's trying to figure out how to incorporate the phrase into a song. He plays the piano for a while before moving to compose on his keyboard and headphones. It's late enough he doesn't want to disturb the neighbors.
When I finally close my laptop, Erik sits next to me on the couch and I cuddle in closer. We've started watching old Hitchcock movies, discovering we both like suspense and thrillers more than horror or classic monster movies. We often end up talking through them or falling asleep anyway. Our conversations drifts to Halloween this evening.
"I loved trick-or-treating with my dad," I tell him. "He always dressed up in coordinating costumes with my own and took me to the rich neighborhoods. There was always at least one house that's known for giving out full sized candy bars."
Erik doesn't seem as excited about the concept. "I didn't trick or treat often. We moved from city to city and never fully settled in. Our apartments and neighborhoods all felt so unfamiliar. My mother didn't want me going out."
"Why did you move around so much?" I ask curiously, tracing his long fingers. He hesitates, thinking through his answer.
"My mother was the instigator of our constant relocations. She was always researching the next best specialist for my… condition."
"Oh, were your doctors not familiar with it?"
"They were, to a degree. It's uncommon but not necessarily rare. But no one was ever doing enough for me, according to her. And she was always looking for surgical specialists for my face. Experimental trends, plastic surgery, skin grafts… No one would even attempt it for the longest time. Eventually she would find a reason why the doctors and specialists were unprofessional or inappropriate or crazy, and we'd move on to the next city. Until there was the single plastic surgeon who must have truly thought he could help me, having attempted surgery three times…"
Erik swallows, staring ahead at the television. I glance at his mask. Bitterness sours the set of his mouth.
"Could your dad do anything?" I ask gently.
"My parents divorced when I was quite young, so I didn't see my father very often. Since he had the condition as well, it could have been something we bonded over or at least I could have learned how to cope better. Yet another reason I grew to resent my mother. We lived across the country from each other when he died. Complications from the disease, I think pneumonia was ultimately it. He was 46. I turned 18 that year and received an inheritance from him that my mother couldn't touch. I used it to escape her control and never looked back."
"I'm sorry your childhood was taken away like that." I lace my fingers with his, unable to say much else. I know he doesn't want my sympathy. "Thank you for telling me."
Erik kisses my temple and we fall silent as the movie continues on.
His story about his father reminds me of my own dad's life cut short. Feeling like important years were stolen from me. Hospitals and illness. I want to share my story with him, but it's not the right time. It would feel like I'm trying to compare his deep medical and familial trauma with my own, but they are not the same. His is so much weightier and gut wrenching. What he experienced was abuse. Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them away. He doesn't need to know now.
Erik
Screeching car tires cut through the silence and jolt me awake. The apartment is dark, even the candle Christine lit has long died out. Her body is pressed against my side, head tucked under my chin. Warmth. I have no idea how we both manage to fit on this couch nearly every night. Usually one of us will wake up on the other's couch in the middle of the night and return to our own bed. I glance at the clock on the wall. Just after 2 o'clock.
I touch her hand resting against my chest. Her even breathing gives way to a sigh and she murmurs, "Hmm?" Vibrating my sternum.
"Bed?" I whisper against her hair.
I feel her nod.
My legs swing off the side of the couch and I pick her up as I stand and carry her to my bed, surprised by my strength. If I weren't half asleep, I would have overthought this into an anxious spiral. Gently, I lay Christine down onto my flannel sheets. A moonbeam streaks across her cheek and her curls unfurl around her head onto the pillow like spilled ink. I move to the other side of the bed and slide in next to her, waiting for the nerves to kick in. But this is no different from the couch. I let myself relax and Christine rolls toward my weight, wrapping her arm around my waist. She sighs again and I resign myself to her warmth.
When her alarm goes off in the morning (something she hasn't forgotten to do since the first night she slept over) we are both slow to wake or move. Christine is in my arms, I have completely enveloped her. This part is different from the couch—she is usually wrapped around me. The side of her neck is exposed to me, and I kiss the pale flesh there. Christine squeezes my hand—I didn't realize our fingers were intertwined at her chest. She rolls around to face me and touches my chin. I dip my head to kiss her.
Her eyes are like honey when she reopens them. "You brought me to your bed," she notes, smiling softly.
"Is that okay?" I ask, concerned I'd crossed a boundary.
"Yes, I love it," she touches my chin again. "Much more comfortable than the couch."
Christine
"Brava!"
The fall concert went as well as I could have hoped and I am beaming with pride when I enter the throng of supportive parents and teachers in the lobby. James picks me up and swings me around like a doll. I feel the embarrassment rush to my cheeks but I appreciate his enthusiasm. We grasp each other's arms once he sets me upright.
"Thank you yet again for lending me your incredible talent and time. I could not have done this without you, James. I mean it." I squeeze his arms for emphasis.
He smiles and winks. "Just happy to be part of it, babe."
"Christine!"
I whirl around to see Meg and Anne pushing through the crowd and my heart leaps. My family.
"You did wonderfully, dear," Anne says, cupping my cheek, "Your father would be so proud." She says this every time she's proud of me and it never ceases to make me misty-eyed.
"Congrats! The little shits did it!" Meg wraps me in a hug as I simultaneously laugh and shush her.
"Thank you for coming, it means so much to me. Truly." It's only a middle school choir concert, but their support makes me feel like we just performed at Carnegie Hall.
I hug them once more before I start to mingle, chatting with fellow teachers and laughing as some students drag their parents and families over to meet me.
"Ms. Daae is my favorite teacher, mom!"
"This is Ms. Daae, dad, she taught me how to sing!"
"Yo, Ms. D—this is my auntie."
I love each interaction, and meeting their family members makes each student's personality make so much more sense to me.
As the last of the stragglers head out for the post-concert ice cream, I grab my phone from my purse. There's a text from fifteen minutes ago.
Erik: Rehearsal hall, when you're ready.
I smile to myself and walk down the hall to my classroom. When I open the door, only a few lights are on. Erik is sitting at the piano with a bouquet of dahlias.
"I let myself in, I hope that's alright," he says softly, standing up as I walk toward him.
"Yes," I breathe. "Why are you…?" I ask like I don't already know the answer.
"You know me and crowds," he replies, handing me the bouquet. "But I was in the back of the auditorium and witnessed the whole performance. Sublime, Christine. Your students represented you well."
Hearing such praises from Erik Destler—the piano virtuoso from 6A, my Keith, the man in line to become the next Artistic Director of the Kansas City Opera—about my professional musical career leaves me speechless. I reach up to touch his chin, his jaw, then pull him to my lips earnestly. He gasps against my mouth like my intensity surprised him, but he wraps his arms around me just as quickly. The feeling of his lips on mine and his hands on my hips stir a heat deep within me. I step forward and gently push him back down onto the piano bench to stand between his legs. Erik instinctively draws his chin up when I squeeze a fistful of his hair, and I kiss his pale throat. He lets out a hum and I melt onto his lap. I feel his perfect teeth toying with my earlobe, and now I'm gasping in delight.
"You are sublime," I finally whisper between kisses.
Erik rests his forehead against mine, carefully avoiding the masked side. Breathless. We've taken things very carefully so far—each for our own reasons. It's always been intense with him, but this is the first time things feel careless and indulgent. It's thrilling to allow myself to be this way with him. To let my guard down.
"My Christine," he murmurs—more to himself than me—and trails his fingers down my shoulders.
"My Erik," I reply with a gentle kiss. "Thank you for coming." I try to finger comb his mussed up hair.
"I wouldn't miss it."
"Well," I sigh, "Are you ready?"
"For what?"
"Tacos and margaritas with James and Meg."
"What?" Erik seems startled. I expected this.
"It's tradition. And it's about time you met my friends."
"Tradition?" His eyes look terrified. "I don't—"
"I didn't warn you so you wouldn't do this all night." I gesture to his balled up fists. He looks down at his own hands and releases them. I put my palms against his and lace our fingers together. "I didn't want you to worry, Erik. Please come. I want them to get to know you. And vice versa."
Erik
I join in the post-concert tradition of tacos and margaritas and try not to feel like a fourth wheel. Christine and Meg have such a history together; they are practically sisters. They draw certain mannerisms out of each other, mimicking and mirroring past versions of themselves. It's hard to follow at times. James asks me an occasional question, between one liners and zingers that send the girls into fits of laughter.
We discuss my recent career change, James' next choreography gig, Meg's rivalry with a mediocre lawyer at her office, and Christine's plans for the Christmas concert. All among inside jokes, middle school crush memories, and other references I don't quite recognize. Rounds of chips and salsa and cheap street tacos flow almost as much as the margaritas. I drink steadily to calm my nerves. James seems nice enough, but I feel a slight resistance from Meg. She's likely protective of Christine and I notice her pursed lips and quick glances at the mask.
I don't particularly enjoy having to win people over, that's what I pay Nadir for. But Meg is Christine's family. I don't know how I can convince her that I'm safe, let alone good for Christine—when I can barely convince myself. So I do what I can: listen actively and ask them questions about themselves.
"Some of my friends are at Club Populaire, it's just down the street. Are we in?" James looks up from his phone playfully.
"Yes!" Meg grabs his arm. "I'll text my coworkers." James gives her a look. "The fun ones!"
"Just for a bit?" Christine asks in my ear.
It's her night and I'm still determined to change Meg's mind. "Of course," I murmur back. Her smile makes me want to kiss her, but I am not testing Meg's patience for PDA.
James whisks us down the street to the club, passing out cat ears to the girls. Apparently it's a Halloween party at a gay bar.
"The mask will blend right in," Christine squeezes my hand before applying eyeliner in the shape of an upside down triangle to the tip of her nose.
We enter the club without incident, even with a black light emphasizing my mask like a full moon. I can feel my anxiety dissipating as costumes, masks, and eccentric makeup swirl around us—no one taking a second glance at me, let alone a first. I buy the first round of drinks and return to find one of Meg's lawyer friends cozying up to Christine on the dance floor.
"What do you say, pussy cat?" I hear him shout over the music, touching her waist.
"No thanks," she replies, smoothly pulling away from his grasp to take the drink I'm offering her. "Thanks, babe," she emphasizes the out of character pet name to get her point across.
The lawyer bro seems to notice me for the first time. He tilts his head slightly to look up at me.
"What are you supposed to be?"
"Oh this isn't a costume, I wear this to protect my identity."
A drunken pause as he tries to understand what I'm saying. "Like Batman."
"No, more like the Hamburglar," I say, deadpan.
Christine snorts into her drink and giggles uncontrollably, and eventually the lawyer skulks off.
We drink and dance and I cling to Christine like my anchor. I feel more free with her tonight than I have in years. I am drunk and so in love with her. The makeup on her nose smudges and I try to fix it for her, nearly sticking my finger up her nostril. We nearly collapse laughing, grasping each other's arms. Tears roll down her cheeks and I swear I hear her snort. I pull her close and kiss her brazenly, testing her with my tongue. Her cheek presses against the edge of my mask and I don't care. She tugs on the hair at the nape of my neck and I bite her lip. Her fingers rest on my masked cheek when we part. Her eyes open, sparkling. "Let's do karaoke."
I don't think twice and agree.
Christine
James' and my Master's program friends have been doing music theater karaoke all evening in the back room of the club. I drag Erik on stage and continue the theme, choosing "Rewrite the Stars" from the Greatest Showman for our duet. It briefly crosses my mind that Erik might not be familiar with this song, so I make a split second decision and take the first verse, effectively swapping our parts.
"You know I want you…"
It's a lower register than my usual soprano, but I'm drunk so it fits just as well. I play up the part, circling Erik on the stage. I sing just for him and his eyes never leave me. The lyric swap isn't lost on me, I somehow accidentally perfectly cast each of us in our relationship: me, the willing one and him, the fearful one. But nothing prepares me for when he begins to sing the second verse.
"You think it's easy…"
I get tunnel vision and everything else in the room fades away. Erik has a velvety speaking voice, but I'm shocked at the way he effortlessly climbs and pulls back this tenor-range song. His voice is rich and restrained despite the higher notes and his subtle vibrato unleashes a heat in the pit of my stomach. I am floored, baffled. Why has he hidden this incredible talent from me?
I'm so enthralled I nearly miss my cue to begin the duet chorus. "All I want is to fly with you…"
Our voices soar in harmony, fitting together unlike anyone else I have ever sang with. His voice feels like sitting in my father's lap as a child. Warm, settled and strong.
Erik's singular voice ends the song on a bittersweet note with his lips inches from my own, "We're bound to break and my hands are tied…"
His last breath hangs in the air as his stormy eyes hold my gaze.
The crowd erupts.
Erik
"Erik Destler, when were you going to tell me you could sing?!"
We Ubered home together and Christine is still very drunk. I managed to sober up slightly and regain some shame after bearing my soul and sharing a very intimate moment with her during a very public karaoke performance. I busy myself making tea in her kitchen, unable to look her in the eye right now. "It never came up."
"Erik, come on…" Christine hoists herself up to sit on the counter, closer to my eye line. My ears feel hot.
"My strengths are in piano. My jobs are in piano. The Piano Bars were the only gigs I ever sang for. It's not a regular occurrence."
"How did you— where did you…?"
I lean against the counter and relent. "Remember when I said I lived in San Francisco? I used my inheritance from my father to attend the San Francisco Conservatory of Music—I earned a dual degree in Piano Performance and Technology and Applied Composition. I dabbled in voice."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"People tend to assume I went to Julliard, but the truth is I applied and was rejected. I don't love being reminded of that… Does that change anything?"
"No! No, of course not… I just had no idea you could sing like that. Did you… feel how we fit together? Can we duet again sometime? When we're not drunk." Christine laughs to herself then looks up at me seriously.
Of course I felt it. Singing with Christine was an otherworldly experience. It felt like my voice shifted and molded around hers, fitting together like delicately nested seashells. It was terrifying to realize yet again how desperately I need her in my life. I hand her a mug of chamomile tea.
"Oh no, your skill is unparalleled, Christine. I couldn't dare attempt to match you vocally sober. You deserve a more worthy partner for that. No, no. I'd rather stick to accompanying you."
"Oh," she frowns into her tea before taking a sip. "Meg was impressed with you tonight."
"I highly doubt that," I scoff. Did she not see the cold glances Meg gave me all night?
"Well, she was dubious at first, but she saw how you simultaneously handled and let me handle that guy who was hitting on me—that was the lawyer from her office who she hates, did you realize that?"
My mouth falls open, how could I have possibly known? I laugh and push the hair from my eyes. "I didn't know…"
I lean toward Christine but she abruptly hands me her mug, jumps off the counter, and sprints to the bathroom. Was it something I said? Then I hear the sound of her retching. Oh. Should I go? I don't want to leave her all alone in this state. I knock on the door when I hear a pause between heaves.
"Go away!" I open the door and she's hunched over the toilet bowl. "Don't look at me," she mumbles. I sit on the cool tile next to her. The next round comes and I hold her hair back.
When there's finally nothing else left for her to vomit, I pick Christine up and carry her to her bed. Again, I'm surprised by my own strength. I take off her shoes and jacket and slide her under the covers. I move the trash can to the edge of her bed and set the mug of tea and a glass of water on her bedside table.
I look around and realize I haven't seen her bedroom before. She has floral sheets with a blush comforter, feminine without being childish. Art covers the walls—block prints, colorful digital illustrations, vintage or thrifted paintings in ornate frames… I stop in front of a shelf with photos of Christine and her friends, books, miniature pottery, and music. The oldest photo is of a young Christine with an older man with the same smile and curly hair. This must be her father.
"He died at 46, too."
I glance down at Christine. Her eyes are half open, looking at the frame in my hands. "Get some sleep," I murmur, returning the frame to its place on the shelf.
"Don't leave," she whispers, eyes slipping closed again.
"I'll be just out here, my love."
I kiss her on the forehead and pass out on the living room couch.
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