Fractured Souls - Page 35

My eyes flutter open and I take a deep breath. Hooking my fingers through the loops of his jeans I look up at him. His head is bent, barely inches from mine.

“You like music,” he says. “Let’s make this a dance. Almost like a waltz, yes?”

I can’t help but smile a little. “People will laugh at us, Pasha.”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

He takes a step back and I follow. Then another one. And another one. It does feel like some strange dance—him holding me close and walking backward—and suddenly, I feel the urge to laugh. So, I do. People around us must think we’re nuts, but I don’t care. I keep my gaze glued to Pasha’s as I follow him, laughing. It’s so good to feel joy again. He watches me with a small smile on his face and moves his thumb to my lips, stroking them.

“I wish you’d laugh more often,” he says.

“I’ll try.”

When we reach the restaurant with the piano, he slowly lifts his hand off my face. I turn toward the corner where the piano should be, and my smile falls away. It’s not there. Instead, two large flowerpots are in its place. I look around, wondering if they moved it somewhere else, but there’s no sign of it.

“Can we get out of here?” I ask, staring at the flowerpots, trying my best to keep the tears at bay.

* * *

Pasha turns the key in the lock and opens the door to his apartment, holding it for me. I step inside, heading straight for the bathroom to splash some water on my face. As I cross the living room I come to a stop in the middle of the room. There, by the wall next to the window, is a small white piano. It’s the one from the mall. I cover my mouth to stifle a sob.

“How?” I choke out, staring at the piano.

“I bought it last week and had it in a storage nearby, ready to be brought here when we headed out,” Pasha says behind me, and I feel his hand on the small of my back. “I wanted to surprise you. You didn’t even notice that we took the longer route back—to give the delivery guys more time.”

“But, why?”

“Because you didn’t feel comfortable at the mall. We will go again, only because you need to adjust to being in a crowd. But you should be able to play where you can enjoy it.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, pressing my lips together tightly. I want to turn around and kiss him, but I don’t think he would let me.

“Will you play something for me?” he asks.

“Yes.”

I take his hand and lead him across the room. He even bought the bench that was there with the piano. I take a seat on one end and pull him down to sit next to me.

Leaning forward, I pass the tips of my fingers over the keys, position my hands, and play. I pick one of my favorite modern pieces, Yiruma’s “River Flows in You.” It's soothing but strong, seductive, and full of emotion. It reminds me of Pasha.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask what I’m playing. He just sits there—big and silent—watching my hands as I move from one piece to the next. At some point, his gaze moves from my hands to my face and stays there.

For more than an hour, I sit on the bench next to Asya, listening to her play. Or better said, I stare at her while she plays. I find it impossible to take my eyes off her face, seeing every emotion as it crosses her features. When she’s playing a fast and uplifting piece, there is a wide smile on her face. When she switches to something slow and sad, her smile fades. She’s not merely playing the notes; she feels and experiences every emotion as the melody gives and flows through her, lighting her up from the inside out.

When I’m finally able to unglue my eyes from her face and throw a look at my watch, I see that it’s almost two. We’ve only had breakfast this morning, and while I don’t have a problem with skipping meals, I don’t want Asya to be hungry.

I rise off the bench and head to the kitchen in search of the takeout menu from the fast-food joint one block over, but I change my mind and open the fridge. I’m used to having it always nearly empty, so it’s strange to see all the shelves packed full. Asya usually orders whatever she needs online with my phone, so I don’t even know half of the items in there. I move a bunch of vegetables to the side and take out a package of chicken. Well, at least I think it’s chicken. Asya’s been preparing food for us every day, so I guess I could handle that task today. I find the frying pan in the cupboard and turn toward the island where she keeps her spices in a wide black basket. There are at least twenty small jars. I take one out and smell the contents. It’s labeled as sage. Isn’t that tea of some type? I put the jar back and pick up another. This one looks like salt, but it has some green things in it.

“Need help?” Asya’s voice chimes behind me.

“You were playing. I wanted to make something for us to eat. I’m looking for salt. The normal kind.” I turn around and find her smirking at me.

“So, you know how to cook?”

“I know how to heat the leftovers from takeout. Does that count?”

“That doesn’t count.” Asya laughs and I absorb the sound. I love when she laughs. “Come on, I’ll show you how to prepare something simple.”

She takes the jar out of my hand and opens it. Keeping her eyes on mine, she licks the tip of her finger and dips it inside.