To tell him the truth, at long last?
I know what Ineedto do, but I can’t bring myself to tell him to leave me alone. Instead, I close the app, the messages sitting on read, and I turn back toward the vacuum cleaner.
I need to clean up.
Without me there to pick up after Adam, the house has gotten messy, and he hates an untidy house. He’d been niceabout it, but he’d made sure I understood that he wanted it all cleaned up by the time he got home.
I have six hours to do it.
It’s plenty of time.
Instead of turning the vacuum on, I step past it and go into the spare room.
Adam had handled my cello carelessly, and there are a few scratches on it that weren’t there before. It needs to be tuned again, too, and I diligently set out to do just that.
Maybe this time, things will be different.
Everything had been fine the night before. Other than an offhand comment about needing to make sure I’m free of diseases after fucking “that Russian trash” before he fucks me again, he’d been kind to me.
Mostly.
If I’ve realized anything during my time with Ilya, it’s that I don’t want to be treated like this. I don’t think I’m undeserving of it. If anything, the opposite is true. Idodeserve it, after what I’d done to a man who had only wanted to treat me right.
Tears prickle at my eyes as I take up the bow, starting to warm up. I’m dimly aware of the messy state of the house, but an hour or so of playing should soothe my nerves and give me the presence of mind to clean up without crying.
Except that’s all I want to do.
I find myself playing the song I’d written, the one Ilya had praised and allowed me to play for the guests at his restaurant, and I imagine him standing there. In my mind’s eye, he’s watching me.
He’s beaming at me with pride, just as he had been when I’d performed.
He hadn’t told me I sounded like cats in heat.
How could I have thrown away the one person who’d ever encouraged what I love, what I dream of? And for what?
The final notes linger in the air when I become aware that someoneiswatching, and I jump when I turn my head to see Adam standing in the doorway.
He doesn’t look entranced by the song, or proud, or happy at all.
He looks like he wants to murder someone.
“Adam,” I say unsteadily, nearly dropping the bow. “I’m… I was just taking a break. Is everything okay?”
What’s he doing home? I can’t have been playing for that long.
He glowers at me. “Are you deaf? I called you three times.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket, noticing the time. He’s four hours early. “I’m sorry,” I tell him, my heart hammering in my chest. “I didn’t hear it. What’s wrong?”
He stalks over to me and yanks the bow out of my hand. “Christ, why do you even bother? You torture everybody’s ears with this shit. We already know you can’t play.”
I let out a sound of protest, resisting the urge to snatch the bow back from him. I want to tell him that people had tipped me for my playing, but he’d only say that they felt sorry for me.
Maybe he’s not wrong.
But I don’t want to think that Ilya would’ve lied to me.
“I’ll never get better if I don’t practice,” I say, my voice small.
