Would Adam?
“Yes. That is why his face made me angry.” Ilya shakes his head. “But we shouldn’t spoil the, the,aftershinewith talk of my father.”
I smile. I don’t want to correct him. I likeaftershine, and I like that it’s something that belongs to the two of us.
But then my smile falters because nothing belongs to us.
There is nous.
“No, we shouldn’t,” I agree, even though I want to push for more. This isn’t the time, though, something I’m all too aware of. I kiss him again.
Several quiet moments pass. I’m surprised at how comfortable it is. Usually when it’s quiet, that means something is wrong. It doesn’t feel that way with Ilya.
“Mishka, do you want to play your cello in my restaurant?” Ilya asks.
I startle, drawing back to look at him. “What? Why?” I reply, my good mood stuttering. Is Ilya taunting me? Why would he do that?
“Because I think everybody should get to hear your music.” Ilya strokes my hair. “In a concert hall would be better, but for now, I can only offer my restaurant.”
A concert hall. That’s never going to happen.
“I’d only drive your patrons away,” I protest. “My playing is awful. No matter how much I practice, it doesn’t help.”
Cats in heat, Adam had said.
“They will leave more reviews about the good atmosphere. They will say it was so romantic, they had best date of their lives.” Ilya smiles at me. “It will make them want to come back.”
“But I’m not good enough,” I say, feeling dizzy despite lying on the bed next to him. “And I don’t know any Russian music.”
Ilya scoffs. “Neither do most guests. They will appreciate classics. Chopin, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart…” He wrinkles his nose. “Always the Germans.”
“I think Mozart was Austrian,” I say. “And Chopin was Polish.”
Ilya smiles widely. “You see? You know much about music. And you know Tchaikovsky, yes? He was Russian.”
“Well, yes…” I say, trailing off. Those had been what I’d learned in the early days, the pieces that had been woven into my training. “But in front of people? Adam said?—”
He doesn’t want to hear about what Adam said, but he has to know, doesn’t he?
“Maybe that night at the bar was a fluke,” I say softly. “Maybe I really am that bad.”
“You are notthat bad,” Ilya says sternly. “You are good. Play at my restaurant, and you will see. Many people will appreciate you.”
I don’t believe him, but there’s a large part of me that yearns to. I want to believe that the applause at the bar was real, that they genuinely appreciated my performance.
I want to do this.
Adam’s words are insistent in my mind, but I want it.
“I can try,” I say quietly. “But I’ll only start with one piece. If they don’t like it, I can stop.”
“They will like it,” Ilya assures me. He kisses me again. “I look forward to hearing you play.”
“You’ll be there?” I ask, not sure whether I want him to be or not. If he’s there, I might have to see the disappointment on his face. Or it could be the opposite.
I could see his pride.
I don’t deserve that, but I want it anyway.
