Porcelain Keys (36 page)

I noticed a melody, sweet and peaceful, playing in my heart. I closed my eyes and listened to it carefully, blocking out all other sounds and thoughts. The melody wrapped around a pair of callused hands and over weather-chapped lips, wound through strands of dark hair, and melded into the irises of bright blue eyes. It grew more and more distinct, swelling and filling the space of my heart.

And suddenly, it all became clear. I knew what I wanted.

Soon I was on my feet, pacing the room and hugging Thomas’s journal against my chest. The prospect of telling Devin the truth in the morning made my heart take a nosedive to my feet. I paced and paced, searching for the right words to deliver the blow. There were no right words. No matter how I phrased my rejection, it was still rejection. My only comfort was that Devin was resilient. Nothing ever seemed to keep him down for long, and I was sure that girls would be lining up at his door the moment news of his availability broke.

I don’t know how long I paced, but I didn’t stop until there was a quiet tap on my door. The door cracked open, and Devin popped his head in and looked at me curiously. “Are you all right? It sounds like you’re doing late-night aerobics in here.”

“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No. I wasn’t asleep. What’s going on?”

Feeling unprepared for this conversation, I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to gather my thoughts. He came and sat next to me.

“Have you been crying? What’s wrong?” As he circled his arms around me, I searched for an explanation to offer. But what could I possibly say? How could I tell him the truth without breaking his heart?

He nodded at the book in my hands. “What’s that?”

After a long hesitation, I said, “Thomas’s journal.”

Understanding swept slowly across his face, leaving sadness in its wake. He released me and gave a disheartened sigh. “This is one competition I can’t win. Isn’t it?”

I felt the sting of tears again behind my eyes, but I didn’t want to cry in front of him. I didn’t want him to feel the need to comfort me when I was the one about to sink a dagger into his heart. I felt like such a horrible person, wishing I didn’t have to hurt a man who’d been so kind to me. But I couldn’t make two people happy. I couldn’t be with Thomas and Devin. And the truth was, there had never been a competition. It had always been Thomas.

“You deserve someone better for you,” I finally said. “Someone who can give her whole heart to you.”

“Does anyone really have their whole heart to give? I don’t expect you to give me your whole heart, Aria. All I need is the greater portion.”

I dropped my eyes and slowly shook my head, unable to tell him that not only did Thomas possess the greater portion, he possessed the entirety. But I didn’t need to say the words. Devin received the message loud and clear.

“I see.” A long silence passed between us before he said sadly, “I guess I’m not surprised. I sort of knew we were doomed the moment I saw you talking with him yesterday morning. There was something in your face when you saw me—like you wished I wasn’t there.”

“I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

He shrugged. “As much as I love you, I want to be loved too.” His face was carefully composed, but there was no hiding the hurt in his eyes. “Only one thing would hurt more than losing you. And that is being with you, knowing
that you love someone else.” He stared at me for a long moment, then touched my heart with his fingers before pressing them to his own heart. “
Moja bieda,
” he whispered. It had been months since Margo told me Chopin’s tragic love story, but I hadn’t forgotten the meaning of the words.
My sorrow.

This brought on a whole new round of tears, but neither of us made any further attempt to comfort each other. After a long stretch of silence between us, he said, “I guess I’ll see you in class. You can go back to ignoring me, and I can go back to harassing you on occasion.” The jab was meant to lighten the situation, but I couldn’t bring myself to smile. His own smile was vacant, betraying the hurt behind it.

He left my room and I closed the door so that he could pack up his things with a measure of dignity. I sat there and listened to the zipping of his bags, the occasional creak of the floor beneath his footstep, and finally the whine and click of his exit through the front door. My heart felt heavy with guilt for causing him sorrow, but the more I thought about Thomas, the more certain I was that I was making the right choice.

I knelt down in front of the dresser and opened the bottom drawer, pushing my hand through stacks of sweaters until I found a cardboard tube. I pulled it out and turned it on end. A rolled-up painting slid out, and I unrolled it and held it in front of me. As I stared at the boy on the porch swing, I was filled with a sense of relief.

I was free to love Thomas. I was free to be with him. But he would probably be heading out to sea in the next few days, and I needed to be back at Juilliard before the new semester began. I pulled Thomas’s note from my bag and stared at the phone number written on it. I wanted to talk
to him, to tell him I loved him and wanted to be with him. I snatched my cell phone from the dresser and dialed his number. But instead of hitting the call button, I hit cancel.

I had a much better idea.

Zierikzee, the Netherlands

O
utside the cab
window, ambiguous structures flew by in the darkness of predawn. Occasionally I could make out a windmill or a lighthouse, but most of the passing farmhouses and barns remained hidden in the shadows of trees. I glanced at the clock on the driver’s dashboard. It was just past seven thirty, and from the faint glow on the east horizon, the sun probably wouldn’t rise for at least another hour.

The moon hung over the west horizon, racing along the landscape as it kept pace with the car, occasionally reflecting off bodies of water as we crossed a bridge or dam. The sight of it reminded me of Thomas’s words a few nights earlier, and with a smile I visualized his face in place of the moon. Soon enough I would be standing on his doorstep, knocking on his door.

I brushed my thumb over the card that Thomas had given me, and anticipation swelled in my chest, leaving
little room for air. Within minutes, I would see him. The skin on my arms tingled with the expectation of feeling the warmth of his touch. In my mind, I ran through the words I would say to him, and I imagined how it would feel to have him pull me into his embrace. I laid my hand on my bag, feeling the shape of his journal beneath the fabric. I had read through the entire thing on the flight to Rotterdam, and each word had only cemented my choice.

“How much farther?” I asked the cab driver.

“Only a mile or two,” he answered in a heavy Dutch accent. Thus far, the English-Dutch book I’d picked up in the airport was proving to be a useless purchase. Everyone here seemed to know some English.

Any direction I looked, there was some form of water. We crossed yet another bridge, and a handful of boats moved like shadows across the harbor, yellow lights glowing atop their masts. I wondered if Thomas was out there now, or if I’d find him at his apartment. I realized I didn’t know how commercial fishing worked—if they’d be back at the end of the day, or if they’d be out at sea for a week.

“How long do the fishing boats stay out at sea?” I asked.

“Depends on the vessel. Some are out for a day, others for weeks or months.”

I hoped I would find him at his apartment, or that if he was gone, he would return at the end of the day. I hadn’t thought about what I would do if he was out to sea for weeks. I would have to go back to Juilliard without seeing him and find some other way of getting in touch with him.

As we got closer to Zierikzee, the roads narrowed and the buildings multiplied. The town was brimming with historic character, with flourished, centuries-old facades and decorative ironwork. Pathways of herringbone brick
lined the sides of roads and alleyways. The driver maneuvered tightly between walls of shops and apartments, and it was impossible to distinguish one building from the next because of their proximity.

The driver turned a corner, then slowed to a stop. He glanced up at a narrow brick apartment. “This is it,” he said.

I paid and thanked him, then shouldered my bag and got out of the cab. As the cab disappeared down the channel of a street, I climbed the steps to Thomas’s door, my heart pounding in my chest. I drew in a deep breath, and unable to suppress a smile, I knocked on his door.

As I waited for an answer, I slipped my hands in the pockets of my coat. It wasn’t as cold as Woodland Park, but still chilly enough to freeze my anxious breaths.

There was no answer, so I knocked again, a little harder this time. I listened and waited, but there was nothing but silence on the other side of the door. I leaned over the iron railing and cupped my hands over my brow to peer inside. The apartment was dark, but not empty. Before I had a chance to take in more detail, I heard a man’s voice addressing me.

“
Mag ik je helpen, kleine meid
?”

I whipped around to see an old man sitting on the steps of the apartment next door. He wore pajama bottoms and a wool coat, and, despite the cold, slippers. He took a long drag of his cigarette and stared at me, waiting for me to answer.

“I’m looking for Thomas,” I said. “Do you know Thomas?”

He gave a lazy nod, then summoned me with a wave of his hand. I descended the steps and went to stand in front of him.

“
Hebt je papier
?”

I shook my head to tell him I didn’t understand, then reached in my bag for my English-Dutch book. He waved his hand to stop me. Then he made a gesture with his hands, like he was writing something.

“
Papier
,” he repeated.

“Oh,” I said. “Paper.” I searched my bag until I found a small notebook and pen, then handed them to the man.

He took a couple minutes to draw something on the paper, then handed it back to me. It was a map, with street names and arrows leading to a picture of a boat with the word “Lysander” written on it. On the boat was a stick figure with the name “Thomas.”

“How long ago did he leave?” I asked, tapping my wrist.

He glanced at his watch, then with a shrug said, “
Een uur geleden
.”

I squinted at him as though it would help me interpret his words. He held up one finger. “
Een uur
.”

“One hour ago?” I asked.

He nodded and said with a thick Dutch accent, “One hour.”

I thanked the man and hurried away, hoping I could catch Thomas before his boat headed out to sea. I pulled out my cell phone and debated whether to call him to let him know I was here. I didn’t want him to know I was here until I was standing right in front of him. But I also didn’t want him to be out at sea for weeks without knowing that I’d come for him. I decided to send him a brief text. I typed in two words.

I’m here.

Everything else could wait until I could talk to him in person. I pocketed my phone and made my way down a narrow street toward the waterfront. According to Thomas’s
neighbor, I was an hour behind him. But surely it would take longer than that for his crew to prepare their vessel and push out to sea. Even so, I quickened my steps to a jog.

I followed the arrows on the map and was at the waterfront before I was out of breath. The walkway was flanked by shops on one side and a wide canal on the other, and it was so long I couldn’t see the end of it. I pulled out the map the old man had drawn and stared at it. There was only one boat on the map. He’d made it look so simple. But as I lifted my eyes to the row of countless pleasure boats and fishing trawlers parked along the canal, I realized that finding Thomas’s boat would be far from simple.

Not wanting to waste a second more, I began my search. I scuttled along, reading the names painted on the boats as I passed them. Some didn’t have names, only numbers, and none of them appeared to bear the name “Lysander.” My face must have reflected the anxiety I felt, because people glanced at me curiously as I passed them by. I began searching their faces, looking for Thomas while still searching for his boat. The more I searched, the more distinct his face became in my mind. There was no one like him. No one in this world would be able to take his place.

I passed rows of bicycles and people preparing for the day’s work. I passed boat after boat, but I searched in vain. When I reached the end of the canal and the row of boats, I paused.

I turned in a circle, scanning the pathway I’d just come from. The sun was edging over the skyline, and its golden light lit up the air, softening the outlines of people and buildings, like everything was draped in gossamer.

I sat on a bench in front of a bakery to collect my thoughts. I squinted into the liquid horizon, hoping he
would get my message, hoping that by the end of the day I would find myself in his arms. But if he didn’t return today, I would have to go back to my hotel in Rotterdam and wait for his call. I decided I would go back to his apartment to ask his neighbor when Thomas might be back.

Just as I was about to stand and go back the way I came, I felt a buzz in my pocket. With a leap in my chest, I pulled out my phone to read the message. It was from Thomas.

Where?

I grinned widely, thrilled he’d gotten my message.

Here in Zierikzee,
I started to write, then paused. There were so many words I wanted to say, but my fingers seemed completely inadequate to convey them. It would have been easier to channel the entire North Sea through my cell phone than to text what I was feeling.

I need to see you,
I typed. But the words seemed so insufficient. I raised my eyes and swept the landscape as though it would help me devise the next sentence. There was a vague bustling of fishermen preparing their ships, mending nets, and loading and unloading supplies. But one figure stood out, because he wasn’t moving at all. About fifty yards off, a young man with a heavy coat and dark hair stood at the edge of the water, looking down at something in his hands. The sight of him made my breath catch in my throat.