Yes, I’m assuming he chose the empire.
Let’s face it. It’s been twenty-three days since he had to make a decision. Our love affair was short but it was intense. He could have told me about the monumental decision he had to make. He probably never truly trusted where my intentions were. Even so, I can’t believe he didn’t come for me, to tell me what he chose.
Better he didn’t. He should have known by the gift I gave him where my heart was. For Christmas, I gave Alexander a photo of his mother playing the cello at Julliard. My mom came up with the idea after he left. I called the school before they closed for the holiday break and someone was kind enough to find a photo of her in their archives. I had it framed and matted for him.
Wrapping the gift, I had no idea how symbolic it would be when I presented it to him. I wanted him to choose his family.
Swinging open the heavy stairwell door, I walk down the stairs and nearly stop at the sound of music playing from the concert room on the first floor. It’s not the orchestra sounds I heard a few months ago when Alexander brought the philharmonic here. This is different. The sound is a lonely sound. A single sound. The dance of a piano.
I open the first floor stairwell door and walk through the lobby, the piano heard cleared the closer I get. The tune is familiar, a song I’ve heard before. A song I heard played in this same room.
My palms rise up against the oak door that leads to the concert hall. Tacked up against it is an envelope.
My heart skips a beat, my lungs fall into my stomach. Can it be?
Please, God, tell me I’m not dreaming.
Opening the door to the room, I take in the site in front of me.
Alexander, in the center of the stage, alone. He is seated at the grand piano, the same he played this song on. This time it is just him. A man and his piano and a song that I pray is meant for me.
Cascaded by the low light hovering over the stage, he is luminous. His golden strands and bronzed skin make him look like an angel. The cut, masculine lines of his face under velvet skin, his eyes closed, feeling the truth in the melody. His broad shoulders, hovering over the keys as he plays with passion, those strong fingers working the keys with conviction.
And, around him, bouquets and bouquets of yellow roses with red tips.
Falling in love.
With the envelope in hand, I open the fold and slide out a simple white paper. On it are words I’ve read before.
The lyrics to the song are as beautiful as the melody.
Yet, the most powerful words are those written at the bottom of the page.
His name. He kept his name. He chose family over fortune.
I don’t wait for him to finish. I run quickly up to the stage, taking the steps up two at a time and stopping in front of the grand piano. His eyes open and when he sees me, there is little surprise on his face. It’s as if he knew his song would lure me to him.
“You’re here,” I say as his fingers work the last chords of the songs, softly now.
“I am,” he says with a smile. I place my hands on my belly in anticipation of what he’s about to say. What his decision was, what he plans to do with his life next, what this means for us . . . My mind is a mess.
“Sorry I took so long. I had a few things I had to take care of.” Alexander is now standing in front of me.
I hold up the white paper and take a deep breath. My mouth is dry so my words come out a little course. “Does this mean you made a decision?”
“It means I did the right thing,” he says, his hand dipping into his pocket.
I don’t know what “the right thing is” so I just stare at him waiting for clarification. He doesn’t offer me any. Instead he is lowering himself . . .
. . . down.
To the floor.
On his knee.
He’s on his knee?
He’s on his knee!