But then came the night he played her a song he'd written. No lyrics yet, just a melody that rose and fell like a confession. He said, "It's about a woman who's afraid to be happy because she's spent so long being perfect."
He noticed her before she sat down. Not because she was the only woman in the room — though she practically was — but because she was the only one who wasn't pretending. Her smile was tired at the edges. Her wedding-set diamond sat on the table like a paperweight.
She drove straight to his apartment, heart pounding a rhythm she didn't recognize. The door was locked. The cat was gone. The piano sat silent under a dusty sheet.
"I fell in love with the version of you that exists when no one is watching. But you keep locking her in a room. I can't wait outside that door forever."
From beneath the counter, Leo pulled out a dog-eared notebook. On the cover, in that chaotic handwriting: "For Emma — the second movement."
"That's not me," she whispered.
Leo looked up. The glass slipped from his fingers and shattered.
The bar was empty. The flamenco dancers weren't due for another hour. And somewhere in the Village, a woman who had spent her whole life playing the right notes finally let herself play the ones that hurt.
Emma's hand found his on the piano keys. Her ring left a scratch on the lacquer.
Over the next three weeks, Emma did something she never thought herself capable of: she lied. To Mark. To her mother. To her assistant, who kept asking why she was leaving work at 6 p.m. on the dot. She told herself it was innocent. Leo was just a friend. A musician. A fascinating disaster of a man who lived in a walk-up with no dishwasher and a cat named Debussy.