Primrose

2

The place was a lot more plain than I expected. The walls were painted pristine white, a few decorations here and there. The kitchen was small and nearly empty. She probably didn't know how to cook. One side of the wall was a bookshelf filled with various books. And in the middle of the living room sat a black grand piano. Most people would have sofas and a television in the living room, but this girl didn't have one.

"You play the piano?" I asked, which was a stupid question. Why else would she have one? And if she lives in an apartment, why are the other tenants okay with this? Grand pianos don't have volume knobs.

"Yeah. My mom's a classical musician, so I guess it runs in the blood?" She smiled and tossed her bag aside. She sat down in front of the piano.

I think that was when I began to fall in love with her.

Emilia placed her white, slender fingers on the keys and began playing. The world around me seemed to stop.

There was only her. Only Emilia Brandt.

The sound was as beautiful as her. I never liked classical music, I always thought it was boring and old and just ridiculous. An elitist thing.

Her slender fingers glided along the keys. No-- they seemed to be dancing to the sound she played. Her lips were parted slightly, her eyes were shining. She was the most graceful being I have ever laid my eyes on.

The piece came to an end and the world resumed.

"That was actually my favorite piece. One of Chopin's etudes, Chromatique."

I had no idea who Chopin was, or what Chromatique was. I probably won't even remember those. So I decided to give it a different name, one I could remember.

Emilia.

"Hailey." She called out and opened one of the doors in the apartment and stepped inside.

I followed without hesitation and closed the door behind me. Then the rest was history.

I woke up to one of the best views, even better than the fjords in Norway I visited when I was much younger. Emilia was asleep, her long and full eyelashes hiding the pale blue eyes that always pulled me in. Those eyes were not good for me. The morning light creeped in through her window and shone down on her face. The sudden brightness caused her to squint her eyes and bury her face in her pillow.

I sat up and stretched my arms. My body ached everywhere, especially my fingers after last night. She was amazing at Call of Duty and Mortal Kombat. Playing against her was a bad idea. I mean, I'm pretty confident in my skills as a gamer. Hanging out with boys your entire high school life will give you magical video game powers. I was good. The best in our circle of friends, but she beat me without breaking a sweat.

Work starts in two hours, so I still had plenty of time. I shuffled out of bed and ironed down my crumpled shirt. That was clearly useless.

This girl had dozens of instant ramen stocked up in her cupboard. As an aspiring chef, it was pretty painful to look at. I opened her fridge and found a lettuce inside, along with cans of apple juice and a carton of milk. On the counter isle was a carton of untouched eggs, they looked new actually. I looked around for her pans and found one frying pan.

The simplest breakfast: scrambled eggs. Thankfully, she had salt and pepper. Another interesting thing I found was a bunch of egg shells in the trash can along with a recipe book.

"Is that actual food on my table?" A groggy voice spoke, her hair an absolute mess and her shirt nowhere to be found. She stood in the doorway wearing silk pyjamas and a black bra. Her abdomen was actually pretty toned, her ab muscules weren't very defined, but if you look close enough, you could see them. "Sorry. My shirt was a bit sweaty from last night, so I took it off."

"It's fine. Do you uh—work out?" I asked after shamelessly checking her out.

She combed her fingers through her hair and sat on one of the counters, looking very laid back. "I swim. Not professionally though, it's just a hobby of mine."

"Say ah." I ordered, and she did as she was told. I fed her a spoonful of scrambled eggs which she cbewed for a while, then swallowed. I anxiously waited for her response.

"It tastes great! Do you like, actually cook? I mean, are you a chef or something?" She asked, taking the spoon from me before wolfing down the scrambled eggs. She was gracious enough to leave half for me.

"I have to go to school in a bit. I'll take a bath. Make yourself at home, okay?" Then she jumped off the counter. grabbed clothes from her room, and then disappeared into the bathroom.

The place was a bit bigger than most apartments I've seen, but it wasn't huge. Because of the grand piano, there isn't much space for a couch and television. I looked over the bookshelf again and walked over.

Most of the books were actually piano pieces, though most of them were pretty thin. One was pretty worn out, so I pulled it out of the bookshelf.

The cover page read "Czerny." Maybe a composer?

I flipped through the pages. I didn't know how to read notes, so it wasn't really interesting to me. What caught my interest though was a photo clipped to one of the pages. It was a photo of a kid and a young woman. The kid looked a lot like Emilia, so I assumed it was her. Her eyes were narrower though and her skin was whiter. She looked Korean or something. Did she mention if she was mixed? The woman standing next to her was undoubtedly Asian though. Korean or Japanese, maybe even Chinese? I'm bad at telling them apart, but I'm not racist.

I spent a few minutes looking through the pages, but there was nothing interesting. The bathroom door opened and Emilia stepped out, wearing... a school uniform? I didn't know Northridge had one, but I guess they're one of the very few schools that has uniforms. Pretty cute actually.

"I was a cute kid, huh?" She giggled, combing her hair as she walked towards me.

"Are you American? I mean, now that I think about it, you might be Asian. You could be Asian. You look Asian. Not that it matters though!" I said.

"Oh, is it not that obvious?" She asked with a chuckle then grabbed the photo. "I'm half Japanese. That's my mom. She looks Korean though, but she's not mixed. Oh, and, my dad is German, hence the name Brandt. I was born and raised here in the US though. Why? Are Asians not your thing?"

"It's not that."

"I know. I'm messing with you." She giggled.

I looked at her with a small smile. Warmth. She was warm. Not just her touch, just—everything about Emilia Brandt was the embodiment of warmth.

"You can use the shower. If you need a change of clothes, you can borrow some of mine. I think they'll fit you except—" then her eyes trailed down to my chest.

"Except there."

I rolled my eyes at her and crossed my arms over my chest. My cup size was at least twice her size. Not that I'm proud of it or anything.

"I'll walk home, it's fine." I sighed, shaking my head.

"Oh. Well, is your house far from here?" She asked, fiddling with the dark red skirt, Northridge's color. It felt surreal talking to someone from there.

"Actually, yes. I live in the other side of town." I had no choice. With no money on me, I couldn't pay for a taxi. It would be embarrassing to ask money from her, and it's good exercise.

"Well, I could drive you there? I won't be late since the traffic around this time isn't really bad." She offered before picking up a backpack lying on the floor behind the piano. Does she even know how to drive? But from what I've seen, she can do pretty much anything. What if she's a drag racer?

Her phone buzzed and she checked the message immediately. "Let's go. You could still walk, if you want to? Or if you don't trust me enough to get in my car. But you did sleep in my room on our first date," she pointed out with a laugh.

A black Aston Martin pulled up in front of the apartment the moment we stepped out. A man in black suit got out of the passenger seat and opened the door for us after greeting Emilia with a bow.

"Miss Brandt." He said with a smile then turned to me.

"Miss Ford."