Violinist (CENTURIES series: Book #4)

18

The coffee was bitter at the Elton Diner, but their breakfast eggs and sausages were manageable.

I sat across from Tony and watched him eat silently. He touched his coffee every now and then to wash down his egg whites while I nipped at my own coffee, adding more and more sugar to pry some flavor into the stale coffee powder.

I had slept in the street with him. At some point, he had gotten up and led me to a corner of the alley behind a dumpster where we had found refuge from the rain and thunder rolling above us. The temperatures had chilled and my teeth had chattered until his body had pressed up against mine and let me loan his warmth.

Today, I was returning his warmth with lukewarm, bitter coffee.

"Music." My voice broke the silence. My eyes had fallen to the violin resting on the seat next to him. It had survived the cold as well. "Maybe... maybe you studied it."

Tony didn't meet my eyes. Instead he sipped his coffee again, setting it down on its saucer with a calloused hand. "Maybe."

The thought had probably crossed his mind. Every note had to come from somewhere. Or at least in most cases they did.

That was the thing, though; All of Tony's melodies were originals.

I wasn't the most vested person in classical music, but I didn't need to be when Tony played; when he put the bow to the strings, he created magic, not music. He played from his heart and harnessed from his feelings, however buried they might be. It was all him, no reinterpretations.

"We could look up public records," I knew it was a long shot, but what else could we do? "Check schools with musical programs..."

I realized then I had a gap in my knowledge. Looking at him, I paused.

He said he was in Kuwait... so how did he make it back to the States without a passport? With nobody to claim him, nobody to speak for him... how did he come to New York? Did he choose New York? Was he even from here? There were so many little, yet vital details I didn't know but needed to. Were we even searching in the right place?

"We." Tony's voice was like a glass shattering my thoughts. I looked at him, saw him staring at his coffee. The single word sounded like a curse, but also a statement. We.

His eyes jacked up. Immediately my breath stopped. I stared into his stormy blue eyes, watching the tsunami twist around his thoughts. We meant together. We meant a pair. I told him yesterday he didn't have to stay, but I would. Maybe he hadn't believed me. Now I was using daring words such as we.

"Talk to me." I whispered. Maybe I was begging. I wanted him to open up, fill in the blank spaces. I was going crazy not knowing who he was; Who she was. Blue eyes. We were closer to her than ever, yet... so far. Had he been feeling this way for years?

He closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose. The indentation between his brows hardened and deepened. He was right there; fighting. The memories were there, the few he had made in six years. But, just like his abandoned ones, they had trouble coming out.

I didn't realize my hand had shifted until it suddenly clutched a clump of coiled muscle. His jawline tightened as I squeezed his fist that whitened against the laminated table. Small tremors ran through it, through me. His harsh exhale was its follower as he fought to release it.

"Start from the beginning." I told. His beginning.

He pushed out another breath, but let it slip past his lips this time. Then, he uncoiled his hand and pulled back. "The beginning..."