Endless Possibility: a RUSH novella (City Lights 3.5) (5 page)

Lucien and I went to my parents’ house in New Haven and I told them my grand plan: to follow Charlotte’s tour through Europe—without her knowledge—on my own. Naturally, they thought I was insane and my father was about ready to disown me for worrying my mother. Lucien wasn’t happy either, but he managed to soothe my parents. Only Ava, of all people, thought I was doing the right thing.

“It’s not stalking, is it?” I asked over the phone. “I mean, will she think I’m some sort of creepy asshole for following her around...?”

“Hiding in the bushes outside her hotel room?” Ava laughed.

“Something like that.”

“She’s more likely to be upset you were there the whole time and she couldn’t be with you,” my sister said, serious now.

“I’ll have to take my chances that she’ll hear me out when it’s over and forgive me.”

“She loves you. She’ll forgive you.”

“Would you?”

“I would,” Ava said, “if it worked.”

I felt second thoughts trying to creep in. What if traipsing blind around Europe alone didn’t slay the demons that plagued me? More likely, the trek would wear them down until they croaked of exhaustion. Just the idea of navigating one city alone—never mind seventeen—made me want to lie down and pull the covers over my damn head until the whole crazy idea went away.

“It has to work,” I said to Ava. “I have nothing else.”

“Then go for it,” she replied. “But Noah? Be fucking careful. I mean it. London is only a short flight to anywhere in Europe. You call me if shit gets dangerous or weird. Or hell, come home if it’s too much. Okay?”

“Okay,” I lied. I didn’t know if my crazy plan was going to work, but I knew—with total certainty—that giving up was out of the question. And certainty, as my old buddy Harlan used to say, is its own kind of peace.

The eve of Charlotte’s departure to Vienna arrived.

Call her, you asshole,
I told myself.
If you let her leave without saying goodbye, you just might fuck it all up before it’s even begun.

I reached for my phone and the words “Call Charlotte” were on my lips, when my phone rang, announcing her call. I inhaled and let it out slowly, willing my heart to stop pounding against my ribs.

“Hi, babe.”

“Hi,” she said. “I’m sorry to call you so late. Or at all. I didn’t know if you wanted to talk to me…”

I squeezed my eyes shut. She sounded so unsure, her voice full of tears and longing. But it felt so good to hear her again.

“Of course, I do,” I said. “I’ve wanted to talk to you every day the last few days. But I was afraid to make it harder on us.”

“It’s already too hard.”

“I know.” I inhaled sharply. “Lucien told me about your audition. That’s incredible and yet I’m not surprised at all. I’m so proud of you.”

“I leave tomorrow,” she said. “Did Lucien tell you that too?”

She was crying. Christ, I couldn’t do it. It was all wrong, I was ruining us, and a thousand other thoughts like it flashed through me in a moment.

“Don’t cry, baby. Please don’t cry.”

“I don’t have much say in the matter. Noah, is this the right thing? Because it feels awful.”

“It is. Please trust me.” My throat started to close on me. I coughed. “Lucien is going to take you to the airport tomorrow. He’ll meet you at the townhouse around eleven.”

“And where will you be?”

“Wishing I was there, to kiss you and hold you one last time before you go. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispered. “I love you, Noah. I do.”

I held the phone so tightly, I thought it’d shatter. I had to marshal my will or break down right then and there. “Have a safe flight, Charlotte,” I managed, and hung up.

The phone slipped to the floor as I held my head in my hands. I sat that way for a long time.

The next day, I sat in my father’s study, writing on my own laptop. I had begun what I thought of as a prologue. A prologue to what, I didn’t know. I had the vague idea that I would document my trip across Europe as I went. Like the crazy-ass journey itself, writing about it felt right, even if I couldn’t imagine how it would all play out in the end.

Lucien returned from taking Charlotte to the airport. Jealousy churned in my gut that he got to see her, talk to her, hug her goodbye.

“Did she make it through okay?”

“Yes, yes,” he said. I heard him lower himself into the chair across from the desk. “She made it fine.”

“How did she look?”

“Lovely, bien sûr
,
” Lucien replied. “Are you quite certain that you wish to do this?”

I barked a short laugh. “Hell no. But you know what’s at stake. You just took her to the airport.”

Lucien made a noise but I could hear he was smiling. “Indeed. And I have good news. You had the winning bid for the Cuypers violin.”

I smiled in what felt like the first time in eons, since I’d left Charlotte. “Really? Hot damn. How much?”

“$42,000. The Camaro sold for $47,600, which left you just enough to pay for insurance and special shipping and handling to Vienna.”

I sat back, relief washing through me. “And it’s a good one, right? The violin?”

I heard Lucien’s smile color his words. “The best. Or, at the very least, the best in your price range.”

Because that’s what Charlotte deserved. The best violin I could afford, and the best version of me when all was said and done.

At JFK, Lucien waited with me at my gate. He was allowed a special dispensation from security to accompany me until the plane took off. We sat side by side in the business class lounge of Austrian Airlines, he sipping champagne, me a bottle of water.

“If you recall,” he said, amused, “I suggested you try to navigate
one
city alone.”

“Go big or go home,” I said, grinning like an idiot. I felt good. Optimistic. Naively unaware of the shit storm that awaited me. “You told me to answer the question, so I did. This is what I’m meant to do.”

“I know. I’m worried about you to the marrow of my old bones, but I also know how this is right for you.” Lucien chuckled. “Nothing has changed. You’re still the daredevil you’ve always been and I wouldn’t change you for all the tea in China.”

I eased a sigh. “Thank you. That means a lot to me, Lucien.
You
mean a lot to me, though I know I haven’t told you that enough.”

“Noah! I hadn’t pegged you as the sentimental sort.”

“Blame Charlotte for that.”

“Hmm, I believe I will thank her instead.”

They called my flight, and we rose, Lucien guiding me to the queue to get on. I felt him studying me.

“Second thoughts?” he asked softly.

“A million of them. But that’s not it.” I hesitated. “I’m…I don’t remember what people look like anymore. Mom and Dad…They’re like blurred photos. And Ava. I know she’s beautiful and that’s all that sticks. And you. I can’t remember you, Lucien.”

“It’s all right, my boy. I’m quite past my prime,” he said, trying to be light while I was suddenly stricken with a glut of emotion. A dam—one of hundreds within me—began to crack.

I turned to Lucien, and before I could second guess myself or worry what other people thought, I put my hands on his face and looked at him….and he came back. All of him; his kind eyes, heavy brow, and a face drawn with laugh lines.

“Thank you for everything,” I said thickly, and then cast off from the safety of him, into the black unknown.

It’s pretty sad when the
flight
is the best part of your European tour. Granted, I knew that this wasn’t going to be a fucking picnic, but I wasn’t prepared for how utterly
unprepared
I actually was. I slept through the flight and woke with hope and optimism. I mentally geared myself up for the whole ordeal, as I used to do before a big jump or stunt back in my old
PX
days. And it worked…until we landed.

The plane taxied, stopped, and then people started their mad exodus to get off. I was in business class, but that didn’t stop my fellow travellers from acting as if there was a contest to see who could stand up, gather their carry-ons, and then stand there waiting for the doors to open the longest. I was walled-off by legs and carry-on bags.

I sat, unmoving in my seat, my guts twisting into knots, until it sounded like the plane was nearly empty. A soft hand touched my arm.

“Sir?”

“Not a fan of crowds.”

“Of course.”

I put on my sunglasses, took up my white stick and carry-on bag: a leather messenger that held my laptop, phone, passport, and other special devices for the blind I’d brought with me. My lifelines.

“Can I assist you? Or call someone at the gate?”

I wanted to say ‘yes’ so bad I could taste it. But I had three iron-clad rules:

1. Never miss a concert
   
2. No holing up in hotels
   
3. Don’t ask for help unless absolutely necessary
   

I had to do as much as possible on my own, I reasoned. Otherwise, what was the point?

“No, thanks. I got it.”

I disembarked, and used my cane to find the dimensions of the tunnel that led from plane to gate. It was quiet in the tunnel. Safe. Then it ended and the Vienna International Airport opened up before me. Right away I knew, with that famous Harlan certainty, that I was utterly fucked.

A wall of sound. No, a
cavern
of sound. Sounds pummeling me from a million different directions and angles, distorting the dimension of the space and completely obliterating any hope I had of navigation.

I froze. My chest tightened and my palms clutching the cane were sweaty. How in the ever-loving hell did I think this was a good idea? That I could do this? I
couldn’t
do this. I wasn’t off the plane thirty seconds, and already I was done. It was impossible.

No!
I inhaled through my nose, and tried to ignore how I felt almost exactly the same as I had standing on the ledge in La Quebrada, mustering the nerve to dive.

A soft hand on my arm startled me.

“You are on Level 3,” said the woman, the stewardess from the plane. “The level is one wide, but straight hallway. Customs is at the end. Beyond that, the elevators. You will need to go down to the first level. There is baggage claim and then you can find the train or…?”