This Love Read online

  This Love

  A Novel

  Hilaria Alexander

  Copyright © 2015 Hilaria Alexander

  Editors: Murphy Rae and KD Phillips of Indie Solutions by Murphy Rae

  www.murphyrae.net

  Cover Design: Luciano Capasso

  Stock photos courtesy of: Dollar Photo Club

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes. – Carl Jung

  To those who feel stuck.

  May you find the strength and courage to change your path.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  THIS LOVE PLAYLIST

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO AVAILABLE BY HILARIA ALEXANDER

  CHAPTER 1

  I didn’t know why I kept putting myself through this. I had a job and enough money to get by. I really didn’t need any of this, but I did it anyway. I probably did it because, despite everything, I always, always loved performing. After cutting ties with my past, this was still the only thing that made me feel good. It made me feel I was still staying true to a part of me. So, just in order to do that, I was okay spending hours in the cold winter weather.

  I could have done myself a favor and skipped today though. The weather in Amsterdam wasn’t usually like this. Today reminded me of the worst, coldest winter days in New York. I was sitting on the freezing cobblestones, strumming my guitar. I had fingerless gloves on my hands so that I could play, but my fingers were so cold, I could hardly strum the strings correctly, and from time to time, I had to blow some heat onto my hands.

  It was quieter today, and there weren’t that many people walking by. The tourists were probably all huddled in some café or museum. It wasn’t a pretty day to be outdoors. Everything looked so gray, so dreary. I had gotten some tips, but not as many as usual. The tips helped, but like I said, they weren’t why I did it. They were just an additional benefit of playing.

  Singing was something I didn’t use to do: it was a newfound way to express myself, let go of my fears, or so I liked to believe. I felt that way right now, as I sang a song that mirrored my past perfectly, a song about regrets. Sure, I was still young but I regretted my past, and I constantly felt I should have done a lot of things differently. Sometimes I felt I should have done everything differently.

  I was so lost in the singing, and was trying so hard to get the chords right with my frozen fingers, I didn’t notice the boots of the guy standing in front of me for a while. My long, curly mass of hair was also covering my face as I moved my head to the music, and it created some sort of curtain, limiting my vision.

  He stayed the entire time of the song. I never looked up.

  When I strummed the last chord, he placed a bill in my guitar case. I moved the hair from my face to peek. A bill. I am used to coins. A few euro cents or 1 or 2 euro coins. I looked into the case. He left me five euros.

  Wow. Generous.

  “Dank je wel,” I told him looking up and smiling.

  He was a tall, slender guy. There was a bit of stubble on his face making him appear a few years older than me, but it was really hard to tell. He had on dark jeans and was bundled up in a long wool coat. His eyes were a deep green, and he his shoulder length hair framed an interesting face; I hated to admit I was intrigued by him, and I reminded myself I shouldn’t show any interest in him. After a couple of unfortunate experiences, I had to learn I couldn’t be too friendly. Even with people who gave me money. Especially with people who gave me money. The stranger just stood in the same spot and wouldn’t leave.

  Well, this was going to be awkward. I didn’t know much Dutch.

  Yes, I should have made more of an effort to learn, but everyone just tried to speak English around me, most of the time. I only knew a few things. Should I ask him what he wanted? Maybe he just wanted to hear another song?

  I was about to ask him if there was anything wrong, but he beat me to it.

  “What is it you regret?” he asked, frowning.

  I caught a southern drawl in his voice. Definitely not Dutch. American.

  Great, he was a fucking nosy tourist.

  In a moment, I went from being grateful to angry.

  “First off, it was just a song,” I said bitterly. “And second, I don’t answer questions like that, especially when they come from strangers. You can take your money back.” I fished the euro bill out of my guitar case and handed it over to him. I stretched my arm out without looking at him, but he wouldn’t take it, so I finally looked up at him and met his eyes again. I gestured for him to take the bill, but he wouldn’t. His eyes were fixed on me, and his lips were pressed in a hard line. I searched his eyes for any trace of anger but found none. He didn’t look angry, he looked hurt. I regretted being so rude, and I didn’t even know why. Because he was cute maybe?

  “You’re right.” He frowned. “It’s none of my business. I’m sorry I asked. Goodbye.” He put both his hands in his pockets, turned and started walking away.

  Now I felt guilty.

  I didn’t know why. I didn’t understand the sudden pang in my stomach.

  What the fuck was happening to me? I was not the friendliest person, not with people I didn’t know, anyway. I never had many friends growing up in New York, and here in Amsterdam I understood early on I couldn’t just be naïve. I had to watch out. The handsome stranger was walking away down the street and I quickly fought a war with myself, but in the end, the naïve side won. I collected my change and put the guitar away in the case. Before I knew it I was running after him.

  Then I remembered I had to pick up Lieke.

  My apology would have to wait. I might never have seen him again. I might never have gotten to say sorry. See you later if I see you at all, handsome stranger. I’m sorry, I thought to myself.

  “Why are you here today?”

  “Something unusual happened.”

  “Elaborate, please. You know we don’t have much time.”

  “I met a guy,” I told her, still reliving the weird encounter from a few hours ago.

  “That doesn’t seem unusual. Don’t you meet new people every day with your job?”

  I shook my head no while staring at the ceiling.

  I looked up and realized she wasn’t even looking my way, so I added, “Usually I don’t meet many people around my age.” I sighed.

 
“How old?”

  “I’m not sure. He looked older than me.”

  “Did you actually talk to him? Is there more to the story?”

  “Yes.”

  “And? Look, I am going to start charging you my hourly fee if you don’t start talking. I keep telling you I am not a therapist, Ella. I’ve got work to do.”

  “But you are the only person I can talk to! And you have the most comfortable couch!”

  “So talk,” she insisted.

  “I think I might have seen him before. I can’t shake the feeling I know him from somewhere. Which is stupid. Where would I know him from? New York?”

  “Please tell me you met an actor. I’ve been here how long? I have never met a freaking celebrity.”

  “That’s what I’m saying…when do you ever get to meet a celebrity? This isn’t Los Angeles.”

  “Yeah, but I’m sure celebrities come here all the time. They just don’t get caught by the paparazzi. So, is there more to the story?”

  “He asked me a question about the song I was singing and I was a complete bitch to him.”

  Ally burst into a rich and loud laughter. She started laughing so hard she had to clutch her stomach. I rolled my eyes.

  “This is too good! I can just picture it! This guy probably saw you, a musical siren with Renaissance looks, and thought he had met a quiet, nice girl. He had no idea that your tongue bites. Poor thing never saw it coming!”

  “Jeez, thanks! Is that what you think of me? I am not that bad! But yeah, I don’t hold back anymore. It would have been different for him if he had met the before Ella.”

  Yes, it would have been different if he had met the girl I used to be. The one who always said yes. The one who always did what was expected of her.

  “I thought we were going out to dinner. That’s why I’m here,” I said, sitting up.

  “Shoot, I completely forgot about that. We can go, but I have to come back to the office. I have a brief to finish. Let’s go, Razor Tongue.”

  I would have probably lost my shit hearing those words from anyone else, but Ally had been my savior and protector since I had set foot in Amsterdam. So she had earned the right to say whatever the hell she wanted.

  The next day, I was walking home with Lieke. I tried to ask her in my poor Dutch if she’d had a good day at school, and she replied in English “Yes.” She took my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed it right back, looking at her and smiling. With her rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and dark, curly blonde hair, she was definitely the prettiest child I had ever seen.

  Lieke’s mom called her daughter a miracle. After fifteen years of hoping, wishing and praying, after years and years of having to listen to doctors shaking their heads telling her the day would never come, Helga had gotten pregnant, at forty years old. She was afraid she would lose the baby and she feared she’d never go past the four-month mark, just as it had happened several times before. But the nine months carrying Lieke were blissful, she had said. And when Lieke was born, she looked like an angel.

  The miracle baby girl was simply engelachtig, she had told me. Engelachtig meant angelic, and Lieke was the nickname for the name Angelique. Helga couldn’t have given her a better name. Still today, the child was really the epitome of angelic: her complexion, eye color, and hair made her look like a child in a Renaissance painting. She was the most ethereal human being I had ever been around. Plus she was an awesome kid too: smart and funny, and surprisingly well behaved for a five-year-old. She loved to listen to me read to her at night, although she could probably only really understand ten percent of what I was telling her.

  In the few months we had been together, she had learned so much, and although we couldn’t have the greatest conversations, our relationship was made of hugs, smiles, kisses and tickle battles. We also looked alike. Although my hair was light brown, I had the same huge nest of curly hair, just a little longer than hers. We both had a fair complexion, and even though my eyes were green and not blue, we could have probably passed as relatives, maybe even sisters. Lieke’s parents, Helga and Johan, tried giving her a brother or a sister, but a second miracle hadn’t come around.

  We were walking down the street swinging our joined hands up and down. I wasn’t even looking ahead of me, I was too focused on the beautiful kid singing in a language I didn’t understand, but something, someone, caught the corner of my eye.

  It was the handsome stranger I was a complete bitch to just yesterday. What a weird coincidence. I froze for a moment and stopped walking, causing Lieke to pull on my arm. She stopped too and started tugging, but I was looking at him. His eyes met mine, and I knew he recognized me. He glanced at Lieke for a moment, then walked past me, giving me a nod and a tight-lipped smile. What are you doing, Ella? You were just ready to run after him yesterday, and now you can’t bring yourself to say hi or stop him and say what you wanted to say so badly just twenty-four hours ago?

  I turned around, still considering if it wasn’t too late to say something, but Lieke started tugging on my hand again and said, “Come on! Let’s go home!”

  I kept looking at him walking away. If he turns around, I’ll go after him, and I’ll say what I wanted to say, I thought. He just kept walking and I was left with the feeling I had let him go for the second time, and the same nagging feeling I knew him from somewhere.

  I saw him, once again, for the third consecutive day. Okay, this was so weird. How many other times had I seen the same tourist more than once? Zero, that’s how many times. People come and go, especially here. Why was I so drawn to this stranger anyway? This was so unlike me. Usually, I was indifferent to almost everyone. But I saw him walking down the street while I was playing guitar in the same exact spot I was two days ago. I got up and tried to get his attention. I was hoping he’d look my way, and I would have the chance to say something. He briefly looked my way then turned to look straight ahead, avoiding my stare. He started walking faster, hurrying past me.

  I started strumming and singing the first song that came to my mind. It didn’t look like he was giving me the chance to talk to him, so singing was my next best option. I was going to apologize to him one way or another, even if it had to be with a song. On the spot, the first song I could think of was “So Sorry” by Feist. It was a great choice—the words were perfect. Just like in the song, I also realized too late I was acting all wrong. I did it all the time. He walked past me, giving me a hurried look while I was singing. I wasn’t going to stop. I didn’t care if he walked away or not. But I wanted him to stop and listen to me. Please listen.

  He kept walking, and a wave of disappointment washed over me. I thought he would at least stop and say hi. I was bummed and, in general, upset I even cared. I didn’t know this person. He could have been a serial killer, and I was basically serenading him.

  I was almost done with the third verse when he finally stopped and turned around, walking back toward me. The happiness I felt at that moment was overwhelming. I couldn’t hide my smile while I started singing the fourth verse. He came back to stand across from me, and I saw him smile. I could see his features better now, and dammit, he was beautiful.

  He wasn’t like one of those pretty boys you saw in magazines, or one you saw on the street from time to time. He had a beauty all of his own, with his Roman nose and strong jaw. His hair was a glossy, shiny black. It made me mad I was feeling envious of a man’s hair. But his eyes were his most beautiful feature. I had to remind myself to focus on the chords and not get distracted by them. They were a dark green, and were so intense it seemed I could—too easily—get lost in them. I felt like he was looking right through me. He was a beautiful, but normal looking guy; yet, his beauty was enough to take the breath out of me. It’s because you are singing, you aren’t using your diaphragm, and you’re out of breath, I told myself. Now that I was looking at him more closely, I thought even more I knew him from somewhere; I hated that it made me even more intrigued about him.

  Don’t blush, I told myself, don’t give
yourself away. But I was breaking into a cold sweat while I looked at him. He had his eyes fixed on me, and I knew it was pointless. I was blushing, already, and I saw him smile softly. I realized I shouldn’t sing the last verse - it might give him the wrong idea. He might think I wanted to hookup with him. The problem was, I wouldn’t have minded hooking up with him or something. Serial killer, Ella. He might be a serial killer.

  It was when his smile spread across his face and reached his eyes that I realized I was done. Boom. Good luck pretending you aren’t already crushing hard, Ella.

  When I stopped playing, he started clapping his hands and smiled, amused. I bit my lip.

  “You’re good,” he said.

  I smiled shyly and tried to gather my thoughts.

  “I’m really sorry about the other day. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that.”

  “It’s all good,” he shrugged, still smiling at me. Now that I looked closely, I noticed he had dimples! God, stop it. How fast do you want me to fall for you?

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Ella,” I replied, extending my hand. His strong hand shook mine, and I felt even more of a pull toward him.

  “Lou. Louis Armstrong,” he replied.

  What? “For real?” I asked, a little shocked.

  “No, I’m joking. What’s your last name?”

  “My real name is Ella Fitzpatrick, but sometimes I lie and say it’s Ella Fitzgerald. I think it sounds cooler, don’t you think? Plus I like to mess with people,” I joked.

  “You do, huh?”

  I nodded. “It sounds like you do too, though,” I smiled at him, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. You’re trying too hard, I told myself.

  Ok, this was still bothering me. I was going to ask him.

  “Don’t I know you from somewhere, Lou?”

  He laughed. “Are you seriously using that old pick-up line on me?”

  “What? No!” Oh my God. I covered my face with my hands. “Never mind. It was a stupid question. I really thought I had seen you somewhere before.”

  He laughed again. He had the most beautiful laughter. I was being so ridiculous. I didn’t even know what was happening to me.