Page 22 of Never Quite Gone
CHAPTER 21
Jazz Nights
T he balcony glowed in shades of gold and shadow, turning the city into something almost sacred. I'd been avoiding this space since Michael died – too many memories of shared evenings, of architectural plans spread across the small table while Manhattan glowed around us. But lately, I'd found myself drawn here during quiet moments, watching light paint new patterns across familiar views.
My phone buzzed just as the last rays caught the hospital's distant silhouette. Alex's message was simple: “Are you free?” followed by coordinates to somewhere in Manhattan.
I should say no. Should maintain the careful distance I'd been trying to keep since everything started shifting sideways. Instead, I found myself typing “yes” before I could think too hard about why.
The rational part of my mind immediately started listing reasons this was a bad idea. I wasn't ready. Wasn't sure what I felt about any of this. Wasn't even convinced I believed Alex's impossible stories about past lives and eternal love.
I watched night claim the city, each streetlight flickering to life like stars being born. Michael and I used to play a game on evenings like this – guessing which light would ignite next, making up stories about the lives happening behind each window. The memory should have hurt more than it did. Instead, it felt like something I could carry without breaking, a foundation I could build upon rather than a weight holding me down.
My phone buzzed again – Rachel this time, her timing suspicious as always. “Wear the grey sweater,” she texted, somehow knowing about plans I hadn't shared. “The one that makes your eyes look greener.”
I smiled despite myself, imagining her teacher-voice delivering fashion advice. She'd been hovering less lately, her protective instincts softening as she watched me start to heal. Start to live again, not just exist.
The club wasn't what I expected. No neon signs or velvet ropes, just an unmarked door on a quiet street in Manhattan. Jazz notes spilled onto the sidewalk like liquid gold, making the autumn air feel warmer somehow. More alive.
Alex waited outside, and something in my chest tightened at the sight of him. Moonlight caught the grey at his temples, making him look timeless in a way. His smile held no pressure when he saw me, just quiet joy.
“Thank you for coming,” he said simply, holding the door.
The stairs leading down felt familiar though I knew I'd never walked them before. My hand found the railing automatically, muscle memory from a lifetime I shouldn't remember guiding my steps. But I pushed that thought aside, focusing instead on the music growing stronger with each step.
The space opened before us like a dream made real – all warm woods and subtle lighting, tables scattered around a small stage where a quartet played something slow and sweet. The music hit me like a physical force, not memory exactly but something deeper. My hands tingled with phantom sensations, fingers wanting to dance across keys that weren't there.
I must have made some small sound because Alex's attention sharpened. But he didn't comment, just led us to a corner table where the music wrapped around us like a private embrace. The server appeared with water I hadn't asked for but somehow needed, her movements precise as she navigated the intimate space.
“The pianist reminds me of someone,” Alex said carefully, not pushing but offering space to talk if I wanted it. “The way she holds her hands, like she's telling stories with every note.”
I watched her fingers move across the keys, recognizing something in her posture that felt impossibly familiar. “I never learned piano,” I said, but the words felt hollow even to me. “Never had time, with medical school and residency...”
“But your hands remember,” he finished softly. Not a question, just quiet understanding.
The music shifted into something bluer, older, full of wanting and hope. Around us, other patrons swayed slightly in their seats, caught in the spell being woven on stage. But I felt it differently – felt it in my bones, in muscles that shouldn't know these rhythms, in hands that ached to join the conversation happening in melody and harmony.
“I dream about places like this,” I admitted, the confession feeling safer in jazz-warmed shadows. “Smoky clubs in Paris, music that sounds like this but different. Sometimes I wake up with songs in my head that I've never heard before.”
Alex's smile held no triumph at my words, just warmth. “The past has its own music,” he said. “But so does the present.”
The server returned with drinks we hadn't ordered – his exactly right, mine perfect. I should have questioned how he knew, but somehow it felt natural. Like everything about this evening, it walked the line between strange and familiar in ways I was learning not to overthink.
“Tell me about your day,” Alex said, shifting the conversation to safer ground. “How's the new trauma protocol working out?”
Gratitude washed through me at his gift of normalcy. We talked about hospital politics, about Sofia's uncanny ability to manage difficult board members, about the satisfaction of systems working exactly as designed. He listened with genuine interest, asking questions that showed he'd been paying attention to the things that mattered to me in this life, not just our supposed past ones.
The quartet took a break, and softer recorded jazz filled the comfortable silence between us. I found myself relaxing into the moment, into good company and better music and the strange peace of being exactly where I needed to be.
“Michael would have loved this place,” I said suddenly, surprising myself with how easily the words came. “He always said good jazz was like good architecture – all about the spaces between things.”
Alex's expression held no jealousy, just understanding. “He sounds like someone who understood the importance of negative space. Of letting silence speak as loudly as sound.”
“He did. He taught me to appreciate things I would have missed otherwise. To look for beauty in unexpected places.”
“Some loves do that,” Alex agreed softly. “Change how we see the world, make us better versions of ourselves.” His eyes met mine across the table. “All loves do that, if we let them.”
The quartet returned, and conversation settled into comfortable quiet as we listened. The pianist started something that made my fingers twitch with recognition, though I knew I'd never heard it before. Or had I? In another life, another time, another...
“Stop thinking so hard,” Alex murmured, gentle amusement in his voice. “Just listen. Just be here, now.”
So I did. I let the music wash over me without trying to catalog memories that might or might not be mine. Let myself exist in this moment – this space, this time, this version of myself that was still learning how to hold both past and present without breaking under their combined weight.
The first song ended, another began, and suddenly I wasn't there anymore.
The smoke hangs thick in Le Chat Noir, turning stage lights into halos as my fingers find their home on ivory keys. The piano is older than I am – this version of me anyway – its action worn smooth by countless hands before mine. But we understand each other, this instrument and I, speaking a language older than words.
The crowd tonight is typically Parisian, sophisticated ennui masking desperate hunger for beauty after the war's ugliness. They pretend not to listen too closely, but I feel their attention like a physical thing. It's 1924, and the world is trying to remember how to dream.
He's here again – the man with sea-blue eyes who watches from the shadows. Alexandre, though he hasn't told me that yet. Won't tell me for weeks, though we both feel the recognition humming between us like a forgotten melody. I play for him without admitting it, letting my fingers tell stories we're not ready to voice.
The song pours through me like warm honey, bittersweet and perfect. My hands know these rhythms, this dance of melody and harmony that speaks of lives we can't quite remember. When I close my eyes, I see other places – sun-drenched temples, paint-stained studios – but those memories are still too fragile to examine closely.
So I play instead, letting music say what we can't. Alexandre listens from his usual table, understanding everything I'm not saying. His presence feels like anchor and wings both, holding me steady while letting me soar. We're both pretending we don't recognize souls older than this music, older than this city, older than these versions of ourselves.
The memory faded as gently as it had come, leaving me breathless in the present. Alex sat close enough to touch but didn't, letting me navigate the space between then and now. His eyes held the same warmth they had in Paris, but tempered now with hard-earned wisdom.
The quartet shifted into something slower, achingly familiar though I couldn't say why. Around us, other patrons swayed gently to the music, creating intimate spaces within the larger room.
“Dance with me?” Alex asked softly, his voice barely carrying over the music.
It should have felt too intimate, too soon. My wedding ring caught the dim light, reminding me of all the reasons to say no. But as I stood, letting him guide me to the small dance floor, it felt like coming home.
We moved together as if we'd never forgotten how, my hands finding their places without conscious thought. Other couples danced nearby, their presence creating a strange privacy in plain sight. Alex held me like I was something precious, something that might disappear if held too tight. His careful respect for my boundaries made them feel less like walls and more like bridges waiting to be crossed.
My hands remembered this too – the way we fit together, the gentle sway, the quiet certainty of belonging. But it wasn't just memory. This was new too, different from Paris jazz clubs or Renaissance ballrooms or ancient temple celebrations. This was us now, learning each other again in this particular present.
Neither of us spoke about why this felt so natural, why our bodies knew each other's rhythms without learning them. The music wrapped around us like a living thing, creating a bubble where past and present blurred into something timeless. Somewhere between one song and the next, I noticed tears in Alex's eyes but pretended not to see them, understanding that some moments were too fragile for acknowledgment.
My own hands shook slightly where they rested on his shoulders, but for once it wasn't from remembered lives or suppressed grief. It was from now, from the overwhelming reality of this connection that felt both ancient and brand new.
“I remember the piano,” I said quietly, the confession feeling safer in our shared space. “Not just the memory of playing it, but how it felt. The weight of the keys, the way the action changed depending on the humidity. The scratch in the ivory on middle C.”
Alex's hand tightened slightly on my waist, but his voice stayed gentle. “You were magnificent. Are magnificent. Every life, every version of you – you find ways to create beauty, to heal, to make the world better just by being in it.”
“Even now?” I couldn't help asking. “Even when I'm still wearing another man's ring?”
“Especially now.” His smile held no jealousy, only understanding. “Because you're learning that love doesn't divide, it multiplies. That your heart is big enough for both memory and possibility.”
We danced in comfortable silence after that, letting the music say what words couldn't. My head found its way to his shoulder without conscious decision, and his cheek rested against my hair like it had done a thousand times before. Like it was doing for the first time now.
The quartet played something that would have been at home in Le Chat Noir, and for a moment I felt that double-vision again – past and present overlapping like double-exposed film. But this time I didn't fight it. Let myself exist in both spaces, both times, both versions of this love that felt older than memory but new as morning.
“I used to watch you play,” Alex murmured, his voice carrying under the music. “Every night, pretending I was just another patron who appreciated good jazz. But we both knew better, didn't we? Even then, even when we were trying so hard not to remember.”
“Why didn't you ever say anything?” I asked, though I knew the answer even as the words left my mouth.
“For the same reason you never asked my name, though you wrote songs for me every night.” His hand moved in slow circles on my back, grounding me in this moment even as we talked about another.
The music shifted again, something slower and sweeter. Other couples had drifted away, leaving us alone on the small dance floor. My hands had stopped shaking, I realized distantly. For the first time in longer than I could remember, they felt completely steady.
The quartet started their final number – something slow and sweet that made time feel liquid, endless. Alex drew me closer without pushing, letting me set the pace. My head found its way to his shoulder naturally, our hearts beating in time with the music. It should have felt wrong. Should have felt like betraying Michael's memory. Instead, it felt like remembering how to breathe after holding my breath for years.
“Tell me something real,” I murmured against his collar. “Something from right now, not then.”
His chuckle vibrated through both our bodies. “Marcus tried to teach me to dance last week. Said if I was going to drag him into this romantic nonsense, I should at least not step on anyone's toes.”
“How did that go?”
“Three broken vases and one very indignant cat later, he declared me a lost cause.” Alex's hand moved in slow circles on my back. “Though I notice you haven't complained about my technique.”
“Maybe you just needed the right partner.”
The words slipped out before I could overthink them, but Alex's pleased hum made me glad I'd said them. We swayed together as the saxophone wove gold through the air around us, neither feeling the need to fill the silence with words.
I found myself noticing small details – the way his aftershave mixed with the leather of his jacket, how his thumb traced absent patterns where it rested on my waist, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under my cheek. Not memories, just moments. Just now.
After a while, the song drew to a close, but neither of us moved to separate. The quartet began packing up their instruments, the gentle chaos of ending another night at the club swirling around us. But in our corner of the dance floor, time felt softer somehow. More forgiving.
“We should probably go,” Alex said eventually, though he made no move to step away. “Before they start stacking chairs around us.”
“Probably,” I agreed, equally reluctant to break the moment .
Outside, the city hummed with late-night energy – cars passing, distant sirens, the eternal rhythm of Manhattan after dark. But we lingered in the club's doorway, neither wanting to let the evening end just yet. The autumn air felt crisp after the warmth inside, carrying hints of woodsmoke and possibility.
“Thank you,” I said softly, meaning more than the dance, more than the music. Meaning everything he'd given me tonight – space to just be, moments unmarked by memory or expectation, the chance to remember how joy felt.
Alex's smile held warmth that had nothing to do with past lives and everything to do with right now. Time stretched between us, heavy with things unsaid but not unfelt. The streetlight painted shadows across his face, making him look both familiar and new.
My rational mind – the part that had gotten me through medical school and surgical residency, through losing Michael and rebuilding some semblance of life after – knew all the reasons I shouldn't do what I was about to do.
I kissed him anyway.
The kiss was gentle, questioning, perfect. Alex's hands came up to cradle my face like he was holding something infinitely precious, infinitely breakable. I tasted salt and realized he was crying, though my own eyes were dry. When we broke apart, neither moved far – foreheads touching, sharing breath in the quiet street.
Neither of us spoke. There would be time for words later, time for complications and explanations and all the ways this could go wrong. For now, there was just this: the lingering taste of tears and hope, the echo of jazz in our blood, the sense that something important had shifted into place.
My hands hadn't shaken once all night, I realized. Not during the dancing, not during the kiss, not even now as they rested against Alex's chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong under my palms. Whatever this was, whatever we were becoming, it felt real in a way that had nothing to do with past lives and everything to do with present choices.
“I should go,” I said finally, though I made no move to step away. “Early rounds tomorrow.”
“I know.” Alex's thumb traced my cheekbone gently. “This was worth every broken vase during those dance lessons.”
The laughter bubbled up unexpected and free, making him smile in response. When he kissed me again, it felt like punctuation – not an ending, just a pause in a conversation we'd be continuing.
We parted without promises or plans.
The walk home felt different somehow, like the city itself had shifted slightly to make room for new possibilities. My wedding ring caught streetlight as I unlocked my door, but the sight didn't ache like it used to. Michael would always be part of me, would always be the love that taught me how to love. But maybe, just maybe, there was room in my heart for something new too.
Something that tasted like jazz and hope and the salt of joyful tears. Something that made my surgeon's hands steady and my heart remember how to beat in time with another's. Something that felt like coming home to a place I'd never been before.
I touched my lips gently, still feeling the echo of that kiss. Tomorrow would bring complications But tonight? Tonight there was just this: the memory of dancing, the lingering warmth of Alex's hands, and the quiet certainty that whatever came next, it would be worth facing.
Above the city, stars continued their eternal dance, watching as two souls found each other again – not because destiny demanded it, but because they chose it. One kiss at a time, one moment at a time, one beat of newly-steadied hearts at a time.
For the first time in longer than I could remember, I fell asleep without dreaming of past lives or ancient loves. Instead, I dreamed of jazz and autumn air and the taste of possibilities yet to come.