DEVLIN
Finally, she started to relax into me. She was pliable. She took instruction perfectly. I could spend my life instructing her into various positions. She melted into me and it grew more difficult to ignore the heat radiating between us. Sweat broke out along my brow. The air puffed out of my nose, too hot.
She had to feel it too. What would she do if I slid my hand forward and across the expanse of her delicate collarbones? Felt all her softness under my rough skin? How would she respond?
I cleared my throat. “Pick up your bow again.”
It took her a minute for my request to sink in through the layers of relaxation. Eventually, she blinked rapidly and picked her bow back up. Her hand clamped it into a rigid C-shape.
“No. Hold on to that relaxation. Feel the balance of it.” I grasped her hand so that I almost completely embraced her from behind. “The bow should feel weightless. There. Good. Middle finger and thumb. That’s all you should use right now.”
“I know this. This is all first-year stuff.” Her defenses were down but I could tell this still frustrated her.
“Exactly. You think you know. But we need to start here.”
My arm moved out and in, mimicking the draw along a string.
“See. That. The pointer and pinky only provide direction. They aren't demanding or crushing. Let gravity help you,” I said.
Her head fell back against my shoulder in relaxation and then she went still when she realized it.
“No, shh. That’s okay,” I whispered, and she stayed in place.
We played an invisible instrument, our right arms traveling out and back in perfect tandem. We played the same piece of unheard music.
My left arm wrapped around her so that I grasped her left shoulder. “Now this is the neck of your cello. Place your fingers on me.”
Her fingers were tentative as they grasped my skin. “It’s too big.”
I swallowed with difficulty, briefly shutting my eyes against the barrage of images that accompanied that soft sentence.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s about balance again. Relax your grip.”
Her fingers moved up and down my forearm and a shudder I hoped she couldn’t feel ran through me.
“Your arm is much hairier than my cello.” A smile came across with her words.
My own smile followed, as always, without will when I was around her.
“Your thumb is flat. You should have a cupped hand, using the tip only. Keep your hand loose and it will travel distances faster,” I said.
“I know.”
“Then do it.”
She grumbled but obeyed. Her fingers danced delicately up and down my arm. It was tricky but with our right arms still bowing, she played me perfectly.
Her scent and the unheard notes floated in the air around us. The soft sounds of our shared breath and rustling clothes filled the space. I joined her closed eyes and lived in this moment.
My instinct was right; together we would play beautiful music. She was perfect to play my piece.
Eventually, I started to pull away. When she made a sound of dismay, I said, “Stay like that. Don’t even open your eyes yet.”
I carefully led her back down to the chair. I replaced my arm with the neck of the cello, placing the bow on the string.
“Now, just play.”
She kept her eyes shut tight; her dark lashes fanned out against her pale skin. Her face was smooth in relaxation, and her cheeks flushed with color. Her mouth was relaxed and slightly open. She looked devastatingly beautiful.
She played the last piece we had been working on without being able to see the music. She was gifted, but somewhere over the years since camp she had lost faith in herself. She had been changed and filled with nonsense.
“Good,” I whispered. If she’d heard me, she made no sign. She wasn’t aware of anything outside what she played in that moment. As it should be. “It’s that space between the notes. Feel it. Touch it. The music is all around you.”
The music flowed from her. It wasn’t my piece of music; it was a snippet from the July show we were performing. She was perfection though.
She played and I sat on the bench of the piano listening, elbows on knees, fingertips steepled and my chin resting on them.
She played until she reached the end and when she did, she lifted her bow off the string and the last note hung in the air.
Several long seconds later she blinked into awareness. Her gaze moved around until it found me watching and listening intently. Her eyebrows raised in question.
I tried to speak, cleared my throat, then started again. “Better. Much better.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Remember that feeling when you play. Block out the years of mechanical lessons and tap into that feeling. Well done.”
A smile broke out on her face. Perhaps I could be a little more generous with positive feedback. She responded better when I showed her, taught her. I’d just grown so used to snapping and taking. That wouldn’t work with her.
She had me questioning so many things I thought I knew.
“Look!” Kim’s voice broke my attention.
She stood at the kitchen window, leaning over the sink, to look outside. How nicely she filled out her pants was of no interest to me. I cleared my throat.
“What?” I asked as I went to her side.
I was sore and tired. My stomach grumbled. We’d been playing so long we’d both lost track of time, and now the house was dark again. The storm had not relented overnight; it had worsened.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said.
Outside, it was the picture of winter at the end of April. Ice covered every inch of tree and earth. The driveway was an ice luge. A few large tree branches littered the ground, glittering with ice.
“It’s bad,” I said.
I pulled out my phone and searched road conditions. “All the roads around Green Valley are closed. There are weather warnings not to drive for any reason.”
Kim’s eyes were wide. “I can’t believe this spring.” She walked to the fridge and pulled out last night’s leftovers. “I’m starving.”
Without discussion, or even manners, she grabbed a fork and started eating straight out the container. “Wanf som?” she asked around a mouthful of food.
I shook my head at her.
“What? No? And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you how to write your own music. It’s your decision.”
“Kim, stop. It’s good.” I took the container from her hands. “I wouldn’t have asked for your help if I didn’t want input.”
I wouldn’t make a big deal about it, but I liked seeing this side of her. The side that offered glimpses of her assertiveness, like I saw at dinner with Wes. It was what was missing at practice. She was not overthinking. She was just being herself.
We dug back in, chewing in silence, occasionally tearing off hunks of bread with our teeth from the loaf of French bread we passed back and forth.
After a few minutes we sat back with sighs against the sink. We hadn’t even made it to the table. In our defense, the clock read almost five. We’d played almost six hours without a break.
“I guess we were hungry,” she laughed, wiping her mouth. “I feel like I ran a marathon.” She rocked her head back and forth to stretch. I debated offering another massage but the last one had sucked years from my life.
“We’re making progress,” I said.
“Don’t hurt yourself with all that praise, over there.” She rubbed her slightly protruding stomach. “Look, a food baby.” She turned the side and stuck her stomach out even more, rubbing her hand over the area like a proud mother-to-be. The vision sent a weird warmth through me and an unsettling sense of déjà vu made me dizzy. I shook my head with a laugh and looked down.
“I think I’ll name her Ricotta,” she said.
“You look Prego.”
She looked up at me shocked. “You made a pun.”
“It’s less funny when you point it out.”
She crackled with laughter. “That was a good one.”
“I can be funny,” I complained, acting out a wound that I felt deeply. The price I paid for playing the bad guy.
“You are funny. You should show it more.” Her eyes widened as she realized what she said.
“Humor doesn’t get results,” I said. My smile fell.
She chewed her bottom lip and refused to meet my gaze.
“What? What are you trying so hard not to say right now?” I asked and crossed my arms, turning fully to face her.
“Nothing?” Her voice lifted at the end.
“Just say it.”
“You could soften a little at rehearsal.”
I growled.
She faced me now as well and her arms came up as though to settle me. “Hear me out. You’re so much more than this image you portray. You’re funny and nice and sometimes even a little patient. You come across as such an—”
My eyebrows raised at her abrupt stop. “An asshole?”
“Your words.”
“Your thoughts,” I said.
“To me, it feels like you’re trying to make them respect you. But there’s a chance you’re pushing people too far the other way. People aren’t bending. They’re about to snap.”
“They need to be better.” Heat crawled up my neck.
“I understand a little bit more now.” She gestured to my face. “Because you want to …”
“Get to the point, Christine.” I regretted the words as soon as I’d said them, but if she were about to lecture me about presenting a different face to the world, the hypocrisy had to be pointed out.
Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to be anything you’re not. But let them see your humor. It might get you better results. There’s talks of people—”
“I know what they say about me. And I couldn’t care less. They have no power. They don’t like things the way they are, they can leave. I’m not changing who I am to make them more comfortable. They’re all replaceable.”
A look of hurt crossed her features. “Me too? If I left, you’d easily replace me?”
I went to the cabinet for a glass. “This isn’t about you. You committed to me. To this September showcase. If you can’t handle the pressure, tell me now before we go any further.” I filled the glass of water and immediately chugged it down.
“So quick to anger.” She shook her head, still leaning against the counter. “I’m not saying that. But treating people like they’re instruments, and not living, breathing, feeling humans will only make them hate you.”
My heart hammered in anger. A horn sectioned blared in my ears.
I growled. “Being funny and wearing a mask are sort of contradictory.”
Her gaze moved to my fisted hands before she looked up at me through her lashes. “You don’t have to wear the mask.”
“I think you’re forgetting, I’m the Maestro. The conductor and the composer. Sorry if I made you think anything else.”
Her face drained of color. “I haven’t forgotten. Not for a second.”