Page 36 of Crescendo

I fumbled a sour note on the keys as I dropped my hands off the keys, Ella turning me to face her, pressing herself into me—she roamed her hands over me, moving quickly to feel my sides, my arms, up to cup my face and hold me into her, like she was trying to feel every part of me and couldn’t decide which one, kissing hard and indelicately, and I thought this was what inspiration looked like.

I wanted to write a hundred songs for this woman—beautiful songs and ugly songs, songs about her eyes and about the way I wanted to scream when I wasn’t kissing her and how I could kiss her and still feel like I didn’t have enough of her.

I gripped her and kissed back, a dazed second passing and turning into fire where I needed every bit of her I could.

I moved my hands down to grip fistfuls of her knit sweater—wanted to rip it off her and throw it on the floor, have my way with her right on that couch.

She shifted into my lap, slinging a leg over mine and pressing herself closer to me with a long, satisfied moan, the kind that only came from getting something you’d needed for too long.

She parted her lips, and I met her tongue with mine, fire burning in my core, and—

I fumbled back away from her, hitting the piano keys by mistake and making a loud sound on the low register, pushing myself back. She gave me a wild look like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to rip her clothes off now or kill me for pulling away.

“Ella—”

“ What? If you don’t want me, say it. I’ll back off.”

“I’m getting too—attached,” I said. An excuse. Also true. I saw the conflicted feelings fly over her face, and I ran with it. “You know it, don’t you? We said it was casual. I told you I’m not good at casual, but I’d try. And I’m not doing well. I shouldn’t—”

“So, what? It might hurt later? So we’d better hurt now and have less of each other?”

“We—”

“And sit around in the same apartment all the time feeling like this? ”

“ Ella. I just… I just need a minute to think.”

She looked up at me with those pleading eyes, and damn if I didn’t want to kiss her again. “We’ve had so… many… minutes already,” she laughed breathlessly. “More than I think I can take. Don’t leave me in limbo. Please. I need to know if you’re there or not.”

“I’m not—” I groaned, raking my hands back over my hair. My bun was almost falling out. Ella had tugged on it—trying to take my hair down to messily fuck me. Damn, but that was hot. “I’m here,” I said, my voice thin. “I just need to be sure… before I’m doing anything…”

“Are you not sure?” she said, standing up with me. “Because I’ve been sure.”

“No—it’s not that.”

“Then please tell me what it is, because I’m going to break.”

I turned and dropped back against the wall, a hand to my forehead. Leaning next to the piano, Atlas the gnome looked up at me with his goofy little face that was apparently nothing like her Papa’s.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my throat tight. “I didn’t know how to bring this up. And I didn’t want to throw you off when you were doing so well. But I don’t feel right… being with you… when I know this and you don’t know that I know, and…”

She furrowed her brow. “Lydia, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“My friend told me everything. About your brother.”

She made a noise in her throat, her expression changing in a blink, pupils small, mouth falling open. “Your… friend…”

“Natália—that girl I’d mentored—the one you said hi to on the phone yesterday—she went and looked through your old social media pages and she told me about…”

Her face crumpled, and she looked down at the floor. My chest hurt like paper ripping in two, and she spoke in a small, fractured voice. “You don’t want someone this broken.”

“No—Ella, that’s not it,” I said, reaching out, a hand on her shoulder, and she pulled back.

“It’s fine. I knew—I knew —that was why I hadn’t told you. I didn’t want to make things—”

“ Ella. ” I stepped forward and put my hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look up at me.

“I told you we’re all broken, and I meant it.

You’re not less beautiful to me for being hurt.

You’re the person who moved towards your grief to face it here at Crescendo.

Please believe me when I say that. I just…

didn’t feel right being so close to you while keeping secrets… ”

She looked away, brow furrowed. “Like I was doing.”

I gave her a light smile, squeezing her shoulders. “I could tell from day one that you were trying to tell me, trying to work your way to it. I was happy to wait.”

She gave me a wide-eyed look, those damn eyes of hers shimmering. “Really?” she said through a thick-voiced laugh. “Day one must be an exaggeration. Day one I was just freaked out and confused what was happening and a little alarmed by an attractive woman force-feeding me piano lessons.”

“Okay, I think it was actually day two. You got me, I was lying. Are you mad?”

She laughed, sniffling, and she shook her head, trying to speak, before she gave up on it, stepped in, and buried her face against my collar instead.

The tension thick enough in my chest for me to choke on finally broke, and I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed her into my chest, knowing she could feel how fast my heart was beating as she spoke softly against my shirt.

“I think I can… find it in my heart… to forgive you.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, running a hand up and down her back. “I can tell how much he meant to you.”

“He was so loud and annoying,” she laughed through sobs. I squeezed her tighter.

“Brothers are like that. I have three.”

“He… he played so well. It was like music was his blood. Papa—he used to be a teacher, taught art and music, and he let us play instruments when we were little, but Callum always took to it so well. It should have been him here playing music, not… not me.”

I messed up—went ahead and, despite myself, kissed the top of her head.

She smelled so sweet… clean and fresh, like just-washed towels.

I wanted to wrap myself up in it. “It’s not a trade,” I said softly.

“You should have both been here. Making music together. And I’m sorry you didn’t have that…

but I’m glad that you’re here. And that I’ve gotten to meet you and hear the way you play—the way you play, like nobody else does. ”

She gripped her hands into fists on my back. “He… would have… liked you. You’re a bit similar. Both loud and willful, running on spite, causing problems…”

“Thank you, I’m very flattered.”

It was a long time before, quietly—like she was saying it as much for herself as for me—“I’m glad I’m here, too.” She paused. “And I’m glad you’re here. Don’t… do that again, Lydia.”

“Do what?”

“Disappear on me. I couldn’t take it happening again.”

Well—I had to, at the end of this program. But that was a distant thing I didn’t want to acknowledge right now. I squeezed her. “I won’t,” I whispered. “I’m here.”

It was a long time before she said, in a small pout, “I’m still mad.”

“Oh, little pouty voice.”

“Hey. Do not patronize me. I’m mad.”

“Mm-hm.” I kissed the top of her head again. “I’m very sorry.”

She pulled back with a long, shaky breath, blinking away tears and putting on a smile that was strained, sad and small, but underneath it all, realer than anything.

“Better be,” she said, and she went on her tiptoes to kiss me—a swift, sweet kiss, before she pulled back with a breath out. “Thank you,” she said finally.

“Do you want to play together? That seems to be a good method for self-regulation for you.”

She gave me a curious smile. “Lydia, have you been reading about trauma recovery?”

“Ah. A book fell into my hands.”

She laughed. “You’re impossible,” she said, and she took a long breath. “Pick up your damn violin.”

Seemed like playing was helpful for her.