“I am not,” I said. It came out as a half-hearted whisper.
He tilted my head side to side. He moved to the deep tissue of my upper back and neck. As a cellist, I had almost perpetual back pain and what I called “cello butt”—a constant ache in my tailbone from sitting stock-straight on the edge of a chair. I wondered if he was aware of cello butt. Maybe those muscles needed to be worked.
I coughed out and cleared my throat.
He didn’t notice and continued my three-hundred-dollar massage. As he rubbed, an amazing thing happened: I actually started to relax.
“Ohh,” I moaned. I didn’t even care.
I did notice that his body pulled back away from me slightly. Maybe I freaked him out. But he was the one rubbing me down telling me to relax; what the heck did he expect?
He pressed my shoulders down away from my ears. As he did, he said, “Years of playing incorrectly have locked them into a hunched position.”
He rubbed his thumbs deep into the tension. My body felt delicate and tiny under his touch. He could easily toss me around, bend me, break me …
Chapter 17
Believe the story the music is telling you.
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.”