Page 42 of Not Another Love Song

He stuttered a laugh, and she turned to look at him. His face was younger when he laughed. He carried the electric cello— “Ruby”—to the center of the room, bringing a chair over. “Room full of girlfriends,” he muttered, smiling. He looked up and pointed at the violin. “That one’s Victor.”

She grinned and said, “So, you don’t discriminate?”

He started uncoiling a cord, eyes focused on his hands. “Well, Victor doesn’t go between my legs.”

Her smile broke into a laugh. She tried to take it back, breathing air back in, but her grin couldn’t be erased.

He plugged in the cello, flipped a few switches on the amps, and gestured for her to come sit. She moved to him on wobbly knees and sat on the very edge of the chair. Their fingers brushed when he handed her the bow, and before she could blush about it, she dragged it across the strings, and the speakers sang. She smiled, fascinated by how she could make the music here, with her hands and fingers, and send it somewhere else.

She played a scale, feeling the floor vibrate under her. Pulling the bow across the thin instrument, she ran through the beginning of Bach’s Cello Suites. She laughed as she missed a few notes, listening to the amp pick up every mistake.

She looked up at him, about to apologize for butchering Bach in his music shrine, and found him still standing just to her left, his eyes watching her fingers. She needed to tilt her head to see him, and also put all her focus into not looking at his eye-level crotch.

“Ruby is wonderful,” she settled on, looking back at the instrument. “Is she the one you play on tour?” she asked innocently, as if she didn’t already know.

She glanced his way when he didn’t respond. He jerked and said, “Yes. And others.”

Moving to the computer, he leaned down and shook the mouse until the screen came on. He pressed a few buttons in a complicated program on one screen, and Gwen saw that the other screen had a sheet music program open.

“Will you play it again?” he said, jumping to the amp next, fiddling with the dials.

When he stood, she pulled the bow across the strings, and the entire room shook. She looked up at him with wide eyes and said, “Shit, that’s loud.”

He smiled, and she played Bach’s Cello Suites again. She got more of the notes this time, but she also couldn’t concentrate on what she was playing because the room vibrated with every stroke.

She paused, finding him sitting in his computer chair watching her, leaning forward onto his knees.

“Do your neighbors ever complain?” she asked.

“They’ll knock on the walls if they’re home.” He shrugged. “Or call the police.”

She laughed, but it seemed like he was completely serious. She glanced over his shoulder at the computer with the sheet music, and asked, “What are you working on?”

You know, like artists do.

He turned to see the computer screen she referred to. “Oh. Just a few things for rehearsal this afternoon.” He took the mouse and opened a new window.

“When is rehearsal?”

“Twenty minutes ago.”

She stared at him, clicking away at the desktop.

“Oh. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kept you—”

“No, no. It’s all just ‘hurry up and wait’ anyway.” He hit a button, and something started printing. “Do you want to sight-read something?”

She thought about how often he was late to Pops rehearsals, strolling in with his Ray-Bans on and giving Nathan a mocking smile when he would say, “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Thorne.” She wondered if Alex Fitzgerald would ever have been late for a rehearsal.

She swallowed her chastising words about timeliness and finally heard his question as he brought a music stand in front of her.

“Sure,” she squeaked. “Is this something the band plays?” She wasn’t sure she could call it sight-reading if she’d already downloaded it from iTunes and memorized the music he was collecting from the printer, but he didn’t have to know that.

“No, it’s new.” He dropped the pages on the stand and moved back to the amp, twisting knobs.

She stared down at the untitled page. No tempo markings, no bow markings. Just a flurry of eighth notes and triplets on a staff. He returned to his chair, facing her, running his hand through his hair again. She watched the way it fell exactly back into place, efforts futile.

“What’s the tempo?” she asked.

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