Page 44 of Not Another Love Song

He turned her so the speaker was at her back, screaming into her spine. He spoke into her ear. She could feel his body leaning over the back of her chair.

“This is something you’re creating,” he whispered, just loud enough over the echoes. He reached around and plucked a string on the neck of the cello—the sound bouncing through the room. “Can you feel it? Here?” A finger on her back, between her shoulder blades.

She shivered. And nodded, focusing on the vibrations.

Both his hands landed on her shoulders, palms warm through her shirt. “This is where you tense. Don’t focus here.”

Her skin prickled, chills running down her arms into her fingers. He’d known. He’d noticed her exact tension.

She placed the bow to the strings, her left hand rearranging its place on the neck, and tried the piece again. She got through the first four measures with her heart beating in her ears, before his left hand slid down her shoulder, rounding her arm to her wrist. His thumb rubbed a circle, and his voice brushed her ear. “Relax.”

She remembered his insult: She holds the cello like a subway pole.

Her grip loosened, and she missed a few notes, not having the calluses on her fingers to make up for her grip. She shook her head, frustrated with herself.

“It’s all right. Play it again.”

Mabel never taught her like this. She would let her finish a piece and then give notes, showing her how to do better. She was never this…hands-on. For a fleeting moment, she wondered how Mabel had taught him.

She started from the beginning, focusing on her left hand, relaxing. He kept his fingers light on her wrist to remind her, his body hovering over her, other hand still on her shoulder. She got all the way to the fingerpicking section this time before he stopped her again.

“Play it again. Don’t be afraid of it.”

She frowned, not sure what was wrong that time. The bow dragged, and he stopped her after the second measure. Just as she was about to tell him to just let her fucking play it, he lifted off of her, twisting quickly to the computer.

“I want you to hear the difference,” he said, clicking buttons and opening another page. She watched him press a red button, and a recording line traveled across the screen, flat-lining. He reached over and plucked at a string, and they watched the vibration in the program.

She turned back to the music, and the awareness that they were recording overwhelmed her. It added a pressure that live performance didn’t have. She took a breath and focused on releasing her wrist, letting her fingers move lightly.

He let her get to the end this time, but immediately told her to start again. “That take is out of the way. You’re better than that take.”

She snapped her head up to him and glared. “Oh, I am?” Her tone was caustic. “Thank you.”

“You are,” he said simply. “But if you worry about who’s listening, you’ll never be fully playing.” He stood to the side of the chair, towering over her and forcing her to be fully aware of his body as they talked.

Her breath was coming quickly, and she wondered again about the Plaza. What would have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted? Did he want her like she wanted him?

Something darkened in his eyes, and she realized she was staring. She shook herself and turned back to the sheet music, almost memorized now.

His hands returned to her shoulders just as she began to pull the bow, palms rounding outward, fingers brushing down to the tops of her triceps. Her skin broke out in goose bumps.

She felt as riled up and itchy as the beginning section’s aggravated arpeggios alluded to. She danced across the strings, keeping her left fingers light but pushing through with an irritation.

“Yes,” he breathed into her ear. She felt the barest whisper of his lips across the skin. “Good.” His left hand traced across her shoulder. “No matter how frustrated you are”—fingers brushing across her pulse—“you have to be gentle with her neck.”

Gwen swallowed. And she knew he could feel it. She’d never felt music like this before. Like she was a part of it. Like it could do things to her body. Or maybe that was just being in his presence.

She danced out of the arpeggios, and as she slowed for the next section, pulling the bow smoothly, she felt his fingers on her throat tapping lightly along with her left hand.

“Keep going.”

He shifted behind her as she moved into the next section— less wild than the first but still a whirlwind. And then he was behind her. Fitting into the space between her back and the back of the chair, sitting with his thighs on either side of her, his hands steadying himself on her hips.

The bow screeched, and the speaker thundered behind them.

“It’s all right,” he murmured into her neck. “Let’s do it together.”

She started from the beginning without prompting. She could feel his breath on her skin, his fingertips light on her waist. She moved through the second measure, not sure if she wanted this to be over or to go on forever. And then he leaned forward, pressing his chest flush against her spine, pushing her body forward—and then back.

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