Page 77 of Last Chorus

I’m still buzzing and relearning how to breathe when he whispers in my ear, “The reason my cum tastes good is because I’m made for you.” He leaves right afterto wash his face and hands, sparing me the embarrassment of a witness as I dazedly wonder if he’s right.

When he returns, he has his own acoustic, a custom Gibson slightly larger than mine. I cozy up in blankets, grinning like a fangirl because I haven’t heard him play in far too long.

He stands dramatically before the fire. Makes a show of tuning the guitar with a frown of concentration and nervous glances. Right when I’m convinced he’s about to break my heart, he launches into a ridiculous, ad hoc song about a storm cloud that contains no less than five sexual puns.

We spend the rest of the afternoon playing an old game where we give the other person a color, emotion, and a setting, and five minutes to come up with a jingle.

Just before sunset, the rain lets up and the sky partly clears. We bundle up and go outside, presumably to see if any tree branches have fallen, but end up walking down to the water on a path clogged by yellow and white daffodils. The blooms are a little beat up from the storm but glow like fallen stars in the fading sunlight.

I crouch beside a section of flowers near the small beach and gently lift bent stalks. “I planted these same colors once. Did you ever see them? At my first place?”

Wilder’s gaze lifts from the flowers. “I saw them.”

I almost ask whether these were here when hebought the property or if he planted them, but something stops me. Maybe how presumptuous the question is, but more likely his lack of smile.

A cloud covers the sun, the temperature instantly dropping, and a gust off the water makes me shiver.

“Let’s head in,” he says softly. “I’ll get started on dinner.”

He pulls me up, warm fingers around mine for two seconds before he releases me and tucks his hand in a pocket.

Those two seconds—and the loss of them—stay with me as he reheats leftover pastitsio. As I fold the blankets and clean up the mess we left on the coffee table.

Lights are turned back on. Candles are blown out. The fire is covered by a grate and left to die.

Over dinner, we try to get it back—the peaceful, joyful bubble we floated in most of the day—and we almost do a few times. But as we finish eating, Wilder’s phone starts vibrating on the mantel and doesn’t stop. He ignores the first two calls, but on the third, he leaves the table to grab it.

He frowns down at the screen.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

His eyes meet mine for a moment. “Fine, but I need to return a call. Be back in a sec.”

He walks from the room before I can decide whether or not I have the right to ask who’s calling.

By the time he returns, the kitchen is clean and the dishwasher is running.

“Don’t tell me I didn’t have to,” I say as he opens his mouth. “I might throw a chair at your face.”

He chuckles. “I was going to say ‘thank you,’ you maniac. Want to watch a movie?”

I stare at him, waiting for more before realizing he’s setting another boundary. He’s not going to tell me who was on the phone, and he doesn’t want me to ask.

Because he’s not mine.

The silence vibrates, a rubber band stretched to snap. I can already feel the impending sting.

I summon a weak smile. “I’m actually pretty tired.”

Concern, regret, acceptance—they cross his face like fast moving clouds before he nods. “Absolutely, sure. Sleep well, okay? I’ll see you in the morning.”

I’m smilingas I thank him for dinner and say goodnight. Smiling as I grab the two blankets I brought down from the guest room.Smiling, smilingas I say goodnight againand leave him standing in the kitchen with a lost expression on his face.

Upstairs in my room, I close the door, flip on the light, and faceplant on the bed. The sting in my chestintensifies. When it migrates to the backs of my eyes, I growl and haul myself into the bathroom.

Wilder’s doing what’s right for him, and the only thing I can do is respect that and hope that within the next few weeks, I’ll find the fortitude to lay it all out for him. How I’m scared of the future but equally certain I want to spend it with him. How I want to keep him, keepus.

I just need a little more time to get a handle on myself. To remember who I am and resuscitate my confidence. To learn how to tune out the voice in the back of my mind that’s so intent on undermining every moment of peace with parroted, poisonous words.

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