Chapter 12 Measures of Doubt #2
Her gaze drifted to the keyboard in the corner, the way it always did when she didn't know what else to do with herself.
It was the kind of beginner's model that would have made her students wince, but Theodora had shown it to her with such unguarded excitement that Catherine had privately resolved never to say a word about it.
She stood without quite deciding to, her body moving toward it before her mind caught up.
Behind her, she felt Theodora shift on the couch, her attention following but making no move to interrupt.
Catherine lowered herself onto the small bench, her posture automatically correcting itself even though no one was watching to judge. Her fingers hovered above the keys without touching them, suspended in the space between intention and action.
"May I?" she asked, her voice quiet in the apartment's stillness.
"You never have to ask," Theodora said, just as softly.
Catherine let her fingers settle on the keys, feeling the plastic smooth and cool beneath her skin. It wasn’t the ivory she was accustomed to; it didn’t have the responsive action of a proper piano, but any instrument could be coaxed into making sound if you knew how to ask.
She pressed down gently, finding middle C, letting the single note resonate through the small speaker before her right hand found the opening phrase of something she'd played years ago, Satie.
The melody came out hesitant, each note arriving a half-beat late as if her fingers had forgotten how to trust themselves, and she stopped after four bars and started again, Schumann this time, Tr?umerei, learned at thirteen and usually effortless, but her fingers stumbled over the transitions, and the phrasing came out unfinished.
She stopped again.
It wasn't a performance. It wasn't even really practice. It was something else entirely, something more raw. She was playing the way she used to play as a child, before technique and interpretation and audience expectations had layered themselves over the simple act of making sound.
Her hands moved to a different position, finding the opening of Clair de Lune without planning to. She made it through the first phrase this time, the melody emerging more clearly, but her fingers faltered on the transition, and she stopped, letting the incomplete phrase hang in the air.
She tried again, skipping past the part where she'd stumbled, finding a later section that felt easier.
The notes came out slowly, tentatively, like she was testing each one before committing to the next.
The whole thing sounded nothing like the polished version she'd performed a hundred times before.
But it was hers. That was the difference.
Playing alone in Theodora's apartment with no one to impress and no reputation to uphold, the music became something personal again.
Something that belonged to her rather than to audiences and students and critics and the careful image she'd spent decades constructing.
The couch creaked softly as Theodora stood. Catherine heard her footsteps crossing the hardwood floor, quiet and deliberate. She didn't turn, didn't move, just sat waiting while Theodora approached.
The bench was small, barely wide enough for one person, definitely not designed for two. But Theodora sat anyway, settling beside Catherine with careful attention to the limited space, her body warm along Catherine's side from shoulder to hip to thigh.
"You know,” Theodora said, “I think that might be my favorite thing you’ve ever played,"
Catherine shook her head. "It was a mess."
"It was honest."
The word landed between them, simple and true. Catherine turned her head and found Theodora looking at her, their faces close enough that she could see the flecks of darker green in Theodora's irises.
Catherine felt her pulse accelerate, felt warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with wine or confession or the simple comfort of being understood.
This was something she'd been carefully not acknowledging for months now, pretending their late-night conversations and shared meals and comfortable silences were just friendship when they'd stopped being just that a long time ago.
Theodora moved first, slowly, with the kind of deliberateness that left room to stop, her eyes finding Catherine's as she leaned in.
Catherine could feel the warmth of her breath, see the slight catch in her expression. She lifted her hands slowly, settling them against Theodora's face, cradling her jaw, holding them both exactly where they were.
"Theodora," she whispered against her lips.
Theodora's eyes searched hers. The confusion moved across her face and then settled into something quieter, something that looked uncomfortably like regret.
She didn't try to close the distance. She just stayed, with Catherine's hands still holding her face, and the almost between them suspended in the air.
"Have I just ruined everything?" Theodora asked, almost to herself.
"No." Catherine's voice came out unsteady. "No. Of course not." Her thumbs moved against Theodora's cheeks in a silent apology. "We can just forget about it."
"I don't want to," Theodora said. "I don't want to pretend this didn't happen or that what's between us isn't real when it already feels like we're halfway there."
Catherine felt her hands trembling against Theodora's face. She lowered them slowly, deliberately, letting them drop to her lap where they twisted together. The loss of contact pulled at her chest immediately like a physical thing begging her to put them back.
"I—I don't know how to explain."
Theodora leaned back, giving them both space but staying close enough that their knees still touched. "Try, please."
Catherine looked down at her hands, at the fingers that had just been playing piano, that had traced Theodora's face with more tenderness than she'd allowed herself to feel in...years? Ever?
"I’m going to ruin this," she said quietly. "And I'll end up hurting you.”
“You don’t know that—" Theodora started, but Catherine shook her head.
"I do. Because I can't give you more than this. And—" Her voice caught, betraying the control she'd been maintaining. "It’s not enough, Theodora.”
The confession hung between them, honest in ways Catherine rarely allowed herself to be. She watched Theodora process it, saw the emotions flickering across her face too quickly to identify individually.
Catherine held her gaze, willing her to understand what she couldn't quite articulate. "What we have right now, it’s—it's the most important thing I have. I don’t think you understand how much I need you. Starting something more would mean I risk losing you and—"
“And I’m not worth the risk? Got it.” Theodora stood slowly and walked to the window, the bench giving a small, unsteady shift beneath her.
"That's not—" Catherine took a steadying breath. "Will you look at me, please?"
When Theodora turned, Catherine's voice caught. "Look, I—" She pressed her fingertips against the piano keys without making a sound. "I just told you I need you. Do you have any idea how—" She shook her head, fingers lifting from the keys. "I’ve never said that. To anyone."
The silence stretched, painful in ways the earlier silences hadn't been. Catherine watched Theodora wrap her arms around herself, and God did she want to be the one holding her instead. But that was precisely the problem.
"I hear you. But right now, I—I just need some space," Theodora said, her voice quiet.
The words landed like physical blows. Catherine felt them in her chest, in her throat, in the sudden burning behind her eyes.
"Theodora—"
"I'm not trying to punish you, I swear, I’m not," Theodora continued, her gaze steady despite the emotion Catherine could hear beneath her words. "But I can't keep spending time with you and pretending that what I feel is only friendship. So I need some time to get over it, okay?"
Catherine nodded slowly, not trusting her voice to stay controlled if she tried to speak. She stood, her legs less steady than they should have been, and moved toward where her coat lay draped over the chair.
Theodora didn't try to stop her or offer platitudes about checking in later or any of the comfortable lies people told to soften moments like these. She just stood by the window, watching Catherine gather her things.
Catherine reached for her coat, fumbling with the sleeve as she tried to slide her arm in. She crouched for her shoes, taking three tries to work the heel of her right foot in properly. A loose strand of hair fell across her face; she tucked it back with shaking fingers.
When she finally stood, Theodora had drifted closer, arms still wrapped around herself as if holding something in.
"Just give me some time, okay? We'll be fine. We have to be because I—" Theodora stopped, her smile trembling at the edges as she bit her bottom lip. "I need you too."
Catherine nodded once, sharp and quick, and slipped out before the pressure behind her eyes could become anything more.
Her breath held like a fist in her chest until her own door clicked shut behind her.
The apartment was exactly as she'd left it. The same rooms, the same quiet, the same piano behind its closed door. Catherine stood in the entryway and felt the sameness of it like a rebuke.
She sat down on the couch without taking her coat off.
The evening turned itself over in her mind, the keyboard, Theodora's hands around hers, the way she had moved and the way Catherine had stopped her, and Theodora's face after, careful and composed in the way of someone putting themselves back together quickly so the other person won't see it happen. Catherine had done that to her.
She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.
She had been so careful, for so long, and she had no idea anymore whether careful had been the right thing or just the easiest one.