Chapter Ten #2
He shifts, his body angling forward as he gracefully lowers himself into a push-up position.
When Amanda first started working as a nurse full-time, she became deeply invested in yoga; it was her preferred form of stress relief.
I was often dragged to a class alongside her.
I’m familiar enough with the practice to know that he’s about to chaturanga his way into up-dog, which means that he’ll be facing me.
I should really turn away. It would be very, very weird for him to find me staring at him like this.
But my curiosity about this development—about why Oliver does yoga and when he started and why he is so sweaty right now—causes a hesitation just long enough to doom me.
He does exactly as I expect; he shifts forward, his spine and shoulders rolling until he’s posed like a seal basking in the sun.
When his eyes find me hovering in the shadows of the den, he loses focus and drops from the position.
I blush so hard my cheeks could light the whole house on fire.
Scrambling, I turn away from the porch and bust my ass back into the kitchen.
I’ve only taken two sips of my coffee so far but I’m wide awake now, my heart pounding in my chest as I flit around the kitchen like a lost hummingbird.
I can hear the doors to the porch open, then the click of the latch as they close.
Bracing myself, I position myself at the sink, which overlooks the front yard of the house by way of a big window.
I try to focus on the bees buzzing around a leafy bush full of vibrant yellow flowers, but I can’t.
My thoughts are consumed by how awkward I just made our first morning as roommates/colleagues.
Not to mention how good he looked all sprawled out on his green yoga mat.
“Hey.”
I whirl around at the sound of his voice.
He’s standing on the other side of the kitchen island, his chest moving with labored breaths.
There’s a dusting of pink across his high cheekbones, though I can’t tell if it’s from yoga-related exertion or my voyeurism.
I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my face is still flushed with heat.
“Hey.” It comes out higher-pitched than I intended.
For several long seconds, we stare at each other. Oliver keeps his focus on my face, but I’m still grateful that I took the time to change out of my pajamas. A pair of opaque black leggings and a hoodie is better than a holey Juilliard T-shirt and my underwear.
Because I’m an extrovert who can’t handle silence, I say, “I didn’t take you for a yogi.”
“I’m not,” he replies. “A professional, I mean. I’ve only been practicing for a few years. I usually do it after a workout.”
“You worked out?” I blink. “This morning?”
“Yeah, in the gym downstairs. The yoga—I do it after. It’s good for my back.”
“Your back?” I ask, struggling to process this new knowledge of Oliver’s lifestyle.
“I have terrible posture,” he says as he rubs a hand along the back of his neck. “Too many years hunched over at a piano.”
He did have terrible posture when we were younger.
Even when standing, he curled into himself, as if he could somehow make himself smaller if he tried hard enough.
Maybe that’s why he’s so much bigger than I expected—not only does he exercise now, but he ironed out the wrinkles that used to make him look crumpled.
“Oh. Well, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” It’s my turn to do something with my hands, so I tap my fingers on the coffee mug I’m clutching. “Sorry.”
He clears his throat as his hand drops to his side. “I see you found the coffee. I didn’t have time to do a full grocery run, but I got the basics. We’ll have to go to the market at some point in the next couple of days.”
“Yeah. Okay. No problem.”
His gaze dips down my body, then darts away to the window behind me. It’s fleeting, the way he looks at me, but I don’t miss it. I have to stop myself from running away from this awkward exchange. Finally, after a long beat, he drags his eyes back to me with what looks like a concerted effort.
“Do you want to take a look at the studio? I can show you around, if you want.” His tone is pleasant. Helpful, even.
I nod, relieved that he’s not annoyed that I made this morning so weird. “That’d be great.”
He leads me through the den and to the half-wood, half-glass door we only glanced at last night. As soon as he lets me in, a gasp escapes my lips. I clutch my coffee to my chest, right next to my thundering heart. It’s magnificent.
There’s an enormous multiscreen computer against a partition, with a built-in keyboard and desk full of various sound mixers.
It faces an internal window that looks out over an honest-to-god sound booth, complete with a small baby grand piano, a drum set, and a handful of microphones that dangle from the ceiling.
There’s even a glockenspiel and a set of bells tucked away against one wall.
Even the lighting in here is nice, with soft overhead cans that emit a gentle, comfortable glow. The walls are a blond wood, so the space still feels bright despite having no windows. It puts my paltry home studio to shame.
A rush of gratitude overwhelms me for Oliver—for him even having access to this kind of place, and for his insistence we come here.
This is better than anything I could have ever secured for us in the city.
At the same time, I’m overwhelmed by something else that makes my head spin in a pleasant, dizzying sort of way.
It’s the salt-and-spice scent of his skin, still a little sweat slicked from his workout.
I shake my head to clear my thoughts and look over at him. He’s standing next to me, hands on his hips, as he surveys the computer setup. He reaches down to push a button, and all four screens come to life.
“So, this is it,” he explains. “It’ll take a few minutes for this to boot up, but you’re welcome to play anything in here.”
“Thank you.” The sincerity in my voice must catch his attention. He looks back at me with furrowed brows, so I add, “Seriously. Thank you. This is amazing.”
“It’s—well, yeah.” His face softens, almost like he’s relieved. “You’re welcome.”
I smile as he stumbles over his words. All these years later and he still doesn’t know how to take a compliment or a bit of gratitude. But unlike before, I find it more endearing than annoying.
“So how’s this work?” I ask. “Should we take turns in here, or sit down together, or…?”
He blinks rapidly, as if caught off guard by my questions. My own uncertainty multiplies as he drags a hand over his face and then through his hair. His jaw muscle tenses when he folds his arms across his chest. My own spine stiffens in response.
I thought these were normal—if not slightly forward—questions to ask of a creative partner. We have to figure out how to compose together, right? Is the thought of working alongside me so terrible that he’s clenching his teeth? If so, then why did he ask me to stay here with him?
All of a sudden, I’m eighteen years old again, already self-conscious as an outsider at Juilliard, feeling the sting of Oliver’s rejection when I invited him to join our study group.
His reaction had been so similar then—an icy kind of shock, followed by him literally fleeing from me in a hallway, as if I wasn’t worth the words.
That was worse than any verbal “no thanks.”
Slowly, Oliver shakes his head and directs his gaze to the door behind me. “I should shower,” he says quietly. “And organize my notes on the script.”
I swallow hard and force myself to return to the present. “Okay. Well, you know where to find me.”
Two hours later, Oliver comes back downstairs dressed in a pale-yellow linen button-down and jeans, smelling of classic soap as we pass each other in the hall.
He heads into the studio as I scrounge up a brunch made of buttered toast. When I’m done eating, the door to the studio is closed.
All I can see through the glass panes of the door is the curve of Oliver’s spine as he hunches over the computer desk.
I can’t bring myself to go inside and join him.
SPRING CONCERT
Juilliard
Wednesday, April 29, at 6:00 p.m.
The Juilliard Orchestra—All Levels
Berlioz
Roman Carnival Overture
Shostakovich
Symphony No. 9
Stravinsky
Suite from The Firebird
Featuring Oliver Barlowe on piano
This concert is performed in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the Bachelor of Music degree.