Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
S ince I still had my keycard on me, instead of going back through the hotel, I led Aaron around to the back of the country club, my hand wrapped around his. “You’re sneaking me inside?” he asked in a hushed voice. “We’re not vandalizing property, right?”
I nearly snorted at the shock in his tone. “You’ll see.”
“I didn’t realize you were this bad of an influence.” He stepped right behind me as I waved my employee badge against the scanner, and the door unlocked with a click. “I hate to admit, I quite like it. Does that make me twisted?”
This time, I did snort, readjusting my grip on his hand so we could walk through the door. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
“Too late, my dear.”
The employee wing was completely dark when we stepped out of the cold. The last person to leave must’ve turned off the lights in this wing. It reinforced what I’d needed to confirm, though—we were alone. Aaron hesitated to let the door close after us, but I tugged him along. “It’s a little freaky after dark,” he murmured, tightening his grip on me.
“Kind of.” I took a right out of the nearest door outside the employee wing, which deposited us into the hallway that we needed. “Hopefully Nancy Du Ponte doesn’t bother us.”
He stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“People say her ghost wanders around at night.” I wiggled the fingers of my free hand at him. “And that the piano in the ballroom mysteriously begins to play on its own .”
Aaron didn’t crack a smile. “You’re not funny.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Didn’t have a good history with the late country club founder?”
“She didn’t like me.” Aaron grimaced. “At all. If she’s going to haunt anyone, it’s most definitely going to be me.”
“Best I stick with you, then.”
“Oh, sure. I’ll be the human sacrifice to appease the dead. Why not?” He’d said it jokingly, but then it was like something else occurred to him. “I hope that isn’t why you brought me in here after hours. As some sort of country club sacrifice.”
I could’ve dropped his hand then, simply just allowed him to follow, but I didn’t want to let go. Not yet. “You’ll see.”
“And yet I’m still following you. Definitely twisted.”
I looked up and smiled at him, even though I was sure he could barely see it in the darkness. For the first time since I’d stumbled upon him tonight, Aaron smiled back.
We came to the hallway that housed the music hall, its door still propped open with light filtering out. Even though I’d been in it practically all day, seeing the door now caused anticipation to swell behind my ribs. Ever since Sunday night, I’d thought about it. And thought about it. And thought about it. And now, I had the chance.
“I get a sneak peek of the fundraiser’s set up?” Aaron guessed as we walked inside. I let go of his hand then, mostly because my palms had begun to sweat. “You’ve been working in here all week, haven’t you?”
“Mostly in the ballroom.” We came to the mouth of the grand room, coming around the front of the stage. I gestured to it. “But it does look different without all the junk, doesn’t it?”
It’d been a feat, finding new places to stash the items that’d been cluttering the stage, but they were all gone now. Instead, the sleek black piano from the ballroom had been moved to perch atop it—which had been a nightmare for the movers—along with the crates of flowers Trisha and Monica had brought in. Aaron’s eyes bounced around the stage before pausing on them. “Indeed.”
“Did you order those before?” I asked Aaron, gesturing at the crates.
“Before?”
“Before you broke things off with Fiona. Someone said they were for a surprise you were planning?”
“Oh.” Aaron looked away from them as if the sight turned his stomach. “Yes. They were ordered before.”
I shouldn’t have said anything; ugh , I could’ve kicked myself. “I’m sure they’ll find somewhere to put them,” I said brightly, and uncaring about my damp palms, I reached for his hand again. “This way.”
Instead of cupping my palm, this time, Aaron wove his fingers between mine, the fit perfect. I led him around the backside of the stage and up the ramp that led to the surface. You couldn’t see it from the main floor, but behind the curtains backstage, there were other instruments lined up in their cases. “The charity had these delivered this morning,” I told him. “For the musicians they’ve invited to perform.”
Aaron nodded, but then again, he was helping out with the charity. He probably knew all that.
Releasing his hand, I walked forward and bent down in front of the case that caught my eye the second it’d entered the building. Like a sailor lured by a siren’s song, I reached for the locks on the hard case, popping them undone. The lid flipped easily, revealing a glistening, glimmering cello beneath. The antiqued Italian oil varnish brought the maple to life, and even in the dimness of the shadows, it was a beacon to me.
It was a beacon to Aaron as well, because he came and stood closer beside me, joining me in the admiration. A soft exhale escaped me at the way the stage lights reflected from the glossy surface, the tension in my body unwinding. But not all the way, not yet. Trembling, I reached out to trace the cello’s neck when Aaron’s hand reached to do the same, and the sides of our hands brushed each other’s. My heart jumped at the contact and sprinted at a rapid pace when Aaron didn’t immediately pull his hand back.
“It’s beautiful,” Aaron murmured, turning to look at me. Our faces were suddenly close. The stage lights made his normally dark eyes seem lighter, alive. “Isn’t it?”
I looked away from him and stretched my hand out further. And then, holding my breath, I pressed my finger to the C string and gave it the barest wiggle. The thick cord gave way beneath the pressure, and I could’ve closed my eyes at the way my body relaxed. My words were quiet, afraid of chasing away this feeling. “This is the first time I’ve touched a cello since my mother died.”
I slid my finger over to the D string, basking in the difference of the thinner cord. The way I poked at them was all wrong, amateur, but I’d need to pick it up to touch it properly.
“When I found out who you were in June,” I began, and this time, my eyes did slip close, “I felt so betrayed. I’d been waiting for the universe to send me someone—my mother to send me someone—and it sent you .” My finger slipped over to the G string. “Aaron Astor, who got everything he wanted in life handed to him. Aaron Astor, who never had bad things happen to him.”
I could remember how violently my opinion of him had shifted the second I’d found out who he was. Before, I’d almost felt convinced when he’d told me I should jump. And then, when he’d introduced himself, his words had soured within me. It felt as if I’d fallen victim to a scam, because of course Aaron Astor could never understand my struggles.
“But now I know,” I went on in a low voice, eyes slowly opening. “It couldn’t have been anyone else other than you.”
No one had ever understood me the way Aaron did. And, in the beginning, I’d hated it. I’d hated the way he could see right through me, as if I were a piece of sheet music he read and memorized. He’d point out things about me that I’d shoved down, as if those dark secrets had been written all over my face. And even when I got angry, even when I yelled at him, he still welcomed me back time and time again, infinitely understanding.
I’d never thought someone could become so important to me so quickly, but somehow Aaron Astor had become that person.
Holding Aaron’s gaze, I gave the cord a full strum, eliciting a low, quiet note, the first breath of music I’d made in five years. Everything that’d laid dormant inside me fluttered to life. “I want to play for you.”
Aaron’s breath caught. He understood the significance. I could see that realization wash over him as his lips parted. The last time I’d played had been for my mother, who listened to every one of my performances, and that, when she’d died, I couldn’t bring myself to play without her. And now I wanted to play for him. “Are you sure?” His voice was low, slipping along my skin like a deep note of its own.
I didn’t hesitate. “Without a doubt.”
The brown centers of his eyes were dark and deep, almost melting into the pupil as he watched me.
“Go sit,” I told him gently, turning my attention back to the instrument case. “I’ll… set up.”
It was ridiculous to say that I needed a moment, and I didn’t want him to think I had doubts. Aaron wordlessly stood and headed off stage, leaving me alone with the cello. It stared back at me from its case, so grand and beautiful, daring me to do more than caress its strings.
With shaking hands, I unclasped the strap that secured the cello’s neck. For a moment, I paused there.
There’s always tomorrow , my mother had said.
It was officially tomorrow.
The cello was heavy as I eased it from its case, fingers curving around the smooth wood on muscle memory. There was a rock stop in the case that I picked up before I pulled the bow out, and suddenly my hands were filled with pieces of my past that felt so light. Pieces of me.
When I came out to the stage, out from behind the curtain, I found Aaron had pulled the bench seat from the piano to the center of the stage underneath a spotlight. I pulled in a quick breath, searching for him, before finding him seated in the front row.
“Pretend I’m wearing something nicer than my Alderton-Du Ponte polo,” I told him. “Pretend I’m wearing something pretty. And that my hair isn’t in a ponytail.”
“I will not pretend anything,” Aaron replied, attention never wandering from me. “I’m going to take you in, Lovisa Hahn. All of you. Just as you are.”
My heart felt like it was about to explode in my chest. My legs were unsteady as I crossed the stage to the bench seat, sitting down. The first thing I did was transfer the bow to my other hand, gripping the neck of the cello but also pinching the bow between my thumb and finger. I eased the cello onto my lap, pulled out the endpin, and screwed it tight. Then, taking the rock stop, I placed it on the floor, easing the endpin into the gully so it wouldn’t slip on the stage’s hard surface. After I finished, I adjusted the cello between my legs, the sensation as familiar as it was unfamiliar.
This body was different from my eighteen-year-old body. It was curvier, stiffer. It’s been a long time , the cello mused as I settled in behind it. You’ve changed, but it’s good to see you .
As I tightened the bow strings, Aaron leaned back into his seat. “Is this the part where you play the cello and I’m immediately in awe of you?”
“Or the part where I start playing, and we both realize how bad it sounds when someone hasn’t played in five years.”
“I am prepared either way.”
I took in a deep breath as I straightened my spine, a shiver slipping down it as I readjusted my grip on the bow. I closed my eyes, knowing which piece I would play. It was one of the only pieces I could play from memory, but wondered if the music would remember me.
Elgar’s Cello Concerto.
For a moment, I just sat there, transported to a time where my dreams still felt within reach. Before my mom died, before I worked at Alderton-Du Ponte, before my life had become nothing more than going through the motions.
I’d love to hear you play it , Aaron had said back in June. Elgar’s Cello Concerto.
And it was finally time.
The first note bloomed from the strings like a breath held too long, quivering and uncertain before settling into the air. I froze, cutting off the progression, the sound reverberating and swirling around me.
If you play the cello, you’re a cellist .
I was a cellist.
I started over, my fingers finding their space instinctively. What started as hesitation quickly turned into intention as the piece gripped me, muscle memory replacing my uncertainty. Elgar’s Concerto was one I’d always gravitated toward playing, the one piece I could truly lose myself in. With each subtle, rhythmic rock of my fingertip paired with the fluid way my bow kissed the strings, the notes came to life. They echoed in the dim, empty theater, the push and pull of the rapid pace.
For the first time in years, it felt like I was finally speaking—pouring out everything I hadn’t known how to say. Now, the music didn’t just fill the space around me; it reached inside, prying free parts of me I’d tried so hard to lock away.
As I played, I could feel myself transported back. Not just to the hours upon hours of practicing this piece, but all the other concertos, all the other concert halls and performances—a whole life I’d left behind when my mother passed away. The realization of something missing had always clung to me, but I’d always assumed it was solely from her stark absence.
But it wasn’t just the Mom-shaped hole that’d left me numb. As I played, warmth seeped back into my soul, one note at a time.
My rendition wasn’t clean. It wasn’t technical in the slightest. I played solely with my heart; my instructor would’ve scolded me. But it was bare and raw and dripping of everything I’d held back in the past five years. Desperation and pain and grief and unhappiness—mixed in with joy and warmth and hope. All of it brimmed inside me, nearly too much to contain.
I glided the bow rapidly across the strings in a short line, drawing the vibrato out while shifting my fingers on the strings to play the last notes.
And then, in a flourish, I drew the bow off, plucked a few notes with my fingertips just above the cello’s bridge, before drawing the bow across once more for the final note.
Finished.
I gasped in a sharp breath of air, the sound stark and raw after the beautiful hum of the cello. It was highly unprofessional—a good cellist knew to time their breath with the music as to not distract the audience—but for the first time in a long, long time, I’d lost myself, forgetting how to breathe.
My chest heaved, the air scraping my insides raw. The second movement was over, but the final notes of Elgar’s Concerto still clung to my skin, reverberating around in my body. Each of my limbs still hummed with the vibration of the cello, but all of me ached from the performance—my wrists, my arms, my thighs, my fingers.
The weight of everything I’d poured into the piece sat on my chest, a pressure I’d never felt before, like ripping apart a dam inside me brick by brick. And then I began to cry.
It wasn’t like the tears in the dream house that’d torn their way out of me, jagged and raw. These tears were near-silent as they slipped down my cheeks, with the only sound being my sharp inhales. It wasn’t just the concerto—despite it being my favorite and most feared piece. I had just experienced loss all over again as I’d played, only to rediscover what my heart had been longing for. Desperate for.
It was… everything.
I didn’t realize Aaron had come up onto the stage until he stood right in front of me. He eased the bow out of my death grip, wrapping his other hand around the neck of the cello where it propped against my shoulder. “Let me,” he murmured, pulling the instrument away. I trembled so violently that it was a wonder it hadn’t fallen to begin with. Aaron laid the instrument onto its back before turning back to me, kneeling into the space where my cello had been resting. “Lovisa,” Aaron said. “Look at me.”
I was looking at him, though, looking down at the way he crouched between my thighs and peered up at me.
He pushed up onto his knees fully and reached for me, tracing the lightest touches along my cheekbones. It took me a moment to realize he was swiping away my tears. “You were amazing .”
Amazing. My fingers twitched where they hung midair, trembling, unsure where to land.
“You haven’t played in five years, but that was pure magic. You played the concerto as if it were made for you.” Aaron looked at me so earnestly—so openly . I could see every square inch of expression on his face, illuminated by the stage lights, as if they were the true performance. The half, stunned smile lit up his face as he gazed at me, lowering his hands to rest lightly on my knees. “It was like listening to the music breathe through you as you played. Lovisa, I—I’m in awe of you. Thank you for playing for me. Thank you .”
There was no higher compliment, especially from someone who knew music. Who knew what it was like to pour your feelings into a piece and hear how it responded. I was as transparent as clear glass sitting before him, because to play an instrument was to lay yourself bare, and Aaron saw it all. And he was in awe .
And I couldn’t hold back anymore.
My hands that had been trembling, unsure where to go, finally made their decision. They landed on top of his hands, pressing them firmer against my legs. Without a word, I leaned down and pressed my lips to Aaron’s, as if that, alone, would keep me from coming fully undone.
And for a moment, it worked. Time suspended the second our lips touched, both of us still under the surprise of it all—even me. My heart swelled to a near explosive degree as my fingers curled around the backs of his hands, tasting the tears on my lips as they pressed steadier against his. I thought I’d wrung myself dry over the piece, but as I kissed Aaron, I realized there was an emotion I hadn’t yet touched: desire.
But Aaron abruptly sat back on his heels, severing the connection before three seconds could even pass. He didn’t look at me, but at where his hands rested, still captured underneath mine. He didn’t tugged them back. “What are you doing?” Aaron’s voice was a ragged whisper. “What are you doing to me ?”
It charged me like a battery, zinging along my skin. “What am I doing?”
“Confusing me. Holding my hand. Choosing me to be your first audience since your mother. Telling me to marry you, and then taking it back a second later—” He broke off with a shaky inhale, like he was barely holding himself together. “ Why are you doing it to me?”
Aaron Astor was coming apart at the seams, body tight as a cello bowstring as he held himself back. Both of his arms were rigid, but his expression was so open and filled with a rawness that I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to. “Because I like you, Aaron Astor.”
His breath caught. His eyes fluttered shut, as if the words were too much to process. I wondered if he’d ever heard those words like that before, in this context. Probably not. Aaron, who had never been in love, who thought he wasn’t meant for it, surely never had someone confessing to him before.
The thought made me want to say them again, to make him feel it. So I did. In a little whisper, with my fingers tender against his, I repeated, “ I like you .”
His silence was long enough that I thought he was about to reject me—to shrug me off, to tell me he didn’t feel the same way.
But when Aaron closed his eyes and sighed, it was as if, like me, something unlocked inside him. A dam that I’d pulled apart brick by brick. My words had just ripped free a structurally necessary piece of his last wall, and now there was no holding it back.
Aaron surged forward, back up onto his knees, pushing me back into my chair as he returned my kiss with his own. He reclaimed my lips with a fervent, desperate kiss, as if he were starving and I was the only thing that could satisfy him. He ripped his hands out from underneath mine, lifting to reclaim their spot on either side of my face, holding me to him. His touch was intense, almost frantic, like he couldn’t keep himself back any longer.
There was no uncertainty in his kiss, no vagueness—nothing but passion that matched mine in equal measure, as if my playing had drawn out a foreign desire of his own.
Inexplicably, I thought of élégie’s op 24. The piece built from a quiet, sorrowful murmur to a desperate and impassioned cry, the cello’s voice growing in power and urgency, soaring above the piano’s insistent chords. The piece was raw and exposed, as though every hidden yearning and unspoken ache had been brought to light.
I imagined playing that piece now, composure shattering just as the crescendo did, leaving me unable to think straight. I curled my fingers through the mess of dark locks at the nape of Aaron’s neck, pulling him as close as I could. My lips touched his as if they were pressing against a cello string, eliciting the low notes of the instrument.
And, in the madness of the cello’s peak, the piano was just as uncontrolled. Aaron’s right hand traced its way from my cheek to the curve of my shoulder, hesitating there, pressing lightly along the top of my collarbone where my cello neck had sat. He dragged his thumb along the skin that my polo left exposed, as if he were drawing along the cello strings. Fire raced down my spine as he moved on, hand slipping down my side to secure his hold at my waist. All five of his fingers were splayed wide, wrapped around my hip, causing me to gasp against his mouth.
In élégie’s piece, the piano notes were a steady, fierce force against the cello’s wave of melody, the two pairing together, propelling toward a breaking point. Aaron’s fingers were like that now, mimicking the way he played the piano, tracing the keys to draw out the music.
Only this time, I was his piano, and my gasps were the notes he sought.
I wanted to burn this moment in my brain, the brimming happiness and need and fire and music, because I wanted to feel this over and over. I’d never be able to listen to élégie’s piece again, not without thinking of this moment. For the first time in years, in Aaron’s arms, I truly felt alive .
And then we broke apart with a gasp. Aaron leaned back ever so slightly, but I chased the distance and leaned my forehead down to his, savoring in the breathless rise and fall of his chest. Aaron’s hand still lingered at my hip, my fingers still wound in his hair, and we were caught in the aftermath of the crescendo, the piano and cello slowly ebbing into quiet resignation.
Aaron’s eyes were closed, but mine were open, committing every inch of him to memory. Pressing my fingers against the skin of his neck, I whispered, “Marry me.”
And just like that, as Aaron went rigid, the lingering music found its way to completion, leaving nothing but silence. Aaron didn’t move, but his eyes did open, though they didn’t lift to mine. His fingers on my hip had become a softer pressure, as if he was about to let go.
“Marry me,” I murmured again, this time with a bit more strength. “I mean it. I won’t take it back this time.” I chuckled a little after the last line, hoping it’d loosen him up. He didn’t react. “I—I know I’m not like Fiona. I’m not rich, and I don’t have a business you can run, but you and I could?—”
He looked at me, lips still slightly parted, but his expression was darker now, more serious than I’d ever seen it. “Why…” He started low, but trailed off, almost as if he didn’t want to speak whatever it was aloud. “Why did you take it back the first time?”
This wasn’t the first time he’d asked, either, but I hadn’t answered it before. “I?—”
“When you told me to marry you. You were panicked when you took it back before. Why?” He wasn’t angry, but there was a quiet intensity to his voice, as if he needed to know the answer.
“I mean, a lot of things had happened—the elevator getting stuck, running into Grant?—”
“You didn’t want to marry me.” He looked up at me, lips red and cheeks pink, but expression gravely serious. “What changed?”
He was acting as if I was about to say just kidding again, as if it couldn’t possibly be real. Then again, it wasn’t like I had the greatest track record. I brought my other hand up, smoothing back his dark hair. “You want to know why I changed my mind?” I asked him gently, smoothing my thumb along his jawline. “I hate the idea of you marrying Fiona. I hate thinking about you being stuck with someone like her. I hate thinking about you doing it even though you don’t want to. Marry me instead.” And just as I’d wanted to before, I raised both of my hands to rest lightly along the sides of his face, holding his gaze to mine. “Make the catastrophic choice, and marry me instead.”
My words had almost the opposite effect I wanted them to. Aaron’s eyes were so hollow; the dark color went deep, but there was no light to fill them. I wanted to shake him awake, because surely, he just wasn’t understanding me. He didn’t have to marry Fiona. I wouldn’t back out this time. This time, I meant it. But the quiet horror on Aaron’s face was unmistakable.
Aaron’s hand fell from my hip, and the absence of pressure made me feel free-floating. “She said you’d say that,” he all but whispered, more to himself than to me.
“What? Who said that?” I frowned. “Fiona?”
But Aaron didn’t answer.
I didn’t know why Aaron was so panicked by the offer, but I didn’t push or pry it out of him. Just as I needed to come to terms with everything regarding my mother’s house over time, I’d let him find his own way. “If you need time to think about it, you can.” I combed my fingers through his hair, tracing his face, trying to chase away the anxiety that clearly gnawed at him. “You have a week, after all. But I won’t take it back this time. I promise.”
Let’s jump together , I thought, pulse stirring in my chest. Together .
And then I leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, feeling him tremble beneath my lips. When I pulled back, Aaron sat onto his heels, slipping out of reach from my hands, and they fell into my lap. I stood, picking the cello up from where he’d set it down, and carried it over to its hard case. The magic from the moment had dissipated slightly, but I refused to give it up entirely—refused to give him up.
I finished putting the cello away, but when I came back to the center of the stage, I found that Aaron had left without a word.