Chapter 12
Ever
The last note hangs in the air, holding on like it plans to live there. The crowd erupts in applause, effectively evicting the frequency until the next song. My set partner, Kian, and I both nod our appreciation.
Saturday night at The Striped Maple is always a good time, but tonight there’s a current that runs through the dinner crowd.
Out of habit, we’re set up off to the side of the enormous stone fireplace.
During the colder months, a roaring fire fills the hearth, the focal point of the pub, heating the large room and making it a favorite stop for locals and tourists alike.
Plus, they have the best brownies. Which I hope to share just how delicious they are with the gorgeous man I woke up wrapped around this morning.
I scan the diners, laughing and chatting about their day’s adventures.
It’s early enough that families rushing to and from weekend activities and parents wanting a day off from cooking fill the tables, knowing there’s a good chance that picky eaters will find something they like with chicken tenders, hamburgers, mac-and-cheese, and grilled cheese on the menu.
But the person I’m looking for is missing.
Hundreds of little clamps tighten in my stomach until it’s sucked in so taut that my ribs risk being cracked.
Or at least that’s what it feels like. I reach down and grab the water bottle next to my chair and take a swig.
I will not be disappointed if Dmitri doesn't make it. Whatever this is between us is nothing more than hot sex. He’ll leave and go back to his life soon enough.
So what if the connection with him feels deeper than anyone I’ve dated?
Or that having him spend the last two nights was the most natural thing in the world?
The man has been open about being at a crossroads in his life.
And while I don’t know the details of his breakup last year, I get the sense that he was more grieved by it than he lets on.
I’ll just enjoy the time I have with him and his body while it lasts.
I relax my legs so they’re not at risk of crushing my cello. So, yeah, if he doesn’t show, it’s no big deal.
“When do you want to play your song?” Kian leans over his guitar and flips through his music.
“I don’t know…” For years I’ve experimented with composing simple songs for cello, mostly for myself.
Other than Kian and now Dmitri, since for some reason I shared that with him at our marathon first date, no one is aware of my compositions.
The only reason Kian knows is because last year, I took a stab at composing something for us to play together.
The creative process of composing was more fun than when I did it in college.
I guess composing for a grade takes a lot of the joy out of it.
My bees inspired the melding together of the cello and guitar.
I imagined them flitting after each other, pollinating, and being their bee selves.
When I presented the song to Kian a few months ago, my limbs were jittering with nerves and I considered ripping the music from his stand before he could view it.
But the minute he started plucking out the notes and tweaking a few here and there, making the composition better, my anxiety died.
We’ve rehearsed it a few times, and decided to debut it tonight.
That was before I invited an esteemed musician to watch us play.
I swipe my clammy palms on my denim-covered thighs. Will he judge the composition? Will he think less of me as a musician and person if he doesn’t like it? Will it be a turnoff? Does it matter? He’s not even here.
Kian plucks out what he was looking for and holds it up. “How about Hallelujah ?”
“Nah. Let’s play my song.” And if we get through it before Dmitri shows up—if he shows up—all the better.
“Yes.” Kian’s grin is as wide as when I first told him about the song. He holds out a fist and I bump it, letting his support settle around me. He repositions his guitar and looks at me expectantly. “Ready whenever you are.”
The door swings open, and my gaze flicks to it.
Carrying his violin and looking gorgeously harried with his sport coat flung over his arm and his blue oxford slightly wrinkled, Dmitri captures my gaze.
It could be wishful thinking, but his expression seems to soften when our eyes meet.
He mouths, “Sorry,” and winds his way to the bar, plopping himself onto a stool, and turns his full attention to Kian and me.
Instead of amping up my jitters, his watchfulness quiets them.
I make eye contact with Kian. With a jerk of my head, I give him a quick nod and glide my bow over the strings.
Kian plucks out his part. The voices around us fade into the background as I lose myself in the music.
I close my eyes, feeling every chord. Each note blooms into a different color, creating bouquets of harmonies as the guitar and cello sing to each other in a language we mortals cannot communicate without them.
A giddiness fills me while muscle memory guides my fingers as the music I created permeates the room, and every person here will walk out changed because of it. That is the beauty of music.
The song ends to a swell of applause and a whistle from Conall, who slides a bottle in front of Dmitri. Or I should say, behind him, because his back is to the bar, all his attention on me as he claps. His lips curve into a glowing smile that leaves me at a loss for breath.
“Thank you. That was a piece composed by our one and only Ever King.” Kian extends his arm in my direction.
The applause thunders with woots and cheers, but the only person I see is Dmitri. He stands and brings his hands to cup his mouth, letting out a loud woohoo . I bite my bottom lip and shake my head. Even from across the pub, I can see the sparkle in his eyes, and my heart skips.
Ugh. The things this man does to me in the short time I’ve known him.
It’s going to suck when he leaves.