10. June #2
It should feel patronizing, but his breath is warm on my neck, brushing a spot that sends lightning bolts of pleasure coursing through me. I stifle a gasp. Two little words and I’m practically a puddle.
I worry he notices the effect he has on me, but he’s concentrating on Chelsea when she calls for a stop.
Natalia repositions Trayce and Santi. Trayce is about a quarter step too fast, and Santi a half step too slow, so they’re running into each other. “I want to nail this without relying on the revolving platform, guys. It’ll have more of an impact if we save it for …”
She continues, and Chelsea chimes in with suggestions about getting them in step. Nick whispers, “You’re a fast learner at least.”
“Shut up, I know how to turn pages.” I fight a petulant scowl.
“Because you have a good teacher.”
I glare at him but when our gazes meet, his eyes are so dark and intent on my mouth for a moment too long.
“Go from top!” Natalia shouts, and Nick turns to the music.
He wants to tease? Time for a little fun.
I turn my upper body into him and flip the page with my opposite hand, which means I have farther to reach.
As I lean over to turn another page, I fight a devious grin.
My chest presses against him. He lets out a hiss of air that I have no business enjoying as much as I do.
Nick’s too professional to play even one wrong note, but he pauses a moment too long, his body going taut against mine before it relaxes. I can’t look at him, it’s too much. I’m too caught up in all the places our bodies touch.
I spend the rest of rehearsal practically in his lap while pretending this is totally normal and not exquisite torture. I could combust with the sweet ache building inside me. Wiggling closer still, I need him to feel as helpless as I do.
I should hang on Natalia’s direction, or get friendly with Chelsea, that’s supposed to be why I accepted Natalia’s invitation last Friday. And I want to, I really, really do. But Nick’s so close, and he smells so good. So close that I catch that indefinable scent of his skin, warm and earthy.
The whole rehearsal going on around me doesn’t even register because all my synapses fire one word: Nick, Nick, Nick. I don’t know why this hurricane rages inside me, or why he’s the one causing it, but I don’t want to question it. I just want to lose myself in its depths.
Natalia calls an end to rehearsal, and only then do I hear my stomach rumble.
Nick takes off his glasses—angels weep—and packs away his music with agonizing slowness, all while I work up the nerve to meet his eye.
I feel like a teenager again, when all this was new and frightening.
Staring at a locked door, figuring out how to open it, all the while terrified of what lies beyond.
But still knowing I’ve got to unlock it or I’ll die.
Nick stands and turns to me. I crane my head up, still seated on the bench.
He swallows once, but before he speaks, Chelsea says, “So, what do you think?”
Crap, her question’s directed at me. “Nick’s amazing.” I clear my throat. “An amazing player. I haven’t heard him play since we were in school.”
Chelsea smiles wide, indulgent. “Yes, Nicholas is fabulous. But I meant rehearsal. How do you think it’ll shake out?”
“The kids are super talented, and most are very driven. That’ll take them far, and you guys will carry them over the finish line. It’ll come together.”
Natalia joins us. “Thanks for talking to Chantal. She was better today.”
“What was all that about anyway?” Nick asks.
Natalia, Chelsea, and I all reply at the same time. “She’s a teenage girl.”
We laugh, but it’s really not a joke. “She thinks she got cast as Thénardier because she’s in a bigger body.”
“She what ?” Natalia screeches.
“I told her that wasn’t the case,” I rush on. “But I feel for her. She thought she’d get Fantine because bigger girls are usually the mom.”
“Fuck,” Chelsea sighs, shaking her head.
Natalia bangs a fist on the top of the piano.
“This is why I can’t wait for my next show.
I’m directing one in the fall,” she adds, presumably for my benefit since she doesn’t know I’ve been creeping on her socials for months.
“It’s based on The Crucible , right? But the playwright added more older female characters, and there are great metaphors for aging and women's roles in society.”
“That sounds so cool,” I say, and she must sense the hunger in my voice, because her eyes light on mine.
“Exactly. You get it.”
“At least Chantal’s not a dormer,” Chelsea interjects. “Can you imagine dorm duties, doing the headcount and all that before curfew, and she’s got that attitude? I’d be pissed.”
We move apart after that, setting up rehearsal furniture for tomorrow and shutting off lights.
Once everything’s ready, we head for the stairs, out of the basement, and onto the sidewalk in front of the building.
Natalia turns to Nick and I. “How about drinks again, but not on a concert night? That way we’re not all exhausted. ”
“I’m down. June?” Nick turns to me, eyebrows raised. He’s asking for my benefit, of course I’ll agree. But something cold and slippery slides through my stomach.
“Yeah, yes. That would be awesome,” I reply.
“Sunday?” Chelsea asks.
“Oh, I can’t, I’m working the Sadlersburg Fair all w-weekend.
” I stutter over that last word because Nick slips his hand in mine.
After watching him play the piano at rehearsal, he needs to cover those things up.
The mere sight of them is pornographic, and his touch feels more intense than before I’d heard him play.
“Damn, we’ll pick another night. Maybe next weekend?”
“That should be good, unless my dad volunteers me for something else. Nick?”
“You know me, I never do anything.” Nick laughs but his self-deprecating humor doesn’t sit right with me.
Natalia waves as she and Chelsea head left, while Nick and I go right. I’m going to the dining hall, and I assume Nick’s getting his car in the parking lot.
We’re quiet, still hand in hand, and I savor that summer evening feel. Like the air held its breath all day and is only now releasing it. A cool breeze glides over my skin, bringing with it the sweet scent of flowers lining the path.
Or maybe it’s the man walking beside me, holding my hand.
I’d love to spend more time with him tonight, but asking him to dinner at the dining hall is decidedly unsexy. Going anywhere else requires his car, and I don’t want to invite myself along for his evening.
“So, are you excited for the fair?” His mouth twists and turns down around that last word.
“Not as excited as you sound.” I laugh.
“It’s fine. I’m chaperoning the Conservatory kids this year.”
“If you don’t like going, why chaperone?”
With another gentle squeeze of my hand, he starts walking, so we continue down the path. “I like chaperoning, it’s easy enough. The kids get hopped up on sugar and flit around the fairgrounds, and by the time they get back on the bus, they’re exhausted and quiet. The fair itself is …”
I wait, letting him gather his thoughts. I genuinely love the fair—I time my visits home so I can go.
“It’s a lot of people we went to high school with. And deep-fried food,” he finally replies.
“Don’t forget the bingo tent.”
He turns to me, smiling. “I didn’t take you for a gambler.”
“Does it bother you? Seeing people we graduated with?”
“No?” It sounds like a question, but I don’t think he means it that way. “Sometimes. It was different for me. High school. I wasn’t as popular.”
I laugh and shake my head. “How many times do I have to say I wasn’t popular, either.”
“Yes, you were. Everybody loved you.” There’s a teasing note in his words, but it clashes with something darker in his tone.
“It was more that they recognized me from the musicals and plays. Like I was a part of their high school experience, but I wasn’t real to them. Does that make sense?”
“No,” he laughs.
“It’s the difference between being loved for a performance, and being loved for who you are. And in high school, I was always performing, even when I wasn’t on stage.”
“Most kids feel like that. And I get what you’re saying, I do, but …” He sighs, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Even if it’s a performance, the love is still real. Don’t you think?”
I wish that were true so much it hurts. But love like that is a shadow of what we deserve, and it’s only ever left me feeling empty. “Maybe, but that performance is exhausting.”
“It is,” he whispers, and we fall silent.
I can’t bear the sadness wafting off him, or me, so I change the subject, “While I might not be pumped to run into former classmates, I am stupid excited for the fair. Where else can I pet a baby goat, gamble, and eat deep-fried Oreos until I puke?”
“Can’t wait to hold your hair back this weekend,” he says, but his voice is flat, there’s no teasing musicality to it.
“No such luck. My dad roped me into working the beer tent. So I’ll have to shovel funnel cake into my mouth between customers.”
His eyes dart to said mouth, hovering there a moment too long. But we’re standing in front of the dining hall and students and faculty stream past us.
“Then your first funnel cake’s on me.”
“No takesy-backsies.” I wave, awkward for a reason I can’t quite name, then detach my hand from his. “See you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.” He’s so quiet, I only know what he said because I watched his mouth shape the word.