I can feel Lauren’s eyes on my back. “Um, I really think you need to watch this one.”
Shaking my head, I don’t even look at her. “Nope. I’m done, remember? Not going there again. You supported my decision last semester. Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”
A glance in her direction shows her chewing on her lower lip some more, her eyes on the computer screen where Jonathan’s face is frozen in the YouTube window.
“Seriously, Lauren. Please close that.” I swallow hard. “I’m just starting to feel normal again. I don’t need the reminders of what can’t be.”
“But …”
“No.”
I hear a few clicks, and when I look at her again, the screen is back to her desktop background. But Lauren is sitting with her arms crossed.
“This is the second one he’s put out since Christmas.”
Nodding, I put away my last few things, but once my suitcase is stashed under my bed again, I don’t have anything else to do. I cross my arms over my chest and look at Lauren again. “Yeah. I’ve seen them on Facebook and stuff. And kept right on scrolling.”
She sighs. “Fine. But you need to watch this one. Both of them, really. But especially this one.”
I grunt in response, not wanting to argue about this, searching the room for something to do. Talking about Jonathan is making me antsy and restless, and I want to get out of here. Go do something. And I’m not in the mood to be around anyone, least of all someone trying to convince me to listen to Jonathan’s latest song on YouTube. Is she trying to reduce me to a sobbing heap of depressed girl? Did she not get enough of that at the end of last semester?
Or maybe she’s forgotten the piles of used tissues all over my half of the room, my lack of desire to get out of bed if I didn’t have to, or just generally being terrible company.
Rubbing my hands on my jeans, my gaze lands on my violin case tucked in the corner. Perfect. Time to get started on spending all my free time in the practice room.
I pick it up and sling it over my shoulder by the strap. “Hey, I’m gonna go practice for a bit. I’ll catch you later, okay?”
“Hang on.” She stands up and grabs her violin too. “I’ll come with you. I haven’t played much over the break, and I want to remember what it feels like before rehearsal this week. Or my lesson.”
Part of me wants to leave without her, but I don’t. Because she’s my friend, and that would be rude. Thankfully she doesn’t say anything else as we make the chilly walk across campus to the music building.
Unlike Lauren, I’ve been practicing a lot over the break. It was the best distraction. Mostly. Sometimes when I’d play my Mozart concerto, I’d remember Jonathan watching me practice, a private smile on his lips. And how he’d tell me that watching me play was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. How he’d make love to me after, holding my hands in his. Both of us with calluses on our fingertips, the physical proof of our dedication to music.
So I stopped playing through that concerto. I spent lots of time working through the unaccompanied Bach Sonatas and Partitas. The G minor Sonata and the D minor Partita are my favorites, but I messed around with movements from a few of the others too. The Allemanda from the D minor Partita is starting to sound really good, so that’s what I decide to work on tonight after the obligatory scales and intonation and bowing exercises.
I’ve grown to appreciate the ritual of it. Pulling out my violin, tightening my bow, swiping on some rosin, and then setting the instrument on my shoulder and slowly drawing out the first notes of a D minor scale. I play the melodic minor slowly up and down three octaves, one note per bow. Then again, slurring two notes together. And so on, adding a note to the slur each time I start over until I’m playing all twenty-four notes going up on the down bow and all twenty-four back down on the up bow.
The slow, careful notes progress faster and faster, my bow strokes staying even throughout, only my fingers speeding up as they dance over the strings. It’s a bridge that takes me from me out in the world to me with the violin. Me with the music. It centers me and grounds me and makes me exist only as a conduit for the notes to flow through.
I stop for a sip from the water bottle I always have with me when I practice and notice several texts popping up on my phone. Two are from Abby. One is from Lance. That’s strange. I usually hear from my brother, since we’re closer than Abby and I are, but sometimes she texts me. But I don’t think they’ve both texted me in the same night before.
Curious, I pick up my phone. The most recent text from Lance is just a link to a YouTube video. I click on it without thinking.
When Jonathan’s face appears on my screen, I try to turn it off. But with my hands full of violin, bow, and phone, I fumble at the button and drop my phone on the floor. “Dammit!”
Thankfully, the phone case keeps the screen from shattering. I drop my phone a lot, so a good case is mandatory for me. Otherwise I’d be needing a new phone all the time.
Trying to ignore what hearing Jonathan’s voice is doing to me, I lay my bow on the ledge of the music stand and set my violin down in my open case before bending to pick up the phone. And by then, he’s started playing. I haven’t heard this song before, and the melody draws me in. Even though I meant to turn it off, not listen to it, ignore it like I’ve ignored his videos so far. And had every intention of continuing to ignore them.
But I can’t. Even with my finger hovering over the screen to stop it, close it, make it go away and pretend I’ve never seen it, I can’t bring myself to do that when he starts to sing.
He’s turned our story into a song. Two people whose love of music brings them together and then tears them apart.
Crumpling to the floor, I can’t hold back the tears that flow, but I try not to sniff too much, because I don’t want to miss a second of this. It’s beautiful. It’s heartbreaking. It’s everything.
When he gets to the last verse, the verse where he sings to me that I’m everything he’s ever wanted—music and beauty and life embodied in one person—I start to sob. Big, ugly, and loud. This song is wrecking me. And I can’t take it.
The door bursts open, and Lauren stands there surveying me crumpled on the floor in front of the piano, my phone in hand, the last of Jonathan’s song playing on the tinny speakers. She steps in and closes the door behind her, sinking down next to me and wrapping her arms around me.
I sob onto her shoulder, and she lets me. Not saying anything, not trying to shush me, just letting me get it out.
Until he speaks. Then she says, “Shh, Gabby. I know. But you need to hear this part.”
She grabs my phone from where I’ve dropped it on the floor again and rewinds it to where he speaks.
He clears his throat and says, “Gabby, this was for you. I hope you hear this. And …” He trails off, then clears his throat again. “And you know how to find me.” And the video ends.
I sit in stunned silence for a minute, the tears still running down my cheeks, dropping onto the sleeve of Lauren’s sweater where her arm is still around me. Pulling away from her, I pull the sleeves of my T-shirt over my hands and wipe my face. At least I don’t have mascara on today. I haven’t been wearing it much lately. Since I cry pretty much every day, I either need to invest in waterproof mascara, or give up wearing it until I can keep it together more of the time.
“What are you going to do?”
I look up at Lauren and open my mouth. “I don’t know.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jonathan
Noise from the living room draws my attention as I finish scribbling down my latest song. Since my conversation with Brendan at my parents’ house over Christmas break, I’ve had a new period of creativity. I’m not sure all of it will be good enough to end up on the album, but I’ve been driven to write, to pour everything out into words and music, the amazing combination of the two mediums making something more spectacular than the sum of its parts.
Ben’s voice rumbles through the walls, b
ut I can’t make out his words. When I hear a female voice respond, I assume it’s Beth.
Tossing the pencil on my desk, I pick up my phone, checking all my notifications. There are several new comments on my YouTube videos, some Facebook and Twitter notifications, a few new emails. But nothing from Gabby.
I don’t really expect anything—she was pretty clear before the break, and then her brother had wiped away any lingering hopes I had of changing her mind—but I’ve posted two videos. Both of them with a message to her. Has she seen them? They’ve both gone viral within twelve hours of being posted. Having a social media team at the PR firm helps a lot with that. And Angela is pushing this angle hard, too, telling me it’ll build my following in advance of the release. She doesn’t care so much that I’m pining for a girl, except that it seems to be motivating me to write more. That part is fantastic as far as she’s concerned. Though she did caution me against writing too many lovesick, dejected crybaby songs. Her words, not mine.
But despite posting the first song I wrote for her a week and a half ago, and then the new one I wrote at Christmas that I got polished up to the best of my abilities a few days ago, Gabby hasn’t responded at all. Not a like. Not a comment on YouTube. Much less a text or a phone call.
Nothing.
Flipping through my notebook, I consider the wisdom of continuing with this. If she hasn’t watched or responded to the first two, why would I think she’ll see anything else?
My door bangs open, interrupting my train of thought.
I stand from my chair and freeze, suddenly face to face with Gabby, her hair wild, her eyes red and swollen, her chin tilted up in defiance.
Ben stands behind her and gives a little wave her over her shoulder, his jacket already on, and makes a motion to indicate he’s leaving. Then he melts away without waiting for acknowledgement.
Which is fine, because my brain only registers him as an afterthought, stuck on the fact that Gabby is here.
Gabby. Is. Here.
What?
“Gabby,” is all I can get out before she brandishes her phone at me.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” Apparently that’s a rhetorical question, because she doesn’t give me a chance to answer before she steps all the way into my room.
“How the hell am I supposed to move on with you posting these videos everywhere? And they’re everywhere. And everyone is watching them. And tricking me into watching them. And I can’t … I can’t … I don’t …” She crumples, her hands covering her face, her phone still clutched between the thumb and first finger of one hand.
It takes a second for all of that to register and my brain and body to catch up with each other. But the sight of her in distress, in my room, has me pulling her into my arms, mumbling nonsense to try and soothe her.
She clutches my shirt and sobs against my chest as we sit on the edge of my bed.
Of all the reactions I’ve fantasized about, this was not anywhere on the list. And while having her here in my arms again is what I’ve wanted, I never thought it would be like this, with her sobs ripping through me.
“Gabby, shh. I’m sorry. I’ll take them down. I won’t post anymore. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I keep repeating it over and over, rubbing her back.
Eventually she calms, her breath coming in shuddery gasps as she regains control of herself. She sits up and wipes her face. “I’m sorry.” She plucks at my wet shirt. “I didn’t mean—“
“It’s fine. It’s just a shirt.”
She nods. “I’m sorry anyway, though. This wasn’t …” She swallows hard and clears her throat. “I didn’t mean to burst in like this and cry all over you. I just—I just saw the video. The second one.”
“I guessed. And I meant what I was saying. I’ll take it down. Both of them. My manager’ll probably be pissed, and the PR people, but I’ll post something else soon. They’ll get over it.”
“No! No. That’s not—“ She shakes her head, her hair flying. “No. Don’t take them down. I mean, unless you really want to. But don’t take them down for me. That’s not what I meant.” Her eyes drop to my comforter for a second before finding their way back to my face again. She takes a deep breath. “I thought I was protecting myself. And you. By breaking up with you. But I can’t go on like this. Hurting like this. And knowing you’re hurting too. When we’re both here, in the same town. I don’t …” She drops her gaze again and shakes her head, new tears flowing down her cheeks. Sniffing, she dashes them away with the back of her hand.
I can’t help but reach for her again, resting my hand on her leg. Hope blooms in my chest for the first time in over a month. “What are you saying, Gabby?” My voice sounds rough and hoarse, like I’ve been crying too.
Her brown eyes find mine again. “I’m saying I don’t want to stay away. I can’t do it. Maybe I’m right and this’ll be a million times harder when you leave after you graduate. But we have like five months before then.”
I think she might want to say more, but I don’t wait to find out what it is. She’s in my lap, and my lips find hers before she can say anything else. Or change her mind.
Jesus Christ. This is what I’ve been longing for since she walked out that day Thanksgiving weekend. She gasps into my mouth when my tongue passes her lips, and she’s clutching me as hard as she was when she was sobbing into my chest, only now she’s grinding onto me where she straddles my lap.
With a groan, I pull back, kissing my way down her neck. “We’ll figure it out,” I get out between kisses. “I don’t know what that’ll look like yet, but we’ll fucking figure it out. I’m not letting you go again. Got it?”
Her hands cup my face, and she stares into my eyes, searching them. Then she nods, a tiny smile pulling at her swollen lips. “Got it.”
I pull her face to mine for another bruising kiss and slide my hands under her shirt and sweater, pushing them up. She breaks the kiss and helps get her clothes off, her back arching as she reaches behind her to unhook her bra. I nip at the soft skin of her breasts while they’re thrust into my face, and she squeals as the bra drops. I cup her breasts with my hands, holding them while I lavish attention on her nipples, licking and sucking and biting.
But we still have too many clothes on. I flip us over, so she’s on her back on the bed, unbutton and unzip her jeans, and peel them off her. Then I shed my own clothes before crawling up the length of her, nestling my lower body between her legs, bracing myself over her and enjoying the feel of her skin on mine. I’m dying to get inside her. I’m dying to taste her. To erase the pain of the last six weeks for both of us.
Forcing myself not to grind into her too much, I start at her mouth again and kiss my way down her body, my hands following my mouth, then leading the way as they slide up her thighs, opening her wide enough for me to have room to work. She gasps when I slide a finger inside her, shuddering when a second finger joins it. “Oh my God,” falls from her lips again and again, and I can’t keep the shit-eating grin off my face.
“That’s right. Let me hear you. I love the sounds you make.” Lowering my face to her, I dart my tongue out and flick her clit.
“Oh my God,” she says in response, her hands reaching up to grab the pillow behind her head.
I smile against her and do it again, locking eyes with her before attacking her clit with abandon. I feast on her, loving the way she writhes against me, her hips bucking against my mouth, and I have to hold her down with my free hand so she doesn’t get away from me.
With a loud cry, she comes for me, her legs clamping around me on the outside like her walls clamp down on my fingers inside, and she shakes with the force of it. When she falls limp again, I pull my fingers out of her, wiping my face on my arm as I crawl up her body. Gathering her in my arms, I kiss her deeply, and she responds, slow and languorous from her first orgasm. But her arms snake around my neck and she clutches me to her with the same desperation I feel. Like we can’t get close enough. Like she wants to crawl inside my s
kin and fuse us together to make up for the time apart.
And I can’t wait any longer to be inside her. I grab a condom from my bedside table and roll it on, rubbing over her entrance with the head of my cock until she makes a frustrated noise and tries to force herself down on it.
I grin at her, and she pouts. “Tease,” she says.
My chuckle turns to a groan as I slide inside her. “You feel so good. I’ve missed you so much.”
Her mouth pulls to one side and a wicked gleam appears in her eyes. “You’ve missed me? Or you’ve missed this?”
Thrusting inside her again, I shake my head. “Yes. Both. God, Gabby. You slay me. All of you. Don’t you know that already?”
She wraps her legs around my hips, meeting my next thrust, forcing me in harder and faster than I intend. Letting out another gasp, she does it again. “And you destroy me. Completely. In the best and the worst ways.”
I take her mouth in a kiss, my intention of keeping things slow and making it last melting away as she responds with even more force. It’s been so long, and she feels too good, but apparently it’s enough. Because with a few circles of my thumb over her clit, she comes again, and her orgasm triggers my own. The flash of heat runs down my spine as I spend myself inside her, my muscles shuddering with the intensity of it.
When I can move again, I deal with the condom quickly, not wanting to be apart from her any longer than I have to. Wanting to make sure this isn’t a figment of my overactive imagination, and half-worried she’ll be getting dressed when I get back.
But she’s not. Her hair is spread over my pillows as she snuggles into my covers. I stop and stare for a second, needing to register that this is real. She gives me a soft, satisfied smile and pats the bed behind her.
I smile back, feeling like things are clicking back into place with her here again. Lifting the covers, I climb into bed behind her, pull her back against my chest, and drop a kiss on her shoulder. “I love you, Gabby,” I whisper. “I love you so much. And I don’t want to do any of this without you. Don’t leave again.”
Double Exposition (Songs and Sonatas Book 1) Page 20
