Long Ball(49)

I grimace at both suggestions. “Hardly. I’m a cellist, and I just took a contract with a symphony.” I shouldn’t sound as proud as I do, seeing as how it wasn’t merely talent that landed me the seat.

“Interesting. Congratulations.” The smile is back in full force, and it makes my heart do a flip. “So you’re serious about music.”

“Very.” I cross my legs, which is silly. I shouldn’t be getting comfortable.

“I’ve never met a cellist before.”

“We don’t show our faces in public often. We prefer scuttling around in orchestra pits.”

He laughs and holds out his hand. “Dylan.”

I hesitate, not sure of the path I’m staring down. If I give him my name, that’s it. It doesn’t mean I’m going home with him, but it means I’m committing to the conversation.

And what’s the harm in pretending that committing to a conversation could mean committing to something more? I’d never go home with him, but it’s fun to imagine that I could.

“Rachel,” I say, taking his hand. Electricity sizzles up my arm at the touch of his palm against mine.

“So, Rachel-who-is-moving, tell me what made you get into the cello?”

“I couldn’t fit inside the violin.”

“Bah dum chh!” His throaty laugh exposes the strong lines of his throat, and the gentle beginnings of a five-o-clock shadow. I’m stricken by the desire to feel it. With my tongue.

God, what am I doing? Fantasy aside, I am so out of my league with this guy. And I shouldn’t even be thinking about leagues at this point in my life. I need to be league free. League-less.

I open my mouth to tell him I need to go. The words are really just on the tip of my tongue. But then he says,

“So, you’re a fan of the classics, huh?”

And dammit. He’s found my weakness.

I nod. “They’re the only kind of music worth listening to.”

“Really.” He studies me, as if deciding to refute me. “So the rest of the world’s been wasting it’s time and money creating and listening to all the other genres for a couple centuries?”

I know I shouldn’t engage in a musical debate—I’ll be here all night arguing the superiority of Vivaldi and Bach.

But he’s gently teasing and it does something to me, loosens my shoulders and lips. Makes me want to be here all night, arguing with him. Or, just, with him. “Yes.”

“That’s a pretty controversial opinion in this day and age.”

“Is it?” I know it is but the coyness of my response is a challenge—one I don’t recognize. Is this..am I…flirting?

If this is flirting, I should be embarrassed at how bad I am at it.

And why am I flirting? I should be leaving.

But then Dylan’s talking again, and I’m pinned to my seat.

“Most people don’t listen to classical music anymore,” he says. “I’m not saying it’s right, but you can’t call yours the only kind of music worth anything when the consumers aren’t backing you up.”

I turn in the seat to better face him, my knee grazing his again in the process. It goes weak, but I’m staying strong in my opinion. “Are you saying that all that matters is what’s popular in the mainstream culture?”

“To an extent.”

“Because if that’s true, there are plenty of bands who never see commercial success who are amazing musicians. Or grungy little rock bands no one appreciated but you probably love.”

He snags his lower lip between his teeth, slowly releasing it. I’m mesmerized by its shape. “Maybe it’s more about sales instead of fame. Or a combination of both that gives a band staying power.”

If he’s trying to distract me from my arguments, he’s doing a fine job. I blink hard a couple times. Focus, Rachel. What’s that band Alex is always making fun of? “Ah! Nickelback!”

“They do not count. At all.”

I point in his face triumphantly. “They’re rich and wildly famous. Even I’ve heard their name.”

“They’re also terrible musicians.” He takes my hand and lowers it, keeping it captured in his, bringing it beneath the surface of the table to rest on the seat between us.

My thighs squeeze together at the way he slides his fingers between mine, lacing our hands together. Focus is a struggle. My whole world has just shrunk to the point of contact between us. “But they, uh, have sales and fame, so by your reckoning, they must be successful.”

“Not all popular things are good, obviously. But rock is classic. It even says so in the name: Classic Rock.”

“Please.” My body isn’t mine tonight. I’m not used to being betrayed by something I’ve built a career by controlling. “No one will know who any of those people are in two hundred years.” But I’m not as convinced by my own argument as I usually am.

“You can’t tell me the Beatles will fade away like that. The Stones.” He strokes his thumb against the back of my hand, and I want that thumb stroking me in other places. I want it so badly that it scares me.

I take back my hand and with it, a modicum of control over my galloping hormones. “There are exceptions to every rule.” Now I miss his warmth. “But for the most part? No one will know their names and you know why? Because the music people are playing is bubble gum. It tastes good for a minute or two, then the taste of it fades from your memory and you move on to something else. It even says so in the name: Bubblegum Pop.” I smile as I parrot him, and I’m rewarded with a flash of an answering smirk.