Nocturne(50)

She grinned. “We’re back to Miss Marshall now?”

“Savannah. I was commenting on your resistance to structure.”

She shook her head slightly. “What’s your deal, Gregory? I don’t get it.”

I turned us in a gentle circle and said, “My deal? Please explain, I don’t understand.”

Her eyebrows worked. I’d seen them before, moving independently of each other sometimes, as if they had minds of their own. I was certain it was completely unconscious. Fascinating, and somehow insanely attractive.

“You’re always so … structured. But broody. Dark. Sometimes I think there’s something inside of you just ready to explode.”

I swallowed. “I assure you, Savannah, I am what you see. A musician.”

My fingertips touched at the small of her back as we moved closer to each other. An intense urge to run my hands over the refined curve of her backside flashed through me. The thought made me suck in a quick breath.

“I don’t think so, Gregory. I think there’s a lot more inside than you show.”

I wanted to tell her more. I wanted to tell her how it felt the first time I heard the cello. The first time my hands brought a note, alive and amazing, from that instrument. Sometimes I felt there was nothing more important than music ... that when the writing and words and pretensions people used as barriers were all stripped away, in the end it was only music that could truly be shared as a universal language.

I didn’t know how to say any of that. And, no one had ever asked me to. But looking in her eyes, swimming in those eyes, I thought she understood. For the first time in my life I felt a gaping empty wound in myself, a wound I’d stuffed with nothing more than melody for all those years and suddenly that wasn’t enough.

“Perhaps,” I replied. “But all music has depths that don’t show on the surface.”

She gave me a quirky grin at that, and against my better judgment, I pulled her a little bit closer. Our bodies touched down their entire length, and my breath was coming in short, fractured moments. In my arms she felt right … real, and our faces were almost touching. We swayed slightly with the music, and her full, shiny lips grinned a little wider as our eyes met. Against my will, I found my own mouth curving up into a smile.

That made her eyes widen. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile. Does that hurt?”

Good god. I felt myself laugh a little. “You are one smart-mouthed young woman.”

That made her smile even wider. “You are an ill-tempered old man, which makes no sense considering how young you are. I don’t get it. Most musicians would kill for what you have.”

I stumbled over her statement. What I had? Did she mean her in my arms right now? It was true. But then I realized she was talking about something else entirely when she continued.

“You’re probably the most talented cellist the BSO has fielded in years, and it’s not enough?”

I was oddly disappointed. Because the experience of having her in my arms, dancing, was … unique. Fascinating. It had a music all its own. But I kept my thoughts to myself and kept the conversation away from that.

“I always strive to improve.”

“To what end?”

“Mastery.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You amaze and appall me at the same time.”

I found myself grinning. “In that, Savannah, the feeling is completely mutual.”

Her eyes widened. They were dark eyes, but beautiful. Her voice breathy as she spoke the next words. “I amaze you?”

“You do. You’re … erratic. Dynamic. Incredibly talented. Brilliant. There were days in my class where I wanted to shake you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Shake me?”

“In … frustration. In …”

I found myself floundering. I’m only articulate with bow and cello in hand. What I wanted to say was ... that I wanted to touch her. That I wanted to hold her, just like this. That I wanted to look in her eyes and see admiration. Affection.

“Savannah...” my voice trailed off. Our lips were so close, I would only have to move a fraction, a few bare centimeters, and they would have touched.

“Gregory?” When she replied, her voice sounded small, shaky. She sounded almost as confused as I felt.

What I really wanted to do at that moment was lean in. Closer. Her eyes seemed huge as I took a deep breath and considered my options.

And that’s when I realized the song had ended, and a new one started. A loud, raucous pop song, and dancers were moving onto the floor around us. The change broke the mood, suddenly, and she stepped back, away from me.

She had a wounded look in her eyes as she said, “I have to go to the ladies’ room. Um ... I’ll be … I’ll be back.” She backed away from me, stumbling a little, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

I stood in the middle of the dance floor, my breath slowing, feeling bereft, and an unfamiliar ache in my chest.

That’s when I heard an all too familiar voice. “Gregory!”

I turned around and felt my face slip into a mask. Karin stood on the edge of the dance floor. Where had she come from? What was she doing here? Mechanically, my limbs almost numb, I moved toward her.

“Karin, what are you doing here?”

She gave me a piercing look. “I came to see you. This is the last night for the Institute, right? You told me weeks ago all the instructors blew off some steam tonight.”