Nocturne(51)

I swallowed. Indeed, I had told her that. I’d mentioned it in passing quite a long time ago, but I hadn’t exactly intended it as an invitation. Nor had we really spoken since she’d given me her … not exactly an ultimatum ... back in the spring.

“Anyway,” she said, “I came here hoping to find you, but it seems you’ve found Savannah Marshall.”

I shook my head slightly. Nothing was going on with Savannah. If I repeated that enough times, the reason why might resurface in my conscience. I swallowed.

“Just dancing,” I said. The words seemed to stick in my throat. Because they were a lie. That was much more than merely dancing. I could still feel Savannah’s body against mine.

“Can we talk then?” Karin asked.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t really want to talk. Not to her. Not now.

As I looked over my shoulder to the restrooms, I saw Savannah move past the bar. She was in a hurry for the front door, it seemed. Her back was rigid, her steps furious.

“Karin,” I said. “Perhaps later ...”

Then I stopped talking. I stopped breathing. I stopped thinking, because the pain was too much. At the door, Savannah looked over her shoulder. Her eyes fell on me, and on Karin, at the edge of the dance floor. Her face held an indescribable expression, one I’d do anything to capture in a song, but also one I’d do anything to erase. The bleak turmoil in her eyes speared my chest like a blade.

Her eyes swept away from me.

Then, she was gone.





Gregory


My eyelids were heavy and felt as though they were lined with sandpaper. The tension I felt seared through my chest and shoulders. I’d been up for hours. Not voluntarily. Once I’d finally seen a disappointed Karin off, I’d returned to the house only to lie awake, staring at the ceiling. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw a hurt and distressed Savannah hurrying for the door of the bar.

I’d almost kissed her. Almost. We’d been so close to each other, and instead of an intrusion, she’d felt … at home there.

I wanted her, and she ran.

I finally drifted off to a restless, unsatisfying sleep at midnight, but then my eyes snapped open again, and fell on the clock, only to see that it was merely 2:30 a.m. I rolled over, unable to clear my mind of thoughts of her. Of her lips, of her eyes, my hands on her hips. The music pounding into our bodies as we danced.

I tried to go back to sleep. But I failed. Which is why I found myself standing in front of Madeline’s house at 3 o’clock in the morning. My head felt cloudy, my thoughts making little sense.

I knew Savannah was here alone. Madeline and James had returned to his room together, which gave me even more reason to leave the house. They’d have been embarrassed if they’d known I was awake.

I stood there at the door for possibly five—or a thousand—minutes, my hand hovering over the doorbell.

Before I could press it, the door opened.

Savannah stood in the doorway, Her eyes were blurry, red rimmed. I couldn’t tell if I’d woken her or she’d been tossing and turning as I had. She wore a long white t-shirt that fell to her knees, and her blonde hair was tousled. It was all I could do to prevent myself from reaching out and touching it.

She blinked at me three or four times. Waiting, perhaps, for me to say something.

“Savannah …”

Without a word, she grabbed my hands and pulled me into the house.

She shook her head. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see you.”

Her eyelashes swept down as she looked at the floor. She swallowed, then her face set in a grim expression and she looked back up at me. “Why?”

Unexpectedly, I found myself shaking. “I had to see you.”

She shook her head, an infinitesimal movement. “You’re a professor, Gregory.”

“Does that matter? I’m not your professor.”

She looked away from me. “It should.”

I took a deep breath. “I know it should. But it doesn’t. Not to me.”

“What do you want from me?” She looked right through me as she said the words. The resignation in her tone chilled my core.

My heart was pounding. What did I want from her? How could I answer that? How could I explain to her what I wanted, when I had no idea myself? I wanted to make love to her. I wanted to make music with her. I thought about that moment when she raised her flute and I touched bow to string for the first time, and we looked at each other across those bare feet of space, and wove our song together. I wanted that again. I’d never experienced that with anyone else. Right there in front of our colleagues, I felt as if I’d performed the most intimate of acts. How could I say that? How could I tell her that I desperately wanted to touch her. That I wanted to kiss those lips. That for the first time in my life I wanted to experience a deep emotional connection with a woman, a connection that transcended everything.

My mind frantically sought an acceptable and normal response to her question. Without a conscious decision, I spoke. “You’re doing the Assobio a Jato for your senior recital, yes? I’ll practice it with you … perform it with you.”

Her face looked confused … then disappointed. Her shoulders dropped a fraction as she exhaled, and then she said, “You showed up here at three in the morning for that?”