I flip the book around so he can see it and count ten Mississippis in my head before turning it back toward me. “Okay. What’s on this page?”
Griffon groans. “I really hate doing stuff like this. Come on, Cole, I’m not some circus act. Let’s just forget about it.”
I smile at him. “So you can’t do it. I knew it.” Putting a chessboard back together is one thing, but I’ve caught him with the speed-reading.
He sighs. “Fourth paragraph, page 863. ‘The magic of a lovely form in woman—the necromancy of female gracefulness—was always a power which I had found it impossible to resist, but here was grace personified, incarnate, the beau ideal of my wildest and most enthusiastic visions.’ Griffon glances up at me. “Is that enough? ’Cause I can do the whole page, but it’s probably going to get boring.”
I stare at the words on the page, printed exactly as he’d said them, right there in black and white. Proof. It’s what I’m after, but it gives me a shiver up my neck so violent I can’t help but shake my head to try to get rid of it. “No. You don’t have to finish.”
“Well then, I guess you’re going to have to trust me on the rest.” He reaches up and pulls me into his lap, our teeth bumping as I laugh in the middle of the kiss. He’s amazing, and here he is with me. Griffon brushes the hair away from my face and kisses me harder, pulling me into him so tightly it takes my breath away.
“You,” he says, “are driving me crazy.”
I toss my head and look at him out of the corner of my eye. “Good,” I say, and lean in to kiss him again.
Griffon pulls away and watches the doorway. “Not good,” he says. “Not with your mother in the next room.”
“Relax,” I say, trying to refocus his energy. “She can’t hear anything.”
“Wrong thing to say,” he says, making a growling noise and nuzzling the back of my neck until I squeal.
“Okay, okay, I give up,” I say. I twist in the chair to try to minimize the tingling sensation that’s running through my body. “I’m totally ticklish.”
“Ooh, duly noted,” he says. “And filed for later.” He picks me up around the waist and sets me back on the arm of the chair. “Much later.”
He nods to the cello cases that are propped up in the corner of the room. They’re just out of my range of vision, but are a large presence in the room anyway. They’re a little dusty by now from being neglected for over a week. “Have you tried to play?”
I shake my head. “No.” It seems like every time I pass this room, my eyes go automatically to the cellos. I don’t want to admit that I’m afraid of what will happen. It’s always been so easy. My fingers have always found the notes without my even having to think about it. The fear of not being able to play has taken over the idea that my gift is nothing but a lie. Part of me just doesn’t want to know.
Griffon walks over to the cello case and holds it out to me. “Then would you show me?”
I raise my eyebrows. “How to play cello?”
He shrugs. “Sure. You promised to give me lessons back when we first met.”
I walk over to the cello, almost afraid to touch it. Griffon lifts it out of the case and balances it gently against his shoulder. “Like this?”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s right.” I pick up the bow. “This goes in your right hand. Think of the bow as the breath of the cello. It’s what draws the music out. Hold it like this.” I show him the right way to hold a bow and hand it over. “Don’t put your finger on any of the strings yet. Just let the bow glide over them.”
Griffon has a light but firm touch, and only makes a few screeching noises when he gets too close to the bridge. “Show me a note.”
I reach over and put his left hand in the correct position and his finger on the G string. “Now hold that down and use the bow to make the note.” The bow bounces a little bit, but his fingering is strong. “See? That’s an A.”
“Great. Now only twenty-five more letters to go,” he says, smiling.
“Ha-ha.”
Griffon holds the cello away from his body. “You want to try?”
I stand looking at it, afraid to find out the answer to the question that has been hovering over everything for the past eight days. Because I took it almost everywhere and spent so many hours playing, the cello has always felt like a part of me, but lately it seems like a parasitic twin that’s been removed. I’m not sure if either one of us can survive on our own.
“It’s just us,” he says quietly. “Not even your mom will hear it.” He turns the cello in my direction, and I let it settle against me. The weight of the instrument against my body is so familiar, I haven’t realized how much I missed it until now. I’ve always loved the curve of the wood and the delicate flashes of bronze in the sheen of the finish, and they seem even more beautiful to me now. I feel guilty for making it stay tucked away for so long.
I pick up the bow and hold it in my right hand, feeling like it’s an extension of my fingers, of my thoughts, even. But my left arm begins to throb, and the tingling in my fingers feels more insistent. The splint covers the spidery black stitches, making that hand useless, and no amount of wanting or trying is going to change that right now. “It’s too soon,” I say, handing the bow back to Griffon. I shake my head, trying to push back the tears that are rising in my throat. “I can’t.”
Griffon reaches over and pulls the cello out of my hand, leaning over to kiss me gently. “I shouldn’t have pushed you so quickly,” he says. “It’s not going anywhere. It’ll be here when you’re ready.”
One lone tear courses down my cheek, and I angrily brush it away.
As he sets the cello back down in its case, Griffon’s eyes flick to the doorway. I turn to see Mom pretending to walk into the room for the first time, although the shine in her eyes tells me that she’s probably been standing there long enough. “I, um, was just coming in to tell you that the oven timer is going off.” She hesitates, keeping her eyes deliberately off the big black case. She straightens her shoulders and regains her composure as she turns to walk back down the hallway. “I’ll take care of it, though. You just keep studying.”
As the knives and forks clatter on the plates, I can’t help but track Griffon with my eyes and try to keep the smile off my lips as he focuses his attention on Veronique. It only took a little begging to get Mom to invite him to stay too, and I’ve had her put them next to each other at the table. I watch as he sets his hand close to hers, and brushes her arm as he reaches for the butter on the table. If he’s getting anything from her, it doesn’t show on either of their faces.
The front door slams as Kat comes rushing in, her apologies reaching the table before she does. “I know, I know,” she says, as she pulls back her chair. “I got hung up at work again. I’m sorry I’m late.”
Mom forces a smile, while Dad has on one of his what-are-you-going-to-do looks. If you didn’t know better, you could easily be fooled into thinking that they’re still together instead of Dad only making appearances downstairs on special occasions. I wonder if they’ve ever been connected in a past life, and if there was something there that made things go so wrong in this one. Are they destined to keep coming together over and over until they either get it right or give up on the whole thing for good?
“Good thing we didn’t wait for you,” Mom says to Kat, her mouth set in a hard line. “Veronique, Giacomo—you know my oldest daughter, Katherine?”
“I don’t think we’ve met,” Veronique says, giving her a smile from across the table.
“I’m the one with no talent,” Kat says, making Mom cringe in her seat. I can see her hands gripping the cushion of her chair as she tries to let Kat’s words slide off of her.