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“And this?” I place my palms on his chest, inch them toward his shoulders. His eyes flutter shut, but again, he doesn’t stop me.
“This, I like,” he says. He puts a hand on top of mine. We are only touching in innocent places, yet my heart finds a racehorse rhythm. His thumb strokes my knuckles, and I feel my cold skin start to heat up.
I lean in close, my lips a whisper from his. “This?”
His eyes flick open for an instant. “Yes,” he says, and I trap the word between our lips.
Our first kiss tastes a hundred times better than my fantasies. There is no hesitation or uncertainty, only force and greed. He kisses the way he plays viola: hard and fast, leaving both of us breathless. I grip his collar. His hands are in my hair, clutching me close, and though my hair is damp and tangled from my walk in the rain, under his touch, it must be the softest thing in the world.
Suddenly I pull back.
“Adina, what is it?” His voice is hoarse, as though kissing me has drained all his energy and he has little left to speak. “Is everything okay?”
“You’re not doing this because I’m sick,” I say, my own voice quaking over the words. I want to be irresistible, not pitiable. “Or that I’m going to be sick . . . I don’t know. I can’t get the tenses right.”
“I promise you, I’m not,” he says, his fingers still winding through my waves. He takes a breath. “When you asked several weeks ago if I imagined us . . . together . . . the answer is yes.”
I can’t formulate a response, so I use my body instead of words. I climb onto his lap so I can kiss him with my whole body pressed against his, so I can feel between my legs exactly how badly he wants me. We kiss like that for a long time, long enough for me to memorize his every texture. His jawline, rough with the sketch of a beard. His mouth, slick and hot against my neck. His teeth, sharp as they tease my skin.
Desperate to feel even more of him, I peel off his sweater and unbutton his shirt. My hands explore the hair on his chest, something I find undeniably sexy about older guys. He runs his hands up my legs beneath my dress, fingers getting caught on the runs in my tights.
A buzzer rings, making us spring apart.
“Shit,” he says, breathing hard. He coaxes a shirt button into the wrong hole, tries again. “Shit, shit, shit. That’s my next student.”
My lips pull into a smile. “I’ve never heard you swear before.” His speech is usually so formal. I’m breathing hard too. I had no idea so much time had passed. A laugh bubbles up my throat as I realize I have painted his mouth with Siren red. I help him thumb it off.
“It’s only because I’m genuinely frustrated that we have to put this on pause.” On pause. Meaning we can hit play at some point. His brows furrow, and he continues: “What you said earlier, though, about keeping what happens between us inside this apartment? It has to stay that way, Adi. I can’t risk any of my students—or their parents—finding out about this.”
“I know,” I say quickly as I slide off his lap, trying to ignore the flash of irritation that runs through me. My age has made me a secret before. A part of me hoped it would be different with Arjun, but I understand why it can’t be.
I straighten my clothes and run my fingers through my hair. It doesn’t matter where I have him because he is finally mine. Kissing him has delicious side effects: my face warm, my lips fried, my insides melted.
“I’ll be back next week,” I say as I zip my boots. “Or maybe next week is too far away?”
He pushes my hair away and kisses the back of my neck. Now that the way we both feel is obvious, touching is effortless. “Come over tomorrow.”
“I have work.” I can’t afford to miss a shift. “After? I can be here around eight.” I’ll lie to my parents if I have to.
“Eight,” he confirms, the word hot on my skin.
No more procrastinating. When I get home, I round up the requirements for the conservatories on my list. What happened at Arjun’s reinvigorated me, plucked me from days and days of gloom. But furthermore, if I somehow miss these deadlines, I will never forgive myself. Regardless of what else is going on in my life, I have been working toward conservatory for too long to give up on it. Tonight I will not think about Huntington’s. I will think only in quarter notes and rests, alto clefs and codas.
I free my viola and open the video recording program on my laptop, giving the camera a half smile before I launch into my pre-audition pieces. Any time I am dissatisfied with the sound, I start over.
I’m in the middle of a flawless rendition when someone knocks on my door. “Adina? It’s dinnertime.”
“Aba!” I shout, frustration jumping my voice an octave. I punch the stop button. “I was recording. For my applications.”
I can practically hear him recoil. “Sorry. I’ll keep some warm for whenever you’re ready.”
Two hours later, I am finally pleased with my videos. My fingers are sore and my hands are cramping, but I shovel fettuccine into my mouth while I type out my essays. Which musician, living or dead, would you like to collaborate with, and what might you produce together? How will you benefit from an education at our school? What is your most memorable experience with music?
I climb into bed only after I’ve turned in every application, Debussy echoing in my ears.
Fourteen
Tovah
