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I slip out of bed and pad through the room, rubbing my arms as cold air hits my naked skin. I’m only wearing panties and a camisole, whereas he’s fully dressed—white dress shirt, black slacks, and the suit jacket he only wears when going out. Yet another sign that I’m staying and he’s leaving. Yet another thing that leaves me horribly vulnerable as I stop in front of him, swiping the back of my hand under my moist eyes.
His large hand burns my arm as he guides me to sit on the skin beside the piano stool, and shivers skitter down my skin the moment he releases me.
“Are you cold?” he asks, sinking onto the bench. At my nod, he takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. His scent envelops me, evoking feelings of safety, and my breathing flows a little freer.
Grigory turns to the piano and opens the sheet music in front of him. He takes a silent moment, eyes focused on the keys, hands flat on his thighs, and I wait breathlessly, feeling something important coming.
With a deep inhale, he lifts his hands to the keys and eases into a tender melody. The music is crisp and clear with a tinge of melancholy. It only flows for half a minute, like a brief moment of peaceful beauty too sweet to last.
A long pause follows.
Grigory’s sharp inhale punctuates the silence before a lonely note breaks it. He plays the note like it’s the most important one of his life. It hovers, then slips into two more notes that set off a hauntingly beautiful melody, full of hesitant longing and gentle affection.
The music spellbinds me—drags me into another world, linking me to Grigory with a strength unlike any I’ve ever felt between us. His emotions are raw and honest as he plays, like he’s telling me everything he can’t say in words.
I merge with the music—merge with him—feeling every breath and every note like they were my own.
When the music intensifies toward a climax, emotions build almost painfully inside me. I can barely breathe as the notes work up and up, Grigory’s motions on the bench becoming more agitated.
But before it can explode, the calm returns, dragging me into a gentle lull.
I sink down to lie on the skin, curling up by Grigory’s feet. Without thought, I reach out to touch his leg. It’s only when my hand is curved around his calf that I realize what I’m doing. Touching him has become second nature during these two weeks, and I revel in the feeling as the music moves on, continuing up and down—shifting between gentle melodies and sudden bursts of power.
The piece is almost like a reflection of Grigory himself. Gentle moments of affection interspersed with stormy bursts of brutality. It drags up all the emotions I’ve felt with him. Devastating sadness, unbearable longing, and an all-consuming sense of belonging.
When Grigory slams the final chords into the piano, ending the biggest storm of them all, I’m sitting up again, shuddering from the stark intensity.
I haven’t played a note, haven’t said a word, yet I feel utterly exposed, all my emotions bared on the outside.
I stare wide-eyed up at Grigory. He’s breathing hard, eyes fixed on the last page of sheet music. I want to reach up and touch him, but everything has stopped around us, and Grigory is as motionless as me.
When he finally gets up, I expect him to sink to his haunches and bring me into his arms—a final hug before he goes. God knows I badly need it. These ten minutes of music have rattled me as much as a severe punishment.
But Grigory doesn’t come down to me. He doesn’t even touch me.
He leaves the room without as much as a glance in my direction. Two minutes later, the sound of the door announces his departure.
The silence is unbearable. I want to break it somehow, but I remain frozen in place.
How could he leave like that? After everything that’s happened between us? Is this him pulling away again or simply being his usual brusque self?
I remain here for a long time, clutching Grigory’s jacket and staring into thin air. When I finally get up, I feel empty. I’m neither sad nor hurt. Just empty.
I go about my day and try to get through a few of the dull academic texts. I do succeed, reading most, skimming the rest, but when I shut the lid on my laptop, I don’t remember a word. I feel as lackluster as the texts, and for a while, I just stare into the room.
Hoping the piano will settle me, I sit down to play. But suddenly, I find myself sniffling as a wealth of latent feelings blubber to the surface.
Despite everything that has happened between us during the last two weeks, it’s not enough to erase all the hurt of the summer. I remember his cold distance all too clearly and I’m terribly afraid he’s now pulling away again.
I try to rationalize it away, remembering all the little signs that he wants me—all the reassurances both men have given me. But the fear won’t listen to logic. It keeps gnawing at me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop the tears that are suddenly trickling down my cheeks.
I collapse on the bed, and the tears run faster when I wrap his jacket tighter around me and inhale his scent. God, I miss him. So much. He’s only been gone a few hours, but not knowing when I’ll see him again has my heart aching for him.
Markus said I might see one of them each week, but we’ve made no plans—at least none I know of—and just two weeks seem like an eternity with the gaping hole he left me with.
When my phone vibrates on the nightstand, part of me wants to reach out and check in case it’s Grigory. But I don’t think it is. He’s relinquished control over me. Markus is the one in charge now. It’s probably him texting to check in with me—let me feel that he has me now. But I’m not ready to talk to him when thememoryof the goodbye is still raw. So I leave the phone be and let sleep drag me under.
When I wake again, it’s from the continuous buzzing of my phone. An incoming call.
