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24
GRAYSON
When I knock on Sage’s door Thursday evening, I can’t stop fidgeting. I’m bouncing on my toes, all the anticipation of a first date. But it’s not the first. I just still feelthatexcited. I hope I always do.
She opens the door and motions for me to come in.
“You look amazing,” I tell her, and it’s true, but I can see her worry in her eyes.
She steps back. “Can you be totally honest with me for a second?”
I nod, but if she asks me if she looks nervous, I’m going to lie and tell her she looks totally calm. Maybe that will help.
“Is this distracting?” She spins around, her back to me, and raises her arms shoulder height. The back hem of her dress lifts, showing an amazing view of her legs just above the knee.
“Completely.”
“Really?” She drops her arms and tugs at the bottom of her skirt, yanking it down. Her forehead creases with concern.
“Yes. But, to be fair, you would be distracting if you were wearing sweatpants. When you’re in the room, I can’t take my eyes off you long enough to think about anything else, no matter what.”
She breathes out a short laugh. “If that’s a compliment, thank you.”
“Of course it’s a compliment. And if the audience is made up of humans with eyes—and in my professional opinion, it will be—nobody will see anything but you.”
I reach out and take her hand. Kiss her knuckle. Pull her in close. “You’re radiant,” I whisper into her hair.
She intertwines our fingers. “Just answer the question, Dr. Mercer. Is the dress okay?”
“The dress is perfect. You are perfect.”
Now she grins. “We both know that’s not true.”
I shake my head. “It’s true for me.”
And it is. Did it happen fast? Yes. Does that make me any less sure how I feel? Not at all.
She pulls on her coat and picks up her violin and we step back out into the chilly evening.
At the auditorium door, I expect her to say goodbye and move backstage, but she pulls me down the hall and through a classroom door.
Coats hang on the backs of dozens of chairs, and empty instrument cases cover the floor.
“This is Mr. Ghibli’s orchestra practice space. Spent a lot of time in here.” Pointing to a closed door at the back of the half-lit room, she says, “And that room contains my new work project. Top secret. Can’t tell you anything. But really, only because I don’t know anything yet.”
She places her violin case on top of one of the pianos that stand facing a wall. She pats the case as if she’s saying goodbye.
“Let’s go find our seats.”
“You don’t have to stay backstage?” I ask.
“I’m going to sit with you until it’s time for me to go on,” she says. “If you don’t mind.”
I look over my shoulder to make sure we’re alone before I show her how much I don’t mind. When she pulls back, she’s smiling.
“That’s very good treatment for performance nerves. I’d never be afraid to go on stage if you were always here to kiss me.”
“I’m always here to kiss you.” The words practically fall out of me. Easy as breathing.
